Ken's Blog

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.

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.

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.