[2016, September]
Maybe you know how this usually goes – constantly aiming to the horizon, eager to reach farther every time and looking forward to explore more and more less travelled or exotic destinations, one is often walking over and not paying proper attention to the charm and unique attractions of much closer and familiar places. One late summer, with no more than a very limited amount of time available to spend on a tour, I suddenly realized this has happened to me, too, and maybe it would be a good idea to wander a bit throughout an area which I instinctively regard as a transit zone for almost each of my travels south, that is Eastern Bulgaria, all the way to North-Eastern Greece, the one which is generally regarded as the historical province of Thrace. The plan is quite simple to sketch: I’ll find a less travelled route directly to the Black Sea shore, south of the Danube, follow the coastal road as far south as it goes, then turn towards the narrow strip of land between the Rodopi mountain range and the Aegean seaside, stopping wherever I’ll feel like doing it or encounter anything worth visiting.
Long forgotten memories. 400 miles
Preparing for a short tour takes an accordingly short time to get it over with, so I pack just the bare necessity stuff and set off, without doing anymore thinking or calculating. My first fixed checkpoint is the Danube ferry nearby the town of Călăraşi, which I choose because I’ve recently crossed the bridge at Ruse by car and I had to wait in a miles-long queue before doing it, due to some ongoing roadworks, so I’d better swim across the river than repeat that awful experience. As I’m in a leisurely ride mode, I skip the motorway there and take some local backroads instead, winding across the flat and open Danube plain, by drowsy villages and endless agricultural fields. The traffic along these ones is almost non-existent, yet there are lots of pedestrians, bicycle riders, children and loose animals within the settlements – the usual image of rural Romania, so I can’t make a significant progress during the first couple of hours. Further on, not much later after I get to a less inhabited route section where I manage to do 60+ mph for a while, I encounter one completely covered in debris and tar, being forced to slow down to as low as 35 and definitely forget about overtaking any ongoing vehicles. Fortunately, it’s not excessively long and few miles farther I reach the town of Călăraşi, cross it right through the centre and stop for at least one moment at each of its one thousand pedestrian crossings, then continue onto a flawless tarmac, large bends freshly rebuilt road up to the ferry terminal on Danube’s left bank. Over here, I don’t have to wait too long before I’m invited to embark the ship, the crossing itself doesn’t last for more than twenty minutes, therefore I’m on the other side, in the province of Dobrogea and a few yards away from the Bulgarian border just a bit past noon.
Now, I have to make a decision about the route I’m going to follow up to the seashore: I’ve been initially thinking of following a series of local backroads in Romania, running quite parallel to the border, which I’d cross at Kardam, just 20 miles away from the Black Sea coast, but this one would surely take me several full hours to ride and I’m also not entirely sure about its condition; therefore, as I really can’t wait to feel the sea breeze anytime sooner, I change my mind and immediately turn to the Silistra border crossing point, in order to subsequently take the faster main road via Dobrich to the seaside resort and ancient Thracian settlement of Balchik. There are about ten cars in the border post queue, but, as one of their drivers waves me off, I don’t wait to be invited twice and cut off right to its front. While checking my documents, the officer teases me saying there’s a rainstorm forecast for later on, but I bluff and go all in by answering I’m looking forward to it, as there’s no adventure if extreme weather conditions are missing :) Just a couple of minutes later I’m already within the town of Silistra, ignore the road sign to Dobrich and keep forward to the centre; this doesn’t prove to be a smart idea, as it’s quite dull and uninspiring, with bleak apartment blocks, numerous pedestrian crossings and speed bumps, and the detour I have to make onto the belt road to get back to my track it’s way too long and time consuming. Eventually, I’m on the road to Dobrich, which is smooth and wide enough to allow me speed up and lean in its large bends; fortunately, I instinctively slow down when I get into the first village enroute and this was a truly smart move, as a couple of hundred yards farther I get acquainted to the Bulgarian mega- speed bump: strategically located ahead of a pedestrian crossing, it’s about 2 feet wide and almost 10 inches high (!) and it had been marked – some 25 years ago, I reckon – by a series of white triangles painted on its edge, which have obviously faded meanwhile, leaving it really difficult to be noticed in time. I guess I’d have experienced a hell of a jump if I dared cross it at more than 20 mph, just to land right in one of the big potholes on its other side. This one is also an interesting thing, as while most of the roads in Bulgaria – the more travelled ones, at least – are in quite reasonable condition, the sections within the settlements are actually a puzzle of older or fresher tarmac patches, providing an uninterrupted and also unwanted bum massage :) Otherwise, everything goes on without any major fuss, there’s much less human or livestock roadside presence than onto the corresponding Romanian backroads, therefore one hour later I get to Dobrich and stop at the first gas station in sight, with my fuel indicator blinking and the coffee one brightly lit for real; I fill up both tanks :), then relentlessly hit on the road to the seashore.
I get to Balchik at about three in the afternoon and head directly downtown and to the seaside promenade; I’ve already been here some eight years ago and I’m really curious if anything has changed since then. Well, it hasn’t! The same humble terraces, featuring menus also in Romanian, and souvenir street-shops, the same narrow and crowded beach, even the dishes I order in one of the waterfront restaurants are equally dull and bland. I don’t take any pictures, as the ones back then are accurate enough. One hour and a half later, I decide I’ve wasted too much time over here and head on north-east onto the coastal road towards Kavarna and the nearby Cape Kaliakra. I ignore the road sign to the well-known scallops farm of Dalboka, as I’m not really a fan for seafood and I’ve also just had dinner, then bravely jump several speed bumps in the village of Bălgarevo and get to the barrier where the guard waves me off, to my surprise. I park my bike amidst a lot of visitor cars, half of them registered in Romania, and a couple of coaches, which means this place is too touristy for my taste; moreover, the restored defence walls and the cliffs overlooking the Black Sea aren’t highly spectacular also, so half an hour later I leave the premises, quite disappointed and confused. From Kaliakra, I continue northwards to Shabla, also along the coastline, skipping the crescent shaped Bolata Bay – although picturesque, the beach over there is always overly crowded with tourists, but cruising leisurely onto the completely deserted backroad, the flaming sunset projecting an end-of-the-world light across the high cliffs. Nearby the Shabla lighthouse, I’m not positively impressed by the adjoining construction sites, therefore I keep on riding for several miles and stop in the village of Krapets, just 5 miles ahead of the Romanian border; over here, squeezed between the pine forest and the wide sandy beach, I find a quiet campsite, featuring a few tents and some promising bungalows. Out of laziness, I choose one of the latter, park my bike right next to the watchman’s booth, then walk to the beach for a few minutes, stop a bit at the terrace bar nearby and eventually call it a day.
For a reason I really can’t tell, I wake up unusually early, still in the dark, have a coffee under an incredible starlit clear sky, then pack my stuff and wait for the daylight to come; during my second coffee I witness an impressive coloured sunrise over the calm sea and, at about seven, I set off. I follow the coastal road back south, towards Balchik, then continue to the popular Albena resort, where almost all the cars in the hotels’ parking lots are Romanian registered, so I feel like home; I try to have some breakfast in one of the numerous beachside restaurants, but none of them is open this early, therefore, as the place is starting to overcrowd with long lines of tourists heading to the beach, I run as fast as I can back to the main road. I remember eight years ago I’ve been as disappointed by Albena as I am now, getting a strange sensation of time travel back to the eighties; I decide on spot not to set foot in the other two well-known resorts south – Golden Sands and Sunny Beach – either. As much as I’d try, I really can’t understand the reasons they’re so popular among Romanian tourists for! Along the next 10 miles, the busy traffic, pedestrian crossings and traffic lights force me to ride slow, offering me the opportunity to observe the dreary scenery of another similar looking crowded tourist trap, featuring visitors pretending to feel good and taxi drivers giving fake smiles to them. I’m approaching the big city of Varna by now and I try another shot at that postponed breakfast, in a smart-looking gas station this time; once I get inside, the coffeeshop greets me with a locked door and a large “Ne rabota / Not working” sign, clearly a hint that I’m not getting any luck around this area, am I?
I pass right through the city, close by to its centre, onto the seaside boulevard featuring elegant old buildings and an immense park, which is separating it from the beach, then I take the 2.3 miles long Asparuhov bridge across the navigable canal connecting the Varna Lake to the sea and continue my route south, towards Burgas. Within the next village, I spot a Gazprom gas station and, although I have my preconceptions against Russian companies, especially the government owned ones, I stop for fuel, coffee and a snack, as I don’t really have any other option this time; over here, I notice something which adds to my paranoia further more: an average rural gas station, where no more than just four cars stop for refuelling during the half hour I spend in, is employing a staff of six – three on the outside, at the pumps, and another three at the counter inside, which are literally stepping on each other’s toes, but keep on getting paid, thus sending over the subliminal message that Russians are the good guys who provide jobs for lots of people! Whatever, it’s their problem to cope with, but the pasties they serve me are cold, therefore I leave the place jaded, yet unsatisfied though.
Back on the road again, I’m in a better mood now and I get to enjoy the winding traffic free road which is mildly climbing the low altitude Obzor pass. Right ahead of its final uphill section, I spot a road sign announcing the pass is open :), as opposed to the winter time, when it might well be closed, due to potential heavy snowfall; I’ve already encountered more of this kind, onto other several roads crossing the Stara Planina range, and I really think Bulgarians are insane – whenever it snows, even in quite small amounts, they’d rather cut off the connections between the country’s northern and southern halves by closing the respective roads, instead of trying to promptly plow them! As much as I’m concerned, it’s fortunately summertime now and the tarmac is dry, therefore I race up and down the hairpins and bravely overtake all the ongoing traffic, up to the Sunny Beach seaside resort on the mountain’s southern slope and farther, to the medieval town of Nessebar, laying within a rocky promontory which reaches out into the sea. I’ve already been here some – oh, my God! – 25 years ago and I remember I liked it a lot back then; I loved walking into its narrow, cobbled streets within the strong defence walls, among the old Ottoman heritage houses and ancient churches, dozing in the sunshine as if they’d been frozen into the Middle Ages. I’ve been expecting to find the town changed, yet its metamorphosis really shocks me! I guess the tourist beehive is quite normal – I barely find a parking spot for my bike and I’d surely haven’t stand a chance coming here by car – but the traditional houses, albeit mostly renovated, are hardly visible from the omnipresent kitsch bazaar. OK, I can accept the souvenirs sales, but I think they’d at least have something in common with the place they’re being sold in – well, no, over here they sell beads, bracelets, leather and fur clothing, vases, puppets, paintings, fake icons, sports shoes and t-shirts, all of these in a heap and akin to each other! Even the Orthodox Church doesn’t stand lower, as it transformed half of the Dormition of Theotokos Greek basilica into a religious objects store. Trying not to let myself demotivated by these inconveniences, I still wander in the streets for about an hour, have a coffee in a sea-view terrace bar, next to some loud and perky seagulls, then relentlessly continue my route south.
Along the next 20 miles from Nessebar to Burgas, the road features long straight lines, but the traffic is extremely busy, therefore I make a painfully slow progress up to the city; I avoid the three lanes expressway which runs through its western districts and on southwards and take the seaside boulevard instead, as I’m curious to discover Bulgaria’s second biggest port city. Maybe I’m biased, due to the recent impression that Varna made on me, but I’m not really impressed this time, therefore I don’t stop over here at all and continue along the coastline. At about two thirty in the afternoon, I get to Sozopol, Nessebar’s sibling, which is located on the opposite side of the large Burgas Bay. This one also features a walled old town, perched on a similar promontory that is reaching out into the sea, with cobbled streets and Ottoman style buildings and, of course, endless rows of kitsch souvenir shops, where hordes of Russian speaking tourists are moving to and fro. I wander a bit in the much quieter streets away from the beehive, then I decide to have dinner in a Bulgarian traditional restaurant, where a joyful waitress welcomes me – how else? – in Russian! She probably got scared by my harsh answer, as she hastily calls for one of her colleagues who speaks an approximative English, then I don’t see her any more. The icing on the cake is that also the menus and the posters in the toilets are written in Russian first and only next in Bulgarian and English – oh, my God, I guess I got into a trap for Russian tourists! :) Well, at least the food has been tasty, although a bit pricey nevertheless.
It's already four o’clock by now and I have to decide what’s next. According to my original plan, I should keep on riding south for about 30 more miles, up to the village of Sinemorets and close to the Turkish border, along sandy beaches and through pine and beech forests; the downside of this option is that it would take me more than two full hours, due to the very poor road condition, just to get there and back to the area around the Kiten resort, where Google Maps and my vague memories from 20 years ago tell me I can find several campsites to sleep in tonight. The schedule looks quite tight, as I reckon I’d also be tempted to stop more than a couple of times enroute, and, moreover, both the 35+°C melting heat and my full stomach make me a bit dozy, therefore I lie to myself there will be plenty of opportunities to do this some other time and eventually quit going there. I ride back for a few miles instead, to the place where I’ve spotted a promising looking campsite – Zlatna Ribka / The Golden Fish: 20 leva (that’s about 10 euros) for a pitch of own choice, table and chairs included, right next to a wide sandy beach and a shady terrace featuring good music and excellent beer. What else could I ask for?
Balchik
Balchik
Cape Kaliakra
Krapets beach
Nessebar
Burgas
Sozopol
Zlatna Ribka Camping, Sozopol
Back to the present. 580 miles
I spend more time than I’d like while packing the tent and the rest of my stuff in the morning, as I move in slow motion and take a couple of long coffee breaks, too, in order to give my phone a chance to charge a bit from an incredibly ineffective solar charger that I use for the first time now. Although I probably won’t need it as a GPS, as I already know the route I’m going to take today, I’d still like to be able to use it for taking photos and, more important, find some accommodation for tonight. Eventually, way past nine o’clock, I set off back towards Burgas, onto the same two-lanes road I came yesterday. I take advantage of the Saturday morning loose traffic, speed up – I just hope that damn speed camera which I passed by while doing 75 mph isn’t working! – and get to the “Trakia” motorway junction, north of the city, in less than an hour. I skip that one, take the old national road westwards instead, which is in quite good condition and, most important, absolutely traffic free, and make the first stop today in the small town of Aytos, at the first gas station I see – not a mainstream one, though one featuring a coffeeshop and lots of customers inside. All good so far, I fill up my tank, then go inside to pay for fuel and order some late breakfast, when I get the surprise: “Cash only”! Well, there is a problem, as I’m not carrying any, at least not in Bulgarian currency, but the cashier remains calm and points me to a store across the street, where there’s an ATM; problem solved, at the expense of an outrageous 5 euros fee for an equivalent of about 12 withdrawn! After all, not the amount, but the petty banking policy is the one that makes me so furious and this is the sort of small unpleasant things which may accumulate and ruin the overall travel experience for a certain country, in the end.
Further on, along the next 70 miles up to the city of Sliven and beyond, the road runs through a quite dull scenery of agricultural fields in the mild foothills of the Stara Planina range, where the only attraction – albeit a negative one – are a couple of extremely poor Gypsy villages I pass by, where the decrepit shacks have no fences and the wooden carts are pulled by people instead of horses; I guess these are the ones who are being deplored by the Western human rights NGOs and associations for being discriminated and disfavoured, although to me they don’t actually seem to be driven by any working mood whatsoever. In the town of Nova Zagora, I turn south right towards the Greek border and I start feeling kind of a Mediterranean scent, or is it just my eagerness to reach the Aegean Sea shore? The narrow, but quite smooth road sneaking in between the hills is absolutely traffic free, the sun is friendly shining in my helmet visor, so a good mood is gradually building up on me and even the huge potholes I have to dodge within a couple of villages don’t succeed in spoiling it. Up to the border town of Svilengrad, I enjoy large bends, mild up- and downhill slopes and lovely scenery, including a dense pine forest which predicts I’m getting closer to Greece. Indeed, just several miles farther from the town I come to the Ormenio border post, where I don’t have to spend more than ten minutes and that’s it, I’m already through!
I’ve made an unexpectedly good progress so far, considering it’s just three in the afternoon by now and I’m no more than 100 miles away from Alexandroupoli, the place where I’d like to sleep tonight. The highway there is wide, featuring an emergency lane and metallic guardrails, and bypasses all the settlements enroute, therefore it shouldn’t take me more than an hour and a half to reach my destination, but the combined landscape’s monotony, uprising temperature and my increasing fatigue take their toll and force me to take short and frequent breaks; in fact, the one which discomforts me the most is the heat, as there are 30+°C now, compared to less than 15 when I left the campsite, in the morning. Consequently, I get to spot the sea in the distance no sooner than two full hours and, 15 miles farther, I eventually enter the town; I ride slowly right through the centre, up to its other side, just savouring the accomplished target, while an awful lot of scooters are swarming fast around me, ridden by people of all ages, many of them not even wearing helmets, in deep contrast to my full riding gear!
My initial plan was to set up my tent for a couple of nights in the seaside Municipal Camping, the one bragging about being open all year round, so I ride to the town’s western outskirts, easily find it and confidently go to the reception. Surprise! – the door is locked and there’s nobody in sight. The main gate is open though, so I walk in, hoping I’ll be able to find somebody to talk to; I notice there are a few caravans and a couple of tents within the campsite, but I still don’t manage to solve the riddle and return to my bike. Well, where am I going to sleep tonight? For a moment, I fugitively think about just setting up my tent and let them worrying about charging me the appropriate fee, but I don’t quite feel like complicating myself into this though, so I decide to go back to the town and rent a hotel room, as I’ve seen plenty of them on my way here. Before I do that, I stop at a gas station enroute for refuelling, as the reserve indicator is on and I usually abide by the unwritten touring law of having the tank full in the evening, so that I may set off worry free onto the road the next morning; eventually, this one will prove to be a very smart move for me, as next I ask for a free room at a bunch of hotels and I get the same answer everywhere: they’re fully booked! The truth is I can see the entire town is full of Turkish weekend tourists, as Istanbul is just 200 miles away from here and this one is the closest Greek seaside resort to it. Out of desperation, I reach for my battery drained phone and I browse online for any available accommodation for tonight, almost to no avail – there’s literally none free over here, but the closest one I can find is 30 miles away, in the village of Platanitis, a four stars hotel with accordingly high rates; fortunately, it’s currently low season and the price for a single room doesn’t burn such a big hole in my budget, so I book that one and set off there at once, because it’s already late by now and the daylight is starting to fade away. At least, I’ve got a full tank of gas on my bike, don’t I?
I ride about half of the distance on the motorway, then I take a barely 10 feet wide backroad, spectacularly running up and down the steep slopes of a bold rocky hill, which almost tips into the sea. The scenery is worth every penny and also the FilosXenia Ismaros Hotel is no less: located right on the seashore, it features a private beach, a pool sided by maniacally aligned sunbeds and glittering elegance and tidiness inside the lobby, in striking contrast to my dusty boots and worn out leather jacket, which is full of hundreds of speed crushed insects :) Nevertheless, despite my totally improper apparition according to the establishment’s standard, the staff’s broad smiles and extreme kindness haven’t budged for an inch, not even when the lady at the reception gets my booking by e-mail right while she’s telling me there’s none in my name! Eventually, I get a ground floor double room with balcony and sea view, for the same price as the semi-basement single one I’ve initially chosen – a free upgrade for the reason they didn’t have time to set up the room for me, which appears quite normal to me, since I’ve got there even before they received my booking! – and everything settles in quite reasonably. After I take a hot shower and have a coffee outside, in the balcony, in the scent of magnolia and the rumble of the sea waves, I ride to the neighbouring village of Maroneia, where I have a souvlaki and a couple of local beers – sadly, as bad as all the Greek ones – for dinner, in the authentic main square crowded taverna. And I’m surprised to notice that, in a country full of motorcycles and scooters, people are taking their time to get a closer look to my Vulcan S; maybe its novelty is the reason for that, I don’t really know, but I’m really proud of it anyway!
I wake up early as usual and, after I’m the first hotel guest to show up for breakfast, at eight thirty I’m already in the saddle, ready to go! I ride west along the coastline, with the morning sun gently burning in the nape of my neck, the deserted beaches to my left and the whole day in front of me. The road, which I don’t share with anybody for the moment, is passing through drowsy villages and cultivated fields, where I see people at work from time to time – wow, this is a revelation to me, as I’ve seldom seen Greeks working on a Sunday morning! Truly bewildered by this discovery and also due to riding at high speed, at a certain moment I get to briefly take a glimpse to a road sign which says something about water and low speed; whatever, I don’t pay much attention to it, only to be forced to slam a brutal emergency braking right after the next bend: less than 10 feet ahead of me the road is crossed by … a river!? Not just 2 feet deep and 20 feet wide, I reckon, but also flowing at a rate which would make it impossible for me to cross it even by foot, let alone by riding my bike. OK, this one looked like a main road on the map, didn’t it, what the hell is this thing? I penitently walk back to the road sign I’ve passed by and this time I read it carefully – it says one should drive attentively at low speed whenever there’s water onto the roadway. I really don’t get it, so I take a look at Google Maps and eventually enlighten myself: the given river, Lissos by its name, is kind of seasonal and it seems that during most of the time it is completely drained, so the locals didn’t bother to build a bridge across it, just assuming the difficulty of driving through a bit of water from time to time! As for me, I just cannot do that, therefore my only options are either to turn back and take a 20 miles long detour, or to ride kind of off-road, along the river’s bank, for about 4 miles, up to a bridge, then back to the same road. Always ready for an adventure, of course I choose the latter, only to find out that just a few hundred yards farther the track transforms more into a grassy and muddy trail, just perfect for my worn out tyres :) Finally, at the end of ten extremely long minutes, during which I experience plenty of sliding and narrowly avoided crashes, I get to the icing of the cake – the said bridge, which has been built literally in the middle of nowhere, that is without any road connecting it to any place, has been looong left unkempt and it’s in a miserable condition: the guardrails are broken in several spots and there are also even a few large holes in its carriage, where I can see the water scarily flowing beneath my wheels! That’s it, I don’t have any other option than try to cross it anyway, just hoping it won’t break down under my weight … Eventually, I get it over with and manage to safely reach the other side, so I can partly breathe in relief; not fully, though, as I’ve still got to ride the muddy trail on the other side of the river, back to the road. Fortunately, I succeed in keeping the rubber side down all the way there, then I set off towards the small port of Fanari, where I finally stop for a long coffee break in order to catch my breath!
Strengthened and definitely calmed down by now, first I ride onto the narrow strip of land separating the large Vistonida Lake from the namesake bay – a sanctuary for thousands of birds and tortoises, then take the main road to Kavala, both in order to regain some of the time I’ve lost earlier and also because Nestos is a real full-time river and this time I don’t dare to push my luck against it by means of any make-shift decrepit bridge. I cross the city right through its centre, riding slowly under the ancient Roman aqueduct and beyond the marina, look longingly towards the excellent fish tavernas nearby the port, yet I don’t stop over here, as it’s already too late for the distance I planned to ride today. Further on, I continue westwards onto the old national road alongside the sea shore, which is surprisingly free, as most of the traffic is running on the quite parallel motorway. Unfortunately, it soon starts drizzling, with short breaks now and then, and the thick clouds above the sea aren’t predicting anything nice; the wind seems to blow in the same direction I’m going to, so I speed up a bit, trying to outrun the upcoming rain. And suddenly, while I’m being concerned with the weather and also admiring the scenery at the same time, I’m taken by surprise by the damn fuel indicator, which starts happily blinking in my dash! I search the map for the closest gas station enroute and I realize it’s too far away for me to get there with whatever gas I’ve got left into my tank. My only escape would be entering one of the villages by the road and find a station too small to be online, with the downside that each of these may be closed, as it’s Sunday afternoon and they don’t use to work on weekends. Sadly, I can’t find anything within the first two of them and I’m also wasting my limited amount of fuel by doing this. Eventually, I stop in front of a small shop and ask a truck driver for directions; his answer is anything but encouraging, but that one seems to be my only option – I have to head towards Akropotamos, in a completely different direction to the one I’m riding to, for about 10 miles and across a steep hill. A quick calculation tells me I’d need one quarter more gallon of gas to get there and all I can do is hope for that amount to still be inside my tank :) I ride as low-revved as possible and avoid braking as much as I can, in order not to lose momentum, and meanwhile I pray I won’t need to push my bike forward. Eventually, I guess I experience the happiest moment of my entire trip when I turn a bend and see the gas station in the distance and, moreover, it’s also open for business, too!
Now, with a full tank and my morale renewed, I ride back to the coastal road and continue westwards, following my original plan. Not long farther, I come to Nea Amphipolis, beside the banks of the Strimonas River, where I part the Aegean seashore and turn northwards to the Rodopi range’s foothills, which I’ll next ride alongside, closing the loop back east to Maroneia and my hotel. As lunch time is long over and I’m really hungry and also maybe due to the busy traffic on this road, I’m in a quite bad mood for riding, so I stop for a snack in a strategically located fast-food restaurant, right on the Bulgarian summer tourists’ route to the Aegean beaches. Later on, with a full belly, I’m in a completely different disposition and eagerly set off back onto the road, but the rain I’ve completely forgotten about, due to the twisted events I’ve meanwhile been into, catches up with me just a few miles ahead of the city of Drama. This time it’s not a joke anymore, it’s really pouring and I start looking for a shelter, to avoid getting completely soaked; I find a parking lot with a wooden gazebo, wait for about half an hour for the rain to ease off, to no avail though, as the weather doesn’t seem to improve at all. That’s it, I have to cope with the situation, so I put on my rain gear and go on. Under these circumstances and also due to the late hour, I decide to skip visiting all the upcoming cities along my route – Drama, Xanthi and Komotini, just settling in with seeing their downtowns on the move; nevertheless, as I’ll notice later on, there wouldn’t be much to see anyway, so that won’t be such a great loss for me after all. Further on from Drama, the road runs along a narrow forested valley, constantly climbing up the mountains. The scenery I’m passing through surprises me a bit, as it’s not looking as Greece at all: there are real forests over here, with big trees instead of the usual shrub, the slopes and meadows are coloured in a crude green, as if they’d belong to a completely different geographical area! Unfortunately, the rain doesn’t ease off on me even for a single moment, preventing me from properly enjoying both the views and the road’s multitude of spectacular twists and turns. I don’t even feel like taking breaks, or photos, I just ride as if I’d be in a trance and, almost without noticing, I get to Xanthi, where I come out of the mountains into the broad plain along the Kosynthos River. I quickly cross to the other side of the city and head on towards Komotini, onto a straight, narrow and deserted road, looking like those in the American Midwest movies, the perfect recipe for getting bored to death. Luckily at least, the rain has meanwhile stopped pouring and I get the opportunity to dry up my clothes in the airflow.
I get back to the hotel right at the fall of dark, exasperate for one more time the receptionists with my completely inadequate outfit – the yesterday’s dust has transformed into thick mud, due to the today’s rain, take a shower and go out for a late dinner. I manage to find a quiet nearby taverna where I’m the only customer for the moment, yet I can’t enjoy the silence for too long, as a whole gang of at least a dozen enduro riders, complete with a couple of assistance trucks as well, stop in the parking lot and rush inside less than ten minutes later. I’m glad I walked here, therefore I’m not dressed in my riding gear, as I wouldn’t really have liked to have to socialize to these guys; they are a bunch of elder, loud and beer craving Swiss tourists, the completely different kind to the way I understand travelling. I’ve once read the ideas of a guy who has covered far more thousand miles under his bike’s wheels than I did so far and I’ve found myself into them – when one is not looking for any specific place, but pays attention to everywhere the road may take him to and quietly try to merge himself into the local culture and human habits, then he’s not a tourist, but a real traveller. This night, also maybe because tomorrow I have to go back home, I fall asleep dreaming to my future trips …
On my way to Svilengrad
FilosXenia Ismaros Hotel
The Aegean coastal road at Platanitis
Fanari
The Rodopi Mountains
The final run. 340 miles
Every time I make a shorter or longer tour, the last day finds its smallest place within my memory, although I try to return home on a different route each time. Maybe it’s due to the unavoidable sadness provoked by the trip’s end, to the haste I ride into – I always plan a last long distance route section, or to the fact I know there’s anything unpredictable waiting for me in the evening, but the last day’s imagery rolls fast forward into my mind, simply as a list of places I’m passing through or a row of landmarks I’ve drawn on the map. This time is not different, too; once again I leave early in the morning, make a short detour in the outskirts of Komotini in order to refuel – yesterday’s panic is too fresh into my mind to take any risks today :), then I take full advantage of the flawless road towards the Bulgarian border and overtake every vehicle I come upon. The altitude variance is sizeable and the climb quite steep, making the temperature significantly drop in rather short time, so I get to the border post at Makaza with my fingers frozen solid and the helmet visor foggy. Fortunately, I don’t have to waste too much time over here and I shortly descend the Rodopi’s northern slope towards the town of Kardzali, where I warm up with hot coffee in a gas station. Up next – fast forward as I’ve said before – there come Haskovo, Stara Zagora – I feel really hot around this place – and Kazanlâk, with the only monotony breaking event being an accident enroute, which obstructs the traffic and forms a miles-long queue on the road. I don’t do much thinking and decidedly overtake the entire line by switching to the opposite lane, up to the incident’s scene: a truck has missed the railroad bridge’s archway and crashed into the middle pillar, while the police are holding all the traffic, just waiting for a crane or something like that to remove the wreck from the carriageway. This wouldn’t be a problem for me, as it looks like there’s enough space for my bike to sneak in past the wrecked truck, therefore I brace up and push forward, showing a self-assurance which freezes the cops for a moment, just enough for me to pass before any of them gets to make any sort of a gesture! That’s it, I’m through and don’t wait for any late reaction from them, but twist the throttle and speed up instead, immediately getting lost into the distance. At least I’ve got a bit of an adrenaline boost, just perfect to chase away the transit monotony.
Today’s route only real attraction is the ride across the 3,904 ft. high Shipka pass, one of the most scenic of the Balkan range, where both the climb and the descent feature endless series of tight hairpins. I can’t restrain myself from riding that ones in a sporty manner, although the tarmac is wet, with a lot of sand and fallen leaves in most of the bends, which make extreme leaning quite dangerous. I escape any incidents eventually, take a short courtesy break in the parking lot nearby the top, then continue my route to Gabrovo, Veliko Târnovo and finally Ruse. I obviously cut off the line for the Danube bridge crossing toll, then I launch myself onto the very last section of my route, the final 50 miles up to Bucharest. I get home at about six in the afternoon, half glad to see this boring day over, the other half sad enough that this year’s tours are really over by now, during late September. There’s a long winter to come, but next year I’m all in for more interesting roads, places and events!
Shipka pass
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