Ken's Blog

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.