There was a bus due at ten to five. It never came. There was a bus at six o'clock. The lady with the list of names said we couldn't have the two free seats - we hadn't booked.

There were no more buses.

The wind blew the dust up from the dirt square; two goats stumbled over to a tarnished fence; a man pedalled his bicycle in slow motion. The four stores selling identical items - including, in each, one somewhat worse-for-wear cabbage - were all closed. Only the beer hut remained; we could tell by the long queue outside.

First thing that morning we had boarded a minibus to take us on a journey from Ulan Ude, across the Khamar-Daban mountains and down to the eastern shore of Lake Baikal. The last three hours were spent negotiating potholes on little more than a dirt track. Georgia spent those hours holding on to the seat so her head didn't hit the roof.

But oh, was it worth it! We arrived in Goryachinsk at lunchtime and headed down to the shore.

Lake Baikal is the deepest, most voluminous lake in the world. It holds an estimated fifth of the whole world's fresh water. Were it ever, miraculously, emptied, even by diverting the flow of every river on earth towards Baikal, it would take over a year to refill.

Along with its size, it boasts an incredibly diverse ecology: thousands of unique species, including the only fresh water seals, a very tasty fish called 'omul' - it's part of the salmon family - and various types of sponge which keep the water safe to drink and exceptionally clear. So clear that swimmers out in the middle - brave souls! - often suffer from vertigo, staring at the lake floor a mile beneath them.

The Buryat people say that to dip your hands in Lake Baikal will extend your life by a year; paddling gets you another five and swimming in it adds an astonishing 25 years to your mortal coil. I don't know what waist deep is worth, but that was as far as we got. As you can imagine, a lake that size never warms up: a team of relay swimmers who crossed the lake were only able to spend a maximum of 30 minutes in the water to avoid hypothermia.

Far across the water we could make out the outline of the mountains of the western shore, like seeing the hazy Atlas mountains across the Mediterranean from the Spanish coast. This was the scale we felt - the Buryat name for Baikal means “the sea” and understandably so: it has sudden storms, pounding the shore with two metre waves; it is (marginally) tidal. Instead of postcard palm trees, dense pine forest envelops the coast.

We were stood on the northern border of the Republic of Buryatia - an ‘autonomous republic’ that, paradoxically, remains part of, and under the authority of, the Russian Federation. Ethnically, the Buryats are distant cousins of Mongolians - the name was originally Buryat-Mongolia until Soviet era officials decided they didn't like the potential divided allegiance.

We had been staying in the capital, Ulan Ude, for a few days before we made our way down to the coast. Ethnic Buryats make up about a fifth of the population - the rest being Russians and a growing number of Chinese immigrants, legal and not - in a city marked out by the friendliness and generosity we experienced and for having the largest head of Lenin in the world.

Standing on his staunch upper lip, a feat we were sadly unable to accomplish, one would not even reach his eyebrows. But the granite visage looks down upon the main square, as mobile phone shops and burger joints proliferate below.

We were staying with a lovely girl, S, a Buryat Russian-Chinese translator, who had previously hosted septuagenarian adventuress Dervla Murphy. So we were in good company, as we were meeting her friends, including a professor of Buryat history at the University. They spoke Russian to each other: Buryat has become an intimate language, reserved for the home. For younger generations - the under 15s - Buryat is hardly spoken and often not even understood.

As we talked about the ‘autonomy‘ of the republic, repeatedly we were drawn back to comparing the situation with that of Scotland -

Ah! Scotland! Trainspotting!

(and, of course, but less frequently, Braveheart.)

- so, yes, two partially devolved states, both with an independent nationalist movement, but with no real economic or social viability for independence. This is, of course, a drastic simplification - for both countries - but an interesting comparison, and conversation, nonetheless. And what K, our beloved history professor, knows about Sean Connery's nationalist leanings is extraordinary.

There was a freedom of opinion here, a willingness to talk, even about former Soviet days, that we had found only fleetingly elsewhere in Russia. Older generations, seeing levels of autocracy and control returning to Russia, are understandably more reticent. But the youth are, in our experience, forthright, bright and committed to change - an amazing thing, particularly when combined with the generosity of spirit that we were lucky enough to encounter.

But still, we were stuck in a two goat town, dust in our face, the sun resting on the wooden beer hut. We had just one option to get home: hitch.

And hitch we did - we walked up to the main road (the bumpy one we came in on) and waited. At least we knew that this was the only road around that went over the mountains and back to Ulan Ude - surely, eventually, someone would stop...

For the sake of our parents, we should probably point out that hitching in Russia is very normal - and very safe - such great distances and irregular buses make it a necessity for many people. There's even a standard price per kilometre (about 1 rouble - 2p).

We put out an arm in the Russian manner - palm down, fingers curled. Some cars passed, mostly full; a truck went by with two hitchhikers on board - a good sign we hoped. Another truck came: full. They gestured to let us know, we smiled and waved them on, remembering Georgia's Granddad's parting words:

If you ever get stuck, just smile.

We turned and watched them pass, and watched them slow, and watched them pull over. The cab door opened and an arm reached out, beckoning us over.

We clambered in; three smiling faces - all Buryat - greeted us in their cab made for three. “Ulan Ude?” “Da!” “Spaseeba!”. The youngest jumped on to the shelf behind the seats and we squeezed into his space.

It was an enormous timber lorry, 40 feet long and articulated in the middle. Our hosts and travelling companions shared a stature with the enormous trees they were transporting, which was lucky for the man we met ten minutes down the road.

He had somehow contrived, through a probable combination of potholes and break-neck speed, to miss the road, leaving his car at 45 degrees in a deep sandy ditch. No problem this for the samaritans: they jumped out, picked up the Lada and placed it gently back on the road.

And we were on our way again, doubly reassured of the kindness of these three strangers. High up and driving west we had views of Lake Baikal unimaginable in our low-slung bus on the way here: every bay and inlet was clear and defined; the evening sun lending a romantic, sepia tint.

We were never short on conversation - or at least communication, as we combined their classroom English with our phrasebook Russian and got the rest from wide-eyed gesticulations.

Half an hour past the newly roaded lada, the boss of the three, sitting next to us, flicked his throat - a sign we'd come to know well: “Vodka?”. And so it went on, with regular vodka stops (not the driver, I should add) and a new tradition: with each drink, an offering “For the Gods!”. For the pourer, this was a drop on the table (dashboard); for the drinker, a finger dipped in and flicked left and right. And then drink. And then gherkin.

Georgia was, as ever, treated like a lady, with frustratingly small vodka shots and the utmost care and attention - even a makeshift cushion for the bumpy bits - throughout.

After ten fast-moving hours - in a slow-moving truck - we arrived in Ulan Ude having negotiated each steep mountain pass at a first gear crawl and having watched the sun set to reveal a bright full moon guiding us home.