The End Of The Road

The roads are good in Iran. And it’s a good thing too, I have just ten days to make it through this country, which means I’ll have to do all of my sightseeing from the saddle of my bike.
True to reputation, the Iranians are proving to be uncommonly friendly. Several times in Mako I am stopped in the street and welcomed to Iran. There’s always a firm handshake and an enquiry after my health and place of origin. They’ve all heard of Scotland. “Aah! Escotte-land.” they say and nod. It appears we are famous for two things: whisky and Celtic Football Club.
On the drive south I fill up about every two hundred kilometres. It costs about $1 US. As I arrive at each petrol station a small crowd gathers, welcomes me to Iran and finds out I’m Scottish and in good health. As I leave a small knot of men grins and waves goodbye, shouting “Goodbye! You are welcome! Thank you!”

In Mirjaveh I get lost. I know just one thing about Mirjaveh: it has only one hotel. For about half an hour I ride around, realising I am never going to find it by pot luck. As I sit at a junction wondering what to do, four boys on two diminutive Hondas pull up.
“Hello.” I grin. “I am from Scotland, very well thank you and cannot find a hotel.”
They offer to show me the way. At about ten miles an hour we cruise sedately through the town in the setting sun. It’s a very ordinary town of little shops and tree shaded pavements. Respectable looking men with straight backs and steel grey hair walk purposefully through the milling crowds of howdahs. It’s the end of the day and the people are out in large numbers, shopping, socialising, and getting on with life. It’s an atmosphere curiously at odds with the red sun settling into the western horizon, lighting the swirls of wind blown dust that occasionally rush like wraiths across the road. Here in the centre, life is modern and prosperous, but the wild, mountainous desert lies right at the edge of town.
At my hotel, the boys queue up to shake hands and then grinning and waving, shout their goodbyes; roaring off into the sunset barely above walking speed.

In Qazvin, a little over 300km further to the south and east, it continues. In a shop, I collect together some snacks to see me through the evening. Among them is some processed cheese that proudly proclaims itself to be “55% Fat in Dry Matter,” and some alcohol free beer, intriguingly labelled “Apple Flavour.” The shopkeeper, as has become expected, welcomes me to Iran with all the usual pleasantries. Then he leans forward conspiratorially,
“What do you think of our government?”
Hmmm. A tricky one.
“I think all politicians are crazy.”
He straightens up and looks out of the window a little sadly,
“We do not like our government. They do such stupid things.”
“Mine too.” I answer inadequately.
Suddenly he brightens up and waves dismissively at my bag of snacks,
“You are our guest. You do not have to pay.”
But I insist and eventually he takes a suspiciously small sum of money for my bulging bag of fat in dry matter and bizarre tasting beer.

It’s not until I’m well south of Tehran that I hear the news. A few days previously, twelve people had been shot dead on the road between Kerman and Zahedan. A ‘considerable escalation in violence’ is making the province of Baluchistan into a no go zone. Local tribes have effectively waged war on the Iranian government on the only road between Iran and Pakistan. Indeed, the only road between the middle east and the sub-continent.
It is one of the hardest decisions I have ever had to make. A fourteen year dream is being threatened with a premature end.
The difficulty is that I have no experience of this kind of risk. Put me on a leeward mountainside with a fresh fall of windblown snow and I can give you a rough estimate of how likely that slope is to avalanche while I cross it. Put me on the same mountain in a blizzard and I would, in most circumstances, be equipped to extricate myself from the situation. Right now, here in the South East of Iran, I have absolutely no idea what the odds are on getting shot on the Kerman/Zahedan road. Is it one in a thousand? Perhaps it’s one in ten? Fifty-fifty? And should I be presented with an angry tribesman waving a Kalashnikov I would have no idea how to get out of that situation.
With no way of evaluating the risks I need expert advice. I phone the British embassy in Tehran and their advice is clear: The whole area is extremely volatile right now, people are being killed, tourists have previously been singled out as targets for kidnapping , with British tourists being especially vulnerable. As I am 100% of the tourists I have seen in Iran I’m not particularly liking the odds. In the end it is pretty unequivocal: “Tourists should not travel overland between Iran and Pakistan.” As ignorant as I am, I decide it would be criminally irresponsible to ignore the experts. Live to ride another day. Live to ride West.

The following morning a hot wind blows through the vents in my jacket and I can feel the dust gumming my eyes and drying my lips. The white sun seems to fill the sky and the world is polished and painfully bright. The way is filled with short snatches of scent; burning wood and diesel, dry soil and chemical fertilizer; the sudden rushing aroma of vegetation in the cool wind over a river. And always the steady drumming of the engine and the rattle of crippled aluminium luggage; then suddenly, the rich, throaty growl as I drop a gear and push past a line of trucks.
From inside my helmet, battered by the slipstream for fourteen thousand kilometres, I watch the passing landscape strangely disconnected. This road is no longer my road. It’s just the way home.

THE END

From Turkey into Iran

The road to Dogubayazit, as far as Erzincan, is dominated by a low mantle of heavy grey cloud and intermittent rain. It is, I believe, what our glorious Met Office call ‘organised showers.’ It is the only possible reason I can find for the vindictive personal vendetta which precipitation has for me. There has to be some organisation behind it, bad luck just can’t explain the pernicious pursuit of yours truly across deserts, mountains and continents by what can only be described as ‘Caledonian’ weather conditions.
The following day, however, is much better, and the last 400km of the road to Dogubayazit has deep blue skies with an artful distribution of candy floss clouds. The country becomes drier the further East I travel. High mountains of broken brown and grey rock rip up into the blue sky. Between them, in the valleys, are little pockets of pasture, startling green below the crumbling peaks. Huddled in little groups, like giant white mushrooms, are the circular tents of the shepherds. The shepherds themselves stand immobile on the hillside with vast flocks of sheep which vary in hue from cream to chocolate and every shade in between.
Little can have changed for these people for countless generations.

Nearer Dogubayazit the mountains pull back and a wide flat valley marks the way to Iran. Above the town broods the massive, snow plastered bulk of Mt. Ararat. It is doubly impressive because none of the surrounding mountains come close to it in stature. I get a little lost in the famous, dusty frontier town known as ‘Dogbiscuit’ to the overlanding community, but eventually find my hotel.

A rest day gives me the opportunity to visit Ishak Pasa Palace, an ancient mosque/fortress/palace/cafeteria complex perched high above the plain in a classic defensive position. It is stunning, both the building and the location, and I rattle off dozens of shots hoping to get a picture that does it justice.

Walking home after a Has Has (it has meat, cheese and bread: the three essential food groups, and is lovely) at a local restaurant, I meet a boy of about nine. He thrusts a set of bathroom scales at me and grins. I’ve seen this before, it seems to be a way of investing the act of begging with a little dignity. The provision of a notional service for a fee, I have weighed myself in Kathmandu, Asilah and now Dogubayazit. I offer him the equivalent of about ten pence for the privilege and he gives me the thumbs up. Apparently, including a rucksack full of photography gear, I weigh 95 kilos.
“Blimey!” I say and pat my stomach. He laughs and pats his own. As I turn to leave he snaps to attention and salutes. Solemnly, I draw myself up and return his salute like Monty at El Alamein. It’s a strange world this, I reflect, that has one saluting small boys in busy Turkish streets.
That evening I relax in my hotel and prepare for Iran. I have my last beer until India and listen to some music. As Aretha sings about a ‘Son of a Preacher Man’ I am intrigued by a the curious male backing vocals I have never noticed before. It is a full minute before I realise it is the call to prayer resonating through the window of my hotel room.

Dogubayazit is a mere hop, skip and jump from the border with Iran and I’m soon wandering around in that state of confusion that goes hand in hand with trying to temporarily import a vehicle into another country. After an amount of shuffling, queuing, stamping, queuing, sighing, tutting and more stamping I get out of Turkey and into Iran for a bit more stamping, shuffling, and sighing but no queuing. Everyone is very friendly, the whole process is actually very smooth and over in little more than an hour.
Another short ride through dry mountains to Mako where I will stay the night and spend some of the enormous wad of rials I now have secreted around my person.

Turkey 2

I arrive in Ankara in the early evening. It’s cold and wet and I am about to experience the full and terrible majesty of Turkish city driving. Up till now it’s just been practice, the light-hearted frolics of the only partially demented. In the ensuing melee it’s hard to stay upright and moving, never mind find your way round the city. In the apocalyptic cacophony of horns, squealing tyres and revving engines I just keep moving blindly, determined to stay at the first hotel I see. I don’t care if it’s Bates Motel, I’m checking in and having a shower, it’d be safer than staying out here.

Eventually, exhausted by what can only be described as the Turkish ‘Shock and Awe’ driving technique, I see a tall, slender finger of hope rising from the smog. It’s a twenty storey Radisson. I shamble in, trying to look more rakish than ravaged to discover it’s forty five quid a night. I decide that despite this being three times my normal budget I really don’t care and book in. I’m whisked up to the seventh floor where a scene of unparalleled luxury awaits my gaze. It’s all so clean and comfy. The bed is huge and flat and unbearably soft, there’s free wireless internet and little doodads of soap and even shampoo. ‘Oh my hairs getting a treat tonight!’ I mumble happily, ‘Yer actual shampoo!’ It’s the first time it’s seen such David Beckham style pampering since I left the UK. I turn on the shower to see if it runs asses milk, but no, it’s just steaming, hot water.

On goes the telly, and yes there is the usual, hypercoloured Turkish soap operas: smouldering eyed, moustachioed men and breathless women who appear to be a curious mixture of ecstatic and stroppy. But there is also BBC World. Only just managing to refrain from saluting the female newsreader in dewy eyed gratitude for the British Broadcasting Corporation, I sink back on my bed and let her clipped, perfectly formed vowels and consonants wash over me. It’s the perfect antidote to the stresses of the day. Tomorrow I’ll have to move somewhere cheap and grubby, but for now I’m in heaven.

Two days later it’s Monday, time to apply for a visa for Iran. I take a critical look in the mirror before leaving the hotel. My hair is combed, the worst of the fluff picked from my t-shirt and I am wearing my least oily trousers. I notice I’m getting split ends on my moustache and make a mental note to stop chewing it. I’m looking as respectable as I’m going to get without a high pressure hose and somebody else’s wardrobe, so head to Embassy. It’s all much easier than I expected, there’s hardly a queue and the official speaks good English and is very helpful. I will find out the next day if I have been deemed respectable enough.
And, to my surprise, they give me a ten day transit visa, a grin and an ‘Enjoy your trip!’
I’d been preparing myself to be rejected following the current contretemps over Iran’s uranium enrichment programme, but it would seem not to have been an issue.
One last kebab in the great, greasy eatery around the corner from my hotel and I’m off for Amasya in Eastern Turkey.

Amasya huddles in a rocky gorge 330km north east of Ankara. It’s sympathetically restored Ottoman houses crouch on the banks of a café au lait river, tiny private balconies overhanging the water. I find a hotel with rooms possessing just such balconies and move in for a couple of days.

The following day I do an oil change and head up to explore the rock cut tombs that surround the town. Hewn from the living rock the black eyes of their entrances have stared out across the valley for two and a half thousand years. The tombs are the size of a small room with a door raised between three and six feet from the ground, the lower edges of which have been polished to marble smoothness by two millennia of curious hands who’s owners have stretched to peer inside.
Wandering around I find a heavily overgrown path and can’t resist the urge to see what it leads to. I follow it up through the bushes as it climbs on and on. I consider giving up but decide there must be something at the end of it. It gets steeper and steeper and soon I’m clambering over smooth rocks and tiny ancient steps to the base of a cliff. In the cliff is a natural cave. It looks like it may have been widened by human hand but it’s hard to tell. I wonder if this cave was also used as a tomb. Perhaps it was the first, giving the inspiration for the tombs lower down. I creep slowly into it’s dark depths wondering what strange rituals may have been played out here. Suddenly my foot lands in something soft. I peer into the gloom to see what it is and discover a pair of pants half buried in the mud, circa 1970, the ‘Bri-nylon Period’. It occurs to me these pants might lie here for a thousand years before some archaeologist in a silver jumpsuit and Buck Rogers haircut discovers them and soberly displays them in a museum as ‘grave goods’.
On the way down I am given a chicken sandwich in the latest of a string of friendly gestures from the Turks. I wander back to the hotel happy with the Turks and regretful us Brits aren’t more like that.

That evening I sit on my own private balcony as the sediment laden waters rush past on their way to the Black Sea. I study my map in search of the road to Dogubayazit as night falls and the town eases to a halt in natural symbiosis with the darkening sky.

Turkey 1

My map says it’s 32km after a certain junction to the Turkish border. After 55km I’m thinking I might be lost. Hmm. Everywhere is a dense green forest, a pleasant enough environment for a Sunday cruise but when you are trying to pinpoint your location it makes things a little difficult. There’s no villages, junctions, farms, anything.

Fortunately I used to be a Boy Scout and in between all the fire raising and boozing we did learn a few things. One of which was: “When you realise you are lost, keep on going until you find somewhere to navigate from.” Either that or it was “When you realise you are lost, stop immediately and retrace your steps.” I decide it was the former and keep going down the seemingly endless winding road threading it’s way slowly through the impenetrable forest.
As luck would have it, just as I’m about to turn round and laboriously retrace my steps, I suddenly pop out of the forest at a border post. I’d been on the right road after all, but those pesky cartographers (I’ve met a few, an idle bunch if ever there was one) hadn’t taken the sinuosity of the road into account and vastly underestimated it’s length. I imagine my chagrin had I spent the rest of the day trundling around the forest in search of a road I’d already found.
After visiting half a dozen different little windows and getting a sheaf of forms stamped, inspected, shuffled, restamped and handed back I am free to enter Turkey.

The roads are pretty good and I make good time, arriving in Kirklareli mid afternoon. I’m soon wandering around town checking out Turkey. It makes a good impression. The people are very friendly, when I stop in shops where the proprieter doesn’t speak English, instead of the curt ‘No’ I’d got used to in Romania, they drag in a friend from a neighbouring shop who speaks a few words. Nothing seems too much trouble and there are plenty of genuine, welcoming smiles.
It would seem rude not to have a kebab on my first night in Turkey so I indulge. It seems it is possible to cook a kebab that is tasty even to the unintoxicated. Just not in Britain.

The following day I head to Gallipoli. It proves to be a beautiful part of the world. The natural beauty of the peninsula seems to make the terrible fighting here all the more poignant. High on a hillside, at the end of a dirt track, I find a tiny cemetery. The graves face out over the azure waters of the Dardenelles where dozens of ships of all nationalities cut snow white trails between the Aegean and the Black Sea.
It’s more sobering than I thought it would be, much more so than an ordinary cemetery, which have little or no effect on me. More sobering than the vast memorials on the peninsula. Perhaps it’s the personal nature of the graves.
I wonder who Private G. Lake of the Australian Infantry was. I wonder if he realised, before he died, he’d lie here for ever, under the Turkish sun. I wonder if he’d think it was worth it.

I leave Gallipoli for Pamakkule and its famous limestone pools. The last stretch is packed with ‘excitement’. In the afternoon it starts chucking it down with heavy, windblown rain. The sky is so dark it’s like riding through dishwater. At a junction a car pulls out to pass a lorry that has stopped in the right hand lane. I’m about 30 feet away and doing 60mph. I squeeze the bike through a gap which feels 6 inches wider than the panniers. The idiot gets the full brunt of my horn and I swear so much my visor steams up sadly preventing him reading my lips.
In Denizli, in heavy, speeding traffic, a piece of plastic trim four feet wide and 8 inches thick comes bouncing out from under a lorry. There’s no time to react, I just brace myself and hope it goes under without knocking me off. BANG! The bike hits it centrally and it is spat out behind me for the next driver to worry about.
Five minutes later a van pulls to a stop in the middle lane of a three lane highway. My stopping distances are better judged now and I stop effortlessly but the truck behind me blares his horn and rips past in a cloud spray about two feet away. By the time I get to Pamakkule I’m exhausted. I spend the the rest of the evening and most of the next day reading ‘The Adventures of Tom Sawyer’ and pretending it didn’t happen.

The pools are empty. I leave for Ankara to see if the Iranians will give me a visa.

Out of Romania, through Bulgaria

The whole of Bulgaria looks exactly lıke thıs...

I can’t swing my leg over the bike unless I stand on the left hand foot peg. It’s a precarious move, but there’s only so much ‘American Chopper’ on Discovery you can watch, and I have to move on.

Bucharest is surprisingly nice. Kind of like Glasgow without the great architecture but in better nick. There’s some nice parks, wide streets, chain stores and Ronald MacDonald is doing his best to supersize the population. Although, the Palace of Parliament, a Ceausescu monstrosity, has to be seen to be believed. I’ve never seen a building that so screamed at the world: “COWER IN SERVITUDE, PROLETARIAT SCUM!”

My first hotel, the Hotel Muntena, is appalling. Sullen staff put me in a grubby room. The bathroom is in the hall and the fittings look like they’ve been recently salvaged from a long sunken trawler with a dysenteric crew. Outside my room is a nightclub that goes ‘Thump..thump..thump,thump thump..thump..thump,’ till 4am. On the second day the manager comes and angrily asks why I have had the effrontery to park my bike in the locked alley next to the hotel.
“Because your staff said it was OK.”
It’s the truth and the only possible answer. He’s not happy. In a confusing babble of Romanian, German, English and conspicuous idiocy he explains (what a shocker!) I have to pay for the privilege. It’s only a couple of quid but in my depressed state it irritates the hell out of me.
The next day I move to a new Hotel. There’s a nice looking lass behind the desk who does this weird thing with her face. It’s like a frown, only upside down. Slowly, through the haze of time, long forgotten memories stir and recognition comes in a flash. She’s SMILING!
My new hotel has clean, quiet rooms with TV, friendly staff and included breakfast. At last I find a bike dealer (after two days of failure) who has some enduro handlebars in stock, things are looking up. I am only just in time to stop my parents sending the bars off my Enfield by courier (not the first thing the poor beleaguered folks have had to sort out for me while I’m off on this jolly) and my only regret is that I won’t get to see what my XT looks like with a set of 1950s chrome handlebars!

After 4 days in Bucharest the miles of pavement pounding searching for handlebars and 8mm Allen Keys have meant my knee is not much better than it was when I arrived but the bike is ready to go so so am I. I’m off to Bulgaria.

Customs at Ruse is relatively painless and I’m soon cruising through a country I know nothing about. As I sit eating my lunch, staring at rolling, forested hills, I realise I don’t know anyone who’s been to Bulgaria. It’s a good feeling and the warm content that comes with exploration accompanies me right through this remarkably green and pleasant country. I have a day off in Sozopol on the Black Sea, and it’s on to Turkey.

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.