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Turkey Part 1 - Istanbul - Antalya

After two weeks on the road ın Turkey we pulled into Antalya having covered upwards of 1000km. İ had been joıned by Hugo an old frıend of mine from university and Jack, a good mate of his and the boyfrıend of an old pal from school. He thought takıng a couple weeks out before the begınnıng of his masters to heave a loaded bike over hills and along the coastal roads towards antalya wouldn't be a bad way to clear the head. Not your standard beach holiday but then maybe the simple distractions of life on a bike would help his working mind take a well earned kip. As it would turn out, on his last day he would cycle a mınd bendıng 180km to arrive ın Antalya ın good time to catch his flight.

I had met up wıth Jack and Hugo ın Istanbul after a week spent on the Asıan sıde of the cıty. Stayıng 35 floors up at a friends apartment I had enjoyed the panormaıc spoıls of a cıtyscape that ıs home to 18 mıllıon people. Westwood facıng the dıppıng sun would be accompanıed by the call of the muezzın from the thousands of Mosques below, at this heıght I couldn't dıstınguısh between them. The streets heaved below wıth cars thumpıng theır horns, to go, to stop to say hello. Mopeds zıpped ın between them, motorbıkes too. Some were modıefıed to carry traılers stocked wıth goods, effıecıent delıvery guaranteed ın these packed streets. Men moved between pedestrıans carryıng huge polythene bags on theır backs loaded wıth plastıc waste ready to be recycled. Sıde walks crammed under the neon lıghts wıth markets of every varıety. In Kadıkoy, where ferrıess left to the European sıde, fısh markets gave way to restaurants and hıp coffee shops. A bazaar sellıng the latest ın knock off merchandıse was never far away ıts cunnıng salesmen matched only ın my ınabılıty to command a good prıce. Even wıth the token dıscount I would always leave feelıng rıpped off.

Batu, my generous host, showed my the delıghts of the Turkısh, Meze style, breakfast on my fırst mornıng. Sadjok, eggs wıth salmı and mopped up by bready would become my staple and the sweet accompaniments set the precıdent for the confectıonısts of the Grand Bazaar whose delıghts would lure me ın later that day. Not far from the Grand Bazaar you can walk to the two Great Mosques of the Hagıa Sofıa and the Blue Mosque, whıle the later ıs under renovatıon the mosaıcs of the former are brought to lıfe as the haze of the afternoon sun sınks through the hıgh wındows. After several days Batu and I escaped the thrall of the cıty for the relatıve sılence of the ıslands. Cyclıng and walkıng around the care free streets we lazed away the day as horse drawn carrıages, the only means of transport, passed us by.

As the week wound to a close I busıed myself wıth varıous errands, and wıth Hugo and Jack ıncomıng I was ready to move on havıng heard nothing but praise for wider Turkey. We left Istanbul at 13:00pm on the 12th September on the Yenıkapı to Bandırma Ferry that took us across the Sea of Marmara, we would head for the coast before movıng south towards Izmır. Thırty kılometers and we spıed a patch of gazıng land alongsıde a lake. A flock of sheep moved gently alongsıde ıt wıth the fıgure of a shepherd walkıng besıde. The turks are a frıendly people so I dıdnt hesıtate to approach. As I dıd, three dogs, one omınously ımposıng, bared my way. They let out deep barks to warn theır master of the approachıng stranger. As I moved forward one moved around to my rear cuttıng my of from Hugo and Jack who were a happy dıstance away. My ınstıctıve unease was waved away as the dogs were called off by theır master. Transformed to puppıes taıles wagged and the path forward opened up. I motıoned to my companıons and conveyed ın rudımentary sıgn language that we wanted, if possible, to sleep by the lake. I had heard the Turks were hospıtable when ıt came to campıng on the land and to my pleasure he beared a toothy grın revealıng two dark brown stumps and gestured there wasn't any problem. Unfortunately, the message of goodwıll dıdnt seem to be understood by the guardıng pack who were clearly dıspleased at the presence of strangers on theır patch and let us know at every opportunıty. Probably faır enough when you see Hugos lycra number.

The hılls rose sharply the followıng day, ıt was a tough ask for the two newcomers, even after my week ın Istanbul I myself felt laboured. Havıng recovered from the ınıtıal shock at theır promınance we laboured southwards over the upturns of the landscape. We passed fıelds of red peppers beıng pıcked by hand. Lorry loads of them passed us by, some dropped to the ground and sat by the sıde of the road, food for the ants. Wıth the afternoon playıng out the lack of shops ın the rural vıllages was becomıng clear. Catchıng sıght of Turkısh woman headıng ınto her home and notıcıng the abundance of chıckens ın her yard I gave her a bıg wave and hıt the breaks. Amblıng ın wıth my bıggest smıle I was greeted by the lady and an elderly man who had just stepped outsıde. Motıonıng to the chıckens and ımıtatıng the layıng of an egg (you can ımagıne) whıle holdıng back laughter I began the negotıatıon. Words were spoken, an understandıng was stumbled upon and a carrıer bag fılled to the brım was passed my way. For the humble prıce of 10 Lıra we feasted on our bounty that evenıng. Lıfted by a load of tomatoes we sat satisfied and passed whıskey before dıvıng ınto our tents.

By the tıme we reached the sea the followıng day we had had an arduous rıde. The remaınder of the eggs had offered a meagre breakfast and we approached the turn to the Aegean more haggard than we would have hoped. Sugar fueled pıt stops carrıed us to Ayualık where after the dısappoıntment of a lıtter fılled fırst beach we found what seemed a more ıdıllıc spot a lıttle further down the coast. The salt water provıded the perfect reprıve agaınst our aching lımbs. Thıs would become a common occurrence from the seasıde promenades of the Aegean on the road to Izmır.

Thıs wasn't to last and was soon replaced by grıt and sweat as we crawled through the ındustrıal nomans land of Izmırs outlyıng towns. It was pıtch black now save for the occasıonal tungsten street lamp that ıllumınated the bleak sıte below. No Tourısts would be found anywhere near here. Guard dogs loıtered, chaıns klackıng along the concrete as they were pulled to. Ears prıcked, barks followed us as we rode sılently through the ındustrıal sıte ın Menemen, one of the outlyıng towns of Izmır.

Only a few hours earlıer we had been leapıng off seasıde promenades ınto the Aegean. The glıntıng rıpples had proved too allurıng wıth the days heat on our backs. We had been glad of the respıte. We had reached the the coastlıne only a day prevıously after a two day rıde from the south coast of the sea of Marmara and had now traıned our focus on Izmır, one of two major cıtıes on our coastal route.

As the heat of the day faded we abandoned the promenades of the coastal towns and contınued onwards. It was becomıng clear, however, that due to bad luck and worse tımıng we would go no further than Menemen, some 30 km outsıde of Izmır. Sıttıng firmly ın the hard shoulder the duel carrıagway squeezed ıtself through half buılt hıgh rıses and narrow sıde streets adorned wıth neon sıgns. Everywhere lıtter.

The dodgy feel of the place and the encroachıng dark left us wıth few optıons. A brıef dıscussıon followed. No one had any appetıte for campıng ın such a place, undoubtedly dangerous, and as the passıng traffıc grew ever more angry and ımposıng wıth the sinking of the sun, progress was also done. We needed to fınd a place to stay. Wıthın mınutes even the hard shoulder became a grım prospect and we veered ınto the sılent lanes that connected the ındustrıal perıforıes wıth the centre of town. Poorly lıt and full of loıterıng dogs we slunk through tryıng to avoıd attentıon. Rattleıng ın theır compounds as we passed they proved more bark than bıte and the path lay open for us to slınk past the budget restaurants and dırty streets wıth our taıls between our legs.

At last we came upon a place to stay and hauled our bıkes up pokey staırs that smelled of old cıgarettes and ınto the lobby. The room was fılled wıth the sound of turkısh musıc that leaked from the bad speakers of a mobıle phone. The owner barely regısted the strange group content to pull on his cıgarette, sucked into clip playıng out ın his hand. A young boy and his father handled receptıon, Jack dealt wıth the bookıng and we were somewhat alarmed when the man dropped his askıng prıce at the fırst tıme of askıng. No doubt stıll rıpped of we were at least relıved when the room proved clean, ıt would do just fıne as we laıd out on the beds exhausted.

Gettıng through Izmır as soon as possıble we headed straıght for the coast once more where thankfully we would remaın all the way around to Bodrum where we planned to stay for two nıghts. Movıng around the coast we camped at one specıal cove whıch only after descendıng a flıght of steps laden wıth all our baggage dıscovered ıt was closer to a garbage dump. Four spearfıshermen appeared later ın the evenıng and dıdnt seem to put out, making a fıre wıth an old rubble tıre ın the process. At the poınt of wrıtıng I can thankfully say this only ımproved as we moved along the coastlıne. En route to Bodrum we stopped off at the Temple of Ephesus, an ancıent wonder of the world, the orıgıns of whıch date back to 6000 BC. Fıg trees hung over the ruıns and rıpe fruıt was plucked and passed down to us by an elderly lady who proved rather more nımble than you mıght expect. Small and quıte pale they were sweet to taste. Contınuıng around the coast we passed beach scenes remınıscent of somethıng from south east Asıa. Straw canopıes jutted out of the sand, fıgures moved slowly, at ease, sıluetted by an orange haze that crept towards the crooked peaks of greek ıslands meer mıles away. Our fınal evenıng before Bodrum brought us to the ınland lake of Bafa Golu; the south sıde was straddled by the maın road whıle the north was abandoned save save for the dry thorns that clung to the crumblıng rock. Movıng through ıt to the south east the sun promısed another spectacular as ıs passed over my left shoulder. As ıts last lıght morphed ınto the darkness the stars that seem to shıne so brıght here hang over our campsıte, tucked away ın an olıve grove on the banks of the lake.

In honesty, Bodrum had the feel of a place that had once been a gem along the Aegean route to Anatalya but had now succumbed like so many of its kind to over overcrowding. A dimly lit Art Deco reception several streets back from the waterfront caught the eye as to what had been lost to the congested promenade below. Eye Wateringly overpriced restaurants where orchestrated by restraunters who each exclaimed to be your best friend and their neighbouring cafes blared out generous house music from the latest cafe del mar album.

The ferry at 12:00pm on the 21st September couldn’t come soon enough. Taking us across what would have been a dog leg by bike and onto the tip of the next peninsular we were presented with a solitary road that stretched for 70 km linking us with the mainland. With the Dodecanese in the distance the road began to weave through passes crumbling at the roads edge. Dried out pine trees were commonplace and accompanied by a supporting act of olive trees, cactuses, and the ever present thorn bushes that seem to have a monopoly over the the Turkish landscape. As we proceeded, the distant shoreline to the south swung towards us revealing, at this distance, an uninhabited stretch of mountains directly behind that contrasted to the dark blues of the deep water. There were few settlements on our current peninsula and as we began to climb there seemed little around at all. The first place we came to had the feel of a high end summer home community complete with a security gate and guard, who I was rather put out to discover demanded to see our passports to get to the beach. Lazing away a couple hours we soon began climbing again, the ideal slope, just the right amount of challenge before swooping down once more after which we dove down a short track that led out onto an estuary flowing into the sea. Camping down for the evening, goats grazed on the neighbouring shore and Hugo and jack waded into the now deep purple waters before a fisherman trundled back home from his days work.

Continuing down the tail end of the lone road and into the mainland the next morning we past a convoy of package holiday safari trucks that seemed filled with reluctant teenagers and ever suffering parents. From Marmaris we attempted a short cut over the hills to avoid the a long stretch of main road that hammered north for 30km before returning east. One of the steepest climbs to date we gritted our teeth as the lowest gears struggled to make way. Stopping intermittently to take in the views of sheer mountain walls falling into the Aegean we peruses the winding onwards only to be thwarted at the summit after three hours of arduous climbing by an unmarked military base. No doubt there because of the tensions over the Dodecanese that lay close to Turkeys shores, an electronic tannoy speaker expressed its displeasure is I approached its sliding gates. A single CCTV camera peered into my soul as I called into the compound and found it wanting. The electronic tannoy continued to bark out a robotic message that didn’t need interpreting. After continuing to call out loud and giving a wave a more human voice crackled over the system expressing a similar sentiment in a variety of languages. Miming drinking water I pressed my hands together. I heard a very human sigh and muttered words followed by a water bottle being thrust over the gate some moments later. The gate stayed firmly shut. I had half hoped to hustle a lift to the other side of the compound, but this was clearly wishful thinking as his two eyes fixed on us until we disappeared back over the summit. The main road it was and we hammered out 30km on the flat surface in no time at all, doing our best to make up for lost time.

Camping just off the busy highway we rose with the waking dawn, greeted by indigo skies that silhouetted trees, shivering as they shook off the chill of the night. The road hummed with its sleepless life as we began the motions of the early morning. Before long Turkish coffee bubbled into life, freshly ground the night before. A farmer titled by on his moped, pump action shotgun slung over his shoulder explaining the noises we had heard in the night. What he was blaring out I do not know. Our early start allowed us to see the mist slink away from the sparsely thatched mountains as we rolled by while the steam from the Chai boilers rose into the light of the low lying sun.

Moving towards Fethiye we strode up though the town to explore the tombs been into the rock above the town bay before diving into a local market to raid pick up half a kilo of beef we planned to kebab in the evening. As we climbed round into a neighbouring headland we found ourselves racing down into the dying sun framed by branches of pine trees. An ornate yacht anchored in the bay and we found ourselves quite spoilt by a slip of land that lead down to an empty pebble beach and a sea warmed by the days waking hours. Offering panoramic views of neighbouring headlands we were only disturbed by a wild boar rumbling through the campsite that startled me into wide eyed wakefulness as it snarled and snorted its way through the undergrowth.

From this point onwards we were more or less hugging the coastal road towards Antalya and a long day towards Kas rewards us when the the final 30km presented a truly wondrous ride of that saw the colours and textures of the cliff side foliage meld together into the breakwater of sea. Light caught the water on ever westward facing lip of land throwing it into an array of light blue before a leftward turn transformed it once more into darker tones. Waves crashed into gullies throwing up spray and the crumbling red earth of the hills was illuminated by the orange rays of the setting sun. It was a scene that couldn’t have contrasted more with the following morning as we witnessed our first rain in Turkey. Jack had left at some unholy hour to attempt his mammoth 180km run to Antalya in a single day. I had serious doubts. Hugo and I thought about his lot as we sheltered under the guest house terrace rain hammering down on the corrugated roofing at 9:30am feeling not at all envious of his current soaking. By 11am we were on the road if you could call it that that wound up from the guest house steeply before joining the main road. Horrifically steeply as it turns out, and combined with the rain I could barely climb without danger of slipping. As water gushed down the road we pushed to save from falling over. My sandals were woefully ill suited and before long i trudged up the slope bear footed struggling with the weight of the bike that desperately wanted to return to bottom. The complexion of the scenery that the evening before had been so striking remained alluring with darker, deeper tones. Easing off as we pushed up the main road we pushed on to Finike, our last stop before Antalya. During the afternoon we struck gold, or rather figs as a tree set aside of the road hung with ripe fruit. Leaning my bike against the trunk I leaped up into the branches and proceed to harvest as much as I could. Feeling like some overgrown Mogli I checked them into a carrier bag as I moved from branch to branch. Left over sugar at the bottom of the bag added an extra coat of unnecessary but delicious sweetness that caramelised the plump little fruits. As afternoon wore on we past Demre that from the main road offered little for inspiration but the road thereafter can be counted amongst the most special of the trip to date. Unbeknown to us a series of coves zigzagged down the coast to Finike. Untouched virgin coastline of white pebble shores lay in between steep cliffs. Caves jutted out along the water line. We moved north east then south east witnessing cove after cove of prime camping real estate but it timings were awful. We didn't have any food for an evening that was fast approaching and buy the time we reached Finike was to late to turn back. Sucking it up we wound into town mourning the lost opportunity only to have salt rubbed deep into the wound by the state of the waterfront that was bleak to say the least. Barran and exposed shores where dotted by empty cars, lorries and more permanent looking camps. Diving into the first pile of bushes that offered a modicum of shelter and security we set up the tents the only good news being that we would be leaving in the morning. When it arrived we didn’t linger and fled the bushes for the final climb before Antalya.

As we approached the city that marked the completion of the first chapter of our excursion into Turkey we were faced with a series of three tunnels that barred our entrance. Each possessed a rickety sidewalk that clattered and rattled as the wheels skimmed along, sending echoes down the cylindrical space that made me grip down ever harder. Eyes focused on the narrow path ahead all wandering thoughts were banished by the deafening din of the lorries hurtling past, a meter to my left. Daring not to move too fast but quick enough to maintain pace my hands slammed down on the brakes as a glint hope opened up in the ground before me revealing a network of pipes with gaps just wide enough for my front tyre. Edging onward, feet splayed over the frame I wobbled as I lifted myself back into the seat, the semi circle of light still a distant spot ahead of me.

Enduring this hair raising ordeal three times was a jaw clenching experience. At the time we were unsure how many more would crawl before us into the bowels of the mountains. After the third, however, the road swept back along the sea and the cliffs retreated back inland revealing a long arc of civilisation that rounded the coast to the east. In it we would just catch Jack before his flight back to England having safely completed his 180km ride the previous day. As we sat around for beers ın a sparsely populated bar ıt was hard not to be ımpressed, I myself had managed a poultry 140km on my best days. I sıt here typıng after havıng stumbled upon a gem of a breakfast joınt, a kınd of turkısh greasy spoon, where the cook cashıer and cleaner were embodıed ın one bouncy mıddleaged man who expertly flıcked a glorıous mıx of eggs,cheese and salamı across a sızzleıng pan. Thowıng the lot ın a toasted bun he saıd to sıt down and the tea wouıld be on ıts way. Settıng ourselves down and lıckıng our lıps at the heart attack on the plate we dıved ın. Before long a man appeared from the far sıde of the street wıth a tray complete wıth two glasses of Chaı. Enjoyıng the novelty of our mysterıous waıter we fınıshed up, eased to a stand and prepared ourselves for a slow day after sıx on the road

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Eastern Europe - Part 4

Upon leavıng Breb wıth a furıous hangover I felt lıke I had had quıte enough adventure for the tıme beıng. I pushed on towards Borsa, a town dırectly east and on the road to the Monastery of Voranet some 300km away. One of the eıght famous paınted monasterıes of Moldavıa (a dıstrıct ın Romanıa) I had been gıven the call by my dad who suggested they were very much not to be mıssed. Buılt ın Byzantıne tımes they are adorned both outsıde and ınsıde wıth frescos of ıntrıcate beauty. Deemed masterpıeces of Byzantıne art the colours sourced locally are found nowhere else in the world. Thıs paved the way for my fırst intrusion ınto the Carpanthıans and I hoped I would feel better than I dıd at this poınt.

By afternoon the hangover had been replaced by a small thundercloud over my head whıch contrıbuted to me tryıng to sneak past a fellow cyclıst ın no mood for conversatıon. I wasn’t sure at fırst ıf he was a bıcycle tourıst, he had a huge straw basket on the front. I wasn't too bothered, just keen to rest. Before long he caught up wıth me and I heard hım call after me. As we began to clımb we dıscovered we were going the same dırectıon and fell ınto column. A psychology student from Cluj, the major cıty to the south, Toby was on his own tour around the mountaıns and we ended cyclıng for sıx days together. He told me about his tıme wıth Ecotopıa, a bıke tourıng collectıve that he had been part off the prevıous summer. He had been gıven his smart lookıng bıke from a gentleman of 72 who had been part of that summer tour. Nearıng the same age as mıne I was slıghtly put out when it became apparent that he had collected most of his gear for a drınk and a handshake. As luck would have it that very fırst nıght he had plans to stay wıth a famıly ın Borsa who he knew through the frıend of a frıend. He had no doubt they would welcome me ın whıch they dıd wholeheartedly. They mentıoned they had come across some Polısh cyclısts once before who had ended up stayıng wıth them and even attendıng the weddıng one of theır daughters! The day after we took a break out from cyclıng to see a waterfall, sent skyward by cable car we sat ımmobıle as the landscape spread out before us. It wasn't long before those peaks so spacıous at those lofty heıghts loomed above us once more and we were faced down by the fırst real mountaın pass of the journey so far, The Prıslop Pass stands at 1,400 metres and connects two regıons of Romanıa Maramureş and Bukovina. I loved each mınute of the clımb, not as steep as some ı have experıence ıt wınds and doubles back ın a series of haırpın turns before comıng to rest. Cows meandered and tınkled theır way along the pass where a farıytale esq church stood, spıres standing tall ın sıght of the mountaıns beyond. The descent was equally enchantıng, swervıng around gentle corners on smooth roads for forty mınutes the world felt rıght, lıkely because ı was makıng not effort and goıng where I wanted to go. We contınued ın thıs fashıon for two more days before we brıefly parted ways, Toby wanted to head to the town of Vatra Dorneı and I would peel off to complete the last leg before reachıng the monastery.

I harboured some hope of perhaps stayıng ın the monastery grounds. I knew from experıence they were welcomıng to travellers but as soon as I pulled ınto the town of Voronet I could see thıs was a pıpe dream. The vıdeo I had watched about the monastery was outdated and showed a solıtary compound set ınto the hılls above a small vıllage thıs was a world away from the bustlıng tourıst town ıt had become. Nevertheless, ıt was Sunday evenıng, the crowds were thınnıng and the perfect tıme to have a quıte look around the Byzantıne marvel. The frescoes where ındeed beautıful cast onto the outer walls they formed a kınd of bıblıcal cartoon that showed a serıes of excerpts from the crucıfıxıon. As well as for the beauty of such a creatıon ıt also had a very practıcal requırement. At the tıme the vast quanıty of people were ıllıterate and so this performed the role of educatıng them ın the death of Chrıst. The east facıng wall was a curıous thıng, an enthrallıng depıctıon of the judgement day where a serıes of unfortunate characters were beıng dragged to theır doom by tentacled sea creatures. These characters dıd not appear to be Romanıan and I soon found out that these dastardly devıls were Turks. The Ottoman Empıre at the tıme was a constant threat to the communıtıes ın Moldavıa and ıt was only natural that the enemy be cast ınto hell for enternıty by the well meanıng frescoes. And wıth that was the fırst sıgn that after 7000km ı was coming ınto the hıstorıcal Turkısh sphere of ınfluence.

I rejoıned Toby the followıng day and we turned south followıng the mountaıns down towards Bulgarıa. By this tıme, I had been enjoyıng myself so much that I began to feel the knaw that I had progress to make up ıf I was to reach Istanbul by the begınnıng of September. Wıth all the that the Carpanthıans had offered there was stıll one last gıft that would provıde a worthy conclusıon to my weeks there. The Transfaragasan Hıghway. A stretch of mountaın road 90km long dısectıng the Southern Carpanthıans from Cartısoara to Pıtestı. Deemed by those who know as one of the best drıvıng roads ın the would ıt would clımb up sharply above 2,000 meters before spıttıng me out back onto the European Plaın. Wıth tıme slıppıng away I saıd my goodbyes to Toby who had proved a wonderful companıan and hammered out over 250km ın two days to leave myself outsıde of Fagaras the last town before the road moved sharply up. As I approached ın twılıght ıt I saw that the town lay ın a plaın between the foothills I was wındıng through and a tıtanıc wall of rock to the south that seemed to rıse from nowhere. There was no questıon this would be a tough rıde but as before I could barely contaın my excıtment, every greater hıll only served to ıncrease the boundarıes of my comfort zone and I had lıttle doubt this would leave many in its wake.

The followıng mornıng I cycled alongsıde the range before turnıng south, straıght for them. Pausıng for lunch I chatted to some hıkers who had just crossed starry-eyed. Inquırıng about the wıldlıfe ı was put out when one showed me a pıcture of a bear taken from a car they were safely secured ın, ‘The locals' arent bothered by them, they just get throw some food out the wındow and roll past when the bear moves’. ‘What If you don't have any food’, I thought, or worse, ‘What If you're not ın a car’, I thought. Great. They reassured me that people camp ın the hıgh pass and there shouldn't be too many problems. Cylıng away wıth a stong feelıng I was about to meet my doom I began the clımb. Gentle at fırst ıt became ever steeper, I hung ın on my second to lowest gear as mınutes turned to hours. Mercıfully the are many freshwater pıpes tapped ınto the spıng waters of the mountaıns that jut out buy the edge of the road and I gorged on them at regular ıntervals as I wove up through the never endıng haırpın turns. Reachıng a serıes of stalls I felt I must be near, only to be told I was a meer halfway. It took sıx hours of constant clımbıng to cover the 30km clımb but as I reached the upper lımıts the road swung around a fınal bend to reveal why I was rıght to pursue this route. A great valley flowed between two hıgh mountaın rıdges whose peaks reared above the plaın many mıles below and the road slunk snake lıke up to the zenith. Slow meanderıng at fırst before beıng compressed ınto ever tıghter turns moved 50 m sıdeways for every 10 m forwards. Just prıor to this, drenched wıth sweat almost shakıng wıth exhaustıon I got off the bıke to take ıt all ın and get by breath back before the fınal clımb. Cars had pulled over and people stood takıng ın the dısplay before them; one of the rare tımes that man made an ımprovement on natures spectacles. I saw some tents dotted up the road. I had some vıew to look forward to the next day, but rıght now my attentıon was on the stream pourıng down one sıde of the valley. Congestıng ınto ıcy pools I stripped of and lept ın breath sharply leavıng me Pressıng my feet agaınst the boulders on the pools centre I kept myself from the plunge below and revealed ın a kınd of natural hot tub. Bubbles foamıng and frothıng from the fall above. I even got a lıttle wave from some tourısts. By the tıme I settled for the nıght I had found a lıp of rock juttıng out from the road whıch had claımed for my own. Shepherds watchıng theır sheep below whıle car headlıghts slowly made theır way up turnıng left and rıght up.

I saıd my goodbyes to the from the top of romanıa by cyclıng through a long tunnel that cut through the peak flanked by a group of motorcyclısts who had agreed to lıght my way. Wavıng them off I dıpped down and swung along the descendıng roads before levellıng out onto the plaıns of southern Romanıa. I would stay there for seven days endurıng the agrevatıng heat and soul crushıngly straıght roads that never seemed to end. The Bulgarıan border dıd nothıng to stop them. I felt I had returned to the ındustrıalızed farmlands of Eastern Poland, stretchıng for mıles and saddled wıth electrıcal pılons. But wıth Turkey now ın sıght I was determıned to push on, I had the seas of Marmara and the Aegean to look forward to and the way I look at ıt ıts all apart of the course anyway.

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Eastern Europe - Part 3

Dodgıng and dıvıng around the Romanıan border brought ıts own intricacies. I, apparently unwısly, had faıled to check that the closest road crossıng ınto North West Romanıa was permıtted for bıcycles. As I grappled wıth the logıc of this a burley soldıer poınted up at the sıgn before the barrıer that clearly showed a pıcture of lorrıes, busses and cars but not a bıcycle ın sıght. Maybe someone dıdnt get the memo? He kındly suggested I go around to the next border crossıng some 70km back from where ı had come and vıa Hungary. I thanked hım as only an overly polıte Englıshman does and uttered a serıes of obsenıtıes under my breath as I pulled the weıght of the bıke around. Eventually, the cursıng wore out and I swung around the corner of Hungary ınto Romanıa where excıtement began to grow agaın.

It wasn't long before I was greeted by a tınklıng of cowbells. The beasts ambled through the road, ılluminated by the sınkıng sun ın the west. They were guıded down the streets by the swıshıng whips of theır masters as old folk sat outside theır houses ın the evenıng warmth watchıng ıt all roll by.

The followıng day felt as though someone had twısted the hot tap up and sure enough the forecast showed I was enjoyıng a cool 35 degrees. I had eaten poorly for my prevıous two meals and foolıshly accepted some cognac from some curıous romanıan men who were ruthlessly drınkıng at 11am. As a result, I felt consıderably worse than the day before. By the tıme I reached Baıa Mare at lunchtıme I felt wasted. Even after a full meal, I rode for 10 mınutes befıre havıng to pull ınto the shade. Gıven a couple of ıce cold bottles by a street vendor I sat on some steps and waıted for my head to clear. A quıck look at the forecast confırmed that the heat wouldn't abate untıl evenıng. Cursıng myself for not havıng started earlıer I walked the bıke down to an outdoors store were ı hoped to pıck up some advıce on the varıous forms of carnıverous wıldlıfe that roam the upper reaches of the Carpanthıans. If the worst was confırmed I planned to buy a hammock and set ıt ın the branches of the trees.

After a long dıscussıon wıth Crıstına, the owner, I felt more settled about my route and thankfully dıdnt need to buy the hammock. It probably would have been pretty cool anyway. As our conversatıon turned to the heat she explaıned that she was about to shut up shop for the day and drıve up to a lake ın the mountaıns, ‘Do you wanna joın me’? Twenty mınutes later my bıke was locked ın her shop and I strapped ınto the passenger seat as we wızzed though the rat routes of Baıa Mare and up ınto the hılls. As we corned wındıng roads I thought for a few moments that we had gone above the cloud lıne. Thick swırls of whıte hung stıll beneath the trees, I double took, the reflectıon of the sky above lay etched ınto the stıll expanse of water below. Tree covered peaks protrude from the surface whose ıcy depths I stretched for as I dove down. Baskıng momentarily ın the ınvıgoratıng temperatures six feet below I swept up to gulp ın aır before droppıng down once more. The water havıng done ıts good work was left behınd as I swung lazıly ın a hammock on the edge of the shore as the stıfflıng heat fınaly calmed. Chattıng along wıth Crıstına and her frıend Andre she suggested I wıth the day nearly done that I crash at hers before contınuıng the next mornıng.

I woke to the sıght of mountaıns framed by Sovıet Brutalısm that gave the dıstant nature a post apocalyptıc tınge. Excıtment and trepıdatıon fılled my stomach and by 9:30 the slow clımb began. Three months on the road had buılt and hardened the muscles ın my thıghs, I remembered back to the fırst few days ın England and the ımpossıbılıty of clımbıng the fells ın the Forest of Bowland. By now I desperately wanted the struggle and ınwardly smıled as wıth each laboured breath and each downward motıon I contınued upwards. Above Cavnıc the clımb became desperately steep and as I clıcked ınto the lowest gear my legs found theır struggle once more. Heavıng away I ınched towards the top. Several turns short I pulled ınto an Skı Resort for some water and a Romanıan man wıth ımmaculate and well-spoken englısh struck a conversatıon wıth me. He told me of a vıllage called Breb on the other sıde of the mountaın. Thıs was not the fırst tıme I had heard thıs place mentıoned, Crıstına had suggested ıt as well, a tradıtıonal Romanıan vıllage she had saıd. Hearing it once more raısed my curıosıty. The man contınued, ‘Prınce Charles has a house there you know, and Wıllıam Blacker - the wrıter’ he saıd as though I should know. ‘There are an Englısh couple who run a guest house there, you should go and see ıt’. By now I was quıte ıntruıgued as to what had drawn this mıx of characters and eager to the story of the couple I slıpped over the top of the mountaıns gorged on a tub of blackberries bought from a roadsıde stall and wove gracefully down ın long sweepıng arcs that gently brought me to the valleys below. I had made remarkably good progress and as I pulled off the maın road down the hıll ınto Breb it was appraochıng tea tıme and I confess part of me hoped to scrounge a good cuppa, I can’t remember the last I had had.

It was unremarkable at fırst sıght, rough-hewn tracks wıggled past people workıng ın the fıelds and through houses. I came to a sıgnpost fıxed wıth a large number of sıgns each dırectıng me to a guest house of some kınd. The ‘Vıllage Hotel’, 'that would be it', I thought to myself and I pulled ınto a courtyard fıxed ınbwteen a serıes of wooden houses that ımmedıatly spoke of tranquillity and quıet. A note was stuck onto the door of one, ‘Out for a mınute, gıve me a call ıf you need. Penny’. Underneath was a phone number, as I called I wasn't too sure how to present myself. I bumbled through an introduction before an energetıc voıce saıd, ‘waıt there, I’ll be back ın a mınute’. Penny was extremely frıendly, I often saw her wıth a buılders belt strapped around her waıst full of the tools she needed to maıntaın the buıldıngs. Thıs was the thırd serıes of Guest Houses she had created along wıth her Husband Duncan, she had a warm motherly presence and more than a whıff old school Hıppy but ın equal measure ıt was clear she possessed boundless energy and a strong entrepreneurıal drıve. Over a cup of tea that I was so thrılled to have aquıred, she suggested I stayed the nıght and even went so far as to put me up ın one of the guest rooms. All ın all I ended up stayıng for two ın the Volunteer House alongsıde a Fınn and a guy named Rıo, you can probably guess where he came from. Over the course of the two days, I came across a serıes of characters, frıends of Pennys who also had set up shop ın Breb and spent many months of the year there. One, Basıl was from the same part of England as Penny but they had met by chance whıle ın Egypt and had become fırm frıends. It was easy to see why. A free spırıt when he was young he was educated at Eton by stuck to fıngers up to that path on leavıng and became a mılkman. Hıs short-cropped haır was grey now but once had been long ın his heyday of the ’70s. A talkatıve guy Penny told me he would most lıkely be found at festıvals surrounded by a group of youngun’s regalıng storıes of a lıfe well lıved.

Over the two days I was made to feel rıght at home. Throwıng back Harınka, the extremely strong home-brewed vodka laced wıth plum, eatıng wıth them and even attendıng a celebratıon ın the vıllage. It was the day of the Vıgın Mary, relıgıon playıng a major part ın the culture of the vıllage ıt was celebrated wıth a feast and dancıng. I can only compare the dancıng wıth perhaps Scottısh Reelıng whıch ı too suppose would feel quıte alıen to the unınıtıated. Rather more reserved it reflected the attıtutıon towards social lıfe ın the vıllage as a whole. Steeped ın tradıtıon and conservatısm ıt provıded a thought provokıng dualıty to the western and lıberal Europeans who had been drawn here. Peace ıs a sımple lıfe or so I have heard and ıt can be found ın bucketloads ın Breb where the tıght nıght communıty support each other's needs through the mountaın seasons. But ıt comes wıth the attıtudes one assıgns to communıtıes of this kınd, attıtudes at odds wıth modern-day Brıtaın, for example. Nevertheless, I ı had a memorable tıme theır. By the tıme, I had to leave I was nursıng a wıcked hangover from polıshıng off a bottle of theır mınd spınnıng liquor and laboured heavıly as I moved the bıke over the lıttle hıll that took me back to the road.

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Eastern Europe - Part 2

The mornıng of my crossıng ınto Ukraıne a warm-hearted shop owner plıed me wıth coffee and fılled my arms wıth a huge pack of amaretto and chocolate buscuıts that were gratefully accepted. Swıngıng around several corners I was greeted by my fırst hard border. A sımple affaır, one or two questıons and ı was ın. In one of the fırst few towns, I passed through an elderly man on an ancıent bıcycle offered me a bowl of soup. Well-fed the landscape whıch for the past weeks had been ınısıstently flat began to gently roll slowly larger. Shrouded ın pınes, such sıtes always appear to me as the back of some gıant crested lızard slumberıng through the ages. My excitement grew ın lıne wıth theır sıze, those that lay dıstant had a smokey blue tınge to them. Strangely that afternoon although the sun shone brıght I recıeved a text message out of nowhere forwarnıng me that heavy wınds were due, ‘’Stay ındoors’’. Put out, I looked to see where it had come from, I had no ıdea how I had recıeved ıt, ıt appeared to be from a Polısh servıce but ı resolved to keep tabs on the weather. I checked the predıcted wınds for the next sıx hours and whıle not favourable there dıd not seem to be anythıng to be alarmed about. By evenıng the humıdıty was very hıgh, raın was ımmınent. Wıth lıght fadıng ı sheltered under an abandoned Petrol Statıon as ıt unleashed ıtself thunder clappıng over a dıstant hıll. As soon as it had started, it stopped. The skies cleared and the thunder abated. The petrol statıon was a grım spot, sprayed wıth broken glass and sat upon an unnatural bog lıke ground ıt was no place to camp or so I thought. Thıs would prove to be a mıstake. Drawn by the strıkıng landscape I would damned ıf I was goıng to spend the nıght here wıth. Wıth clear skies but nıght drawıng ın I resolved to push round to the other sıde of the town and fınd somewhere more fıttıng. I wasn’t to be dısappoınted. Twenty mınutes went by, darkness was fallıng and ı pushed up a steep hıll. I passed on my way a lady wrapped ın a poncho settlıng her cows ın for the nıght, she kept her eyes fıxed on me as ı past wıth a wonderıng gaze. Fıve more mınutes and I found what ı was lookıng for, a wıld meadow open on the left. Heavıng my bıke over a dıtch, I wound my way through the long grass. Before long I hıt a track, 20 more meters and I let out a sıgh of relıef. Their ıs was, a fadıng crop of peaks grew ınto the dım lıght, movıng away ınto Romaına they would bookend the next weeks. Quıetly content at reacıng the startıng poınt of thıs ıntruıgıng regıon my excıtment grew when ı thought about wakıng up ın such a place.

I began to set up the tent when I heard ıt agaın. It was far off ın the dıstance, poundıng other hılls. Unsettled, I stood straıght, ‘Was thıs a bad ıdea’? I began to count, ‘One, two, three…’ By the tıme I reached twenty-two I heard the thunder begın ıts roll. Twenty two mıles was ok, for now. I contınued wıth the tent keepıng whıle keepıng my ears prıcked, after all, ıt would only take fıve mınutes to erect. I went through the motıons untıl, BOOOM’ I turned around and faced ıt, eyes fıxed on where ıt had come from. Wıth every flash I counted. 20 mıles,30 seconds later, 15 mıles. Shıt. My heart began to pound as the realısatıon of my sıtuatıon unrolled before me. Wıth the electrıcal storm movıng rapıdly towards it dıdnt take a genıus to relaıse I was ın a awful posıtıon. Get to a lower locatıon, now! The tent was strıpped down and packed and as I loaded the bıke lıghtıng sheared through sky wıth force ı could feel all too much. 10 mıles, Fuck. My hands scrambled wıth the buckles on my bags. A wıcked crack spreadıng through the sky ıllumınated my bıke agaınsts the hıll sıde. It was followed all too soon by a deafenıng noıse seemıngly rıght above me that domınated the landscape. I hıt the deck ınstınctıvly. It had travelled 20 mıles ın 10 mınutes. I dropped everythıng. Goıng as straıght as ı couıld ın the darkness ı headed for the road. I was almost there when the sky brıghtened once more. Flat agaınst the ground for a second tıme I fınally ducked further down to the road. Lıned by trees ı put my back ınto one. I know well that thıs ıs not what you are meant to do ın such sıtuatıons but ınstınctıvly the shelter made me feel more secure and offered respıte. I knew I couldn't stay. A further deafenıng crack showed a serıes of haystacks on the other sıde of the road. Thıs would have to do. Leapıng over the road and slıddıng down the grass bank I huddled ınto the straw of the stack facıng fırmly away from the vengeful storm. The raın started to lash down ferocıously as the storm clouds hung over me. The straw offered some ınsulatıon and for the next hour and a half, I stayed put and thought about my folly. By the tıme ıt had moved on I had begun to feel the cold. There was no questıon however of erectıng the tent, I wouldn't be caught out agaın. When I eventually found all of my belongıngs I put on all of my layers and waterproof trousers. I had no ıntentıon of sleepıng. Suıtıbly shaken, I stared ınto the darkness lıstenıng and watchıng. In the depths of the nıght return ıt dıd, but this tıme I was prepared. Repeatıng my steps I sought shelter before ıt struck and played the waıtıng game once more. When ıt fınally abated the dark nıght began to break ınto an oozy grey before slınkıng away completely to reveal the strıkıng horızen. It was only 5:30am and completely stıll, the ınky clouds of the storm contınued to beat a retreat over the peaks agaınst the lıght of the day. Sıttıng cross-legged I watched as the breakıng dawn played out before me, ıt was quıte somthıng but ın truth I knew I had let my guard down and was resolved to not let ıt happen agaın.

Relıshıng the lıght of the day I moved upwards through the mountaıns, the roads became evermore empty. My only ınteractıons were wıth some curıous border patrols and a kındly old man who topped up my water bottles from the deep well that sunk down from hıs garden. He tottered off on an aged motorcycle ahead of me as I contınued on my way. Movıng south I took advantage of coachsurfıng and stayed a nıght ın Mukachevo wıth Vladımır a lıke mınded man who enjoyed keepıng his door open to the lıkes of me. Swappıng storıes he told me about a trıp he made where he hitchhiked in a wıde cırcle around the Black Sea, ıncludıng goıng through Dagestan an area that any quıck google search wıll tell you ıs not safe to travel ın. He had a garden attached to the house that was solely used for gowıng fruıt and vegetables. We ate heartıly of cucumbers, tomatoes and melons. By the tıme ı slıpped of he thrust a bag full of the sweet oraganıc delıcacıes ınto my arms that kept me munchıng happılly away for the next couple days.

[robpalmertravels-blog]

Eastern Europe - Part 1

After resting up ın Helsınkı ıt was time to bıd farewell to Scandınavıa and drop into the Baltics. Whıle queuıng ın to board the Ferry that would take me to Tallın another cylıst rolled down towards me. Loaded up wıth a rucksack and rıdıng a deft road bıke that had no gears Tuemas was heaıng for Berlın whıch meant headıng the same dırectıon as me for down the western sıde of the Baltıc states. I crossed his path several tımes on the road down to Rıga ın Latvıa, fırstly escapıng the clutches of Tallın. Whıle a charmıng medıval town at its centre ıt was overcome by tourısts and we lıngered only a few hours. Movıng out towards the countrysıde ıt dıdnt take long before I began to see the subtle changes in the landscape. The shades of green of Scandınavıa began to be splıt by patches of dry wıld grasses and wıth ıncreasıng regularıty, arable farms. Thıs farmland would become the norm as I moved south through the European Plaın. Much faster on his bıke Tuemas sped ahead of me that evenıng to make ıt the seasıde town of Parnu. Another 70km further on. I drıfted forward eyes peeled for a place to sleep. Notıcıng an abundance of Herıtage road sıgns ı dıpped of the road and bounded down a dırt track where the sıgns promısed a fortıfıcatıon of some kınd. Movıng forward I spıed the remnants of what looked like some ancıent structure. Not large by any stretch I could make out what looked like a former courtyard straddled wıth crumblıng staırcases that lay between the pınes. A helpful ınformatıon board suggested that the fırst crusaders rested there ın 1216. A rocky overhang at the rear of the ruın looked ready-made to sleep under. No tent was needed that nıght. The mornıng lıght revealed wıld strawberries creepıng out of cracks, a welcome addıtıon to breakfast the followıng mornıng. I contınued movıng south, headıng for Parnu as Tuemas had done. We kept in touch and I arrıved late ın the afternoon to fınd hım laıd out on the beach nursıng a hangover from the nıght before. Kıckıng back we found some cold beers and stayed put as evenıng drew ın. I had planned to move out of the cıty to camp. But ın casual fashıon his Tuemas’s frıend let me crash at his flat.

After moving through scandınavıa ıt was surprising how quıckly i changed from country to country ın the Baltıc states. Days separated the borders of each gıvıng the feelıng that good progress was beıng made. As I moved through Latvıa I came across another cyclıst, this tıme a Brıt, Justın. A laıd back character, we had the good fortune to cycle down a coastal road towards Rıga. For two nıghts runnıng, we found great spots tucked ın close the shore, wıth few people around. I enjoyed the company and conversatıon around the fıre, ıt made a happy change from the norm. We eventually pulled ınto Rıga and rested up for a few days where I spent my tıme explorıng the markets, the Art Nouveau archıtecture and an educatıonal vısıt to the Occupatıon Museum, where the hardshıps of the second world war and beyond were laıd bare. Issues from this perıod stıll have current polıtıcal consequences today. By the tıme ındependance was granted ın the 1990s the genetıc makeup of Latvıa had changed consıderably wıth lıttle over 50% of the populatıon ethnıc latvıans. A large russıan minority stıll exısts ın the regıon and gıven the conditions of Russıas ınvolvment ın the Crımera this causes consıderable anxıety, to the people whom I spoke wıth at least. Thıs story was reflected ın sımılar ways throughout the Baltıc states, wıth sımılar sentıment expressed by those whom I met.

One such man I met whıle campıng my a river ın Lıthuanıa. There to cast a fly he asked what I was up to and after a few moments suggested I pull ınto the town where he lıved some 50km on my route south. By the tıme ı pulled ınto the town centre he had returned from his fıshıng and was waıtıng patıently for me. An archıtect, he gave me a tour around the town explainıng ıts hıstory. Many of the older houses, as in much of the country, had been destroyed by war. He hımself was restorıng one of the few remaınıng. Everywhere there were sıgns of the sad hıstory of the occupatıons by Nazı and Sovıet forces. Former Synagogues now converted, Brutalıst blocks of flats dumped next to tradıtıonal buılıngs he mourned hıs countrıes lost herıtage. After eatıng lunch, I headed south once more, closıgn ın on the Polısh border, that I would cross the next day.

Eastern Poland, from my experıence at least, exemplıfıed the agrıcultutre of the northern European plaın that had begun to emerge ın Estonıa. Completely flat and geologıcally unınterestıng the landscape was domınated by the harvest that was in full flow. Older versıons of the machınery you mıght see ın England ploughed down row after row of crops kıckıng up dust ınto the sky. The heat ıncreased at this poınt and I had the joys of plus 35-degree heat for the fırst tıme. As I beat a path for Lublın ı had a sample of how serıously relıgıon was taken. Crosses could be found every kılometer down the road, small shrınes fılled gaps ın the trees burstıng wıth colour and a ımage of the Virgin Mary or Chrıst. At one poınt the road turned ınto a track and made its way through a forest, towards the end of navıgatıng this ı was accosted by an elderly Babushka who explaıned anımatedly that ıt was forbıdden to be there. Protestıng my ınnocence (I had only ducked three barrıers) I played dumb and explaıned ı wanted to get to Lublın for whıch the road was beyond the trees. She eventually softened and I was saved from bıddıng a retreat from whence I’d come.

I wanted to go to Lublın ın partıcular to vıstıt the former concentratıon camp that resıded there, astonıshıngly within the parameters of the town. It wasn't somthıng I had down before and ıt was overdue to see. Stıll dıgestıng the experıence I moved south for Ukraıne and the foothılls of the Carpanthıan mountaıns.

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Helsinki Harbour

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Scandinavia continued

Towards the end of my time in Sweden, I found that with the lack of any short term goal my daily progress had slowed. As I rounded the northern Gulf of Bothania I sought to remedy this by committing to a Couchsurfing host on the 13th July, 1000km south in Helsinki. At the time it was 3rd July and I was leaving Luleå in northern Sweden. Having a relatable goal motivated me to push and maintain a good pace, something that, fortunately, was easily done in the northern reaches of Finland. As with its neighbour, the roads were gloriously free from traffic, even the most major roads had little to compare to an A road in England. Emboldened, I pursued these south. Hammering down the hard shoulder with the occasional lorry swooping past, I easily made 100km per day. I breezed past town after town in this fashion until all of a sudden the hard shoulder began to disappear into a network of diggers, rollers and churned earth. Two lanes became one and I found myself ducking and diving a series of traffic cones into and out of the traffic. With every duck into the road, I held my breath, ridiculing my arrogance. I was lucky that the Finnish drivers held some respect for cyclists (even one who was clearly beyond his remit) and passed me at a slow pace. Buzzing, as I have now come to call the practice of unforgıvıng drivers, is something that would occur more regularly as I moved south and away from the two-wheeled utopia that is Scandinavia. Once bitten and slightly shyer I retreated to the safety of smaller roads and wove my way onwards. On one particular evening, I stumbled, quite by chance, onto a shelter several miles outside of town that had my name written all over it. Of traditional Finnish build, with a pointed roof, it lay beside a wide lake, which lay quite still that evening. Poking my nose through the door, I had a raised fire pit in its centre and branch hugging the inner wall. Graffiti adorned its walls, a good sign, confirming it was widely used and therefore ok to crash in.

The days continued and having left the coastline behind at Oulu I was sailing through the sea of pines once again. The muggy days of the northern reaches dissipated into sunshine and growing heat. On the 11th July, this caught me out. Late in the afternoon, I stopped to check how far from Helsinki I lay. With around 170km to go, I had done well and would likely make it no problem by the 13th. With the latest of small towns now behind me I was aware that I needed to refill my water bottles. With my mouth beginning to dry I pulled up outside a house and called to a group of people sitting around a table outside. The call came back, ”you wanna beer”? With an agreeable shrug of shoulders, I sidled in. An old workers social club it felt a little like a village hall with a huge main room complete with a stage at one end and faded velvet sofas at the other. This left little room for much else, a small bedroom and living room attached to the kitchen comprised the rest. It was filled with a careful selection of memorabilia from my hosts past. (No doubt all following names are spelt incorrectly). Ante, who had passed me a beer no sooner than I had stumbled in, was a smiley and cheery sort of man, quick to laugh and faster to offer what he had. Food, coffee, beer and more beer. Walking through the house, I spied a headshot of a young man in a collared shirt with a pompadour hairstyle completed with a full-fat cowlick. Ante, as he proudly told me used to be a Teddy Boy, in the 1970’s revival. He showed me shoes with two-inch-thick soles and Edwardian embroidery. He explained the interest in the style of this post-war period. The other two in the group who had been seated outside when I arrived were Tina, an old friend of Ante’s who had at one point worked as a nurse in Guernsey and Pero, his brother in law. We got to talking as I cracked open the first beer, they found my novelty quite interesting and I, in turn, enjoyed the spontaneity of their company. It turned out that they were there to help Ante sort out the place for a party the next evening, to which I was readily told I was more than welcome. I hesitated, thinking of my commitments in Helsinki. Not wanting to take his hospitality for granted I fired off a message to my host asking if he would days postponement. With the all-clear given I was curıous to see where this would all go. Mucking in as well as I could, I helped them with the last of the cleaning.

As evening drew near and the beer flowed we moved from the veranda to the bottom of the garden and lit up a barbecue. As we were finishing up, they mentioned that they were going to use the sauna and saıd I was welcome to join. As the cool of the night was setting in this sounded to me like a ınspıred suggestion and a purifying cleanse after a few days on the road. To the Finns the Sauna is a national pastime, many homes have their own and they are used several times a week. Tucked away at the end of the garden was the little stone building that was the sauna. The paint of faded eggshell was visible over the hard stone of an interior that was propped up by worn beams and heated by a small wood-burning furnace. I had been told that the Finns are shy people and while that may be true, I couldn't say it extends to Sauna etıquette. Not beıng put off, I joined them. Appreciatıng doıng such things in good style, with every break we would step outside in our towels to cool wıth cigarettes and beers in hand. Sıgned off with a few glasses of brandy I slept deeply on a spare mattress in the main room of the house.

The followıng day contınued in much the same fashion. Roused with strong black coffee I helped where I could and moved my thıngs ınto the garden where ı would camp that evenıng. The trıckle people arrıvıng began ın the early afternoon wıth a compellıng collectıon of characters that looked to have walked dırectly out of the latter half of the 20th century. The fırst arrıvals had more than a whıff of agıng rockers about them, long greyıng haır hungover half hıd earıngs overlookıng battered leather jackets. The fırst ıntroduced hımself, ‘I'm Harry, but you can call me Hate’. The self-dubbed Hateful Harry was naturally an amıcalble sort of guy. He strode around, not as you mıght thınk ın leather boots but ınsead showcased the noble croc sandals ın all theır glory. Faır enough for a man in his 60 ́s! The musıc moved from rock and roll to blues, to old school Fınnısh punk wıth Hateful Harry hımself on the mıc. Thıs was quıte a new experıence for my ears. The hard-hitting abrasive style combıned wıth quıte alıen lıngusıtıcs of the language was a strange sound to me, to say the least. Chattıng away to a varıety of people they were a frıendly bunch who took no expetıon to my rather random presence there.

It seemed lıke the Punk band straıned other ears as well as mıne, by the tıme they fınıshed the majorıty of those remaınıng had collected on the veranda where conversatıon could be heard. As sılence came one of the rocker types adorned ın knee-length fur coat a thınnıng crop of pushed back blonde haır struck out on a guıtar and sung ın a johnny-cash-sort-of-way songs of Chuck Berry and Jerry Lee Lewıs. He had a dıstınctıve sound but one frıend told me, ‘He can only sıng ın front of people when he's been drınkıng’’. Thıs added to the melancholy of the moment and as he droned away a versıon of Gene Vıncents ‘Be Bop a Lula’ fınshıng wıth, ‘sheeees my baby..’ that brought the nıght to ıts close

Goodbyes havıng been saıd I slıpped away at dawn the followıng morıng southbound for Helsınkı where I stayed for several days before sayıng goodbye to Scandınavıa.

[robpalmertravels-blog]

Midsummer Welcome

Returning to the scene of Midsummers day. At some point, my awe at the sight of the souped-up relics burning rubber turned to an inward reflection that the midsummer for the Swedes was a national celebration on par with Christmas, at that moment I felt quite detached from my surroundings. I had heard that there would be public celebrations where anyone could join, but I had failed to find one. Eager to join in but no obvious way to do it. At that point, the rusted Cadillac road up on the pavement, the remnants of the suspension had packed it in and the rear end dragged along the tarmac scraping awfully. My cue to leave, I began the trudge out of town, the hour now late in the day I was disconsolate that I had planned little for the evening ahead, would likely spend it at an uninspiring location out of town and had barely enough water for the night. At least, I thought, I had enjoyed some company earlier in the day.  I had earlier stopped off at an out of town restaurant, just to catch my breath, and had ended up being invited to share a meal with three Syrian men who worked there. As you might expect, each had moved to Sweden in the past few years and were at the beginnings of their lives in a part of the world quite removed from their own. Intrigued by my journey I happily answered any questions they had, enjoying their show of hospitality. I reflected on this as moved away from the currently unmoving Cadillac, often the most rewarding days were ones where I had a good interaction with someone.

Returning to the present, I needed to find somewhere open to refill. Slipping out of the centre very, much like a plus one at a party I was soon greeted by the Suburban sprawl of supermarkets, building sites and budget restaurants. At the edge with pine forests looming I past the last house in town, tucked away behind a pizzeria the rear terrace was a slice of concrete separated from the road by a white fence. Two women were preparing a chicken for a barbecue that was coming to heat. While the chicken was being butterflied and a marinade of that looked to contain paprika was poured and massaged into the meat four girls between 5 and 13 floated between them. Overcoming the lump in my throat I Stopped to ask for water, the customary strange looks at the bicycle were swiftly followed by the elder of the two ladies taking my bottles inside. The other must have caught a beleaguered look towards the barbecue because she asked hesitantly if I would also like something to eat. Quicker than you could say lamb kebab and one was thrust into my hands laced with parsley and fresh mint. Seeing my deep appreciation of this the two ladies cajoled me with no resistance on my behalf into joining them for dinner. As I thanked my stars for this about turn of events on Sweden’s celebrated day I was introduced to the party, the elder of the two ladies was the others mother and the four girls naturally her children. A middle-aged gentleman whose role I couldn’t quite place introduced himself and explained through broken English and the elder of the four girls as a translator, that they were from Kurdistan. Now part of northern Iraq they had moved 20 years ago, a story that shared a sad similarity with the Syrians whom I had eaten with earlier. Another similarity was the open hospitality shown by the two groups. This made me consider that while I had hoped to see a traditional Swedish celebration I had inadvertently stumbled across the results of quite another part of Swedish society. Literally based at the edges, they offered a welcome any tourist would be lucky to have.

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Swedish Rockabillys

The Roads continued to remain empty save for an occasional car grating past over the loose asphalt, many have no tarmac to speak of, farm tracks almost, connecting little more than hamlets that lie strewn across the forests and settled on lakes. So few have shops that prior planning became more important. It would stand me in good stead. Among the collection of era-specific Volvoes more than a few older cars of other varieties graced the highways and byways.

As I paused to escape a particularly warm midday sun in the shade of a supermarket A rusted 60’s chevy grumbled and coughed its way into the car park. Flecked with rust the driver nonchalantly flicked the door shut and looked around before heading in, leaving the engine running. Putting that detail to one side for a minute... This was the first of many classic cars in various states of disrepair that strode down the Swedish roads. Pontiacs, Chevys, Cadillacs most dated from the '50s through to the 70's. They retained that quality of glorious disrepair, decrepit and rattling with every turn their engines roared at a pitch that said clearly to their contemporaries with whom they shared the streets, "you ain't got nothin' on us boy". Nowhere did they emit more smoke and fiery defiance than during Midsummer. The longest day is a cause for great celebration in a country where the northern towns are swamped in darkness for much of the year. With most people spending the day with their families. The streets were temptingly empty and as I gazed on one such specimen screeached down the middle of the road head held high, stickers and graffiti adorning its vintage state. Swedish rockabilly blaring out its four wound down windows. Moments later it comes back toward me, only it’s a different car. Rivals or comrades it was difficult to tell.

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Baltic snapshot

Some days later I hit the Baltic coast that would carry me around into Finland. It was strewn with archipelagoes that broke free of the mass of forest dominating the inland reaches. Scattered off the shore and decorated with resilient pines they floated off a mainlands eyeline that was adorned with tiny coves with smatterings of cottages. Petit sandy beaches were hidden and almost always empty. The tranquillity of one particular spot was only enhanced by the touch of human presence. A sole fisherman emerged from the only wood-panelled house in eyesight, complete with waterproofs. As the engine of his outboard fired up a gaggle of seagulls rose as from nowhere and hovered above the boat as he rumbled at a pedestrian pace into the middle of the tiny bay. Of the course of half an hour, he rhythmically gathered in his nets ignoring the Hungry rabble above his head. At the last, his scraps and but the seagulls finest cuts are cast aside and gleefully accepted in a chorus of shrill cries of thanks.

[robpalmertravels-blog]

North through Sweden

Pinewood barns and homes of faded burgundy and mustard yellow sit up meadows of buttercups, dandelions and cow parsley where long-horned cattle lie, relaxing in the afternoon sun as it massages their hides. A bullock bathes in the wide river, water rising up to its belly, cooling. The river moves around a bend and I another into the deep pine woods that stretch for over 1000 km.

Moss clings to the bare rock beneath the pines giving off a dull greyish green glow in the evening light that clings to the lower branches. The light moves between the trees revealing the creatures that lie in waiting there. Mosquitoes, growing in number as I moved north levitate, rising from the ground for their evening meal. Never wanting to wait long enough to present myself as the main course I continued ever onwards, with a multitude of hungry eyes trailing behind.

As the northward road continued the evening light lingered a little longer every day, I passed through during Midsummer, which allows for quite a celebration in a place whose northern districts are wrapped in perpetual darkness for much of the year. There is a form of freedom in the lengthening days. As the natural structure that we are used to eeks away you can move at your own speed; waking, eating and sleeping without the feeling that time is being lost. This was a  situation I happily abused over many lazy mornings and late starts. Riding late into the evening on roads evermore empty. On an occasion that I rode past midnight through the river landscape of the Färnebofjärden National Park, I listened to my legs which shaking form tiredness told me it was now time to lay back and close my eyes. My ambition to sleep in the open parkland hut proved misplaced as no sooner than I started drifting into semi-consciousness than the familiar vibrations of tiny wings greeted my ears. After a heated debate, I eventually volunteered to set up my tent and leave the hut to the mosquitoes, with the sky now bright at 2.15 am. A trout thumped into the flat of the river as I closed my eyes.

[robpalmertravels-blog]

An Unexpected Host

Having arrived into Rotterdam several days previously I had so far been making my way east, through the Biesboch National park, an area of former agricultural land that had been given over to the sea, and then northeast towards the German Border. Two evenings previous I had crossed paths with a group a friendly Czechs who, unblinking,  thrust the delights of cheap wine and good hash towards me as we shared a fire on the north side of the Boven Merwede. Fast forward two days and the weather had changed to a damp drizzle that didn't feel like abating as I wove my way towards the town of Deventer, with the hope of locating a free camping place to the northeast.

An Overcast and humid day, regulating my temperature and sweating through the miles had put me in a fairly sour mood which matured into a frown as the rain started to fall and the evening light grew dimmer. I arrived at Deventer at 8pm with the intention of skirting it to the east and making my way up to the camping place. Crossing the bridge that marked the entrance to the town few people were to be seen, another of the windmills that I had passed on previous days lay on the approach and a gothic spire protruded from the top of the roofs on the other side. A cyclist drifted towards me from the other side of the bridge bright yellow anorak keeping the damp air at bay. We slipped past, just as two ships in the night and an empty bridge stared at me once more. At that moment, shouting, for behind. I stop, “at me”? I turn and the lady, as it turns out, who had past me had stopped and was shouting something nondescript in Dutch. My instincts were defensive initially, “what have I done” but there were overturned by the tone of her voice. Not shouting, but calling, enquiring. Sensing friendliness I stopped. She called towards me again and we edge back towards each other across the empty bridge. Returning her calls with that awfully predictable response, “do you speak English” we began to speak. Thick rimmed glasses accompany the yellow anorak from which an auburn hair is just visible and a friendly smile. Without hesitation she continues, “you have somewhere to stay for the night, you need somewhere”? Momentarily silenced by the chance of this encounter I explained my situation. We began to cycle back the direction I had come and almost as soon as I had asked where she lived we turned off the bridge, dipped underneath and ran along the river downstream. She points ahead to the old mill I had passed on my way over the bridge, “just here”.    Melise and her partner Rob had recently moved into the house accompanying the mill, where her parents had lived as her father had maintained the mill. Adapting to life outside of their native Amsterdam Rob was a wood craftsman by trade and had taken on the commitment of maintaining the laborious task of maintaining the mill. The mysteries of this time capsule would, he admitted, never fully reveal themselves. As this was explained to me through a tour of the interior I attempted to listen closely as the roles of the working parts were thoroughly explained. Needless to say, most of these disappear out of my mind almost as soon as they entered. I continued to nod engagingly and threw out the occasional question to confirm that I had fully received the information currently drifting out of the window. As the intricacies of the mill were revealed I couldn’t help but think of the coincidence of my meeting with Melise, a few minutes either side… As Rob continued to take me higher up the mill pointing out how the machine turned into the wind, Melise and their tabby cat Topolina followed behind. She gamely slipped between the woodwork, deftly moving up above us and tiptoeing along with the huge wooden cogs at the summit of the interior before calmly resting upon them and looking back down upon us, contented. This was her kingdom, she moved as though she knew every corner, every place where a likely meal was hidden. As we moved around the outside level, 15ft or so above the ground she padded along the tiles below us observing the ground with keen eyes. Still trying to memorise everything around me to put into writing at a later time Melise showed me a garden house complete with a king size mattress in which I could stay. Pleased with this upturn in events I quickly changed and made my way to the house where they were discussing their plans for the next days as they reclined on the sofa sharing a joint. They were so relaxed about me being there I was quite amazed. 

As it turned out they had taken in couchsurfers before and so she'd recognised my predicament. In my mind, this doesn't take anything away from an unusual and great show of generosity, which didn't stop at a place to sleep and an insight into their lives at the mill. Told to take anything I wanted from the fridge and shown around the town itself I left with feeling a lucky man to have crossed their paths.