Ken's Blog

I’d been introduced to the world of the budget hostel back in Bratislava, Slovakia. For around ten Euros a night – about ten pounds these days – you’d be forgiven for imagining unkempt, unloved establishments, mattresses with a life of their own, tolerable simply because you can’t afford anything better. Well, you’d be wrong. Dare say there are one or two like that, and standards do vary a bit, but they’re now my first choice for an overnight stop. And much better than most of the more traditional hostels I’d used in Germany and Austria.

Surprising? Not really. Most of the clientele are twenty-something travellers, largely middle class, educated, discerning types. There are a few websites to help you locate hostels, but for the most part they rely on word of mouth, often flyers left in hostels in adjacent countries. Reputation is everything.

The hostels I’ve stayed in really understand their market. Lots of travellers carry netbooks, so WiFi’s a must. Nobody likes a wet towel in their backpack, so they’re always included. A small kitchen to help you keep costs down. Lockers to keep your possessions secure. Some even include breakfast, which can be quite substantial. No quibbling over portion sizes.

Always clean, most have appealing decor, even if the apartment block they’re housed in has seen much better days. You feel very safe inside. And friendly, helpful staff. English is the working language in this world. Essential if you want the custom. And great for conversing with fellow travellers, sharing experiences and advice, places we’ve stayed or visited.

Quite a few places don’t have a check-out time, and you can arrive when you want. This puzzled me for a while, until I realised that many travellers use the cheaper overnight trains and buses to get about. New arrivals at seven in the morning are quite common, as are late evening departures.

The hostels I’ve used have been very understanding about the bicycle, always finding somewhere to secure Emma. The sixth floor of an apartment block can be a bit tricky, but you’ll be amazed what you can get in a rickety old lift if you have to.

Bit of creativity – and a mop in the corner- and you can even find somewhere to help Emma scrub up a bit. Pick a quiet time of the day, scrupulously clean up afterwards, and nobody minds. Or notices.

A brief overnight stop in the city of Novi Sad, then on to the capital, Belgrade. I was tiring of the incessant mud, and it wasn’t limited to just the cycle way. I’d about a hundred kilometres to cover and really didn’t relish the idea of arriving in the dark, especially as I’d only a rough idea as to where the hostel for the next few days might be.

So I decided to take a direct road route. It was a Sunday morning so I hoped it would be relatively quiet. The rain had returned once more, persistent. A long, drawn climb made for slow progress in the first few hours. At least they’d be a good downhill run. There was, but endless potholes and unforgiving traffic thwarted my efforts to make up time.

As I crept towards the capital, progress improved. The roads were much better, even if the traffic wasn’t. Through the suburbs, nondescript, then onto a wide boulevard, past a vast Communist era hotel. Deserted now. Then a helpful city street map at a bus stop. I soon reached the central coach station, quickly locating my hostel. Just brief interlude to chat to yet another friendly Police officer. Such nice chaps.

The journey from Backa Palanka to the city of Novi Sad, had been refreshingly pleasant. The scenery hadn’t been great, the same old fields for the most part, but a few more trees. But it had been dry. And short.

A chance to look briefly around Backa Palanka in the daylight. It had a warmth I’d found lacking in Sombor a few days earlier. People I wandered passed seemed less drawn to stare. More likely I was simply getting used to being in a new country, one quite unlike any I’d already passed through.

The city of Novi Sad was pleasant enough, in the centre at least. I’d arrived in daylight, passing some dreadful looking tenements on the outskirts, a few tented encampments of homeless people. Not somewhere you’d stop to take a photograph. I’d a hostel booked, a bed for me on the third floor of an old apartment block and a cellar for the bicycle. A strange smell in the stairwell, but another friendly welcome from Miki the owner.

There it was on the menu – Drumska Lepohca – helpfully translated as ’Road Beauty’. One could only imagine what it might be. I’d skip. I’d seen the roads. Plumped instead for the stuffed Serbian hamburger. Delicious, especially after such a challenging day.

I’d checked the map the previous evening and was sure Apatin to the town of Backa Palanka was about eighty kilometres. However, it soon became apparent from the signs en route it was closer to a hundred and fifty kilometres – about one hundred miles. A few small villages, the odd small shop, but otherwise absolutely nothing. The cycle track had stretches of heavy, greasy mud, a struggle to get traction. The incessant rain didn’t help. Sometimes it seemed to ease for a while, or I just didn’t notice it so much. Hard to tell.

The terrain – marshland or flat, open and exposed fields – didn’t lend itself to wild camping save in dire emergency. Besides, with the Danube forming the border with Croatia, and a noticeable police presence, pitching the tent didn’t seem wise. In the afternoon I’d briefly diverted a few hundred metres off the route to the ferry crossing to the Croatian town of Vukovar, looking for shelter to get out of the rain of just a moment. Found a spot, a small wooden building with an overhanging roof. And if I’d gone around to the front, I’d have realised it was a Police post. They were terribly nice about it – permitted me to remain whilst it was raining. I thanked them. Not that I had any intention of moving.

A few hours of daylight left and about sixty kilometres remaining. I ploughed on. Muddy tracks were replaced by empty, straight roads across flat, open fields. Bleak. Just the potholes to break up the monotony. As the light began to fade I came across a bus shelter besides some ramshackle agricultural buildings. A brief stop. I was being watched. A security guard stood in the doorway of his small hut across the road. After a short while he beckoned me over. Ushering me inside, he offered me a seat by the roaring woodstove. I reciprocated with some chocolate, but he preferred one of his cigarettes. We sat for a while, watching Trevor Eve in a subtitled episode of ’Waking the Dead’ on an old black and white TV. Much preferred him as Eddie Shoestring.

The guard tapped his watch. He knew I was heading for Backa Palanka and would need to press on. I nodded, thanked him for his hospitality, and headed off once more into the driving rain. It was soon dark, some twenty or so kilometres remaining. Busy roads now. Ride too close in and a risk of being dismounted by the potholes, too far out and there’s the traffic to contend with. My lights keep me visible, but don’t help with working out where the road goes. I rely on night vision, regularly disrupted by oncoming traffic. Glad it’s finally stopped raining.

Then the outskirts of Backa Palanka. Finally. I head for the centre, the familiar search for accommodation. I’m in luck. A sign for ’Rooms’. A small hotel with somewhere discrete for the bike. Reasonably priced meals in the restaurant. Hot food and a hot shower. Another warm welcome.

Pronounced o layg.paar.naash ho.yawm te.le von on.gawl.naa.vol, the title may be more familiar to fans of Monty Python’s Hungarian phrase book sketch – it translates as ’my hovercraft is full of eels’. Fortunately I’d no cause to use it, but perhaps it gives a sense of just how different Magyar – Hungarian – is to Western European languages. A completely different grammatical structure. Challenging my pocket book said. An example. Whereas we would emphasize particular words to indicate the most important part of a sentence, Magyar has a much more fluid approach to the construction of phrases, placing the key words at the beginning. I’d found this conceptual variation at once quite fascinating, but equally very daunting. Not a hope.

Fortunately, my abysmal German had sufficed to help me get by. My efforts in Germany and Austria had invariably led to people conversing with me in English, and so, ironically, I’d ended up speaking more German in Hungary than in both the other countries combined. Despite these challenges, I’d thoroughly enjoyed my time in Hungary – some testing days, but they also tended to be the most satisfying. Budapest at night a truly beautiful city.

I’d heard Hungarians had a love of paprika, in a way you might suggest northerners like myself would enjoy tripe and black pudding. But they do. Found a TV channel devoted entirely to recipes with the stuff. I began to notice salt and paprika condiment sets on tables. This was a country moving forward, or at least the familiar supermarket chains had moved in. Remnants of the Communist era were gradually being purged. Just the odd Trabant remaining. Delivery took about ten years, but, judging from those I’d found like the one pictured below, they seemed to last quite well.

Just one thing had eluded – their most famous export – the Rubik Cube – or Magic Cube – not a single sighting. Disappeared without trace.

The crossing point was deserted. Had to hunt around for a Hungarian border guard. A disinterested nod and I was free to cross into the Republic of Serbia. Not sure what I was expecting. Not the warm welcome I received. Genuine curiosity at what I was doing. ’I have items I wish to declare for temporary importation. I have a list.’ I explained. ’That won’t be necessary, you have a computer perhaps?’ advised one of the Serbian border guards in very good English. ’Yes’ I replied, and gave him one of my cards with details of the website. He looked pleased. And I had an entry stamp in my passport.

I’d not exactly describe Hungary as prosperous, but in comparison to Serbia it was. A few kilometres beyond the border and the road began to deteriorate. And there was the fly-tipping, mostly household rubbish. I pressed on to the town of Sombor, searching for an ATM to get some Serbian Dinars. Didn’t like the look of the place, something unsettling. Eventually finding an outdoor cash machine – didn’t want to leave the bike unattended even for a moment – I decided to make a sprint for the town of Apatin, twenty or so kilometres away. It would soon be dark and I’d yet to find somewhere to stay.

I stopped briefly at a small village shop. Offering my dinars as payment, the lady said ’Hungarian, German, Austrian’. Hard currency I thought, but no, she was just intrigued as to where I had come from. I explained, mostly in broken German. She followed me outside, eager to see the bike. She shook my hand and I continued on my way. Reaching Apatin as the light began to go, I quickly found a small hotel, little more than the cost of a youth hostel in Germany or Austria. Another friendly welcome.

I’d made very good time to the small car ferry that linked the east bank of the Danube with the town of Mohacs, my last stop before crossing into Serbia. Far too early to turn up at the guest house I’d booked, and too cold to drift aimlessly around the place. So, a coffee in a small bar next to the slip way to while away an hour or so. I couldn’t quite fathom out how the ferry worked. No sign of a timetable or a ticket office. Perhaps you bought them onboard? I’d watch and see.

If you’re struggling with the language, a bit of patience and observation unlocks most things. Just wait. See what everyone else does. Ferry every thirty minutes, bicycles board and disembark last. The ticket office was a small window around the corner. Tickets purchased – I’d guessed there’d be a separate one for the bike – and I board. I’m the only one approached by a crew member – ’Tickets please’ he says. Faultless diction. I obliged.

I liked Mohacs almost the moment I disembarked. It had colour, warmth. And a ’100 Forint’ shop – that’s about forty pence.

It was still early afternoon but I decided to take my chances at the guest house and see if I could dispense with the bike and explore on foot. I was in luck. Ester spoke very good English. ’Where did you learn it, at school perhaps?’ I suggested. ’No’, she said, ’Surrey’. A brief cup of tea and then there were errands to be run. In my very best Magyar. My efforts in the Post Office got a smile, and the stamps I needed. A similar response at the ferry when I bought tickets for the next day. Seemed a pity I was off to Serbia in the morning.

The previous night I’d noticed a small cafe bar in the centre of Dunafoldvar. Up at first light, I returned for an early morning coffee. 6.30am. About 60 pence, and it came with warm surroundings and a toilet. A chance to assess the plan for the day. I’d push hard for the Serbian border, stopping a few kilometres short of the crossing point. Fresh pizza bread from the bakery and then back to the cycle way. 7.30am.

After a few hours of fairly rapid progress south the cycle way signs melted away and I found myself on the busy route 51. At least it was going in the right direction, across a vast, flat emptiness, the headwind just bearable. There were other compensations. A roadside cafe. I was the only customer. A warming coffee. And cinnamon pancakes. I chose them partly because they sounded nice, but mostly because they were about the only item on the menu I could decode with the phrase book. There were other flavours, but I’d no idea what they were.

Soon back on the familiar Danube earthworks, frequent deep patches of fine grit and an increasingly chill headwind made for slow progress. Just keeping the bike upright was a challenge. I reached the sizeable town of Baja just after 3pm, too late now to push on to Mohacs as I’d hoped.

A few expensive looking hotels in the centre, and an information board. Someone had attached details of a guest house in Mohacs, in English. There was a phone number. No use tonight, but quickly noted for the following day. Then, a little further on, a sign for a motel on the edge of town. Worth a look while still light. If it came to nothing I could at least return and continue looking around the centre in the dark.

I quickly found the place. The owner spoke excellent German. Hardly surprising, he’d worked there for fifteen years. An en-suite room for less than the price of a dormitory bed in a German or Austrian youth hostel. I wasn’t the first long haul cyclist to stop there, a Japanese chap riding from Tokyo to Paris had come through a few months earlier.

Ich komme aus England mit fahrad – I come from England with my bike – I explained. He was insistent that I should have tea – Earl Grey – with honey and citrus. Very insistent about the vitamin C. And a pizza, ordered in for just a few pounds. I explained I had only Euros left until I went to the bank in the morning. No problem. It was. Until my new found friend explained to the delivery boy about my venture.

Sunday morning. Early. The streets of Budapest were relatively quiet. I’d decided to use one of the main arterial routes to make a quick exit south out of the city and pick up the Danube cycle way – the EuroVelo 6 – later. Lane discipline, clear hand signals and speed – I can manage about 25 miles an hour on the flat, for a few kilometres at least – that’s all I’d need, I’d be fine. I’d ridden in London for years. The cycle way was a welcome sight.

South of the capital lies is the Danube island of Csepel-sziget, tip-to-tip about thirty-five kilometres in length, about eight kilometres across at the widest point. Flat. Quite dull. Along the banks, endless rows of weekend river retreats, some substantive houses, others just wooden cabins. Mostly muddy tracks, and like the river, the cycle route seemed to meander, tedious, slowing progress considerably.

I eventually crossed to the east bank, riding along the top of the huge earth bank that protects the surrounding farmland from flooding. The town of Dunaujvaros, a few kilometres over on the other bank, appeared, silhouetted by the setting sun. Looked industrial. A couple of hours of daylight left. I decided to make for the small town of Dunafoldvar, about an hour’s ride further south. Bound to have some cheap accommodation.

Reaching Dunafoldvar as the light began to fail, I searched fruitlessly for shelter. A few Zimmer frei – room available – signs but no one around. Nothing. The motel had closed down and the floating hotel on the river had shut up shop until next year. Temperature is beginning to drop rapidly. Too dark now to safely return to the cycle route and find a spot for wild camping.

I needed to get under cover fast. An idea. The camp ground by the river had, it seemed, already closed. Deserted, the facilities locked. But the gates had been left open. Fair game. Picking a discrete spot, the tent was soon up, kit stowed, head torch extinguished. Barely 6.30pm, some chocolate, then straight into my sleeping bag to keep warm. Alarm set for sunrise.

It’s starting to get interesting. France, Germany and Austria. Very much like touring in the UK, with a few linguistic challenges thrown in. But that’s beginning to change with Eastern Europe. Nothing dramatic, just a more austere feel slowly creeping in. Even along the Danube, you pass through some heavy industrial areas, abandoned factories, a Cold War feel. They probably never made tractors here, but they might have done. However, I could show you similar scenes of neglect back in the UK.

I’ve travelled here over several months, gradually adapting to the changing environment. Perhaps I would find it much, much tougher now if I’d just been parachuted in. Possibly. My world now has a lot more uncertainty, never quite sure how the day will end, where I will sleep. Some serious language challenges. But I never fret about it. I just accept this is how it is. Once you’ve done that life suddenly has a pleasing simplicity. What was previously very daunting becomes quite fun – it’s a challenge, a game to be played on the road. Can have it’s moments of course. But so far I’ve never lost.

And there’s far, far more to this than the cycling. Writing the blog, maintaining the bike, postcards to family and friends, endless shopping for food, laundry, planning the detail of the route ahead, places you might stay. Logistics to be considered, longer term plans to be assessed. Asia next year. Kit to be checked, refined, an eye on the ’Stans in the spring. And even meagre budgets need to be managed. Very carefully. All part of the challenge. It’s a vocation.