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