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