[2017, August]
Seven days. That is what I’ve got left from this summer and I’m constantly zooming in and out Google Maps searching for an alluring route to fill the gap. I need a loop that would lead me to interesting and scenic places, something like majestic mountains and pristine beaches, preferably spiced up with some cultural or historical landmarks. Meanwhile, as I was watching the map where I drew my recent routes, I’m surprised to notice that I’ve covered most of the Balkans, except for their western part, therefore the sequel clearly reveals itself: I’ll wander up north along the Adriatic shores, hopping through the countries which not so long ago formed the Federation of Yugoslavia – Serbia, Montenegro, Bosnia, Croatia and Slovenia; there are so many of them that I’m struck with a crazy idea: I’ll make my route so that I’ll be able to sleep each night in a different country!
Meandering through the green hills of Serbia. 430 miles
My travel plan is to benefit from the warm summer nights by sleeping every night in my tent and I’m sure I won’t have any problem finding suitable campings on the spot all the way in the tourist region of the Adriatic, but things seem to be a little more complicated concerning my transit route through Serbia. The only reasonable camping I was able to choose there is the one in Zlatibor, not too far from the Bosnian border, which means I’ll have to ride more than 400 miles to get there, also crossing two time consuming border controls; it’s going to be a long first day, but luckily I’m used to setting off early in the morning and today I’m making no exception from that healthy habit.
It’s a quiet Sunday morning, most people are either in vacation away from the city or sleeping late, so I manage to cross Bucharest unbothered and still before eight o’clock I take the national road towards the town of Alexandria – where I’m surprised to discover that my Kawasaki bike may have parts made here, in Romania :), due to the fact that the bearings old local factory has been rebadged as Koyo of Japan – and further on to the Danube. Due to the very low traffic and quite decent tarmac, I can ride fast and without breaks, so that in less than two hours I reach the town of Turnu Măgurele which is laying alongside the mighty river’s bank. Starting from this point I’ll follow the Danube upstream up to the cross-border bridge at Calafat, then after a short 40 miles shortcut through Bulgaria I’ll finally enter Serbia. That’s the long run plan anyway, but for the moment I can’t help being a bit nervous as I know nothing about the state of the road in this scarcely inhabited border area; well, actually this is what the adventure is about – isn’t it? – and I guess I don’t have any other option than to ride on and adapt to whatever the route throws at me!
The first part of this road seems to be quite reasonable, a bit narrow and bumpy but with no other traffic than some trucks and agricultural machines crawling really slow between the distant villages scattered across the flat and monotonous fields which are stretching far for as long as I can see. A few miles after I pass through the once flourishing, now dusty and sorrow town of Corabia – actually it’s too bad I don’t have enough time to spend some time here, as this is a genuine historical landmark, featuring the remains of the second ancient bridge built by the Romans across the Danube, an imposing monument marking the spot where the Romanian armies had crossed the river during the 19th century Independence War against the Ottoman Empire and also one of the largest Orthodox cathedrals in the country – I enter the desertic area of Southern Oltenia, where the road runs in long straight lines across the enormous sandy melon fields. I really feel I have to take a break, so I aim to a convenient spot in the shadows of the shrub lining the road, then I slowly leave the tarmac and suddenly the front wheel submerges in a layer of deep and soft fine sand, forcing my bike to slide gently on its side, in spite of my efforts to keep it up straight. Never mind, there’s no damage done, maybe except to my ego :), so I’ll rest for a while and I’ll pick it up when I’m ready to go.
Ten minutes later I resume my ride and, not long after I cross the Jiu river and get out of the sandy surroundings, the road gets even worse than before; now I’m passing through an almost endless row of unkempt and poor looking villages and the old and cracked tarmac is extra-bumpy and full of potholes, forcing me to slow down to less than 40 mph. I can’t help thinking that coming this way on my route to the Calafat bridge doesn’t seem now to be such a good idea, as I’d probably have been already in Bulgaria by this hour if only I’d have taken the mainstream national road via the city of Craiova. About 50 miles further on, driven by the combined effects of thirst and heat, I stop for a couple of minutes in the shade of the trees lining a farm service road, I light a cigarette and even before I get to put the lighter back into my pocket, I see the groundsman rushing towards me. What the hell, I’m not bothering anybody by taking a break here?! Nevertheless, when the man comes closer, I realise I’ve actually misjudged him, because he’s not at all aggressive but just lonesome. Still, my problem is that he is a true Oltean – that is an inhabitant of the Romanian province of Oltenia – and they have a solid reputation of being such great loudmouths! Therefore, I get myself confined there for almost half an hour, not being able to say more than ten words max, while my new friend speaking a delightful local dialect became really unstoppable: he informed me in detail about their agricultural performance at the farm, praised the owner for being such a kind and generous man with a nice and big house and a beautiful and smart daughter, explained the difference between the Rast and New Rast villages nearby by evoking the catastrophic floods occurred there more than forty years ago, complained about his fate as a chemical worker who had once worked in a now defunct plant being forced to take a gatekeeper job nowadays, then he asked me about my motorcycle but before I even got a chance to answer he told me about a big gang of Bulgarian bikers who made camp near his village last year, having a great party with a lot of singing and drinking, and so on and on and on! In the end, I manage to get out of there feeling dizzy and more tired than I was when I decided to take this uninspired break, promising to myself that from now on I’ll only stop in really secluded and hidden places :)
At about two in the afternoon, I finally get to the town of Calafat and I make a brief stop at the last gas station before the bridge, for the much-needed fuel, sandwiches and coffee. I shiver at the thought that I’ve only reached the half of my route for today and the road through Serbia is still a big unknown to me, but luckily I get away really fast with the border control and just few minutes later I’m flying over the bridge and the city of Vidin’s ring road doing 80+ mph. Next, the road climbing over the forested hills to Kula and further on towards Serbia is rather narrow and twisty forcing me to slow down a bit, but at least it’s quite empty as most of the secondary ones here in Bulgaria. Thus, about half an hour since I’ve crossed the Danube I stop for the double passport and customs control of the non-EU border at Vraska Chuka. This time the border officials are doing their job seriously and I’m blocked here for almost another half an hour before they wave me off, but at least I’ve gained a full hour on the clock by entering Serbia, due to the time zone change, so I calculate that I’ve still got roughly five hours of daylight left for 200 miles, so that I won’t be forced to set up my tent in the dark.
The first part of my route in Serbia, especially the segments of Zaječar to Paraćin and then Jagodina to Kragujevac, is really enchanting, featuring traffic free and perfect tarmac on large curves alternating with speed fit straight lines, winding over green hills and dense beech forests. Captivated by this excellent riding experience I don’t even notice that I’ve already covered almost 100 miles and I enter the town of Kragujevac at about four in the afternoon, only to be abruptly brought back to reality by its chaotic traffic and lack of road signs which makes me take the wrong way out. Luckily I quite quickly realise that I’m not heading towards my desired direction, so I turn back and eventually I manage to find the proper exit to Čačak, not before I also make my first contact with the Serbian traffic police: while I’m riding really slow on a two lanes street somewhere in the town’s outskirts, cautiously avoiding the numerous potholes and the curbside parked cars, a motorcycle cop coming from the opposite direction nervously waves his hand to me, urging me to ride closer to the right side of the street! Come on, bro’, seriously?!
After I get out of the town, I find myself in a totally different environment, this road being suffocated by both ways traffic, and it gets even worse when I turn right onto the extra crowded highway connecting the Kraljevo industrial centre to Belgrade. An endless row of trucks, buses and passenger cars are speeding dangerously way over the limit and I start feeling the fatigue I’ve accumulated during more than ten hours of riding. Therefore, it’s time for me to have a prolonged break in a roadside café, just to cool down in the shade and take a thorough look on the map; I’ve got about 60 miles left to go up to Zlatibor and the GPS is telling me I’ll need almost two more hours to get there, but I’m not too worried about this because my ETA is before seven, therefore still in the daylight. In a somewhat refreshed mood, I set off on the road again and just after I leave the highway and pass Čačak on its belt road I enter the course of a steep cliffs walled valley, winding along the shores of a long turquoise reservoir formed by the dammed Zapadna Morava river. The scenery is quite nice, with lots of wooden holiday chalets and terraced restaurants lining the lake’s both banks, but the traffic is still annoying and I’m gradually losing my patience while riding behind trucks; I overtake some of these quite on the edge of the endless row of no visibility curves, but I’m rapidly set back by the multitude of crosses on the side of the road, especially by the few of them capped by motorcycle helmets! Usually, I’m not easily impressed by things like that, but this time it really cuts off my racing spirit, so I obediently take back my place in the line just waiting for safer opportunities to move forward.
30 miles farther, close to the town of Užice, the valley extremely narrows down and the cars are now barely moving at all; the reason for this jam is a traffic lights overcrowded junction ahead and I take advantage of this situation by slowly overtaking the entire line by filtering between the two opposite lanes. There is also a police car right at the crossroads, but luckily the cops are busy talking to some gangster looking guys in a black BMW, so I sprint ahead on the first flash of the green light, escaping that damned gridlock and enjoying a series of sharp turns and hairpins while climbing the mountain through a dense fir forest. In fact, this is the sign that I’m close to my tonight’s destination – Zlatibor is a mountain resort situated at an altitude of about 3,300 ft. – and indeed, not long after the road’s inclination eases out a bit, a huge clearing is opening up in front of me with the skyline of hotels and villas appearing in the distance. Kamp Zlatibor – a tiny but airy and elegant camping – is overlooking the resort from a vantage point on the left part of the road, I find it easily and in less than half an hour my tent is already set up and the bike is silently parked beside it. Sadly, there’s no restaurant on the premises and I’m feeling too tired to get back in the saddle to go searching for one, so that I settle for some sandwiches and a couple of cold beers from the gas station nearby. I enjoy my improvised supper on a bench in the moonlight and even before ten o’clock I’m already inside my tent, falling asleep in the very second when I touch the pillow!
Loaded and ready to go!
Serbia, Mount Rtanj
Zlatibor, Kamp Siber
Topping the spectacular mountains of Montenegro. 250 miles
The spectacular part of my journey starts today and my anxiety to reach the places I’ve read so much about makes me wake up at the crack of dawn. More than a figure of speech, actually there’s still dark outside while I drink my morning coffee and I start packing my luggage, so that I leave the camping heading towards the Montenegrin border just a bit after seven. The neat and free road crossing the scenic region of Western Serbia is sneaking southwards between the Zlatibor and Zlatar mountain ridges, just below their over 5,000 ft. summits, reaching its lowest points at the banks of the Zlatarsko reservoir and along the Lim river valley. After I pass through the small quiet towns of Nova Varoš and then Prijepolje, the latter one tracing its history back to the 13th century, I leave the main road leading to the Montenegrin capital of Podgorica and further on to the Adriatic coast and I turn right on a narrow secondary road which steeply climbs the mountain’s slope only to reach the Ranče border crossing at an altitude of 4,000 ft. right in the middle of a barren rocky plateau. Here, as in many other places around the Balkans, there are no common border controls, even if both the Serbs and the Montenegrins are practically the same nation, they speak the same language and – most important to them – they share the same Christian Orthodox religion. Therefore, I have to wait in line for two sets of documents and customs controls, but at least all the staff are friendly and not at all stupidly suspicious like the ones I’ve encountered in too many other similar occasions; the only downside is that the process is heavily time consuming and that is a resource I’m really short of for today.
Anyway, after more than half an hour I’m finally able to resume my ride downhill towards the town of Pljevlja and the Tara canyon crossing. The descent is frighteningly steep, featuring some very sharp hairpins, and even if the tarmac seems to be bone dry, I’m horrified to discover it is also freaking slippery! (Later on, I researched this issue over the internet and I found out that the reason for the tarmac’s low adherence is the high concentration of mica in its composition and this problem is widespread all over the former Yugoslav roads which haven’t been rebuilt in the past 20 years.) After two or three scary moments with my back wheel sliding almost uncontrollably sideways, I manage to adapt to the road conditions by seriously reducing my speed, which proves to be a wise idea because few miles farther I pass sufficiently slow in front of a speed camera strategically hidden behind the bushes.
The surroundings of Pljevlja are highly unwelcoming, due to the combined actions of the nearby coal mine, power plant and cement factory, which make the air really unbreathable and covers everything in a fine dirty white dust. The perfect counterbalance comes about 25 miles farther, after I pass through a fir forest which successfully and completely purifies the air, when the impressive view of the enormous Tara canyon suddenly reveals itself to me as a bottomless gap between the place where I’m standing and the mountain I have to climb next. In this place the canyon’s almost vertical walls are more than 2,000 ft. high – they reach a maximum of 4,265 ft. – and it is over one mile wide, thus being the world’s second largest, right after the Grand Canyon in Colorado. The road crosses it over the Djurdjevića bridge, which has been built 80 years ago, featuring five stone arches and a height of 550 ft. above the Tara river’s waterbed, also serving as a bungee jumping and zip-line base. All these are quite impressive details which I discover while having a delicious traditional snack on a panoramic terrace restaurant situated right at the bridge’s western end.
The Durmitor National Park which I enter right after I get back in the saddle is one of the main goals of my route. After about 15 miles of nice and twisty mountain road I reach the Žabljak ski and hiking resort, with its colourful wooden chalets scattered across the grassland beside the rocky feet of the 8,278 ft. high Bobotov Kuk summit. Here I leave the national road and turn onto a 10 feet wide tarmac strip which goes for almost 25 miles along the mountain’s ridge, at altitudes varying around 6,000 ft., bewildering me with a fascinating scenery of high alpine meadows, sharp inaccessible summits, rocky stone walls and glacier lakes. I ride really slow in order to enjoy the views and take a ton of photos, but also because I encounter lots of cars and fellow bikers from both directions. After about an hour of riding in this wonderland I start the absolutely sensational descent to the Pivsko reservoir – 2,600 ft. altitude difference in less than five miles, with the hairpins’ tips hidden in narrow and dark tunnels roughly dug in the rocky steep slope. Somewhere halfway the road down I take a short break in a breath-taking vantage point over the lake’s turquoise surface and here I meet a young Dutch couple riding luggage overloaded bicycles and going uphill! Even I’m sweaty, melting from the heat and thirst in my thick leather jacket and black full-face helmet, I almost feel embarrassed by the fact that my bike has an engine and I can move it around effortless. After five minutes of chat and rest we say our good-byes, wishing each other good luck and safe journey. My younger two-wheeled brothers, I reckon you really need that!
From Plužine on the lakeshore, the freshly rebuilt road towards the town of Nikšić features a slightly descending gradient and large curves which allow me to ride at an average speed of above 60 mph, just perfect to compensate a bit for the time I’ve too generously wasted before noon. Surely, the advantage of sleeping in my tent is that I can stop almost anywhere at the fall of dark, but I’d rather prefer reaching the Adriatic coast tonight, somewhere around the bay of Kotor, and I’ve still got some more things to do until I get there. I just hope there won’t be any unforeseen disturbances to my schedule, for example like the vegetation fire I’m passing by on the road to Nikšić – the shrubs and bushes on the roadside slope are burning with wind fuelled flames, the air is choking from the thick smoke, while the firemen don’t seem to have any success in fighting it back, but at least the traffic is still open so I can move on unhindered.
Right after I pass beside the town’s outskirts, I turn left onto the P15 road, which is figured so thin in Google Maps that I don’t even know if it’s practicable all the way to Cetinje, about 50 miles farther, but nevertheless I still take my chance. I chose this one crossing a quite uninhabited hilly area because it is the shortest way to the Lovćen National Park and also for the reason that I always prefer the road less travelled, of course – isn’t that the very spirit of adventure? Truly, the road is mostly just one lane wide, there are some segments where the tarmac is replaced by gravel or a red-clay surface and on its entire length I encounter just four cars coming from the opposite direction, their drivers gazing curiously at me. The scenery, on the other hand, is amazing – a seemingly endless beech forest, covering an ocean of rocky hills, with no human settlement in sight except for a couple of stone churches surrounded by old graveyards. It takes me just short of two hours to reach the end of this trail and at about five in the afternoon I finally get to Cetinje, the former royal capital of Montenegro. However, despite its historical significance, the tiny town itself doesn’t stir much interest to me, as I’m more attracted by the ascent of the 5,738 ft. nearby Lovćen summit, the one which due to its forest covered appearance had given the very name of the country.
Under the pressure of the quite late hour, I bravely attack the endless series of hairpins steeply climbing the mountain’s slope, breaking several times through thick smoke curtains originating from even more uncontrolled vegetation fires. After ascending more than 3,000 ft. in only a few miles I reach the road’s end, in a parking lot neighbouring a fancy restaurant just below the summit. I leave my bike here and continue on foot upwards to the vantage point where I’ve read that one can see almost the entire country of Montenegro. A monstrous row of stairs – I found the patience to count them later, on my way back down: there are more than 500! – is leading there, so steep that every 20 yards I’m out of air and I feel my heart is on the point of breaking out of my chest. Eventually I hardly manage to reach the top and I enter the mausoleum dedicated to Prince Petar Petrović-Njegos, built on the very tip of the mountain. For my unpleasant surprise, there is a 5 euros (!) entrance fee which they didn’t say anything about downstairs, and I honestly think the whole matter should have been reversed: it would be more appropriate for them to pay me a reward for making the tremendous effort to climb up here instead :) At least the panoramic view I get from this point is definitely worth both the sweat and money!
Once I’m back to my bike I realise it’s already extremely late and I’ve got less than an hour of daylight left. The closest camping is 25 miles far, in Donji Stoliv on the bank of the Bay of Kotor, which may seem quite quickly to get to if it weren’t for the famous P1 road leading there. This one I’ve found in all the internet lists of the world’s most dangerous roads, being just 10 feet wide and featuring 27 sharp hairpins on a 4,600 ft. altitude difference! It is extraordinary spectacular and the views I get to the picturesque fortified town of Kotor and the flaming sunset over the Adriatic Sea are truly breath-taking. Luckily, due to the late hour there is no traffic at all and I’m pushing my ride to the limits, feeling really dizzy from all those turns and curves when I eventually reach the seaside, at Kotor. Here the streets are so narrow and crowded that two cars are barely able to pass each other, there are no sidewalks and in many places there is not even a rail between the tarmac and the sea! Being in such a hurry, I filter myself through the madness as slick as I can until I get stuck behind a car registered in France whose driver looks horrified by the chaos, doing no more than 15 mph and braking nervously every other yard. After I make several unsuccessful attempts to overtake it, I completely lose my patience so I leave behind my manners and solve the problem the Romanian way; prolonged honking, repeatedly flashing my headlight and a stream of insults eventually do their job: the guy stops and lets me overtake and I can see on his face that he’s really shocked. What can I say? Bienvenue a les Balkans, mon ami!
There is already dark when I arrive to the camping. Searching for the reception I come to the restaurant’s kitchen, where I find out there is no reception at all and the owner is actually waiting at the tables. OK, I spot him and ask if he’s got any room for my tent, because the space is quite limited and crowded, and he waves me off behind the house, on some narrow terraces carved in the hill’s slope, beside few other tents and abandoned old caravans. I’m fine with this, I rapidly set up my tent in the moonlight, take a shower and then go back to the restaurant to get a late dinner. It’s almost ten o’clock when I finish eating some delicious fish dishes drowned in a couple of beers, then I go back to my tent and again I immediately fall soundly asleep.
The Djurdjevića bridge over the Tara canyon
Durmitor National Park
The Pivsko reservoir
P15 road to Cetinje
The sunset over the Bay of Kotor
Kotor
A bit of tourism on the Adriatic coast. Just 90 miles
This morning I can’t leave as early as I did in my first two days; it rained overnight and now I have to wait for the sun to rise above the back hill so that I won’t pack my tent while it’s still wet. Until then I take advantage of this unscheduled free time to explore the nearby bay’s shore and also to make my plans for today. After two full riding days I feel I can slow down a bit and pay attention to the plethora of the medieval fortified city-ports which are gathered on this 100 miles long stretch of the Adriatic coast: Kotor, Budva and Herceg Novi in Montenegro and the most famous of them – Dubrovnik, on the other side of the border, in Croatia. It really sounds good, so the decision is easily made – today I’ll be a tourist, walking lazily in the streets of the Venetian fortresses, taking photos and eating all the three meals of the day, like a normal person should; tonight I’ll sleep in the Solitudo camping in Dubrovnik, which I know from some years ago, obscenely expensive, but what isn’t expensive over there?
Later on, I pack my luggage and ride leisurely the few miles to the Kotor old city gate, where I park my bike in the midst of an ocean of scooters. Luckily, it is still early and I get to wander in the maze of the narrow cobblestoned streets inside before the huge cruise ship anchored in the port releases herds of noisy tourists. The well-preserved medieval town – a UNESCO World Heritage Site – tracing its history from the Venetian rule period in the 15th century is enchanting, featuring tall and strong defence walls, white stone buildings hosting a lot of tiny bars and restaurants, souvenirs and grocery stores and a handful of imposing Catholic and Orthodox churches. Apart from the quite relaxed looking locals, the streets are literally full of lazy and fearless cats, which are laying in the sunshine in almost every place one can imagine. I really love this place and, before I leave, I spend one more half hour having a coffee on a secluded bar terrace, just to savour this unique ambience.
My next objective, Budva, is only 15 miles away taking the shortcut through the impressive Vrmac tunnel, which is piercing the rocky mountain ridge to connect the Bay of Kotor to the narrow and flat strip of land bordering the sea. However, the road is extremely crowded in both directions so that it takes me almost a full hour to get there, only to submerge into a chaotic beehive of cars and scooters. Within the old city walls there is a swarm of tourists as well, moving relentlessly from one souvenir shop to another, packing all the restaurant terraces and waiting in long lines to enter the few churches and the citadel. Although this one is also a Venetian heritage walled city, albeit much smaller than the one in Kotor, its overall appearance induces me a strong tourist trap impression which prevents me from wasting too much time here, therefore less than an hour later I move on towards the Croatian border.
The classic and more picturesque road northwards circumscribes the meandering shore of the Bay of Kotor, being highly spectacular but surely consuming more than two hours of my time; that is the reason why, faithfully abiding to my plan of not spending too many hours in the saddle today, I embark the small ferry which is crossing the narrow neck of the bay from Lepetane to Kamenari, reaching the other shore in just fifteen minutes. 10 miles farther, right on the last Montenegrin foothold and guarding the entrance into the Bay of Kotor, there lies Herceg Novi / Castelnuovo in Italian, one more medieval city with a really interesting history: founded during the 14th century by the Slavic King of Bosnia, it has been consequently occupied mainly by the Ottomans, the Spaniards, the Venetians and the Habsburgs, each one of its rulers adding a piece of its architectural heritage. Also featuring a small but lovely old town, with narrow staircased streets, churches and fortresses, it is less travelled by tourists, thus looking more welcoming and authentic to me. I leave my bike into a two-wheeled vehicles dedicated free parking lot and I take a full tour, until the unbearable heat defeats me and drives me to a shadow blessed restaurant terrace, where I enjoy a prolonged rich traditional lunch.
It’s about three in the afternoon when I get to the Croatian border post at Karasovići, where the line of vehicles stretches for more than a mile and I manage to overtake only half of it. Luckily, the controls are more or less formal and it takes me less than I expected to be able to continue my route northwards. The road’s quality improves and it is also surprisingly free, inciting me to gain some speed, but I’m quickly tempered by the signposts warning for wild boars which may be crossing the roadway! Shortly I come out of the forest and join the seashore and 20 miles farther the fairy-tale old town of Dubrovnik appears in the distance surrounded by a whole fleet of sailboats. After a short break in a roadside panoramic view parking lot, I enter the modern district of the town and I go straight to the camping. Did I say it’s expensive? It’s more than that, it’s quite a robbery: 35 euros per night for one person in a tiny tent and a motorcycle! Aside from the huge difference compared to the only 8 euros I’ve paid in the other campings so far, that indecent amount would’ve bought me a hotel room elsewhere. Sadly, I don’t have any other option than pay the fee and then I go to choose a place where I set up my tent. By the time I’m finished it’s already six o’clock and there’s no time left for a bath in the sea, therefore I take a shower, change into a more comfortable outfit and I ride to the old town; I’m really lucky to find a free parking spot for motorcycles in close vicinity to the main gate, because the ones for cars cost an incredible amount of 10 euros per hour!
However, once I enter the Pile Gate, I forget all those nuisances. I’ve already been to the Dubrovnik Stari Grad before, but even in the midst of the crazy swarm of all languages speaking tourists I’m not getting bored of exploring its every corner of wonderfully preserved streets and passageways. Another UNESCO World Heritage Site, the old town has been for centuries the seat of the Republic of Ragusa, a long-time powerful rival of the Venetians and the Ottoman Empire’s commercial outlet to the rest of Europe. The wealth generated from that highly advantaged status is reflected in the beauty and elegance of the imposing palaces and cathedrals, the strengths of its tall thick defence walls and the large opening of its marina. Meanwhile, as I’m walking on the Stradun main street it has already gotten dark, and the streetlamps’ yellow light is extraordinarily reflected in the wide limestone pavement slabs which had been polished by millions of steps. I take a hundred photos, then I retreat to a cosy terraced restaurant hidden somewhere beside the outer walls. I really can’t have enough of this town, but eventually it’s time to leave; on my way back to the camping I arrest a couple of beers from a street side kiosk and, for the first time since I left home, midnight is catching me still awake.
Kotor, the old town
Herceg Novi
Dubrovnik, Stari Grad
Dubrovnik, Stari Grad
A glimpse of Bosnia and a long run along the Croatian seashore. 230 miles
Today I’m going to take the famous Jadranska Magistrala northwards, along the Adriatic Sea coast, also making a short incursion to the east into Bosnia, to see the renowned Old Bridge / Stari Most in Mostar, which had been first built in the 16th century, sadly destroyed during the 1995 war, then rebuilt again using the original materials and technologies. That is an ambitious plan, as I’d like to get as close to the Slovenian border as possible by tonight, however I wake up quite late and it’s already past nine when I finally get my gear packed and I’m ready to go. As Murphy wisely says, “anything that can go wrong will go wrong” and indeed I miss a turn on my way out of the town, consequently getting lost in the maze of the one-way streets nearby Stari Grad. It takes me more than half an hour to find the right exit to the main road and then, while riding alertly, I focus on sorting out a way to help me compensate for the late start; thus, knowing that the mandatory Neum border crossing into Bosnia is always crowded and time consuming, I think of getting out of Croatia earlier, nearby Slano, and taking the M6 road to Mostar, which should buy me some time and also prevent me from riding the same road backwards to the seashore.
[There is an interesting history of the way which the short strip of the Adriatic coastline around the town of Neum has got to belong to Bosnia and Herzegovina, unlike the rest of Dalmatia being part of Croatia, forcing travellers to cross two country borders within less than 5 miles on their way along the seashore. Since the Middle Ages until the beginning of the 19th century, the Dubrovnik based Republic of Ragusa ruled over a strip of the Adriatic coastline stretching approximately 100 miles between Neum in the north and Sutorina / Herceg Novi in the south, with the town itself positioned right at its half. Following its strategic and economic decline also sharpened by the 1697 catastrophic earthquake, the republic had been forced to sell the two extreme patches of its territory – Neum and Sutorina – to the Ottoman Empire, in order to prevent an imminent conflict with its lifetime rival and neighbour, the Venetian Republic. The two mentioned patches of land had been incorporated by the Ottomans into their vilayet / province of Bosnia, thus Neum and its adjacent territory being part of the latter ever since, regardless of its subsequent turbulent destiny – Austrian rule, part of Yugoslavia and finally the present-day independent state.]
Back to the present day, satisfied with the new route I’ve just decided about, I enjoy my ride towards Slano on the excellent twisty and free road offering breath-taking views over the azure extent of the Adriatic Sea. Suddenly, few miles before the junction with the road to my freshly chosen border crossing, the fuel reserve indicator slaps me violently in the face – wrapped up in finding my way out of Dubrovnik, then choosing the faster route to Mostar I completely forgot to stop at a gas station! I pull over, take out my phone and start looking for one; bad luck, my only options are either back to the town or 10 miles farther, in Zaton Doli. I won’t definitely turn back, so I decide to take my chances in Slano, maybe they’ve got a tiny gas station not figured in Google Maps somewhere around the village. I get out of the main road, reach the seashore, then ride about a mile southwards – nothing! I turn back, ride another couple of miles northwards – still nothing! Meanwhile, that annoying indicator on my dashboard starts blinking, signalling there’s just a quarter of a gallon of gas left in my tank. That’s it, I have to abandon the plan of crossing the border nearby Slano, I’ll ride on towards Neum and I’ll calmly figure out a new solution later, on a full tank. The downside of all this fuss is I’ve lost an additional half an hour going nowhere and my desire to get somewhere close to Rijeka by tonight is now simply unachievable. I can only encourage myself I’ll be able to regain this delay tomorrow, so I get back on the main road and eventually refuel in Zaton Doli. As I anticipated, the sorts look better on a full tank; I study the map a bit more and I discover another border crossing, on a secondary road quite parallel to the Jadranska Magistrala, where there should be no queues. Therefore, few miles farther I turn right along the tiny bay of Bistrina, then I climb the steep mountain slope on a series of very sharp hairpins and in less than ten minutes I stop at the border post. I was right, there’s nobody in front of me, even the guards are curiously looking at me, something like “Where the hell did this guy came from?!” Anyway, I’m quickly off the controls and I head on towards Mostar. The road is quite narrow and bumpy, but I really like the scenery, there are barren rocky mountains all around me. I ride for about 20 miles without passing through any human settlement when, right after a junction with another secondary road, I see a police car parked in the shade and, as I’m the only one passing by, of course they stop me for a control! I pull over worriless, I know they have no reason to pick on me, because the road condition didn’t let me speed over the limit and I’ve even stopped at the junction, although probably I didn’t have to give priority to anybody. As soon as I take off my helmet, one of the policemen comes to me, asks for my documents and we start a surreal dialogue which makes me realise the cops are all the same everywhere, at least in this part of the world: Where do you come from?
Dubrovnik.
And where are you going to?
Mostar.
What are you doing there?
Mostly nothing, I just wanna’ cross the bridge!
But this is not the main road, why are you going this way?
That’s how I like to do it, go the less travelled road in the mountains.
Oh, well, but what are you carrying in these bags?
Stuff. Clothes, boots, tools, camping gear, this kind.
Let me see. Open them!
I give him a long look, he’s not kidding … I open my saddlebags, he looks inside, but what the hell can he see? All my stuff is packed inside waterproof smaller bags. Do you carry any alcohol?
Just one beer, but I think it’s warm already!
Cigarettes?
About three packs. (By the way, in Serbia and Montenegro the cigarettes cost at least half less than in the rest of Europe!)
But … do you have marijuana?
In that instant I cannot keep any more from laughing and I burst on hysterically! No, bro’, I don’t! This is why you were thinking I’m travelling this way? ‘Cause I’m a smuggler? Well, I’m not!
I’m on the point of asking him if he’s got some for a joint, but I reckon I’d rather not push it too hard, so I better shut up. Meanwhile, he’s thinking a bit more, then eventually he hands me back my documents and tells me to ride cautiously, because the road is narrow and has lots of no visibility twists. I assure him of my complete cautiousness and I quickly mount on my bike and get going, before he gets any other idea!
I ride on for another full hour until I get to the highway, which is running alongside the Neretva river’s valley, while I’m crossing an almost deserted area, featuring dry rocky mountains and weeny shrubs, on a road that is getting extremely narrow on some segments, something more like a stone paved track. The only people I see are in Stolac, a sinister looking small town close to the demarcation line between the Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina and Republika Srpska, where, even after twenty years since the civil war was over, the dreadful results of fierce fighting and ethnic cleansing are still present – ruined houses where the refugees never came back and bullet holes in the walls of the still standing ones!
It’s almost noon when I eventually arrive in Mostar, then I park my bike in a street close to the old centre and walk to the famous Stari Most. Originally built of white limestone during the 16th century, it arches 130 feet above the Neretva river’s emerald waters level, also featuring one fortified tower at each end. There a lot of tourists in the city, the whole area around the bridge is a huge bazaar where everything is on sale, from souvenirs to t-shirts and fur coats, and the mosques are omnipresent – all these are creating an image reminding more of Turkey than Europe. What a striking difference to the cities I’ve seen yesterday! I take a full tour, I cross the bridge in both directions and before I leave, I stop for lunch in a riverside terraced restaurant. Over here the menu consists mainly of Bosnian “traditional” cuisine, actually exactly the same dishes and deserts one can find all over the Balkans, all of them diverting from their common Ottoman heritage!
From Mostar, back to Croatia. My full belly and the excessive heat give me a feeling of drowsiness which cannot be removed neither by the vigorous hairpins at the exit from the more elegant Catholic district of the city, nor by the road to Medjugorje, which is winding among rolling green hills and passes by tranquil villages which look far better than I expected, at least compared to those I’ve seen during the first part of my route in Bosnia. Consequently, I ride in a state of trance for more than an hour and I only wake up at the Crveni Grm border crossing, which I deal with in less than five minutes. I head on towards Makarska, where I should get back to the seashore, on the national road which is running quite parallel to the motorway, gradually gaining in altitude on some tremendous curves which I take at full speed; shortly I cross the 5,000 ft. high mountain ridge and I have to take a break, because the views are fantastic: on one side there is a magnificent panorama over the Bosnian hinterland and on the other one the surreal blue sea is glowing in the generous sunshine!
From the vantage point there follows a steep descent to the seashore, then I continue northwards on the Jadranska Magistrala. The traffic is quite busy, there are a lot of tourists driving slowly, coaches and trucks struggling in the tight twists, so I’m not making the progress I’d like to. Considering these conditions, I think I’ll quit entering the city of Split, though I’d wanted to visit Diocletian’s Palace again, and I’ll move on forward instead until the fall of dark. Therefore, I pass by the city on its three lanes belt road, which helps me gain some time, I take only one more break for refuelling, then I skip also the medieval walled town of Trogir – I’ve already seen it some years ago, it’s a tourist trap just like Budva – and the sunset catches me somewhere close to Primošten. It’s time to find a suitable camping for tonight, I look on the map and I randomly choose Camping Adriatic, only because it looks bigger than the others. I ride on few more miles to get there, I go to the reception and bang! It hadn’t been a wise choice, the camping is full of caravans, most of the tourists inside are speaking German and other northern languages and of course the prices are tailored for them: almost the same as in Dubrovnik, 33 euros for just one night! Sadly, it’s too late to search for an alternative, so I set up my tent, then I go to the on-site restaurant for supper and spend the rest of the evening calculating route options and counting riding hours for tomorrow, because Slovenia is still far away and I start running short of time!
Bosnia, the road to Mostar
Mostar, Stari Most
The Adriatic Sea nearby Makarska
Climbing onto Slovenia’s top. 370 miles
I have to get into Slovenia today, where I want to climb the Julian Alps up to the Mangart summit, right on its border to Italy. Considering this target is too far away to pursue it on the busy winding roads along the Croatian seashore and through the Slovenian mountainous landscape, I’ll make a fairly compromise between my usual countryside exploring routine and the speed prone benefits of the motorway.
Taking advantage of leaving the camping at a quite early hour, I quickly arrive to the outskirts of Šibenik, where I get on the Jadranska Autocesta – the motorway running along almost the whole of Dalmatia, quite parallel to the seashore but about 10 to 15 miles inland – and I maintain a constant speed of 80 mph for almost two hours, including only one break for breakfast and fuel. It’s also true that, as opposed to many other motorways which I generally avoid because they are terribly boring, this one helps my mood with its turns, tunnels and picturesque landscape on both sides. This way I don’t even realise when I reach the exit to Senj and, after I cross a densely forested ridge, I’m back on the seashore. I regretfully pass without stopping by the town’s medieval fortress, but I really don’t have time for it now, and I continue northwards again on the Jadranska Magistrala approaching the city of Rijeka. Sadly, this entire day I’ll be in a fast forward mode in order to fulfil my ambitious plan and surely I’ll have to skip yet more interesting objectives I’ll pass by later.
After I exit Senj, I ride 40 more miles of panoramic road, keeping the blue sea on my left and the green forested mountain slopes on the right, then I pass literally above Rijeka courtesy of the Kvarnerska Autocesta – the westward motorway to Slovenia. In a gas station alongside it I take a hasty lunch break and I also catch a last glimpse of the Adriatic Sea, which has accompanied my route during the past four days, and after another fifteen minutes I finally reach the Pasjak border crossing into Slovenia. Next, I’m planning to take a detour through Italy, which paradoxically will buy me some time, due to the possibility to ride faster on its roads running over flat terrain, as opposed to the narrow and twisty roads filtering the Slovenian mountainous landscape. The corridor from here to Trieste is only 20 miles long, so quite soon I’m already into Italy and I successfully dodge away an Italian police speed trap, thanks to a fellow biker travelling in the opposite direction, who insistently signalled me to slow down ahead of a large turn into the forest.
Now it’s time for another orientation break and I even consider entering Trieste to take a short walk around the monumental area of the Piazza Unita d’Italia, but this means I’d lose at least an hour of my remaining time for today. Let’s see: from Trieste up to Mangart there are 100 miles, which Google Maps says I’ll ride in almost three hours, then from Mangart to Tolmin, where I’d like to sleep tonight, it adds another 40, meaning an additional one hour and a half; that’s a total of five hours, including the mandatory photo session at the summit, which means I have to leave Trieste as late as three o’clock in order to set up my tent during the last minutes of daylight. OK, now it’s … a quarter to four!!! Cool, isn’t it? I don’t waste any more single second, I jump in the saddle and, hoping that Google Maps has calculated the times considering the legal speed limits which I intend to brutally ignore, I set on the road as fast as the traffic and my riding skills allow me. By the way, speaking of traffic in Italy – regardless of the extent of my rush, I try not to push too hard over the traffic rules; this means I don’t overtake crossing the continuous centre line, I don’t ignore the red lights and I give way to those entitled to. Well, over here I feel as if I’m wearing long donkey ears and a big red clown nose – all around me swarm countless scooters ridden by young boys and girls or even older persons, wearing no gear at all except for open face helmets and having no issues with the above-mentioned rules, practically forcing the drivers to avoid them! I don’t know what to say, as much as this behaviour would fit my time shortage, I’d rather not risk it …
Luckily, I’ve been well inspired to take this detour through Italy, because the strada provinciale running parallel to the motorway is absolutely free of any traffic, so I get quite soon to Monfalcone, where I turn north still on secondary roads which let me maintain a reasonable speed. At about half past four I enter the town of Cividale del Friuli and the route inevitably drives me right through its centre. I pass under a monumental old gate, take some narrow cobblestoned streets and when I’m off into the main square I cannot help stopping for a short walk and few photos, even if my race against time doesn’t let me waste one single minute! The town is extremely nice and authentic, with imposing palaces and monumental statues, being also listed as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. On the downside, while exiting the town I stop at a small gas station to refuel, this one being the last one before I start climbing the mountains. I put the nozzle into my gas tank, I press the handle, but in vain, there’s no gas flowing; I look at the pump to see if I have to press some button or something, there’s nothing like that! I give it another try, still no gas! Eventually, I leave the nozzle into the tank and I go inside to ask somebody for help. The cashier, who looks to be also the owner, was stupidly laughing at my unsuccessful efforts, and tells me I have to pay for the gas first, then he’ll start the pump. I’m really in no mood for entertainment today, so I distastefully throw a 10 euros bill on his desk and offer him a free mouthful of the worst Romanian swearing, quite enough to fit him until next summer!
I entry Slovenia one more time following the course of a narrow and winding valley, with forested steep slopes; the temperature has significantly dropped compared to two hours earlier, on the seaside, and the fresh mountain air gives me an energy boost I really need after what has already been a long and tiresome day. I arrive shortly in Kobarid, where I join upstream the Soča river course – a rafting paradise – towards the core of the Triglav mountain, the country’s highest. The narrow road creeps in between the vertical rocky walls and the river’s foamy water and I’m quite pushing my luck repeatedly by cutting some no visibility tight curves. 15 miles farther, at Bovec, the road divides in two equally spectacular segments: the one climbing the 5,285 ft. high Vršič pass I’ve driven twice in my car, so now it’s time for the other one, which is leading to the lower Predel pass and is continued afterwards by the alpine road ending on the Slovenian – Italian border in the Mangart saddle. First I ride along a cool shadowy valley up to the small touristic village of Log pod Mangartom, then I turn right onto the one lane wide alpine track, through a dense and dark fir forest; suddenly, the road starts climbing madly the almost vertical slopes in an endless series of tight and sharp hairpins, penetrating from time to time the solid rock walls by the help of several long and unlighted tunnels, where I literally can’t see anything ahead and I guide myself only by the tiny spots of light at their ends. Eventually, after almost half an hour since I started the ascension, I come out onto the high alpine meadows, among sharp rocks and bottomless abysses. The road goes on for several more hundred yards, then it ends in a loop encircling a gravel parking lot, just below the 8,790 ft. Mangart summit. The views all around me are truly breath-taking, I really don’t know which way to point my camera first, while the setting sun is projecting long shadows over the neighbouring cliffs. Besides the joy I feel at seeing nature’s impressive show, I also have a satisfying feeling of accomplishment for finally being able to reach the apex of my journey. From this point on there starts my long way back home.
As much as I love this place, after about twenty minutes I decide to set on the road back to the valley. It’s already too late and, moreover, thick clouds start gathering above the nearby summits, signalling that the nice weather is about to end around this area. First, I descend rather cautiously the slopes down to the main road, but from that point on I unleash myself! It’s seven thirty and I’ve got about 40 more miles left to get to my planned destination for tonight. OK, I realise I developed a fixation about sleeping in Tolmin, as both the campings I’ve passed by in Bovec and Kobarid were quite good looking, but I can’t change my mind and keep on racing as fast as I’m able to. Eventually, at a quarter past eight I enter the targeted Kamp Siber, quite crowded by the way, and I get to set up my tent in the dim evening light. I feel tired as I’ve rather overdone my riding today, spending again more than twelve hours in the saddle, without even having too many breaks. There’s no place to eat here, so I reluctantly get back on my bike and go search for a restaurant in the town centre; I find a quite elitist one in an elegant hotel, where the dishes are tasty but rather brief. That’s it, I compensate my late dinner with two beers on the camping’s terrace, then I put an end to this long and tiresome day.
The Adriatic Sea at Senj
Cividale del Friuli
Slovenia, the Mangart summit
Fighting the rain on the way back to Croatia. 330 miles
The clouds that were threatening me yesterday evening proved to be more than just a false alarm, because it seriously rained overnight and even in the morning the sky doesn’t look very encouraging. In fact, today is the 1st of September and maybe this is the sign the summer is over and it’s really time for me to head home. Therefore, I pack my tent while it’s still wet and I hurry on to leave the camping as early as possible, preparing for another long day as I’d like to go all the way to Belgrade by tonight; that means I’ll have to ride more than 400 miles today, leaving “just” 375 more for tomorrow!
I briefly stop for gas in the small town of Most na Soči, which is tightly squeezed between the rocky slopes of the Idrijca river valley, then I turn left on the shortcut climbing over the Bohinj mountain’s ridge to descend on its other side at Škofja Loka and further on to Ljubljana. This one will probably be the only spectacular part of my route today, considering I have little expectations from the Sava river valley between the Slovenian capital and Zagreb and even less from the dull motorway crossing the boring plain of Slavonia. Indeed, the road is winding along a narrow green valley, passing by small villages threaded on the course of a vigorous mountain creek. At the tip of this valley, some hairpins hidden in the dense shadow of the fir forest take me to the maximum altitude point in the village of Petrovo Brdo, then I start the descent, accompanied by powerful thunders repeating themselves more and more often. I take a glimpse up the sky, things are not looking good at all – low black clouds are running fast above this area, my only hope coming from the still clear patches I can see on the horizon, right in the direction I’m heading to. I increase my speed thinking maybe I’ll outrun the incoming rainstorm, but the inherent traffic jam at the industrial outskirts of Ljubljana significantly slows me down. Few minutes later, while I’m riding in the streets of the apartment blocks district in the north of the city, the inevitable occurs: a furious torrential rain suddenly unleashes itself, barely leaving me enough time to pull over and run for cover beneath the shelter provided by the closest building’s passage. I put on my rain gear, but I decide to wait some more time for the rain to ease down. Half an hour later however, despite any improvement, I mount my bike and try to continue my route; I get out of the city and take the national road towards Zagreb, the one following the Sava river valley.
Along the next 50 miles I ride in continuous light rain and I’m not sure what is drenching me more, the steady drizzle or the constant spray coming from the tyres. I can’t help stopping for a hot coffee in a roadside café, then I have the surprise to encounter a road segment which is closed for some works, forcing me to make a detour over a green steep hill and adding another delay to my already overdue schedule. Sadly, soon after I pass through the town of Zidani Most, the rain intensifies again, my rain gear becoming obsolete as I’m completely soaked to my skin. I really feel I can’t take it anymore and, the moment I see a gas station featuring a sheltered terrace beside, I give in to the temptation of having one more break, even if I’m aware I’m well behind my plan. I strip off my dripping gloves and jacket, I buy a coffee and wait; half an hour later I buy another coffee and still wait. After an entire hour I start panicking – it’s already past one in the afternoon and the rain doesn’t seem to ease at all. Frankly, I’d look for a room nearby to put an end to this miserable day, but I’m still a huge distance away from home and there’s no possible way I can cover it tomorrow. I have to move on! With my morale broken in a thousand pieces, I put on my still wet gear, I go out in the flood and take off hopelessly.
More than an hour later I finally reach the Harmica border crossing to Croatia; this is a secondary road and obviously I’m their only customer. The guards are sheltering from the pouring rain inside their kiosks and they show no intention at all of coming out to check me. The Slovene hardly shows any interest in me and the Croat gives me a compassionate long look watching me struggling to take my documents out of the waterproof plastic bag I’ve been careful enough to put them in this morning. After I’m off the formalities, I head on towards Zagreb, which is only a few miles away, I bypass it through its southern outskirts, then I merge the motorway, with the rain unfailingly accompanying me. At the sight of the first rest area I encounter, I pull over in order to have a snack and wring out my clothes a bit and I’m also using this opportunity to take a look on the map and try making a decision for tonight. I’m not even imagining I’ll set up my tent in this kind of weather and even if the rain would eventually stop, I’ll still need a shelter to dry up my clothes overnight. Therefore, I spot a roadside transit motel right before the Serbian border and I book online a room for tonight, without giving it a second thought. Google Maps says I’ll be there in about three more hours, leaving me with 450 miles to go for tomorrow. Anyway, I feel a bit more at peace after settling these things, so I can go on and continue my struggle against the adverse weather conditions.
These hundreds of miles on the motorway through monotonous landscape truly exasperate me, even if the rain has eventually stopped meanwhile, and I try fighting the boredom by having short cigarette breaks every other parking lot. Otherwise, I don’t have any other reason to complain, because the traffic is gradually thinning as I’m getting closer to the border and the constant airflow helps drying up my clothes. I arrive at Hotel Spačva, situated in the very last rest area before the border, right on the fall of dark, I carry my luggage in the room, then I try to get something to eat. Sadly, the hotel’s restaurant is closed and the receptionist is sheepishly directing me to the nearby gas station. Too bad, I’d really have eaten a hot meal at the end of this terrible day, but it seems I’ll have to settle for cold sandwiches and beer.
Slovenia, the Bohinj range
The long way home. 450 miles
Even if I know I’ll have a tight schedule today, considering I’ll also lose an hour due to the time zone change, I move in quite slow motion in the morning. Two hours pass while I drink my wake-up coffee, pack my bags and have breakfast, so that I’m only able to leave the hotel few minutes past nine. However, I manage to cross the border into Serbia faster than I expected and I crawl on the almost empty but incredibly bumpy motorway doing no more than 60 mph. The relatively short distance to Belgrade is extremely boring, crossing a vast uninspiring plain, so I have to stop for yet one more coffee; on this occasion I also count the Serbian dinars which I have in my pocket since the first day of my journey and I’m satisfied to find out they are enough for a full tank of gas, sparing me the hassle of entering some town in search of an ATM. At about ten thirty I eventually enter Belgrade and, taking advantage of the low weekend traffic, I slow down to see as much as I can, considering the motorway crosses the very centre of the city.
After I get out of the Serbian capital, the landscape dramatically changes, the motorway is now going up and down over rolling hills, so I ride on with some enthusiasm and I practically don’t even notice when I come to the exit to Požarevac and further on to the Danube’s gorges. As I take on the national road, I meet more and more cars holding Romanian registration numbers, as a sign I’m rapidly approaching the border; right after I enter the town of Veliko Gradište, I turn right alongside the Danube, traversing the Djerdap National Park towards the massive Iron Gates dam. The deceiving thing is that, even if the distance appears to be relatively short on the map, the road is actually extremely twisty, following closely the contour of the huge reservoir’s every single bay, which results in a total of more than 80 miles up to the border crossing; consequently, it takes me almost two more hours to get there, even if I’m madly twisting the throttle on every straight segment, I’m having only a fugitive glimpse of the impressive Golubac fortress, which is towering the high cliffs on the river’s Serbian bank, and I’m taking just one short break, in order to say “hello” to the Dacian King Decebalus’ enormous head, which is carved in the cliffs overlooking the Romanian bank. Finally, at two in the afternoon – which is instantly transforming into a worrying three, due to the time zone change – I set my foot, or more precisely my wheel, into Romania.
I take a snack and orientation break in the town of Turnu Severin and I get to the conclusion that the fastest way home is on the main national road through the cities of Craiova and Piteşti, as busy as it may be. Therefore, ten minutes later I launch myself in a mad race against the few daylight hours I’ve still got left, as I definitely don’t want to ride in the dark. Luckily, the Saturday afternoon traffic is quite scarce and, moreover, on an alternative crossing roadworks segment, the workers wave me off on the side of the road while all the cars are still waiting at the red light; this way I take advantage of having the upcoming miles all for myself and, in a deja-vu fast forward style, I pass by Craiova and Slatina and, at about six thirty, I find myself 150 miles farther, at the Hanul Stejarul / Oak Inn, nearby Piteşti. Over here, the barbecue smoke is irresistibly wreathing me and, as I’ve barely eaten anything since breakfast and the remaining distance home doesn’t scare me anymore, I give in to the temptation of a tasty dinner.
Little more than half an hour later I set off on the last part of the journey I’ve started one week ago and the fall of dark catches me right after I exit the motorway, less than 20 miles away from home. Luckily, I don’t have to set up my tent tonight :) Finally, at eight thirty I get off the bike inside my own yard and I slump onto the bench beside the front door of my house. I lay there for long minutes, feeling seized with the tiredness of the past seven days, 2,200 miles and seven different countries long trip; however, I don’t regret a bit and I strongly believe it was absolutely worth doing it! In fact, when I think more, tomorrow morning I’d start it all over again without any hesitation!
Serbia, the Danube's gorge
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