During my four years at university I spent hours every day staring at maps, zooming in and out here and there and wondering what it would be like to visit the four corners of the earth. After being fortunate enough to spend 6 weeks in Cameroon in the summer of 2012, traditional holidays no longer took my fancy, and weeks abroad spent lying on beaches began to seem like an expensive waste of time; why not go on an adventure? Why not challenge myself, learn something, and return from my trip with a story or two to tell? South America claimed my interest, partially due to its (mostly) common language, and partially due to its lower level of economic development. I started to read motorcycle touring blogs and dreamed of emulating one of the trips I followed online; tackling remote and unforgiving routes off the beaten track while experiencing new and amazing landscapes and cultures. Lacking the motorbike, funds for a flight, a driving license and the ability to operate a motorcycle(!), I shelved such thoughts – “Maybe sometime in the future”.
However, on one such blog I came across a photograph of a bicycle tourist – the first time I came to realize that such a mode of transport was used over long distances. The man pictured was cycling from somewhere in North America to Ushuaia (the commonly accepted most southern point in the Americas). The caption read “Lunatic!” or something of the sort. For some time I agreed, until I further researched the world of cycle touring, and realized the following:
About 6 months later I found myself on a ferry departing from Ringaskiddy, Ireland to Roscoff, France with Hugh, a friend of mine from home. We had done very little planning and had very few “checkpoints” planned on the road ahead. We would cycle South towards St. Nazaire, continue East over the Alps and into Italy, and pass through Ljubljana Slovenia to see some friends of mine. For everything else – we would see where the wind took us. The adventure started almost immediately as we had to deal with unexpected inclement weather and mechanical issues. Resolving the latter through a language I was relatively new to speaking was a challenge on its own!
On the second night, what felt like miles from civilization for us at the time, Hugh’s rear wheel was rendered no longer safe to cycle on. The evening was drawing to an end and rain was beginning to fall, so we set up our tents in the nearby woods: the first time I had been “wild camping”. The thick bark-strewn forest floor was more comfortable than any bed, and I fell asleep strangely but happily at peace with the world despite the pitch darkness and battering of oversized raindrops on the flysheet of my tent.
After two weeks of intermittent progress hampered by the Gods above, the weather finally picked up. We fell into a certain stride where cycling for long periods, navigation, and daily routines became second nature. Somehow or another, we stumbled upon Lac Bourget, having had no previous knowledge of its existence. Coming from an island consisting predominantly of flat land and bitterly cold bathing areas, it was a novelty for us to take a dip in a warm, turquoise lake surrounded by beautiful green hills. Our two-tone-tans proved to be just as much of a novelty to the locals! We spent a day exploring Annecy and gazing in awe at paragliders descending from the snow-capped mountains bordering the lake. The road from here beckoned us only in one direction: up. I was glad I had invested the princely sum of 9 euros on a second sleeping bag during the subsequent nights; as we climbed further the snow-capped mountains were no longer a distant spectacle but a surrounding reality.
A brief and hungry stint in Switzerland saw us at the foot of the Great St. Bernard Pass. At 2469 metres, this was the point at which we planned to cross the Alps and descend into Italy. The pass has evidence of use as far back as the Bronze Age, and a hospice was founded in 1049 to clear the area of bandits, make crossings safe for travellers, and rescue those in difficulty with the aid of the purpose-bred St. Bernard Dogs. After struggling up the last 400 metres in the bitter cold and rain, we stood shivering in the doorway of the hospice and waited for the downpour to pass. While gazing through the fence at the few remaining St. Bernard dogs as Hugh explored a nearby hill, I struck up a conversation with Anastasiya, a Russian girl volunteering at the hospice. Pitiful and penniless as we seemed, she was kind enough to invite us to view the museum free of charge, and to watch a short film about the history of the hospice. We were introduced to her colleagues and treated to some bread, fruit, and several cups of hot sugary tea. We were advised to make our way down to Italy rather than camp in the snow and cold, so we freewheeled 40km towards Aosta with a convoy of Dutch “Carbage” contestants, feeling the temperature rise as the mountains rose behind us. We had crossed the Alps!
The last time I was in Italy I distinctly remember my father disallowing the usage of the air conditioning in the car – “we’ll never get accustomed to the heat otherwise!”. “Make hay while the sun doesn’t shine” became our mantra on arrival in Italy, as the temperature was more often than not above 35 degrees – something we were completely unaccustomed to, having spent many of the previous days in the Alps, and the majority of our lives in Ireland! The bulk of the day’s cycling would be done in the morning and evening when the sun was lower in the sky, with a resting period in between.
We folded the map out and noticed the many lakes in the North, and worked our way towards the first. Each X marked the next pit-stop – some respite from our growing list of ailments. I couldn’t help but burst into laughter one day when we summed our situation up: we were both sunburnt, our cheap tent poles were held together by a growing series of cable ties, deposits of salt were visible all over my cycling t-shirt, and Hugh was under siege by 80+ mosquito bites and a saddle-sore behind! Our spirits however weren’t dampened; with new characters, experiences and sights unfolding before you such matters are barely an inconvenience.
Waking early on the Southern bank of Lago di Lecco, we sat on a wall near the lakeshore to perform some bike maintenance. A few locals stopped by to use our bike tools and ask the usual questions; Where are you from? Where are you going? You’re travelling only by bike?! You two are crazy! The previous night we camped beside some Romanian 20-somethings enjoying their summer holidays, and were treated to an amazing show of nature’s strength. Massive forks of purple and blue lightning tore the cloud-free sky apart and lit up the whole basin. We consumed vast quantities of Tortelloni with Arabbiata (as most of our Italian evenings entailed), and the rain began to fall as soon as my tent’s zip was closed.
Slovenia was a breath of fresh air and a welcome intermission; our last few days in Italy were spent carrying our touring bikes across uncountable Venetian bridges, stealth camping in the seedy town of Mestre, and climbing the hills of Trieste in the dark after already cycling 100km that day. Once the excitement of crossing another border had subsided and we were settled in Ljubljana for a couple of days, I had already begun to fall in love with the country. Knowing some locals provided us the opportunity to visit some much lesser known and unspoiled areas, and although I had a twinge of “sell out!” mentality at the thought of it, our weekend car trip with Marja & Jan allowed us to pack in some great sight-seeing in a short space of time while learning about the history of ex-Yugoslavian states and hearing snippets of what lay on the road ahead.
Our road trip began by heading north out of Ljubljana and making our way over Vrsic; a 1600m mountain pass in the Julian Alps built by Russian prisoners of war and opened in 1915. When I imagined the Alps from the safety of my own home, this is what I had in mind. Contrast to the wide, immaculately surfaced and gradually climbing routes encountered in the French/Swiss/Italian Alps, here lay a series of 50 extremely steep switchbacks cornered with cobblestones which even our 2.0 Litre car struggled with – I can only imagine the effort put forth by the many cyclists we crawled past.
The Soca Valley and River greeted us on the far side, and we went for a walk through the surrounding woods to escape the heat. Soca is also known as “The Emerald River”, and its turquoise, gin-clear water caters for a host of outdoor activities from rafting to canyoning. The Javornik’s kept “Slap Kozjak” as a surprise for us; following wooden platforms curling around a rock face we arrived at a platform overlooking a plungepool in a cave with the Kozjak Waterfall thundering down from above. It was truly difficult to take a bad photograph in this place – even with my 50euro point-and-shoot camera. The rest of our day played out in a campsite near the Nadiza river, in one of those rare unfalteringly happy moods. While we were sitting around it started to rain, and nobody even moved from their seats during the hour-long downpour. Jan continued carving his wooden spoon (we’d forgotten to bring cutlery!), we sipped our beers, took turns playing guitar, and crawled into our tents after a midnight stroll up the freezing cold river. All was well in the world.
Ljubljana was the first place in which I had stayed for more than a couple of days up to this point. After almost two weeks spent in a cosy apartment in the city, my desire to leave couldn’t honestly be described as strong, and the thought of countless more days of uncertainty seemed far from inviting. Hugh had since flown back to Ireland due to lack of funds, and I would be continuing alone.
I reluctantly packed up my belongings early one morning as Marja left for work, made my way in to town and armed myself with a fresh map entitled “Bosnia & Herzegovina”. I knew very little about the country at the time, and hadn’t met anyone from home who could tell me much about it either. However, I had heard very good albeit scattered reports from Slovenian friends and in the unknown lay the intrigue. As soon as I was out of the city and gliding along quiet country roads under the summer sun, my inhibitions were lifted. A wide smile broke out on my face, and I wondered to myself why I had ever held reservations about pedalling onwards in the first place.
I relied on road-side directions to lead me to Plitvicka Jezera, a Croatian national park containing an array of perfectly turquoise lakes joined by picturesque waterfalls, all surrounded by protected woodlands. I’d seen some postcard-perfect photographs during my research of the route ahead and was excited to see it in person. On the day of my visit, my reward for climbing the surrounding hills at the crowd-beating time of 7am was an extremely long queue. I eventually gained entry after a lengthy session of stand-up sunbathing, and joined swathes of camera-toting tourists fanning around the wooden walkways.
Although I had considered my navigational skills much improved at this stage, weaving through large congregations of umbrella-wielding Asians tested my abilities to the fullest. I spent 6 hours exploring the national park but was admittedly tired and disappointed on the way out. Despite the park’s undeniable beauty, it was massively overcrowded and somewhat difficult to fully enjoy.
Before my trip began, my many months of vicarious travel carried out from behind a computer screen led me to the conclusion that seeing the world was exactly as described; standing before and admiring the many mountains, waterfalls, woods, lakes, valleys and other natural beauties our planet has to offer. Crossing mountain ranges and traversing countries yields a great sense of personal achievement, but I found my focus to be veering towards interaction with local people and experiencing their cultures, languages, and everyday realities as my trip progressed. Although each element of natural beauty encountered thus far was amazing in its own right, each waterfall or lake bears a certain resemblance to the last, whereas people are intrinsically very different. Slovenia had opened my eyes to the value of local knowledge and contacts and all of the benefits they bring, but one place in particular turned my outlook on travelling in general around soon after arrival: Bosnia & Hercegovina.
My first night spent in a village called Papari was an instant confirmation of the fabled Bosnian hospitality I had heard so much about. Every time I crossed into a new country there was a certain level of apprehension, but I felt a bit more on edge than normal not 100 metres past the border as I fixed a puncture in the fading light. I had been warned to exercise caution with wild camping here as landmines still undiscovered after the war still lay in the wooded areas. To this end, I decided to ask some locals (in my strange pidgin slovene/croatian mix!) if they had a patch of grass in their garden where I could pitch my tent. Glancing left and right as I wheeled through the countryside I noticed a man with a seemingly friendly face working in his garden, and posed him the question:
“Oprostite ampak imate li mesto za moja sator za jeden noc?”
Once Hasib had deciphered my ramblings, it was my turn to be confused. My blank face prompted him to call his daughter Jasmina from the house to speak to me in English. I was invited to sit and have some coffee, which was shortly followed by a meal cooked by Slada. I ended up staying with the Paparevic family for 3 days, and I was forbidden to sleep in my tent or even on the couch! I was shown around the nearby town of Bihac, introduced to many of Jasmin and Jasmina’s friends, attended a party at a summer house, barbecued Cevapcici at Krupska-Cobana, and shown Hasib’s guns and hunting photo collection. The famed idea of “Irish hospitality” tamed in comparison to this whole new level of welcome.
I wondered if my decision not to buy proper touring-grade tyres was a blessing or a curse after leaving Papari as I sat down on the steps outside a village bar and drank a beer while repairing yet another puncture. A man in the bar bought me a second, and we exchanged broken stories in a mixture of English, Bosnian, French and German. The kindness shown by the people of Bosnia thus far alleviated every ounce of foreboding I felt about the country, and my first night wild camping there was one of the most peaceful evenings I can remember in my life. I felt safer camping here alone than camping as part of a pair in France. Nestled between a river and a disused train-track I found a grassy clearing to rest my head, and spent an hour or so filling in the last few days events in my diary accompanied by a pot of home-made strawberry jam from Papari.
My days in Bosnia were always action-packed, and my daily journal soon fell into arrears as I simply couldn’t find the time to keep it up to date. First-world problems! I spent three fantastic days in Banja Luka couchsurfing at Tihomir’s place, socializing with his friends and colleagues and enjoying his bike-led tours around the town. I slept not a hundred meters from Stari Most in Mostar under an overhanging cliffside. I fell asleep watching bats hunting around the river, and woke up to a rainbow of colours in the sky at dawn, cosy in my sleeping bag and sheltered from the torrential rain. I spent two days and nights pedalling towards Donje Lukomir, the most remote and elevated village in Bosnia with Casey, an American bike tourist and packrafter I met coincidentally as we were both departing from Sarajevo. We were regaled with tales by a middle-aged bearded man about the Bosnian pyramids, and their “scientifically proven” cosmic rays linking them to places unknown. I spent a night at Krupa na Vrbas in a campsite with possibly the nicest group of people I’ve ever encountered in my life – participants of an Acro-Yoga festival organised by another kind couchsurfer who had offered me a place to stay in Banja Luka – Berengere. I would be loathe to mention more names in case I accidentally left somebody out, but after less than 24 hours I was sure I’d gained some life-long friends of various nationalities. I spent my 22nd birthday in an eco-village called Zelenkovac developed by an artist called Boro, and celebrated for a couple of days with both locals and a constant stream of passers-by.
A strange mood enveloped me upon reaching Belgrade, Serbia; the point I’d chosen at which I realistically could no longer financially afford to continue. To add to the sad sense that the trip I’d dreamed of for so long had come to an end, the massive city was somewhat daunting after spending so many of the previous weeks in the countryside and rolling hills. My trip had surpassed my expectations, and taught me a thing or two about both the world and myself. It was nice to relax again however, and it gave me time to piece together some retrospective journal entries and collect my thoughts.
I’d swam in rivers with fish swarming around me. I’d sat around campfires sharing stories and songs with groups of complete strangers. I’d spent countless evenings interacting with locals without a common language. I’d eaten wild boar cooked in a cauldron over an open fire. I’d sped down winding alpine roads at speeds in excess of 60km/h. I’d swam to islands. I’d spent 3 days sleeping under the stars at a naturist camp. I’d cooked dinner under a halfpipe in a skatepark to avoid the rain. I’d tried many derivatives of home-made alcohol. I’d almost choked on my own epiglottis. I’d narrowly avoided standing on a snake. I’d chatted with skeleton-like heroin addicts, Bosnian war veterans and professional jugglers. I’d experienced countless random acts of kindness. I’d sometimes wondered “what is the point?”, but a fresh reason to add to the list of answers always presented itself not a stone’s throw away.
And I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.
