Friend to Topgear , Katie is on mission to cycle across Europe on her own. If you have ever wondered what it would be like to take on a challenge like this then read on
Hello fine people,
Let me tell you how nice it is to finally be typing an email! I have just been granted the kindest gesture from a gorgeous young woman at the Tourist centre in Castellane. I finally arrived here at 6.15pm, having been riding all day since 8am this morning. All I want is a shower and somewhere to set-up my tent…I cannot believe it that of the 14 or so camping grounds available within the region, they are all booked out!
A man out the front tells me that French people are not that nice over the telephone or on the email, but if you converse with them face to face, they are most friendly. He suggests I should just turn up to one of the caravan parks and see if they will take me in… Great idea, but some are 12kms away in the direction I have just come, and I really cannot ride any further today!!!! I go to the Tabac store and try to find a map to continue my journey into Italy. After taking a few deep breaths to negotionate all the areas available, I find a map that will take me the rest of my journey into Croatia! This makes me happy, as I only quickly scribbled down my rough route from the map I sent to all of you up till todays destination while at a cafe yesterday morning, that only gave me 15mins of wi-fi. Since then, I have been in provincial France where the towns are so small there is no such thing as wi-fi.
So if my emails are few and far between, this is the reason. I have been composing my journey as I write- thinking of something for each person on this list. It is great to have each and everyone of you along with me on this journey.
I then came back to the information centre as I had left my map of all the camping grounds there. The lady trys a few more places, as at first I only requested those with wi-fi access. After more failed attempts, she goes out of the room and returns telling me I can set-up my tent in her small garden!!! I started crying on the spot, as I cannot believe she has offered this to me. She finishes work in one hour, and said I can wait till she finishes, and utilise the internet here while I am waiting. Such kindness. It is such a relief after the epic day I have had. It is hard to know where to start so I will just start at the beginning and see where it takes us!
It is now Saturday night but I will go back to Tues night, when I left the Peters family at the airport in Rome. I hope to document the 3 weeks with the Peters family through London, Paris, Switzerland and Rome at some stage during this next 4 weeks… As this is a story within itself. So Tuesday night I arrive back in London, catch the train to Joe and Fiona’s and after a quick catch-up promptly fall asleep- hoping for a big big sleep in. I get awoken by the birds and the light streaming in the window at 4.45am! Oh well. I tell Joe my very very vague plan to maybe ride all through France, or maybe just maybe riding the whole way to Croatia? I have got no idea of the distance, or if this is even possible for me to undertake such a journey, loaded with panniers as it is all a new experience for me. (I did do a 4 day bike hike from Lakes Entrance back to Melbourne with my good friends John, Wazza, Marianne and Suzannna back when I was 14… but that way a long time ago and had the back-up of a telephone call to Bundoran Parade to the rescue) I am so tired that my brain isn’t thinking straight, thankfully this is a piece of cake for Joe as he loads google maps to take a look at the distances and terrain. What a god send. I look up flights out of Gatwick to anywhere in France, and we look on the map where they are, what time they are leaving and the cost considering it is within 24hrs. My trip got mapped around me flying into Marseilles, leaving at 6am the following morning. We then rode to a bike shop to get a few supplies and I was relaxed knowing I had my trip planned. Well, to a point anyway!
I fly into Marseilles, not having a clue where I should be heading to- why didn’t I buy a map in London and take note of what to do once I arrived? This trip is being winged from moment to moment- which is making it terribly exciting. I have placed all my energy into the universe taking care of me and allowing me to experience whatever it is that I need to see and do on this journey. I’m in the airport, with my bike in a box and know I have to get it assemble. I am looking for a bus, or a train into town when I think I should just ask information first. The lady tells me that the bike shops are generally out of town and doesn’t know where I should go. I must look folorn to her, so she ponders for a few minutes. She suddenly remembers a little bike shop, not far from the airport- maybe 5 kms- and writes down Velo shop on the outside of a small town- all in French- and tells me to give this to the taxi. I walk towards the taxi rank and the man in charge of delegating, looks at the box and is most curious what is inside. He sorts through all the mis-matched vehicles, none of which look like taxis, until he calls a guy to come and get me in a larger car. None of these people speak ANY english. Taxi driver motions to my scribbled note that maybe he find and maybe not… I trust we will find it. On the outskirts of town- Velo store!!!! It is 11.30am by this stage, and the store closes from midday to 4pm. I am in luck. None of the four employees speak English, but we ascertain that I wish to have my bike assembled, as I have arrived with a bike box. The box has my name on it, so all the guys are saying Katie, Katie blah blah, they are so happy to have me in the store and keep talking to me even though I cannot understand. I am very grateful to the French translation book that Jim gave to me, as now I can tell them all where I am heading to and for how long etc. I am their new best friend and am awarded high fives for attempting such a trip. I ask if they know where I can find a campground maybe 20kms away but none of them know. Then one of the shop groupies walks in a speak a tiny bit of English. He helps me to find a campground in Aix en Provence and I draw a little map of a scrap of paper.
Oh dear, I can see that this tale is going to take forever!!!
Ended up riding about 55kms on Thursday, so tired from being up 4.17am to get my flight- that I can hardly pitch the tent before rolling in a collapsing into a deep sleep. The next day is already a blur to me, it was all uphill, and all I can think of is ‘I’m just glad to be alive’. This is such an epic trip. Already it is a massive achievement. I cannot really believe that I am here, just me and the bike, about to travel through 4 foreign countries over the next 30 days.
Brings me to today, Saturday. I have been climbing for what feels like all day, along the grand canyon of France, through a medieval village, then decended (what joy) into the canyon and watched as people swam in the river- so beautiful- dreaming that when I get to Castellane I will join them. I has not happened, but I have been able to type this, have a place to stay, have a map so I know where I am heading to tomorrow and now the lady is ready to go home, so until my next entry…
Katie
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Hello my friends and welcome to Italy!
I have conquered Isola 2000 to cross over the French/Italian border and am writing this as a word document from a small campground in the middle of the mountains- although I cannot see any of them due to all the clouds and fog- and hope to send it through as soon as I find somewhere with Wi-Fi. My story as to how I got here is a mountain within itself, and the reason why I am not riding this morning- taking the time out to catch up on some emails, revise my riding route with the map I bought last night since I rode off the last map I had… I do intend to ride on today, despite needing the rest, simply because I am camped near a busy road with truck traffic, there is nothing for me to do here and there is no internet. I am writing this from the comfort and warmth of my tent, hoping the rain will stop so I don’t have to pack up a wet tent…
I will back track my story from where I left off, as this is as much my own journal of my trip as it is a way of telling all of you the adventure I am on.
I have to quickly add that if there are some bizarre looking spelling errors, the mousepad on my laptop is very sensitive and if I slightly brush it with my thumbs, the cursor heads off in the other direction, inserting the letters I currently type into another word often where I cannot see it to correct it. It is very frustrating, but I am grateful for the luxury of my own laptop, as even if I was to use a public computer, the keypad is not in the qwerty format and completely confusing!
The day I rode through the Grand Canyon of France was immense. I left early in the morning with a spring in my step, steadily climbing to the picturesque town of Aiguines. I take a walk around, sit down and have something to eat and continue on through the town happy to be on my way with plenty of time to cross the canyon. I am unsure at this stage if I will make it as far as I intend, but decide I will just go as far as I can. I am flying down a massive decent and as I pass some cyclist going up the hill I think how lucky I am to be going down! After quite some time passes, I come across a fork in the road, with signs to places I do not recognise. After consulting my map I realise I have made an error upon leaving the last town and have headed in the wrong direction. How frustrating as now I much climb back up that massive hill before even beginning my climb across the canyon. I don’t even want to know what the time is. The canyon is amazing. Lots of cyclists out for an afternoon ride, I see most of them as they whip past me in the other direction all giving me the thumbs up. I still have not seen a single other cyclist loaded up with pannier bags though. It must be 30 degrees on this afternoon and as I conserve my sips of water I dream about a waterfall in which to dip my head. I have started to get a headache from all the heat trapped within my thick mane of hair. Although the other cyclists here do not wear helmets, It feels too strange for me, and anyway, the helmet has a sun-visor. Just as I think I am about to become the Wicked Witch of the West and melt into a pool of black goo to become part of the road- I see a trough of water with a tap of cold crisp mountain water running into it. I lay back on the concrete edging and immerse my entire head into it. I get an instant brain freeze, but this is a heavenly contrast to the heat. It is all the simple pleasures in life that are making this trip so wonderful. With only what I need to survive packed within my bags, I am so happy with what life itself can provide if you just step outside for the whole day.
What joy to finally have a decent. Not far into it, I hear a noise from my back tyre like something is stuck to it and tapping the ground on each rotation. I stop to discover a bubble, the size of a golf ball, in the tyre. I have no idea what this means and my stomach drops. I suddenly realise that I have limited knowledge of bicycle mechanics and here I am in the middle of France and no spare tyre… I wonder if maybe the tube has expanded in the heat and decide to let some pressure out. I keep riding, trying to ignore the noise all the while stressing out over why after going into Telstra personally to have my i-phone un-locked it was unable to accept a foreign sim card. I even sent the cheap Nokia I had bought in London for my time with the Peters to the opp-shop before leaving on this trip, thinking who am I going to call anyway… I wish I had data on a phone, I would skype Norm Douglas for some maintenance 101 sessions. A little further down the path and I hear a loud pop. This is it. I am done for. I stop, and discover that the bubble has disappeared from the tyre. I cannot even see a place of stress where it has been? I have no idea what has just happened, but press on thanking my lucky stars. I stop a little later to put the air back into the tyre I have let out with the 4 pound pump I bought in London. Needless to say it is pretty crappy. Having little experience with hand pumps, I wonder if there is something wrong with it, that I have given it maybe 500pumps and the tyre pressure has not changed. Suddenly the tube explodes. I am somewhat relieved as at least I can get rid of this tube that I think has something wrong with it. The next tube has the same problem, I cannot get it to fully inflate. I later find out that it is impossible to fully inflate a tyre utilising a hand pump, but it is a further 3 days before I come across a petrol station where I can use their air gun to get full pressure again. How on earth the tyre survives this long under the weight of my bags, I have no idea.
I really want to make it to my intended destination, it is only 34kms away. On the way I stop at a gorgeous medievil village and continue to climb and climb and climb. The decent into Castellane, my destination is gorgeous. There is a crystal river with people all the way along playing and basking in the sun even though it is getting late in the day. I tell myself when I stop, I will jump right into that river. This brings me to the point where I meet Faustine, the gorgeous girl at the tourist centre who offers for me to stay at her house. She lives with her boyfriend Florent, who is equally gorgeous. Florent only speaks a little bit of English, but has a translation on his phone and is intent on conversing with me although we hardly understand each other. The three of us look at my intended route on the map, and they give me their opinion as to which way I should go to get the best view of another canyon, which turns out to be more spectacular than the Grand Canyon du Verdon. Florent is French with an Italian background, and so he tells me of all the amazing places to visit within Italy and where to avoid. I cannot believe I have stumbled across such a treasure of information. Faustine asks if I have enough food, as tomorrow is sunday and most supermarkets shut at midday, and I will be heading into the mountains. I also need to get some brake pads and fuel for my stove, which I can purchase from a little camping/multi-purpose store that Florent’s Aunty runs in town. Castellane is delightful and I wish I could take the day off to explore the town further, but having only ridden for 3 days so far and think I should press on. After collecting my supplies, I ride 13kms to the next town called St.Julien du Verdon. This is where I will be leaving the Lake and heading into the mountains so decide to stop and have a swim. As I get off the bike and sit down for a second, I realise my eyes are closing on me and I am very very tired. Instead of the swim- I will do this later in the day- I find the campground, check in and start a lazy afternoon. Thinking I will read and write postcards and laze in the sun, instead I re-organise my packing as it feels unbalanced. I throw away all un-neccesary packaging and bundle up some things which I decide I will post back to Joe in London. I fall asleep very early and awake 12 hours later…
My ride today takes me through Gorges de Daluis which I am convinced is the location of Pandorra from the movie Avatar. Its beauty is immense and is made better for the fact I am here mostly on my own, with only the occasion motorbike or motorhome passing. There are 8 mountain tunnels which are very exciting to travel through as the view on the other side is like a postcard picture. At the end I come to the town of Guillaumes and think I will have an early lunch, knowing I only 13km to go for the day. I settle into a picnic spot only to look up at the road heading out of the town. This is the road I need to take to my destination of Valberg. I consult my map, to discover Valberg is at 1673m and currently I am only at 768. I suddenly feel like Austin Powers when he discovers his bride- Vanessa, is a fembot. How did I not see this? I decide to skip lunch and press on up the hill. It is a tough slog, but I make it to Valberg by 2.30pm which is the time I decide I now wish to get to camp each day, not 6pm as has been my habit. I stopped just before the town to take a look at the view. Within a minute I am frozen to the bone, not realising how cold it really is as I have gotten so hot climbing. I quickly put on my wind jacket and then call into the tourist information, to discover there is no camping in this region- it is a ski resort, and I cannot pitch my tent anywhere as it is a national park. There is camping in Guillaumes, 13kms down the road she tells me. I am NOT going back down that hill… She tries a little guest house in Beuil- it is full. She then tries a chalet in Les Bouisses, it is 36 Euros for the night which she tells me is cheap and includes dinner and breakfast. I say I have my own food and maybe cannot eat the dinner they are serving. Oh, in that case it will just be 16 Euros for the bed for the night. I cannot believe my luck, this is only a few more dollars than staying in a caravan park in my tent! It is another 29kms to where I will be staying and although it is early afternoon, I am beat. I start to decent and realise I am very cold even with the wind jacket. I put on my woolen jumper as well. There is another mountain to climb which is slow going with heavy legs. The sight of the Chalet warms me up and I am greeting by a delightful couple with no English but we talk to each other anyway. After a shower I get into all my warm clothes and still feel cold. I wrap myself in a woolen blanket, get into bed and fall asleep. I think I have caught a chill in my chest and all I can think of is have grateful I am to be inside wrapped in blankets… I think I sleep for 12 hours and awake to a bright sunny day. I feel great and ready to attack Isola today. I tell the lovely couple where I am heading. The man says, Isola not too difficult and I am relieved, not too difficult. He pauses, and says Isola- extremely difficult! We laugh and I think what am I doing here??
I climb my way up to the town of Isola and go into a small post office branch to get rid of the extra items I wish to post back to London. With no English, the lady tells me at 34 Euros it is too expensive and wont fit in the box. I ask if we can try, as I’m not going to dispose of these items but do not wish to carry them, in my mind this is a cheap solution to my problem. She tells me to go to the bigger post office 13kms back down the hill- no way am I going to do this. I press her further until she decides to help me out. Amazing what you can figure out without speaking a word of each others language. I fit it all into the box, she weighs it- nearly 5kgs. I am glad to be rid of this extra weight. I fill out the declaration forms and then she decides I cannot send it without a French address! She calls another post office to discover I can give an Australian address. I pray this package arrives in London.
Ahead of me is a 17km climb to Isola 2000- a ski resort at 2000m, then another 5kms of climbing over Col de la Lombarde at 2350m. I have started the day at 500m. The sun is shining, I tuck into an early lunch with no idea of how long this hill is going to take me, but happy that I am alive and in this beautiful part of the world. The signs on the way up this hill tell me it between a 7 and 9% incline the entire way up. This means nothing to me, but I do know it is steep enough that it is difficult to take a hand off to get a sip of water. I hear a strange noise coming towards me, look up and see a long boarder flying round the corner with a camera attached to his helmet. I cannot wait to look up a you-tube video of his decent down Isola 2000. As I get closer to the top, I see dark clouds swirling around the peak and then it starts to drizzle. This is disappointing but then I think of Gordon from 24 solo and am grateful to not be in any pain. I only have 5kms to go to the top and then it is all downhill… The rain gets heavier, to the point where I now have a river running through my shoes, a river running over the road and I can only see a metre in front of me. All afternoon I have been thinking about the photo I will take at the top of this Col with my smiling face in front of the elevation sign- this will be my new facebook pic. At the top, the wind is cutting me in half, the rain is coming from all directions, I cannot see anything, and quickly put on my woolen jumper underneath my wind jacket. A massive mobile home stops next to me, I think they are going to offer me a lift down the mountain, but no, they have just stopped to congratulate me through the comfort of their wound up windows. I struggle a smile, while they are cheering and pop an imaginary bottle of champagne. My eyes are asking, can I come in and drink that imaginary champagne with you? Then without warning, they are off and I am all alone.
The road is only wide enough for one car as this is only a summer access road. I am pissed off that I dont get to fly down this hill and instead have my brakes on constantly. I projected it would take me half an hour to decend the 24kms into Vinadio, instead it takes me an hour and 40 mins. I am unsure if I have ever been more terrified in my life. This could be a big call, but part the way down I started to cry, not the crying where there are tears, this is a crying I have never done before. It comes from deep in my gut and the noise scares me. I cannot feel my feet or my hands and my chest is shaking. If I go slower, the wind is not so cold, but it will take me longer to get off this mountain. With 12 kms still to go I have to stop as my middle fingers slip off the brakes. I give my hands a shake and they feel like those stupid rubber chickens, all heavy and thick. I think of a warm fire in a chalet at the bottom of the mountain and decide I will check in for two nights to recover from this experience. I try to think of other times I have ridden in the wet before, but none of them compare to this. Even racing at Bendigo a few months ago, through the rain and mud, I had the luxury of a warm car and my own bed at the end of the day, and at no point did I wonder if I would make it to the end of the day. I still dont know how, but I rolled into Vinadio, now in Italy and ready to get warm. I stopped at the tourist centre and they directed me to a place to stay in town. In Italian I decipher they can only accommodate me for one night and it is 40 Euros. I don’t want to pay this much and despite being hungry and cold, I don’t get a good feeling in this town and so keep riding. It has stopped raining now, so at least as I keep riding my gear is drying out, and I now realise that I am dry. I didn’t know my wind jacket was completely waterproof and I think this is the best 65pounds I have ever spent, having left my gortex jacket back at Joes house. The next town, is just houses so I ride on to the next town. By this stage I feel warm and dry and happy to set-up in the caravan park. The old guy running this shabby show suddenly lights up with excitement to discover from my passport I am Australian. I think I should have had a flag on my back as everyone I have met so far is happy to talk to me when they discover I am Australian, even if they cannot speak English! He wants to know everything about my trip, and suddenly I am happy to be in a friendly caravan park and not the silly accomodation 10kms back up the road, where I would have been in a room all on my own. And so I am in Demonte, and it is still raining outside. It is nearly lunchtime and yet I cannot face packing up in the rain and pressing on. I don’t even know where it is I am going to! Somewhere that the sun is shining I hope. This is summer after all…
It wouldn’t have been an adventure without all the trials I have been through so far, and now I have Isola in my mind if life ever gets too tough. I had a line of Kanye West come into my head ‘what doesn’t break you makes you stronger’.
I don’t want anyone to worry about me. I am perfectly safe and feeling healthy and strong. I am grateful to have had the courage to make this trip happen and know this rain will pass. I still have a smile on my face.
Big love to all of you, and hope you are enjoying the ride with me!
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Since typing all this at midday today, it is now nearly 9pm and so much has happened to me in this space of time. I decided to pack up my camp at Demonte, as just as I was finishing up typing some rain drops landed on my laptop. I looked around to see that half my therm-a-rest was now wet, as was my sleeping bag. Joe told me that I may as well keep riding if it is raining as what is the point of hanging around all day in the tent. I agreed with him and got all my gear on. I thought if I was quick enough, maybe I could beat the rain? Or maybe 100kms away it wasn’t raining? It rained all afternoon and only got heavier. To the point where my tyres where making a great spray of water from either side. I am thinking this is a flood, as there is water all over the road and overflowing the sides of the embankment. The road is very busy with traffic and I am not enjoying myself. I wish I had taken the small road into the mountains, closer to the beach, but I don’t want to be in the rain climbing mountains again. I get as far as a town called Fossano. I am drenched and think ‘this is shit’ I really dont need to be riding any further in this rain. I get out my Italian translation book, thanks once again to Jim, and ask at the Tabacco store where the tourist information is. It happens to be in the castle in a square behind the main street, very grand. The guy cannot speak English, so I look up camping ground or cheap guest house. He tells me there is no camping, but a cheap guest house is just around the corner and calls Viale to let her know I am coming. Viale is waiting for me and welcomes me into her very Italian home. Her English is not good, so she gets her friend on skype to translate for us. I ask if it will be cheaper if I don’t have the breakfast, he tells me it will only be 45 Euro instead of 55. I have to then tell him to tell Viale that it is too expensive. She is very kind and says she likes me, so she calls her friend Chrisina who has a farm stay. This will be 30 Euros for the night, or if I like, I can put up my tent in her garden, utilise her indoor space to use the computer and use the shower for 15. Deal. Then Viale’s sister arrives who can speak English very well. She tells me they have an uncle who lives in Sydney. I think it is because I am Australian that they like me. They both smoke cigarrettes inside the house and offer me coffee. This is definitely Italy- the real deal. Viale’s sister, whose name I didn’t catch, wants to know where I have come from and where I am heading to. I ask her the weather forecast and she thinks it is not good. I tell her that I have not really enjoyed the day riding in the rain and all the traffic on the roads. I am wanting to take the smaller roads, but they all look so twisty and like it will take me four times as long to cross Italy. She tells me not to take the small roads I am pointing to on the map, as I will get very lost and come out at dead. She tells me that cycing in this part of Italy is not that great as it is too busy. She suggests I should take the train to Trieste, which is on the Italian and Slovenian border. Suddenly they are both on the caper of researching the train and making phone calls and skype calling their friends to ask questions… Eventually, Viale drives me to the train station and asks about the possibility of a ticket tomorrow including my bike. It will cost me 38 Euros and take me virtually the entire way across Italy in just 10hours. I have to make 4 changes, but it is all on the ticket in English for me. I pay for the ticket and cannot believe that so suddenly I will have crossed through the country!
Viale then drives, with me following on the bike to her friend Cristinas farm where I will be staying. She is a most kind lady and wants to talk to me in English and wants to know all about me. She says after a while that I have balls and makes the gesture with her hands! We both are laughing so much at this. She tells me that when she was young, she had no money and wanted to see Italy so she hitchiked around the country and saw the whole lot. Now she owns this lovely farm and has the donkeys as her friends. She shows me her website and I read it through the English translation. She gives me pamphlets of her farm and wants me to tell my friends to come and stay with her to work on the farm. She likes me a lot and thinks I have the sun shining from me. If other Australians are like this, then she want them to stay with her too as it makes her very happy. I cannot believe the kindness of these people I have met. When our conversation starts to stumble, I remember that google has a translation and so I can now type to tell her of my travels. Cristina and Viale want me to email them my trip as they are most interested. Viale tells me when she was my age, she motorcycled all the way across Europe on her own and it was very exciting.
I still cannot believe how my luck has changed. I think I will not be riding the Velo for the next two days at least… I will buy a new map and look at it closely and discover a new road to travel. I am hoping there is wi-fi in Croatia to keep in contact.
Ciao Ciao!
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Hello all and welcome to Paradise!
I last wrote to you from my tent in the pouring rain, then cycled 56kms through the pouring rain to the donkey farm stay with Cristina. Although my tent was still wet along with most things inside it (I thought all my bags were waterproof, but this was the kind of rain that finds it way into the smallest crack, much as you wonder how a mouse has gotten into your house…) I managed to have the best night sleep so far. I told Cristina in the morning and she tells me the donkeys keep a magic around her house. She is sad for me to go, I think she is quite lonely, and tells me to come back again soon. I leave her house for the train and not far from her farmhouse I get a puncture. I panic that I don’t have time to fix it, surely I can ride on a flat for 10mins? I think better of the situation. I cannot afford to damage my rims simply to catch a train. I call upon two trusty friends, Phil and Stew to calmly guide me through a quick change. This is the first EVER tube change for the front tyre, so it is stuck to the tyre and requires I use levers. By the end of this process, my hands are filthy and remain so ALL day as there are no toilets at any of the 5 train stations, and the toilets on the trains have no running water! Lucky I am no precious about my book, or the looks I get from people as I sit there reading with my black hands and a silk skirt on!
What I thought was going to be a relaxing day of train travel through Italy, was actually quite stressful. Picture this, I have my bicycle loaded up with panniers and have to negotiate getting down huge flights of stairs, find my platform, then ascend huge flights of stairs, then attempt to get my heavy bike up the stairs of the train from the platform. These are no Australian trains that are level with the platform. There is a steep three to four steps up. You would think some kinkly man would have helped me out, but everyone at the train stations appear to be too caught up with their own affairs and simply watch me with great intrigue. Thankgoodness I learned Italian at primary school, my specialty being the counting game ‘buzz’. At one station Im pretty sure my train number is being called and has been changed to another platform. I ask a lady who is also waiting, who although does not speak English, I can understand that this is also her train and she too thinks it has changed platforms. She offers to take one of my bags and we run to platform 4, she leaps onto the train and I start to get my bike aboard as a conductor yells at me ‘No’. I cannot get my bike onto this train. Just as the doors are shutting, the lady throws me my bag and wishes me luck- I think. I decend the long stairs again, off to complain at the ticket box, when out the corner of my eye I see my destination on platform 3. I leap up the stairs sooooooooo fast and onto the train with one second before it leaves. I am heaving my breath as again everyone on the carriage is staring at me. I check my ticket to discover the next train connection is only 14mins. Not long to discover the platform and make the journey up and down the stairs again. A few stops away from the destination, the train becomes delayed for some reason… The information screen inside the train says we are now 16 mins behind schedule. Great. I am now considering the possibility of spending the night in Venezia. The train somehow makes up 2 mins before my stop and my heart is racing as the train slowly pulls up. Do I read the connection timetable first? Or just make a run for it and hope I see the destination in the tunnel connecting the platforms. It appears that everyone who departs the train is running, so I do the same. In the tunnel, it is a flurry of people, none who give me any space for the bike. I see the destination and leap up the stairs once more and directly onto the train about one second before it leaves. The only good part about the travel is that I am holding a second class ticket and yet I get to sit in the luxury of first class all day as the carriage which can take my bike is connected to the driver at the front of the train!
I have put to the back of my mind the fact that it is now 10.30pm, I am in a busy city called Trieste and while searching the internet that morning from Cristinas place I found no vacany at any camping grounds, guest houses, hostels or even hotels… I have drawn a map to the campground and decide I will find my way there, in the dark and set-up anyway- explaining my case to the owner in the morning. At the train station, I see a group of young backpackers and think they will definitely have a place to stay, maybe I will just follow them. That is until I overhear one group asking the other where they are staying. Oh we dont have anywhere, probably just camp out the night here at the station. I collect myself and my courage and decide that I am beyond this kind of ‘camping out’. In my attempt to read the scribbly map I have drawn I bump into three ladies out on the town for a girls night out. They tell me that the campground is up a very very steep hill. Although I cannot see it for the dark, this town is like San Fran Cisco where the steep hill meets the sea. It is 7kms away and they don’t want me to go this way in the dark. One gets out her phone and is searching for the hostel, which is also 7kms away but along the beach so it is a flat road. I saw everything is booked out in town and they tell me not to believe everything I read. A quick phone call later and I have a bed booked at the hostel. I have 15mins to make it there before the reception closes. Phew am I lucky.
The following morning I wake up with a terrible pain in my stomach. I think I have food poisoning, or maybe my dirty hands from the day before have made me sick. I need a day off, desperately but this beach is not really a beach. The town is a big dirty town with heavy industry up to the waters edge. The hostel is right by a busy highway and I have been kept up all night by a girl in the dorm snoring. Hostels are not my kind of place. I need to get to a bike store and a bookshop. I think I will leave my stuff at the hostel, so as to decide later if I feel well enough to press on or stay another night. Unfortunately they are going to charge me another night to leave my bags even just for an hour passed the check-out time, so I collect everything back onto the bike and head off. I am riding like a snail, and feel so sick I don’t wish to wear my cycling clothes. I tell myself, If I can just make it over the border, I will be far away from the busy city and there I will be able to take a rest.
It takes a rediculous amount to time to get out of Trieste, as every way I go signed towards Slovenia ends up taking me to the autobahn which I cannot get on with a bicycle! I close my real eyes and allow my intuition to take me on the smaller road. The next thing I know I am cycling around the coast road through the last little part of Italy. If you thought the Italians liked there concrete, you have not seen anything like this before… There are hoards of Italians at ‘the beach’. Only their beach is big concrete pontoons, connected to this road I am cycling on. They love it! Reading the paper, listening to transistors, kids playing games, middle aged fatter ladies topless and rubbing tanning lotion. There are even people occupying the 50cm wide concrete edging between the road and the rocks. I am praying to find a beach that is an actual ‘beach’.
I forgot to mention that it rained the whole way across Italy and it was flat and mostly wheat fields. I don’t feel I have missed anything by not riding this leg of my journey. It rained the whole night at the backpackers, and now as I am leaving Italy it is starting to rain again and I hear a great clap of thunder. I get to the border control point into Slovenia and I am NOT kidding, the sun comes out, I surrounded by trees, suddenly there are no cars and I can hear birds…! I look on my map to find the closest campground to the water over the border. I can see that at one point the small road meets the autobahn, and think I will cross that bridge when I get to it. Next thing I know I am on the autobahn with no way of turning off. How did this happen? There was no warning signs. I’m pretty sure I am not supposed to be riding here. Thankfully the next exit is only 7kms away and so I put on the quickstep and feel like I am cycling the same speed as the cars- 130kms. Off the autobahn, I find a bike path. I quickly discover that this country is set-up for the cyclist. When the bike paths intercept roads the cars all give way, and on the smaller roads there are signs indicating for cars to be aware of cyclists. Actually, I see cyclists everywhere, and for the first time on my trip I see others with panniers. I meet a lady on the bike track who is on a brand new Merida mountain bike. She speaks fluent English which takes me by surprise. She says I can ride with her to the campground and proceeds to tell me that she meets the most fascinating people while out riding her bike. She thinks that Slovenia and Croatia are the most beautiful parts of Europe and definitely the best by bike. I have no idea how I have managed to make it 56kms while feeling terribly ill and eating no food, but I have made it to the water and so I am happy. At the campground, I am again taken by surprise that the girl at reception speaks fluent English. I was unable to buy a translation book in Trieste as they only had Italian to Croatian. I thought I would just have to wing my way through this country, but EVERYONE here speaks fluent English. Even the signs by the roadside are in English. At the campground I can hear the Black Eyed Peas blarring out from a car stereo that is good enough to be a home surround sound set-up. I think I have stumbled across the Slovenian equivalent to Schoolies week and am devastated that my dream of a day off is crowded with young people wanting to party and listen to top 40 Western music. The campground is split into section A and B. A being much more expensive as it is by the water. I say B will be fine, I am tired and just want to crawl into bed. Upon hearing the young people, I creep into section A thinking nobody with know. I find a quiet space, go for a swim at the ‘beach’, again concrete meeting the ocean much like a swimming pool, and then retreat for bed. Just as an English man and Irish man and an American turn up and set-up camp next to me! I am thinking this is the beginning of a very bad joke. I put earplugs in but can still hear them carrying on drinking beers and red bulls and then heading out to the town to try and find some local ladies- good luck. I hear them come back around midnight to get more beer. In the morning, I am still not feeling great, but this is not where I want to have my rest day. Just then the three stooges wake up and the American says ‘who wants a red bull?’ It is 9 in the morning! Just as I have my things packed and go to check out, the surround sound car stereo starts up again for the day. I am glad to be leaving Slovenia.
I look at where I am wanting to get to on the map and purposely neglect to check the kms. I will make it there no matter how long it takes. I leave Slovenia at 9.30 in the morning and dont arrive at Camp Oliva till 7.30pm. Finally, I am in paradise and now today I have the rest of the day ahead of me to do absolutely nothing!!!!
Let me explain this paradise to you quickly from my eyes. My long days riding has seen me pass through tiny villages with medievil looking buildings that are oozing with character. Every hilltop in the distance has a tall church spire, and the hills go on and on for as far as I can see. In the small towns, everyone calls out to me smiling and waving. The few cars that pass me by give a little toot to let me know they are coming then wave with excitement. In these small villages, the people are doing good honest hard work- ladies and men. Chopping wood, tending to gardens, building something. I expect to see communist style buildings and poorer people. Instead I see lovely houses, people riding new bikes, towns with clean public toilets and a great infrastructure for tourists. In comparrison, Italy seems the poorer country. Along the sides or the roads there is more agriculture than I have ever seen in my life. An olive farm is alongside a vineyard, alongside masses of fruit trees and every vegetable under the sun. This goes on for the entire 95kms I ride and I know this is going to be my paradise. I am right. Upon arriving in town I go to the tourist centre to ask which way to the campground and if there is a bicycle store in town. A man in his 50′s lights up with passion to hear I am cycling through Croatia. He welcomes me, and tells me this is paradise. I say, I think so- being a vegan all I have seen all day is fruits and vegetables. He says I should think about eating fish while I am here as it is the best in the world. Also the water is the clearest, the fish most beautiful, the people lovely etc. I tell him the reason I have come here as I see it is only 30kms away from the ferry to the island of Cres. He says ‘oh you can get a fishing boat right from the campground. Leaves at 10am and returns at 5pm each day, but prehaps they wont mind if I don’t return’. I am grateful for this information. He says I should ride the entirity of the island and take the bridge onto the connecting island as it is bloody beautiful. Is this guy Aussie? I cant believe I have just heard a foreigner say bloody beautiful!
Although most of you would already know my limitations within my diet, however I was unsure of how far I could really travel on a simple vegan diet. I am pleased to say that on fruit and a hemp protein shake for breakfast, honey (thankyou to Faustina and Florent for the massive tub of Lavender honey- this is honestly the best honey I have ever eaten and has given me an immense amount of energy!) with banana on rice cakes for lunch, some whole food muesli bars, at least half a block of dark chocolate (at 1.20 Euros a block- how can I turn it down) almonds and dried figs and cranberries as snacks and then pre-cooked packs of brown rice with an assortment of raw vegetables for my dinner including a very generous serving of salty olives as my only salt replacement- no electrolytes. I am feeling fit and strong and healthy.
It really shouldn’t have taken me ALL day to ride 95kms, but I am in desperate need of a relax for my legs. I hadn’t expected it to be so hilly! I feel like I am once again climbing climbing climbing all day long. I get a puncture along the way, reach into my bag for one of the five tubes I have just bought in Italy. I start to put it on the rim, to discover it is the wrong size! OMG. I am only a few kms away from the next big town to pump up the new tube from the service station. I ask some guys who give me a familiar look if they know if there is a bike shop in town. They have seen me fixing my tyre by the side of the road, and keen to help out but it is saturday- 4.30pm and the bike shop is shut and will be closed on sunday. What to do. It is only 40kms to my destination. Do I risk it with no spare tubes and the possibility of no bike shop? Yes, risk it. At the tourist office I find out there is a bike shop, not open till monday, but that is fine as I need the day off today anyway. As I am unpacking my things, I look to the bottom of my bag where I have put the silly wrong size tubes to discover that 4 of them are the right size and only one is wrong- the one I plucked out…
I am so happy to have finally made it to paradise. I now feel like my holiday has begun and I with my calves now bigger than my thighs I feel I can go anywhere and do anything! This campground is right on the beach, is nowhere near the main road, has olive trees throughout and I am feeling very very relaxed.
This trip has been more immense than I ever anticipated. It is as hard as doing the Vipassansa 10 days silent meditation and equally rewarding. I have been through ‘a world of hurt’ with neck pain, shoulder pain, emotional pain, but the further I go on the more all this eases and I realise that this is a necessary journey in order to develop myself that bit further and to see what really lies within. I knew I had strength, but this is making me stronger.
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The journey continues… But at a slower pace.
Hello friends,
I got out my laptop this morning as there was one thing on my mind I wanted to say, and then as I sat down to type I wondered if I had a story to go on with… Well, of course I do. It just doesn’t have the same suspense/drama elements, so Ann you can stop biting your nails and relax as you read this!
My last update was when I had just arrived in Croatia. Thinking back on the past 4 days where I have done a grand total of around 60kms of riding in total, I realise that I very much needed this time of slower pace. I needed a rest after climbing Isola, but pushed on to outride the rain. I then needed a rest and to dry my clothes but kept going to outride all the trucks. I then needed a rest after the long day of travelling on the trains, but had to push on to outride the stinky industrial town at the Italian border. At this point I was in desperate need of a rest, but pushed on again to outride the schoolie partygoers on the Slovenian coast. Thats when I found Paradise and decided to sit. One day would be fine. I pushed it out to two, as my bike had been making a noise in the crank and the day chosen for a rest was Sunday when the bike shop would be closed. First thing on Monday morning, I rode 40mins up the steep and winding road back up to the town. I knew the shop opened at 8am and I wanted to be the first one there. I could hardly believe it when I was told by the woman running the store that the repair guy wouldn’t be in until 11am. I started to ask her a few questions, but she didn’t have the faintest idea what I was talking about. I attempted to swap the wrong size tube I had, but she also didn’t understand what I was getting at. Without bringing a book, and nothing else I needed in town I decided to forget about the bike shop and keep it as my good excuse for an extra days rest. A skype call to Stew and he thought it might be a seized bearing in the crank. The noise is worse than the issue prehaps. I can’t actually remember what I did for the rest of that day- swimming, sleeping, reading, relaxing, emails. I also organised my way onto a fish picnic boat whose captain agreed to take me and my bike one way over to the island. They only operate on Tues/Thurs and Sat so this further cemented that I was meant to take an extra day of rest.
The fish picnic boat turned out to be a pirates boat. The crew were all classic old sailor types with the tattoos of anchors and naked women up their arms, teeth missing and scruffy hair. Two of the crew entertained us with the accordian and sea shanty songs, stopping mid-way over to the island to offer everyone a cup of their homemade firewater. I guessed I would try some, it’s not everyday a pirate offers you his homebrew at 10am. It took me the rest of the trip to drink the stuff, and then the rest of the day to get over it! The harbour town of Cres was stunning. I took a look around, settled on where I was riding to and stopped at a cafe to get changing into my riding gear, noticing that others were on laptops so I figured I could make a quick skype call and be on my way. I called Stew, to quickly check in on where I was heading to. Although it was not the first time I had spoken to anyone since beginning this trip, I felt as though I had been in silence for two weeks and needed to talk, not about my trip, not about what I was doing but just talk about life. The heat of the day had just kicked in, so maybe I was unconscioulsy avoiding this, waiting till around 3pm to kick off my ride. We talked for maybe 3 hours, and at this point I have to say my gratitude for the invention of skype. I remember when my builder, Adam Skipper, first told me about skype years ago, and I thought it the strangest concept why a person would want to make a phone call via their computer. I still don’t understand how it is possible, but think it is one of the wonders of the technological world. I’m sure you already guessed that I ended up spending the night in Cres, about a kilometre away from the cafe. Although eager to start riding, the firewater knocked my socks off and it gave me a great opportunity to observe the culture of Croatia.
The first thing I notice is that choice comes to the individual. This is a culture that has been granted ultimate freedom over the past 20 years and truly they are free. I can compare this to the couple of times I have travelled to the United States, the supposed land of the free. It was very obvious to me that the US is only free within limit lines of control. Possibly in comparrison to many other cultures the US represents ultimate freedom, but coming from an Australian mindset, I knew there were many boundaries I had not anticipated. And so I find myself in a country where their freedom is equal to that of Austalia, and it is this reason alone that I feel safe and comfortable here. Upon checking in to caravan parks in France and Italy, I am told precisely where I am to set-up my tent. Here, I am told to take a walk of the park, choose a space I think will be good for me and then report back to reception. There are not signs at reception or in the toilet blocks or even on the roadsides, stating you must not do this or that. At Cres I am even told of the section of the park dedicated to naturulists, if that is what I like. I am at a massive campground, maybe 1000 or more people are here, so the concrete and pepples are crowded. I will have to start calling it the beach sooner or later. Maybe I will not see any sand here in which to qualify my ideal of a beach. And so it makes for good people watching.
I notice the men and women here are all beautiful. Not in an aesthetic hollywood way, but with the radiance of their eyes. Everyone has their own individuality and you can see it leaping right out of their hearts making them alive with passion and creativity that comes when you are free to be who you want to be. I cannot imagine the oppression that comes with living under a communist regime. I imagine it would kill the spirit, deaden creativity, but these people have recovered and are blossoming with life. There is no divide between the young people, who have not endured the hardship of communism and the middle aged or older people. They are all expressing themselves as individuals and so I see no divide between sectors of the community. Unlike most cities, where the youth are strangely different to the next generation, and where alternate thinkers congretate into certain areas to find a collective among themselves. They all stand next to each other and are united by their freedom to be. I see lesbians playing beach volleyball, old grandmas sharing a beer on the beach in their bikinis, women of all ages and sizes in bikinis and looking gorgeous. T-shirts and hats speak the statements of the time ‘All I want is peace, history cannot repeat itself’, ‘free your mind’, ‘be yourself’ etc etc. This has been my moment to stop and smell the roses.
Next day and my legs wake me up early to get riding again. I’m glad to have broken the spell of sleeping in and starting late and rolling into camp late only to require to sleep in again to recover. It is 5.30am and I am rearing to go! By lunchtime I have arrived at my next camp. Somehow I feel lazy, maybe I should press on? Then I think- KATIE- this is a holiday and if I get to see something new each day then it is a great day. I have stumbled into true paradise. A small caravan park, with grass and shade and maybe only 10 other tents, all facing the crystal water only 10 metres away which is where I now am typing this to you lot. Across a small drawbridge is a tiny village that has so much character and culture I cannot help but photograph every corner, every detail. By the time 9pm rolls around, I honestly cannot recal being on my bike this same day and I question whether I have already stayed here one night. Amazing that in such a small space of time, the time in my mind has stretched on forever. As I come back to my tent space at some stage in the afternoon, I am approached by the man in the tent near mine, with a bowl full of grapes. He invites me to come and talk with him and his wife about my trip and they have seen me come in on my bike. They are prehaps in their 60′s and remind me of my parents- keen adventurers. It turns out that he has ridden his bike all over Slovenia, Croatia and Bosnia, so I get out my map to tell him of my plan. At once he leaps into action and tells me all the places I must visit and the roads I should take. He tells me to avoid the coast road as there is too much holiday traffic and not enjoyable. Also in the mountains it will be cooler. He says I must go into Bosnia, as it is a wildnerness mecca that it unparraled anywhere else in Europe. He also says to forget about Western Europe, unless you have pots of money and can afford to spend maybe one month in Paris alone to take it all in. If you want true friendliness and a real experience of a country then Eastern Europe is where it is at. I feel stupid to say this, but admit to them I was a child in the 80′s and I still have stong memories of seeing war in Bosnia at that time and even though I know this was a long time ago, I still think of war connected to the word Bosnia. They both understand this feeling, but tell me it is so beautiful and so safe now. They ask me why I chose Croatia over Slovenia, which is where they are from, in which to bike. Maybe because I have heard it is very beautiful, I’m not really sure. I ask them why they come to Croatia from Slovenia and they tell me this used to be their country! With the former Yugoslavia, this was all their coastline including all of Bosnia, now they need a passport to cross the border and come here. I detect they are sad for the splitting up of the former Yugoslav. Now, Slovenia only has 48kms of coastline. I tell them of my experience there, like camping in an all night drum and bass party. The lady laughs, of course she says. If you are young and you do not know yourself confidently yet, then you can safely get drunk and party in your own country, but wise to not do this in another country. And so I now realise why there were so many Schoolies on that stretch of coastline. I am so very happy, to once again have local knowledge of where to go and what to look out for and glad for my unplanned trip. I will be following a beautiful river along the Croatian and Slovenian border and right into bear country. I am alarmed at this. It suddenly occurs to me that aside from birds and fish and skink lizards, I have not seen another animal at all. Not even in France. We go on to talk about Australia and they tell me through watching National Geographic and The Crocodile Hunter they are aware that 7 of the 10 most poisonous snakes live in Australia, spiders, jellyfish, crocodiles and Sharks. How is it possible to enjoy camping in Australia they ask me. I never really thought about this. I suppose because I know a snake isn’t going to just come out of the bush and bite me while I’m lazing around my campsite. They loved watching Steve Irwin, the Crocodile Hunter and believe all Australian to have this same amazing spirit and courage.
When I wake up to the church bells ringing, I tell the couple next to me that I was dreaming of bears and slightly worried about going into the mountains. They again laugh at me and say if I am not afraid of swimming in Australia with Sharks then I should not be afraid of the bear. This adventuring man has only seen 2 in his life, and they are not brave semi-domesticated bears like in Yosemite park in America who rip into cars to get at the food. Slovnia only has a population of 2 million and so the bears here are still wild, not knowing that humans might have food for them. He tells me that bears used to live throughout Europe, but got hunted and so now are only in the forrests around Slovenia.
Today was meant to be the continuation of my bicycle journey, but now that my ride is mapped, I know all the distances and that it will take me the next two weeks to make it to Dubrovnik and I won’t be on the coast again until then, I decide to take one last day to charge up my batteries and enjoy the swimming. Oh, and that there is a open air concert in the village tonight. An Oboe, Clarinet and Basson playing Mozart and a Croatian composer. I feel this is one of those opportunities which I must take while in Europe.
This is true paradise. It’s not the Barrier Reef islands, but then I didn’t expect that- this is Europe. I have however found the wild Europe I was searching for.
Katie.
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I know what you are all thinking… How did she go from camping to a hotel? Well, you have to read the story first my friends to discover how I came to be staying the night at Hotel Rijeka.
I stayed up well into the warm evening listening to the elegance of the classical music trio. Each member belongs to the Croatian National orchestra and their playing is sublime. My dreams were filled with Classical ballet choreography, as happens when I close my eyes and listen to Classical music. I awoke early, eager to get a head start on the hot sun. My kindly neighbours are also early rises and are glad to have caught me as they have a burning question to ask me. What is my heritage. They have been thinking I am decendant from somewhere in the former Yugoslave region as they can think of no other reason I would be interested in making such a trip. Very surprised to hear me say Scottish. They then proceed to tell me how beautiful Scotland is and I must make it there also with my bike! I make it back up the island quite quickly, so I allow myself the time to sit down and have a drink and check my emails knowing that the ferry is only 3-4kms away. Time slips through my fingers and as I head off to the ferry the sun is now very hot. Must be just around the next corner I keep thinking as I am steadily climbing… I see a sign saying 18kms. What? I re-check the map and see that maybe the quicker way is not for cars, I havn’t seen any turns offs and there is only this one road leading to the ferry. Oh well. I stop to eat some sustenance of Nutella of Pumpernickel bread, finally giving in to the jars of Nutella I see lining the shelves of every supermarket, minimarket, corner store as I am now sick of the sight of honey having eaten the entire tub that was given to me by my lovely French friends. By the time I reach the inevitable downhill, it is interupted by a wall of stopped cars, awaiting the next ferry crossing. Disappointed I cannot fly down this hill, I am suddenly grateful to be on a bicycle as it means I can weave my way through all the hot and flustered people whom have maybe been waiting for hours and got right to the front of the queue… just as the ferry arrives! Perfect. I ride to the top of the island of Krk and think I will just press on that extra 12kms to make it across the bridge and to the mainland as I have had the internet rest stop and the rest on the ferry and I am feeling great. I was hoping the town would be big enough to have a bicycle shop, but it doesn’t and I know I need to stock up before heading into the mountains where the towns will be even smaller. After a swim and some food I consult my map again, resigning to the fact I will have to make my way into Rijeka- a large town, to get all the things I need to proceed.
Following morning I also start early with a spring in my step thinking wow, that rest was fantastic as my batteries are completely revived. I stopped a few kilometres short of Rijeka, as I see a roadside cafe called bicyclette cafe and I wondered if the owner is a keen cyclist and can direct me to the bike store in town. It is just a name. The girl doesn’t know the first thing about bikes and neither does the owner to her knowledge. They have wi-fi though so I give my Dad a call on skype and press on, aware that I have to do a big shop, find a bike store and keep riding up the hill to the town I have decided to stop at to make a skype call to Jeremy for his 30th birthday. He is having a Vegas dress-up party and I am very much looking forward to being at the party through the access point of skype. It is the whole focus of my day. The supermarket is just a few minutes past the cafe, so I am thinking maybe I can get everything here, find a bike shop on the outskirts of town and that avoid going into the town. It’s not that I am afraid of big towns, actually yes it is. I am afraid of big towns. Afraid because once you enter, it becomes difficult to exit again. The small towns are like passing through Forrest. You are on one road, there are some houses and shops and then that same one road takes you back on your merry way. But a big town is like entering Melbourne via the Westgate bridge and needing to continue on via Whitehorse road to Box Hill. But as we know, Whitehorse road is called 3 other names before it eventually becomes Whitehorse and if you think, well I will just head East you might find yourself on the South Eastern Fwy faced with a sign saying that bicycles are not allowed. Hence why I would prefer to not enter the big towns.
So I am at the check-out and I get that taste in my mouth that I am going to vomit. I quickly pay the lady, run across the carpark to a piece of grass and start vomitting. I have no idea in the world what has just come over me. Only just half an hour ago I was on the phone to my Dad, chirping like a bird about how great everything was. I think well that was weird, and go back to my bike to start packing in my groceries. My stomach starts lurching and cramping and I run back to the grass. What is going on? This happens a third time, and now I feel positively awful. I cannot focus and just want to lie down on the grass, close my eyes and pretend this is not really happening. I have left all my things in a pile around my bike, even left my bag with wallet, passport etc. but I am not thinking about any of this. I couldn’t care if everything was taken away from me, as when you feel this sick all you can think about is feeling better again. In my blurred runs to the grass I notice there was a cafe out front of the supermarket and wonder why nobody has come to my aid. Maybe it is not normal behaviour for 9am on a Sat morning unless you are hideously hungover from the night before. Then a man comes over and offers to call for assistance. I look at him through blurred eyes and in between stomach contractions I tell him I will be fine. He stays with me and insists that he call the ambulance. Again, I think ‘I don’t need an ambulance, its just vomit, I’m not dying here’. Although I actually feel like I am dying. He tells me he has to go to work now and hopes I will be alright. He comes back 5 minutes later, and I am still keeled over on the grass. He tells me that he couldn’t go to work knowing that I was in this pain, so he calls for the ambulance. This time I am grateful for his assistance and persistance.
When the ambulance arrives, I try to get my bike before realising I can’t do anything. I lay down on the stretcher with my head lower than my body as we drive downhill all the way to the hospital. This makes me feel even more sick. Thankfully the lady riding in the back with me keeps me in good humour. I tell her that an Australian has to be quite literally dying before calling an ambulance and I feel silly to be going to the hospital. It is a little bit scary as I have a plug placed into my arm, they withdraw my blood request urine sample and then place me on a drip.
I have to interupt my story at this point to explain that these emails of mine are only being written because my parents proclaim at a dinner party a few days before I leave for Europe that they loved reading my emails to home when I was travelling through America and Canada when I first left home that they hope I will send them emails of this trip too. Apparently my travels were so outrageously funny and suspensful that they would hang out for each one to arrive in the inbox. Of course this sparked interest and a few others at this dinner party wanted to read my emails too. I hadn’t even thought about writing anything yet. As I wrote the first one, I added a few friends I though might be interested and then added a few more all the time thinking I have no idea if I’m going to bore the socks off most of these people. I have to now parralel my trip to the unravelling of the movie ’24 solo’ I know half of you have seen this movie and will know what I am talking about and the other half should hire it. It is the story following a 24 hour mountain bike race, where the participants ride their bikes, solo, for 24hours straight- something I am aspiring to do after this trip! So this trip for me was meant to be like the story of the American Chris Eatough. A simple ride through the motions, get the medal at the end and walk away happy and satisfied. End of story. Instead, I have become the rouge Australian, Craig Gordon who arrives at the race unannounced, nobody even really knows who he is… As I lie there on the stetcher bed in emergency, I can hear Gordos voice as he calls his Mum and says in his classically Australian accent ‘yeah, they reckon I just pushed myself too hard or something’. I think of Jeremy’s vegas party and how if I could make the skype call from my bed that I would have the best costume at the party and the best excuse Vegas excuse for not being there- I’m being fed painkillers through one porthole in my arm while Na cl is going into another porthole. After my first email home, my Dad responds that my email has now gone ‘viral’ as he has sent it to all his friends some of which are dotted around the globe. He is receiving a flurry of emails back wondering if my story is for real. Pete from Top Gear Cycles asks me if he can put my story up on the website as people often asks questions about cycle touring. I tell him it will be more of a what not to do and how you can be more prepared kind of read. Others have asked if they can forward my emails onto their friends and I have had many other friends join my journey part way through. I am not creating drama for your entertainment back home. This simply is what it is for me.
I get wheeled off for a chest x-ray. After what feels like ages, the nurse comes and tells me that my blood and urine have been tested for everything possible and there is nothing abnormal. In fact, she tells me that I am a very very healthy individual. My iron, blood sugar, calcium, magnesium, protein, lactic acids and sodium levels are all perfect. They were thinking that because I had been cycling that maybe my levels would all be low, but they are the opposite. The x-ray is fine too. I lay down a little longer and then think well if there is nothing wrong with me then I should probably get going now. Of course all this time I am lying in emergency, I am still planning my trip into the mountains. I wander up to the desk and say I would like to leave as I can’t see any point in staying. The porthole is removed from my arm and I just need to go to the bathroom before checking out. I am suddenly overcome with terrible diaorreah and can hardly walk. Another nurse burst in to tell me that I cannot leave as the surgeon wants to see me, there is something unusual shown up on my x-ray. Another porthole is put in my arm and another bag of fluid. I am left for hours and have no idea what is happening to me. My entire abdomen is in so much pain, and I am wondering if I will have to have surgery to have my appendix removed. I go to sleep to avoid these thoughts. I get woken up to have an ultrasound done which reveals the same as the x-ray, that my stomach and intestines are filled with gas and very inflammed. They are waiting for a senior gastro-enterologist to look at my tests to see what he thinks. I then have a specialist in infectious diseases come and poke and prod me. He asks me all kinds of questions and has no answer for my pain. By now it is late and they have no answer for me, so think I should spend the night in the emergency room to keep an eye on me. I am so grateful for the level of attention and care I am given. This is my night in hotel Rijeka. I call it a hotel, because the service was excellent, I am constantly called by my name and in the end, the bill is equal to a stay in a hotel. In the morning I am told they still don’t know what has caused the inflammation, but it is nothing to worry about and I will be fine. I have it stressed to me that it is fine to come back to the hospital should I start vomitting again. I have to collect my passport from the payment desk where a kind lady is tallying up my bill. I am thinking all of the things- ride in an ambulance, x-ray, ultrasound… Maybe I will have to call my Dad for extra funds, but he is on a plane to hamilton Island for the next week. The bill is in Kunas so at first I keel over, then I do the conversion and it is about $200. Even without thinking I would get this back on my travel insurance, I think it is cheap for all the attention I have received and to have the pain I have felt on and off in my abdomen for a week now looked into.
The morning I leave hotel Rijeka, I feel very sad. I have to come to grips with the reality that I should probably not go riding into the mountains and away from civilisation. There was going to be a few nights with no campgrounds and although my kindly neighbour told me this was nothing to worry about and pulled the strangest face when I asked it was illegal to camp by the roadside? I suddenly realised that not much is illegal here and if it is, people will do it anyway. In Australia I would be unafraid to camp anywhere, but this was going to be really flying solo for the next leg of my trip. I decide instead to not think about it, find myself some good nourishing food and fill my day in by making a very long and much needed skype call. I collect a map of town a see there is a campground not far out of the town, maybe 10kms away right on the beach. I start to ride out there and pass straight past the entrance to the hospital. Already it appears like a strange and distant dreams but pulls me back into reality. I stop my bike and assess that although it is only 10kms, I will need to ride all this way back into town the following day and then back out again. I look at my map again to see there is a backpackers. It takes me maybe 15mins to get there and I realise this is all the riding I want to be doing today! They have room for me and I pray I don’t get a room with a snorer who has drank too much beer. Suddenly the words leap out of my mouth before I have even thought them. ‘Is there possibly a private room I could have?’ Yes. And she will only charge me the price for a regular room. Is it written all over my face- please look after me? Now this is more like a hotel room. I have my own bathroom and window, the bed is comfortable, the pillow is like a cloud in heaven. The next thing I know it is nightime and I am very happy that I now feel well and well rested.
I would be lying to say I havn’t thought about the rest of my trip and where it will take me, but you will have to wait till my next email to find out!
Much love for all your thoughts and well wishes for me. I am taking care of myself and maybe the vomiting episode was my subconscious trying to direct me away from the fate of a hungry bear on the loose in the woods up there in Slovenia…
Katie
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After two days spent eating and sleeping and eating some more- three large risottos in two days plus soups and juices, I felt ready to start riding again. The noise in my crank is now fixed thanks to an out of town bike store, with only one worker who speaks a little English whom I place trust into that he understands the problem I am experiencing. He says I should call before 3pm, as after that time he will leave and nobody will understand me. I call, and he says he has replaced two of the bearings. I ask if he has also cleaned my chain as I requested and he replies that he was unable to this task as they do not have the chemical to clean a chain. I am wondering what kind of a bike shop is unable to clean a bike chain? They don’t even have tubes to fit my tyres, so I at least ask for a puncture repair kit and hope for the best. To think of it, the only decent bike shop I have been into was the very first one in France who set-up my bike. Thankgoodness that was at least done right.
Whilst in town, I take the time to soak up the atmosphere of the local market- as big and busy as the Vic markets. I love this. It gives me energy to simply be around all this fresh produce and the people trading it with such enthusiasm. I want some of these plump peaches and start to pick a few out. The man says No No, I must buy one kilo. I do not want 1 kg of peaches, but at $1 a kg I decide to accept it and eat my way through this juicy heaven. I also find dried Croatian figs, fresh walnuts and almonds to make a little energy mix out of. I wander in and out of a few book stores looking at the small section of English written books. There are all the best sellers- Steig Larson, Dan Brown but nothing that I am interested in. I read in the city guide there is a second-hand bookshop down an alley off the waterway. I weave in and out of alleyways determined to find it. It is at the end of a dark alley, at the top of some stairs, out onto a balcony, around the corner and up some more stairs. There is a guy out the front smoking amongst the pot plants and I ask if this is his store and are there any English books. He takes me inside his Aladdins Cave. I know I will find something here. It is alive with words, unlike the orderly and crisp brand new bookstores in town. The first book I pick up is a comic travel book written by an Australian, Peter Moore. The book is called Vroom with a view and is his story about realising a dream and riding an old 1960′s Vespa from Milano to Roma. This will do perfectly.
As I sit down to my last Risotto I think prehaps my trip will become a little ordinary from here on in. Maybe I wont have much to write about each day and in fact it will become boring…
So I take off down the coast road straight into a head wind. It is irritating to say the least. This is my first opportunity to ride a cruisy road, with only undulations like the Great Ocean road, no hills too big to speak of. But my pace feels slower than when I rode up Isola! I remember back to the night before when I awoke to things being blown about in the wind and think this is no ordinary wind. Convinced that at some point this wind has got to stop I just keep riding. It intensifies. This is no ordinary wind. I later learn this is called The Bora, and it comes every three weeks and can blow for 4 days straight up to 100kms an hour. The wind makes this section of the coast road the most dangerous section of road in all of the Mediteranean and if you go diving in this section of coast, there are multiple wrecks of cars blown into the sea- probably bikes as well. But I did not know this at the time. Multiple times I am stopped dead in my tracks, unable to turn the cranks even in granny gear on the flat road. I want to take a photo of the waves, to show the ferocity of the wind, but cannot reach around to my camera to capture this image. I am convinced I have never experienced wind such as this before in my life. Needing a rest from all this hard work into the wind, I pull into a little fishing village and seek refuge amongst the buildings. I get a puncture, and give thanks I am not up on the exposed road. It gives me a chance to go to the petrol station and fix the holes in two other tubes I have thankfully kept with me.
I manage to ride 60kms in head wind the whole way before I am stopped dead in my tracks once more. This time I am frozen in the one position for half an hour. I admit I was completely terrified. It was different to the feeling decending Isola. It was like being stuck in a rip, where you feel trapped in the situation, unable to move forward or backward or sideways. I stopped just as there was a rocky outcrop I could place one hand onto with the other hand gripped tightly to my bike. I could not let the bike go as it would have surely gone over the edge. This is the kind of wind that blows your cheeks towards your ears, and if you turn your head in one direction, this is the direction it will stay. I am not kidding, I could not move. Cars passed me, looked and then kept driving. I didn’t know how to call for help, as if I let go of either hand I was seriously concerned for my safety. I gave my best look of fear, but it went unnoticed. I thought if I stay here long enough, this wind must pass, just be patient. After half an hour I was physically exhausted of withstanding this wind and had to let out some kind of emotion. I screamed a swear word to the wind and it made me feel slightly better. The next minute a big people mover stopped and two men leapt out to help me. We couldn’t even exchange words as they would not have been heard. They knew they must help me and I knew I needed rescuing. The car was full of kids and we had to quickly take off the front wheel at which the rest of the bike nearly ran away like a broomstick taking flight. As soon as the rest of my bike disappeared into the van and I let go, I was blown two metres away. I crawled back along the road to the van was helped inside just as the guy fought to close the door. Suddenly, in the comfort of the vehicle the wind lost its intensity and I realised why none of other cars had stopped for me. They must have thought I was just taking a rest by the side of the road and exhausted by the ride?? The lady thought she heard me cry for help and so turned around to collect me. The reason they knew my trouble was they were camping 5kms up the road, and their tent had collapsed in the nightime. They were a family of 6 from Germany, and their close friends who were in a caravan had offered an uncles house up the hill for them to stay in. They were on their way to see if this was possible when they passed me on the road, they turned around, took me to their camp and then continued on their afternoon journey. The wind persisted at terrific speed for the rest of the day and night, but seemed lessened by the warmth of kindness offered to me. It was a lovely afternoon of hearing stories about Germany and Croatia, the European Union, the formation of the Alps, homeopathics, Rudolph Steiner education, immunisations and places I should visit on my journey. I now know of the many caves throughout Croatia, and the underground cold water that travels from the mountains and comes out underwater in places along the coast, this campsite being one of them. One of the men shows me a map he has printed out from the Internet outlining all the places where landmines still are. The area I was planning to ride up in the mountains is littered with mines and they think this to be an extremely dangerous place to be off the well worn path. I told them of my changed route due to the fact I have been ill and in hospital and want to be around people and towns. They all say ‘tummy problems?’. Yes, how did you know. They say it is the most common thing for travellers to experience. Nothing to worry about, the water here is fine it is just different has different things that my system is not used to. They all say if I have been sick then to definitely not go to Bosnia. The medical system in Croatia is good, but Bosnia is not so good. I am grateful for another source of local knowledge to get me through this next part of my trip! One family has Croatian heritage and the other has been coming here for holiday for over 15 years.
I had a dream about the bears last night, and although I am grateful to not be amongst them on my own, I really want to see them. One of the German families is taking their kids to a bear refuge, not too far from here and so hopefully I will go there tomorrow. It is a self funded park to rehabilitate bears who have become orphaned. Generally the mother has been killed on the Autobahn which goes through the mountains. Bears come here from as far away as Austria, Slovenia and Hungary.
I talk and talk into the night with these families, the children buzzing around eager to test out their English skills on me. It is a great exchange, I am fascinated by them and they are fascinated by me. By the end of the night I am slightly irratated by the opinion that Germany is the greatest country in the world. They are the wealthiest, the greatest producers, don’t stop for siesta which they think is an excuse for laziness and lack of productivity. Germany has largely funded Italy to come up to the EU standards to be accepted and have the Euro currency. It is Italy that has brought them down blah blah. We talk about chocolate and of course the best chocolate in the world in from Germany! I am given a block of it- Milka. I always thought it was from Switzerland. No Germany, where else. I asked if there were any sandy beaches in Croatia. I am met with puzzled looks and why would you want a sandy beach? Well, because this is what I know. Why would you want a rocky beach? So I am told- if you want to take a picnic to the beach then sand gets in your food and you end up eating it. If you go to the beach and dont swim, sand still gets in your hair and then in your bed. Sand gets in your toes and stays there and irritates you, sand gets down your bathers. If there is wind, then the sand whips up into your face, it gets into towels not to mention sand goes all through the caravan! Give these people a pebble beach anyday, but give me a sandy beach when I get back home to Australia! Purely for the fact you can wiggle your bum and imprint a position in the sand to sit comfortably all day reading a book and dig your feet into the sand and run your fingers through it.
I woke up to the wind, and waited in my tent for two hours for it to subside enough to pack away my tent. As nice as the company was, I didn’t feel like chatting away the day and was keen to see these bears. It was only 15kms of the coast road and then I would be heading inland, away from the wind. I stopped at the supermarket to stock up in case I spent the night at the bear sanctuary with no other food options. I came out to notice another flat tyre. This is the fourth one in four days of riding and I think I should investigate the tyre. I find a teeny tiny shard of something sharp and rummage for my tweezers to extract it. Why didn’t I think of this earlier? It is was creating such a slow leak that I didn’t think about it till now. I take the turn that I think is to the bear sanctuary. It doesn’t say this on the sign, but then it is off the road a way and maybe not a big tourist site. After one hour and only 4kms travelled due to the steepness the road turns into a walking path. Thankfully there are some walkers just arrived and are able to show me that I am a few kms away from the road I want to be on. Bugger. At least I get to fly down this hill, that is until my tube goes flat. This is one I had repaired. I take the proper turn to the bear sancturary. It is only 30kms away but I am sure it is going to take me all day as again I look at my watch to see one hour has passed and only travelled 4kms. Dejected I take a break during which time my tube goes flat again. Another one of my repaired tubes. Clearly I have done something wrong and I realise with a certain kind of ‘how is this possible’ that I have never repaired a tube before. Cycling for most of my life to school and never had a puncture or maybe my Dad always repaired them I cannot say. I put my head in my hands to start crying, but nothing comes out. Who is going to save me now? Nobody but myself so no good in crying. If I were in Australia, no matter how far away from home, I would have made a call for rescue. I would admit I had gone in over my head, please come and get me, give me a hug a warm cup of tea a bath followed by a good movie and a night in a comfortable bed and then I would return to my journey the next day. Promise. I unpack everything from my bag to select which tube will get me down the hill to discover I have one remaining fresh one. I place a lot of hope into this tube. I realise that above all else, this trip is resting upon two thin tubes. It makes no difference if I am healthy or fit enough or even prepared enough. I have faced the mountains, the rain, the traffic, the lack of bike shops, being in hospital, the bora and now I have been stopped by the two things that keep this trip going. I hadn’t realised their weight bearing ability to carry me and all my gear and endure all that I have also endured.
At the bottom of the hill there is a campground. It is now 3pm and reaching the hottest part of the day. A good time to stop, but there is a thick dirty black smoke pouring out through the valley and all over the campground. I think maybe something has exploded and will be burning for a long time and I certainly don’t want to get sick inhailing these toxic fumes. There will be another campground. I don’t want to stop and look at my map, I just tell myself there will be another one. Now the road starts climbing and climbing and climbing some more. I see a billboard of a beach on the island of Pag, only 18kms away. It looks idyllic and this is where I will go tonight. After an hour and a half, convinced I would have gone 18kms I see a sign to the ferry and after a quick stop at the petrol station to pump up the tube and grab a well deserved isotonic drink- the first of my trip- I descend the hill down to the coast. Whoopie this is fun. Near to the bottom I see a sign for Rab. I stop as I am confused, is this Rab or Pag? Oh dear, I heading to Rab. Maybe the island campground sign I saw back on the road was for Rab and not Pag? I cannot be sure now and not going back to check. Pag is where I want to go as it connects up to the mainland further down the coast but Rab is a small isolated island. Around the bend I can see on my map there is a campground, so I press on back up that bloody big hill. I pass an old peasant lady with missing teeth who offers me a room via a sign she is holding. I say I have a tent and looking for the campground ‘is it this way?’ Yes Yes, this way. Something about her tone makes me think she is tricking me like the nasty worm in the labyrinth. The next town of course is down the hill again, on the coast but looks beautiful with its all white houses. I stop at the tourist info to be told there is no campground here, hasn’t been for over 20 years. Your map must be old. Well it was the only map I could buy and I have seen this same map everywhere I go. I cannot believe it. I actually don’t have a full plan in my head. I just know I must press back up this bloody big hill. Another hour passes and only 4kms travelled. I am back at the petrol station and treat myself to another iso-tonic drink and an icy-pole that I have to get out from one of those old fashioned outdoor freezers that you have to open the lid to peer inside and pull out your treat. Okay, so it is still 18kms to the ferry to take me to Pag. In the distance I can see the white ferry leaving the island towards the mainland and my pace quickens by double. I am now descending but because the wind is still blowing very hard I have to pedal down the hill too! What a day. As I corner the bend to the ferry I can see the cars already loading. I ask for a ticket and go to pay with my card as I have ran out of cash. No card sorry. I am devastated. He says he will accept 5 Euro if I have it. Yes, yes I have Euros, somewhere in the bottom of my bag. I throw everything out, pay my ticket, throw everything back in, zoom onto the ferry literally as the loading door is closing up behind me. It would have been an hour wait if I hadn’t caught this ferry. I can see ahead of me that from the ferry landing, there is another bloody big hill but then it is only 8kms to the campsite and I know that I can manage this. At the top of the hill I can see the moon rising on one side and the sun setting on the other side and this fills me with happiness that I am still out riding at 8.30pm. As I come into the town I get my first hit on since being in Europe. A car load of Italian guys, similar to the kind who cruise up and down Chapel St on a Sat night call out ‘hey Signorita, you look nice’. I am thinking they are already blind from drinking or are very desperate for some Signorita lovin. I am wearing my white windproof jacket, I have my nerdy glasses on and between these and my helmet I have a flashing headtorch. I am thinking this is the least sexy look that a female could present with. I am so tired that I cannot even crack a smile and anyway my lips are too cracked for smiling right now.
The campground is another one of these 4 star hooplas complete with a supermarket, disco, roads with roundabouts, boomgate entry with 24hr security guard and requirement to carry an ID tag, sports center but sadly no soul. There are maybe thousands of people here and I am in fear that the campground might be full. Two cyclist pass me who are heading into the campground and I quickly think I will follow them in. My plan works and so I head deep into the campgrounds. It is all allocated and I am quickly loosing light, so I pick a space where the people are not home and set-up shower and tuck into sleep. This is when the disco starts up and at 7 in the morning it is still thumping. I am unsure how this is a camping holiday for so many people. I hit the town early and there are people stumbling around in clothes from the night before. I don’t wish to stay here. It is a fascade. There is no original buildings here and there is no charm. I am exhausted but decide to go the 20kms down the road to a pictuesque town, indicated so on my map and there I will rest. Only a two minute ride out of this town and it is a rocky waste land where I think I might come across one of the sand people from Star Wars. Then I hear one of their cries. Oh it is just a bizarre looking sheep. I have no idea what the poor thing is eating as there is nothing green in this part of the island, just all rocks.
Today I think will be cruisy. I will just take it slow, enjoy the view of the water the fact that I am not climbing any hills and nothing will happen to me. I will just be me, riding my bike.
2kms from the town of Pag and I hear a pop. It is my tube. I now have a different kind of puncture repair kit and have learned that in order to fix a tube I must exercise the art of patience and wait for at least 20mins before putting air back into the tube. I am in no hurry today so I sit down, fix myself some food and know I will do this thing properly. Half an hour and I am convinced this will be good. All luggage back on board, straddle the bike and it is flat again. Okay, no problem, I will just peel off one of the other repaired tubes and re-fix it with my new kind of sticky repairs. I am sitting in the sun, patience a plenty when a car pulls over. It is again a German couple and they are offering me a ride into the town. I was going to refuse and then think about my situation should this tube not repair as I am hoping. I am so grateful. I ask what they are up to for the day and they tell me they got a bit hot at the beach so decided to take a drive in the air-conditioned car to do some shopping in Pag. When they got there, they realised they actually didn’t need anything at the shops so turned around to go back to their appartment when they saw me on the other side of the road. He had done some cycling in his past and thought I might need some help and they decide maybe their outing was not to do shopping after all but to help a foreign cyclist. What a way to think. He said he knows the feeling that you can keep riding through exhaustion, but when you get a flat you quickly loose energy and feel like the world is caving in, especially in the heat. We stop at the tourist centre to find out where the campground is and are told that the campgound hasn’t been here for a long time. Oh. The closest campground is 25kms away and without consultation, the couple say they will take me there, the children will be okay. CHILDREN. What? No way can they go this far out of their way for me when they have children at the beach. Oh it is okay, our eldest daughter who is 21 is with them and she will keep an eye out. We left a note to say we had gone shopping and they wont know how long we have been! I think this couple is revelling in the chance to talk to someone different on their holiday and to keep driving in their plush BMW with its air-conditioning. They cannot believe I have ridden though the Bora. They think I will be able to achieve anything by having survived this. I asked what they did during the Bora and find out about a national park they drove to and hopefully I will visit in a few days time. You can swim underneath the waterfalls. We make it to the humble little caravan park with no star rating and a camp anywhere you like to put your tent attitude. I like it here and now I will stay a day to rest from all that has transpired. The town here only has a post office a bar and a gelateria serving the best homemade lemon gelati I have ever tasted. I spend the evening re-fixing all four tubes. In the morning I pump them all up but only one keeps its air. I refix another two, and only one now keeps its air. It is only 20kms to the big town of Zadar where I will- fingers crossed- find a decent bike shop. I am nervously prepared to do this, but instead enquire with the casual guy at reception cuising his facebook page and listening to techno if there happens to be a bus passing through this town to Zadar. Only 3 times tomorrow as it is Saturday- I am going to be on the 6.30am bus. At $3 it is a small luxury I am going to take!
I started to read ‘Vroom with a view’ today and it makes me laugh and laugh. This Aussie writer who embarks on his Italian dream holiday arrives in Milan, pays for his Vespa and realises he doesn’t know the first thing about mechanics let alone mechanics of a 1960′s Vespa. The guy selling it to him shows him how to mix the oil with the petrol of the two-stroke engine and tells him to go up to Lake como. The roads are less busy for him to practise riding his scooter and if anything should happen, he isn’t far away from Milan. He gets into all sorts of trouble with this Vespa cutting out on him at traffic lights, needing to push it up hills to clutch start it etc. Reading this book I feel like less of a fool. There is another idiotic Australian out there who has embarked on a journey not knowing all that will unfold… Maybe I have a future in travel writing???
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I am simply bursting with pure radiance from my heart to tell this part of journey. Today was unlike any other day I have experienced so far, and the one I have been wondering if it would be too much to ask possible for me to experience.
I write this after I have read an email from my Mum saying she is enjoying my journey, but can’t I just write about light and fluffy stuff for a change? Well this is where the story changes…
It started at 5.30am, waking to a pink sunrise and an inner knowing that today was going to be a great day. I made my way into the tiny village square to the bus stop and watched as the locals spread out their produce for sale. The salty fisherman arrived in his rusting car with his fresh catch to sell, the peasant woman complete with black dress, head scarfe and beard selling her figs. They were so good I had to have some and unable to communicate the price I put out all my coins into my hand as she picked out 3 Kunas-cheap and delicious. The bus driver couldn’t understand me and so allowed my bicycle on board. There was only one other passenger and I’m sure he didn’t mind. I hopped off in Zadar, unsure exactly where I was but it is not that hard to find the tourist info place and as I rounded the corner I couldn’t believe what was there standing right before my eyes. A bike shop! Not just any bike shop, this one had Trek, Sram, Shimano, Bontrangger posted all over the windows. As I came closer and peered in I saw actual real bikes, not just the kind that santa claus brings when you are 10. It opened at 8am, only half an hour to wait. Around the corner was a waterfront cafe where I got a green tea and tried to contain my excitement at my discovery.
With 4 employees all busy at 8am I knew I was in the right place. I explained my problem that I was still hearing a noise in the crank and he looked at me with this look and I thought oh no. He says this is going to take a while, can you give me 2hrs?? Oh course, I can wait all day if that’s what it takes! I go back to the waterfront and the time quickly disappears. The verdict is there was a piece missing and the bottom bracket needed replacing. Who did this repair job, he asks. Some turkey from a bike shop that couldn’t even clean my chain. He rolls his eyes and knows what I am talking about when I say this is the first decent bike shop I have entered in over 3 weeks. He replaces my rim tape, sells me all the tubes he has to fit my bike plus two puncture repair kits, telling me the other kit I had been sold with glueless patches are useless. Ecstatic it was that easy, I roll on down the road with a massive smile on my face. I head into a mega supermarket before leaving the big city as I need some more dark chocolate and have been dreaming about a non-sweet jam since I am never going to eat Nutella again in my life. I decide to up my spending from $2 a block to $3 a block when I see what is on the shelf. I have found Vivanni dark chocolate which sells for $6.95 in Australia and is not just top shelf- this is the cognac of chocolate. I also find St.Dalfour marmalade- heaven.
The sun is shining, not a cloud in the sky and now I follow the coast road as I had imagined it to be, the water lapping only 2 metres away from me. My smile has turned into a rediculously large grin and every holiday making vehicle honks and waves at me. The are sharing my holiday vibes. Cruising along I suddenly realise that my legs are spinning way too fast. I look down at the cluster and………OMG…………I flip it in the big dog. GRRRRR now I’m riding, really riding! This is the FIRST TIME this whole trip that I am in the dog and cranking up the speed. My smile intensifies. There is no hill and no wind and no fatigue to slow me down. I make it to a planned stop at such pace I think I will stay here a while. At the waterfront I spy a fantastic Gelateria enjoying a massive serve of pineapple sorbet. It filled a deficit and I think well now I need something as fuel to keep going so I go back for another giant serve of orange sorbet. This is living like a king and only cost me $2. I get lost wandering the alleyways of this historic town but they all end up at the sea so it is nice to just loose myself in indulgent looking without having to keep track of where I am. I waltz into a gorgeous store and decide to treat myself to t-shirt that has a picture of a vintage bike and says ‘Riding my bike make me feel like I have wings’. Only an hour beforehand, I was thinking this exact statement. I tell the shopkeeper my story and she calls all the other girls over and tells them why I am buying this top. They all marvel at my bravery to be on my own.
I leave the town wondering if my day could possibly get any better than this. I pass tree after fig tree until I decide to take a few for my breakfast tomorrow- What fun. I later stop to pick a bunch of grapes from its vine and if olives where edible from the tree I would have taken these too. I still have this stupid smile plastered on my face and ride on at rapid pace to where I am going to camp the night. It is 5kms off the road and I am pretty confident this is the best kept secret on the entire Croatian coast. The campground has only 3 other tents, is 100m away from the beach accessed by this crumbling down village that feels centuries old. The beach is equal in beauty to my favourite secret spot in Victoria. After a few hours at the beach reading I retreat back to my tent to begin typing when the lady running the caravan park comes over offering me a bowl of zucchini soup and asks me to come into the kitchen with her. She then lays on potatoes and bread and pizza. She doesn’t understand that I cannot eat it, but offers me the rest of the soup from the pot. She wants to know where I am going and where I have come from even though she speaks and understands very little English. She is fascinated by me and just wants to look at me! What a gem.
Although I havn’t actually been laughing, my belly has been laughing all day and I know all my anxiety has been left behind me. I have passed the test, and now I am ready for my holiday.
The next day is equally great. I again set-off early to the full moon in the sky and with my bike heading inland towards a UNESCO world heritage waterfall site I knew I was on the right track. I got to the park much earlier than I expected, and thought maybe I would check into the caravan park, take a break and then spend the arvo at the falls. I watched two white swans floating down the river and realised the peaceful calm I had within to witness such a peaceful sight. The campground was 2kms up a near verticle climb that had me thinking- I will have to redo this climb everytime I go in and out of town… I get to the top to discover this craggy camp that looked like it should have donkeys and not much else inhabiting it. Not for me. Since it is before 9am, I have time to find something better, even if it is 25kms away. I roll back into town as the church bells ring in 9am and ask the direction to the falls at the tourist centre. It is accesible by boat unless I am prepared to walk the 5kms along the river. Well I have my bike, so anything is possible. On approaching the park entrance I see a little booth like at the entrance to Wilsons Prom. There is a group of 4 walkers at the window and as I quickly see the entry fee is 100 Kunas- $20 . At the entrance to the falls, there is another much larger building that is also selling tickets to get in. I waltz up and ask where I can park my bike and where I can get changed into my bathers. With the rangers all showing fascination in me, they forget to ask for my ticket and so I get passed the second gate. At the toilet block there is someone charging $2 to use the toilet. This is clearly a big tourist trap as this is more expensive than the toilet fee at the leaning tower of Pisa. I get changed behing the block.
The waterfalls are gorgeous and I quickly leap into the water and soak up all the waterfalls energy. I then set out on a big loop walking track to the top of the falls and lots of little pools of water. It is lovely. There is a cute old peasant woman setting up a table of her smoked nuts and fruit. She has made these necklaces out of figs woven with leaves. It is like those necklaces you got as a kid that were made out of lollies. If I thought I could eat 50 smoked figs I would have bought one. I should have, as riding later on I am thinking about eating these sugary treats from around my neck. When I return back to the start point about 2 hours later I cannot even walk across the bridge. I can see maybe 2 thousand people, all with cameras. The water is not even visable for all the people swimming. The restaurant is packed and although I am hungry I think I have to get out of this place super fast. I spoke to a waiter as I passed by and said sarcastically ‘this must be a wonderful place to work’ he rolled his eyes and said, yes, for the first day… As I am leaving on the track, another boat load has arrived and maybe another 200 hundred people are walking towards me. I smile at my perfect timing and perfect morning and ride on back to the coast. I get to the town of Sibenik, in need of instant sugar and find my favourite afternoon treat- gelati. Just as I take my first mouthful my favourite song called the sound of sunshine comes on the radio. I was meant to flee that previous town and be here in this spot right now. Michael Franti tells me so. After a big risotto I was going to ride on but it was now really really hot. I left my bike in front of the church- for protection- and wandered around the town. This is the difficulty of travelling with my bike. I always have to leave it with a protection charm that nobody will think to go through my bags or worse- steal my bags. I can lock my bike, but the bags are just there for the taking and have all my good equipment in there. This is a medievil town and being a sunday, all the shops were shut and I had the place to myself. I was most taken by a set of crumbling stairs with a lion on the balastrade. With nobody around, the town springs to life in my mind as it would have been thousands of years ago. I am glad I stopped here. The heat is really getting to me now. Not only as I am further south and therefore a few degrees hotter each day, but I have lost the visor on my helmet. The direct hit on sun on my forehead equals a direct headache. I have chosen to wear my cap under my helmet but now I cannot release the heat out of my head or have the wind cool me down. And since I have been to possibly the last bike shop I will see again in Croatia, there is not much chance of getting a new visor. I come to a campsite in Primosten and upon telling the reception that I will be leaving early in the morning so I will need my passport straight back and will pay now (generally they like to hold it till you leave) the guy looks me up and down and says no, this wont be acceptable. We open at 7am and you can collect it then. I say well I want to be gone by 6am so this is not acceptable for me. We are at a standstill while he is assesing me. He tells me to go and find a campsite, then come back and tell him where it is. He circles two places for tents only. One is out of the question as it is next to the Cocacobana beach shack and I am not dealing with another all night dance party. In the other section I don’t see any free spaces. The tent section is right on the beach and therefore all pebbles. My attempts to put up the tent are a disaster as it requires all the pegs in order to function as a tent. And try as I did, I could not get any hold within the pebbles. I put my heaviest items in all four corners of the tent and just drape the fly over the top. Lucky there is no wind tonight. Unimpressed with this campsite- did I mention I am also on a steep hill? And there are big rocks underneath me among the pebbles?…
It is great to be up and riding early. Again I catch the full moon in the morning and it is maybe only 20 degrees. After 2 hours I roll into another medievil town called Trogir just as a bustling waterfront market is setting up. Perfect as I am in need of walnuts and almonds and of course I cannot help myself but buy way too much fresh produce. After eating a big fresh fruit breakfast extravaganza I was thinking of walking through the town, but then I saw a bus load of tourists walking into the city entrance and think maybe I wont. As I roll out of town another bus load arrives complete with the talking tour guide. I think there is nothing worse that trying to soak up an atmosphere with people all hustling and bustling around you to photograph and move on without actually taking the time to look at the thing they wish to capture on film.
I am still smiling and have most of the cars smiling back. I cant help myself. I kind of feel like an idiot, but I am not controlling this smile- it has a mind all of it’s own. I see a great view to photograph and on turning around, I have the sudden realisation that I have been travelling North to South on the West coast on the right hand side of the road and therefore the scenery side. I hadn’t really thought about it before this doubleback where I cannot see the ocean for the road barrier. I hadn’t planned on this as originally I wasn’t even going to ride the coast road. This makes my smile wider! I have a great mix of music going through my head and wish I knew how to sample music as the Beach boys, Beastie Boys, Bob Marley, Michael Franti and Motzart all go really well together.
I was very happy to discover the road bypassed Split and I didn’t have to enter and then exit another major town. This is the first time I have seen the highrise communist style buildings I have been expecting to see all over Croatia, like the housing commision flats in Melbourne. The only good thing about this big city is I find coconut water at the mega Koznum supermarket. I also find 200ml packs of rice milk which is heaven as water on my cereal has been tasteless to say the least. Without thinking, my bag is now loaded up to the point where I cannot close the zips and can hardly lift it onto the back of the bike. How am I going to ride out of here? Not problem so it seems. I have become the prime mover and this extra 6 or so kgs has not slowed me down in the slightest. I am even going uphills in the big dog. Grrrrrr. Within no time I have rounded the corner into Omis and my breath is taken away at the sudden appearance of huge mountains coming all the way to the sea. I love this trip. I just don’t know what to ever expect or what I will see. The Germans who rescued me from the Bora told me a friend had said this was his most favourite town in all of Croatia and so maybe I should go there. I am glad I have come here. It is beautiful. The Cetina river flows from 100kms inland, irrigating all the land and then carves its way through a canyon complete with rapids and ends at the sea in Omis. There are lots of castles dotted along the clifftops and I later learn this port was heavily guarded from Pirates coming in from Turkey, eager to get their hands on this fertile land. The town now trades on this pirate legacy and rafting on the river. I have decided to stay here the whole next day as I have found a flat camp on grass right on the beach and it is too lovely to contemplate leaving. I decide I will ride up the canyon and park by the river to read my book all day. Wandering the town that night I stop to look at a video of the rafting and of course and confronted by the guy selling the tour. I tell him I just want to ride the canyon and not go rafting. We end up talking for ages about Australia and Croatia. Ivan, pronounced Hiver which is Slavic for John, is very interested in Australia as his best friend has married an Australian girl. They spend 6months in Croatia and 6months in Aus. I ask what job they do which allows such a lifestyle. They dont work! His friend is very poor but his new wife is very rich. Her Dad is Croatian and owns big hotels here and in Turkey. I say his friend has married the Aus Paris Hilton and together we fall over laughing. I tell him my riding plans and he quickly changes them for me saying I cannot come all this way and not see Dubrovnik. His girlfriend is Russian and so he has been to St.Petersburg and they have been to Prague- both said to be the most beautiful cities in Europe. He agrees they are nice, but Dubrovnik has a beating heart right in it’s center and even if you don’t do anything there other than just sit and look and feel the place then it would be worth going. He goes on to tell me it is Oprahs favourite place in Europe but who made her the modern day prophet. I like to hear Ivans recommendation rather than Oprahs. As I am just about to leave him alone and do some more tourist capturing I ask how much the rafting is, 150 Kunas – $30. Wow, this is cheap for 4 hours. I quickly think well this would be fun. I say I want to do the rafting and Ivan tells me it is fully booked the next day. But… he makes a quick phone call. He says that it really is at capacity, but he likes me and will make an exception. He thinks I deserve the break from bike riding!
The following day I turn up for the rafting and of the 150 or so other people for rafting, I cannot believe I managed to get myself the last ticket at 9pm the night before. It was a perfect day on the river. I loved being inside of the river and not just riding next to it. I cant wait to get back home and get back into my Kayak. Towards the end of the trip we paddled passed some guys launching off a big cliff into the water. Whoa that looks like fun I think. Our guide stops the boat and asks who wants to jump. Nobody even responds- too scary- and I think I didn’t come all this way to be a whoose. The guide throws me into the water and I swim towards the rocks and clamber behind and up to the top. It is only when I get to the top that I see all the other rafting boats lined up full of their passangers too scared to jump. Why didn’t I see all these spectators before? I also notice that all the other people jumping are male. Oh dear, what am I doing up here? I walk to the edge and just as nerves are about to make my knees collapse I jump. It was so much fun that I do it again, just to confront that shakey nervous system and tell it whose boss. I get cheers from my raft and they all say how brave I am. This is nothing. This is my fun reward I think for all the other more brave things I have faced. This experience makes the rest of the day float by with a great feeling of an Adrenaline kicked system. Just as I am heading back to camp to hit the beach I stop by the ice-cream bar. When she has finished serving me, she steps out of her workstand and outside to where there is a group all hanging around a small table littered with cigarrettes smoked and yet to be smoked. This character, Mate, asks me where I am going with my bike. As I start to tell him, the ice-cream girl says I should come and sit with them. It is great talking with these locals and hearing all they have to say about Omis and Croatia and life in general. Ice-cream girls sister arrives and a few more. All are introduced to me as ‘this is Katie, the Australian girl who is riding Croatia’ Oh they all say as though they already know me or know of me. Ice-cream girls brother is trying to get a visa to come to Australia. I ask what the appeal is for him and she says he is crazy about the Australian girls and wants to marry one. A few of the other guys also say they want to marry an Australian girl or at the least go there. I ask again what the attraction is, wondering what they might know about Australia. They all say the kangaroo, and ask with a tone of reality, do I have one as a pet. When I laugh and say no, they ask why not? But it is always the same for everyone I meet, the sharks are the reason they dont come to Australia. If it wern’t for the sharks I think Australia would be in-undated with European tourists. That more people have died at the hands of humans than sharks, I think the humans are the ones we should be fearing more. Mate is also a rafting guide and tells me that I probably jumped off the 7 meter rock (I thought it was more like 10- in my mind it was anyway) well he takes his clients to a 30meter rock. At first I think I got ripped off then I realise there is no way I would have jumped off 30meters anyway, Ivan was an interesting character to meet too. Mate tells me that god created all of the world, then a place for himself and this was Dalmatia, the area from Split down to Dubrovnik. I have to agree that this is the nicest part of Croatia. I say the food here is the best in Europe so far and he asks if I have seen a fat person in Croatia- apart from the 4 million Italians that come here each year for holidays. They have their own seaside, why do they come over here. Oh because their beaches are dirty cause they don’t look after their assets. I say prehaps the croatians are so thin cause they all smoke like chimneys! Mate thinks I havn’t been to Bosnia or Turkey as they all truly smoke. The cooks in the kitchen, the waitresses serving your meal, fag in mouth! Glad I am not going there. It is interesting to hear his opinions and he recommends me the only restaurant in town worth eating at, all the rest are for tourists. It would have to be the best meal I have eaten yet and the fact it felt like I walked into someones house with a grill out the front was even better. I chat with ice-cream girl and Mate after till it is late into the night and I am grateful I didn’t go rafting with him as he is a little crazy, but happy to have spent my entire afernoon and evening at the place to be on the outskirts of Omis.
Early in the morning I ride out of Omis via the canyo n for 30kms before heading back towards the coast. I had assumed it to be flat, like the river. 9% inclines for over half the way were a surprise but then I am getting to quite like hills now so happy for the time in the mountains again.
Today followed much the same way as the previous four days. Even as I type this I cannot believe my last email was just last friday. It feels like a lifetime ago. I don’t believe in the saying time flies when you are having fun. I am having the most amount of fun and it feels like this week has gone on for 6 months. I have really gotten into the Croatian groove and glad I am not leaving anytime soon…
I am still on the same two tubes I had on Sat morning, I have not a care in the world or a thing on my mind. I am living the good life and think that if I can smile and am all bymyself then life really is good.
I am only 110kms from Dubrovnik and might go the whole way tomorrow. This will see me riding from one side of my map and onto the other and therefore the entire length of Croatia. The map is falling apart but I think I will keep this map forever! With only one day to go, the riding won’t stop even though the travelling with panniers attached will.
This is not my last email…
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On my last day of riding I wonder if I will have any story to tell or will it just be- woke up in the morning, rode straight to Dubrovnik, The End…
I started the day not knowing exactly how far it was to Dubrovnik, but determined that I would just keep peddaling till I got there. I had a cut-off time of 4pm decided. 45Mins into my ride I see a sign that says it is 109kms to Dubrovnik. Instantly I hear Jake and Elwoods voice’s ‘It’s 106miles to Chicago, we got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it’s dark and we’re wearing sunglasses…Hit it’. With the Blues Brothers and their statement -We’re on a mission from God- I know it is going to be a day where I just smash out the k’s with a smile on my face. I make it to the border control much earlier than I had expected, and upon realising this was going to be my stop here or else make the decision to keep going, of course I keep going. This is a strange part of the coast where Bosnia meets the water for 8kms and I have to show my passport at the entrance to both countries. The line up in gigantic so I am once again grateful for my two wheeled ability to cut right to the front. Disappointed I didn’t get a stamp in my passport, but I wasn’t met with armoured men carrying guns like I had set-up in my mind which was a relief.
Around midday I was in need of a break since I had just put the quick step on all morning. Just as I looked up to see a sign towards some historical gardens my bike was already riding down the hill towards the entrance. Good thing I stopped as there was a magical fountain in the centre of the gardens into which I dunked my entire head. If anyone had been around to witness, they probably would have seen steam rising on impact. While nowhere near as spectacular as the Trevi fountain in Rome, it was more special as I could take in the sound of the water and every detail of the statues without another soul interupting my peace. The gardens were created in the 1400′s and belonged to someone special as their summer house away from Dubrovnik. Ah, I must be on the outskirts now. Maybe only 30kms to go. It has all been guess work the entire time I have been in Croatia, without the ability to function the trip meter I have brought with me- guy in the bike shop back in Zadar thinks the sensor on my wheel has a flat battery- and the fact there are very minimal roadside signs. When you do come across one, it will only tell you the distances to the major cities of Zadar, Zagreb, Split and Dubrovnik. All other towns you just round the corner and voila there it is! And so I come passed a campground that looks idyllic yet I know if I stop here I will be bound to using my bike to go in and out of the town. There is a campground in the town, by the water and this is where I really want to be. I’m sure it is not that far now. The day is starting to get hot and I mean really really hot. Those who have ridden with me in summer know that I don’t cope with the heat well. I have learned a new level of tollerance to the sun on this trip, but right now is the hottest day so far and I feel like I am in a bikram yoga class, and riding my bike. Not usually a big sweater, I have sweat pouring out of my knees, have drained 6 bottles of water and deperately awaiting number 7 and 8. I can now see the port and the bus station, it must be only 500m more. But the road curves away and steeply up the hill. Did I miss a sign. The heat is making one of my eyes droop and I think I only have 10 mins left before I will have to call in ‘Dr. loosing it’. It takes me a further 20 mins of climbing before I enter the old city. I want to find water, information, campground, beach, food all at once. I cant think straight so I decide upon food first and in classic style of someone desperate I flop at the very first table I come across and demand the waiter attent to me pronto with a plate full of rice and veg. I think he thinks I’m about to die, brings me a litre of water and keeps coming to check up on me. Feeling slightly better, I get sent on a goose chase for the information centre. There are people everywhere in the old city, and aware I am in a beautiful place I cannot even look at it. I am in no mood for a goose chase or big crowds! I go into the bank and ask for directions to the camping and trust I am on the right path. It is maybe only 7kms away but up hills, round corners, downhills and up again. I get there and it is another one of these donkey camps. I shouldn’t be so nasty towards donkeys, they just stike me as an animal that can live among the pebbles and dust and fleas which arn’t really there but they would love to live here. I decide to cruise around and check it out first. A security guards chases me down and tells me to go to reception. Well I was just checking the place out first to see if there was any shade as I will be staying 3 nights I tell him. I go into the reception to check in, do all the paperwork to discover it will be 160 kunas a night. This is more than double what I have paid anywhere else. Even in the 5 star camping complete with swimming pools, beachside layabouts and trampolines. For one night I might have accepted this but not three when it was flea bitten. The girl simply says to me ‘welcome to Dubrovnik’. I am quickly starting to not like this town. Obviously I need to still do one thing on my quick to do list and that is cool my head off in the ocean. Thankfully it is at the end of the street. Getting changed into my bathers I knock my head on a concrete tank. I am not meant to be here. At the beach there is no shade. If you think you have seen me flipping out, then right now this is what I am doing but double strength of any other time. I spy a big rock at the other end of the beach and hope it is casting a large enough shadow on the other side. Another white lady is already there, but I squeeze in next to her. After my swim I am able to asses the map to find out how far back along the road that other idylic campground was. Turns out to be 18kms and so I sit with the thought of waiting for the sun to cool off a bit and then head out there. The white lady asks if I need any help. The truth is she needs the help but is happy to listen to my quickly presented dilema. Well, white lady- Magdelana- then tells me her story. If I thought I had problems they are nothing compared with what I listened to. She is Croatian born but lived in New York for 25 years and has the full New Yorkan accent going on. Her childhood sweetheart has flown her over on an all expenses paid holiday stating before her arrival that if there is no flame they will just holiday as friends. Without going into it this is not the case for her and I am grateful I have the strength within, shown to me by strong women in my family and other strong women surrounding me to alter my situation anytime it doesn’t feel right. I give her loads of advice and listen to her some more before thinking this woman is a victim and the only person who can help her is herself and so I tell her to go to the American embassy and the police and wish her to do it right this very moment. She stays at the beach, saying I have been her angel sent from Heaven, and I move on. I decide to get another big plate of food before my ride back out of town as this also buys me more contemplation time of my plan of whether I should indeed just bite the bullet and stay at donkey park.
On my way out of town, I stop by the bus station as I need to know there will be a bus that can deliver me back in town in time for the 8.30am ferry on Sunday. Being a sunday and all, I know that most places arn’t open or operate on skelton timetables. With no clear answer, I glance up at a temperature gauge. It is 6.30pm, feels cool to me and is 32 degrees. I can only imagine that at 2pm it was around 40. A gorgeous lady calls after and asks if I am prehaps looking for a room for the night? Without thinking I say Yes! For 3 nights actually. She tells me her house is just across the road from where we are- the main bus station and ferry port- with buses every few minutes into the old city or it is only a 30 min walk. She says it is 250 Kunas a night which although it is more than the camping, she is offering me a bed within access of all I want to do here and the best part is I dont have to ride another pedal stroke. After 115kms today already, this is a huge relief. She tells me I must inspect it first as it is not much, just the underneath part of her house that she rents out for 2 months over summer so she can afford to buy her children some treats. I have already decided I will stay here and after climbing 160 steep steps I wish I had brought my bags up from the street. The front door leads straight onto her balcony where the view alone is worth the money. She introduces me to her pets- 10 year old mother and father turtles and their two babies. I know in Feng Shui turtles at your front door show excellent luck in the house. Stanka is now my angel. She is glad to have found a guest so quickly and will now go to the beach. I ask to come with her which was an excellent choice. She takes me to the beach the locals go to, the proof being that she says hello to every second person she passes by. It is a private beach for a fancy hotel, but anyone can swim there you just have to know that you are allowed. Her beautiful 14 yr old twin boy and girl are here with their friends. She tell me she had them at my age and I do the calculation she is 46. She could still be a model at her age. We watched the sunset and tells her kids to catch the bus home as she wants to show me a walking track that has special secluded restaurants for a nice dinner treat. A place no trawling with tourists as it is off the beaten track or rather on a beaten track. She shouts me to a juice at a gorgeous waterfront vista saying her last guest left her a generous tip and we should enjoy it! If Stanka lived in my town we would be very good friends. She picks that I am an Aries due to my seemingly endless energy. She warns me to keep using this energy as it serves an Aries well to keep the fire sign flaming high. I am now very very happy to be in the city of Dubrovnik and can feel what Ivan back in Omis was talking about. I tell Stanka I have one big thing to find in Dubronvnik and maybe she can help me on my quest. I have already discovered that there is not a bike shop in town, but I need to get my hands on a second-hand. I have focused all my thoughts of positive creativity towards this goal today as I was riding and now need to make this happen. She thinks her son Mislav will sell me his bike! It might have a little problem though. I am just waiting for this teenager to awake so he can show me the bike.
The night before my ride into Dubrovnik I was thinking about the girl in the Trueman show who wears the badge saying ‘How does it end?’ Well after I arrive in Dubrovnik only 40kms short from the very edge of the country I think I have pretty much ridden all of Croatia. The coast that is. I will need to return one day and go up through the mountains and into Slovenia, with somewhat more bike repairing equipment in hand though! Stew flies into Dubrovnik tomorrow, signalling the end of my 31 day solo escapade across Europe and the start of another journey prehaps equally jam packed full of adventure, trials and tribulations. With a plan of going through the alps with a ‘Wicked’ camper, I have no doubt the hills will call my name and beg to be ridden simply for the exhilarating downhill reward. Without the panniers to hold my speed back on the uphill, I hope I can do all this before breakfast. It is for Stew I need to get ahold of a another bike. At first thinking he will be on the secondhand sunday cruiser and me on the tri-cross making an even match, it might turn out the other way round given I am now a prime-mover! After Stew leaves I will spend a week with my girlfriend Sara in Southern England and Wales. Although with a 6month old baby, Sara is keen for us to do some mountain biking so the shoes and pedals at least will continue on with me. Joe has also told me that there is some good mountain biking to be done in Hong Kong. On our transit through Honkers on the way over here, all I could see was mountains and my mind raced at all the things I could possibly fit into 4 days spent there on my way home.
And so thats how it ends.
I do have one more dramatic inclusion that I left out of the previous email due to keeping the content light and fluffy. Really it was the only bad thing that happened to me during that week. At the campground in Omis I had been using the toilet block across from my tent to charge my laptop, as I have done in every other campsite. I put it into a shoulder bag so it is not instantly recognisable as a laptop and in my best Hermoine Granger persona put a protective charm around it. And so my laptop was on charge and I wandered out of the campground 50metres to where ice-cream girl and mate where hanging out for the evening. When I returned, the laptop was gone. I stood, frozen thinking that maybe if I blinked my eyes again it would re-appear. My stomach came right up into my mouth and it was hard to swallow it back down. I thought of all my photos, all my typing and suddenly lost all urge to continue with my story. All this time I had felt the laptop was my one luxury item. The item I am carrying which really is not necessary for my survival. Now I realised it was the one thing that was allowing my survival. The skype calls could have been made with phone cards in public phone booths, I could have kept my photos onto memory cards to be looked at once home, but the typing has been my saviour. I run to the reception to tell them my laptop has disappered from the toilet block. It has not been handed in and there are too many people to trust doing something like that. She says I should have brought it to reception. Now why didn’t I think of that? A guy also working reception has overheard me and suggests I find the cleaning lady to see if she saw who took it. Where will I find her? Oh she will be around the park somewhere. My head is swimming as I go back to the scene of the crime. I bump right into the cleaning and dont need to speak a word. I have already stamped across my forehead -have you seen my laptop? She motions for me to follow her. My heart is racing as she opens her little workshed and produces my black bag. I give her a big hug and she just responds ‘nothing’ this is the equivalent of ‘no worries’. I go back and tell reception what a kind and honest cleaning lady they have. Yes says the manager, I think she is due for a raise.
The following day riding I think about a comment I have pondered much in the past year, not sure if I really believed it or not. It is from the movie/book ‘Into the Wild’ and is something Christopher Mccandles writes in his diary when he is all alone in the Alaskan wilderness and suddenly feels his lonliness. He says ‘Happiness is only real when shared’. I often feel happy on my own and without need of sharing all of these happy moments I was unable to really know if his statement held true for me, although I often play it around in my thoughts. I can say right now that it is true and happiness is only real when shared. Without my laptop, I would have been unable to place my thoughts down, happy or otherwise. Everyone who goes on a holiday either with friends or by themselves retells the story to share the moment. I have shared my story with you as I go and this is what has made it real for me. Not so that I can come home and you can all know what I have done. It is more for my own enjoyment to share the story of what I have seen. I want to show you what I am seeing and feeling and introduce you to the people I have met along the way. And so, as I type this up on Stanka’s balcony with a vista over Dubrovnik, the islands and the harbour I now know that happiness is real when shared and thankyou all for sharing this trip with me.
My Dad emailed to say he has already edited, corrected any spelling and gramatical errors in my story and just awaiting a publishing contract. I wonder if an audience who didn’t know me would simply take me for an under-prepared fool. One of those people who take up valuable resources and taxpayer money to get rescued from the snowy mountains when they get lost and it unexpectedly snows and they don’t have the right gear types. Or Christopher Mccandles who people criticise selfishly took off into the wild, not telling anyone where he was going and being under-prepared. He is also portrayed as having a smile on his face the whole time and living his ultimate dream.
I was a little surprised this morning to discover I have only covered 1286kms over the past 31 days. There was only 20 days of riding in all that. I had initially planned on riding everyday, but realise this was never going to happen. I didn’t make the 2000kms, but if I had ridden through Italy I would never have made it this far down Croatia. I am feeling the happiest, healthiest and wealthiest in my life and this is a great feeling. If I had the opportunity to start all over again, I would do it all the same. The low points made me come to the aid of and appreciate human kindness. The low times also hightened the high times. Now that I have made it to the end I have been able to reflect on all the places I have been and all I have experienced. There is a standout town and that was Castellane back in France. It was a culmination of things, the 95kms of difficult hills and spectacular scenery, the picturesque river as I approached the town and then the commanding view of the chateux perched on the clifftop that took my breath away. The band playing in the town square and then meeting Faustina and Florent. I wished I had spent 3 days there walking in the canyone and soaking up the quaint french town. But I was only 3 days into my trip and eager to keep riding. If I had stayed, the weather would have closed in and I would not have been able to attempt Isola. I remember seeing the turnoff where I headed left up the hill towards Isola or could have escaped and turned right towards the sign pointing to Nice only 65kms. Nice on the French Riviera. Oh that would be nice, but I think I needed the Isola experience to gain the place I am in now. I remember being in the town of isola, before the climb properly started and I was madly throwing out food packaging and anything that wouldn’t serve me. I then bundled up some things to send back to my london correspondant. It is funny to me now as I am carrying rediculously heavy items such as litres of coconut water and rice milks and I even discovered in my bag the 4 tubes I attempted to repair but failed, just in case I needed to repair them again. Upon buying the new tubes I simply forgot to turf these.
So thankyou for joining me and enjoying the ride alongside me all the way. It has been a lot of fun and something I will always have in my memories to propel me forward through anything in the future.
Lots of Love,
Katie
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