#153 | Ljubljana, Slovenia, to Drvar, Bosnia and Herzegovina

Cycling east, towards China.

Sunday 24th September

Outside my Airbnb, Ljubljana. I awaken under the smoking area in this strange bar. Packed up tent before it re-opened. Bar exclusively served sausage and cheese (for dinner and breakfast). With coffee, I write for a while and chat to French Philipe.

I ask French Philipe, “which is your favourite piece of kit?”

He responds, “chair”, pauses, and looks longingly at the small fold-up stool strapped pensively onto his pile of panniers. He smiles, nods, and repeats, “Yes, chair”.

Nothing is better than *not* sitting in the mud after a long day. You feel like a king.

From time to time, I treat my cycling days like an ultramarathon: “How far can I go? How much can I push myself?” Not entirely sure this is a healthy frame, but it’s how I approach life in general. On balance, I’d opt to keep this trait.

We rattled across the Po Valley. I did head maths: “130 km, 20 km per hour at best, 6.5 hours in the saddle…” — I’d get to Ljubljana by 8 p.m. if I raced along. This is only an hour of night riding (something I avoid doing generally).

We had coffee and cake and split at 1 p.m. I was jumpy from the caffeine and the excitement of the upcoming challenge.

Now alone, I crossed the “Južni obronki Trnovskega gozda” Park, a mouthful and a leg-full—a gnarly 1,000 m ascent, followed by an equivalent decent. As I peaked the range, thin clouds, like smoke trails, brushed through the pine forest, and I descended under a hot-pink sunset. People stopped to appreciate the sky. I kept my head on the road. It got dark. Lights on. 8 p.m. passed. Rain started. 9 p.m.? Time slipped by. Still I rushed down empty lanes and gravelled tracks towards the city centre. Legs pained. At ten, I rolled in.

I now wait on the steps outside my Airbnb, locked out.

Monday 25th

Kavarna NATURA cafe, Ljubljana. A cappuccino before yoga — a delight. Legs = sore.

Later. Needed spiritual nourishment. I spent the evening in guided meditation, learning about The Diamond Way, a lay organisation within the Karma Kagyu School of Tibetan Buddhism. I went to a small office building on the fringes of the city centre, beside an empty car park. Sat on a cushion (I was the only meditator). The guide was charming and enthusiastic. I did some chanting and connected with the divine. I liked his framing that our bodies and our minds appear in consciousness, and are simply tools for our “awareness”. In that case, use these tools for good. 

Wednesday 27th

A pub in Žužemberk. Awesome 24 hours in Ljubljana. I had planned lots of administration while I was with wi-fi and washing machine. I inevitably did none. I wandered around the Cukrarna Art Gallery and the Museum of Modern Art; the latter was better. Slovenia has the cleanest, clearest, most brilliant blue skies. Perhaps it’s the vast forests and low population density.

After reading The Coming Wave under the great columns of the Museum of Modern Art, I meandered around the city centre and found myself in a café. There, I met Blažka, who took me for a tour around the city.

We ended up sat on the castle ramparts, overlooking the layers of Slovenian hills, each layer a mystical blue, watching the sun set. As it did, the sky lit-up a fierce yellow, and the city dimmed below us. It was spectacular.

This morning, I route planned. I am open to the plan changing. Where will the universe lead? East, I should hope. The likelihood of unexpected happening diminishes when we have expectations (obviously). So it’s best not to have a stone-etched agenda but rather a mental note — or a saved map on Komoot.

I loaded up with pastries and rode through the most gorgeous rolling bumpy hills. How can I give you a sense of the rhythm of the afternoon? Imagine you are in the Sound of Music, on a bicycle, on two grams of magic mushrooms (so visually, everything is popping), having had three cappuccinos. This is the sensual experience I enjoyed. Spectacular.

I’m about to find a wild camping spot in this valley, but I quickly stopped for an alcohol-free beer (without fail, a great decision)

Thursday 28th

Early morning, a field in Slovenia. This is the best wild camping spot so far. It is perched on a small hill in a valley watched over by a typical Slovenian church, which wakes me up at 7 a.m. with bells. 

Later, Croatia. A whole day of rolling hills. So so sooo pretty. Now, in Croatia. Heineken Zero is more common as I go further east. People are now smoking indoors.

Later. A field, Rastoke, Croatia. I nearly set up camp in idyllic scrubland, overlooking a broad valley with edged mountains in the distance and forest below. However, as the sun began to disappear, I had a strong sense of the universe wanting me to continue. So I did.

A kilometre further, I met two kayak instructors having a barbecue beside a bar. I bought them beer, and they cooked me supper. 

The local retired policeman owned the bar. He had been an alcoholic and had gone sober instantly eight years ago. He, therefore, lived on alcohol-free beers (to my delight); everyone else in the bar was in a stupor. At the peak of the policeman’s alcoholism (which lasted decades) I’m told he would drink “everything all day”. He regularly stumbled from his front door, spraying his AK-47.

I slept on this man’s lawn. 

This is the big news:

Finally — after perhaps 3,000 km — I’ve found someone who loves Marmite. I passed it around to the Croatians at the BBQ.

Passing it between themselves, they were like aliens discovering some kind of foreign object, unsure how to hold it or which way up it went. They investigated it, smelled it. It’s not sweet, but it’s thick and dark like chocolate. It’s potent. It’s gruesome.

“Yeast?”

“Kvasac?”

“Ovo je odvratno.”

“This is disgusting.”

“Not too much on on the bread.”

“Ne previše na kruhu.”

But then, out of the gloom, one woman turned to me, face lit by her cigarette. She smiled and said, “I love it”.

I am thrilled.

Friday 29th

Rooms Ensar, Pritoka, Bosnia and Herzegovina. I woke up early under a heavy dew. Everything wet. Bike packed, I shared a coffee and cigarette with Eon, one of the kayak instructors, in the policeman’s bar. Opposite us, an old man sat in a royal blue overall, watching me and smoking. The morning sun caught the deep crevasses on his face and brightened the wisps of his cigarette smoke. It was a stunning.

Eon tells me to go into the centre of Rastoke — which I do. This milling village’s tranquil, clear lakes sit between awesome waterfalls which tumble around the houses. Above, a modern highway lies along tall arches, just on the edge of earshot.

All of the lakes have little signs telling tourists not to dirty the water because “the water is famously clean, and the locals still drink from these ponds.” Another reads “keep our water clean!”

Eon and I meet in the gift shop and he asks if I want a beer — it’s 9 a.m. — I refuse; it’s his day off, and he says he’s a “savage” and will drink all day. I’m surprised that Eon keeps spitting into the water. 

We talk, and he keeps spitting. I don’t say anything, of course. He asks me if I’d like to clone myself directly and have a Hector as my child, a tiny Hector, 100% my DNA. Great question. 

After a while, it’s time to cycle to Bosnia and Herzegovina, so I say goodbye. After packing up my bike (it always takes some time), I cycle back to the gift shop to wave goodbye to Eon, but he’s standing with his back to me on the short brick wall next to the lake, urinating into the water. Puzzled, I cycle off. 

On I go through these rolling Croatian hills, which are getting slightly more of a slog; the traffic gets closer to me as I get further away from Slovenia. Similarly, the dogs are becoming more aggressive, more rabid. I’ve had to spin onto the wrong side of the road twice today to avoid being eaten. I spent an hour cycling around a dilapidated military airport (complete with rusted planes) this afternoon.

The border crossing into Bosnia Herzegovina. The vast beauty of the landscape immediately strikes me. It’s broader; the mountains are higher; the villages are further away. I stop in Bihac in this tiny guesthouse opposite a service station. Natural yoghurt and peanut butter for supper.

Saturday 30th

Breakfast in Ripač. I am sitting by a water wheel overlooking a wide river with a mirrored surface in the distance, and, beside me, chopped by the rushing rapids. The fog is clearing. 

Reading The Balkans (goodreads link; it’s niche and great). During the Greek War of Independence (1820s), hundreds of well educated philhellenes (“admirer of Greeks and everything Greek”) travelled from the UK and America to support the independence of Greece from the Ottoman regime. Far from discovering Greek mythic temples (they expected Plutarch’s men), they met scenes of near-genocide — sometimes piles of 5,000 or more human and animal skeletons — and a rudimentary peasant-led scorched earth policy.

At one point, a visitor meets one of the clan leaders and addresses him as Achilles as a sign of respect.

The leader responded, “What rubbish are you talking about? Who is this Achilles? Handy with a musket, was he?”

As I cycle, I’m increasingly aware that I have no idea about the places I visit. Travellers rarely do. The news does a terrible job of translating; only by living somewhere for a long time can you know a place. I don’t think the introduction of faster news (twitter) fixes the problem. It gives the illusion of commonality and of understanding the world. I also doubt information travels well between centuries.

Later. Drvar Hotel. I spent the day crossing the length of the Una National Park, which was terrific. Vast Jurassic landscapes, cut as if by a knife, with deep ravines in which waterfalled rivers sulked. I visited one stack of waterfalls at Martin Brod, and it was stunning (pictured). On the downhills, I listened to Bob Dylan (Goodbye Jimmy Read in particular, as I scream with joy down those empty roads). 

I’ll let two reviews describe this hotel:

• “This place definitely remembers the old regime and looks like it was lost in time somewhere in Yugoslavia...” 

• “All in all, despite any issues and quirks I didn’t mind the place, and found it reasonably comfortable. ... although keep in mind that my level of expectation on this trip was that of a bike-packer. Having said that, if you’re not a bicycle tourist as everyone seemed to be, I cannot imagine why else you would be there.” 

Both are right. The menu offers me either cold meals or “THE WORM MEALS”' — or I might have “KABOBS IN THE BACON” from the grill. Brilliant.

*

Live well,

Hector