Ken's Blog

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.

I apologised to my fellow traveller. He was Italian, but, as far as I could understand, lived in Strasbourg. Something to do with supermarkets. I’d wrongly assumed Billa and Spar were German chains. No, he was quite emphatic, they were Italian. Aldi and Lidl were German. Seems the Italians were sneaking a march over their fellow Europeans, spreading into Eastern Europe. I’d frequented all of them, the endless search for cheap food.

On the bike I don’t have economies of scale. Can’t buy the big value packs. No space in the panniers. So it’s foraging, every day or so, and when riding I need to eat a lot. An awful lot. There’s about thirty kilograms – over sixty pounds – of kit, and the bike itself is an industrial expedition tourer, built to last. Shift that a hundred kilometres in a day, even on the flat, and you’ll soon feel peckish.

Prices have steadily decreased as I’ve headed east, probably quite cheap now by UK standards. But add in accommodation costs – even camping or budget hostels – and it’s a challenge to keep inside twenty pounds a day, even now. Doesn’t sound much? That’s six hundred pounds a month, more than I can sustain for four years. You just have to take a hit in Europe, hoping to recover the finances in Asia. Wild camping is tempting, but suitable sites are not as common as you might think. And there’s the dog walkers. Everywhere. The owners may not spot you in the failing light, but their pets will.

Eastern Europe has other compensations, not just a lower cost of living. Less temptation. Walking past alluring Bavarian eateries, their starters more than you could afford for a main course, is tough. Really tough. In the past I’d probably have dropped in. But not now. It’s not that there aren’t such places in the East, it’s still First World, even if their economies have a bit of catching up to do. Somehow it’s just a bit easier – meeting fellow travellers on similar meagre budgets is comforting, as is the slightly more austere feel to places.

Humour helps hugely. One evening, as I assembled my budget pasta and cheap carton of mashed tomatoes I joked I had a tin of dog food to add to the mix. Not the pork stew I’d expected, some sort of lentil mush with small cubes of meat. I think. Filling and nutritious you tell yourself. Acceptance counts for a lot. If you know you’re only shopping in the budget section you tend not to look at the nicer packaging elsewhere.

And shopping can still be fun. Tesco Global seems to have a real foothold in Slovakia and Hungary. Looks just like the branches at home, a slightly unsettling experience, and about a quarter of the stock is stuff you’d find on the shelves in the UK, English packaging. Not sure what the locals make of all this. I visit every aisle, helps me get a feel for a country and what ordinary people buy. Car tyres are big in Hungary.

Actually it wasn’t hotpot, it was Hungarian Goulash, but it was prepared by a Lancashire lass. And after a very long day on the bike – it was now close on eight – the kind offer of a glass of red wine and some goulash is stuff you just dream of. Kelly and partner Steve, from New Zealand, looked after evenings in the Aboriginal Hostel for Csaba the owner. The establishment was in downtown Budapest, a few dorms on the first floor of an old apartment block. And a garage beneath for the bike.

Decorated in an Aboriginal style, the place was compact, very clean, but cosy rather than claustrophobic. A small common room with a kitchen off to one side, toilets, showers and an office tucked discreetly away. Even a small laundry. All in a space most people would consider to be a city dweller’s flat. I loved it.

In my dorm – eight beds, each with a good sized locker – a real mix, an English actress, a few Australians, an American, an Italian and a German. Save for the Italian chap who I thought was probably about my age, everyone else was a bit younger than me. Not an issue, unless you want to make it one. All travellers. Proper ones.

It was the little touches I liked. Themed evenings. A Games night – lots annoyingly compelling puzzles and riddles, a Halloween party, even a movie night with free popcorn. Join in if you like, but nobody minds if you don’t. And a breakfast to die for. Proper muesli, stacks of hot, homemade waffles, jams, chocolate spread, endless coffee. All for 2,500 Forints a night – that’s about ten pounds. Scarcely more than camping. Somewhere to dry the tent, to clean and check the bike. Perfect.

I thought Budapest at night quite beautiful. I’d have appreciated it more, but it was rush hour, I’d only a rough idea where I was, and even less of a clue as to how to reach my destination. The day had started well enough. The sign I’d seen the previous night had definitely said hundred kilometres to the capital. But by early afternoon I found I’d still a good sixty kilometres remaining and about two hours of daylight remaining. Not good.

As the light began to fail, I’d at least reached streets that were lit. I have lights, but they’re so you can see me on the road, not bright enough to navigate by. And a map that has the entire country on one sheet wasn’t a huge help. My destination was the Aboriginal Hostel in downtown Budapest. I’d a bed booked in the dormitory, and the flyer I’d picked up in Bratislava had a small map. Helpful in daylight, but much more tricky to decipher under street lighting. At least it’s not raining.

Judging progress in urban areas, the starting and stopping of traffic, studying each and every road signs looking for hints as to where you might be, is difficult at the best of times, but especially so at night. Always much slower than you’d ever imagine. Much slower. It’d been dark for a good hour when I finally reached the city centre. Almost there. I pick my way through the pedestrian areas and quieter back streets to reach the hostel. Then a problem. An arterial route, one of several to be traversed, can only be crossed by means of an underpass. Steps. Not a chance. A lengthy detour then back on track.

It’s been dark now for several hours. I reach the square I’ve been searching for. But no hostel. Double check the map. Hungarian street names don’t exactly stick in the brain, but I’m sure I’m in the right place. Definitely. Ten more minutes of pacing up and down, then a careful re-read of the address. Number 46. Must be here. I find it. An old apartment block. But the hostel? Careful study of the list beneath the buzzer. Found it. At last. Job done. For tonight.

I’d made much better progress than I’d expected. Once I’d got out of Bratislava. Dusty roads, ageing lorries hurtling past. Very close. Heavy diesel fumes. Sporadic signage. I’d decided to stay north of the Danube, remaining in Slovakia. I’d heard it was faster, a more direct route, and I could cross later into Hungary. There was no reason to amble. Flat and featureless on the Slovakian side, a few more trees on the south bank. The odd dredger.

Then a small car ferry. And a cafe. It was open. I’d packed the Slovakian phrase book deep in the panniers, not expecting to need it again. I wandered in, the only customer. The lady behind the counter gave me a menu in German. This I could do. I try to have one hot meal a day, so went for what I thought was cheesy chips – pommes frites and kase – there were fries, plenty of them, but the cheese came separate as a big thick slice fried in breadcrumbs.

A chance to re-assess the plan for the remainder of the day. My intended destination in Hungary, Gyor, was close by. Not much smaller than Bratislava, and Western prices I’d heard. I decided to push another forty kilometres to Komarom, sticking to the Slovakian side of the river until I reached the bridge directly into the town.

I reached the crossing point with about an hour of daylight remaining. New country, unfamiliar town, unopened phrase book, no currency, as yet nowhere to stay. You just have to be methodical, observant. Always dismount. You see more. Cashpoint first. Then head for the first hotel you see, not because you plan to actually stay there, but to get a feel for the cost of accommodation. Numbers are universal so it’s normally relatively straightforward to do this. About twenty pounds for a bed. And tonight the tariff was in both magyar – Hungarian – and German. This is good. I don’t know much German, but it’s a lot more than my Hungarian.

I head off along a quiet street. A sign indicates hotels and campsites further along. Out of season I hope for a cheap room. More signs in German – Zimmer frei – room available. Suddenly, I find a campsite open, the first I’ve seen in weeks. German camper vans. It’ll be good. Check-in is in German, and I’ve three weeks practice so can do this with comparative ease. Light is fading fast so tent goes up, bed roll and sleeping bag unpacked, panniers stowed, bicycle secured and covered. Quick shower and change into something clean. Two hours since I crossed into Hungary. New country, so time to shop. Got to get to grips with a new language somehow.

I smiled. That was about as far as my Slovakian went. I’d a phrase book but when it came to sending a parcel home, it was a bit thin on the ground. It made no mention of the forms. Residual East Bloc bureaucracy? I’d chosen to visit the Post Office mid-morning to avoid the lunchtime rush, even found a small branch, so as to cause the minimum fuss. Even written the Slovakian for England on the package. But no joy. Not a hope. So I took back the parcel, and the forms, and went in search of someone who could translate for me. A bit embarrassing, but you have to be realistic about these things.

A friendly Slovakian guided me through the various forms. Quite straightforward if you can read Slovak, not the Kafkaesque nightmare I’d expected. But they do insist on a sender’s address, which is always a bit problematic for me. Ordinarily I’d just make one up, but the helpful young lady suggested I put hers on the form. Back then to the Post Office. Same chap behind the counter. I’d rehearsed my lines a bit more. Seemed to work. This time he took the parcel off me. I thanked him, smiled and left. You have to be polite about these things.

I’d a mug of tea, with fresh rather than powdered milk, a rarity these days. I was happy, sat quietly in the corner of the now deserted hostel bar, browsing the net. Checking the route ahead, the do’s and don’t’s of the former Eastern Bloc. Interesting stuff. But there’s a balance to be struck between poring over maps and exploring the web, and just getting out on the ground. Sometimes the latter’s easier – often that’s the only way to find the cheapest places to stop.

Take Hungary. Save for Budapest, no cheap hostels. With the shorter daylight hours, I reckoned the capital was three days out from Bratislava. I’m hoping the city of Gyor will yield somewhere cheap to stay for the first night, but then it’ll be camping wild. Google Earth is very helpful for identifying likely spots. Whether this sort of thing is permissible is a moot point, you’d have to find me first. Tent’s green and so it Emma. And I don’t show lights.

The language – magyar – is incomprehensible to most travellers, being only distantly related to Finnish. I’d a phrase book. A quick peek inside. It wasn’t looking good. Gobbledygook. German is sometimes spoken, but I’m not sure that’ll be a big help. Wasn’t a great success in Germany or Austria, but you never know.

I’d located a budget hostel in Budapest that had somewhere secure for the bike so I could safely explore the city for a day. Theft is commonplace in the capital so I planned to safeguard the camera with my usual trick of concealing it in a supermarket carrier bag, always purchased locally. The little details can make all the difference.

FCO travel advice for Serbia doesn’t exactly sell the place. There’s a mention of ’flu on their website, but I’d be more concerned with widespread Rabies and water-borne Hepatitis A. And right-wing extremists attacking foreign nationals in Belgrade. If you plan to camp anywhere near Kosovo be careful with hammering in the pegs. Land mines. And if that lot doesn’t get you, the customs paperwork probably will. The Australians I’d met had described the place as intense. They weren’t joking.

After a week or so in Serbia, Bulgaria shouldn’t be anything but welcoming. Largely cash economy, which sounded like fertile territory for corruption. But it’s the weather that concerns me most, with winter approaching and mountainous terrain to be crossed from the Danube over to the capital, Sofia. I’ll be a scream.

Author’s note: Except for the capital cities – Budapest, Belgrade and Sofia – communications may be a bit more sporadic, so please don’t be surprised if I don’t post as often as I would like. That doesn’t mean I won’t be writing them, rather they’ll just be a delay in posting. Which, I understand, is a bit of an issue at home….

It had taken a while, but I’d finally met some antipodean travellers. Andy and Kylie were New Zealanders, but now lived in Western Australia. We met in a budget hostel in downtown Bratislava, joined a little while later by a small group of Australians. These weren’t young people just drifting around Europe. They’d all saved hard. They had plans.

Quite astutely, both groups had bought transit vans when they’d arrived in England at the start of their respective trips. From whom you wondered. No doubt the MOT certificate would be in the post. Cheaper accommodation than even a budget hostel, but even the most hardy of travellers needs the occasional hot shower and a proper bed.

We shared our experiences late into the evening. Places to go. Places not to go. Serbia and Kosovo were described as intense, which sounded interesting. The landscape was changing. France, Germany and Austria had a certain comforting sameness about them. Slovakia, now an up and coming EU nation, felt like a bridge into the old Eastern Bloc. Proper adventure.

Budget hostels tend to cater for twenty-somethings, offering greater freedoms than you find in more conventional places. Often quite quirky – posters of Bob Marley sitting alongside a bust of Lenin – they’re where you’ll invariably find some colourful characters. And the serious travellers. Couple of thousand miles under my belt and I was beginning to feel like one. Being privately run establishments, standards can vary a bit. Whereas back in France you knew a good campsite when the Germans where there in force, in the world of budget hostels, it’s the Aussies and the Kiwis you need to look out for.

It sounds a bit trivial, but you’ll usually find a washing machine – shared with the bed linen, well, these are budget establishments – and a self-catering kitchen. Welcome sights when living on the road. Clean clothes and cheap, proper meals. In Bratislava there was even a supermarket just around the corner. German, so you knew it’d be good. I’d have nipped out to the Tesco hypermarket, but that was too far out of town.