Romanıa 1

Your knee and mobıle phone are both fıne, Mr Cartney...

As I cross into Romania it proves to be unrelentingly cold, grey and grim. The people seem hard faced and unfriendly. The streets are dirty and the surrounding countryside wears an abused, uncared for, air. The houses in the villages are shuttered, doors bolted, like they’ve been mothballed. The towns are worse, endless crumbling blocks of flats that make Leiths’ Fort look like millionaires’ apartments. I stop in a half completed ‘Pensiun’ about 100km over the border, run by an unsmiling teenager and surrounded by ankle deep mud.

Next day I head for Sinaia. Described in my ‘Lovely Planet’ guidebook as ‘The pearl of the Carpathians…Sinaia seems to have sprouted naturally from its wooded nest.’ Confidently expecting a kind of Eastern European Eden of smiling locals (possibly doffing their caps and offering me swigs from earthenware beer mugs) and quaint Transylvanian lodges huddled in leafy glades I am surprised to arrive in a grubby dump where shabby 70s hotels vie for space with even more decrepit older buildings, where the fashion in garden ornaments appears to be old plastic drinks bottles and food wrappings. I book into a guesthouse which is run by a frightful old crone who demands money at every opportunity but nevertheless has satellite TV.
The TV doesn’t make me feel much better however, CNN tells me that not only are there riots in Kathmandu and escalating tensions between the UK and Iran, but massive floods are devastating huge tracts of the country south of where I am.
Between downpours I go to the Tourist Information office where an excitable wee man tells me that I cannot go to Bulgaria for 30 days and the only way in is through Greece.
I spend two days in Sinaia trying to find accurate information on the situation and hiding in my room drinking Ursus beer and watching the National Geographic Channel.

Finally I head off towards Bucharest, hoping to get better info. nearer the Danube. It’s cold, wet and I’m tired. I feel like I’ve lost interest in the journey. If I can’t get into Iran (where it starts getting really interesting) what’s the point at all? It’s typical that in all the years I’ve been planning this trip I don’t remember there ever being a problem in UK citizens getting visas. Now, just as I’m heading for the area, the politicians decide the world needs a little more tension to make it interesting and searches on the internet seem to suggest I ain’t got a cat in hell’s chance of getting one.

Coming into Ploiesti it’s wet and I’m riding fairly cautiously, leaving what I think is a good stopping distance between me and the van in front. But then I’m not expecting him to slam his brakes on.
The red lights flash on. The screech of tyres warns me he’s not easing to a halt. I can’t think why, there’s nothing in front as far as I can see. I slam my brakes on but it’s quickly clear in the conditions, heavily loaded as I am, I’m going to hit the van quite hard.
Then the front wheel locks up, dumping me onto the road and I’m sliding on my left side, but apparently still not slowing down.
‘WHUMP!’
I hit the van and that brings me to a halt. There’s a sudden explosion of pain in my left leg and I’m clutching my knee and breathing hard, eyes screwed shut, when the van suddenly pulls away and drives off. I’m gobsmacked. How could he possibly have failed to notice the collision?
I stagger slowly to my feet and limp to the side of the road to get my breath and the man in the car behind eventually gets out and asks me if I’m OK.
"Yeah…yeah, I think so."
He helps me lift my bike upright. By the time I’ve pushed it to the side of the road he’s got back in his car and driven off.
As I sit on the crash barrier, holding my knee and staring at my crumpled bike, the Romanian traffic streaming by, it’s a solitary a feeling as I’ve ever had, and I’ve spent a week skiing alone across the Hardangervidda in Norway.
Limping over to the bike I push the starter but nothing happens. ‘Too much to expect I suppose,’ and I’m about to start looking for telltale damage when I notice the ignition is off. I must have turned it off and forgotten. I try again. ‘Chug..chug..BRUMMM!’ It starts first time.
As I stand painfully next to my poor, battered XT as it rumbles happily away, I feel just a little less alone. I ride into Ploiesti in holed Goretex and Wax Cotton, gouges in my precious Acerbis tank, the left side of my handlebars pointing straight back at my stomach and a knee screaming at me, but no other apparent damage.

By the next morning the knee is twice the size of my right one and I limp to a Hospital I noticed on the way in the day before. It’s a children’s hospital but the Doctor has a quick look.
"I think you might have broken something." she says, "it might need…er…"
"Plaster?"
"Yes, I’ll send you to adult hospital."
The Doctors at the Adult Hospital are efficient and friendly, apart from the consultant, which is the prerogative of consultants worldwide. They x-ray me on a machine that looks like it’s been rescued from a 1960s airport, tell me my knee is fine, give me a prescription for pain killers and anti-inflammatories (I think) and say goodbye. No, no charge.
It’s funny because the leg doesn’t feel fine. My top speed is about one and a half knots and the slightest twist or knock sends a wide burst of pain surging through my knee. However, by that evening the leg is very slightly better. I spend two days in Ploiesti with my leg on a pillow, surrounded by snacks and in front of the Discovery Channel, before my leg feels like it will hold me while I swing the other one over the bike.
Next I wıll have to go to Bucharest to get some new handlebars.

Hungary

Me, trying to liven up the Hungarian landscape with an impression of Al Jolson...

Although I officially entered Eastern Europe when I crossed into Slovenia, it’s only when I ride into Hungary that the Eastern Europe of my imagination becomes apparent. As I cross the border after a perfunctory passport check, the land opens out. Quiet roads through trees in a flat landscape, the houses here are older and a little more careworn, there’s an earthy smell of wood smoke and manure. I’m amazed at the number of Trabants being driven around. Their very presence indicates the favourite joke of the 1980s has been much maligned. I wonder how many Ford Fiestas or Vauxhall Corsas of a similar age are still on the road?

From Keszthely by the expansive Lake Balaton to Szeged, a pleasant little town near the Romanian border. I stop in the square, sit in the sun on a bench, and watch the Hungarians go about their lives. Soon a tramp, a bit drunk, stumbles over. He’s the type that make enormous effort with their meagre positions. His suit and coat are threadbare and furred at the cuffs, but clean as a whistle. Two polythene bags hold his worldly goods. He grins and sits down next to me, rattling off in Hungarian.
“Sorry mate, don’t speak the lingo.”
He pauses and raises an eyebrow. His question is obviously “Where are you from?”
“British.”
“Ah, one cup of tea please!”
I laugh. “Yeah that’s right!”
It seems to be the limit of his English. Still, five more words than I know in Hungarian.
He rummages in one of his bags and produces some loose slices of bread, thrusting them at me.
“Oh, no I’m fine thanks” I shake my head. He tries again. Suddenly a suspicion arises. I look down. Muddy campsite boots; filthy, oily, Draggin jeans, dirty fingernails. I run a hand through my Grizzly Adams beard and realise: “Bloody Hell! He thinks I’m a tramp!”
He even offers me a tin of something to go with the bread. I laugh and indicate I’ve just eaten. After a while we shake hands and I wander off, heading in the direction of some music that has started up.

It’s a pair gypsies busking with accordion and fiddle. They are incredible. The old man with the fiddle is extraordinary, the bow flies in a blur across the strings. Every note perfect, the speed and expertise is a joy to watch. I have just decided to part with a sizeable donation when they cripple their chances of sudden wealth by launching into what can only be described as a Romany version of the ‘Birdie Song.’
I’m painfully aware that if this were to happen on a similar sultry evening in Glasgow or Macclesfield or any other urban centre in the UK it would seconds before half a dozen red faced, cackling housewives and a fat chap in a Hawaiian shirt and indiscreet jogging bottoms would be thrashing out the actions with flabby, sunburnt arms.
However, either the song does not have the same connotations to the Hungarians or they just have more personal dignity than the Brits. I’m plumping for the latter.
The gypsies are soon making amends with traditional tunes and in no time the ‘unpleasantness’ is behind us. I leave a good donation after all.
Tomorrow, to Romania.

Dolomites to the Julain Alps

The Dolomiti burst vertically from the flat, green valley floors. They stand arrogantly, dominating their environment. Humanity clings on to their coat-tails in tiny villages on hillsides and in compact towns, squashed into any available space the on the valley floors.
Molveno, hemmed close by hills, feels cut off from the world, like a secret that hardly anyone knows. It’s turquoise lake lies unruffled by wind and behind the village rises the awesome backdrop of the Dolomiti Di Brenta.

One morning I climb up the valley to a hut called the Rifugo Croz dell’Altissimo. It’s a beautiful day and I hike upwards in the heat, always with the slab like towers of Cima Gaiarda straight ahead.
I reach the hut mid afternoon and eat lunch in this incredible amphitheatre. With Cima Gaiarda straight ahead, the cold, dark cliffs of Cima Roma loom to my left. In contrast the vertical cliffs of Cima dei Lasteri shine in the springs’ bright sun. Pure white ribbons of snow cling to a few ledges but the sheerness of the cliffs has shrugged off all but a few splashes of white.

I decide I’ve been neglecting my mountaineering these last few years and decide it’s high time I got back into doing the ‘good stuff’. Back in Scotland the choice of mountain too often depended on the following quandary:
“Now, do I go west, and get some huge rice crispie squares and Irn Bru from the bakery in Callander; or do I go East and get a fried egg and square sausage butty at the truck stop café in Ballinluig?”
That night the moon is so bright as I sit by the lake eating fresh Italian pasta and tinned pears (not in the same bowl) you can see the silvery trails left by jets as they fly south to Rome.

It’s just a days ride to the Julian Alps and the picturesque lakefront town of Bled. Down the fabulous winding SS49 out of Italy, through Austria and into Slovenia. The whole journey I am surrounded by rugged alpine peaks. It’s a good day!

Bled is much as I remembered it. Picturesque, indeed almost Disney-esque, it is nevertheless real and therefore exponentially better for it. On the little emerald lake is a tiny island with a tiny church. Above the lake looms a squat castle atop a sheer cliff. Behind the castle towers the commanding snow capped bulk of Mount Triglav.
I spend several days here, Soaking up the atmosphere, hiking around the local area and spend a day at Lake Bohinj, another beautiful lake in this most beautiful of countries.
One night it rains torrentially. The following morning, exiting my tent (which has soaked up groundwater through the groundsheet, soaking everything) in foul mood, I find a bottle of red wine and a soggy note: “A present from the wine fairy. Enjoy your travels!” Amazing how a little thing like a bottle of plonk can brighten ones outlook immeasurably!

The Apennines

Unfortunately I’ve met no English speakers in Pescasseroli. Because I want someone to ask me what I’m doing there. So I can say: "I’m taking a few days out from my multi-continental motorcycle trip to climb some mountains and go snowboarding." Not so much to impress anyone, just to have the opportunity to say it out loud. The opportunity comes along all too rarely.

After a brief, largely sleepless stay in a campsite surrounded by baying hounds, I moved to a fantastic little guesthouse where an Italian Mamma called Elenor fusses over me like some celtic prodigal son. She rattles on in Italian despite my obvious ignorance of the language. I’ve found repeating the last word of each sentence with a knowing nod and chortling when she chortles keeps her happy.

Pescasseroli is quiet, sleepy without a doubt. Unlike any other alpine town I’ve ever been to. The locals spend the morning mooching languidly between café and delicatessen. Then disappear for the afternoon , presumably to rest after the mornings exertions. Shops and institutions close. Washing flaps lazily in the warm breeze and the dogs yawn, hours yet from the evenings’ baying. An old man in a dusty suit snoozes on a bench, alpine hat low over a creased mahogany face.
The evening perks the locals up and lights flicker on, the pizzerias and cafes refill. Wether they go to bed between now and the morning I do not know.

Friday and I’m forcing aching legs up through the snow to the top of Monte delle Vitelle. I feel unfit and lightheaded, at points I’m reduced to ten steps between rests. But the summit’s a joy, as all summits are, and the views across the Apennines are superb.

On Saturday the local ski resort opens and I’m snowboarding again. It has been four or five years, I forget exactly how long. My first turns are ridiculous, stiff legged and hunchbacked. "God, I’m rubbish!" I think to myself. But the years collapse slowly and by the end of the run I’m cruising comfortably, thinking: "Ah, that’s it, knees bent, back straight, shoulders in line…Oh, I ain’t that bad!" I grin as the rush returns. Why it’s been so long I don’t know.
A few runs in and I decide to see if I can still do those olly 180s I used to pop off with such sang froid.
No, is the answer. I land with a loud crump and exhalation of wind. My shoulder aches the rest of the day and I decide I’ll need a little more board time before I’m back dropping into gullies with Al and Scotty. A week, say. In Verbier? Chamonix? Ooh, La Grave! I’m getting ahead of myself. Still got to ride my bike to Nepal after all.

Sunday I use the chairlift to get some altitude, intent on Picco la Rocca. But the snow is awful; heavy and wet. I sink up to the knees with each step and I soon realise I’m not going to make la Rocca. With the speedy resolve of someone approaching the age of trousers with elastic waistbands I decide to can the la Rocca idea and take a leisurely plod up two small tops close to the resort. I breathe in the Apennines from these fabulous, accessible viewpoints and with guilty pleasure, tuck into an ample lunch intended for a strenuous day on the mountain. Soon I’ll be leaving here and for the first time on the trip feel real regret to be moving on so soon.

Through the Alps

The ride north on the toll roads, back into Europe, is mundane but relaxing. ‘Highway Patrol’ I call it. Punting along, curiously detached from the land through which I’m travelling, watching it like a soap opera as it’s reality passes by just out of touch. Curious glimpses of European life sweep by, a farmer stares through a rusting van in a field, a girl sits in an isolated plastic chair with a thermos and a newspaper. Unable to stop and stare at the citadel on the left, with it’s undoubted eons of history. Securely bound by corrugated steel from the rough neighbourhoods in the outskirts of a city. Guided safely and soporifically by the huge blue and green signs , onwards always, because I have a destination again. To Italy.

Near Grenoble I lose the toll roads for smaller, more intimate routes. The Alps rise from the plain like knees in white bed sheets. From a distance the snow seems to blanket their features into anonymity, but as I close in their individuality becomes apparent. Cliffs and corries, rounded shoulders and knife edge arêtes. Every time I come here the size of them astounds me. I have to be careful not to have another ‘vista related accident’. (The Trollstigvien is extremely picturesque and this may have contributed to the demise of my Enfield. Although the road WAS in dreadful condition.)

Near Corp I stop at a fantastic campsite and pitch my tent on a little terrace that looks out on the Grand Tete de L'Obiou, a rugged peak with a shroud of mist that plays around it’s cliffs all evening. I eat my birthday dinner (a tin of Ravioli and a Kitkat) under a brilliantly clear night sky and reflect that not only are there worse places to turn 34, but you ain’t seen the stars till you’ve seen ‘em from the mountains.

Next day the road over the Col du Saint Bernard is shut, so I resolve to go round by Chamonix to get to Courmeyer. Turning a corner near Sallanches, Mont Blanc appears in all it’s massive glory. I’d forgotten how appallingly bloody big it is. I can also see Aguille du Midi and Mont Blanc du Tacul. Nostalgically I pick out my route up Tacul in 1990. ‘Great trip’ I say to myself and look ruefully at Mont Blanc, which defeated me.

I cruise through Chamonix, decide to stay a few days, realise the campsites are still a foot deep in snow so regretfully head on to Courmeyer. Through the tunnel to Italy, Courmeyer is also under a thick white blanket. Eventually I stop down the valley in Aosta.

Italy is very much how I imagined it. From the high Alps with its’ twisting roads and mountainside redoubts, to the plains further south and miles of meticulously farmed agriculture. Square, small windowed brick farm houses with terracotta tiled roofs scatter the landscape. It’s easy to imagine this landscape has changed little since the Romans decided that they didn’t want Scotland after all and they should build a great big wall to keep us out of ‘their bit’ of Europe.

Well times have changed and here I am, and despite the fact I confidently believe I could train a chimp to drive better than the average Italian, the place is spectacular, and when they’re not trying to run me over, the people are warm and friendly. I’m hoping to be in the Apenines tomorrow for a well earned rest and to tick off another mountain range!