Final Fundraising Figure

I closed fundraising today after a final collection at Queenwood Golf Club in Surrey. The collection came to a mighty £936!!! I also received a very generous £250 from the Young & Co brewery, for whom I used to work. Together these figures put a good, thick layer of icing on a tall cake of donations received over the last six months.

The final sum raised was £7,387.13 including Gift Aid supplement. I am pleased and very grateful that together we have been able to pass my target of £5,000 by some distance. I know all the funds will be well applied by the Cystic Fibrosis Trust.

Erratum - Emergency Thanks!

I knew I would forget somebody important. I remembered my error just this morning and apologise for the tardiness of this item;

I owe great thanks to Mr Micky King at the Old King's Club for his support in arranging the ample grant which helped me to fit out my bike to the required standard. I imagine I would have been stopped up three or four times as often repairing punctures, replacing spokes, tightening bolts and the like were it not for his help.

Please check back at the end of June for the final figure raised.

Epilogue

After two weeks in Istanbul I feel it is time I returned to the journal to summarise the journey and share some final thoughts.

Since arriving I have made a few excursions around the city in between long sleeps and large meals. I feel very comfortable in Istanbul. I am living in Beyoglu, a cosmopolitan neighbourhood which has much in common with my favourite areas of London. The youth fill the steep streets with style and confidence, old men gather in clubrooms to take tea over tavla and colourful housewives peg washing out high up between close houses.

I spent much of my first day napping in the gardens of the Topkapi Palace complex. Since then I have been to see Aya Sofya and Sultanahmet Camii inside and out and have visited several other of the obligatory attractions. I have seen the Asian side of the city, the two grand bridges over the Bosphorus and the quiet, green Prince’s islands. In getting to and fro these places I have passed through countless districts and neighbourhoods each with its characteristic balance between the very old, the old and the new. Wherever I am, what I most like to do is sit with the old men for tea and play fast games of tavla with my host Mehmet.

Last Friday I went to a quiet little hamam and paid a few pounds for an old man to beat the last stiffness out of my limbs. The vigorous massage and the heat, steam and water left me limp and peaceful on the wet marble floor of the bathhouse. I stood up prematurely and my heart failed to get working blood to my brain. After a succession of stumbles and black spots I passed out in the corner of the toilets. In seven weeks I had made it across the breadth of Europe strong and healthy and it was a pat on the back from a geriatric in a loincloth which brought me to my knees.

The experience of moving across Europe by bicycle was of slow alienation. The first thousand miles took me through country very similar to that with which I am familiar. I was among people whose lives and language were substantially the same as mine. Moving into Italy, little changed but the quality of the coffee and I remained able to communicate with the people easily. When I passed into the Balkans things began to change more quickly. The most immediate difference was in the language. I found it difficult to decipher the several Slavic tongues. On a trip where the speed of my progress was to a greater or lesser degree dependent on discourse with the locals, linguistic difficulties quickly made me feel further from home. With Bosnia came the novel and regular sight of rural village mosques and in Mostar I saw for the first time in my life the scars of recent warfare. After a brief coastal holiday through Croatia and Montenegro I entered Albania, a country subject to consistent and vile xenophobia throughout Europe. The place and the people were the most welcoming of the trip and I was happy to conclude that all the hatred and horror stories were nothing but puff founded on fear and ignorance. This confirmation helped me shrug off any last predispositions for the remaining few hundred miles and after a long, hard push I was across the final border and closing in on the finish line.

I started the trip on the back of three weeks’ revision and examinations followed by a week off eating my way around New York. I hadn’t been on the bike for over a month. Even so, I knew I was up to the physical challenge, even if the first week was going to be a struggle. I felt far more threatened by two months of solitude. I had no idea how I would react to spending the majority of my waking time alone and arriving in unfamiliar places every day.

I was foolish to fear these things.

On the bike, my progress kept me company. I always had targets in mind and always kept myself busy breaking the day down into obstacles and taking these on one by one. My discipline was broken a handful of times, most notably by the four day headwind through Bosnia and by the rolling hills and endless gusts of the penultimate leg, and during these periods I did struggle to get my head round keeping going. For the bulk of the ride, though, I remained in good spirits.

Off the bike, the myriad kindnesses of numberless people helped to change my mentality from a timid prejudice to an easy faith and confidence in approaching and interacting with people I knew only fleetingly or not at all. For much of this change I owe a great deal of thanks to the CouchSurfing project. I stayed with twenty six different hosts and through them met dozens more from the community. The meetings and conversations I have had with these people elevated the trip from something to endure and enjoy to something to really value. I encourage everybody to get involved in the project, it is a good thing.

I owe a great deal of thanks to people at home. One of the major purposes of the trip was to draw attention to the work of the Cystic Fibrosis Trust. As I write this, we have raised £4,676.28 excluding Gift Aid supplement, just short of the £5,000 target. I hope that, with a bit more pestering on my part, we can reach and surpass this mark. I am due to receive what could be a considerable sum from a collection in June and will post the final figure shortly after. I would like to thank all those who have donated and are named at www.virginmoneygiving.com/marcdavies and Mrs. Debbie Edgington, Mr. Donald Leggett, Mr. Andrew Pearse, Mr. David Greenhalgh and the staff of KCS Wimbledon who have made generous offline donations. I would like to offer special thanks to Messrs. Jeremy Lowe and Matt Selby of St. George’s Hill Golf Club, who guided me and helped me to promote my cause at the club. The most substantial contributions to the pot came from my law school and my future place of work and I would like to thank Mr. Peter Crisp from BPP and the partnership and staff of Herbert Smith for their assistance and generosity.

My close family and more distant relatives have offered me unfailing interest, concern and support throughout the trip. My girlfriend, Holly, has been with me from a continent and an ocean away and I owe her a great debt of love and attention which I hope I can meet when we are together again. The care of these people steadied my mind in the hardest times and made my smile broader in the happier moments. I can’t wait to celebrate Kirsty’s marriage to James with you all on the 22nd.

I have set out below a few statistics and summaries to finish the journal. Thank you for reading, I hope you have enjoyed sharing my thoughts and experiences in the same way that I have enjoyed recalling and recording them. Until the next trip, farewell.

MD

Distance covered 2663 miles / 4286 kilometres

Days 47

of which cycling 34
Average distance per day 78.3 miles / 126.1 kilometres
Nights on the road 46
of which Couchsurfing 34
of which friends 6
of which hostels 3
of which hotels 2
of which ferry cabin 1
Average cost per night ~ £4
Highest point 2284 metres, Julierpass, Switzerland
Highest speed 35.8 mph / 57.6 kmph Down the Edessa bypass
Blood None
Sweat Loads
Tears 2 or 3 escaped before setting out one morning, not telling where!
Bike repairs 5 punctures, 2 knackered cleats, 1 broken spoke
Bananas ~ 120
Oranges ~ 70
Chocolate ~ 10,000 g
Body weight
London 28.02.10 15 stone 2 lbs / 96 kg
Istanbul 15.04.10 13 stone 5 lbs / 85 kg

Best leg: Ljubljana to Zagreb
A fast and beautiful road winding down the quiet valley beside the sparkling Sava followed by a gift of a tailwind blowing me across the border and into the weekend.
Worst leg: London to Harwich
Wet, cold and slow with nothing but Essex to distract me.
Longest leg: Amygdaleonas to Alexandroupoli
Though it fell just shy of the Bitola to Thessaloniki leg for distance, the navigational nightmare of the Greek countryside had me on the road for 11 hrs
Shortest leg: Hoek van Holland to Rotterdam
A wee little baby leg along the dijk roads gave me the afternoon off to write my first couple of entries.
Earliest morning
On the road by 6.30 am in Ljubljana to get to class by seven.
Latest night
Arriving in Tekirdag after 9 pm following a late start from Alexandroupoli and hill after hill after hill from the border
Most scared
Harangued by a pack of strays in the pitch black just short of Tekirdag
Most excited
Looking west down the valley towards Chiavenna as the cycle computer clocked up higher and higher speeds.
Most distressed
Screaming again and again into the unabating wind around 20 miles short of Tekirdag
Most peaceful
Rolling out the last few flat miles of the day to Pogradec as Lake Ohrid lightly lapped its shore.

FINISHED

2663 miles and I have finished. I arrived at Sultanahmet Camii just before 5pm GMT+2 today.

Day 34 - Tekirdag to Istanbul

The morning of my final day and I was refreshed from a good, deep sleep. I went through the routines I knew so well. I found myself a sugary breakfast, slid into lycra layers and greased myself up before packing all my things in their right places. The inner tubes I had bought in Thessaloniki were for tyres 3mm narrower than mine so I decided to save them for an emergency and instead used the one I had patched up in Amygdaleonas. I refitted my front wheel as several townspeople started their day around me and soon I was on my way.

After a short set of low climbs I was out on a flat road by the sea, a light breeze blowing in my face. This was nothing on the wind of the previous day and I was very pleased with my fast pace. The day was much clearer too and the change in conditions helped to soothe the stress hangover of which vexed me for the first few miles. The morning went by quickly and I surpassed every target I set myself. My legs enjoyed being able to use all the fitness I had built up over the preceding six and a half weeks.

I found my way onto the required turn offs without difficulty and made it through to lunch on course and with nearly sixty miles under my belt. I kept a cap on my excited disbelief that I had less than forty miles left and sat on a step outside a petrol station eating a junk lunch.

I can barely remember the last few hours. There was a substantial climb through Buyukcekmece which signalled the outer limit of the conurbation. From the downhill that followed I lost control of my leg speed and belted out mile after mile as fast as the thickening traffic would allow. I lost my planned route as I rounded the airport but I did not care as I found myself on the coastal road from which I could see dozens of grand minarets. I knew that six of these enclosed Sultanahment Camii, my final destination.

I confirmed my approach with passers by and soon I found myself at the junction allowing me up the cobbled hill leading round two or three corners to the base of the south wall of the mosque. I passed through a dark archway to a small marketplace to the east and from here I could see the building in all its majesty. I dismounted and decided I had arrived. I announced this to a passing Frenchman in order that I could justify asking him to take my photograph.

I soon realised this was not the front of the mosque as my host Mehmet was waiting to the north side, between the mosque and the Hagia Sofia. This being so, I took my bike on my shoulder and carried both my panniers in my left hand to climb the steps leading round to the front. I met Mehmet and he took the photo above, bike held aloft in front of the mosque.

I felt quietly satisfied. I sat smiling with Mehmet and his other guest, Steve. I finished Mehmet’s ice cream.

Distance covered 89 miles

Day 33 - Alexandroupoli to Tekirdag

Dimitrios and his friends were medical students and had arranged for me to come to the medical school in the morning and talk to their class about my trip and the cause. Further, they said they would try to introduce me to a Dr Demosthenes Bouros, a leading researcher in pulmonary diseased generally and Cystic Fibrosis in particular. I knew that the trip to the hospital would mean I would arrive in darkness at Tekirdag. This was not ideal but I reasoned that if I could justify arriving in darkness the previous evening for no reason but my own folly I could certainly justify doing the same today. There could be no better reason for doing so.

I met Dr Bouros and gave a little talk and was very pleased I had. After getting my things together and stopping briefly at a cycle store for inner tubes, I left Alexandroupoli close to noon. A strong wind blew from the east and a thick, low blanket of cloud hid the sun. These conditions made the going slow and cold. I arrived at the Turkish border after around three hours and stopped to talk with the young soldiers at the border. They were friendly, took photos for me and assured me I had a flat and easy ride to Tekirdag.

I was then waved through three stages of border control only to be stopped at the fourth and final booth. I was instructed to return to the beginning to obtain a visa and police stamp. These processes stole a further half hour from my day but, going on the assurance of a flat road, I felt fairly confident that I would arrive in Tekirdag in low light rather than no light.

It soon became clear that the road was anything but flat and I climbed slowly up bulging hills before descending slowly down steep drops into a brutal and persistent headwind. I was stuck in this pattern for five hours and I had to forgo any breaks longer than five minutes as I could not tell how long the day would take. It was exhausting, both physically and mentally. At Alexandroupoli, Dimitrios, who had recently studied psychiatry, had explained to me the psychological phenomenon which causes castaways to drown within a few hundred yards of the shore, though they might have been swimming for several miles. He had joked that I should be careful not to meet a similar demise in my final stretch. Looking out over endless successions of hills, I saw the close relevance of this phenomenon to my situation. I had less than two days left in a seven week trip, but the next few dozen miles felt impassable. More than once I found myself screaming at the wind which kept my speed between ten and twelve miles an hour.

Fighting through the hours, I came to the base of a large climb at around half past seven. The light was beginning to dwindle but I had not eaten anything more than 200g of chocolate in several hours and I needed a boost for the final 15 miles I was expecting. I stopped at a petrol station and devoured a stack of junk food. The proprietor came over from a nearby building and spoke English to me. He told me I had just this next climb and only 10 miles left. One of his attendants, a boy in his late teens, made me my first glass of sweet Turkish tea and these human kindnesses helped me ready myself for the final short push.

I put my light in my pocket as I had done 24 hours before and started the climb. The light faded quickly and as I reached the top I was dependent on passing cars for setting my course. The downhills were dangerous. I had to pick my route well in advance as headlights were few and far between. I hit half a dozen bad patches of road and prayed that my spokes would stay intact. At one point a chorus of yaps and barks told me I had just missed a pack of strays making their way across the road. A few miles short of Tekirdag a sole policeman waved me down with his torch. I explained I had to make it to Tekirdag to sleep and he allowed me to continue.

Finally I arrived to find the hotels full with students at a university conference. A boy attending tables at a café came out to attend to my bewilderment and showed me the way to a hostel. The old chap running the place made me tea and took me to a restaurant where I was fed well on meat, rice, vegetables and yoghurt. I spent what was left of the evening repairing a puncture I had picked up in the final hour and burning holes through my shorts on the electric heater.

Distance covered 98 miles

Day 32 - Amygdaleonas to Alexandroupoli

I slept very badly so left Anna’s home later than I might have. Firstly I had to climb back up the hill to drop down to Kavala then climb back up a headland to get out. After this warm up the road flattened out and made a long course across a hot, flat plain. I told myself this gave me a great opportunity to make up some time so really punished my legs, setting myself outlandish hourly targets and working much harder than normal through the first hours of the day.

Towards the end of the third, I saw I had another puncture in my front tyre. I pulled aside and fixed it, using the second of my spare inner tubes. Having started the week with two good fitted inner tubes and two fresh spares, I now had just two to run on, one with a shoddily glued patch and one out of action. The tyre still seemed fine save for one breach where a sharp stone seemed to have cut through several layers of nylon. The inside of the tyre was still fine but to make sure I glued a patch to the inside of the tyre, since a further puncture could leave me stranded out on the long and quiet road. Aside from the technical concerns, the enforced break did me good. I had been winding myself up about time and distance and the delay made these concerns academical – I would arrive when I would arrive.

By lunch I had covered just over 60 miles and expected around 45 to remain. I stopped in the farming village of Nea Kallista and pulled into a taverna outside which three enormous farmers ruddy from sunshine and tsipouro argued loudly. Passing into the cool interior, another large man sat at a table eating from several plates and watching a television I found unintelligible. He turned to me and frowned and I thought I might be better moving on. In perfect English, he then announced “Good afternoon, I am Angelo, sit with me”. I spent the next half an hour having a great conversation with Angelo, who had been on a football scholarship to the States before suffering a serious injury. He was now proprietor of the taverna and had his mother prepare salad, eggs and potatoes for me. With sadness I announced I had to leave and took out my wallet but he declined any payment and, further, gave me two little bottles of tsipouro, one large of retsina and a whole litre of ouzo. I left with my luggage somewhat heavier but my spirits buoyed by yet another surprise kindness.

From Nea Kallista I could and should have stayed on the national road which bypasses a network of hamlets. However, Google maps had told me I could save nearly ten miles by crossing through said network and despite Angelo’s warnings I felt like an adventure so made my way to the next settlement of Porpi. My plan worked for the first hour as I hopped from village to village but I came to a grinding halt at a fork. No one around had heard of Venna, the next village on my list. I had to choose one way or the other and in hindsight I must have chosen poorly as I spent the next three hours zigzagging across countryside as I had done on the first day in Essex. At length I was helped by a patently drunk tractor driver who told me in passable English that he had worked in the shipyards at Southampton. I followed his enormous wheels through to the road which would take me over the mountains to Alexandroupolis. Stumbling out of his cab, he shook my hand and presented me with one of his warm tins of lager. I indicated I would save it for later.

This character cheered my spirits for the climb through the mountains, though I could not ignore the fact that it was getting cold and dark and I still had many miles to go. Further, I had not packed any chocolate or fruit for the afternoon so I had not had any sugar through the hours of climbing up hills and falling down dales. Dropping down from the mountains after another hour’s hard work, I took a break in the dark about an hour short of Alexandroupoli. I needed sugar and had only four options – ouzo, tsipouro, retsina or lager. I chose the lesser of four absurdities and grimaced the warm beer down, following it with plenty of water. For the first time in the trip I used my rear light, detaching it from its bracket and dropping it flashing into one of my translucent back pockets. My front light had broken sometime on the first day so was of no use.

The last hour had to be quick. The sugar and the alcohol helped me to get through it and I arrived at the town hall safely. My host, Dimitrios, came to meet me and I have never been happier to see someone I do not know. He took me with his friends for a large supper of good local foods and I returned to bed and a deep sleep.

Distance covered 115 miles

Day 31 - Thessaloniki to Amygdaleonas

My hostess at the village of Amygdaleonas, a village just to the north of Kavala, had confirmed that she was not available until after 7 pm, so I took a little time in the morning to buy sweet pastries from the bakers and enjoy a farewell breakfast with Igor.

Leaving around nine, my first task was to climb out of Thessaloniki, over the mountain to the north east. Just as in Dubrovnik a week before, the first hour’s work was hard. I sweated through the suburbs to the outskirts and arrived at the crest of the mountain soaked. My pannier rack had come loose so I had to take 15 minutes to repair it. The sun had not yet come through the morning clouds and there was a stiff breeze so I quickly became very cold. Tired and freezing after just an hour, I reminded myself that this last week was not going to be easy. With my bike fixed I made my way down the slope to the village of Agios Vasileos, where I turned onto the road which would take me all the way through to Kavala. The wind from the east was strong and I made slow progress through the miserable cloudy valley which held two lazy puddles of lakes.

I needed inspiration and this came at length as the valley bottle necked to a little ravine whose shady groves and clear streams recalled the mystical backdrops of classical poets from my university studies. A little decline helped and I made quick progress for a few miles before joining the coastal road.

For twenty or thirty miles I made my way through empty third rate resort wastelands before passing the enormous stone lion of Amphipolis at the bank of the river Strymon. Crossing the river, the scenery became much more agreeable, dry rock and bush to my left and soft waves to my right. The wind dropped completely in the afternoon and I made good progress along the coastal road and was due to arrive in Amygadaleonas on time at half past seven.

Over the weekend in Thessaloniki I had reflected on how lucky I had been with the durability of my bike and convinced myself that I was due a few more technical maladies. Superstitions aside, my front tyre had been bald since I swapped it from the back in Italy and week by week more of the yellow underlayer became visible through the worn black rubber. The downhill from Thessaloniki had also rung the final knell for the rubber on my rear tyre so I was now riding like Lewis Hamilton at China in 2007. Provided there was no serious rain, I knew that grip was not an issue but I could not tell whether the yellow underlayer was strong enough to withstand the final few hundred miles. On the evidence of my front tyre having survived the Balkans, I declined to fit new tyres at Thessaloniki and determined to finish on those that I had started. I was not surprised, then, when I saw my front tyre flat around 15 miles short of Kavala.

Changing it quickly, I used the first of my spare inner tubes which I had packed away in London. It was bizarre to be using these for the first time so close to my final destination. It seemed my repair was good and I made it through to Kavala without further trouble. I finished the day with a brutal climb out of the city over to Amygdaleonas. The backstreets were set at unreal inclines and my muscles strained through the hundredth mile. Arriving just as dark fell, I well needed the kind smile of my host Anna and the warm reception at her family home.

Distance covered 105 miles

Day 30 - Bitola to Thessaloniki

Today would be the longest of the trip. Thessaloniki lay around 120 miles from the bed in a family home in Bitola, where I woke at 7 am. After a quick, light breakfast I made my way out of the town and onto the plain at the base of the valley I had dropped from the previous day. The shape of the mountains around me suggested a broad basin tipping me out toward Greece, as the higher summits to my rear gradually gave way to lower ridges at my sides which in turn lowered to foothills in front of me.

The weather was good and I passed through the border ahead of time. I felt good and the bike was in good order. My only problem was that the forward flange on the cleat of my left shoe had sheared off during the snow walking of the day before. This did not hold me up too much save that when I changed gear my foot would leap out of its place and my calf or shin would feel the hardness of the moving pedal. I tried to remedy the problem by attaching my shoe to the pedal with microporous tape from my first aid kit. It was clear, however, that this tape could be breached by the flatulence of a mouse so I resigned myself to a day of sporadic shin pain.

Crossing the foothills at the south end of the valley, I joined the main road which bypassed Amyntaio and looped eastwards to Edessa. I entered a valley which channelled a headwind and the quality of the road became quite poor. This made for a slow couple of hours and I began to think that if the remainder of the day was like this I may not make it to Thessaloniki before dark. However, I soon left the low valley and came out onto another bypass, this time round Edessa. The road was new and arced broadly around the town, descending at least two hundred metres over a distance of a few miles. I was as fast as ever down this short stretch and by lunch I was back on track to finish by early evening. I tried to enjoy innominate meat with chips from the back of a roadside van before joining a series of long and straight roads which would take me through the rest of the day. As the afternoon progressed, a low haze became less translucent and so more scenery became hidden. I passed through endless fields of olive trees, orchards and vineyards but there was nothing of great note to distract me from the straight road. A light headwind picked up so progress was slow.

At a distance of around 20 miles, a cream conurbation could be seen sprawling up a high hillside and I suspected this to be my target. I made my way towards it on legs that became more and more tired. The road, which had been a single lane provincial affair, widened to three lanes and entertained a far greater number of cars and lorries, all driving with equal disregard for my health. I was happy to enter the outskirts where the roads narrowed again. The last few miles of the day and of the week were good. I craned round corners at swish mediterranean apartment blocks, squat Orthodox churches and ancient ruins and soon found myself at the shady, green central square from where I called my host. After another short cycle I found a bike shop where I repaired my shoe and met Igor, who took me home to a large supper.

I was very tired after a tough week and looked forward to two restful days in the large but peaceful city.

Distance covered 119 miles

Day 29 - Pogradec to Bitola

Leaving early, I accompanied a walking Pole along the lakeside for a few hundred yards before setting off at my own pace towards the Macedonian border. I had not known about the recent conflict between this country and the Albanians, so was surprised to see the array of bullet-flecked concrete bunkers and pillar boxes lining the road.


Passing through the border without incident I climbed through the pretty town of Ljubanista before coming to the base of the road which leads over the mountain separating Lake Ohrid from its junior, Prespa. Google maps’ terrain setting had told me the road reached 1600 metres and with the lake lying at around 690, I knew I had a good climb ahead of me. As such, I had deliberately limited the distance for the day, opting to give myself a long stretch to Thessaloniki to make up for it.

After an hour of climbing, I began to regret this weighting. The road made its way through a national park and seemed to be designed for a leisurely cruise in a family estate, stretching out laterally on the mountainside with turns back few and far between and no serious gradient. On the bike, the going was not fast but not so hard as to slow my speed enough to justify the reduced distance. I was annoyed as I had prepared myself for a challenge that did not come.

It soon transpired that my planning had been wise, though by accident rather than design. At around 1400 metres above sea level, I was reintroduced to my old friend, snow on the road. At the first instance, I was quite amused to have to dismount and walk my bike through the four inch mat which covered around 40 yards of the road. Around the next corner things were far less funny. Whole banks of snow had fallen from the mountainside, covered the road and even engulfed the roadside barriers. I had to strafe the snow banks for hundreds of yards, digging my heels through the icy crust before lifting and swinging my bike a few feet and taking a new foothold. The slope of one bank was so steep I had to dismantle my luggage and carry it across in two consignments, first taking a pannier and my bag before returning for the second pannier and bicycle. On the second trip, pannier in one hand and bike on the opposing shoulder, I noticed dog-like footprints across my path which disappeared into the woods above. I hoped this was just a fox or an adventurous stray because I was never going to win Wolf vs MD weighed down and away from home.

Finally I made it to the top of the climb and briefly enjoyed the view over the still lake. The descent was no less frustrating as my speed was regularly checked by further banks lying indignant in the sunshine. By the time I reached the bottom of the slope, I had covered just 27 miles in 4 hours.

Leaving the snow behind, I rounded the northwest corner of Lake Prespa and made my way through a few quiet villages, stopping in one for lunch. I knew from the maps that I had a little climbing left and the mountain fringe to the east of the lake confirmed this. Unfortunately, the principle road to Bitola was off limits so I had to follow the old road. In a novel approach to mountain road surfacing, the Macedonian civil engineers of old had thought it best to cobble the first few miles of the slope. This did not make for the most enjoyable stretch of the trip as I had to work hard to go forward while being careful to avoid the wider cracks or sharp edges, all the time being jostled this way and that by the inconsistent surface.

This brief irritation was more than compensated for by the long, smooth stretch down the valley to Bitola and I arrived in the green, cosmopolitan town early enough to see a little of life in the town before sorting out a bed with Ewa, a kind NGO worker, via a string of phone calls to various and helpful people.

Distance covered 55 miles

Day 28 - Tirana to Pogradec

Waking just before Andel came straight from his night shift to wake me, I was soon out of the door on the way to a little cafeteria for his favourite Albanian breakfast. Andel ordered in his native tongue and in a few seconds I had a large bowl of what appeared to be chicken soup in front of me, with another, larger bowl of beans with rice to the side. The soup was wholesome and I ate it greedily, taking an extra portion of rice and beans.

Smiling, Andel enquired whether I had enjoyed my meal. I indicated I had. He asked me to guess what was in the soup. I indicated I thought it was chicken. He laughed and corrected me, taking his belly in both hands and announcing “it was this part of a cow”. To my own surprise I didn’t mind at all. I felt better fuelled than I had all trip.

Before I left, the proprietor of the cafeteria showed me a bronze relief of himself playing basketball as a young man. It had been awarded to him by some state official of the time. He then sang a good old boys’ song in close harmony with his companions before erupting into contented laughter. They all wished me well and I was out the door, feeling as good as ever.

Returning to the flat, I put my things together quickly and made my way out to the road. The company of Andel had taught me one good lesson for the road; Tirana is a city which runs on machismo. As such, I traded in my timid caution of the previous evening for an affected bravado and made my way much more successfully through the traffic and out of the capital.

Between Tirana and the town of Elbasan lies a substantial mountain which I had discovered on Google maps just a few hours before I arrived at its foot. Perhaps because breakfast had left me with double the guts I would normally have, I looked up at the slope with some relish. The road was good and held plenty of distractions along the way. First I passed through a small village bravely named ‘Mullet city’. I saw no suspect haircuts. Further along, two old men helped a younger woman slaughter several lambs in the shade of a new pink blossom. Still further, I was overtaken by a trio of racing cyclists on beautiful Italian bikes. I made the mistake of trying to keep up with them, a burst which my calves did not thank me for.

After nearly two hours of climbing the road flattened out to follow the ridge of the mountain. To my left I had the long bath of a valley which holds Tirana at its plughole. To my right a limitless floor of lower mountains could be seen as far as the light haze would allow. The immediate scenery was equally pleasing. Verdant banks fed sheep or goats which gambolled over little, molar rocks and between dry thorn bushes, away from grumpy mountain shepherds.

A long and quick and winding downhill took me to Elbasan. I had a quick break before entering the river valley holding the best part of the day’s road. After the pleasure of the morning, I allowed the tedium of the bare valley and the unpredictable, short but steep climbs get to me and I was soon wishing the day away. Further, the previous evening I had been reading the journal of my friend Rob Martineau, who is in the middle of an unbelievable trip from Cape Town to Addis Ababa, also by bicycle. Every day he is up against obstacles far greater than any I have experienced. In the lonely hours up the valley I played the dangerous mental game of weighing up the objective value of my exertions. I say dangerous because it is difficult to keep plugging away at a task as your mind undermines the value of that task.

Stubbornness prevailed over defeatism and at length I reached the mountains which terminate the valley and embrace Lake Ohrid, one of the deepest in Europe. A quick, steep climb took me to the top to enjoy the roll down to the lakeside. With the day’s work done and the clear lake waters lapping the shore I was able to set my mind straight again in the last few miles before finding a bed in Pogradec and passing into a deep sleep.

Distance covered 88 miles

Day 27 - Bar to Tirana

Peering sleepily into the kitchen I saw Ilya busying himself over several pans. Soon I had in front of me a large bowl of millet kasha, accompanied by a tin of condensed milk with sugar, a staple product of the Communist era. In the past it was popular with Soviet outdoorsmen and sweet toothed children alike. This morning I enjoyed it from both perspectives. The sweet treat cheered the tired little boy inside me while the large wodge of calories was good juice for the hundred odd miles to Tirana.

After Ilya’s “short cut” took me along a dirt road up a hill then a stony road down the same hill I arrived on the road to the border, which I could have sworn I’d seen from the front door. A nice thought, but not the most expedient route I had taken.

Turning eastward at the town of Ulcinj, I found myself in a succession of valleys, filled with shady woods, little green meadows and wildflowers. The roads narrowed to lanes and every now and then I would pass smiling rural people who were pleased to return a wave and call out support. I was a little unnerved by the regular flow of tinted Mercedes carrying suited men. I tried to ignore the mental connection with Pacino’s Sicilian exile in The Godfather and made good time to the border. The smile and brief but open conversation of the Albanian border guard was the first taste of a consistent friendliness I would find from the first to the last miles in the country.

The small, countryside villages were alive with people of all ages trading, learning or talking on or near the street and as I met the gaze of the locals I was ushered through with waves and shouts. I even received a high five from a school kid. All this kept me well motivated through to the large town of Shkoder, where I had to cross the river which constituted the physical, if not the political, border with Montenegro. The bridge was a criss-cross of rust bedded with old wooden planks of varying proportions. I kept my eyes fixed on the few feet in front of my tire to avoid puncture on the several bent nails. Arriving at the other side I looked up just in time to see a sign which had no business being there – Instanbul (sic) 1109 km. A swelling of excited joy took me quickly round the first corner of the broad main road and grinning I looked out hungrily at the flat plain stretching out in front of me. With a slight wind at my back and my spirit as high as ever, I put in two hours of my best work and with it a good dent in the day’s mileage.

After a quick lunch in the company of some talkative boys operating a roadside carwash I cracked on with the approach to Tirana. After a short while, the good road I had been eating up was interrupted by major road works. To start off with, this was a boon as I found my way onto stretches which had not yet been opened to cars. This gave me a three lane bicycle path of freshly laid, tar black tarmac for a few miles. Later, though, the barriers were less substantial and drivers had the same idea as me. It all came together in a free for all where drivers would find a stretch of passable road and go for it. Vehicles travelled in both directions on either side of the central reservation and I was amazed that no one seemed to think this unusual. I stayed well clear at the side of the road.

As I neared Tirana, the road works were at a less advanced stage and I made slow progress on surfaces that ranged from dirt to gravel to potholed mess. Soon the outskirts of the city appeared about me and immediately I felt the brawn of the Mediterranean capital. It was exciting. I made my way through to the centre looking bright eyed all around me and finally stood in awe beneath the barrel chest of the national hero Skanderbeg, set in bronze in the central square.

If ever there was a man to match his city it was my host Andel. The confidence of his conversation and the sure swagger of all his movements reflected perfectly the attitude of Tirana. We enjoyed a couple of beers together before he set off for his night shift and I retired to bed.

Distance covered 101 miles

Day 26 - Dubrovnik to Bar

By Sunday evening Tom and Juli from Zelenkovac had caught up with me in Dubrovnik and they stayed with me in Toni’s dorm. I woke at eight to see low, dark clouds and trees flagellating in a stiff wind. A yawning Juli confirmed that there had been a storm in the night.


Though I wanted to crack on with the journey, I thought it would be a very bad idea to set out onto the coastal road only to get caught in a serious storm half way up a bare headland. I had a slow breakfast, waiting for a development. After an hour, sunlight broke through the dark ceiling and saying a final farewell to Juli and Tom I started my climb up to the main road. This was a tough and appropriate baptism for the week.

As I cycled through the first ten miles the heat of the sun drew the wetness from the ground into the lower air and it began to get very humid. This effect was multiplied as the road led away from the coast and the breeze into a still, verdant valley which would take me to the Montenegrin border. I could feel the heavy moisture in my lungs. It was like a sauna and came with the same feeling of discomfort then fresh release. Once I crossed the border and rolled back down to the seashore, I felt as if I had sweated out the weekend and was ready for the next few days.

Week 6 was always going to be the hardest. I had planned for long distances taking me back into the Balkan mountains and through to the bay at Thessaloniki. To balance the mountain challenge I had hoped the two days of coastal roads at the start of the week would give me a good flat warm up. How wrong I was. In section, the coastal road was like a reading of my average heart rate for the day. It leapt up headlands and dropped into coves without pause.

The only relief was the Bay of Kotor. This was the gem of the day’s brilliant scenery and the enclosed waters held too many pretty villages, slender, colourful launches and staggering rock formations to mention or photograph. I enjoyed the trip around its shore so much that I did not mind the extra two hours it added to my day.

Leaving the bay via a long, dark, downhill tunnel I stopped for lunch at a petrol station. As I sat in the window there appeared two familiar faces. I neglected to mention the two Frenchmen I had met at the roadside between Mostar and the Dalmatian coast. They are making their way from Lyons to Istanbul and by a happy accident they stopped on the road at the same place and same time as me. Their bright attitude gave me a good little boost to enter the last third of the day.

From the other side of Budva the climbs became ever more serious. The incline immediately out of the town was just impolite, especially after lunch. Two more climbs took me above the billionaires’ paradise of Sveti Stefan. I took some water looking down on its exclusive walls and thread-thin entrance road. Dropping back down to sea level and the town of Petrovac, I knew I had just one climb left, and I could see it before me. Late in the day, it seemed enormous, disappearing round one sweeping corner then ducking in and out of the rock face to a top I could not see. I recalled the staring discipline of the Strasbourg to Basel leg, fixing my eyes on the apex of every corner until I had rounded it. Halfway up I allowed myself a look over the shoulder back at the Montenegrin coastline, backlit by the setting sun in a clear, marmalade sky. The day’s work was well worth this.

From the top, it was quick down to Bar and I soon saw my host Ilya waving frantically from the side of the road. I was delighted that he had come down to meet me and I walked beaming along the shore to his house. He fed me well and I went exhausted to bed.

Distance covered 95 miles

Day 25 - Mostar to Dubrovnik

After a quick breakfast I woke the girls briefly to say goodbye and made my way out of Mostar, along the Neretva. I knew I had close to 100 miles ahead of me and I was well motivated for the trip ahead.

The day was hot and nature had begun to recognise the start of spring as I crossed the plain before the coastal mountains. Flowers in a range of pretty colours appeared at the roadside and orchards which may have blossomed just a few hours earlier stretched between the road and the river. The change in weather could also be traced in the roadkill. Among the standard cats and dogs appeared locusts, small snakes and even the occasional river rat when the road ran close to the bank. In a moment of accidental mercy I finished off a little snake whose tail had been crushed into the tarmac but whose top half remained struggling. I did not see him until my thin tire was a couple of feet from his neck so could not change my course. I’m sure I heard a fork-tongued ‘thankth’ in his final half second.

Before the coast there was a good hard climb up the mountainside, an earner for the long downhill to come. The hillsides were bare with dappled scrub and clusters of terracotta houses appeared sporadically in settlements of various sizes. The sea was bright and flat, framed by the opposing mountainous islands. I could taste the salt air and was relieved to have gusts in various directions, no longer under the yoke of the tiresome four day headwind.

The day progressed quickly in a succession of climbs and drops, which were mercifully arranged so that most of the former were short and sharp, with most of the latter being lengthy. This allowed me to polish off the tough bits before getting good distance out of the quick and easy stretches. Save for the standard satisfaction of sun, sea and sweet little coves there was not much to report from the coastal road and at length I crossed the high bridge onto the main road above Dubrovnik and dropped down the steep backstreets into the town. I found Villa Micika, a hostel where I was given a whole dormitory to myself for free by the generosity of Toni, whom I contacted through Couch Surfing.

I spent the evening having supper at his uncle’s restaurant. I could not shake the distaste of being at leisure in a resort lying just a day’s cycle from what was left of Mostar. I went to bed early and slept well.

Distance covered 91 miles

Day 24 - Bugojno to Mostar

After the easy, boring trip to Bugojno, I was buzzing when I woke at 7 ahead of the challenging passage to Mostar. I was motivated not only by the tough route but also by the destination, a city which was one of the focuses of the conflict, 90% of which was destroyed firstly by Serbs and then by Croats.

Leaving just before eight I made good ground through the cool morning to arrive at the base of the first climb which would take me from around 650 to just over 1100 metres. The first two miles were steep and, with the sun approaching its height, hot. Nevertheless, it felt good to be doing serious work again and I was constantly pushed on by the regular horns and waves of passing cars and trucks. The steep climb gave way to a long road with a middling gradient which cut through a narrow, shadowed and cold valley. The woods to the side of the road had white on red skulls and crossbones indicating the limit of a possible minefield. I had heard that wolves still dwelled in the quieter areas of the mountains and this gave me an extra bit of push to finish the climb quickly.

After a final half mile of steeper climbing, I reached the highest point I would reach in Bosnia. The drop down to the valley below seemed almost vertical and this made for an overwhelming view of fields and towns immediately below, which disappeared into several winding valleys, above which floated a range of snow capped mountains. I had laughed when I had read a description of this range as the ‘Bosnian Himalayas’ but from this height I could see it was justified.

The road down from the top had the steepest decline yet. I raced down the good, quiet road, the only danger being the constant distraction of the view to the south. The drop went on forever and I travelled at such speed that operating the pedals was academical. I sat enjoying the long, quick break as my fingers arthriticised around the brake levers. Even after the first drop had ended, there was plenty more downhill to come and I ate up the miles into my third hourly break.

From the point I had reached, I thought was in a good position to make it through to Zdrava Voda, a restaurant of national renown recommended me by Igor in Prijedor. I did not foresee the road climbing up and down the side of the valley and the return of the same old southerly wind. I was so keen on tasting the sweet lamb which Igor and his friends had salivated over that I took on the slope and the wind with relish and hammered down the final downhill into Jablanica to reach the restaurant on time. The lamb was OK.

Leaving the restaurant feeling more like a kip in front of Grandstand than another 30 miles of cycling, I joined the valley road which led downhill all the way through to Mostar. This could have been the fastest prolonged section of the whole journey so far but the wind returned again to knock my speed down. By now frustration had progressed to disbelief that the same wind could blow for four days in a row and I sat out the final two hours with a bored grimace. The changed in landscape offered some relief, as the rolling mountains of the north gave way to jagged, bare rock strata cut sharp by the fast river.

The road took me through tunnels and past dams, many of the structures still bearing the name of the Yugoslav leader Tito impressed into the concrete. The final tunnel was a little hairy as an astoundingly impatient truck driver thought it better to overtake me on a blind corner in the dark tunnel than to wait all of 30 seconds for daylight. He came within feet of a truck speeding in the other direction and was chastised heavily by horns of the other tunnel users.

The final few miles to Mostar were along a narrow busy road and the heat of the day was clearly making the drivers impatient. It is bizarre but predictable that a slight change in heat can change so drastically the character of a body of drivers. I was relieved to come off the road on the outskirts of Mostar at around four in the afternoon.

Without great delay I found the home of my hosts Paula and Eva in the charming little neighbourhood of Cernica. Soon I was stretched out on the floor of their riverside terrace with a welcome glass of terrible red wine in my hand.

A little later I went for a walk around the town and found all the remnants of conflict I could expect. There were scatterings of bullet holes and ruins every few yards. Equally, I saw all the evidence of a town quickly finding or even having found its feet as, mingled with the scars of the conflict was the constant sound of trade and conversation. In the evening I met with locals Mirela and Nino and again with Tom and Juli from Zelenkovac. We enjoyed beers together in a room reserved for the purpose by Spanish square. Later, Paula and Eva joined us and we moved on to a club on the Croat side of town.

I felt I cold not leave Mostar in the morning and so decided to split my weekend break in two, having Friday in Mostar and Sunday in Dubrovnik. Several factors informed this decision. I felt an immediate attachment to the town. All the things that had happened were so far from what I knew but the evidence of their happening was so apparent to me. There were bullet holes even in the tiles of the girls’ bathroom. In opposition to this history, the town was permanently lively. Even after the shops closed at seven or ten in the evening, the loud bubbling of the fast Neretva and the lights from the opposite bank made the place feel busy. Also, despite the friendly xenophobia of several people along the way, Bosnia had been good to me and I did not want to leave without a day to enjoy it without a seat post up my behind. Finally, I had a niggling prejudice against the tourist resort of Dubrovnik and felt uncomfortable looking ahead to a weekend in a coastal paradise after the week I had had.

My sadness as I fell asleep on Friday night, knowing I had to leave the next day, told me my decision had been the right one.

Distance covered 75 miles

Day 23 - Zelenkovac to Bugojno

Waking at 8 in my pokey wooden room, I climbed down my ladder into soft, vertical rain. I had a breakfast of tea, bread and Nutella alone in the kitchen and returned to my room to pack my things, hoping the rain would clear. I climbed down again and it had. After one more cup of tea with Jan I made my way down to the main road and back out onto the plain. The rain, I thought, had killed the wind and I made my way quick and happy down the downhills through Mrkonjic Grad, past the beauty of the Plitvica lakes through to the fortress at Jacje.

I knew I had relatively little left to do in the day. I had thought this a good thing but in fact it worked against me. Since I saw no real achievement in getting through the next twenty miles, I had no motivation to fight against the same old wind which picked up with the same force for the low gradient climb up to Bugojno. The frustrations I had shrugged off the previous evening returned again. In hindsight I am disappointed that I allowed this to happen but by way of justification I compare it to taking on burned rice with a Brillo. The task is so mundane and the outcome so lowly desirable that it is tough to make yourself turn the pad round and round and round and round until finally you see the work is done.

Highlights of the trip were the clear, blue, fast stream of the river beside me and a brief stop in Donji Vakuf to see the bullet marked belfry of the town church, another reminder of the recent hostilities.

Arriving at Bugojno post office, I was received by the staff with that same perfect impatience that I might expect from the best of the Royal Mail. I called a man who had apartments for rent and soon enough I was put up in a comfortable dorm in a sort of rural suburb, the mid sized houses parted by miniature ploughed fields. I took the time to get some healthy food in and went to bed early ahead of further climbing the next day.

Distance covered 50 miles

Day 22 - Prijedor to Zelenkovac

From Prijedor my route was drawn according to the availability of accommodation. As such, my first stop was Zelenkovac, an eco village developed over 26 years by painter Boro Jankovic. The village is situated in the middle of the mountains but not far from the good, main road which I had planned to take.

The morning was clear but the wind which had held me back between Kostajnica and Novi Grad was blowing with the same strength as I made my way south through Sanski Most to Kljuc. This made progress very slow, my speed ranging between 9 and 13 mph. The slow pace did allow me to track the changes in my surroundings. I saw several elegant village mosques and many families working land just outside their homes.

I stopped for lunch in Kljuc, at the base of the mountains, and hoped that the wind would die as the land rose. My hopes were soon crushed as a single gust roared through the town, picking up several chairs from the terrace and blowing my bike from the steady column against which it was resting. Not knowing anything of the quality of road or of the presence of roadside barriers on the slope ahead of me, I was more than a little concerned.

The company at lunch was cold at first but soon warmed when the restaurateur, Alko, discovered I was from London and quickly wrote down the number and name of his brother, Deda, who lives in London. I am now under strict orders to call and meet with Deda on my return.

Leaving Kljuc, I soon met the bottom of the slope which would take me up to Cadavica. I chopped my hourly sections down to half hourly sections and took the climb on with some relish. It was good to work hard up a slope rather than sit idly forcing my way across flat land through a constant headwind. I was pleased to complete the 400+ metre climb in just three half hour sections. At one point, a man about my age in a Coke delivery van braked hard in front of me, for no clear reason. This was a little strange. I thought, if he had any bad intentions, it was fairly short sighted to exercise them in the most conspicuous van in the country. In fact, he made room for me to come up along side him and, holding my pace, signalled that I should hook onto his open window so he could drag me up the slope. Amused, I declined as politely as my panting would allow and with a smile he drove on. His kindness did give me a boost (though not the one he offered) and soon I found myself on a broad, high plain. The wind picked up again and quickly blew away my satisfaction. I sat through the last couple of hours with frustration building, wondering whether, if you left a man on a bike for long enough, he would lose his mind.

Arriving, at length, at Zelenkovac, I laughed off my former inner whinging. I walked the bike up the stony path to the central house, wishing to avoid any punctures late in the day. Boro welcomed me warmly and I sat outside in the early evening sun with his son, Jan and two others, Tom and Juli, who were making their way from Budapest to the Dalmatian coast. The flow of conversation and the of the surrounding streams soothed the remnants of my early anger and I settled into a cosy evening in the crooked wooden house.

Distance covered 65 miles

Day 21 - Zagreb to Prijedor

I woke early on Monday with my guts tied up from the weekend's festivities. It seems that, at a Croat wedding, the celebration of eternal love between a man and a woman is of secondary importance to the celebration of meat. Every half hour new piles of meat on broad platters would appear before my nose and I would consume through hunger, politeness, necessity and bloody-mindedness progessively as the feast wore on. This left me less than comfortable even after two nights' sleep.

Nevertheless I left at around nine with the Probsts as they made their way for five weeks in Bali. Ignoring their patent envy at the fact that I was on my way to exotic Prijedor, I vectored my way out of the sparse city and onto the road which would take me to the border. The metropolis quickly gave way to familiar countryside and soon shiny German SUVs were replaced by tractors. The rural people were very friendly and I enjoyed their smiles and waves as I passed through villages of varying size. In the morning the route threw up a couple of substantial climbs that I did not expect but did enjoy, feeling physically fresh after the weekend's rest.

Lunch fell just before the border and with no town nearby I sat on my gloves between the road and a ploughed field for fruit and water. An old woman with the face of a hard life passed by with a barrow full of tools and firewood and laughed and kissed my hand in humble disbelief when I suggested a photograph. Some children on their way home from school waved excitedly from behind the dusty glass of their bus.

A short time after lunch I arrived in the border town of Kostajnica and saw the first of many reminders of the 1990s conflict. Several of the houses remained in ruins and those that were standing were pocked with bullet holes. I didn't know how to react. I knew I would see this sort of thing but couldn't hold back an inner, quiet disbelief. Crossing the river and the border into Republika Srpska I turned south toward Novi Grad. The south wind was as strong as any I had fought into and for an hour my frustrations grew and grew. I was relieved to turn east towards Prijedor.

After rounding a huge arc of a meander I could see the town a few miles off and gladly rolled out the straight road along the railway line. My host, a second Igor, came to meet me and we walked through the centre to his well sized suburban home. We enjoyed the last of the light outside as his father, a third Igor, served good coffee in ornate china. I was eager to hear about the conflict from a Serbian perspective and I was surprised by how easily the younger Igor was able to recall his everyday experiences of rifles in the street and trucks passing with canvas covers contoured by human hands. Obviously, this was well beyond the bounds of my experience so I struggled to keep my jaw from the floor as he quietly recalled his youth.

We met some of Igor's friends for supper in a nearby bar. I heard several wordperfect renditions of Whitesnake before retiring back to Igor's for a good night's sleep.

Distance covered 95 miles

Day 20 - Domzale to Zagreb

In order to arrive on time at the Geography class I had to leave Igor at 6.30am. I was not in the best of moods for the commute back into Ljubljana, especially as I was limited to slow and bumpy cycle paths, surrounded by many others making their way to work.

Arriving at around half seven, I had a short time to work out what to say before I was before a class of slightly bewildered 17 and 18 year olds. I forgave them their curious amusement, knowing that if some idiot in lycra had stood in front of me on a Friday morning in Sixth Form I would have been far worse. In fact, many of them seemed quite interested in what I had to say and I took some good questions and kind wishes before I left. Before I could get on my way to Zagreb, I had to check my email and route. Unfortunately the school's internet was down and the nearby Tourist Information Centre (TIC, pronounced 'tits' in Slovene, which is not funny at all) did not open until 9 o'clock. I was irritated by this hold up but made the most of the extra time in Ljubljana by buying my fruit for the day from the central market and enjoying coffee and pastry in a pretty Plecnik arcade.

I was on the road by half past nine and after some difficulty leaving Ljubljana I found the bank of the river Sava which would lead me all the way to Zagreb. The trip in and out of the city had been about ten miles and since this was not progress, I chopped this from my total for the record. The Sava valley trip was my favourite leg of the trip so far. The road progressed down a steady decline and I felt like I was racing the fast, clear current beside me through the jagged, wooded valley. The surface was excellent, the sun high in the sky and the birds loud in my ears to keep me in good spirits and working hard. I arrived in Sevnica for lunch ahead of schedule and sugared myself up before returning to the road and leaving the mountains to take on the plain across the border.

There was a strong Westerly wind on which I sailed at great speed and with little effort and I reached the border ahead of schedule. At last I met a border guard who cared that I was entering his country and I was elated to receive my first passport stamp on leaving the European Union. The same guard then forbade me from taking a photo of myself at the border, before mollifying to my overcooked disappointment and taking the photo himself, a number of times to ensure a good shot.

With his best wishes I set out towards Zagreb, which lay less than 15 miles away. I took the last hour fairly easily, allowing my legs to stretch and loosen out before the weekend's rest.

I found the house of Dickie Probst, the brother of a friend, without much trouble and I was quickly taken out for supper in the center of town where I was invited to a wedding at a hillside castle the next night. A perfect day's cycling followed by a delightful evening. I could not have asked for more.

Distance covered 101 miles (=111 less 10 at Ljubljana)