Olympia - Greece

Walking through Olympia is an easy thing to do. One long shop front, or thats how it feels. Shops, restaurants and hotels line the 2km strip. It's only until I walk up a fairly steep hill, to a pretty much bland and empty theatre, that I see the size of Olympia. For a town with so much History, I was expecting something else. It is tiny in size. I guesstimate that for every shop, restaurant etc there must be as few as 8 houses.

The bleak and run down Olympic museum is just worth the 2 euro entry fee, only cause it enables you to have a look at the Olympic torches that have been used in recent years. My favourte, in case you were wondering, is the one from Sydney. Slik, unconvetional and it breaks the mould - All the elements I exude!

My next port of call is the Ancient Olympia Museum. My short walk is a sereal one. I cross a bridge and in a nook, tucked out of the way are two familar looking BMW motorbikes. On closer inspection, I realise they belong to Chris and Chris, the Albanian and BiH badges on the panniers give them away. As I search about my person for a pen to write a note, they round the corner, all I can do is smile and think how efficent the Germans are. We exchange routes and share a joke and I leave them to continue to rekindle the magic of their honeymoon.

I enter the Olympia Museum and immediaty there is a stark contrast from the previous museum. The grandure and the sharpness of attention to detail, can't help but leave me feeling impressed. The helpful staff point me in the right direction. He must know I have a knack of starting museums from the present day and working backwards. Not this one tho. I am plunged way back to when the 1st signs of life were discovered at Olympia. There is certainly a trend in the museums I have been to and that is that a high percentage of the lead archiologists are German.

The museum is cleverly laid out with pottery, busks + marble statues dating back prior to 4BC. Like all good showpieces, they save the best to last. A cavenous room which could easily engulf a 5-a-side footbal pitch. Down the length of the rectangular room on either side is the statuary from the temple of Zeus. Both tell a story in marble, peaking in the middle at around a height of 2 metres. The one in better condition tells the story of Ancient Greeks fighting off the centaurs, who are trying to abduct Greek women. A showstopper that leaves me gobsmacked by the detail and intricacy. It also left one question - how long would it take to make.

It is now time to turn theory into reality. I head outside to the ruins. A sea of people, hundreds of people are crowded around various people holding up boards with numbers on. Bus tour groups have descended on Olympia's archilogical site, on mass.

The magical shine has been removed by the volume of people trapsing around and on the ruins. I manage to steal a couple of seconds away from everyone. The enormity then hits home. I am lost by the scale, the only thing that is easy to workout, and the main reason for my visit to Olympia, the stadium.

Beautiful in its simplicity. No marble in sight. No seats. No buildings. There is a tunnel though which was covered by grass and completed the four steeped banks slopping to the centre. A 200m by 30m sandy track waits for the games to begin. Over 40 000 people would have crowded round to watch the stadium, and in truth, the whole site.

A bitter taste is left in my mouth by the amount of people. I would feel better, I think, if people were satying locally and 'new' Olympia was reaping the rewards. However this way, the only ones making money is the travel agencies and the site.

Monemvasia - Greece

Magical Monemvasia it has been called, just not by me!

It doesn't start well. Entering the town of Yefira, the town closest to the mainland, I already know what I am looking for. I even have the name of the campsite. Heck, I even have directions and a distance from the centre of town, but can I find Camping Paradise , can I b*ggary! After 45 minutes of driving around I spot a gent who might know. Sure he is on a scooter, pottering somewhere, but if you don't wear your helmet, not only are you more likely going to suffer fatal head injuries, you will also get shouted at by bearded Englishmen. If his helmet wear in the correct place, on his head, rather than acting as a massive elbow pad, then he could have pretended not to hear me and go on about his daily business. He pulls over and we chat, for a few moments before he kindly says that the campsite has been shut for over two years! A very useful recommendation Rough Guides, thanks. He explains where the site used to be, and although I believe him, it is on way back to town so I have a look. If it were open it would have been by far the biggest campsite I would have stayed on. The closed metal gates mean that it is a no go.

This really doesn't put me in a sight seeing mood, so as I cross the causeway, I realise that there is nothing magical about this place. I don't know what I was hoping for, in my mind when reading about the fortress and ruins that are set on an eruption of rock with a causeway leading to it, I was hoping for Le Mont St Michel, one of my favourite places. The reality of what stands before me is not what I hoped for.

A quick airing of my legs, it gets hot in full kit when the temp is 27 degrees, I make a U turn and head back towards Sparti. Sparti comes and goes.

The only other place I want to visit, in the Peloponnese, is Olympia. The roads are good and the weather is better... until I get to the 200 mile marker for the day. The roads are now so tight and twisty, even if inclined to go like a bat out of hell, I would be struggling to get over 35mph. I would normally be loving these undulating roads, with more bends than a Curly Wurly, it is a bikers dream. Just not for me after being on Suzi for the last 6hrs. Villages cling to mountainsides, some look like they are defying gravity, but my mind is focused on one thing, getting to Olympia before the black clouds get me.

Too late. Just as I manage to get the waterproof layering on my panniers the earth rumbles with the sound of thunder. I don't see any lighting, but each mighty crack makes me flinch. I have never been in a storm like it. Water cascading over me like a hose is gushing out over my helmet. There is nothing I can do but put my hazards on and grin and bear it. Actually that's a lie... I rant, rave and curse like never before, I even think I have created some new unprintables!

5 minutes later, the sun is shining and I am stood Camping Olympia's reception.

Nafplio + Mystras - Greece

Nafplio and Mystras are today’s targets.

Nafplio is a magnificent fortress overlooking the new expansion of the city. It is only until you get up to the highest of the 9 bastions that you understand why on entry to Nafplio, there is a sign saying ‘Welcome to the first capital city of Greece’. It is an amazing place perched so elegantly on the tip of a mountain, the sides of which slope into the turquoise sea below. The people swimming look like bits of ice in a blue Slush Puppy.

Fortunately there are brown signs to guide you from sector to sector.Sadly the computerised interactive information boxes only provide info in Greek, which is a language I am yet to master. The vistas are stunning though. Even driving away glancing over my shoulder, looking through the palm trees lining the road, I find it an awesome sight.

Mystras won’t mean much to most but Sparta might ring a few bells. Mystras is about 5km from Sparta or, to give its correct name, Sparti. It is up there with being one of the most interesting paces I have visited so far. Sparta and the road leading to Mystras is flat. Even the new town of Mystras is relatively flat. The old town though is prominently poised on the ascent of a large, forbidding mountain, on top of which sits a castle.

The steepness of the climb is sure breath taking and combined with the views and the altitude sure makes for a light head. The first church I come to stands tall and fully restored, around the ruins of other buildings. On entry I realize the painting style I commented on at the Church in Kosovo must be from the same period, it is in a very similar style, frescoes painted on a back background. The church I now find myself in is from the Byzantine era. A young lady religiously crosses herself so many times I loose count. She then moves to the next religious painting and repeats the same ritual. My camera is in my hand but I feel rude about taking pictures. I hear the lens of a camera close by opening and shutting, I look around and see it is the girlfriend’s partner taking photos. I continue about my business, if it is ok with him then it is ok with me.

Apart from numerous, smaller churches, the only other building showing sign of restoration is the palace. I decide to head up the near vertical slope for a closer inspection. On arrival the site around the palace is cordoned off and the journey seems to be a waste, until I turn round and gaze over Sparta in the distance.

Mycenae - Greece

5.30am is when quarry action starts in the countryside near Thiva. I am woken by 3 enormous trucks passing 20 metres where I am peacefully resting. I can't help but laugh at the scenario the drivers are faced with. Three motorbikes, 0ne tent and one daft sod in a sleeping bag in the middle of a field. I get a smile and a wave from one driver, the others carry on without barely noticing we were there.

At a respectable hour Miake and Rick wake, to find me packed and ready for the off. I wish them well on their journey to Deli, which prompts Miake to inquire if I want the web address where I can get a carnet, for Suzi, so I will be able to pass into Iran. I pass on the but I vow to keep in touch. A great couple on a true adventure of a lifetime.

Although I have left them, their mentality has stayed with me. I ride to Mycenae, the home of Agamemnon's citadel. I pitch up at a very interesting little family run campsite. I am the only guest but the campsite is still loud and action packed. After several family rows I feel I am invading on their privacy. I head to the ruins.

The entrance, the Lion Gate, is the most impressive sight. Still standing tall, the gate gives the scale needed to realise how formidable the fort would have been. The only other specticle was the Circle Of Graves, which is self explanatory.

The rest of the site comprises of walkways with information boards. After reading a couple I find that I am looking but not reading. I give up and take it for what it is; rocks on a hill with great weather and a lovely views. It is however tainted. There are Americans everywhere, some of whom are so obnoxious. I over hear one saying 'It's easy to see why they are twenty years behind the rest of us'. She should cross to Albania or even still visit some countries in Africa. I retreat back to the campsite, armed with ear plugs.

Delphi - Greece

I woke fresh and early and did something I had not done since a child. Now I am really back to nature! I start to pack away as Rick introduces me to a jeffal. A jeffel is basically a toasty but the added ingredient is an egg. It tastes great, now all I need to do is get myself a waffle iron. With the egg out of my beard and the camp totally clear we head back to the comfort of tarmac. Today's destination, Ancient Delphi.

6 miles in an Miake's front break looks again. Fortunately we find ourselves on a petrol station forecourt. Rick dons the imagery mechanics overalls and strips the break down. The disc is so warn that it is half the size and one of the pads is wafer thin at the edges. The whole process takes abut an hour and half. There is no rush though as Delphi is only 30km away and the vies are amazing. The only annoying thing, for me, is the pesky tabby cat seeking attention. Rick seems to be a competent mechanic. He worked quickly and efficiently, only requiring my services, to chase the cat away. The bike is not perfect, the brake is still catching, but Rick has done all he can, so we press on.

20 minutes down the road and Miake is by the side of the road with smoke coming from the brake pads. I am no mechanic, but I sense that this wasn't normal. I suggest taking the pressure off and ride with the back brake only. It was the only solution but a dangerous one. 70% of bikes braking power comes from the front. This means that Miake is down to 30%, not great on mountainous twisty bends. Miake's speed is kept very conservative.

We eventually hit Delphi, a tranquil village set on the edge of a mountain. On top of the lofty mountain, which acts nicely as a backdrop for Delphi, stands a very small building, which turns out to be Apollo's Throne. We follow the route thousands of buses have taken for decades previously. We are heading out of the village, to the ancient ruins.

Rick and Miake are different in so many ways. Not just stature, Rick towers at about 6'5" over Miake, who is around 5'3", but also their approach to traveling. Miake enjoys seeing the sights and getting up close to history, whereas Rick is content seeing them for the comfort of his bike.

We walk around 2 distinctly ordinary ruins, those of The Sanctuary of Athenia and a Gymnasium. Miake makes it a little more interesting by enlightening Rick and I to the reasons why Delphi became so famous. Turns out it was all about a girl!

The archeological site, where the true gems of history are kept, is sadly mostly closed off, due to fallen rocks from the mountain. So I will never be able to build on my knowledge of Delphi other that saying... it was about a girl.

We laboriously plod south. At this point I don't have a next destination. The Dutch are heading to Athens, but I am way ahead of my schedule. I had met a Greek lad in Berat, Albania, and when I spoke of my route he offered to host me in Athens. However he wouldn't be returning for a week from his trip.

Rick and Miake are a great couple and we got along very well. I got the feeling I was a third wheel on their motorbike though. Our travel styles and the reasons for travel are very different. I like to stop and take stock every other day or so, they just plod on. Mind you they have a destination, I am just a nomad.

As we set up camp in a field near Thiva, I opt to go back to basics and leave the tent in the bag. A chair and a sleeping bag with the stars being my roof will suffice tonight. It gives me a great chance to reflect and I make the decision to part ways in the morning.

Meteora (2) - Greece

After the early alarm call, we hit the road. It is not long before I realise that Christian loves his photos. He brings us to a halt in order, as he puts it, 'to take adventure photo'. This consists of taking photos of the bikes on the move. It took a while for us to arrive at our destination, as we were routinely stopped every 20km or so, but it was well worth the wait.

Northern Greece is quite mountainous, more so than I realised, but what stands before you at Meteora is something else. Rock formations stand alone in the middle of a relatively flat section of land. The giant mass of rocks seem to have been put there. They don't represent mountains of the like I have seen before. The rocks are said to have once been inhabited but now the formations are only host to 6 monasteries perching on different summits.

Rick, Miake and I set off to take a look at the nearest monastery. I am holding the map, which turns out to be a questionable decision. Even after the local elderly ladies point us in the direction we are heading we turn up at two small churches. On closer inspection I realise the monastery has the same name as one of the churches.

The next morning I am woken by normal campsite noises, rather than goats, bells and a herder shouting in Greek. Chris and Chris have decided to split from the group as they are pushing onto Athens. Rick, Miake and I had already talked about heading to Delphi, after visiting the 2 highest monasteries. One is closed but the other has a full car park and a large mass of people being herded like sheep off a bus.

Rick is not a fan of the touristy side of traveling, so he gets a lucky break when Miake's front break seizes. It is a problem that has resurfaced, the same thing happened a few days prior to them leaving. Rick waves us away toward the monastery, he already has his tools in hand.

Legend has it that hundreds of years ago a solo monk came and scaled the rock to build a church as close to god as possible. In future years more and more monks came and a monastery was formed.

On the ascent towards the monastery we pass people who stopped for a breather. The thought comes to me of a new line of work, pilgrimage to music. It could be a big seller, God knows enough people need it! (Excuse the pun)

Miake has to select a skirt to go over her jeans. A dress code I have not heard of before. I decline the offer of joining her.

The monastery is very well kept, even with hundreds of people milling around. It is still a working monastery which, like the other five monasteries, is why it is shut one day a week.

One thing I don't understand is the no photo rule in museums. I actually get shouted at for trying to take a sly one. The security chap had me on CCTV - surely a contradiction in their somewhere.

A group of Chinese followed a guide who spoke english to the translator. The guide was going through a couple of points when one of the group, a overly excited lady, turned to the group and proceeded to shout 'Wahhy Potter, Wahhy Potter'. The guide looked stunned, and all I could do was laugh and leave.

We returned to find Rick with a smile on his face and Kermit, Miake's bike, fixed. Within minutes we are back on the road. I was on stag as I had the only map. We made slow progress on boring slow roads and we didn't make it to Delphi. So it was another night of rough camping, again another quarry, this time i get a great nights sleep.

Meteora (1) - Greece

A few days have passed since my last thoughts were written for all to see. I am now in the heart of the Peloponnese, Greece. A whirlwind of events has found me so busy that I have had hardly enough time to think, let alone, time to make it legible. I will try now though.

It took me 5 days to leave, what was going to be a 1-2 night stop, at Berat. Scott, the soft spoken Geordie, is a top guy. He runs and owns the Backpackers Hostel with the current help of, a Helpx volunteer, Roshni, an American. They make a good combination, Roshni normally does the breakfast whilst Scott sleeps. Scott enjoys watching and laughing at guests indulge and in my case over indulge on his fabulous flavored Raki. One night this Raki even made me dress as a woman and head out to a local restaurant... why you ask... I like to call it 'for shits and giggles'! It was a good night and virtually the whole hostel headed out and returned, where we drank for free. Although some didn't need the extra alcohol!

I left with Scott's number and said I would meet up with him in Athens, as he s planning a trip before returning to the UK for the winter. I hope to meet him for 2 reasons, social and business...

My next destination was to be Gjirokaster. Sadly a near vertical cobbled road heading to the castle on top of the hill, sees me turn round and head further south. Saranda is the last destination of note I want to see in Albania but fate intervenes.

I turned off the main road and within 1km I see 4 motorbikes meandering down the hill I am plodding up. It's Rick and Miake with a German couple in tow. I had been in contact with Rick, since they departed Berat, as they had left some clothes and I had promised to bring them with me for when we met. I hadn't expected it to be here, and fortunately I wasn't wearing Miake's bikini bottoms at the time!

With the goods delivered and introductions, to Christian and Christina, made, I decide to join the conga. Their next, correction, our next stop is Meteora, Greece.

It is my first experience of group riding and just as I am getting into it, we stop for petrol and to use up the last Leke, not realising we can see the border. It gives me chance to chat, but most importantly, to check out the other bikes. The German's, sticking to their stereotype, are riding 2 BMW's. Chris and Chris are also decked out head to toe in BMW clothing. They are a very nice couple who are following the route they took 10 years ago for their honeymoon. Their love for riding even made them relocate to the Alps.

After freshening up we press on into mainland Greece. However time is ticking by and when we realise we have crossed into another time zone, we know we won't make it to the campsite. Rick and Miake suggest rough camping, we all agree and within 20 minutes we are putting our tents up with the backdrop of a sinking sun.

It had been a long days ride for me and whilst we sat in a disused quarry, out of sight of the road, but just metres away, I find myself staring between a roaring fire and cloud free night sky. A romantic setting, although for Christian, he is content just with beer.

We were woken the next morning by a goat herder and his flock, all of whom are wearing bells trekking through the quarry. He obviously takes this route on a regular basis but I am fairly sure he is not used to seeing the 2 Dutch, the 2 German and me at the bottom of it.

We pack up and hit the road. Destination Meteora.

Berat - Albania

My ıtchy feet have dıctated my day, that and beıng the only guest at Hostel Albanıa. I feel lıke I am ımposıng on Clas and Lıra's day.

I set off south through the mountaıns and back on the road I came ın on. Once I have retraced my steps the 'new' road ıs flat and fast. I arrıve ın Berat, Albanıa's thırd bıggest cıty, to be confronted by houses on both sıdes of a steep valley. At the bottom lıes a meanderıng rıver whıch can be crossed by two brıdges, a sıngle lane road controlled by traffıc lıghts, the other a pedestrıan brıdge.

Once over the correct brıdge, I am confronted by the slopıng houses and cobbled walkways leadıng to closed gates. Thıs does not bode well! I decıde to chance my arm and follow the ınstructıons up rather precarıous streets. A few mınutes later and I am outsıde Berat Backpackers Hostel.

On entry I meet 2 Honda motorbıkes comıng out of the wooden door/gate. Rıck and Maıke are travellıng to Delı from theır home ın Holland. After brıef ıntroductıons and a chat about schedules ıt appears that we wıll be headıng on a sımılar route for a perıod of tıme. Detaıls are swapped but the meetıng ıs fleetıng, whıch ıs a shame as they seem really nıce. They mentıon talkıng about campıng on a beach ın Saranda, whıch sounds great and we agree to try and meet.

They leave me ın 'bıke mode' talkıng about bıkes to an Englısh lad, Wayne, or Shaggy as he prefers. He ıs travellıng wıth an Auzy gırl, Katrına. He mentıons about goıng up to the ruıns of a castle on the other sıde of the hıll. I crash theır party and joın them.

Pearched on top of the hıll ıs the remaıns of a fortress. It ıs claımed, by people of Berat, to have been one of Europes oldest cıtadels. It aın't much cop, but ıt gıves me the chance to fınd out other peoples travels and experıences by comparıng thoughts and vıews. Turns out I am faırly normal!

Tirana - Albania

The Albania border crossing immediately lowers my expectations of this country of which I have so little knowledge.

Customs want five euros extra for doing their job. Fortunately and happily I can show the 'professional officer' an empty wallet. He looks at me like I have just soiled myself, turns away in disgust and waves me away. Not such a 'Welcome to Albania' insight.

Immediately Hoxha's turrets hone into view. Mr Palin points out the Hoxha, pronounced Hodger, built 400,000 of these as a defence and a reassurance to the Albanian people. A statement - they will never be conquered again. I, in my ignorance, thought they were just for sea defences. I am about as far away from the sea as I can get while still being in Albania, and I have about 50 turrets in front of me. What is worrying is that they all can see me. Narrow slits staring at me. I suddenly feel like I should have paid the five euros!

The road to Tirana takes me and Suzi on the crest of several mountains. The landscape is so different since the last time I was 2,000m high. It's rocky, craggy and much fewer trees. The earth is the colour of their national flag, a deep red.

I make a friend on top of a mountain. While taking photos I nearly step on a tortoise. I have never seen a wild tortoise before. the last one I saw was in a Loughborough pet shop. I name him Tabs and set off. Next stop Hostel Albania, Tirana.

Once the tent is up right among copious amounts of drooping orange and lemon branches, I am invited to try the first bottle of raki that Hostel Albania has produced. In front of me is a rudimentary process which looks complex in its simplicity. An elderly gent, is overseeing the procedures, he turns out to be a neighbour who has been brewing his own raki for the last 50 years. It needs constant attention and just the right amount of heat and I feel years of experience. I pass, as the sights ahead will require a clear head.

Skanderberg gets about. He has a whole square dedicated to him. The museum talks longingly about his legacy and the feats he achieved. The National Art Gallery portrays his story through paintings. Mother Theresa, by the same merits, also gets about. A square and a section of the museum are dedicated to her by the Albanian people. I find this interesting as only three nights ago I was standing looking at a plaque which stated Mother Theresa’s birth place was a matter of minutes away. That was in Skopje, Macedonia.

I get drawn to another 'interesting' art display. A disused hotel for about 20 years has thrown open its doors to art students who specialise in film and moving art. I wander around more interested in the dilapidated building. Paint flaking off the walls and holes where bathroom suites used to be gives off a very eerie feel. At first I think I am in an old school, but the marble floor gives it away. As for the art, I will stick to simple art. A pretty painting telling an obvious story is more my cup of tea than having to work out and question my inner demons to try and decipher the meaning of the 'art' in front of me.

As I sit in a recommended traditional Albanian restaurant I feel as stuffed as the peppers I have just consumed. Trying to translate the menu was harder than I wished. In the end I asked the very friendly waiter, who can’t understand why I don’t like football, to assist me. I am glad I did, as bravado could have seen me with a plate of intestines or sheep’s skull on the table.
I opt for something traditional and sure I can keep down. The peppers were excellent and something I will try and recreate for dinner guests when I get home. The only question is when will that be!

Ohrid - Macedonia

The wheels are turning, and there is a smile across my chubby cheeks. After a chilled few days of doing nothing, it feels great to be on the road again. I love the ease of leaving a hostel. No tent to put down, dry-out and systemically fold to fit into its small holdall bag. However, the thought of camping tonight feels good, camping next to Lake Ohrid. It doesn't sound glam, but that all depends on the pronunciation. Lake Ohrid, pronounced Ochrid, is a very old and very big lake. It is reported to be the deepest lake in Europe, at 1,000ft. I decide against trying to touch the bottom. Ohrid, the town, once used to be Macedonia's capital. I look forward to going from new to old.

The roads are fantastic, very little traffic, well kept and every uphill section has a crawler lane. The traffic lights even have a timer which counts down. I love this, not so I can encroach into the junction early, like a lot of the locals do. It just allows me to put Suzi into neutral and have a bit of a stretch. My goodness though, make sure you are ready to go when the lights turn green. The locals don't thank you for adding a two second delay to their journey!

The lake comes into view quietly and peacefully. I actually have to do a double-take to make sure it is a lake. It is enormous. The giveaway is that there are no trees or buildings in the vast area.

I nearly skid to a stop to allow three pedestrians to cross the road. I wasn't intentionally trying to draw attention to myself. The road is that well-worn with the slightest touch of the bake brake I am leaving rubber. I am immediately set upon, like an injured wildebeest in the open. The apartment totes, unlike in Split, are mobile. Three pedal up to me and block my route. The female comes over so aggressive I am happy to wish her a good day and ride on. A few corners later and there is no-one on the street. Perfect, I can get my map out and locate this campsite. Before I have chance to unfold it, one of them is on me.

I put up a good fight but cecum to the fact the campsite is 15km out of town. As 'Vic' points out, it is shut. Mind you, he would say that, wouldn't he? Eight Euros and ten minutes later and I am striding purposefully through the medieval capital of Macedonia

Within a few yards I am tucking into the best lunch of my travels thus far. A cross between a pastry and bread envelope filled with a pizza filling. Not bad for about 30p.

Ohrid is fantastic. It has a charm, a style and I sense that it knows how to play to a crowd. In the Old Town there are more bars than people. On days like this I am pleased to be travelling out of season. I do the three main tourist sites. The Fortress, the Pantaljemon and St John's Church. This is tipped as the best of the 365 churches around Orhid, and with its spectacular location and beautiful views it is easy to see why. Two sides slope into the lake tranquil lingering some 20 metres below.

I stand in the church and the thought comes to me that I have spat further than the length and breadth of the building. Ten people inside would make it a crowded house.

The fortress wasn't as grand as I was hoping, but it did giving stunning views across the lake. The final attraction is the Pantaljemon is a new build. They have recreated the old building stone for stone. Perspex has been built into the floor to allow enthusiastic architects a glimpse of how they have seamlessly built on top of the old foundations. As I walk away listening to religious speaking and teaching, I catch a faint monotonous hum. Its a cement mixer tucked out of sight. Well unless you have prying eyes!

The Pantaljemon is currently sat in what appears to be a mass excavation site. Unlike Stari Bar in Montenegro, work is going on with full steam ahead to get the ruins up to their former glory. I realise my heart belongs to a simpler time. I would have loved to see Ohrid's Old Town before it was left to crumble.

Hands down the medieval capital captures mind, body and soul over the 'new' capital.

684 people have visited Ian's blog

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14.	New Zealand	1	1.00	00:00:00	100.00%	100.00%
15.	Poland	1	1.00	00:00:00	100.00%	100.00%
16.	Barbados	1	1.00	00:00:00	100.00%	100.00%
17.	Philippines	1	1.00	00:00:00	100.00%	100.00%
18.	Latvia	1	1.00	00:00:00	100.00%	100.00%
19.	Romania	1	1.00	00:00:00	100.00%	100.00%
20.	Antigua and Barbuda	1	1.00	00:00:00	100.00%	100.00%
21.	United Arab Emirates	1	1.00	00:00:00	100.00%	100.00%
22.	Croatia	1	1.00	00:00:00	100.00%	100.00%
23.	Denmark	1	2.00	00:00:16	100.00%	0.00%
24.	South Africa	1	1.00	00:00:00	100.00%	100.00%
25.	Sweden	1	1.00	00:00:00	100.00%	100.00%
26.	Greece	1	1.00	00:00:00	100.00%	100.00%
27.	Saudi Arabia	1	1.00	00:00:00	100.00%	100.00%
28.	Bulgaria	1	1.00	00:00:00	100.00%	100.00%
29.	Brazil	1	1.00	00:00:00	100.00%	100.00%
30.	Slovakia	1	1.00	00:00:00	100.00%	100.00%
31.	Finland	1	1.00	00:00:00	100.00%	100.00%
32.	Argentina	1	1.00	00:00:00	100.00%	100.00%
33.	Hong Kong	1	1.00	00:00:00	0.00%	100.00%

Skopje - Macedonia

The hassle-free journey continues. That is, until I get to Skopje. I see a lot of Skopje, an hour more than I intend to. A taxi driver can clearly see that I am struggling. He approaches and speaks perfect English. Within minutes I am following him on my ‘to hard to describe’ route. Skyrise apartments tower over us, him being in a battered Lada and me on Suzi. We eventually arrive at my destination, Hostel Hostel.
So good they named in twice!
Hostel World has awarded Hostel Hostel as being the second best hostel in Eastern Europe. It is a quirky little place, a throwback to days gone by. But it is hard to depict which century let alone which decade they are aiming for. With bright and bold colours on the walls and curtains, furniture that would have been at home on a Pride and Prejudice film set, make this a true gem. The garden is the masterpiece, though, with gazebos dressed in cloth and trees sprouting up in the middle of pathways. The focal point of this calm and tranquil garden is an old-style bike spray-painted gold. It is hooked up to the mains… I am reassured that is for the bike's head lamp, I don’t push my luck and give it a wide berth.

Once decamped, I join Pero, the owner, Matt, an American and Richard, a 70-year-old Texan. It isn’t long before we are discussing every subject possible and the air turns pungent with the smell of weed. I am the only one not partaking (I am not just saying that cause my mother will read this!). More people join us, all smokers. Two of note are Richard and Tim. They are both German and both studying politics in Germany. They are very interested in the German elections the following day and are keen to get an invite to the German Embassy to watch the results come in.

Tonight is Light Night in Macedonia; a Bank Holiday of sorts. All I know is that it makes for a big party. The German lads are so intent on getting that invite that they talk of going to the German opening of Light Night. As soon as alcohol and pyrotechnics are mentioned, my ears prick up and Matt and I are on board.

Something got lost in translation. I am stood in a white, brightly-lit room watching a girl act out silently a story through the form of expressive arts. The big finale is that she bites through a bag and then proceeds to drink the contents off the floor. The narration was in German and the paper I am holding is in the Cyrillic alphabet. I have no clue what is going on. The only thing I can think is that the clear liquid is vodka and she wants to have a cheap night out. It turns out to be a very bizarre but memorable way of starting a great night, which turns out to be a little less memorable but this can be attributed to Jack and his friend, Coke.

On Monday night I get invited over to chat with the 'Duty Manager', although there is no name badge in sight. She is sat with three of her friends in what would be a haze of pungent smoke, if it were not for the incense. I find out that in the south of Macedonia they grow really good gear, as well as vineyard grapes, her female friend adds trying to have an air of sophistication about her.

This girl can't half talk! I mention the reason for my trip, not the fact I am doing it so I can get out of work, but cause I want to find out about the recent history. Instantly it makes the duty manager feel tense and uncomfortable. After five minutes of listening to Chopsy talk about events leading up to and including the split of Yugoslavia, I try to change the subject as the Duty Manager is becoming noticeably agitated.

One thing I do find out is that in the new year Macedonians will be able to leave the country for up to three months without having to get a specific visa. One of the lads thinks that 5,000 Macedonians will leave on the first day!

The evening turns into night and I manage to apologise to the DM for my initial interest in what Mia was saying. She smiles and waves it off, it just leaves me wondering about her, or her family's experiences, that has left such a deep, visible scar. The night becomes a lot more relaxed and a lot of fun. I am taught a Macedonian version of bridge. I take to it like a duck to water.

I retire victorious but my thoughts linger over certain conversations and their hidden depths. My last thoughts though, are about tomorrow's journey.

Prishtina - Kosovo

Getting lost seems to be a practice in which I am becoming an expert. Even with a map in my hand I can’t fathom where I am or where I am trying to get to. What I do know is that I am still in Prishtina and it is 9 o’clock in the morning.

Like a capital with OCD all the shopkeepers are sweeping, hosing and even mopping the paved shop fronts. They show such dedication, I just wish this was the case shown in other areas of the country. Tipping and dumping seems to be a big issue. I stroll into the Kosovo Museum, a must see on a short ‘to do’ list. I stand in the entrance hall and admire the scene before me. A spacious dimly lit, but in a professional way, room which has more of a casino feel than a museum is in front of me. The highly-buffed marble floor reflects the glass cabinets containing a whole host of Kosovo’s rich history.

1999 not only saw a brutal war in which so many people lost their lives, but the museum also lost something. Hundreds of precious artefacts were transported to Serbia for ‘safe keeping’. The war has long since passed but the artefacts are still being held by Serbia. With Kosovo’s recent breakaway from Serbia, I have to think that the livelihood of the items returning decreases as each day goes by.

Upstairs is a stark contrast from downstairs. The warm low-level lighting that provides a hospitable feel has gone. It has been replaced by natural light. It makes the cavernous room feel cold and bleak. The glass cases also have gone. Mortars, machine guns and RPG’s are left strewn about the place lying haphazardly on the floor, they aren’t even roped off. Not being able to read the Cyrillic alphabet I have to rely on the pictures to tell the story. Some of which are harrowing and gruesome in nature. As hard as it is to see, they tell the story more vividly than words could. Prishtina hardly shows the scars of war in comparison to its neighbours, but it seems there is a lasting memory bubbling under the surface.

Leaving Prishtina heading south is very pleasant. Not because of the picturesque scenery; far from it. It’s flat! For the first time since Germany I can make good time. Car breakers, petrol stations and car washes are how I will remember Kosovo’s businesses. With so many suits driving around in UN-marked cars it's clear to see that these are the car washers' prey.

The road may be flat, but is far from being a snooker table. The roads have been repaired so many times that there are more patches of tarmac than the original. In Prishtina I witnessed a man repairing a speed hump using very rudimentary tools, that consisted of a wooden plank with a log attached.

I pass both turn offs of the sights I visited yesterday. Gadime Cave, although was closed, gave me a great insight into a small Kosovo village. I constantly got lost, which I attribute to the lack of signs but I saw the poverty of which 22% of people live in.

The other sight was the very interesting Gracanica Monastery. The building alone is a fantastic piece of architecture which consists of a series of ornate arches which make the roof. The inside is just as fascinating. Top to toe is covered in frescoes, every arch, every pillar is flawlessly covered. The background is one solid colour, black. With no electricity, the monastery feels cold and eerie. The fact that the ancient Turks have scratched off the eyes of all the people in the frescoes didn’t help me feel any more at ease.

I am shaken back to reality and find myself at the Kosovo/Macedonia border. Soon I will be in Europe’s poorest country.

Bar to Prishtina

They must prefer legs to breast. Mind you my breasts are covered in hair, while my legs are, like my facial hair, slightly sparse. My legs are covered in the red blotches that can only be attributed to lovely mosquito bites.

A quick check of all my documents and I am away with a deliberate early start. My route is to hug the southbound coast heading into Albania… Plan A! An hour later and I am passing the campsite heading north. Plan A was thrown out when the road ran out, well one lane did. The thought of doing 60 miles on a single track road did not appeal. Plan B is to take a longer and miss out Albania but to cross a narrow strip of Serbia before getting to Kosovo.

I am so glad that Plan A failed. Today’s 9.5 hour journey was long, but at times breathtaking, exhilarating and downright fun. Views galore especially as I leave the Sutomore tunnel to be confronted by tranquil water and rich green trees. The road nearing Slepac Most leaves me speechless but with the most tranquil images rolling before my eyes.

The Serbian border guards don’t seem too happy today. Although the weather is nice they have no building, no booths, it's just police standing in the road checking documents by hand. The border to enter Kosovo is much different, so was the police’s mood. They were more concerned about Suzi’s looks than my documents. Eight suited-and-booted, fully-armed police men crowd round and gawp at Suzi. They even make me hold back a laugh. They are like children at Christmas with a huge present in front of them. With a smile, one guy runs off with my passport. I am left chatting to the few closest. Within five minutes, I am waved off feeling like a champ as I enter Kosovo. It's strange how little things like that make a massive difference. I have a smile on my face and a good feeling about Kosovo, although I do have a numb bum.

I am flagged down by a white van a few kilometres outside of Prishtina. I have doubts and am unsure what is going on. I keep Suzi in first and my hand on the throttle. A guy in his early forties gets out and jogs over to me, a smile across the width of his face. He shakes my hand and proceeds to explain that he has a ‘Yaiha’, with a photo I understand what he is saying. He has a ‘Haya’ as in Hayabusa, a monster of a machine that makes Suzi look like a pussycat in comparison to a lion. He invites me for a coffee, I decline as I have been on the road for so long. I also have glimpsed a sight of the city in the distance. It looks like a giant haystack, with my hostel being the needle, armed only with an address I know I am going to have my work cut out. I leave him and press on into the obis. three full lanes of traffic, no road markings, no signs and no right of way, the first roundabout engulfs me. I keep one leg dangling, just in case!

Utjeha - Montenegro

Another brilliant blue sky awaits, I wonder if today is going to be my last day in Montenegro. Midday comes and goes. This means I will be staying for one more evening at least.

I’m lying on the beach, soaking up the sun, when the campsite manager gets my attention. This surely is it! The long-awaited letter from the folks. One look and I know it is from my mum. If the handwriting hadn’t given it away, then the copious amounts of Sellotape, which I am sure weighs the same as the envelope, would have.

It’s the documents setting me free! Not that I feel I have been kept a prisoner in Bar. In fact, the longer I stay, the more charm the place has. Sticking my head out of the tent, looking down the drive and seeing the great blue sea staring back at me gives a good feeling. So does swimming in crystal-clear water, being able to see curious fish swimming up and investigating what I am doing in their space.

In all honesty it is hard to fault Utjeha in Bar. I suppose the biggest gripe would be with the nightclub which woke me early on Sunday. The music was so loud it was like you were at the party without being inside the four walls, and in my case, without any clothes on. Needless to say, it was only a matter of time before I had a whiskey in my hand. Long enough, you’ll be pleased to know, to don some clothes.

Also staying on the grounds is a Serbian girl. Her family has been staying here for 15 years. Her English is very good, but because mine isn’t conversation doesn’t flow as much as I would like. Using as much tact as I can muster I ask about the events leading up to and including 1999, and the subsequent independence of Montenegro and Kosovo. Nevena lives in Belgrade and was 10 when NATO took the decision to systematically bomb her city. She tells me a house in her street felt the impact as a bomb decimated it and its contents. I think back to when I was 10. My biggest fear was which girl would catch me when playing kiss chase. Hardly had the same consequences!

I mention that I was going to go to Belgrade in between Sarajevo and Dubrovnik but chose not to. Nevena looks at me gone out and stresses that I must go. She even offers to help plan my stay while I am there. So I loosely say I will be there in the new year, fingers permitting. It will be nice to have a familiar face to highlight and recommend places to see in their home town.

Watching another attractive sunset slowly disappear makes me feel sad to be leaving Montenegro, after all I have been here eight (osam) days, my longest stretch so far. On the positive I am leaving the second newest European county and heading into the newest. Kosovo here I come.

Utjeha - Montenegro

Maybe it’s because of the ocean lapping against the rocks below. Maybe it’s the mountains on the other side of the bay, that get larger but fade with distance. Maybe it’s the sun slowly sinking into the sea. Maybe it is just because I am soft.

Whatever it is my eyes are leaking single tears that gently trace into my patchy facial hair. I have no understanding or reasoning for these tears. They are not filled with sadness or with laughter. I start to think about the emotions running through me. The gratitude to all those people that have helped and enabled me to sit on the end of Utjeha dock (Just call me Otis).

To my family and friends that have helped, all I can say is that I will be forever in your debt. For the first time in a long time I feel content, I feel that I am living. My only regret is that none of you are here with me.

It makes me immensely proud to have the unconditional love and support of my family. To have so many friends, who are none judgmental in their view of me, puts a smile on my face.

I am not normally very good at expressing my emotions. Normally I would try to make a witty joke, that turns out to be neither witty nor a joke. In this moment of vulnerability I want to say thank you. You will have my love always

Bar - Montenegro

The main attraction for me to come to Bar was the Old Town, Stari Bar. Stari Bar is beyond what I expected. My notes from the Lonely Planet book say that there are 240 ruins that are thousands of years old. It conjures an image but a vague and broad one.

I approach the town via a pot-hole strewn road. As I stop, teeth still rattling, my mood is suddenly transformed from ‘this better be worth it’ (with a couple of choice words edited) to a ‘this is so worth it’.

In front of me is a market with a real vibe about it. My mind wanders off to days gone by as I watch the locals go about their daily business.

Two men are discussing the price for a few chickens. The chickens, in blissful ignorance, are more concerned posing for the cameras rather than whose plate they will be on later! This scene could have quite happily happened 400 years ago, except the chickens would have had to pose for a lot longer while a painter worked at his easel.

The market is completed with a backdrop of a fortified town. I take a punt and guess that’s where I should be heading for.

The ruins aren’t just a couple of bricks/boulders strewn around a village. Everything inside the walls is a ruin. Reading the guide of Stari Bar, it becomes apparent that they are trying to rebuild and restore Stari Bar to its former glory. A few buildings as a consequence stand head and shoulders above the crumbling rest.

It takes a lot of imagination to picture what it must have been like when it was a working village. With the clever utilisation of the ‘new’ buildings housing ancient finds and artists' impressions, it helps to create a sense of nostalgia.

Sadly, the funding stopped in 2000 and, although a couple of gardeners are loitering with machetes, there is no work being carried out. All Stari Bar would need, sanctions permitting, is one good sales pitch to the right people. The town could become, not only inhabitable but also a real tourist attraction. After all what do tourists bring, apart from cameras… money.

I understand that sounds like it would take away from the spectacle, but at the minute, its not so spectacular. Don’t get me wrong, it’s very nice, but it is a far cry from Dubrovnik or Split.

My recommendation is to watch this space about Stari Bar.

Kotor - Montenegro

It's only as I sit here after taking a front garden do I recollect all the details that have made today so interesting. It has been a day and a half. At times it has felt like a week.
It starts like a normal day. Wake up to blissful silence, only because I sleep with ear plugs in. The rain is hammering down. With my bags packed the night before, all I can do is wait for the rain to subside. I depart with a wet tent and a clouded sense of judgement.

The further south I get, the better the weather. So much so as I leave Croatia the sun is drying me off. I arrogantly wait in line for passport control. I know what I am doing now. I am an expert. One guy opens the door so you can leave the country and 200 metres down the road a guy opens another door so you can enter a new country. Not this time!
I leave Croatia without a care in the world, actually on a bit of a high. The weather has changed for the better, I have a full canister of camping gas and I have my USB lead.
I get to the fancy border crossing allowing people into Montenegro. It has brick walls, a roof and looks like a petrol station ration than a crossing point. I hand my passport over. He then states in a gravelly, barely-audible voice "bike documents". I hand over all I have. He looks over my Green Card, insurance, driving licence. "Registration" is all I get back. He looks quizzical. He fumbles through my documents after I nod and point to the pile of documents. He now looks thoroughly pissed off and barks "Registration! Registration!" I suddenly feel a wave of heat hit me. The realisation that the paper he wants isn't there. I turn from a laid back man into an anxious child that has done something wrong. I search everywhere knowing that there is a sizeable queue forming where there was empty tarmac.
A tour guide, from a bus in the queue, comes down and translates. I explain I have no idea where it has gone. My heart is in my mouth as I wheel the bike to a holding area. A uniformed officer has joined the party. This man, less stern, but seemingly with more authority, takes all my documents into the brick building. My mind is analysing and over-analysing everything. I realise that I have not had to show it before, but that doesn't help me now. I start to think of the what-ifs.
Time seems to be on 'their' side. Each minute feels like 10. A German bloke on a R1200 GS tries to chat. He is in the sin bin for having a copy of his green card. He makes small talk, but I am in no mood to talk. No documents and no foreseeable way to get into Montenegro.
The police officer returns with my documents in hand. He calmly asks where I am heading. "Albania" I blurt without thought. He nods and passes my documents back to me. I am free to go. I make sure I have understood and that I now have all the docs they had. I roll away very inconspicuously thanking my lucky stars that the best scenario unveiled itself!
It took about 20 mins for me to start to think about anything else. I realise that my panniers and luggage bag are sagging. I pull up outside a petrol station. Although the sun is blazing down, it has been raining. I didn't even have to look to find that out. Within a moment of stopping, a wave of water covers me. Water is everywhere; in my eyes, in my mouth. I can taste the grit from the road. I look around to see a double-axled Transit van speeding away. I try to act cool, but I know that anyone who had seen that would be in stitches. I know I would have been. Being in a stubborn mood, I decide to continue. I just turn my back to the oncoming traffic. That shows them who the clever one is!
Lonely Plant states that Montenegro 'lends itself to motoring'. I wholeheartedly agree. At one point I turned a corner and just gulped at the scene in front of me. My destination was going to be Bar, after passing through Kotor.
Kotor is in an inlet, the scenery is up there and potentially surpasses the Rhine Gorge. Around every corner there is a view worth taking a picture. Approaching Kotor, it just looks like a normal city. Nice on the outside, not so pretty in the middle. I then look up! A few hundred metres above, in the hills, is a fortress. The eye traces a line of steps from the fortress down into the 'Old Town', that it once protected. My mind is made. I am going to make that climb and see all I can see from the summit. After all, who knows when I will be back?
The views are worth every bead of sweat running off my fingers, forehead and other areas. I haven't learned my lesson, bike boots and trousers are not good for hiking. This takes people-watching to a new level. The people are smaller than ants. From this position you can watch the whole city function and how each person plays their part. I check to see if Suzi is OK. She is, and I realise it is time to head back to her.