But Really We Loved This Country

Disturbed dreams. Woke up in a spacious room with intricately patterned tiles on the floor. The décor is sparse but tasteful, a table and two chairs, a double bed, large windows on two adjacent walls. The closed shutters provide shelter from the constant sun and harsh light. The windows of course are wide open. In the cooler shade a pleasant breeze transports the sounds of the outside world into the room. A donkey bray, a cockerel welcoming the day, kids splashing in the small pool.

Dreams must be symptomatic of an agitated mind. The entrance into Albania was a step into a different world. The change had been fairly gradual until now, edging day by day towards the unfamiliar. First a change of currency, then subtle shifts in flavours and landscapes, then the loss of a common language. Physiognomy also gradually changed. People got darker, their smiles more frequent and gappier. But when we reached Tuzi a more drastic change was evident. This Montenegrin border town, with a dusty market at the crossroads, was chaotic, loud and foreign.

The border crossing between Montenegro and Albania is on the northernmost tip of Skadarsko Jezero (Skadar Lake). “Do you know anything about this area?” we had asked at the tourist office in Tivat pointing at the lake on a map. The answer was a blank stare; the lady did not know anything about it. It turns out that this is the biggest National Park and Nature Reserve in Montenegro, with many species of endemic flora and fauna. Unfortunately the Albanian side is not held in such high regard. In fact there was a joint Croatian/Albanian project, now luckily defunct, to build a nuclear power plant on its shores.

The road towards Albania got progressively worse. Just after a hairpin bend we found a couple of potholes so huge one could have lost a truck inside them. The border itself was busy, with a long cue of trucks parked in the road. The drivers were kind enough to let us through and the border police friendly enough to let us out of the last and into the new country. Goodbye Montenegro, Hello Albania!

Well, hello wild wild west actually, as this is what it felt like crossing over. The first thing we met was one of the many battered up old Mercs found all over Albania. This one had not one, but three, three seater sofas piled on top of its roof. And of course to maximise width as well as encumbrance these were tied across the roof. The precariously balanced load was larger than the car itself.

The road itself, a main national artery which connects Montenegro with Shkodar, the third largest city in Albania, practically stopped the minute we entered the country. The cracks in the tarmac got wider and wider till there was only cracks and not much tarmac left, just high clouds of dust behind the speeding rustbuckets. Admittedly there was another road being constructed next to it, but differently from how they would do it anywhere else, here they were not building it in segments but all at once. With the obvious result of maximum disruption for the longest of time over the entire distance. Where there is some tarmac left, this is a patchwork of holes and bad repairs, with the occasional gloopy ridge where the constant passage of trucks and extreme heat has melted the poor quality surface. These are not really to be considered roads as much as boneshakers.

A few abandoned gas stations also contribute to the frontier-land feeling of this place. Old watering holes for gleaming steel chariots, now inhabited only by stray dogs and ghosts. The metal panels of the station warp and ping with an eerie creak in the heat. Behind the dusty station rounded mountains of reddish earth, sharp rock and scraggy bushes.

The most obvious tragedy to catch the eye of a visitor to this country is the rubbish strewn across the landscape. Coming from a sanitized nation we are not used to see our waste all around us. System of disposal are in place to neatly contain and remove from our sight all of the containers, useless packaging and refuse we constantly produce and discard. To preserve our sense of order we even divide our rubbish into neat and differentiated little piles. Of course, most will end up in a great big pile on the land or openly burnt to the sky, but this land and this sky are hidden some place else. Here instead it all happens right under your nose, and your nose is what notices it the most, even before your eyes.

Approaching a town one is welcome by the smell of burning plastic and rot. Then long piles of rubbish appear to the sides of the road, some still smouldering, most just left. Jars, cans, bags, bottles, vegetable matter, lots of nondescript remains and for some strange reason lots of tattered blue plastic sheets mark the beginning of an inhabited centre. Often a dog is rummaging through the wasteland. Sometimes the appeal of a bicycle is too much to resist and they give in to the chase, more often than not they are just too hungry or too ill to care.

Ennio Morricone's music might as well be crackling out of some old tannoy, I am certainly hearing it inside of me. So we roll into the dusty town.

eDgiN oN uNrEalitY, pLs nOt wAke uS up

Now we're near the last free camping is more frequent. One of our first nights in Croatia we really lucked out. After bumping down a dirt track we found ourselves in a tiny little cove with clear still water and white pebbles riddled with holes. The night was shared with sheep grazing on the wild sage around us and the full moon filling our tent. The next morning we got up at six so we could have the beach to ourselves for a couple of hours. The sea was full of black spiky sea urchins, shrimp and hermit crabs pretending to be shells. This has to be my favourite way to start the day: with a swim (the clear blue being a welcome change from Brighton grey), a coffee and time to lose myself in nature.

We arrived on Otok Krk (Krk island) via a very long and high bridge. We were not allowed on the road, so we had to push the bicycles along the thin strip of pavement. The views from the bridge were stunning, if a little vertigo-ridden. In Krk we stayed at a very expensive nudist colony for a couple of days, then decided to hop islands instead of going back to the busy coastal road on the mainland. From Otok Krk to Rab then to Pag on a little excursion boat. Then on Pag back on the pedals. The beginning of this island was really fascinating, with ancient olive trees surrounded by circular stone walls. Crickets and cicadas are the permanent soundtrack to our pedalling. The smell of earth and dry grasses fills our nostrils.

As soon as we arrived in Split we were approached by several people outside the tourist office and offered three rooms, so our late arrival was made very easy. It takes some getting used to being led off by a stranger to who knows what kind of place, but this is how it's done here. After 90k I felt surprisingly good and Alise's recommendation was spot on, this place is neck-craningly (should be a word) beautiful. Another walled city but with more interesting nooks, corners and alleys than Zadar and Trogir. This city's rich history is reflected in its architecture. The Cathedral is a lived in museum with its café and people hanging around on its steps. It's easy to imagine them having done the same for centuries. And the ladies here know how to do glamour, that's for sure, but it all looks like hard work to me. Teetering on great shoes on cobbles takes a lot of skill. The high stone buildings and alleys open up to ornate squares full of swifts and swallows and people selling everything from organic rye bread to home made sandals. Yep this place is cool for a bit, but as with most tourist packed destinations, unless your going to fully embrace it shelling out lots of money it's best to leave. And we did, with no regrets, the following day on a ferry bound for the island of Korçula.

We arrived in the dark and with a single front and back light between us (forgot to buy batteries) we headed off to find ourselves a hidden away camp for the night. The following day we cycled the full length of Korçula, 80% of which was uphill. Within the first two hours of our climb we had finished all our water. We were expecting to find a village or even just a house along the way, but these failed to materialize. So the rest of the ride was painful as the heat and dehydration made us weak and wobbly. The landscape was barren and offered no shelter from the fierce sun. After four hours ride we flew downhill into Korçula town where we drank lots of the local version of coke and ate crisps and ice-cream (mm healthy diet!). On the spur of the moment we also decided to jump on the last ferry to Dubrovnik. Relishing our last boat journey and a chance to catch brief glimpses of more of Croatian islands we sat on deck for hours just absorbing.

Dubrovnik was an incredibly beautiful town, unfortunately also full of cruise ship tourists. As we pushed the bikes off the ferry a group of local women surrounded us. They were very pushy and loud, shoving pictures of their rooms under our noses. We decided to stay the night with the least pushy and lucked out finding ourselves sleeping in a large clean room. Dubrovnik was all a bit too much, full of shops selling tat for tourists. We hung out for the morning but soon fled the city along the crazy coast road. At the first opportunity we turned off into the countryside we were both craving. We ended up at a campsite recommended to us by our Dubrovnik hostess. Monika's is a great place full of mellow travellers and its own little beach. In the morning we swam out to the nearest island. This was only about 1 mile there and back, a distance I do often in pools, but heading off into unfamiliar open water is a bit unnerving even if it is the mellow Adriatic. On closer inspection this little green idyllic island was covered with the usual plastic remnants of peoples carelessness, and with the realization we had to swim back, we didn't hang around for too long. After flitting in and out of places for quite awhile that need to just stay put for a while can be quite overwhelming so we stayed at the campsite an extra day. On Pietro's birthday we left for Montenegro.

BReatHin bLiSsFL bALkAn BeAuTy

Sometimes finding a place for the night can be a bit tricky. The day we arrived in Rijeka was one of these times.

The morning started in a gorgeous spot just after the border between Italy and Slovenia. This was just off a small country road, in a field with a few very orderly grapevine rows and a tiny cemetery on the top of the hill. Our spot was tucked into a corner of the field, opposite the road and just out of sight. Other than the now always present buzzing bloodsuckers it was perfect. Flat, quiet, hidden, spacious, soft and on beautiful hills. We ate just after watching the sun set over Italy.

The morning after, while tatting down and packing our gear we heard the noise of an engine approaching. Peeping out of our corner we spotted the farmer rolling into the field. Note to Self: if a field looks like it was tended yesterday, it will probably also be tended tomorrow. Quietly and still hidden away, we finished packing and loading our luggage.

Trying to slip away unnoticed was not likely to work as we had to cross the whole open field, so with a bit of apprehension we decided to walk towards the farmer. Him and his wife were so engrossed in tending their vines that they did not notice us until we were less then 5m away. We probably could have snuck away after all, but we had decided that showing a friendly face, pretend that you are lost and ask for directions is generally a preferable strategy to trying to sneak off in broad daylight.

The lady looked at us quizzically, smiling but obviously wondering where the hell we'd come from. The man instead was only friendly and, unquestioning, was trying to help us find the way. I guess ladies just have a slightly broader vision than the single task at hand. Of course the whole conversation had happened in mispronounced name-places, shakes of the head, pointing and big grins. We waved goodbye as we pedalled off.

The hills between Slovenia and Croatia are so very beautiful (I'm going to have to learn some new words to say how good stuff is. Openoffice thesaurus suggested pulchritudinous and splendiferous). They reminded us of the reasons why we are on this journey. The empty road crossed coniferous woodlands, open high pastures and diminutive villages. When our water started to run low we stopped at a house to ask for a refill. We left with all of our bottles full, an unopened 2l bottle of Sprite (mmmh), another bunch of smiles to remember and a new word: hvala, thank you.

Hitting the coast of Croatia instead was not quite so idyllic. Luckily we had just stopped for a wee coffee break when a flash summer storm hit. Nothing serious, just a hell of a lot of big fat drops for a few minutes to announce that the evening was not going to be quite so mellow.

The campsite we were planning to stop at was full of bikers, Hell's Angels types rather than cyclotourists. The music was loud and the place looked messy and dirty. We would have stayed for the party hadn't the cops already arrived when we showed up. So we carried on.

After a bit more pedalling we arrived in Rijeka. Now, the coast of Croatia is not flat. The western Balkans in fact just end up in the sea. Or maybe they just raise straight up from the bottom of the sea. Some become islands, some great big mountains on the mainland. This was the last point on our map, so getting a new one was a priority. But dealing with a completely new language and a new currency can be quite daunting, especially when you have no idea of the exchange rate (funny thing in Croatia: banks are closed on a Sunday) and everything seems to cost in the hundreds. We figured out a vague approximation of the value of the Kuna by looking at the price of petrol and Coca-cola. The language issue was also quickly resolved. Most people in Croatia seem to speak at least four languages.

At the tourist office we learnt that the nearest campsite was 30km away. The time was 5.30p.m. and we had already covered 50km of hot ups and downs. Generally we would be looking for a quiet free camping spot, but this area was not offering any. This was in fact a grimy industrial bit of coast: big factory followed shipyard followed busy harbour. It was sweaty work trying to get away from it.

At some point, along a long descent on a very unpleasant busy road, some arse honked their horn just behind me. I was startled and reacted badly sticking out my middle finger. Mistake. The car stopped and the five muppets inside confronted me. Luckily the situation defused quite quickly: we did not speak the same language and they were not excessively aggressive, just threatening. When they sped off telling me to f*** off I breathed a sight of relief.

There I learnt an important lesson about not aggravating people. No matter what, lascia perdere, foggetaboutit.

Finally, after a few more hills and signs telling us about closed campsites we reached our destination. The site itself was not bad, although in this country the space for the tents is often second-rate to campervan and caravan pitches. The only small issue was the blumming ginormous oil refinery directly opposite in the cute little bay. Kids were playing in the water and at night the lights of the huge INA complex looked very pretty reflected in the calm sea. But Isla and I this time around decided to give swimming a miss.

AmbLiN fRu d streEts o VeNiCe wE stuMBL in2 gOLdeN La Fenice

Stayed in Mestre for the night. This is the dirty industrial bit of Venice still on the mainland. Momma had found for us a fairly cheap B&B run by the Caponi Bros. Honest to God, these guys were Sicilian. No wonder I spent the whole of the day after whistling the theme tune for The Godfather.

In the evening we took a train to Venezia Santa Lucia (remember An American Wherewolf in London?). This is one of the islands of fancy Venice. Like all who come to the town first time from time immemorial we crossed the Ponte degli Scalzi. It was splendid romantic to spend the evening getting lost in the alleys of the old town with no aim in mind other than to find beautiful corners where to rest our gazes.

Venice lives up to its name as being one of the most magical and miraculous cities. It felt strangely familiar, I liked to think I was there in the 1750s barely able to breathe in my corset, the weight of my dress drenching me in sweat, while having illicit affairs in gondolas. Then the very sad realization dawned on me, it was to do with some misspent time playing Tomb Raider. We spent the whole day there just wandering aimlessly through the maze of streets. Crossing over its murky water ways, stumbling into fish markets and trying to run away from tourists...impossible.

The day after we came back to town and after a bit of wandering and wondering we walked past a theatre. On the steps, al fresco, there was a small classical concerto. We stopped to listen to the exceptionally played music. After a relaxed drink in a bar nearby we decided to see if we could visit the inside of the theatre. As we walked in, we were met by two ushers who informed us that it was only possible to visit the theatre if we were attending a show. We sighted 'ooh' but they did not stop. From an envelope to their side two tickets came out. The ushers ripped the tabs and handed the remaining two halves to us. They smiled us inside pointing to the second floor.

Shortly after we were very surprised when we found ourselves watching opera in English, sitting in one of the boxes next to the Royal Box.

This theatre, La Fenice, is not your ordinary run of the mill affair. It was originally built in 1774, burned to the ground and was reconstructed twice. It is also one of the leading opera houses and most famous theatres in Europe. Naked gold and marble ladies loosely draped in vermillion hung from every corner smiling.

 

The piece itself (The Turning of the Screw) was not exceptional, and although the music was good and all the performers well accomplished and professional, the storyline itself was a bit uneventful. Nonetheless, the point of the afternoon was to have lucked out so much to have entered such an exclusive place completely for free. For this we have to thank the national strike where the theatre staff, instead of aggravating their patrons, decided to open their doors to us plebs.

4m hOmE wE'Ve aRrivd hoMe, 4m c 2 c

post and recipes to come.. forgot it all in Genoa.

4m paVeD bUrg 2 cOBbLd bOrGo aCrOsS sNoWy pASs

With my mind racing wondering what might be, the whole process of heading up the pass was totally in the moment. We had been advised to start by going up the old route as there was less traffic. Great! The catch was the road was a near vertical climb and without the new Simplon road's sweeping curves we just headed straight up. It was a slow process taken in stages...legs giving way...stop...catch breath...wipe the sweat out of my eyes...drink...wobble back up the road. Eventually we met up with the new road. We found keeping our line straight with an over loaded bike nigh on impossible, really scary when there's loads of cars whizzing by. So yes, there was a lot of wobbling. About 3k from the top we had to pass through a series of tunnels. We tried to get out of it by following a track which went over the top of the first tunnel. That didn't work. Cycling through was risky because the road was very narrow with lots of blind bends, so we resorted to pushing our bikes through these damp hell holes with the amplified roar of traffic booming in our ears. The last tunnel was full of road works and traffic lights to regulate the alternate flow of traffic. Of course these were timed for fast cars, not slow bikes. So we had to create our own diversion up workmen's tunnels full of machinery, mud and collapsed walls. It was and experience I wouldn't want to repeat, but in a warped way I felt proud of doing it.

By the time we got to the top we had cycled above the snow line. I felt it was a bit of an anti-climax as there was no brass bands or welcoming party, just a nod from somebody in a car and an austere monument of an eagle looking down the valley.

 

The fricking freezing 30k decent was great. All I had to do was sit and watch the Alps fly by with a big smile on my face, oh and brake constantly all the way down into Italy.