Paranoia and pesky pooches

At the border post I realised that I knew virtually nothing of Montenegro, the country I was about to enter. I quite liked this. I grew even more excited when I began cycling again and unfamiliar sights appeared by the roadside... a sign warning of wild boar and then a few kilometres later a dead one by the road. My plan for the day was another tough climb. From the ancient city of Kotor at sea level I would pedal uphill for thirty five kilometres, up to a height equal to that of Britain's loftiest peaks, and at the top reap the reward... a view over Europe's deepest fjord. I asked for some directions out of Kotor. "Its up up up" the woman kept saying gesturing wildly by turning her hand from left to right to mimic the road snaking up the side of the mountain. Is there any flat? "In Montenegro" said the man standing next to her "there is no flat". And with that I bid them a hasty farewell before I talked myself out of it and I made up the mountain.

The ascent was a lung cruncher and after dodging the odd football sized chunk of falling ice on the way up I came face to muzzle with two huge sheepdogs that were waiting for me at the top. Wretched, savage looked beasts and despite their size they didn't look very healthy. I tried desperately to remember if I'd had that third rabies jab. Their eyes were fixed on me and they were barking incessantly. I realise here a photo would be helpful but at the time I don't recall feeling inclined to ready my camera. Farm dogs in Eastern Europe are fiercely territorial and since reaching Slovenia I have been chased around three times per day. It seems these menacing mutts had decided the road was their territory and it was clear what they wanted to do to the intruder. After a tense stand off I passed by with the assistance of the farmer who scolded Brutus and Chopper (I don't know their names, I'm just guessing). I was unaware at this point that soon much worse would be in store from man's best friend.

My route from the Montenegrin fjord would go northeast until I hit Bulgaria. That was the plan at least but I have got into the habit of making decisions quickly and only when I have to. That is not to say I don't think them through, I just don't worry about them until I'm actually at the junction, not hours or days beforehand. My first day of riding north and I was fighting against a vicious headwind. I had made just 10 km in over an hour. I'm not a patient person and this was frustrating. There's a certain justice and fairness to the hills. Whatever I go up, I will eventually descend. Headwinds and tailwinds are more of a lottery and this was really pissing me off. I stopped in the road and weighed up my options. Continue or venture south to Albania. It was not like me to be plagued by indecision but I stood in the road and dithered.

Albania. I'd been warned not to venture into its interior and up until now I'd planned to take heed of this advice. "Albania is mafia country" I was told by a hostel owner in Dubrovnik. I was also warned of the poor quality of Albanian roads and I had even heard rumours of Albania being home to terrorist training camps. The UK foreign office site gave advice on travelling in Albania and did little to convince me this would be a sensible path to take...

"Gun ownership, crime and violence widespread"
"Driving can often be aggressive and erratic"
"Fatality rates from road traffic accidents are amongst the highest in Europe"
"Minor traffic disputes can quickly escalate, especially as some motorists could be armed"
"Risk of unexploded ordnance from the conflict in neighbouring Kosovo"

Even the Albanian flag, a black two headed eagle on a red background, to me looked decidedly sinister. I decided my idea of adventure probably stopped short of risking losing vital body parts in exploding land mines and on my journey I reasoned my legs would be quite useful accessories. I would get my head down and edge northeastwards.

I continued on, head down. Ten minutes later I paused again, intensely frustrated as another gust stopped me dead in my tracks. But I should push on... I looked up at the road in front and saw another farm dog yapping, growling and coming in my direction. In an instant I turned and was heading towards Albania. As I whizzed along with the breeze I thought about the perfunctory decision I had just made. The direction of the wind and a small dog would now shape the next month of my life. The experiences and challenges ahead would be dramatically different on this new route to Istanbul. I thought about Albania and my head was full of negative imaginings; a lawless land of landmines, terrorists and bandits. What was I getting myself into?

I crossed the border into Albania and immediately my fears were confirmed. The road became a hotchpotch of potholes and craters. But then what I didn't expect, cheers and waves from Albanians out working in the fields. I was even saluted by some of the children as I rode past. People were clearly surprised to see me. Horses and carriages now shared the road with bashed up old Mercs and the occasional new one which I secretly hoped was occupied by the Albanian mafia. My first night in Albania was spent drinking vodka with a group of men in a metalwork shop. In fact Albania has been the most welcoming country of my journey so far and nothing better highlights the generosity of the Albanians than my experience near Elbesan.

I was on my way to the "Summer day" festival, a carnival with pagan roots which celebrates the end of winter. After my chilly start I was in the mood to cheer for warmer climes. I put up my tent on a small makeshift football pitch close to a few houses in the hills above the town. The local children seemed fascinated by this strange bearded curiosity camping under their goal posts and they watched my every move in silence. I was just settling down for the night when a man arrived with the cheekiest of the children, Albert. They couldn't speak any English but it became clear that they wanted me to take down my tent and come into the house. This was an invitation and I followed them inside. The front room had a crucifix adorning one wall and a picture of Mary Magdalene on another. There were no other colours, carpets or decorations to be seen. Eight of them lived here, a Greek Orthodox family and clearly religious. Mum, dad, four children, the grandmother and the father's sister who was profoundly deaf but knew a little English and I answered their questions in writing which she would then translate. She had suffered "nerve damage" and didn't have enough money for the medical treatment for her hearing loss. The father was the only money earner after the grandfather died two months ago. The female members of the household were still wearing black. We took it in turns to ask questions. I established that the children wanted to be an economist, a nurse and Albert... a boxer. They had lots of questions for me, the usual regarding my family, whether I am married, whether I worried about travelling alone and finally to my amusement the sister wrote "Princess Diana. Accident or murder?"!

After the questioning I was led to the shower and afterwards sat down, watched intensely by the whole family and a small table was pulled up. They discovered my socks were wet so these were removed and a pair of the father's socks brought for me to wear. A coat was placed over my shoulders. The women brought out food... sausage, egg, gherkins, yogurt, a nondescript meat dip, bread and cheese. Every time I finished the father would click his fingers and someone would scuttle off to fetch more. I refused and gestured that I had had my fill but he wasn't taking no for an answer. When I persisted he looked suddenly dejected and gloomy. Even a bit frustrated. So I kept eating. They served me a plum spirit, beer, coffee and wine. Then at the end a cigar. "No thank you". The look returned. I would smoke the cigar. I felt ridiculous sitting with a family who didn't have enough money for basic healthcare, in a house where eight people slept in three rooms, wearing someone else's socks, beer in hand, full to bursting with food and smoking a cigar.

The next day I got up early and went outside to my bike to find the plastic bag of food missing. The father looked upset as he showed me round to the back of the shed and there was the bag, shredded with food spilt over the ground. He pointed at the dog and started beating it. I had felt totally unworthy of such hospitality but now due to my stupidity by leaving my food outside they were feeling guilty. But one thing did cheer me up. I watched the dog getting whacked and couldn't help notice that instead of flinching it was wide eyed and jumping around manically. I looked to the ground to find that the mutt had devoured several of my three in one coffee and chocolate sachets. I think he was having a little trouble handling the caffeine high.

In the capital Tirana I stayed in a hostel for a few days. One evening a figure entered in an immediately familiar outfit, looking I suspect, as ridiculous as I often do. A luminous workman's jacket, trousers tucked in, glasses and helmet. It was another cyclist and the first I have met so far. Robin left England roughly when I did and had followed the Danube for most of his route across Europe. His girlfriend lives in Korea and being both English and a bit nutty he had decided the best way to get there would be by bicycle. I enjoyed winding him up by suggesting she wouldn't be there when he arrived. We shared advice and tips and mused over maps. It was great to find someone who had their own woeful canine stories to tell and finally someone who was both excited and in awe by the sheer variety of Jaffa Cake-type confectionery in Eastern European supermarkets. He laughed at my inability to fully close two of my panniers due to the huge amount of useless tat I was lugging whilst I laughed heartily at his large rear pannier which was full to the brim with one commodity only... food. We walked through Tirana's bazaars in the rain wearing the last of our clean clothes, indulging in the occasional impulse buy (me - a novelty horn for the bike, Robin - more food), ate ice cream and looked thoroughly English.

I had trouble leaving Elbesan after the festivities and found myself going in circles, riding down the same streets again and again. What was I doing wrong? I was navigating by compass as roadsigns had become a rarity in Albania. Then it dawned on me the problem. My novelty horn, mounted on my handlebars and next to my compass, was obviously made from iron interfering with the compass reading and leading me on a merry dance. I ditched the horn and finally crossed the border into Greece. In the vast rural emptiness of this region I had the most terrifying ordeal of the trip. I was travelling through a barren landscape which developed an otherworldly aura when the sun began to sink.

During the night I had heard barking nearby but the last farm I had seen was around twenty kilometres behind me. I was on the road for 6.30am. The day before perhaps one car had passed every hour but this early I knew there would be no vehicles coming by. As I cycled I caught sight of a small dog racing out of the scrub. No worries. I had a couple of stones ready to launch in its direction. Suddenly another larger animal appeared and then more barks from the scrub. Another two. Two more. Larger, barking relentlessly and bearing down on me fast. I sounded my mega-horn but there was nobody around to hear it. Now three more grizzly creatures, tufts of fur missing. Who could need this many dogs? There was no farm in sight. I chucked a couple of pebbles at the group to little effect. More appeared and by now I'd lost count. Certainly more than ten. Several were large and all highly aggressive. This felt different to my experience so far. Frenzied. It was as if they were goading each other on. The pack mentality seemed rife through the group. Two went for my legs and I kicked the air trying to fend them off. The road went steeply downhill ahead. I could out run them if I could get there quickly. In my effort to get away I pushed down hard on the pedals and the inevitable happened. "Clunk". I looked down despairingly to see the chain lying limp against the crankset. I jumped off and started to push. The dogs were coming in to bite me and I jumped around wildly to avoid them. Finally I reached the incline and gravity came to the rescue. I freewheeled down the slope taking me away from the attack.

I have learnt two important lessons of late. Firstly I will try not to be so paranoid and will have faith in the world being a friendlier place than it is frequently portrayed or perceived. The foreign office I think is often over-cautionary. After all, it does have a vested interest. If a British citizen gets into trouble overseas if may be them who has to help, financially or otherwise. I will trust people more and listen to the doomsayers less. Secondly I am getting some proper protection from these troublesome mutts. A friend will bring me a Dog Dazer in Istanbul, a device with emits a high frequency sound, above that of the human range, but which is allegedly unpleasant for dogs and acts as a repellent. But this doesn't seem enough. You get viciously threatened so what do you do? Make a loud noise? Come on. I'm going on the offensive. I don't want to, no wait, I do want to inflict permanent injury on these pesky beasts but I empathise with those of you who think this may be a little heavy-handed. So bearing this in mind in the comments section below please leave your suggestions for weapons I can carry with me and use against aggressive dogs en route. Please include some sensible suggestions. This is not Doom 3 and I can't imagine being able to get a rocket launcher or plasma gun across borders.

Reggae, rain and a dodgy beard

Despite contending with mountains and ice I have hugely enjoyed the thirty three days I spent cycling through France. It was a privilege to cycle through the big alpine landscape and the Champagne countryside but more than anything I am grateful for the goodwill and hospitality of the French people. I am grateful to the people who took me, fed me and gave me a bed for the night on three separate occasions and to the strangers who bought me breakfast in cafes twice. I am grateful to the man who saw me cycling and insisted that I take ten euros to buy myself a coffee and some food. I am grateful to the supermarkets for stocking 1 litre bottles of coconut flavoured Yops. I am grateful to whoever decided to build tunnels under the Alps when I was tired of cycling over them. I am grateful for all the bike lanes (France has many) and to the French drivers who often gave me so much space that I feared I would be unwittingly responsible for a collision between them and a vehicle coming the other direction. I am grateful to the farmer who found me rough camping in his field the morning after a storm and instead of chasing me off his land with a shotgun gave me an understanding nod and a smile. Finally I am grateful to the French Alps and The Jura for teaching me to man up and for making the next leg comparatively easy. In fact the only thing I am ungrateful for is that scrappy mongrel who gave chase and very nearly sunk his teeth into my left ankle near Nice. You are a disgrace to your country. Vive la France!

After a brief visit to Monaco I crossed the border and arrived in Italy to a very Italian welcome. It was carnival season and soon after crossing the border a festival procession passed by with children on floats wearing an array of different costumes. Whilst waiting at the traffic lights and watching the display a young Italian girl threw a full bucket of confetti over my head. I cycled off chuckling and haemorrhaging confetti in my wake. In Switzerland I heard the locals describe the French as a little "chaotic". I wonder which adjective they would choose to describe the Italian mentality. I cycled past cars at jaunty angles in Italian town centres, less parked and more abondoned with hazards flashing and as I approached Italian cities the apparent distance to my destination would intermittently rise and fall according to which road signs you chose to believe.

I had to rest in Genoa. There was no getting away from it. The hills and cold had taken its toll on my body, or more likely my student days of hedonism and indulgence which had spilled over into my postgraduate life had led to some serious deconditioning. This, I realised, would take a while to reverse. In any case I have lost almost 10% of my body weight in the last two months despite a voracious appetite. To ensure my weight plateaus I have introduced a new meal into my daily routine and "Middle breakfast" will now take place between breakfast 1 and breakfast 2. Twice I have wondered which component of my bike was clicking only to realise the sound was emanating from my left knee. This then proceeded to become painful and swollen. My back has been giving me the occasional spasm and I have some tendonitis in my hands due to clutching too hard to my handlebars. I took heed of my accident and emergency acronym RICE (rest, ice, compression, elevation) and put my feet up in Genoa for a few days before pushing on. My plan was to take off into Cinque Terre; a strange rugged coastal landscape with terraces spread over steep hills. My Lonely Planet guide to Cycling Italy described the riding as "demanding". I naively shrugged this off forgetting that whilst I might be on a world tour as opposed to the average LP reader, I have a fully loaded touring bike and a dodgy left knee. But reinforced with cappuccino, cold pizza and a tubigrip I felt up to the challenge, at least mentally.

A rouge glow at dawn heralded the change coming my direction. The weather turned and it was my fault. I had commented to a friend the previous night that since reaching the coast I had been lucky with the weather. Hex number one. Then foolishly I believed the forecast on the BBC weather website and should have known better. The sullen murk descended and I was robbed of the views that I had worked so hard to enjoy, but every so often the grey veil lifted to reveal a glimpse of the landscape below. The road snaked towards and away from the coastline in a series of sharp chicanes. With an offshore breeze this gave the strange sensation of slowly fighting a headwind on the descents followed by exuberant sprightly climbs uphill with the aid of a tailwind. But things were about to get even steeper. I had saved money on my map of Northern Italy and mine gave little information about the altitude although I was in little doubt as to what lay in store. All the signs were there. The road I had started on was a series of S shaped curves on my map and I saw a sign stating that the road was open but that coaches were not allowed to proceed. I noticed young Italians passing me in four wheel drives with skis and snowboards strapped to the roof racks. Worryingly I also realised that even those Lycra-clad hill junkies of the coast were nowhere to be seen.

I began the thirty five kilometres of almost continuous uphill climbing and by lunch had reached the pass, cycling from roughly sea level to 1200 metres and back into the snow zone. My knee was complaining but I felt exhilarated and glad for the challenge and the change. The Riviera had felt crowded and claustrophobic with little countryside and I had been yearning for some wide open spaces. A group of Italian men bought me a glass of wine at the top of the pass. "Fantastico!", pat on the back and I plunged down the other side to the pancake flat terrain of the Po river delta and on to Venice.

Cycling in Italy is a competitive sport and the common questions I had got used to "where have you come from?" and "where are you going?" were replaced with "how many kilometres have you done today?" from the Italian cyclists, invariably male. I enjoyed the Italian sense of humour as much as the landscape. Whilst friends in England have compared my new bearded look as akin to that of a Morris Dancer, Italians commented on my hairy visage by putting an arm around my shoulder, grinning and saying "hello homeless man!". Whilst in Italy I also briefly appeared in the local newspaper in Ferrara, Italy's "City for cyclists". I was described as "The Real Forest Gump". In a town near Ferrara a street gang of elderly Italian men stopped me in the street to comment on my shortcomings of bicycle maintenance.

"You need to oil your chain".
"I know, thanks"
"Your saddle is too high"
"I think its OK"
"When you come home you will have huge ass"
The gentleman then pranced around with his hands held out behind him to mimic my grossly engorged buttocks. His posse roared with laughter.

The ride from Venice to Trieste was complicated by torrential rain which persistently without cessation for three days and nights whilst I cycled and rough camped at petrol stations, staying clear of the swollen rivers. Many times as I cycle I sing. This is not a habit I had at home and for good reason. The more horizontal the rain and the more punishing the headwind the sunnier my songs become. On the third day I had bashed out an assortment of reggae classics and I was launching into "in the summertime" by Mungo Jerry when I spotted a hunched figure walking through the aerial onslaught in the road ahead. Poncho, beard, pack, a look of resolve. An adventurer. As I greeted him he turned towards me and his face lit up.

"You're are the first travelling man I have seen in two months" he said with a French accent
"Where are you walking to?"
"I walk to Mongolia!" He announced.

After establishing we were on equally preposterous missions we took some time to share food, tea, stories of alpine cold and tips on how to live cheap on the road. Mateo is a French sculptor and as he walks he leaves cairns along his route. I hopped off my bike and walked with him for fifteen kilometres through the night. We camped together in the park before parting ways the following day. I admired his pluck and his ambition but also his resourcefulness. On his year and half march across the Eurasian landmass he gets by on very little by cooking on open fires and resolving to never spend money on accommodation. "There is always somewhere to sleep" he told me. He had no map but simply walked towards the rising sun in the morning and followed his compass bearing east through the day. This is his blog, in French but with good photos of his work.

Croatian drivers are faster than the Italians. This is a significant statement. In Italy I had begun to suspect someone was putting amphetamines in the Foccacia. As I cycled down the Adriatic coast cars and motorbikes whizzed by and I tried not to look at the roadside memorials, most for young Croatians and many I suspected had died on the road. The fierce weather continued to slow my progress but the rust coloured rock of northern Croatia looked spectacular in the wet. Whenever the sun came out I converted my bike to a rolling drying rack, clothes flapping in the breeze. A cycling rag and bone man. I knew that soon there would be no more putting on wet socks in the morning. Friends were waiting near Zadar with curry, beer, a bed and means to wash and dry the sodden conglomerate mass of fabric that used to represent my clothes.

I said goodbye and set off but again the recurring theme of my journey showed its teeth. As I rode through the hills I saw a flash in the distance. Sheet lightning. Soon I was in the midst of the storm. I had seen electrical storms of this intensity only once before in India. Forks of lightning were visible every ten seconds and I saw one hit the ground perhaps only two kilometres from my location. Milliseconds separated the spark and the boom. In the hills I was exposed and vulnerable. I sought refuge at a small cafe and ate Jaffa cakes whilst I watched for two hours as storm after storm rolled in and lightning lit up the horizon in almost every direction as I looked on. The next morning began with crimson patches of light scintillating over the eastern sky and the new day was a stark contrast to the one before. Sun, sea and the winter tranquility of the Adriatic coastline conspired to make this the best cycling of my trip so far. I coasted south over gentle undulations with the help of a slight tailwind. By nightfall I had covered 160 km. My front light wasn't working but with little traffic and a full moon I continued into the night, exhilarated and high on endorphins. I reached Dubrovnik, the pearl of the Adriatic, on the last day of February. Time to kill with another friend, time to rest my knee and time to explore the nearby island national park of Mljet.

I leave Western Europe behind with my budget in tatters and hoping to gain some fiscal control in the cheaper and beautiful Balkan lands ahead. Tomorrow I start on my way to the next stopping point, the European capital of culture and the end of continent number one... Istanbul.


Random statistics from my journey so far...

Distance cycled: 3470 km
Top speed: 67.1 km/hr (The Approach to Gap, Les Alpes)
Countries travelled through: 8
Nights I have paid for accommodation: 9 / 58
Most amount of Milka consumed in one sitting: 450g