A good little singsong

Stage 25: Basel to Paris (576km: Total = 12,417km)

Day 1: 81.6km Before Le Markstein (France)
Day 2: 122.7km Near Mirecourt
Day 3: 135.6km Beyond Montier-en-Der
Day 4: 131.9km Beyond Esternay
Day 5: 104.5km Paris

The final day of cycling was actually quite good. There was a hint of a tailwind, so I can't take all the credit for myself. I'd like to, but I can't. The tailwind gods should be given their due too, so thank-you tailwind gods. It's not that the rest of the days were bad, they were ok, especially Day 3. But a slight headwind was present for most of every day, starting soon after 8am and generally growing throughout the day causing a corresponding, but inverse, change in enthusiasm and energy on my part. Don't get me wrong, it was no Jordan or Israel, but flat rolling hills of monocultures of wheat just doesn't do too much to inspire me. Day 3 I managed to let my mind wander a bit, so it passed quickly enough, but I noticed that at 2pm I was still just waiting for 6pm so I could get off the bike and camp.

It's a combination of things I'm sure. The closer I get to home, the harder it gets for me to focus on the next stage. Instead of just thinking about reaching Paris, I'm constantly thinking of reaching Dublin instead. The only thing is that cycling doesn't get easier the more you do. 1000km is still 1000km whether it's at the start of the journey, or the end. The only difference is that at the start of the journey, you expect 1000km to be hard. Towards the end, having already done over 10 times that distance, your mind tells you differently.

-Don't stop me now (Queen)
-Karma Police (Radiohead)
-Whiskey in the Jar (Thin Lizzy)
-Dirty old Town (The Pogues version)
-The Wild Rover (don't know)
-The Irish Rover (Pogues again)
-Fairytale of New York (another Pogues)
-All the Lonely People (Beatles)
-The fields of Athenry (don't know off the top of my head)
-Basket Case (Greenday)
-Longview (Greenday)

finished off with:

-Ireland's call

and

-Amhrainn na bhFiann

All these songs have been belted out in a rather tuneless fashion to stave off boredom and to keep me moving along. (In Italy, I was half way through the Fields of Athenry whilst cycling through a tunnel [the acoustics were really quite good], when I got this rather quizzical "hello" as I exited. There, parked out of view from the road [but easily within hearing distance] was a german camper van with a german camper vanner with a rather confused look on him. I muttered a quick reply before quickening my pace and finishing the verse out of earshot round the next corner.)

But day 5 was ok. It helped that I passed a field other than a staple of some kind or another; an entire field of 6 foot high marajuana plants. Picked just one leaf to press and keep for posterity. I figured there was no real point in picking more given that there must probably be some fairly stringent regulations on THC content to allow an entire field of weed to be grown without fences or security or anything like that.

Still, I've reached Paris. Getting into the city was a bit of a bitch. I'd managed to stick to quiet roads for most of the way towards this capital, but the map I had just showed a number of autoroutes all leading into the centre. This was backed up by most people's directions which usually included the word "autoroute" whenever I stopped to ask. They always got a bit stumped when I then politely pointed out that in actual fact, although I was a foreigner, I was reasonably sure that bicycles weren't allowed on autoroutes. Luckily, I met one man who directed me towards the "Bords de Marne"; a cycle track I could then follow which brought me towards the periphary of Paris.

Seeing the Eiffel Tower was quite a moment on this trip. Since leaving Delhi, everything has been new; every city has been new, and along with it every street. On arrival in India, it was a bit of a comforting experience to wander through Connaught Place in the centre of New Delhi and recognise the layout from the previous year. There is something comforting in familiarity. I've even noticed that when I visited restaurants in Iran and elsewhere, if I'd been there the previous day, I'd always automatically try and sit in the same seat and have the same view as before.

Finally, after 8 months, I got to see some familiar sights again. I grew excited as I cycled up the street where my aunt's flat is. There was the park I'd first seen when I was 8 yrs old; it had actually been my birthday and I had been wearing a badge that I'd got with a birthday card (I'd felt INCREDIBLY old; after all, I was no longer 7). There was the door I'd been forced to stand outside because I'd forgotten the code and had to wait until someone living inside had walked out before I could get back in. There was the lift, the first small lift I'd ever been inside (and maybe the only lift besides the ones in Dun Laoghaire shopping centre). It all came flooding back, all the more so because I am so unfamiliar with seeing familiar items (my bags and bike are no longer items, they are actually a part of me!).

Not only is it the start of familiar territory for me, it should also be the end of solo cycling. Alasdair McFatty Fat Fat Nicol has finally decided that German is a dead language (or at least that the classes are dead for the summer) and should be bringing himself and his belly to Paris on Monday from where we will be striking out towards my aunt's other place in the country before heading north to Callais. People in London and Leicester have also expressed interests in doing stages, so let's just hope they're as good as their words (Chris Nightingale, Oliver Walton, David McCabe, Adam Short, Frank Henry Kerr Allison Esquire).

They have been named, will they be shamed?

Given the merciless bullying that I received from Mick and others on the general state of my own belly, I even decided to stop eating quite as much as before on the last leg. Can someone really cycle 13,000km and actually gain weight? I figured I didn't want to be the exception to the rule. However, upon reaching this city, I've decided that I actually quite like having rich, creamy butter spread over still warm french baguettes with a liberal smothering of chocolate spread. For some strange reason it just tastes nice.

So screw all you scrawny bastards, the belly is here to stay.

Entering France with Mick
















France. Such an uninspiring landscape. This was even before the monocultures began.

Detour after detour

Stage 24: Innsbruck to Basel (653km)

Day 1: 115.6km Beyond Schongau (Germany)
Day 2: 77.7km Augsburg
Days 3-6: Berlin
Day 7: 87.7km Beyond Memmingen
Day 8: 144.6km Beyond Sevelen (Switzerland)
Day 9: 112.2km Beyond Winterthur
Day 10: 115.1km Basel

It was all the stupid bint's fault; her and that child. If she hadn't been so damned clever and stupid at the same time, I could have done it. Even though it was the end of a long day, I'd taken precautions; I had my passport in my pocket and had taken a piss before entering. I could have done it, and I would have done it. But instead, I get this woman jumping out at me on a quiet dirt road asking that stupid question. A stupid question in German would have been fine, I could have answered it without stopping with a little shrug of my shoulders and one of the only phrases I know (ich spreichen kein deutch). But a stupid question repeated in English resulted in a cessation of my forward momentum.

"Is this a dead end street or not?"

I stopped and looked at the four full pannier bags on my bike with my sleeping bag perched on the top of the back two. When I purse my lips, I can see the hairs of my beard on my upper lip. I'm fairly sure I didn't look your typical Lichenstinian banker out for his early evening cycle on familiar streets.

"I'm afraid I have absolutely no idea" I reply with my left foot planted firmly on the ground. "I just saw the sign saying this was a cycle path and am now following it."

"Yeah, I saw that sign too. I guess I'll just continue on"

"You do that"

I lifted my foot, cursing the brilliant linguistic skills of continental people for the remainder of that non-dead-end-street.

Lichenstein was going to be the one country I had cycled across, but never set foot in. Whenever that little banking country's name was mentioned in passing (and I would ensure it was mentioned often), I would be able to stun people with this little titbit of Craven trivia. I could then sit back and watch as they gave two little chuckles of mock amusement before they backed slowly way thinking to themselves "My GOD! The man's cycled from India to Ireland and that's the best he can come up with".

Of course, it was all ruined by that idiotic woman and ugly child. So now I have only a story about how I failed to cycle across a country and not set foot in it. It may actually be a little more interesting...

So after leaving that last post on a bit of a cliffhanger, I decided to head north into Bavaria to the home of Thorben who I was at university with. On my way, I experienced first hand that generosity towards strangers does not necessarily stop at the borders to the EU. After finishing up on the internet (I managed to write the whole blog on the free internet, but had to go to a paying one to upload photos. A fair compromise I believe) I made my way to a campsite on the outskirts of the city. A storm was brewing, and I didn't quite want to be camping in a big open field during another electric storm. There I met Charls, an Austrian who was now living in Switzerland. I managed to decline the offer of a free meal in the campsite restaurant, but not the €10 he insisted in pressing in my hand the following morning. I managed to buy a couple of baked delights with it, so thank-you Charls.

I must now retract my previous statement about the Alps being a close second to the Himalaya. True, they are impressive, but it was a premature outburst. From Innsbruck, I had only one more measly pass (at 15%) to sweat up before a long descent out of the mountains brought me into the rolling hills of Bavaria. I had been expecting another 150km of mountains, and although the countryside was nice and green, there wasn't quite the thrill of mountain cycling present. Still, I made it to Augsburg in a day and a half.

Thorben was the first pre-cycle-journey-non-family-member that I had met thus far, and it was good to see another familiar face. His mother was also a fantastic cook who didn't shy away from the use of large amounts of potatoes!! I left Sicandar behind to rest as Thorben and I caught a lift up to Berlin.

Berlin was a great city and I caught up with a couple of other friends from St Andrews along with Thibault and Monika who I'd cycled with in Syria. The more continental cities I get to see, the more I come to realise just how rubbish Dublin actually is. Even stepping in a massive pile of dogshit on my final night didn't mar my views on the German capital (It did help that I was wearing Alasdair's shoes at the time!).

A return to Augsberg on Monday evening was followed by a relatively late departure towards Lichenstein on Tuesday. Thorben's mother was my guide through the forest towards the main road and she absolutely destroyed me on the slight uphill inclines. I had a thought at the start of the trip that cycling 12000km would make me fit; instead I find that my 36 inch waist is now 36.5, I've put on a kilo, and I sweat an awfully lot more! I guess eating enough food for 2 people may be contributing towards this conundrum slightly.

It was on the end of the second day out of Augsberg that I reached Lichenstein and succesfully cycled through it with putting only one foot in it. I even hit the capital city and cycled passed the football stadium where I think Ireland was once held to a 0-0 draw, before the Lichenstinians went for a lap of honour. It might have been Lithuania, but I'm fairly sure it was the bankers (and that was even back when Ireland was "good").

Two days was spent crossing Switzerland along a more northern route that wasn't in the high mountains. The detour to Bavaria and Germany, although being fantastic had broken my rhythm somewhat. The 2 days back to reach Lichenstein (more just to add another country to my list than anything else: Switzerland was the 25th so far this trip) again took its toll as I was, once again, travelling in the "wrong direction". I needed to get some forward momentum going again, and I needed to reach Basel.

So here I am now, staying with Mick, a friend from Ireland. It took a little bit more effort than I'd previously estimated. I'd passed a roadsign at one point saying 90km to Basel on the main road, before passing another on the cycle path 2km further down indicating 110km to the same destination. Since entering Austria, I've been undecided on the merits of the excellent network of cycle paths that crisscross these countries. My current views: good for a lazy Saturday afternoon cruise, crap for a cycle tourist; though perhaps that's just crap for a cycle tourist that doesn't have a cycle map! Though I am grateful to the two Swiss cyclists from Zurich who cycled about 2km out of their way to direct me onto the national cycle route and told me what routes I'd want to follow. It did help a lot, and was nice to be away from traffic for a bit.

Quite how long I'll be here, I'm not entirely sure. I'm meeting some more friends in Paris on the last weekend of July, so that's when I've got to be there. There's a possibility I may head a little south to meet up with Danielle, the Swiss motorcyclist who was on the ferry from Israel to Cyprus, but right now, I think that it's one detour too many. Of course, tomorrow could bring along a completely different frame of mind. We shall see...

and once again I've shaven off my jesus beard. I was tempted by a goatee, but then slapped myself across the face and reminded myself they're just poncy.

Scaling the Berlin Wall
















Thorbs and me















Thorbs's mother...well in front of me!















Caesar, the Italian cyclist in fantastic wedgie-defying shorts















Lichenstein

















Before















Goatee
















The return of the chin

The Big One

Stage 23: Zagreb to Innsbruck (760km)

Day 1: 111.3km Near Sumnik (Slovenia)
Day 2: 56.3km Ljubljana
Days 3-4: Rest days/drinking days
Day 5: 114.9km Nr Rocinj
Day 6: 107.7km Beyond Gemona (Italy)
Day 7: 105.1km Beyond Oberdraubu (Austria)
Day 8: 86.2km Near Fusch a.d.Gr (The Big One)
Day 9: 94.7km Beyond Gerlos
Day 10: 84.0km Innsbruck

Right, so it's hot, I'm tired, I'm sitting on an EXTREMELY uncomfortable seat, half-crouching at the computer with a German keyboard that I'm unable to change to the normal layout, but we'll see how it all goes. Why is the seat so uncomfortable? Well, in an effort to stick to my €10 a day budget (an effort that gets harder by the country; especially when one is surrounded by Apfelstrudel and other such delights) I have found myself at a free internet kiosk that is naturally designed to keep you there for as short a time as possible. But maybe, just maybe I'll be able to beat the system.

So a fair amount has happened since the last "proper" update. Jimmy, you get the prize, I should have known someone would pick up on that, and I should have known it would be you.


I left Zagreb in the sweat-inducing heat that I shall always now associate Croatia with and had a nice easy cycle up to Ljubljana. It follows the river for the whole way, so it was flat, with a nice cooling breeze from the river. I camped one night, and my only visitor was a deer that ran at the smell of me, crying the very un-deer like cry that I'm sure all deer make, but that sounds like a horse being strangled and vomitting at the same time. It did make me feel better because I had heard that sound in the darkness 4 days previously and it had scared the hell out of me.

Two nights in Ljubljana turned into three. I usually arise at 6am on the day I'm meant to cycle. This time, the day I was meant to cycle, I came home at 6am! A night out partying with my couchsurfing hosts required a day sleeping to recouperate. Ljubljana is a fantastic city even if just sitting doing nothing resulted in sweat running down one's back. Thank-you to all you guys that made my stay there such a fantastic one.

So, having spent longer that I'd planned, and with the heat remaining comfortably in the 30's, I was looking forward to finally entering the Alps. The air would be cool, the scenery beautiful, and once I'd popped out the other side, I'd almost be home. Unfortunately, I hadn'd thought about my equipment. Over my first pass, I hit a rough section of road and looked down to see a massive buckle in my back wheel. "Shit! Another spoke gone", is what I naturally thought, but a quick check showed all to be intact. It was then that I saw the massive crack in my rear rim where 2 spokes had almost been pulled right through. I managed to adjust the others so that the wheel didn't rub off the break pads and continued on 40km to Tolmin to where I hoped there would be a bike shop.


There was a bike shop and it did have rims, but in the words of the bike shop man "these rims are awful". A call to Ljubljana just informed the man, who then informed me, that none of his suppliers had any rims that would be any better. So it was back on the bike to head 40km south of my intended route to Nova Gorica, where maybe, just maybe they would have a decent rim.

I reached there the following morning. Yes they had a better rim, yes they had DT spokes (i.e. good ones) with which to fix it. No, they couldn't fix it today. No, they didn't think there was a camp site in Nova Gorica. So, it was over the border into Italy to try my luck.

With "no ablo Italienno" being about the only Italian I knew at the time (or at least, the only Italian I THOUGHT I knew; I think it may actually be Spannish!), it took a bit of time to find a bike shop on the Italian side of the city (the two parts seem to run into each other). Yes they had a rim. Yes they had DT spokes. How long would it take? The man pursed his lips, my spirits fell, and he said "in about an hour".

Sold.


90min later, €54 lighter, with my bike set and ready to go with a new map of the Alps in my front left pannier bag I set off North back into the mountains. The area around Tolmin had reminded me exactly how much I love mountains and I was anxious to get back into them as quick as possible. I was not disappointed and camped in the shadow of a rather impressive peak.

But more was in store as I crossed into Austria the following day. I've enjoyed all the scenery I've passed through thus far but, with the exception (maybe) of SE Turkey and the area around Daramshala, the Alps have once again blown everything else out of the water. Obviously the Himalayas are the king, queen, jack, and 10 of hearts of mountains, but the Alps are a close second. Plus, on this trip, I only really got a glimpse of the foothills of the Himalaya. This time round, I'd have a decent enough time to enjoy the hills.

I hit 3 passes the first day, before reaching the top of "The Big One" on mz second day in Austria. I believe it to be the highest pass in Austria and skirts round the highest mountain: the GroSSlockner. It stands at a rather modest 2504m. I've been higher on this trip, I think I hit a 3000m pass or two in Iran, but you start on a plateau, so it doesn't feel so bad. This time round, I started at about 700m, climbed to 1200m, before descending to about 800 or so. A gradual climb over 30km up the vallez ensues before a final ascent from the town of Heiligenblut. It's 16km from here to the pass. 16km of road at a 12% gradient.

Road gradients meant nothing to me before this trip. Some were uphill, some downhill. Others were vaguelly flat, while there were some that were sneaky bastards as they appeared downhill, but were actuallz very slightly uphill. But 12% is steep. Quite steep. And there was almost no let up the entire way up. My lungs were screaming after about 500m and all I could do was tell myself there was "only" 15.5km to go.

It took 4 hours to reach the pass. Four hours of hypnotising myself with the sound of my breathing to forget about the pain in my legs. Four hours of staring at the road 4m in front of me telling myself to "just reach there". Four hours of waiting for the hairpin bends where the gradient reduced enough to take my hand off the handlebars so I could take a drink of water, or wipe the sweat out my eyes.
Will, I respected you before for crossing the Himalayas. I respect you even more now.


But after four hours, I reached the top...only to be afforded with 50% of a view, though it was a cracking view. The other 50% was on the other side of a short tunnel. As was a 300m descent followed by another 200m ascent. More fantastic views awaited there, I got to enjoy them for a full 45min as I waited for the 16 hair pin bended road to reopen after the classic motorbike racing that had caused it's closure. In all, over the 3 passes I hit that day, I think I climbed about the full 2500m.




It took 4 hours to ascend. It took 4 hours to descend. Why? It was those bastard punctures again. Sneaky punctures, with no obvious cause. Eventually, I had to fix both tubes again and cooked my rice on the side of the mountain while I gave them time to set.

That night I curled myself into a ball and thought it was the end of my adventure as the thunder and lightening crashed overhead. I counted the timings as the storm approached, and counted them as it departed. But for a full 10 minutes, all I could think about was the Aluminium tent poles, the open field I was in and the 4m between myself and the higher trees. Was it close enough? I thought about getting out and lying flat on the ground outside, but it was absolutelz pissing it down and I didn't really want to get wet...particularly if my tent didn't get struck by lightening. Then, I'd just look like a wet, almost naked fool.

Had a 600m climb yesterday on a 9% gradient that I pushed myself up repeating again and again "it's easier than yesterday". A pleasant descent followed by some valley cycling, often along quiet cycle paths has brought me to this city where I intend to finalise the next leg of my route home. I either head straight for Switzerland, or I go up to Bavaria before coming back on myself to head into Switzerland.

I'd better decide fast because the turn-off is in about 10km.

Oh yeah, and before I congratulating you on actually reaching the end of this post, can I just say the cycle paths in Ljubljana are the best I've ever come across. I usually avoid cycle paths like the plague. Cars don't see you and you lose right of way at every road and driveway you come across. But in Ljubljana, the bikes have right of way at crossings, and the traffic lights for bikes are the same as for cars. So basically, you have the same rights as a road user, only you're off the road.

congratulations. here's some photos.


2 of my hosts in Ljubljana













Entering the Alps (slovenia)













Entering Italy














Italian mountain














Entering Austria

My reaction to...










...this sign (at the base of the Hochter pass)


Sicandar taking a rest up the ascent

















At the pass
















The descent











Austrian Mountains














More mountains









...and a lake

A kingdom for a rim

Wheel broke. Wheel fixed. In Italy. Going to Austria. Internet thin on the ground.

Kit

I was going to put this up at the end; but since it's been requested...

Essential Kit:
- 1 x Bicycle (preferably with two wheels)
- Mr Broom

Non Essential Kit (but it helps):
- 4 x pannier bags. El Cheapos on the front; Vaude on the back
- Brookes leather saddle
- Schwalbe Marathon Tyres
- Granny gears (22 teeth on the front helped reduce uphill cursing by 83%. FACT!)
- tent (one man, lightweight - would recommend larger)
- sleeping bag
- inflatable roll mat (punctured once, in process of delaminating; foam could be better)
- camping stove and fuel bottle (multi fuel stove; Israeli imitation; known to spray petrol in various directions)
- 2 x small cooking pots
- First Aid kit
- Canvas poncho (groundsheet/rain-keeper-offer/bag-coverer/shade-provider)
- Duck tape
- Collapsible bucket (Ortileb)
- Penknife

Non Essential Kit (keeps you fit carrying it uphill):
- Bike tools (rear cassette remover, spoke tightener, pliers, Allan keys, bike pump)
- Bike parts (spare tyre [used], spare inner tube, break pads, 2 brake cables, 2 gear cables, spokes, spare chain [used for removing rear cassette]
- Bike oil and grease
- Bike cleaning paraphernalia

Luxury Items (just to spoil myself):
- Clothes
- Jacket
- Camera
- Solar charger (for camera)
- Torch
- Book
- Journal
- MP3 Player
- Short wave Radio
- Mug
- Water purification tablets (haven't been used since India)
- Sun glasses
- Alarm clock

I may have forgotten a couple of things. Just remember that all you really need to go cycle touring is the Bike. Everything else just makes it that slight little bit easier.

Forwards to Zagreb

Stage 22: Belgrade to Zagreb (682km)
Day 1: 118.6km Badovinci
Day 2: 101.1km Near Seko
Day 3: 123.5km Banja Luka
Day 4: 102.2km Nr Benakova
Day 5: 126.4km Few towns beyond Slunj
Day 6: 110.1km Zagreb

3 days ago I hit 10,000km. That makes me happy. Very happy indeed.

A combination of rain, good company, laziness, food, more laziness and more rain delayed my departure from Belgrade. All in all, it meant I did not actually get going until the Sunday morning (I had originally planned on leaving the previous Tuesday!). 10km along the road I heard the all-too-familiar sound of a spoke breaking. A sound I encountered only once in my pre-Istanbul (I'm beginning to think of my trip in two stages) journeying, this was the 4th I've had since entering Europe. The problem isn't just the fixing of the spoke, it's the fixing of the puncture that invariably occurs a couple of kms down the road. No matter how careful I think I am in replacing the spoke guard within the rim of the wheel, I always end up with a puncture.

This time, it was almost bang on 100km after the spoke had been replaced that I got the puncture! I changed tubes and made it the remaining few kilometers to within 500m of the border with Bosnia.

Next day, as I stopped for lunch in a field slightly off the main road, I was sure I was going to be robbed. 2 men in a car pulled off the road and stopped the car next to me. They both got out, and as I went over to greet them with my ususal "dobar dan, nay govarim Srbska" (good day, I don't speak Serbian - I was actually in the Republic of Srpska where I stayed for most of the trip through BiH) I noticed the knife wounds on the arms of the shorter, stockier man, the recent bruises on his legs, and the massive scorpian tattoo that adorned his neck, right behind his ear.

Luckily, the smaller, thinner man (and for this reason the one I considered more dangerous - small people always have to prove themselves) spoke reasonably good English, so I was able to explain my trip, say how beautiful the Republic of Srpska was (I never heard one reference to "Bosnia" in this part of the country, and I made sure I didn't make any faux pas myself), how beautiful the women were, etc.etc. In the end, after inquiring if I had a computer for navigation (whereupon, I pulled out my rather tatty and torn map), they bid me adieu and hopped back into their car. 5min later, the police pulled off the road and asked to see my passport. On seeing I was just a tourist and couldn't speak a word of their language, they drove off.

I stayed with Boris, the friend of my cousin's in Banja Luka and cycled off into the rain the following day. I was asked a couple of weeks ago about which was worse: hot weather, or rainy weather. I hummed and hawed for a bit before evading the question by saying it depended on the type of rain. Well, after another thorough soaking along dirt roads, hiding once again beneath trees as the lightening struck about 1km away, I decided that although hot weather wasn't ideal, it was better than rain.

But it wasn't all bad. Soaked to the skin, and finally coming across an asphalt road with houses on it, I found shelter in a small barn where 10 workers were gathered round a small fire. They laughed at the steam that proceeded to come from my general direction as I crouched by the warmth. They were mine clearers working in the area. One of the guys spoke some English. They'd been there for about 3 months clearing one mine field (the whole house was surrounded on 3 sides by mines). The guy himself had worked in Afghanistan for 4 years clearing old Russian mines. One of the other men round the fire had been working with him in Afghanistan too. Now he had only one leg as the other had been blown off in a field that they believed they'd cleared. He still worked on account of the good pay. As we stood talking, one of the workers left to pick mushrooms...from within one of the minefields!!! The guy I was talking to just shook his head and said he was a bit crazy.

The rain eased and I again headed off. Along the road one passes many signs denoting the presence of mine fields. Fairly sure that not every mine field would be marked, I decided it might be prudent to take a bit of care in finding a camp site that evening. I had already taken to avoiding long grass on account of snakes, but figured that on that particular night, I'd be sure I slept in a farmed area. At this point, I had left the Republic of Srpska, and was back into Bosnia "proper". I found a number of flat, green, open spaces that would have been ideal were it not for the bombed and burnt out houses situated right next to them; who knows what atrocities had occured, and I decided I would prefer not to sleep in their shadow. I asked a farmer if I could camp in the area and he pointed up the hill behind the house. It looked recently grazed, but I still couldn't help but try and avoid stepping on mole-hills!



2 days of hot weather brought me into Zagreb. I stopped briefly at Plitvička Lakes; the reason for me taking the route that I did, but the necessity to walk along paths to see them and the hideously large number of tourists and tour buses ensured I didn't linger for long. The parts I did see were very beautiful though.

Spoke broke on final day.

Bastard.

Looked into replacing the set, but, being a Saturday, no-one was interested; would have to wait 'til Tuesday.

Currently staying with the second cousin of the husband of my first cousin. Heading off tomorrow towards Ljubljana. Hoping my spokes hold strong...

My aunt Gilly, cousin Suzie and first cousins once removed, Hugo and Maxim











A lived-in house in Bosnia; a mixture of bullet holes and shrapnel damage. I have also been shown the imprints of grenades on the road.











A desecrated memorial (I think it's Serbian; the memorial that is)











Attempting to dry out my belongings











Lived-in-house. Burned-out-house. Side-by-side.










Not what I thought a minefield would look like!

Back to Belgrade (subterranean cycling)

Stage 21: Sarajevo to Belgrade (370km)
Day 1: 90.3km Meded
Day 2: 52.6km Pass beyond Mokra Gora
Day 3: 153.9km Near Pepelijevac
Day 4: 73.1km Belgrade

Having to make a phone call back to Dublin delayed my departure from Sarajevo until nearly midday; well, a phone call and a bit of eating. The sky was looking a little omnious, but at least it wasn't any of the +30 degree days I'd been experiencing up 'til then. It was a bit of a climb up out of the city and I soon turned off the main road towards a town called Pale, where a minor road was set to take me out towards the Serbian border. The political layout of Bosnia i Herzegonvina transpires to be even more complicated that I had previously been aware with autonomous regions without borders contained withing the larger country. So, soon after leaving the city limits, I was back to reading Cyrillic like a local dyslexic within the republic of Srbska within Bosnia (and Herzegovina).

The road rose slightly but steadily out of Pale until I reached my first major tunnel. It was only after entering it did I realise that not only was it 1km long, but it was a 1km long tunnel containing only one lane. Additionaly, it was a 1km tunnel with one unlit one lane. Around the first corner, I decided that a torch would be a good idea with there being nothing but darkness ahead. I had just about retrieved my torch when I heard the jet-engine roar of approaching traffic coming towards me in this 1km long, one lane wide, unlit tunnel. I cowered in the inky darkness, pressed up against the sloping side of the tunnel as the traffic slammed on its breaks upon seeing my feeble flashing LED headtorch. The cars and truck just managed to squeeze past and I was left alone in the darkness, able to see a dim section of asphalt about 1m in front of my tyre as I cycled slowly onwards.

The tunnel marked the highest part of the road, and I followed a river for the remaining part of the day, allowing me to cover more distance than I had originally thought I could in the half-day. The asphalt soon faded from the road and I was left cycling along a reasonable dirt surface, devoid of almost all other traffic through a steep sided, narrow limestone gorge. The only issue was the subterranean cycling!

Not even using the sophisticated back of an envelope, I estimate that I cycled a further 4 km underground as the road passed through steep limestone spurs. Many of these were only 100-200m long, short enough to see the other side as one enters, but at least 4 or 5 them were over 400m; pitch black cycling with only a small headtorch through small tunnels on a dirt road. It was a fun day.

The area approaching Vishegrad in Eastern Bosnia lacks an abundance of camping sites given the steep hillsides, so I found myself camping above one of the many tunnels just before the village of Meded.



I was held up again the following morning with a broken gear cable before I had even left the town of Meded. I replaced it and was back on the road within an hour. In the town of Vishegrad, the thought of replacing my fairly worn, ripped and faded cycling t-shirt with an updated model was thwarted by the female owner of the clothes shop. Through the medium of international sign language, she indicated that I was not allowed to handle the textiled items within the shop on account of my incredibly grubby hands. I obliged.

There was a little concern that I may have difficulty entering Serbia due to the Kosovo stamp in my passport. Someone had made me aware on this blog about entering Serbia through Kosovo, which had been my initial plan (so thanks for the heads up), but my host (Clare) in Kosovo had said I wouldn't have any issue if I left Kosovo, and re-entered Serbia from elsewhere. This indeed was the case, and I breezed through yet another checkpoint.

I ate my lunch, shading from the sun under a large tree. An hour later I was again sheltering under a tree, this time in full waterproofs as the thunder and lightening was striking less that 2km away. It was about a 10km ascent from the village of Mokra Gora to the pass. Halfway up, I reached into the back pocket of my waterproof jacket to retrieve my camera, only to reach into a pool of water! At the pass, with the rain still hammering down, I sheltered at some picnic tables beneath A-frame roofs and made the executive decision that I wasn't going to continue. I sat out the rain listening to BBC world service on my little radio.

That night I spurned the attic of a nearby abandoned stable for a small little wooden hut, built on stilts, with one small window and accessed through a trap door. I slept, unsure whether anyone would come a knock, knock, knocking on the trapdoor. But my sleep was generally uninterrupted. I'd like to show you a picture of the accommodation, but my camera had decided to be uncooperative following it's soaking.

I covered a long distance the following day. Aided by a slight tailwind and some cycle-friendly gradients I finally managed to break the 150km mark. I thought about going for the 160km, but figured I couldn't possibly deny myself a further challenge to aim for over the remaining distance. An approaching storm also pushed me on my way. It gained on me on an uphill section before the town of Valjevo, with the rain coming to within a few kilometers, before I embarrassed and humiliated it's slow progress on the downhill section.

The final approach to Belgrade was along flat rolling plains, and I found myself in the city soon after lunch. I made my way to the house of my aunt. The following days have seen me eating well, sleeping well and enjoying the company of my Yugoslav relatives. I've had my bike tuned up for free from an excellent bike-repair man (Slobodan: 064 231 3645; www.bajs.co.yu) and even found myself the subject of a TV interview for Serbian TV! Also, having removed some Serbian hard currency for the purchase of a new camera, my old one decided to do a Lazareth and jump back to life!

With the weather appearing to be hotting up these last few days, I'm soon to be back on the bike heading towards Zagreb and then the mountains of Slovenia, but taking a route through northern Bosnia into the lake district of Croatia. I've been informed it's a much more beautiful route, albeit a little longer.

A relieved me coming out of the 1km unlit tunnel. Little did I know that there was much more in store!










Think of this the next time you throw your plastic bottle in the bin. All the white stuff is plastic bottles.








Wet me: sheltering under the A-frames. The last picture before my camera decided that enough was enough









Sicandar with the TV crew in Belgrade