Skoda Octavia, 2006, Inari

Here’s a stubborn Škoda 1.9 TDI 4x4 that has toured all 42 continental European countries (except the Russias) and refuses to give up. More persistent than Paavo Väyrynen running for president — and roughly as hard to get rid of.

Four-wheel drive.

Reg. year 2006 (almost 2007).
464,000 km.
Taxed until June 2027.
Location: Ivalo. Can be delivered anywhere for an extra fee.

New summer tyres, winter tyres not so new. Towbar, cruise control, power steering, electric mirrors, electric windows, heated seats and the usual kit.

Serviced comprehensively this summer.

Nearly the whole undercarriage, brakes, oils and filters.

Full service history below.

This 20‑year‑old national car of Finland suits someone who thinks modern SUVs are mostly shopping-centre garden ornaments with dashboards higher than the ride height, whose roughest off-road experience is mounting a kerb at the supermarket while worrying about wheel scratches.

This particular Škoda is a long-haul veteran I drove around 42 countries in three months last late summer. The odometer added about 27,700 kilometres on that trip, and we even skirted bomb craters and roadside checks in Ukraine.

So this Škoda hasn’t just seen short commutes, a discount-store car park and an annual midsummer cottage run at 97 km/h on the motorway with a grumpy mother‑in‑law on the back seat. It’s seen the world more than many LinkedIn adventurers whose profiles claim a “global mindset”.

The car came home to Ivalo under its own power. It’s the kind of small, stubborn marvel that deserves a slightly kitsch Škoda‑saint painting on a shabby workshop wall.

Under the bonnet is the best engine: the 1.9 TDI. An engine so good they should have stopped making it, otherwise the whole world would never have needed anything else.

Then came all the BlueTec, 4Matic, TSI, TFSI, DSG and hybrid era fixes that gave mechanics and dealer desks endless work — and taught buyers that “progress” often means designing things to need earlier replacement.

The 1.9 TDI is like a long‑running soap opera: it never ends. Treat it even somewhat gently and it will keep running long after modern tiny turbo engines have been melted down into Ikea cutlery.

It’s still a torquey little lump by today’s standards — not a supercar, but stubborn as an old Lapp at midnight when the rum bottle runs out.

On the Autobahn the Škoda hit the speedo at 200 km/h. It took about 33 km to get there and the last ten were so hard-fought you think about all your life choices.

Still, the 1.9 TDI throbbed, the steering shook, the world blurred and German BMWs and Audis whooshed past on the left as if I’d been stationary — but the Škoda kept going, not fast, not proudly, just stubbornly home like a boomerang or a hunting dog from Tolosa.

Of course it’s full-time four-wheel drive with raised off‑road suspension — ground clearance enough that the neighbour’s cat walked underneath at night without losing an ear tuft.

It’s been driven on roads and lanes that made the sat‑nav wonder whether we were on a donkey or a flying carpet.

Balkan potholes, Andorran alleyways, Alpine mountain roads, Moldova’s double‑jump tracks, Albanian chaos, Bosnian side roads and Istanbul’s traffic grinder have all rattled this car like a cheap physio on an old back.

Yes, the Škoda’s joints and boots have been worked hard, so before inspection the suspension was renewed properly: new summer tyres, all shock absorbers, all springs, protective boots, lower ball joints, track rod ends, brake discs and of course a four‑wheel alignment. It passed inspection straight‑faced and without tricks.

Front wheel bearings were replaced during the trip in Albania and the rear brakes in a London suburb on a shady side road. So the rear brake pads are fitted for left‑hand traffic.

There is also a UK roadside inspection sticker among the other important stickers, valid until next September, so you can pop over there worry‑free. The windscreen carries a sticker for Turkish motorway cameras, still valid too.

Timing belt, tandem pump and turbo were replaced by the previous owner. The turbo has been whistling gently for the last 30,000 km in the same way; 1.9 TDI experts say to worry only if the whistle stops. As long as something under the bonnet is blowing the little tune, the diesel will keep going.

The air conditioning works — not just in October‑praise terms but nicely blows cold even in Portugal’s 43°C heat. Outside it was hot and smelly, but inside the Škoda it felt like an arctic breeze and made you think of spring fishing on Lake Inari.

Heating has a little quirk I won’t swear about even with papal seal, though I did take the Škoda to the Vatican once.

Last winter we only drove it to Levi once and back; then the heater definitely woke up. So there are signs of life — a bit like an old man at the corner table who says nothing for days but springs into tales about the 1960s when you mention chopping firewood.

Clutch, engine, brakes and everything work as they should.

Before the European trip the alternator and battery were renewed. Gearbox is a 6‑speed manual. During the previous ownership the gearbox got new bearings and synchroniser rings, as these are commonly worn by people who habitually bash the second gear synchro.

That work is already done here, not left to hope the next owner won’t notice before they complain to Traficom and curse me and the family for four generations.

Service receipts and other paperwork amount to a good stack — browse them with your morning coffee if you enjoy old cars’ medical histories. This is not a “serviced but not recorded” case; there are plenty of stamps and papers.

It’s not the most economical car. One tank will take you far enough to forget to collect the lottery and which side the filler cap is on.

There are rust spots, marks and battle scars if you start inspecting closely. This isn’t new and nobody sane would mistake it for pristine. It’s seen family kids, pets, backpacks, hobby gear, rental trolleys, shopping bags, bad choices and quiet disappointments from place to place.

And it will keep doing that for a long time. I’m selling now to fund a new trip — not because the car is falling apart or left on a battlefield, but because the next odd journey needs cash.

This isn’t for someone who wants smell‑free, bland, plastic‑padded leasing life. It’s for someone who needs a tough 4x4, a seasoned travel car, a cottage vehicle, a winter‑and‑polar‑night survivor, a berry‑picking rig or even a small camper. It’s hosted countless nights in many places: graveyard car parks and Romanian mountains with bears rumbling nearby.

The Škoda has seen and experienced 42 countries: Portugal’s heat, Ukraine’s raw reality, Moldova’s potholed tracks, Andorra’s alleys, Istanbul’s Asian‑side traffic, the Autobahn, mountain roads, British and Irish left‑hand driving, customs searches and under‑seat rummaging, field repairs, gorilla‑tape fixes and poor routing choices — and still wanted to come back to Finland.

It’s not new nor perfect.
Not a flashy electric leather‑seated dream with red ambient lights. But it’s proper four‑wheel drive, raised suspension, 1.9 TDI, working air‑con, repaired when needed, a mountain of receipts and stories that need no exaggeration.

In the main picture the subtly painted Škoda was secretly transporting documents to the last Yugoslav stronghold. Thirty‑four years late, but intention matters. The Škoda returned from its rocky lair under its own steam, guided by the stubborn 1.9 TDI and four‑wheel drive. Air‑con still blew cold and the turbo whistled the Top Gun theme as the international European operation ended.

If some Dr. Dolittle ever finds a way to make cars talk, this Škoda could tell tales from the Vatican, Stonehenge, a Concorde, the Visoko sun‑pyramid, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, Big Ben, Loch Ness, Titanic’s sister ship, Normandy, the Colosseum, a Czech ossuary, Istanbul’s mosques, Jeremy Clarkson’s farm, Emmerdale village and dozens of castles and mountains.

Grossglockner, Transfăgărășan (with bears), Transalpina and Passo dello Stelvio have all been seen. Many beautiful coastal routes too, especially in Romania, Greece and Ireland.

If you sometimes hear Czech murmuring from the glovebox at night, it’s probably not a fault — it’s just an old Škoda processing its memories.