Ken's Blog

Emma’s low maintenance. One of the reasons I like her so much. But after close on five thousand miles this year, three thousand of which spent crossing Europe, a proper wash and brush up was in order. Fit winter tyres. Maybe even a bit of pampering. Actually, my plan was two-fold. Firstly, to see just exactly how well she’s wearing. That way I can re-assess my field kit, both the tools I carry and the spares outfit I hold. Secondly, in a way because she is just such low maintenance, an opportunity to refresh my own skills. Of course, working on Mitko’s bike had been a great help.

I’ve been busy compiling some pretty comprehensive notes – things I’ve learnt, problems I’ve solved – together with a detailed specification and parts inventory for Emma. Very helpful to me, and I hope to anyone else thinking of undertaking a similar venture. Quite a bit more time-consuming than I’d imagined, but I hope to make it available for download via the website shortly, if that’s your sort of thing.

Ordinarily I’d have done quite a bit of this before I’d left home, but simply ran out of time. That’s the trouble with going away for four years. Lots to do. Lots. And I was never going to miss my first goal, getting away on the chosen date.

Left brain, right brain. I can never remember. Whichever it is, I do struggle with languages. Not that I don’t try of course. But it’s definitely enthusiasm over ability. And quite a bit of smiling. Logically, and that’s more my thing, I should be able to do better. After all, met lots of people who speak English as a second language. And do so very well. I’d watched Julie, my guide and mentor here in the village, chat away with the Bulgarians. She’d moved here a few years ago and just got on with it. And, fair to say, like me, languages probably weren’t her thing at school. She’d shown me the art of the possible.

Time helps, provided you use that to immerse yourself into everyday life, learning to deal with the day-to-day challenges. Unfortunately, I’ve rarely been in a country for more than a few weeks, a month at the most. Turkey should be a bit different. Couple of months, maybe a bit more. And I’ve a decent phrase book to get me started. Much better than my small Eastern European one. Which did each one not very well, and skipped Serbian.

But South and Central America’s another matter. Spanish. For months. Reckon even I’ll become fairly proficient by the end. Myles, with whom I’d cycled from Sofia eastwards across Bulgaria, had spent some time living in South America and suggested it would be worth a month’s crash course, living with a Spanish speaking family. I’d liked the idea, and the costs sounded very reasonable.

But, for now, I was in Bulgaria. Julie had been helping me improve my pronunciation. ’Dobra den’ not ’Dobra dan’ for ’Good day’. But I’d steer clear of asking for the bill in a cafe. ’Smetka’ – ’The bill’ – can be easily mistaken for ’Smatka’ – ’Stupid’ – unless you’re very careful. Best left alone. Unless you want to say ’The bill, stupid’.

Whenever I’m asked what I’m eating in a given country, my stock answer is that it’s always whatever the locals are having. I really try not to sound too flippant, too rude. There is, after all, a really great place for fine traditional English cuisine. That’d be England. However, nothing wrong with the odd reminder of home. I’d Yorkshire tea bags from my parents, there’d even been a Christmas pudding.

I’d heard the nearby town of Elhovo, high up in the hills of eastern Bulgaria, was popular with English ex-pats. Seen a few about, but not many. So I was a little surprised when I’d joined Julie, my guide and mentor, and Mitko for lunch in a cafe in the centre. Presented with a menu in English. Very comprehensive. Not exactly British, but chicken pieces fried in corn flakes sounded good.

We headed out to a mini-market, run by Nicky and Nanette, a little outside of the centre. She’s Scottish, he’s Bulgarian, and their son Michael is bilingual. Outside, smart. Inside, ordered, the shelves neatly stacked with provisions. And stocked with a few luxuries from home. Like custard powder. After Eight mints. Pork and leek sausages. Aberdeenshire bacon. With a little notice, there probably wasn’t much they couldn’t get hold of.

A few days later I’d joined Julie and her partner George for Toad in the Hole. Always went down a treat with the locals, although I did wonder what they made of the name. There was even proper gravy, creamy mash and home made garlic bread. Reckoned Nicky and Nanette had probably had a hand in sourcing the ingredients.

Then there was the tempting offer of Julie’s other specialities, flapjack and bread pudding, before I returned to the road. Evoked strong memories of home. I’d often made flapjack, and my good friend and neighbour Jon could bake a bread pudding to die for. Of course, he’d deny he could cook. Always did, despite a compelling body of evidence to the contrary. Award winning bread in the local fete, first prize in the village pudding competition. Probably have a Michelin Star by the time I got back.

Earlier in the year I’d visited three of the centres run in the UK by The Outward Bound Trust. Inspiring. Both the students and the instructors. So I’d leapt at the chance to drop in on Outward Bound Bulgaria. Their’s is a small, dedicated team, led by Katyusha Pavlova, operating out of an office in central Sofia. I’d met Katyusha in a park. We’d grabbed a coffee. We chatted about what I’d seen of the UK operation. She talked a little of where they were, the challenges they faced, who they worked with.

The office was in a quiet street, a few blocks off the capital’s main shopping thoroughfare. Just a couple of floors, staff room and kit store rolled into one. The Outward Bound logo and motto on the wall. Through the day I was joined by a two of instructors, Ogy and Pavel, who, fortunately, like Katyusha, spoke good English. Some fascinating insights, and an opportunity for me to share a few ideas of my own.

I returned to the office the following evening, a chance for some of the instructors to sit down with Katyusha and discuss plans and ideas. Might as easily have been a staff meeting at Aberdovey, Ullswater or Loch Eil, or another of The Outward Bound Trust’s UK centres.

That was it. Something Dewi, who’d taught me the art of cycle maintenance, had mentioned. Nothing to be dreaded more than when someone brings you a bike they’ve already had a go at fixing. Apart from, of course, someone claims it was their friend who’d tried. I’d been asked if I’d take a look at Mitko’s bicycle. Delighted of course. Fixing these things is the one skill I do carry on the road, a means to help repay people’s hospitality whenever the opportunity arises. Besides, he’d struck me to be such a good-natured chap, it’d be a real pleasure. You really couldn’t do anything but want to help.

It had taken quite a while just to clean the bike up. Chipping caked on mud, set hard, out of the gears. I’d known they didn’t work, and the brakes needed replacing. Lots of play in the steering, similarly with the pedals. Would have been a great instructional piece. At least the handlebars looked straight. With the help of Julie, an English lady in the village with a garage full of tools, a bike shop in the nearby town of Elhovo, and a bag of parts Mitko had found for me, work could finally begin.

At home you’d probably throw the machine away, pop down to your local bike shop and pick up another, all for less than one hundred quid. But that’s the UK. And this is Bulgaria. I’d sourced the parts for less than six Leva – about three pounds. I’d decided the best thing to do was to strip it right down. It had taken a while – there’d been some serious over tightening going on, and someone had tried to chisel the pedals off. But I’d got there in the end, even managed to remove the seat post, notorious for getting jammed solid.

Two days later I’d reassembled the bike, fitted new brakes, repositioned the saddle to a less eye-watering angle. Even managed get five or so of the gears working, which, considering the amount of play in the pedals and frame, I’d been quietly pleased with. But what really mattered was what Mitko made of it. He’d looked absolutely delighted when he’d come to collect the bike. That was more than enough for me. But then, half an hour later, a knock at the door. Some minor adjustments needed, I thought. No. He’d brought me a box of chocolates.

I’d woken early. Sensed the bedroom was much cooler than normal. I’d peered out through the blinds. Snow. Three or four inches, still falling fast. In the still, early morning air generous quantities were balanced precariously on the branches of nearby trees. After weeks of unusually mild conditions, winter had finally caught up with me.

Cup of tea. Hot toast and a thick layer of honey. Fire up the woodstove. It was barely light outside, but I felt the need to mark the occasion, to hunker down for winter proper. Found myself checking the refrigerator. Enough milk, eggs and bread? I doubted if the Bulgarians ever worried themselves with such things. They’d be very used to this.

After breakfast I’d an idea. A fresh video for the website, and a short piece for Alex and Emily, who’s parents had kindly let me make use of their house here in the village. Then into the village proper, my first attempt at capturing snow scenes with the camera.

Back at the house, I’d had a good rummage under the sink. Knew that’s where I’d find a small stock of spirits. For medicinal purposes of course. Yep. No more than forty percent proof. I’d suspected as much. So, at over fifty percent, that’d make the local home made tipple, Rakia, more akin to rocket fuel. As if to reinforce this, a little had been poured into a metal dish and lit. Burnt for quite a while. Clean blue flame.

Earlier, before things became a trifle misty, I’d been invited into the home of Donka and George, a Bulgarian couple who lived across the village from where I was staying. Ushered into their living room, along one wall a bed that doubled as a sofa, a dining table, a television, sideboard and display cabinet. Off to one side, a small kitchen. Immaculate. Cosy. But that’s the whole idea. A single space to heat.

Together with Julie, my English guide and mentor in the village, we’d popped in for coffee. Then George had produced his home made Rakia and red wine. I was very curious about the Rakia, supposedly a cure-all for a variety of ailments. Bee stings, chesty cough, anything really. Tasted a bit like whisky. Despite my best efforts to indicate just a drop would suffice, I’d been given a very generous shot. But I’d drunk it all, which seemed to have pleased George. Seems not everyone did. And then I’d washed it down with a glass of his home made wine, a mere twelve percent.

My curiosity about the relative strength of Rakia satisfied, I’d retreated back upstairs and the soothing warmth of the woodstove. Laid out on the sofa, still aglow from George’s tipple, a chance to contemplate the first hundred days of the expedition. I’d spent the first night with friends in a pub on Dartmoor, cosy and warm after a tough, wet, windswept initiation. Today, very different surroundings, but also in the company of some very hospitable people.

But had I achieved what I’d set out to? I thought so. The aim was always to cross Europe by the end of the year, ready to tackle Asia in 2010. Three thousand miles ridden, a week or so to Istanbul. Quietly confident I’d have it in the bag.

Grip it firmly, he’d said, then squeeze, don’t pull. I’d joined George and his mother milking their small herd of cows. I counted about ten, not all in milk, a couple expecting their first calves in the spring. I’d been quite pleased with my efforts, until George took over. I’d managed barely a dribble. But I’d enjoyed having a go, and said so. True, if a little less than tactful. Quickly realising my mistake, I added that doing this twice a day, every day, in all weathers, was an entirely different affair.

We left Zoya, George’s mother, busy with their milking machine, and headed out into the darkness to feed a calf in a nearby shed. Two litres of milk gone in less than a minute. Elsewhere, goats, kept for their meat. A bull, resting. A calf and a few pigs, being fattened for Christmas.

Seems he’d made his own gun. Gone off into the woods with it, together with his dog. Poaching apparently. But, whatever the reason, he’d rested his homemade weapon on the ground beside him. Pointing, presumably, at his leg. Or at least it was when his dog inadvertently discharged it. He’d laid there several days before being found, and consequently had to have leg amputated below the knee. But it didn’t end there. Not sure what he made of hospital food, but I’d be fairly certain it was better than the stuff you’d find in prison. Which is where he ended up when eventually released from hospital. Not sure about his best friend.

As I entered an old man limped slowly past me, towards the toilet. I held open the door for him, not wishing to impede his progress, but it was already too late. Inside, the woman behind the counter shrugged, then disappeared briefly to fetch a mop and bucket. I found a table in the corner and waited for her to finish cleaning up. The television took centre stage against one wall of the cafe come bar. The folk dancing channel. Loud, intrusive but not oppressive. Above the counter, pin-ups. Big hair and leg-warmers. A little colour in an otherwise drab hall, save for the curtains. They’d once been red.

Cleaning complete, I ordered a coffee. It was instant, but made with water heated on the hot plate of a coffee percolator. I was now the only customer. The woman from behind the counter busied herself, clearing tables of empty plastic cups, wiping down the tops. She looked at me briefly, smiled, and carried on. My drink finished, I decided to find the village shop. I nodded to the woman and left.

Like the bar I’d just left, the shop was fairly spartan. A few basics. After the obligatory purchases I headed back across the village square. Another shop, next to the bar, closed. I’d missed it earlier. Its shelves looked equally devoid of all but the essentials. There was an old wooden bench outside. I sat down for a while in the warm winter sun. A few dogs barking. An old lady wandered into the bar I’d left earlier. Goats, the herds woman following up slowly behind. A simple life.