Waiting in the house were some parcels. Winter tyres for Emma. And some treats for me. A small Christmas pudding. Looked strange alongside my staple of tinned fish. And Yorkshire teabags. For a Lancastrian. I’d always known life on the road would entail some tough compromises….
Finally, after three months and three thousand miles, it was time for Emma and I to come off the road for just a few weeks. A chance to reflect, consider lessons learnt, a wash and brush up for my trusty steed, prepare for Asia next year. And see something of life in a small Bulgarian village.
I thought the house imposing. Warmly painted on the outside, I was greeted inside by an already lit woodstove. A generous stock of provisions to get me started. Fresh fruit and vegetables, bread, cheese, milk and eggs. A comfortable bed. Hot shower. Ample space to spread my things out. No need to keep a constant watch over all my possessions. Couldn’t ask for more. And Emma seemed quite chuffed. Had a room to herself. Downstairs mind.
Europe wasn’t quite in the bag, although close, about five or six more days riding to reach Istanbul and Asia. But for me, reaching the house had always been an important goal. As Emma and I pulled up at the gates I actually gave the handlebars a little pat. She’d done well. Celebrations were a simple affair. Cheese on toast. Tea with fresh milk. And I’d found a Chronicles of Narnia DVD in the cupboard. Life was good.
Some people. No sense of humour. He’d stepped out in front of me, holding up his Police ’STOP’ paddle. I’d complied of course, no choice really, wasn’t going anywhere quickly. Fifty kilometres of steady climbing up from Harmanli to Topolovgrad, the occasional short downhill respite, had seen to that. Was I speeding, I asked. Not even a glimmer of a smile. He wanted to know where I was going. Towards Elhovo I explained. I was free to go.
My instinct to remain unexpectedly in Harmanli overnight had been right. I’d never have made it to Topolovgrad by nightfall, never mind my eventual destination, a small village near Elhovo, up in the Bulgarian hills close to the Turkish border. I left Harmanli under the same thick blanket of fog I’d been greeted with as I’d approached the previous day. Then, suddenly, after about ten kilometres of steady climb, brilliant sunshine.
I’d been attempting to reach the small village of Cerepovo, in readiness for being interviewed live on the 10 Radio Saturday morning breakfast show. Hadn’t quite made it. Had to pull up short at the side of the road as my phone rang. Strange I thought. I’d visited the small studio back in Somerset before I left for an interview, my first experience of radio. Could picture it with great clarity, as I could Anton the presenter and Jon, my good friend and neighbour. He’d be interviewing me today. In contrast to their more compact surroundings, I was gazing out across vineyards, sat astride my bike, in the unusually warm winter sun.
The interview complete, I’d continued my push up to Topolovgrad, which my fairly useless map had suggested, quite correctly for once, might be the highest point of the day. My encounter with the Police over, it’d been a swift descent towards Elhovo. Popular with English expatriates I’d been told. But I was off to a small village nearby. Friends had a house there which, very generously, they’d offered me the use of. Chance to relax, to reflect on the journey across Europe, and prepare for entry into Asia.
I’d clear directions and a good road, reaching the village as the light began to fade. Quiet I thought. Two women wandered up, pushing prams. They offered to help. I thanked them, but explained an English lady living close by would be meeting me shortly. She arrived a little time later, Emma and I giving chase to her 4 x 4 as she led the way to the house. Last burst of energy for a while.
[You can listen live to 10 Radio via the web at 10Radio.org – look out on my website for details of the next interview]
Independent traveller? Long haul cyclist? Wasn’t sure how best to describe myself. Maybe a bit of both. Whatever the answer was, I’d not met anyone undertaking a venture similar to mine. I’d heard of others on the road, a country or two ahead, maybe one behind, but hadn’t actually run into anyone. Then Myles. He’d left the UK a day ahead of me, but had followed a very different route across Western Europe. It was not until south of Budapest that our paths had begun to touch, albeit separated by a week or so. He’d heard of my mission at a hostel I’d stayed in back in Novi Sad, Serbia, and had got in touch.
Realising we were both heading for Sofia, although by very different routes, we agreed to meet up. Perhaps, at first, just curious as to what sort of person the other was. But we’d hit it off over lunch and had decided to ride together, for a few days at least. We were, after all, both heading in the same direction towards the Turkish border.
I’d ridden with Manfred and Ute back in Bavaria. Great fun. But with Myles it was different. Shared experiences borne of three months or so trekking across Europe. Serbian dogs. The nightly hunt for somewhere to stay. Language difficulties. Even the fun of buying a ferry ticket across the Danube in southern Hungary. Myles had read my post on that one. It had struck a chord for him, which was reassuring for me. Good to know I wasn’t alone in encountering these little challenges.
Riding together had been simplicity itself. Both knew exactly what was required, what to look out for on the road to be safe. Lots of things that didn’t need to be said. We just did them. Similar strategies to locate a bed for the night. Not that there wasn’t plenty of things we could learn from each other. There was lots. But it was really about refinement. I suggested that if you could cross Europe you’d have sufficient experience to be able to continue far beyond. Different challenges. Yes. But we’d both already solved an awful lot, no reason why we couldn’t continue to do so, whatever they might be.
[You can follow Myles’ blog at http://www.mylesaway.wordpress.com]
The plan was simple enough. Myles and I would ride east together to Dimitrovgrad, stop the night and then go our separate ways the next day. He’d head for the Turkish border and Istanbul, I’d divert north for a while to stay at a friend’s house. Thirty kilometres or so outside Plovdiv we’d switch from the main road to the quieter roads and lanes. This would avoid the heavier traffic we expected once the motorway that ran parallel came to an abrupt end.
It started well enough. Good progress to the village of Poppvica. Lunch. The familiar Bulgarian ’Shopska’ salad. We then branched off the main road, a more direct route to Dimitrovgrad. No sign of the first turning we’d expected to see. Asking for directions always got the same response – head back to the main road. We persevered, determined to follow our plan. Two hours later, conscious of only a few hours of daylight remaining, we found ourselves back on the main road, just thirteen kilometres from where we’d left it.
Traffic wasn’t too bad. Not the large motorway over-spill we’d expected. Besides, we hadn’t any choice. We took it in turns to lead, setting the pace and allowing the other to rest a bit in the slipstream. Then a motel. It looked closed. It was. But a helpful lorry driver explained that there was another about five kilometres further on. Final push as the light began to fade. He was spot on. We’d not made Dimitrovgrad as hoped, but we’d a decent place to stay.
Over dinner we re-assessed our plans. We’d continue on together the next day to the town of Harmanli, about seventy kilometres from the Turkish border, and part company there. Leaving promptly after breakfast, we made good time, taking it in turns to set a very respectable, steady pace, despite the many long, drawn-out climbs.
(Photo Myles Mellor)
Then fog, on the long descent into Harmanli. Thick. Fifty metres visibility, maybe less. Condensation on my glasses made it even harder to follow the road, always wary of potholes. Eventually reaching the town, a visit to the cash point led to a chance encounter with Shirley. Together with husband Martin, she ran a campsite nearby. They’d moved here from the UK four years previously. Over lunch in a local cafe we explained our respective missions. We were joined a little later by Martin and a few friends.
Myles and I contemplated our next move. The fog had slowed progress somewhat, thwarting our respective ambitious plans for the day. I’d learnt that the road north into the hills was not good, a long climb up to the town of Topolovgrad fifty kilometres away. Daylight was not on my side. Decision. Remain in Harmanli overnight. Start again fresh in the morning.
Myles and I reached Plovdiv, the old Bulgarian Capital, with a couple of hours of light left. Tidy outskirts. A dedicated cycle lane, even if the kerbstones at road junctions were high enough to dismount the unwary. In the centre cobbled streets. Clean, well kept. We headed for the old walled city where we knew we’d find a travellers hostel.
Encountering a busy road junction, we decided on using the underpass. It had steps, together with a smooth metal cycle ramp. Fine for descent, but not enough grip to get the bike and all the kit up the other side. Until a woman came to my rescue. We didn’t just get up the other side, we flew.
(Photo Myles Mellor)
We found a small hostel with an impressive view across the city. Our room was in the roof, the ceiling sloping, a mattress each on the floor. Quirky. And ample space for our bags, a little more security than in the adjacent dormitory.
Wandering down into the city that evening, a pedestrian shopping area much more like something you’d find in Western Europe. Some familiar high street names. Unexpected.
Beyond Kostenec the road east ran steadily downhill, following the railway line along the valley towards the old Bulgarian Capital of Plovdiv. A train went past, the driver waving to us. Good progress. Uneventful. Then the small town of Belovo. On the outskirts they were stacked high on the pavement. Further in, shops full of them. Nothing else. Some businesses appeared to be temporary. Whilst stocks lasted. Toilet rolls. Kitchen rolls. Nappies. Many different colours. Looked like a lorry load to me.
Then swift progress to the sizeable town of Pazardzik, already more than half way towards the evening’s stop at Plovdiv. Early lunch and a chance for Myles and I to study our respective maps. Debatable who had the least useful map. Both big on scale, small on detail. Comes of having the entire country on a single sheet, together with swathes of Romania, Serbia, Macedonia, Greece and Turkey. You could have a stab at pronouncing place names – shown using the familiar Latin alphabet – but marrying them up to Cyrillic road signs was a bit more tricky. On a plus, you could go days without re-folding the sheet.
There was definitely a hard shoulder. We’d seen a car miss a junction and reverse some way up it. And we’d checked with the Police. Yes, cycling along the motorway – the main road artery across Bulgaria towards Turkey – was permitted, even if not recommended. I’d joined forces in Sofia with Myles, a fellow long-haul cyclist from the UK, on his way to Istanbul. We joked about tossing a coin, the loser riding at the rear.
Just a few miles to cover, traffic light, the road surface good. Far better than many of the more minor routes. Besides, the alternative was a detour that would cost us a day or so. Soon onto the old main road, mostly following the motorway, we reached the town of Kostenec and an overnight stop. At first it hadn’t looked promising, and then we realised we were on the wrong side of the tracks. Literally.
Eventually finding the town centre, we sought directions to a cheap hotel from a shop keeper. We’d only a rough idea of what she was saying. Sensing this, she telephoned a friend in Serbia who spoke good English and got her to translate directions. We were, with the best of intentions, being guided to the best hotel, some way out of town, or at least to the one described as ’the better one’. So that would mean there was another establishment, more likely closer. It would soon be dark. We thanked the lady and headed off.
Safely out of sight, we asked a passer-by if there is a place to stay nearby. A young boy appeared on his bike and offered to escort us to a small hotel a few streets away. It was immaculate, modern. And about £7.50.
I’d been escorted out of Vraca by the local Police. Nothing to do with the women I’d spotted the previous day. I’d simply looked a bit lost and they’d offered to help. They’d led the way. Blue lights. Bit tricky keeping up mind, especially with the potholes.
A swift downhill run along the dual carriageway to Mesdra. Saturday so traffic bearable. Then off along a quieter valley road, following the river Iskar, deep through the mountains to Sofia. Jagged limestone cliffs, sandstone outcrops. At first winding through narrow tunnels, precipitous drops into the gorge below.
Later the valley broadens out a bit, still the towering cliffs. A few villages. The odd quarry. Industrial in places. But still very beautiful. The road wanders about, occasionally following the railway line alongside the river, otherwise climbing steeply along the hillsides, then plunging back down. Hard riding in the bright autumnal sun.
Progress is steady but much slower than I’d like. I reach the outskirts of Sofia at sunset. Busy roads now. Football fans flooding out of the stadium, chaotic, but a reassuringly strong Police presence. My usual search for the city centre, and a place to stay, is made more tricky by the Cyrillic alphabet. Informed guesswork, little bit of German with a passer-by and I find a hostel. Much later than I’d usually like – it’s been dark for a while – but after such a glorious day in the mountains I really don’t mind.
Did I want a cigarette? A beer perhaps? I indicated I didn’t smoke, and just one lunchtime drink and I’d be asleep. I’d stopped in the small village of Doktor Josifovo, thirsty, having spotted a small cafe. Three elderly gentlemen, relaxing on an unusually warm November day, had beckoned me over. Their’s was a kind gesture so we settled on a bottle of a well-known soft drink.
The morning had gone well. Clear skies. Bright sunshine. Bit of a climb up from the previous night’s hotel, but then, quite suddenly, sweeping plains, mountains on the horizon, a light dusting of snow. But that was tomorrow’s challenge, finding a route through to the capital, Sofia.
Ever conscious of limited daylight, I’d drunk up as quickly as I might without offending my hosts. Then on to the town of Montana. Like Vidin, industrial. Ageing tenement blocks. A brief stop to withdraw some money. Bulgaria was, I’d been told, essentially a cash economy. Then on towards the town of Vraca for the night.
No option but to take the national route. Forty kilometres. Very warm. I was strangely grateful for frequent passing lorries and their, albeit brief, buffeting. Long, steady climbs, similarly lengthy descents. Rhythmic. Only the occasional woman at the roadside to break the monotony. At first I thought they might be hitch-hiking, wanting to be picked up. Suppose they did. Short skirts, boots, flimsy tops. I waved and pressed on. It would soon be dark.