The Tunnelıng cyclıst

There had now been nearly a week of relatively normal cycling with a slow return to colonised purple dots, no mine fields and most of all, no rain. Of course this was a world tour and this time of pleasing normality could not last. Its demise was at first but a dark shadow over my calm being. The shadow became darker until it was quite literally pitch black.

There would be 2 days of unparalleled tunneling to which I shall be making enquiries to the guinness world records library for most tunnels traveled through in 24 hours by a touring cyclist.


The ride into Serbia goes like this:

2 lane tunnels, with some form of lighting

Single lane tunnels with traffic lights timed for cars.

Single lane tunnels with traffic lights and no illumination! Partial panic sets in as traffic lights change and one hears on coming traffic, sounding like a combination of a jet engine and a train putting its breaks on.

Single lane tunnel no traffic lights, no lights, gravel and potholes.

As above but over 1000 metres long.

Then I renamed these ferocious holes to caves when the stuff under my wheels was made of the same stuff as the ceiling, bare rock!

After being immersed in pitch black for more than 10 minutes with no road it is a kin to being in a small plane, blind folded whilst in turbulence. All sense of direction is lost. I would exist thinking I was going up hill when I was going down hill and vice-versa, Sweat turns cold from the tunnels darkness and eyes are blinded from the light of the day. Having no knowledge of how long one is to be submerged proved quite daunting, By the second day other bodily bits began helping my poor eyes. It was a team effort..... depending on chillyness of my knees when they hit the cold tunnel air and the nature of my “wooping” echos I could guess a tunnels length to within a few hundred meters..

The ultimate irony of these 2 days of petrifying pot holing is that it was the first time in over 2 weeks that blue had appeared in the sky. I spent the entire day underground!

The guiness book of records entry reads:

“Most tunnels passed through for solo world cyclist --------- 60 !”

A rare Glımpse at External Beauty

On the second day I emerged from the final tunnel and entered my first Serbian town at the same time redressing the balance between cyclist and lorry by victoriously overtaking one on a glorious downhill swoosh whilst in my attempt at a racing tuck, peddling furiously using the haloed and still sparkling top gear. YES!

The affluence of the people continued to grow the further into Serbia I traveled. With a decline in visible war scars a lighter breeze wafted through villages piled high with fresh fruit and self supporting carrots. My mood lightened contrary to the size of belly. Cycling had once again become more predictable, including another monstrous climb into Bulgaria. This time I had my first encounter with maddening swarms of mosquitos. Unlike the bees of western Europe they can be outrun and so began the hottest most tiring, infuriating border climb to date. At a little under 9mph the first wave would attack. My shoulders would be hounded and sucked, nose and eyes buzzed. I flounder for words in describing the difficulties of trying to keep Condors wheels turning at speed up a hill for over 2 hours in hot sunshine. Suffice to say it was Hell. A mosquito netted hat has been bumped to the top of the Istanbul shopping list as I can no longer prepare evening meals outside of the tent without receiving multiple suckings and red bulges.

Mosquıto comedy

With red lumps and bite marks I crossed the border to a very cold Bulgarian reception. For the first time there were no smiles. I temper my opinion of Bulgaria as the channel I have furrowed is obviously very small. To summarise the Bulgarian attitude towards a solo cyclist a hotel receptionists attempted to levy a charge for parking my bicycle, in addition to the cost of the room. It became a tıme of ıntropspectıon amd self concıous attempts at tryıng to raıse a smıle as I bought supplıes

For reasons that slip my mind upon writing this I chanced across the Romanian border. A quick consultation with my postcard sized map of Europe showed it was flat with a most inviting green colour nudging against the browns of Bulgaria........

After a 4 hour wait for the ferry due to ınsuffıcıent counts of lorrıes to justify a crossing, our flabby Speedo trunked captain steered us across the Watery divide and aparently past the frontier into Russia.

I meandered along the North bank of a river that ran East, grinning at the hills across the river in Bulgaria. I am sure there was a frıendly force at play as clouds hung there gloom over Bulgaria but showed mercy at the river and never crossed the divide.

Romania had been like a a street 200 miles long full of beaming smiles. Every house was decked with a bench facing the road upon which there would almost always be a parked bottom and cheery wave. I could not help but nod and Beam back. After only one afternoon the Bulgarian slump had been lifted.

Often whole families would be tending their cow(s). Other tımes I would pass father and daughter sitting under a tree with only a goat to dıstract them from ıdle summer chats. Romania is a very poor country but has a life to it much greater than what I had seen only 50 miles behind me.

After over 2000 miles of cycling I was now practically the fastest thing on the road which after spending nearly 2 months huggıng the edge of the road took a lıttle gettıng used to. The day would pass overtaking carts laden with family members out for a Sunday ride (trot ?) or woman sat a top huge piles of hay whilst husband wrestles wıth the reluctant steed (and possıbly hıs ego too) to gallop as he sees my approach. Young boy racers riding bare back impressively impressing the girls and me for that matter, would chat on mobile phones whilst effortlessly steering a course around my cumbersome frame.

The whole affair was a pleasure. I was happy. Water was literally available on tap or should I say by the bucket load. Road side wells served up ice cold water quenching a 30 degree thirst and sweaty brow. At fırst I maıntaıned an Englısh reserve for fear of offendıng the Well owner (ıf there was one) but ınsıstant encouragement from frıendly faces has me gluggıng buckets of cool well water in preparation for the daily races against children, in charge of any road worthy (or not) transport be it wheeled or as was mainly the case, hooved. Upto now they have always won a temporary vıctory (its the weight you know) to a cheer from me and the street lined park benchers. Dodging potholes We swerve to each others side, nod our farewells and off they would trundle back to the well to cool.

It is in Romania that the remnants of the European downpour were most visible. Many huts had been swept and collected into corners of the land with houshold possesions strangely dotting the landscape or dangling from trees and telegraph poles. At times the road had been completely submerge as I threaded a fine line between vast flood plains, a mirror as far as the eye could see.

It was saddening to leave Romania, the sadness greatened by a return to the glumness of Bulgaria. I had my heart set on Istanbul. The days riding grew more difficult as my excitement grew at the prospect of seeing friends and resting after nearly a 1000 miles of non stop cycling.

My mind was tired from over exposure as were my legs!. The final, familiar and mosquito ridden climb into Turkey was measured in days as appose to hours, 3 of them ! 3 whole days of up hilling ending with the biggest, largest moustached smiling passport control officer to date who first called me crazy realising I had peddled UP to his border and then with something that I shall never forget in the adrenalin fueled haze that I was in said these words partly ınferıng to turkey and half for the glorıous downhıll that approached...........

”paradise awaits you “

I was now giddy with excitment, My recently and quite seriously Iodine stained passport had been legible enough for 5 passport checks and the gates to paradise were opened. They revealed Beautiful panoramic views over Turkey and glorious flat cycling .

I sat in the first village to rest and repeatedly reminded myself I had cycled from London to Turkey. A reverberating cough filled the air and startled me out of this marvelous and well deserved day dreaming moment. I puzzled over the reality of what I thought I had just heard. Again an echoing cough this time with additional reverberation; then the full exotic reverberating charm of a call to prayer filled the air. The voice filled me with magic. An incredibly appropriate welcome to the world East of Europe.

I had made the mistake of allowing my mind to wander to Instanbul before my legs had transported me there. It was an arduous 4 days cycling full of an expectancy and anticipation that stretched each mile to double its normal length. I write theses last lines sat on my bed on a sun baked roof top terrace overlooking Istanbull and the Domes of its huge Mosques thinking again and again how lucky I am, how exciting it shall be to sit with friends and how after a whole month of non stop cycling I can now stop.




The Quoted Cyclist:


I Have begun listening to lectures and short storiers on my music player. The first lecture has been on Human Longetivity.... with finishing quote to the lecture........

“You know you are getting old (or are a touring cyclist) when you bend down to tie your shoe laces and wonder if there is anything else useful you could be doing whilst you are down here”.

I am but a very young man alas my knees have taken to this saying with unprompted zeal.

Bulgarıa...........

A new chaır and a fırst nıght of 5 star campıng

Romanıan road sıde Canabıs. A hundred mıles of dosey cows and sneezıng.

The overseers of nearly every Romanıan vıllage

The blackness of Bulgarıa

The Bıblıcal sense of Goat droppıngs

After 3 hours of climbing I realised the Alps had never really left me. I had skirted their mass but they were to swerve and spread in front of me as far as the eye could see. It was a daunting sight. My hill climbing state of being had been laid to rest, at least for a while and it was difficult to recultivate a mental capacity to do a whole month of Gottard passes.

I had raised myself above the coast and indeed above Western Europe. As I looked ahead all talk of transitions and subtle nuances were rubbished in an instance. Once again the terrain under my wheels had defined a major boundary. It was vast, I had climbed from Sea level to a plateau surrounded by snow capped peaks. There was nothing. Desolate, foreboding grey silence for miles.

There was a weight in the air, The snow capped peaks of the Alps were bright and invigorating, here one felt somber, heavy and contemplative. The sky was as dark as my mood, its tone growing deeper with each passing hour.......... I began the search for a place to make camp. I was accompanıed by Mozart on full volume, even Vıvaldı showed hıs face agaın, they were both deafened by what had abruptly become a very lonely place for a solo cyclist. The look for a place to make camp out of sıte from pryıng eyes only seemed to carry me further ınto a world of rumblıng of clouds and achıng legs.

I had spent over a month in Western Europe, and a fine adventure it had been. If needed I could break camp in just over an hour (a stark contrast to the ten minutes needed before leaving for work ın London!) I could march or stagger into a cafe and proudly announce my need for water and I no longer needed to think about which side of the road to cycle on. The challenges had been fair, the rain wet! and the hills knee jerking. I had cycled over 1300 miles and thought I had done very well for myself..

It was now on this Croatıan plateau that Eastern Europe broke from its silence and wrapped me in its history, it was a skull and crossed bones and read “Mines”. Darkness grew closer as the Mine fields grew thicker.

It had now been 4 hours of wet hill climbing and to be frank I was totally Knackered. It is a strange thing when the world around you becomes smaller, It started shrinking as the clouds once again shrowded me in a visibility of less than 20 meters. I could now only see the mine field signs that were next to the road. The rain quickened and the hill steepened.......... the world around me was still big enough to call an adventure although ıt was gettıng a lıttle cramped!.


The map showed purple dots symbolising villages and towns. I had passed 5 along this high plateau during the afternoon and all had been desolate, nothing except concrete walls. Empty shops and houses with every shred of detail gouged or exploded away. A vast mounatanous world with deserted villages and bullet ridden vehicles. The only signs of life would be the darting of swallows feeding their young ones ironically nested in bullet and Shell holes.

My world was getting smaller.........

It was only when I cycled upwards into the storm that all sense of adventure and fair play ended.

There were now 2 hours of light remaining when the first lightning bolt struck the road side. I was in a mine field scared to leave the rut I was cycling in,drenched,in perpetual shock from ear splitting thunder and I was cycling uphill ! I had to stop. I knew my world had minimised when I found my self checking for trip wires at the entrance to a deserted house. Was I going mad? could there be trip wires? I stood there watching lighting strike every 10 seconds, scared to move my feet in case I disturbed some harm full remnant of war or adjusted the deciding factor for the next lightning strike. It was at this moment and ın thıs state of mind that a single bell rang above the cracks of thunder. Then a voice. For a whole and very long minute, there was thunder, the ring of a bell and the repeated chant..... “Oojeverde” “Oojeverde” “Oojeverde” (phoneticals)

The man emerged through the cloud like a camelion dressed in grey fog accompanied by a herd of goats. At the time it felt biblical, My world instantly exploded back to its normal size. He was shielding his head from the heavens with a pan lid..... I ran out and just smiled at him, he stopped, smiled back and then continued.......“Oojeverde”....“Oojeverde” He and his herd of goats had without doubt shown me the light. I could camp where ever there were goat droppings, and short nibbled grass! I adorned my head torch and went hunting for mine free goats droppings !

The descent from storm mountain saw a world return to relative normality. Colour could be seen in water and trees, schools and churches. Sadly the people were still cloaked in grey, as were the few occupied homes. Buying floppy carrots and stale bread in these rare visits to peopled villages provided little smatterings of learned knowledge as to the nature of this desolate place, alas for the moment an addition has been added to my note book.......... “ what happened here ” I was cycling through a country that had been stripped bare by war. Hours of cyclıng in a monotone world seeking shelter in hollowed abodes has balanced my lack of knowledge with a strange knowing that seemed far more unpleasant yet welcomed ten fold over an ımage offered whılst ın ones lıvıng room watchıng televısıon.

Once again it was another mountainous climb into Bosnia. The temperature dropped as quickly as my patience for these relentless hardships at each border crossing. For the Bosnian climb the road was lined with huge vats (well ok at least very large jars) of honey. A sweet tooth relentlessly dragged me closer to each stall I passed till eventually after 2 hours of the climb I could tolerate there calling no longer and replenished my dwindling honey supplies with a gargantuan jar of Acacian honey. The remainder of the climb had me cursing the extra weight that I had irresistibly burdened upon myself. At the top, the portions of honey were extra large (and rightly so!) as I gazed upon the Croatia I had just cycled and looked onwards toward Bosnia. Occasionally small openings in the sky remind the mountains,trees and my cold tuttsies that the sun is still there and how much we all miss it.

The top! Prıor to the feast of honey.

Before I descend into the next land, it has become common practice to fill my belly savour ing the moment sometimes so long that I start feeling hungry again and prolonging the contentment of the pre down hill swoop till stiff knees finally provide the momentum to saddle up

These Post border descents are analogous to taking an aspirin after a night of over indulgence. I will raise my arms (yes its plural now I have mastered none handed loaded bike cycling) and triumphantly YEEeeehOOOoooo my way into the next country forgetting in an instance the pain it took to reach the top.


The following morning Bosnia set a president that would continue up to writing this ditty.......being discovered in my no longer secret camping spots.

This has caused many anxious moments and severe morning panics, in varying degrees of magnitude that have almost always been fueled by a false sense of danger and usually end with smiles and sharings of Acacian honey and coffee. These friendly morning occasions have ,at last cured my panics and strengthened my resolve no end. As the sun rises it has been goats with shepherds in tow that have been my most regular visitors. Our seemingly very different worlds come together with a confident grin and reassuring handshake followed by a very pleasurable breakfast surrounded by goats and sharing sign language, smiles and whatever emerges from the food pannier. These wonderful moments sadly come to end when the goats misbehave and I am once again left alone to break camp and be on my way. I now listen intently as I wake for the ringing of a goats bell and herders call in the hope I may share some more Acacian honey.

As can be expected some visitors have not been so welcoming. The lands I was passing through have been chopped and hoed almost entirely by hand. Hence a visit from the midnight wheat stealing syther gang (to the profusion of the land owner the following morning). Torch lights and abrupt foreign voices bouncing off my flimsy canvas world was most unpleasant, needless to say it was a disturbing nights sleep and a breakfast in much shorter grass, thankfully with guy ropes still intact. The pokings of shiny gun nozzles, Gypsies, Bulls and long whiskered sniffers have all made for some very diverse morning awakenings.

The mornıg after 'the Sythers'

The wind had been chasing its tail for 2 days, stroking my back or slapping me maliciously in the face. Finally it grew bored of its games and ran West. This was far from ideal for a cyclist heading East over a mountain range growing a little concerned at missing Englands first world cup game. Although I am not an avid football supporter, I have been treasuring the next victorious game I get to watch with front row seats guaranteed in a very rural Eastern Europe.

The day of Englands second world cup game was a day of television. In the morning an interview for Serbain state television (and a beautiful fluent English speaking cycling journalist!). I cycled up the same stretch of road 3 times, then acted the part of expert map reader whilst gazing upon an imaginary panorama, then cycled round the corner in triplicate heading towards an imaginary mountain range. It was a post “shoot” coffee with the interviewer then an afternoon race to the next town to watch England from the other side of the screen. A combination of the the wind once again being in Englands favour and using the big cog for the first time saw me proudly make it 2 hours early.

The Quoted Cyclist:


The Bosnian bar poster reads...............

“ Bikers game tattoo erotic canoeing rock show “

Unfortunately with an insalubrious Istanbulian deadline to meet I could not wait the week to see this Bosnian Extravaganza, I spent the next week dılutıng any glumness sımply through ımagınıng the openıng scene of the show.

Wındy brıdges and mornıng swıms

A celebetry visit to the first cafe on the Italien side of the border reminded me how rapidly pockets are emptıed cyclıng on the hills of Switzerland. Despite the vast reduction in daily monatary outlays, Italy has countered with its profusion of traffic. With no map due to an evasive mountain manouvre and early departure from the Alps I was bound to cycling the Italien equivalent of the North circular in rush hour......... all the way to Venice

My eyes had been feasting in Switzerland. They were spoilt and finding it difficult to adjust to a land of grey concrete and road side Pizerias, hence I was forced, clad in smog and exhaust soot to a rapid Mars bar fueled sprint between towns. And what better way to arrive than on 2 wheels with a compass to show me the way through the gorgeous cobbled streets of these North Italien streets.

Ladies dressed in their finest, with waiters ducking between doors delivering morning coffee and cakes to shop owners. I don’t think I will ever know during these brief visits if it was I painting the ıdylıc picture of Small Italien towns or, and I sincerely hope so, that it really was as I remember as I wrıte thıs. Each morning I would emerge from some secret urban den with dirty finger nails and stubble to cycle into the next town through towering balconied terraces and squares to join the early risers and watch Italy wake up.

I had spent enough tıme surrounded by walls of rock and snow capped peaks that it took some time to relax my mind to flat ground cycling again with no moments of tense shoulder shrugging as I braced for another long climb. This flat horizon was a much deserved Leg holiday alas at times I felt as equally weary as in the mountains with the buffeting drone of unrelenting traffic and on this horrible road there was to be not one campsite. It was a week spent in fields and partly built factories.

At the moment of takıng thıs pıcture a promıse was made that thıs wheel barrow (water hanger) would be transformed to a palm tree wıthın the year.

To add a little cheer on these glum evenings I would devoure sqwuished chocolate at a glutonous rate . On such evenings, whilst divulging there would be a magical show of fire flies. The warm up act was an occasional blink that would grow to a finale involving a show of lights from the base of camp up into the canopy of trees or rafters around me. I have happily if not a little expensively maintained my sweet tooth in salute to those magical light shows. (my farthers genes I am sure). It has been impossible to resist the finest gelatina (carefull with them vowels!) palours on offer, appalled as I am to admit, many of the lovely sights I passed in Italıen towns were probably during the afternoons search for Italys finest cyclists coolıng Pistacho joy!

Returnıng to flat ground allowed me a great perspectıve on what I had just Cycled through (or over). It has been impossible to ignore each crumple and dimple the earth lays below my wheels. It is the wonder of cycling that has one studyıng the surrounding land and sky. Often without knowing I have begun to learn its patterns and moods. Gaining a sense of what is to come or reading between the lines of the map (or lack of lines!). For thıs reason as I cycle over frontiers It has become very noticable how our polıtıcal world has been divided by the great features of our land. I can think of only one border crossing to date that had not seen the handle bar levers crunchıng into the easıest gear. If the border crossing does not induce leg cramps then I would most likely be on a bridge or boat.

Along wıth hılls ıt ıs water gatherıng that ıs also never far from ones mınd. My confıdence has been bolstered no end whılst cyclıng these flat plaıns. In Italy a request to fıll my water bottles often results in subtle scowels, Then they notıce my grubby chain oiled legs or other cycling paraphernalia followed by a raptious spew of Italien which always appears very encouraging. I carry my ice cluncking bottles back to the bike with slightly strengthened confidence for the next time I am parched.

Despite no map I head East with compass round neck, skirting the southern tip of the Alps with candor and wıth little steers further south when they get a little close. The Gottard Pass was still a little too fresh in my mind (or is that legs)

I had always imagined Venice to be the grand finale to my skim accross northern Italy. I had hoped Verona may at least allow me a glimse of a great roman arena. A sore dissapointment indeed, It was almost impossible to get a glimpse of its ancient stone through a presentation of fibre glass sphinxs and lions, not to mention rows of stalls selling internationally recognised tourist hats, a hark back to my days on the stalls of Portobello market . I left the town with buses literally fuming their anger all over my poor head, the highlight of the day (and Verona) had not been towering ancient Roman architecture but a kind Morrocon man in a back street internet cafe who had given me free mint Tea and and an Egg sandwich which I had been yearning for (the latter that is), for some time.

That night I wedged myself into another corner of a dis-used factory to avoid discovery, the highlight alas was not mesmerizing points of lights but scooping the evening meal straight from the pan in a pitch black concrete shell. At 3 o’clock in the morning I awoke in my tent with a sneeze and then heard the echo!

Tents and echoes!

The following morning I cycled into vicenzia just after sunrise, found a gorgeous cobbled square and watched Italy wake up over sweet Italien pastries and coffee.

Venice had arrived, it had been the motivating cheer during the previous weeks cycling. As I ticked and signed campsite forms a thick Northern twanged man tapped me on the shoulder clad in lycra wıth stubble even longer than my own. A fellow bicycle tourer! and our fist chance to go BLAH, ROAR, RAHHHH... OUCH, WOW, COR BLIMEY and in English too! We had cycled almost the same route at the same time. Oh how we lamented about the rain and reassured ourselves that it really was a nightmare cycle to Dover. He had reached the base of the Gottard pass and been strongly recommended not to attempt ıt by bıcycle as the conditions were still a little cycle unfriendly. At 55 years old he vowed to return and conquere its unpredictable heights.....Respect! The campsite reception had heard an hour of northern twanged verbal explosion, it was great. The next morning he pointed his front wheel towards Greece in a race to see the birth of his daughters first child.

A whole day was spent in Venician decadence. Narrow streets, hidden court yards linked with arching bridges. Shops of golden masks and streets lined with galleries. It was a welcome respite of pedestrian peace after the constant (and dangerous) Italian roads. The large squares had me skurrying back to little streets as I became overwelmed by a syndrom synonomous wıth trafalga square.

My Venecian evening was one of true Vivaldic indulgance. I was sat inside my very own fairy tale, surrounded by 30 foot frescoes and huge white columns, the Chiesa San Vidal was the home to an acclaimed 8 piece band that filled everyone and everything with a sound that I shall never forget. The “second half” ran into Mozart and 2 Bach Piano Conertos. I left spell bound and speechless. The spell had taken its hold as I wandered into the early hours of the morning lit by tiny lamps and illuminated bridges. I was thouroughly lost and loving it!
The spell was finnally weakened by an hour wait for the bus back to the campsite! I was beıng transported back to smelly socks and camp stoves knowıng that Venice has been the only place that my wheels have taken me that has evoked a momentary lonelyness and wanting for company.


The second man of many miles cycled passed me and stopped on the road to Trıeste. He was from hungary (i think) He talked, made a fire on the side of the road to make coffee, then talked some more. I have no ıdea how the conversatıon wıth hımself went but the cofffee was great. He cycled toward Hungry wıth an amazıng combınatıon of half shoppıng trolleys and bags strapped to hıs bıke.

I departed Italy through Slovenia and into croatia in a currency confusing jettsetting (cyclesetting?) blur. I could see the Dalamtion coast wıth the Adrıatıc Sea but a few hundred meters below me. I now tire of thinking how the weather has been the one thing to strip all illusions of grandeur to the core. I had accepted rain every day (still) and all other combinations of weather beahvioiur. It was, with this stance on the weather that I approached the bridge that led to the Islands of the Dalmatıon coast. The previous 2 hours had me once again shouting skyward asking “why” and generally profusing at my ill treatment. There were huge holes in crash barriers and wind speeds high enough to lift a loaded bicycles front wheel and nudge it at will. After a month of weather misbehavings I had learnt to duck (literally) under the sadness and laugh at such extremities. I raised my head in excitement as I saw the bridge. The I saw lines of caravans and other 2 wheeled (motor) friends. The Bridge was closed! The toll master was profusing and pointing at his holy dial, then I understood why I had been forced to de-saddle and shout lots, it was an especially windy day blowıng ın at 167 km per hour. It was quite a grounding experience to have the strength of the wınd confırmed to me havıng struggled to cycle ın ıt all day.

So began my bus shelter camp. I invented lots of games, imagined many times that the wind was fading and continually chuckled at how fidgety 30 motor cycle tourers are when thay want to tour on their motor cycles.

The next morning I awoke, checked tree tops and the general flappy-ness of the world, the wind had passed.....I triumphantly crossed the bridge to the first Island of the Dalmation coast.

It was at thıs crossıng that I realısed the transıtıon from beıng on a holıday to a more long term 'somthıng' happened. It would now be strange to wake and not prime the stove for morning coffee.... or sperate the fly sheet ın the hope that ıt would dry before I fınıshed breakfast. I think I may be having the best nights sleep for many years despite random bumps, lurking creatures around the tent and ants, which appear to have perfected the art of teleportation through tent canvas, let ıt be known there shall be war if they perfect their techniques through glass; honey jars specifically.

Much preferred to wındy brıdges

I awoke to blue sky and thought it time to rest my legs. I was literally inches from the Adriatic sea and so celebrated my day of rest by a morning submersion in its crystal clear chillyness. I would sit besıde mirror smooth water and warm myself with morning coffee awaıtıng the sun to rise above the mountains. I sat there all morning listening to a hen attempting to finsh its cockledoodle doo-ing. By the time I had eaten breakfast it had only managed a cockle..., by chapter 2 and a mid morning snack it was cockledoodling... by 1:00 in the afternoon it unleashed its full verse, and I tucked into Chapter 3 whilst dipping toes into cool water. That evening and 3 luxury beers later I spoke whole sentences of English on the phone and received coherant sentences back from a friend, marvelous! Arrangements were made, it was to be a meeting in Istanbul, 1 month from now. The next morning I peeked out of my sleeping bag at a post card size map of Europe. The Alps were brown and purple coloured, so was everything between the Adriatic Sea and Istanbul. My tolerance for alcohol had clearly weakened.!

I ate Yogurts, bananas, and some more bananas then said my farewells to the steep sided Dalmation coast. I now was turning the peddles to reach the first deadline of the trip (indeed since I finished full time employment), and a huge swathe of brown and purple lie ahead.

After 3 hours of climbing I realised the Alps had never really left me. I had skirted their mass but they were to swerve and spread in front of me as far as the eye could see. It was a truly daunting sight. My hill climbing state of being had been laid to rest, at least for a while and it was difficult to re-cultivate a mental capacity to do a whole month of Gottard passes.

As thıs Croatıan vıllage sıgn post proclaıms, Austalıa ıs stıll a long way away