Day 82
Location: Varna, Bulgaria
Miles on the clock: 5835
I felt ashamed after posting the dejected and pathetic rant about bad weather and Polish roads in my last blog. As if to compound this feeling, a day later the rain finally relented and I reached better roads with less murderous lorry drivers.
Location: Varna, Bulgaria
Miles on the clock: 5835
I felt ashamed after posting the dejected and pathetic rant about bad weather and Polish roads in my last blog. As if to compound this feeling, a day later the rain finally relented and I reached better roads with less murderous lorry drivers.
Morning mist, Slovakia Hills sprang up as I approached the Slovakian border and the hard toil of slowly climbing steep slopes, pedal squeak after pedal squeak, in the refreshingly clear sunlight greatly pleased me. The two days I passed in eastern Slovakia were more than enough to hint at the country's great wealth of natural beauty. In the mornings mist crept along the valleys and gradually revealed quaint villages stretched along rickety roads; wild apple trees lining the roadside, their boughs groaning with plentiful and ripe fruit that have a pleasantly citric tang. On Saturday morning I watched villagers flocking to church with grave expressions and sombre outfits. An hour later, in similar villages I observed similarly attired droves spilling out of their old stone churches, talking and laughing in little groups, often with a chair-bound crone at the centre.
When I entered Hungary at dusk, one of the first sights I was greeted with was the vast red lettering of a sprawling Tesco hypermarket. As I moved south, picturesque vineyards were replaced by sunflower fields in full bloom. After 500 miles in five days I reached Szeged and my brother-in-law's parents. Zsuzsa was waiting on the outskirts of town with a handmade "Welcome to Szeged" sign, a beaming smile and a Turo Rudi - Hungary's unique chocolate bar containing cottage cheese. She jumped on the tram and, feeling like James Bond (excepting the orange hi-vis vest, generally filthy clothes and large polystyrene helmet), I shadowed the train back to their home.
When I entered Hungary at dusk, one of the first sights I was greeted with was the vast red lettering of a sprawling Tesco hypermarket. As I moved south, picturesque vineyards were replaced by sunflower fields in full bloom. After 500 miles in five days I reached Szeged and my brother-in-law's parents. Zsuzsa was waiting on the outskirts of town with a handmade "Welcome to Szeged" sign, a beaming smile and a Turo Rudi - Hungary's unique chocolate bar containing cottage cheese. She jumped on the tram and, feeling like James Bond (excepting the orange hi-vis vest, generally filthy clothes and large polystyrene helmet), I shadowed the train back to their home.
First of many meals in Szeged, Hungary The first order of business was a warming shot of Palinka (Hungarian fruit brandy). A hot shower, my first in over two months, combined with the almost aggressive application of a luffa, produced torrents of water browner than the Amazon in monsoon season. I put on clean pajamas and began what became a five day feeding frenzy. Vegetable soups, chicken paprikash, chestnut tortes, all-encompassing breakfasts, afternoon teas, meals between meals, snack upon snack - I was in a heaven made all the sweeter by Zsuzsa's formidable skills in the kitchen. It is a credit to her culinary genius that I gained 5KG in as many days (no bad thing as I had lost 10% of my body weight since leaving home). That night I sunk gleefully into my first bed for 62 nights and submitted to a food-induced coma.
Toni in the Garden
Zsuzsa during kit cleaning and bike repairs During the next few days I explored some of pretty Szeged - from the Turkish baths (where the massages are wonderfully rigorous) to the second biggest mosque in Europe, the small city is dotted with grand buildings and elaborately moustachioed statues of heroic historic figures. I was interviewed by a journalist and made the front page of the local paper (click here) of which I couldn't read a word, and I generally enjoyed a break from the bike. It is impossible to adequately explain the hospitality I was showered with by Toni and Zsuzsa but their endearing request to become my "second parents" upon arrival gives a sense of their loving nature and their warm welcome.
It was hard to leave the friendly cocoon I lapsed into in Szeged but the road beckoned. As Mary Shelley wrote in Frankenstein -"the traveller's life is one that includes much pain amidst its enjoyments. His feelings are forever on the stretch and when he begins to sink into repose he finds himself obliged to quit that on which he rests in pleasure for something new which again engages his attention and which also he forsakes for other novelties."
I was accompanied to the Romanian border by Shoni and Orsi, two of the family, and then crossed over and pushed on alone into the land of Dracula, heavily laden with homemade cakes, jams, sandwiches and a salami the size of a baseball bat. Timisoara was the first city I reached and I was surprised to notice upon entry that it is twinned with Nottingham. From here on I remained off the beaten track and took the back roads through rural Romania.
It was hard to leave the friendly cocoon I lapsed into in Szeged but the road beckoned. As Mary Shelley wrote in Frankenstein -"the traveller's life is one that includes much pain amidst its enjoyments. His feelings are forever on the stretch and when he begins to sink into repose he finds himself obliged to quit that on which he rests in pleasure for something new which again engages his attention and which also he forsakes for other novelties."
I was accompanied to the Romanian border by Shoni and Orsi, two of the family, and then crossed over and pushed on alone into the land of Dracula, heavily laden with homemade cakes, jams, sandwiches and a salami the size of a baseball bat. Timisoara was the first city I reached and I was surprised to notice upon entry that it is twinned with Nottingham. From here on I remained off the beaten track and took the back roads through rural Romania.
Banat Mountains, Romania Crossing through southern Transylvania I encountered the Banat mountains, a southern arm of the Carpathian range. The roads here are better described at tracks or paths - some have the rattling remnants of antiquated cobble stones while others are simply muddy slopes that washout completely in autumn before being blanketed with two meters of snow in winter when the three ski lifts I saw in the Semenic resort open for business. I was more than compensated for the rotten roads by the exquisite and far-reaching views that were unveiled from the top of each laborious pass.
Having descended from the mountains I sped alongside a river until it joined the mighty Danube which I loosely followed for the next few days. The lush, green plain the river inhabits winds majestically eastwards, separating Romania from Bulgaria, until it spills into the Black Sea after its 1771 mile journey from Germany's Black Forest. However, at this time of year, straying just a few miles north of the river's fertile valley floor brings one to hills of tinder-dry corn fields which are constantly being burnt off, filling the sky with an acrid smoke and giving everything a hazy, myopic appearance. In the brutal, dry stillness of these rolling hills I saw more horse drawn carts than cars. This is the land of the Roma gypsies who live a harsh agricultural-based existence. I was amused to see their carts decorated with salvaged number plates, while the horses are all dressed with a lively red tassel bobbing back and forth on their foreheads. As I drew alongside the carts on the largely empty roads I would hold mutually incoherent conversations with the drivers who unanimously seemed to find my general appearance hilarious.
Having descended from the mountains I sped alongside a river until it joined the mighty Danube which I loosely followed for the next few days. The lush, green plain the river inhabits winds majestically eastwards, separating Romania from Bulgaria, until it spills into the Black Sea after its 1771 mile journey from Germany's Black Forest. However, at this time of year, straying just a few miles north of the river's fertile valley floor brings one to hills of tinder-dry corn fields which are constantly being burnt off, filling the sky with an acrid smoke and giving everything a hazy, myopic appearance. In the brutal, dry stillness of these rolling hills I saw more horse drawn carts than cars. This is the land of the Roma gypsies who live a harsh agricultural-based existence. I was amused to see their carts decorated with salvaged number plates, while the horses are all dressed with a lively red tassel bobbing back and forth on their foreheads. As I drew alongside the carts on the largely empty roads I would hold mutually incoherent conversations with the drivers who unanimously seemed to find my general appearance hilarious.
Dry hills near Danube, Romania One morning I was woken in my tent by a jangling flock of sheep being herded past. I climbed out into the moving scraggy cloud and was accosted by two shepherds. They asked if I carry a gun and when I said no they began asking for items of my kit with an unpleasant manner. One produced a phone and made several calls, each time mentioning the word 'turista' severally. I calmly but quickly began to pack up and slipped my camping knife into my pocket just in case. When I was starting to leave the two men, who had stood close by, grabbed me and frog-marched me along a dusty track. I thought it best to submit and we soon reached a group of five men loading crates of plums into a truck. They didn't wave or shake my hand and I soon found myself in the centre of an eager circle with the boss. He picked up a plum, produced a small pocket knife and, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on mine, deftly sliced the fruit and removed the stone in one swift motion. He proceeded to cram the fruit's flesh into his face and chomp it in a triumphant gesture of challenge with drops of juice running down his chin. It seemed I had little choice but to also eat a plum and to try to do so in a cooler manner than him. I picked one up and felt like Crocodile Dundee as I produced my larger knife, flicked it open with a theatrical flourish and replicated his action. I'm fairly certain I heard a gasp as I stuffed the too large fruit into my small mouth. My jubilant grin as I chomped in turn was so wide that I couldn't chew properly and a fleck of fruit breached my windpipe. The tension dissolved into laughter instantly as I turned as purple as a plum and, with a spluttering cough, re-decorated the ground. A few minutes later, after we had all wiped away the tears, I was set on my way with a bag containing 2KG of plums.
On my last day in Romania I was waved off the road at noon by a group of men at a roadside bar. The day was hot and I gladly accepted the icy beer they proffered. We sat engaged in staccato communications and before I knew it I had drunk three beers. The combination of midday heat, a small breakfast, little alcohol for three months and abundant exercise made three feel like thirty. That afternoon, listening to Ennio Morricone's heroic western theme tunes, I wobbled through small villages, pissed as a fart, high-fiving kids, doffing my sweat-soaked sunhat to pretty girls and toothless hags alike, and repeatedly expending my entire Romanian vocabulary at the top of my voice in one beery breath. The hangover kicked in at about 4 o'clock and I swapped Morricone for more sombre sounds, stoping at each of the frequent wells and fountains to douse my throbbing head and drink heavily, repenting of my excess.
The long, narrow bridge over the Danube brought me into Bulgaria and my last country in the European Union. I've crossed 17 countries now and my passport is still embarrassingly bare. I made my way to Varna and met Plamen, an old school friend. Varna is a beautiful city on the Black Sea with the relaxed feel of a holiday resort. Roman, Ottoman and Byzantium ruins are scattered around the town and I indulged in a very lazy two days at Plamen's home in the Brazilian consulate. We went for a spin in the Maserati and, as the needle nudged past 200km/h, I momentarily wondered what my bike lark was all about. Only momentarily though. This morning I remount and head for Turkey and the enormity of Asia that lies beyond the Bosphorus.
On my last day in Romania I was waved off the road at noon by a group of men at a roadside bar. The day was hot and I gladly accepted the icy beer they proffered. We sat engaged in staccato communications and before I knew it I had drunk three beers. The combination of midday heat, a small breakfast, little alcohol for three months and abundant exercise made three feel like thirty. That afternoon, listening to Ennio Morricone's heroic western theme tunes, I wobbled through small villages, pissed as a fart, high-fiving kids, doffing my sweat-soaked sunhat to pretty girls and toothless hags alike, and repeatedly expending my entire Romanian vocabulary at the top of my voice in one beery breath. The hangover kicked in at about 4 o'clock and I swapped Morricone for more sombre sounds, stoping at each of the frequent wells and fountains to douse my throbbing head and drink heavily, repenting of my excess.
The long, narrow bridge over the Danube brought me into Bulgaria and my last country in the European Union. I've crossed 17 countries now and my passport is still embarrassingly bare. I made my way to Varna and met Plamen, an old school friend. Varna is a beautiful city on the Black Sea with the relaxed feel of a holiday resort. Roman, Ottoman and Byzantium ruins are scattered around the town and I indulged in a very lazy two days at Plamen's home in the Brazilian consulate. We went for a spin in the Maserati and, as the needle nudged past 200km/h, I momentarily wondered what my bike lark was all about. Only momentarily though. This morning I remount and head for Turkey and the enormity of Asia that lies beyond the Bosphorus.
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