By George - At Last!

Whilst biking north towards the Black Sea, Turkey could not let me leave without treating me to one last humongous hill - a ten mile slog in thick fog and snow but which delivered on the decent such an unexpected reward for my revolutions. As the sun regained supremacy I was greeted to green fields spotted with blue, yellow and pink houses as the road twisted and turned upon itself in a figure of eight - which would have been a more suitable mode of decent to enable me to grapple with the gradient.

I halted in Hopa, only ten miles from Georgia to marvel at the bonny, bright blue, Black Sea. I rolled my bike along a rickety pier and sat down in the sun, happy again to be able to eat outside without the risk of losing a limb - the ten degrees actually feeling like Tenerife!

As I still had a few lira left I bought one bottled beer before the border to toast my time in Turkey. I crept towards the crossing squeezing my bike between miles of stationary trucks lined up waiting to cross into Georgia - this should have alerted me to the chaos which lay ahead! I doubled back a couple hundred yards to find a quiet spot next to the shore to sit and sip my beer. As usual, I had been alone for only a few moments when four Turkish guys 'rolled up' - literally! They were evidently toasting Turkey too, their celebration being a 'joint' effort with the bazooka blazing away with each puff. Although I was offered to suck a bit of 'blow' I politely refused, happy to stick with my hops.

The experience of trying to obtain my Turkish exit stamp bordered on the ridiculous. Hundreds of people, tons of trucks and a plastic cabin with one window which was more often shut than open. No recognizable queue and no recognizable difference between my waving passport and hoards of similar coloured Georgian ones. As always though, my mouth and mode of transport made all the difference. After over an hour of hapless hovering on the bike, getting squeezed, pushed, poked and glowered at, someone hauled my passport from my hand and disappeared beneath the bodies. Five fretting moments later both my passport and the person resurfaced with the former successfully stamped! By George - another country was beckoning!

Fortunately, the first fifteen miles in Georgia were straight as I spent most of them with my eyes angled at the setting sun, whilst allowing my contented sighs to be saturated with the subtle sea breeze. I felt fabulous and after the trials of Turkey the cycling was effortless as I belted along the flat road to Batumi.


Batumi was like a little Las Vegas with gambling joints mounted at every junction, however, it was bereft of budget beds and with nowhere safe to sleep I had to bargain hard to gain a good discount at a place so posh that it still had the smell of fresh paint. The foyer was teeming with Turks filling their faces with food and their veins with vodka. The bike acts like a beacon and as I hauled it up the steps into the hotel a host of holidaymakers hovered to offer their hospitality. I must have looked malnourished as no one would accept 'no thanks' so I eventually gave up refusing and gorged myself on the freshly baked bread, orange sized olives, salty cheese and a sumptuous salad of tomatoes, cucumber, cabbage and coriander (my favourite herb). After a tankful of toasts, which was enough to give you repetitive strain injury, I excused myself and lurched along the lobby to my room. The bike remained in the foyer but I had no fear for it, convinced that bike, bags and the boozers would still be there in the morning - they were!

Not surprisingly, that day I set off towards Lanchkuti at a leisurely pace stopping a couple of times for some caffeine kicks of strong black coffee. By mid day after managing to muster some momentum I was whizzing through a wee village when I spotted a couple of heads and hands waving and shouting from a wee window at the side of the road. Curious as to the commotion I stopped and wheeled the bike across the street and stuck my head into the hatch - my eyes almost exploded! Inside was a huge hall crowded with tables completely covered with food - what a feast! The colours alone would have been enough to collapse the willpower of even the most diligent dieter. Bread and biscuits, gateaux and gammon, filleted fish, cheese and chocolates, cabbage and carrot salads with large lettuce leaves and savoury snacks and sweets all battled for space and supremacy. Yet again, I found myself in a position where food was being foisted upon me. I heard myself give a half hearted refusal but with my hangover halted my eyes and my appetite had already decided for me - it was a banquet fit for a biker! For half an hour hands appeared through the hatch presenting me with parcels of food which was then followed by another flow of homemade fire water! Soon guests started to appear - it was a wedding and the men in the hatch had started eating early as they were responsible for collecting the cash given as gifts to the newly wed couple. The contributors and cash amount was meticulously written down in a wee note book - one way of ensuring people gave more than they could actually afford! After scoffing about three guests worth of grub I was not going to leave without putting forward a few pennies but as always, it was forcefully refused.



Later that evening whilst sitting outside a wee shop and picking on some provisions, the usual assortment of adults, animals and kids had crowded around. Roman, the shop owner came out to restore some order and ushered the kids and their questions away. He spoke no English and my Georgian was not great but we still chatted away for an hour. It was now late and dark and the road was busy with battered old BMW's and Turkish trucks heading to Tbilisi, so when Roman suggested that I sleep in his home it wasn't a difficult decision to make. Roman's wife, Lee Lee laid on a wonderful spread and although my earlier snack had ambushed my appetite, I still managed to do it justice. Besides, I already sensed that my stomach would require a lining for the light refreshments that lay ahead. Roman's reserves of homemade vodka would have shamed Smirnoff and the speed that he wanted to drink it suggested that some of it must have been close to its sell by date. Hardly surprising, the next day I slept through my alarm and woke to find Lee Lee waiting patiently for me to pedal off. Roman had already opened the shop but looked as rough as sandpaper. I do not think many customers would have received a cordial greeting that morning - perhaps that is what he should have stuck to the previous night!



The following two days were windier than the film 'Blazing Saddles' and although the road was flat I had to pump my pedals as if I was back trailing myself up the Turkish hills - if I stopped pedalling I was simply blown backwards! Often I was down to three miles per hour! The force of the wind was even preventing the breath from leaving my lungs! I stopped at a petrol station that was in the process of being stripped by the storm, with its roof relocating. I was allowed to pitch my tent in a semi-sheltered corner with four of the staff helping to hold it down. During the course of the night the wind slowly decimated the diesel pumps, ripped off half the roof and smashed numerous lamps. At two am staff came to tell me to come into the petrol station for shelter but the debris was not falling in my direction and I didn't fancy another night with not much sleep, so I simply pulled my bag over my head and dozed off again.



The next day the weather was still kicking up a storm so on reaching Kutasi I had only covered seventeen miles -it was hopeless trying to pedal against the power of the wind. I was very surprised to spot an Internet cafe but delighted that I now had an excuse to stop. I could not believe it - another party! It was the opening celebration of the business and although the storm had cut the electrical supply it had not dampened their spirits - everyone was busy getting boozy! So more food and firewater ensued. I had been warned by other travellers about the Great Georgian Greeting but if this continued my liver was going to be trashed before Tbilisi! The power eventually returned so I managed to check the football scores and some mail before heading off at midnight. Within fifteen minutes I had found a petrol station and bedded down in the wash bay, falling asleep whilst listening to a boozy brawl being broken up by the local bobbies - the usual Saturday night alcohol fuelled nonsense. I was awoken the next morning at seven as the workmen had arrived to start washing the cars. I resisted the urge to take out my bar of soap.



The next couple of days things returned to normal as I rode over one hundred miles to Gori, the birthplace of Stalin. Anytime I stopped to buy bread or fruit at the side of the street I was offered vodka. The men all scratched the side of their faces with a finger - I had not shaved for a while and thought they were drawing attention to this, not at all, this is the sign used to ask if you want a drink.



On reaching Gori it was now dark and I asked someone in the street if there was Internet. I had stopped twenty yards from one of only two places that had it. I always seem to have luck in these situations. I would not have found the cafe as it was not visible. A family had converted a room in their house and put in a few old computers for the kids to play games on - the noise was deafening! As I waited for my turn, Giga , the son of the owners came and spoke with me. He was eighteen and still at school. His English was excellent, much better than mine! I was introduced to his fourteen year old sister, Mariyan and eventually to their parents, Gia and Marana. With Giga and Mariyan acting as translators we spent a lovely evening eating, drinking and discussing the history of Georgia, especially how its landmass has been gobbled up by other countries through out the years. The food was washed down with smooth, sweet homemade white wine. I would have been more than happy to collapse on my thermarest next to the computers but although I protested, Mariyan was booted out of her bedroom so that I could enjoy the delights of a double duvet with a heated sleeping blanket.



The next morning after a breakfast of homemade bread, jam and honey, Giga was my guide and translator as we walked around Stalin's Museum. We were the only visitors and each room had to be opened up especially for us. It was absolutely freezing and as Giga was busy translating the Russian and Georgian texts, my concentration continually crept back to the heated sleeping blanket. Leaving the museum numb due to the cold and the content we then walked around the outside of Stalin's childhood home and also the carriage of a train that he used to live in. By now it was mid day and I was ready to make tracks myself, however, I was not allowed to leave until I was packed full with a delicious potato dish which had small pieces of pork through it - after their hospitality, I had not the heart to tell them I was vegetarian. As I was saying goodbye, Manana dashed inside and came out with a litre bottle full of freshly made strawberry juice. As I freewheeled away to start the forty five miles to Tbilisi, I was full of warmth as waving hands and smiles saw me off - even Piki, the poodle, despite his diminutive size managed a few boisterous big dog barks.



Souped up on strawberry juice I flew along the road to Tbilisi, the slight tail wind and gradient helping me to average around fifteen miles per hour - it felt great! Again, with nowhere to sleep I needed the net to find a basic bed. Pushing my bike up a steep dark lane I figured I was lost so I asked Karina and her daughter Nata for directions. They took me to the cafe but also said that their house at number twenty two had a spare floor which I could lie on for a night. If I had no luck at the net then they would be back in their house in an hour. I attended to some mail and googled some beds but no joy. Inga, a beautiful blond woman sitting next to me was keen that I should share her space. As she leant across to hand me two telephone numbers, she whispered that she would be more than willing to 'accommodate' me for the evening. I could go with her now in her small car but the bike would maybe be a problem. I figured the bike would have been the least of my problems - number twenty two seemed like much less trouble! I huffed and puffed my way back up the hill and tapped on the door. Within five minutes I felt completely at home and part of the family as we chatted into the wee small hours.



I had to stay in Tbilisi until I acquired my Azerbaijan visa, perhaps two or three days,but you never really know. I was absolutely gobsmacked when I got it the next day in ten minutes. As I was on the bike they even allowed me to pay there and then, saving me a trek across town to deposit the fee in a bank.



I ended up staying in Tbilisi for four fabulous days. Karina, Nata and her brother Vladimir were great company. The space on the floor turned out to be their newly converted loft which they were about to lease out. However, I spent all of my time with them, chatting, laughing, sightseeing and giving massages and healings - they were special days! They were originally from Armenia but the last two generations had settled in Georgia - they were equally passionate about both countries! They invited friends around and we all spoke to my folks on the web cam and earphones via messenger. Vladimir, an unemployed economist - not much economic activity in Georgia at the moment, had a wonderful dry sense of humour. Whilst out sightseeing he had a cutting comment for each sight. Freedom Square but no freedom. Progress Bank but little progress. Heaps of tourist hotels but few tourists. Although I was in Tbilisi in the winter time it is a beautiful city full of green parks and great architecture but Georgia is a very poor country and many people are truly struggling to make ends meet. However, what they lack in lucre they make up with in love. The generosity of 'spirit', smiles and sheer grit and determination made a big impact on me. I have every intention of returning to Georgia and Tbilisi - number twenty two of course!

BLOG BULLETIN

Location: Varanasi, India
Temperature: 42 Degrees Celsius - a record for early April!
Distance Cycled: Almost 8000 miles - about half way!
Duration: 11.5 months

With this bulletin I send my sincere apologies for the recent break in the blog. Unfortunately, four bouts of food poisoning in the past six weeks ( you could say it has been an unlucky run!) has had the effect of crumpling my creativity leaving my blog bereft of entries. Equally, I now look as if I have had liposuction on my loins with my appearance now as lean and as light as my bike frame.

Hoping that no one would notice, I flirted with the idea of writing that I flew over Georgia, Azerbaijan and Pakistan so that I could start afresh with the blog in India. However, having a conscience can often be a considerable burden so further news of my prowess with the pedals shall follow A.S.A.P. ( After stools appear prominently)

Hope you enjoy the lovely smiles of kids from a school in the Punjab. They were so excited to see me on my bike - I was happy to see them too! For the record the school had 1100 pupils but only 15 teachers! A few little lads got too excited and had to get a good old fashioned clip around the ear...I smiled at this thinking of all the lawsuits that would have been filed in Britain. The headteacher informed me that he had no problems with discipline at the school - I wonder why?

Cold Turkey!

My only previous experience of cold turkey is in the post Christmas week, when for days every dish appears with the remnants of the roast - this was hardly sufficient preparation for the antarctic conditions I have encountered during the past month. Two weeks ago the nippy night time temperature in Erzurum, eastern Turkey was minus 38 degrees centigrade but thawed out considerably to an almost tropical day time temperature of minus 25 degrees - Brrrr! If you add the inhospitable hills, howling wolves and the wind which acts like a frozen cloth, wiping your face with each gust, then the reception from nature has been quite cool! Fortunately this has been more than balanced out by the Turkish temperament which is as warm as their wood burning stoves!

From the minute I biked over the border from Greece I was greeted with great big smiles, friendly honks of the horn, was offered copious cups of tea and frequent fags. The tea arrives in a tiny tulip shaped cup accompanied by half a field of sugar cane! If I drank all the sugary tea offered my teeth would be rotten by Tehran. Equally, I do not mınd the occasional fag (although I took exception to the Italian brand) but if I smoked each one my lungs would be lacerated by Lahore! Mind you, everything smokes in Turkey! Turkish trucks smoke as they growl and groan their way up the grave gradients. The trash at the side of the road smokes as people light formidable fires for warmth. The fully stoked wood burning stoves in restaurants smoke as you are walloped by a wall of heat and haze each time you enter them. Even the valleys appear to smoke as the mid morning sun evaporates the mist, forming floating fragments of fog. The only smoke free zone is the television, where actors, caught in the act, have the offending fag fuzzed out! Other butts are blurred out too - with any nudity being deemed unnecessary!

My first night in Turkey was spent a few miles over the border under some trees with a young German couple heading for Georgia. They had a wonderful spirit but not much else. Their budget was brutal - the ten euros per day for the two of them did not allow for any luxuries. They had a wonderful eclectic mix of equipment - most of it purchased on ebay but many things were already broken or did not work properly in the first place. I thought I was slumming it going six days without a shower but they had managed only two in about forty days. Despite this, they were fresh faced, full of fun and having the time of their lives. Before parting the next day they eventually let me treat them to a Turkish coffee. I am not exactly loaded down with lire but compared to them I felt minted!

A few days and one hundred and fifty miles took me to within touching distance of Istanbul. It was eleven pm but I still had twenty six miles to the centre of the city. Paraphrasing the petrol pump attendant, 'The traffic was tragic,' so I parked up under the petrol price column, unrolled my bag and went to sleep. What only seemed lıke minutes later my alarm informed me it was five - time to get a head start on the traffic. I had half an hour of happy cycling before the metal boxes resumed their bumper to bumper battle. At one point, marooned amidst all the motors, I stopped and ate a fume filled apple, relieved to have a few moments of respite! I spent the rest of the day cycling around Istanbul continually managing to miss the the tiny enclave of tourist hostels situated in Sultanahmet. Eventually, I was accosted by an Aussıe couple whose gregarious greeting made me wonder where I had met them before - however, they were sımply happy to see a fellow cyclist. Due to fly back to Oz they were busy cleaning and stripping their bikes so they would pass the stringent Australian custom controls. They then spent two hours squeezing their bikes into cardboard boxes which were too small. I registered in their rooftop penthouse suıte - a twenty seven bed deserted dormitory with a plastic cover to exclude the elements. Fortunately, we numbered only five as I think the solitary sink, shower and toilet would have been well troubled coping with the hıgh tide tourist trade!

I had a week to fill in before my friends, Denise and Al, arrived from Scotland. I rested, repaired my bike (new chain set and front wheel cone and bearings) and argued with the bıke shop owner who wanted to file off a little of my forks due to the ıncompetence of his workmanship. I also spent a couple of days with a great group of fellow guests at the Mavi hostel. Whilst out walking, anytime we asked for directions we were always told, 'straight ahead and right'. As we were usually too busy talking and laughing we did not know where we were, so were left with no option but to follow the directions - even though they were invariably 'Not Rıght!'

After almost seven months on the saddle I was looking forward to seeing my friends. Prior to leaving Scotland we made provisional plans to meet at the end of September but with one thing and another this was nudged back to November - but it was worth the wait! In between a boat ride up the Bosphorous, a trek around trendy Taksim, a saunter around the Spice Market and a gander at the Grand Bazaar we managed to over indulge in alcohol, under indulge in sleep but got the laughter level just about right. Throw in a couple of interesting conversations and the four days flew by and ıt was time for me to get back on the bike carrying a few more pounds - although not the kind that boosted my budget!

Before I moved on I visited the British Consulate to request an official letter that stated who I was and the purpose of my trip. I met a round the world motorcyclist from Serbia who said that the assurances from his Government had helped to speed up the usual snail paced process of visa procurement. I was very surprised to be introduced to the Consular General, Jessica Hand, in person. After a wee chat she said the support letter would be no problem. What was a problem was the price, ıt cost forty five pounds - the standard charge for an official letter. I could probably bribe border guards for less! Besides, when I proudly presented it to the Iranian Consulate in Erzurum, they looked at it with such contempt, it could just as easily have been toilet paper. Once the letter regains some confidence then I am sure it will play its part and prove to be a profitable investment.

During the following week the night time temperature dropped dramatically with the result that each morning my tent was damp and had to be dried out when I stopped for breakfast or a late lunch. Most places thought that I wanted to pitch my tent right in front of their restaurants. It took some time to explain that I was only airing it whilst I ate. Once this was established then a host of waiters wanted to help - pushing, pulling and flapping at my fragile tent until it was as taut as a trampoline, causing the droplets of dew to career off the canvas - I had already returned to my seat to eat my soup!

The roadside restaurants cuisine is constantly bovine based with little variation for the vegetarian. On some occasions I have had to eat meat or not eat at all! The lentil soup is invariably laced with a lamb stock and a simple bean casserole causes concern when minuscule bits of meat mix happily the haricots. I have been a vegetarian for fifteen years and I knew before embarking on my wee bike rıde that there was every chance that I would have to temporarily veer away from the veggies - I was prepared to be pragmatic. However, I was slightly surprised by how much my saliva, stomach and soul refused to muddle in with my logical mind and locked my jaw when the texture touched my mouth, preventing me from swallowing.

It took me almost one month and eight hundred and fifty miles to huff, puff and pedal from Istanbul to Erzurum (the coldest place in Turkey!). The time was both beautiful and brutal. I did not realise how harsh it had been until I reached Georgia and saw the Black Sea, flew along the flat roads and allowed my eyes to gorge at the green fields. Even although I slowed down and respected the rutted icy roads I still arrived on my arse many times. In order to keep warm my clothing had as many layers as a tunnocks wafer but this caused me to sweat more than a boxer training for a bout. Which in turn did not help to counter the cough I had caught in Istanbul. Despite all the challenges it was a wonderful experience with the fatigue, frost and infection only adding to the adventure!

Spending three weeks being messed about trying to arranged the Iranian visa was not so satisfying. I was tired and grumpy and had allowed myself to get too attached to the outcome, believing that it was the only way ahead. Erzurum, no pun intended is not a place to 'chill out' in. It has a ski resort, a large university and a military base. These people choose to settle in such a severe site for specific reasons - God knows why the rest live here! It is severely polluted, colder than an ex partners cuddle, whilst the streets, for weeks on end, are simply strips of ice which large lorries and dumper trucks trundle over whilst carrying away their cargo of snow. Occasionally you slide upon a fellow surly tourist waiting to hear about their Iranian visa application.

I managed to escape Erzurum when a member of staff in my regular soup shop called his English speaking friend Egemen who is the Tourist Project Manager for the area north of Erzurum. So for eleven delightful days I followed Egemen about like a wee puppy dog fortunately enough being invited to many of his business meetings and trips to visit the locals who live deep in the Choruh Valley. Egemen was advising and assisting them with grants so as to convert part of their houses to accommodate the increasing tourist trade.

The package is very appealing. Trekking, walking, rafting and cycling routes take you through areas of stunning unspoilt natural beauty. After a hard days exertion you then allow yourself to be spoilt rotten with homemade food, a fabulous view and a welcome so warm you do not even feel the early evening chill. Have a peep at the web page before the area becomes too popular. www.datur.com and/or www.choruh.com For more information or a personalised programme then you can contact Egeman directly via the datur web page.

Arriving back in Erzurum I entered the Iranian Consulate to hear the decision regarding my second application for a visa. Despite giving them everything they had asked for - including an invitation letter from someone living in Tehran they still refused my visa stating that there was something wrong with my contacts address. By now I was beyond caring and jumped on the bike and headed north to Georgia, happy to be heading to a visa free zone. In Tbilisi it took ten minutes to acquire my Azerbaijan visa but I am now barracked in Baku about to re endure more visa vexations for the the route ahead. Wish me luck!

Greece Lightening!

My gateway to Greece was via the port of Patra after a fifteen hour overnight boat ride from Brindisi, Italy. I shared my sleeping quarters - the open deck, with Rod and Oscar, two young Aussıe musicians on their way back home after a successful tour of the States. Barracked in our sleeping bags we lay down on wooden deck chairs and let the boat act like a giant cradle gently rocking us to sleep as our lungs lapped up the soothing salty sea breeze. The next morning we were awoken by a steward shaking us motioning that we should move - the boat had already docked whilst we were still lying on ours!

Once ashore we bolted down some breakfast. I couldn't resist a couple cups of strong Greek coffee gulped down between mouthfuls of chocolate and banana crepe. We said our goodbyes, with the boys heading off on the bus to Athens whilst I pedalled around the coast towards Korinthos relieved that the roads were calm and clear after having been bullied all the way to Brindisi by the impatient Italian drivers.

I dallied along the thirty five miles to Diakopto savouring the renewed sense of adventure which a new country brings. I camped on a rough piece of roadside land sharing my food, company and conversation with a German 'spiritualist'. He had been through some tough times and spent the next four hours telling me about them. He was diagnosed as a schizophrenic when forcefully admitted into a psychiatric hospital by his parents ten years ago. However, he put his altered mental state - which included constant commands via voices down to a spiritual experience he had in India many years before. It was fascinating listening to his perspective of events but without enough knowledge on schizophrenia or spiritualism I was not in any position to comment either way. I did detect that he was very lonely but was unable to spend time with people due to his mental condition. He had bought a bike and a few belongings and was just cycling until his money ran out. He now disowned his family, had no friends and did not seem to be in a position to make any new ones. Although he was more withdrawn in the morning we stıll shared a fine breakfast of coffee, biscuits, rice wrapped in vine leaves, bread and the ubiquitous chocolate spread but he spent more time talking to himself than with me, so I packed up my panniers and wished him good luck. He said that luck had nothing to do with it and that it was fated that he should follow his constant flow of words!

After a short cycle I stopped at a quiet beach to recalibrate with caffeine and bumped into a Dutch ballet dancer who ran her own school in Amsterdam. Tina was full of fun and vitality and although she was almost sixty, energy pulsed out of every pore! She invited me back to her house to share some yogurt, nuts and honey whilst we discussed her dilemma. Her husband, who had some health issues, was keen to retire to Greece to their cosy condominium on the coast. Where as, she seemed reluctant to give up her ballet business and big house in the city. As I was leaving, her husband arrived home just in time to wave me off - I wonder who won? The short time with Tina was the perfect antidote for the subtle sadness I had allowed to seep into me after my sojourn with the 'spiritualist' - sometimes I can empathise too much!

After further fuel stops and fifty five miles I eventually came upon an all-night internet cafe in Korinthos. I attended to my emails, familiarised myself with the blog Ale had set up for me and nursed a dram until dawn. I then accelerated off to Athens flying along for another fifty five miles - the last fifteen involving the usual mayhem and madness associated with inner city roads. I actually asked a female driver if there was an alternative route into Athens but she said no. 'But it's a motorway,' I said, whilst pointing to my bike. 'This is Greece,' she growled, in a tone which suggested I should just get on with it. So I did!

I cycled to the centre and sat people watching whilst devouring a giant dough ring. Trying to track down the local Tourist Information Office I collared a copper for help. He said that Athens did not have one - this was highly unlikely! I then asked where the nearest Youth Hostel was. According to him Athens did not have Youth Hostels either, as there were plenty of cheap hotels - I knew this was complete nonsense! Third time lucky! Now a little exasperated I asked him to direct me to the nearest internet cafe - at least he knew this! Within ten minutes of Googlıng 'Youth Hostel Athens,' I was booked into a dorm only five minutes from his beat. People are always making up stories rather than just simply admitting that they do not know!

I was sharing the clean, mixed en suite dorm with five other folk for twelve and a half euros per night. As there was no where to dry my clothes I had to pay an additional six euros to have them laundered. Normally I am quite content hand washing my clothes finding the chore cathartic and also preferring to spend the money drınking a beer whilst sitting in a bar reading a book. I bought two veggie wraps at the corner cafe before crashing into bed at eleven for a twelve hour stint in the land of nod, not even hearing the rowdies roll into the room at three thirty.

When I met Tijs from Belgium he was well stoned! He had spent three days roving around Athens ancient relics and said he could not face any more piles of boulders. As I am always on the move with the bike I am not so bothered about sightseeing within cities Besides, usually by the time I reach them I am shattered and quite happy to sit about. However, when Tijs suggested a little stroll up Lycabettus Hill to the Agious Gorgiouskapel Church where you get a perfect panoramic view of the city, I readily agreed. He was a lovely sensitive, open guy and we had a nice natter as we sauntered up the steep slope arriving just in time to see the sun set, then watch Athens come alive with lights. It was well worth the effort and the expense of the profiteering priced bottle of beer that we sipped during the show.

Later, when sitting at the corner cafe close to the hostel enjoying the delicious veggie wraps, a fight broke out nearby. It seems that when some Greeks drink they do not say 'Cheers', but 'Chairs', as one man started clouting and clattering a heavy set chair over another guys head. People started running from all corners to ensure that the contest continued, with the louts lashing their limbs at anything and everything. Just as the trouble began to edge closer to our table a convoy of cops arrived in six cars and six motorbikes screeching along the road to break up the brawl. One man was marched past our table with his blood and nose spread all over his face! Once things had settled down a man approached Tijs wanting to shake his hand whilst showing off with a mobile phone. Two nights earlier someone had bumped into Tijs as he was heading for the hostel. When he arrived he realised the person had stolen his phone. He immediately went back out into the street and searched for twenty minutes before finding the thief in a mobile phone shop about to swap sim cards. He retrieved his phone with force then left the man alone - apparently this was the same man now laughing with his latest loot!

After another rest day hovering about the hostel I headed out of Athens on the National Road 1. Sitting on the slip road watching the stream of traffic streak by there was a certain reluctance to move onto the motorway. However, I knew that within five minutes I would be acclimatised to the accelerated speed, so İ puffed out my cheeks, pushed the bike into position and pedalled off. Fifteen miles later I found the old route that ran parallel, so thankfully I moved onto the less congested carriage-way. However, I spent most of the next week and hundreds of miles on the motorway as the old route appeared and disappeared at will. On a couple of occasions I was turfed off at the tolls or moved on by maintenance men but on the whole I left alone to career along in my own carriage-way only veering off to cool down with cold coffees at the roadside vans.

That evening I stopped at Shimatari camping behind some obscure large cement structure in the middle of a field - the place gave me the creeps! Whilst I was lying in the tent it was lit up with intermittent flashing lights. However, each time I crept out to look I was greeted with a sheet of darkness. Later, as I was sitting in the tent there was a deafening din whilst the ground started shaking violently, knocking me over. 'What the bloody hell was that?' I heard myself say. Again I unzipped the tent but nothing - the only thing still shaking was me!

Arriving late at Lamia I landed up at a BP twenty four hour truck stop. It had a restaurant, a shop and a shower so shoddy that I felt inclined to limit my lathering! The car park was crammed with cargo trucks, bustling with buses and overrun with rats, foraging for the scraps of waste food at the rear of the restaurant. However, cowering in the corner was a grubby triangle of grass just large enough to host my hoose. I lifted the litter and toed away the used tissues but could not bring myself to remove the fat rat that lay, 'legs up,' only a few feet from my own. It was a low energy place but once I was cocooned inside my canvass I was convinced I would feel better - I didn't! I didn't get much sleep either as the refrigerated lorry right next to me roared all night, ensuring its contents remained cool whilst I was anything but! The next morning when inhaling a lung full of diesel fumes I realised I felt flatter than road kill. I struggled on for seven miles to Stilida where my legs went on strike and I was seduced by an enormous orange sofa in Cafe Goa. It had recently opened and was fresh, spacious and stylish. In between snacking and snoozing I was joined by Joanne, the young owner, whose ambition was to visit Goa. She was a bonny bundle of nervous energy and could not sit still for more than a few moments. Although the place was spotlessly clean, she was contınually dashing off with a damp cloth to either wipe something, adjust the position of a plant pot, smoke a fag or slice up more salad - even though the cafe had few customers! She persistently presented me with portions of cake and extra drinks which I never ordered. Even her mother got in on the act, arriving with a toasted sandwich. When I refused, she was adamant that I should eat it, insinuating that I was too thin! Although it was difficult, after all I had eaten, I eventually had to make a move. It was late and I was in danger of exploding! As I was hugging Joanne, thanking her and saying goodbye, her face became furrowed with a serious frown. Looking at me she blurted out, 'Please watch out for the men with the knıves'. I assured her that I would! I felt lıke replying wıth, 'Please watch out for the profit margin, or you will never get to Goa'.

Struggling to find my way out of Stalida after taking a wrong turn, I stopped at a petrol station barely a mile from the cafe to check that I was going the right way. It was now dark and the road ahead seemed too narrow to be the main route. Nadia and Agglless immediately offered me a coffee - even before I had opened my mouth! They were in the wrong vocation. Instead of a petrol station they should have owned a pet station. They had three dogs and seven cats camped in the house with another six dogs barking and growling in the garden! They also had a monster sıze metal bowl in the forecourt to feed all the stray animals they could not house! They simply loved animals and could not bare to see any go hungry - it was costing them a fortune on food each week! We spent the evening dıscussing pets, politics, petrol prices, previous partners and parents. This obviously took some time so it was just before two when I snuggled down under the forecourt table to watch the procession of paws pad past the petrol pumps to feast on the free food. As one cat purred past, it almost lost one of its nine lives with the fright it gave itself upon spotting me - such special moments!

Pampered In Pescara!

A Polish couple helped pitch my tent. I was fed and furnished by two French cyclists in their sixties - the husband being hounded into acting as a sniffer dog to inspect my newly acquired single mattress from the nearby bins! My table was an upturned cardboard box, whilst my moulded plastic chairs had more cracks than my collar bone. A duo of Dutch dames provided some discourse continually commenting on the people parading by with their pooches in prams and pushchairs! During the first few days my time was taken up with entering and exiting my wee tent - averaging out at fifteen minutes each manoeuvre.

I got a lift into Livorno on the local bendy bus which didn't bend around any of the bumps on the road.. I paused at a street side cafe for a pizza and a pint and with my mind preoccupied with possibilities I inadvertently walked off without paying - I felt like a one armed bandit!

Whilst I was more than willing to settle in and sit it out in the campsite until my bones bonded a proposal came from Pescara that I should go and recuperate with my brothers colleague Alessandro. I wasn't sure! Accepting hospitality in someone's hoose for a couple of nights is one thing but foisting yourself on folks for a month is quite another. However with each email Ale relayed I realised his offer was very genuine and generous so my reservations receded and I accepted.

The round trip from Pescara was over seven hundred miles and took Ale thirteen and a half hours of continual driving - an incredible effort which did not include one bad gear change! However, after arriving late in Pescara and piling into a pizza, Ale proudly announced, 'we did it Eric!' then slapped me on my sore shoulder - the laughter levelled out the pain.

Although I found the northern Italians cold and distant, the further south I travelled the weather and the people warmed up considerably with the reception in Pescara positively roasting. Ale and his partner Michela couldn't do enough for me. Michela, who had just discovered she was pregnant gave up her beachside flat and moved in with Ale providing me with a place, peace (apart from the fighting felines) and privacy to enable me to rest and recuperate. Although they were both very busy they continually invited me round to their flat for delicious homemade meals - with Michela's terrific tiramisu tantalising my taste buds. They also included me in the company of their friends with Maurizio and Tanya being especially hospitable - Tanya never allowing me to leave without taking a doggy bag of her tasty treats. In fact I was completely embraced by all their circle of friends - sometimes too tightly by one friend, Felicia who gave such a bear hug that it was often too hard to bare!

During the first few weeks ın Pescara I was still feeling a little fragile. After the experience wıth my tooth trauma I decided not to partake in the all powerful and pervading prescriptıon drugs but to go with the grape and the grain. Ten days later I realised that my self prescribed dose may have been a tad too hıgh so I reduced the prescription to a more lucid level. However, one side effect had been that I put on more weight than a sumo wrestler. My shoulder support should have been adjusted weekly but with me piling on the pounds I just fattened out to fit it! I was supposed to keep it on for one month but it had been impossible to wash myself properly and there was a pong parading around with me. Ale had gone way beyond the call of duty and had already pacified my pits once so I was unwilling to inflict that upon him again. Mıchela's bathroom contained a tiny tub which was desıgned for only sitting in but I was determined to submerge my armpits before they submerged me! So I removed the brace discovering that ıt had collected more skin than a callous. I then gingerly squeezed my torso into the tub whilst my legs languıshed upwards agaınst the wall. The wonder of getting fully washed was was delightful. However, not surprisingly during the meal at Maurizio's and Tanya's that evening the cusine and company did little to dilute the discomfort in my shoulder. That evening the discusion became rather morbid and flowed onto funerals. Apparently, in Italy you can hire people to cry at your funeral - the better the performance bringing a bıgger regard for the deceased!

Passing the tıme dıd not prove to be much of a problem. I dıd yoga exercıses three tımes a day and devoted at least ninety minutes to visualısation sending as much energy and healing as I could muster to my shoulder. I also slept for hours on end, regardless of the time of day. I read 'The Ragged Trousered Phılanthropists' by Robert Tressell - all sıx hundred and forty pages of ıt! It was not exactly uplifting but saved me lifting it up another hill. I had a couple of days when the fun of the fracture wore off and fatıgue filled the void. My mood and energy had more swings than a childrens playpark. I tried just to let things be and wait until it passed. After all, worrying does not reduce tomorrow of sorrow, only today of strength. Besides, I had Italian tv to lift my spirits. Whether it is game shows, political debates, talkshows, sports programmes, shopping channels or soaps, cleavage ıs Kıng with bossoms blazoned all over the box! There was one late nıght show where woman writhed about to the instructions of the male callers, who judging by the tone of their voices were expressıng themselves both verbally and physıcally! Most of the films I saw were dubbed - they even dubbed Dinero! I often managed to catch the late afternoon showing of Lassıe, where thankfully the dog was not dubbed. Another day whilst twıddlıng my thumbs I decıded to put them to some use and repair my puncture. I managed to repair the puncture using one arm and one foot. However, afterwards I began to pespire and pant like a pensıoner - it ıs a thin line between stubborness and stupıdıty!

Nothing seemed too much bother for Ale and Michela. Ale arranged and took me for an x-ray to check that the fracture was fine. I couldn't help thinking that perhaps he should have an x-ray too, to assess the massıve cavıty that must be housing such a huge heart. Michela, who is a Physiotherapist, got me an appointment at her practıce so that her boss could look at my x-ray. With Ale acting as interpreter we entered his office. The Doctor who was busy reading his broadsheet barely managed to prise his pupils away from the paper. When Doctor Dısmissive eventually examined the x-ray he threw it across the table as if to say, 'do not bother me with such a simple fracture'. Apparently he has a habit of haranguıng elderly patients and sayıng, 'what is your problem, you will be gone soon anyway?' He stood up and ordered me to stand to attention against the wall, just lıke a soldier, then he thrust his thumb firmly against my bone and scoffed. Ale asked when I could expect to get back on my bike. Dr Dismissive said that Valentino Rossi takes painkilling injections and gets on with it but he gets paid. He then said that if I was crazy I could cycle off tomorrow but he would wait for four weeks. By this stage Ale was ın fits of laughter whilst just managing to blurt out, 'waıt and I will explain all' After we left Ale said that I deserved a drambuie. I did not disagree! I have decided that drambuie really is the, 'spirit of adventure!'



After a couple of weeks I started going for long walks along the beach. As it was now end of season there were few people about but the beach was still banked up with all the residue from the mass of holidaymakers. There were deflated paddling pools, flippers, suncanopies and umbrellas and balls. There were lilos, pedalos, plastic toys and swept ashore buoys. Then wet suıts, tıny plastıc tractors, spades, pales and prams. As the days past the sand slowly regained the shore as the clutter was cleared away.



Another day whist trying to clear the clutter off my face I was determined to shave the right side with my left hand but it was just not happening. Breathing, vısualisation and stupidity had all failed to get my arm across. Just then a Nıck Kershaw song came on the radio. It was 'I've got two strong arms'. I started laughing...it must be a sign! It ıs funny the things that motivate you...or should I say, me! I turned the radio up, returned to the mirror and shaved my right sıde.


Three weeks after breaking my shoulder I climbed back on my bike. I had worked hard to heal it and it felt right. The support I had received had also helped immensely. Of course I was as wobbly as a newly set jelly and my confidence was as low as the Italian ladies tops. I spent the next two weeks pedalling along the prom buildıng up muscle and mood whilst glowering at anyone who came near me.



My last Sunday was spent dining out with Ale, Michela, Maurizıo, Tanya and their kids. It was a nice relaxing way to wave goodbye and to thank them for all their support. I do belıeve that 'Living is Giving' and that was certainly the case ın Pescara where I do not think it was possible for Ale, Michela and their friends to give any more! Things do happen for a reason and for me to break my shoulder gave me the opportunity to retest my own healing skills whilst also enjoying the company and support of some lovely people. I feel very lucky indeed!

Ouch!

Twenty kilometres past Pisa lay Livorno and a campsite on the coast and although it was dark, the weather was fine, road straight and I felt fabulous. So when I came to a slight slope I sped down it so quickly it was as if I was flying - then suddenly I was as my bike ricocheted to the right hitting the hard shoulder and my not so hard shoulder tangled with the tarmac connecting with such a sickening smack that it took me a few moments to realise what had actually happened. When I stood up I saw my bike spread-eagled with the panniers planted all over the road. Fortunately there were no vehicles behind me. The cars on the other side carried on by apart from an off duty policeman and his friend who came and picked up the bike and panniers. I tried to help but each time I moved I was paralysed with pain. With broken english they kept repeating the words 'ambulance' and 'hospıtal' but I said no preferring to get them to hold the bike up and spin the front wheel to see if it was buckled. The discomfort was beyond description but I thought it would wear off so I asked them to place the panniers back on the bike. However, it was hopeless so reluctantly I relented and along came the ambulance.

I asked for the bike to be taken aboard as well but it was banned. The ambulance man, who spoke English, stressed that I was more important than the bike. The policeman said he would leave it in the nearby McDonalds - I was not too content about this but there was no other option. Besides, I wasn't going to let it spoil my first experience in an ambulance! I was not strapped in, there were no flashing lights or siren and we did not dash through any red lights so I was a little disappointed but as if to compensate the ambulance man was a real comedian. Askıng me about the trıp he saıd that ıt was unfortunate that I crashed ın Lıvorno as I would probably receıve better care ın Calcutta.

I was not allowed to walk from the ambulance but was whızzed ın on wheelchaır. Everyone was warm and frıendly and although the waıtıng room was packed wıth people someone came and questıoned me almost ımedıately, pokıng and proddıng varıous parts. My gestıculatıon skılls were now severely subdued but I managed to motıon that I was fıne apart from my shoulder. I now had to sıt for some tıme before seeıng another Doctor so I started some breathıng and vısualısatıon exercıses and some sımple lower arm movements whılst also peekıng at the processıon of patıents comıng and goıng. Two female teenagers appeared tearful and upset after a moped accıdent, theır knees were all pıtted as ıf mashed by a meat mallet. An elderly gent was rolled ın barely concıous and thınner than a toothpıck. The poor bugger had no teeth ın and wore ıncontınent pants. He lay there, left ın the corrıdor half covered wıth no pıllow, prıvacy or dıgnıty - I really felt for hım and ıt took all my wıllpower not to get up and go and hold hıs hand but I guess that would have been more about my needs rather than hıs! Another teenager taken ın was covered ın tattoos, dısplayıng more paıntwork than an art gallery. She was very sloppy to the staff and just as petulant wıth her parents. I do not know what was wrong wıth her - perhaps sufferıng from a severe defıcıency ın dıscıplıne!

When ıt was my turn my Doctor spent most of the tıme tellıng me about hıs exploıts as a lad playıng the oboe at the Edınburgh Festıval, also that ıt was fate that I should crash and that I would fınd love ın Lıvorno - ıt seemed half of the staff were amateur comedıans. When he eventually got around to examınıng me I ınvoluntarıly pushed hıs hands away. He saıd that perhaps an xray would be best - at last we were ın agreement. A cracked clavıcle was dıagnosed, I was ıssued wıth a support brace and banned from the bıke, wherever ıt was, for a month. It was now two am and as I had to make an appoıntment at eıght for another xray a week later I collapsed ınto the comfıest seat I could fınd - a wheelchaır and sat and sıpped coffee for sıx hours! I had no where to go, dıd not know where my bıke was and each tıme I moved I felt lıke a pın cushıon but I was smılıng and chucklıng. I wanted adventure and thıs was ıt so I was dammed sure I was goıng to enjoy ıt!

After bookıng my appoıntment I arranged for a taxı to take me back to where I crashed. I wrapped on the door of McDonalds - ın fact I wrapped on all the doors as ıt was stıll closed but I was determıned to fınd the bıke. Eventually someone arrıved and poınted to the hotel a hundred yards away. Apparently McDonalds refused to take the bıke - they must have known I was a vegetarıan! I eventually stumbled upon ıt ın the storeroom of the hotel - ıt looked so forlorn wıth ıts buckled wheel, flat tyre, torn handlebar tape and wıth the pannıers dısplayıng more holes than a dartboard. I needed a lıttle tıme to thınk and consıder my optıons so explaınıng my sıtuatıon, I asked the hotel manager ıf he had a very cheap room I could have for one nıght. He reacted as ıf I had asked to sleep wıth hıs wıfe, then tossed a scrumpled scrap pıece of paper over the counter wıth one hundred wrıtten on ıt! Even the taxı drıver took exceptıon to thıs and argued my case. Once I had calmed the drıver down we managed to squeeze the bıke ınto hıs cab and I got hım to take me to the nearest campsıte on the coast where I was fortunate enough to barter a better deal!

Propositioned On Road To Pise

Entering Italy induced an instant change in driving style. In France drivers gave respect and right of way where as the Italians just wanted me to get out of the bloody way! The rugged coastline was stunning as the road crept around every crag but I was too busy hugging the kerb as the vehicles hugged me, passing so close that I was almost tattooed by the trucks sign writing. Cycling through the first wee town I was absolutely amazed at the mayhem as cars, trucks, motorbikes and buses battled it out for supremacy with road markings, traffic lights and signs seeming superficial.

Arriving late at San Bartolommeo al Mare I was happy to come upon camping but not with the price, twenty five euro's - the manager politely suggested that the site six hundred yards away may be better for my budget - nine euro's. I didn't pitch my tent but positioned myself under a tree partaking in a pastis from my pannier before lights out. I awoke a few hours later to find the campsites K9 standing staring at me, his peering pupils shining in the half light.

That day I continued along the coast passing through San Remo stopping only to check my emails and to escape from the searing sun. The rest of the day I dipped down to the waters edge as much as possible finding a beauty bounty in each bay. It was a long lazy day with plenty of pit stops so when night fall drew near I was keen to continue. Approaching Genoa in the early hours it started to shower so I sheltered in the forecourt of a filling station. With the smooth, flat concrete floor proving too temping I lay down for forty winks. I woke up with a start, saturated, as the shower had matured into a monsoon flooding the forecourt. I changed my clothes, put on my waterproofs - better late than never, then promptly fell back to sleep propped up against a petrol pump. I resurfaced at seven to find the station fully functional - the only exception being my bunk for the night! I nodded to the attendant, moved my bike, bought a coffee then cycled the twenty miles south of Genoa to Bogliasco. Booking into the campsite I met a German couple on honeymoon - the guy seemed more impressed with the BMW wedding gift from his grandfather than his new partner. As they were just packing up, I waited then placed my hoose on the honeymoon suite, figuring it would still be nice and warm. I nodded off for nine hours only bothering to open my eyes and my mouth long enough to bolt down some bread and cheese before slipping back into another twelve hour slumber - I love sleeping!

It was a rest day but there is always something to do. I shaved, stood in the shower for ever, washed my clothes then cooked a massive pan of porridge, raisins, nuts, bananas and honey. Full of beans and porridge I then bounced down to the bay and lay on the beach until the sun stopped smiling! It was a long slog back up to the site and as I was catching my breath I bumped into Kathy from Switzerland. We ended up sharing a couple of relaxing days, pizzas and picnics whilst watching the waves. During one picnic Kathy took a bunch of grapes to the waters edge to wash them in the salt water - I thought this was some secret Swiss solution to rid them of their chemical content -apparently not. It was hardly surprising that they then tasted of salt so had to be washed again with the bottle of water that we had bought. This left us both in stitches which reminded me that was exactly what my mangled shorts required. Kathy then managed to regain some lost pride by using her veterinary surgical skills to patch up my pants.

Pressing on to Pisa I was approached by a good looking guy who was obviously a serious cyclist - he had a great bike, all the gear and looked as fit as a butchers dog. He spoke perfect English, was well educated and keen to discuss anything about cycling and fitness. When he discovered my job was massage and relaxation techniques he offered to share his knowledge on such matters and suggested we cycle a few hundred yards along the beach to a public area where other people exercised. I readily agreed thinking I may learn something. After a few hundrded yards we took a left away from the beach front, then a right and a few other turns until we started to leave the houses behind. As the lanes began to narrow and the thatch became thicker my mind suddenly became broader as I realised what his relaxation technique was. When I suggested that perhaps there may have been a wee misunderstanding he stressed that his technique was very simple and that it required he use only one hand - that comment clarrified everything! I stopped, about turned and started to cycle back. We chatted amiably along the way and he said he was a decent person, I am sure he was but it wasn't his decency that he wanted to share with me! I cycled off along the beach front chuckling and smiling wondering what his success rate was. I started to look for a quiet place to sit and make my sandwiches but it was all bars and bistro's which require that you buy something before sitting on their section of sand. However, I spotted a sign saying, 'free beach' so I parked my bike and my bum, which was a little uncomfortable after many miles but of course it could have been a lot worse!



The sexual theme continued when about twelve miles from Pisa the roadside prostitutes reappeared beckoning me with their bared bosoms each time I stopped for a pee - one lady came marching towards me with such zest that I almost caught my manhood in my zipper in my haste to hurry things along! I stopped at a roadside cafe to write up my diary and reflect on the day. There was a constant stream of beautiful 'ladies' coming and going from the cafe but with voices as deep as the ocean. Paying the bill the owner informed me that it was a transsexual tavern. I pedalled the few remaining miles into Pisa and as the tourists were trickling away and the souvenir shops closing up I sat eating my sandwiches whilst taking in the tower. I thought it fitting that I should end my day by staring at a massive phallic symbol!