Well the bathroom may be ankle deep but they do a top breakfast at the 'worst hotel'. This is a relatively short run so I don't have to be off at first light.
I said yesterday that rural Roumania would be dull but I was wrong. It's very busy. There's a lot going on. There are more horse drawn than motor vehicles on the road, often carrying ambitious loads of almost anything you can think of from cabbages to tractor tyres but quite often just the family. At the side of the road you can buy local produce though cabbages are definitely in season here. My only purchase was a few small gnarled looking pears which turned out to be delicious. Disappointingly there are no local cheeses or varieties of bread. When you go into a village shop the bread is always identical and rather dull, all the cheese is processed and vacuum packed. The villagers themselves are jolly, far more so than the Serbs. They are used to bicycle travellers like me pedalling furiously towards the Black Sea. they wave and cry "Holas", children often hold out their palms for a low five as I speed past. And there are the Roma. According to a census of 2011 there are 620,000 Roma in Roumania though this may be a low figure as many refused to declare their ethnicity on the census form. As I ride they are everywhere, mingling with the Romanian locals but still separate. In one village I pass a Roma celebration of some sort, there is a battered flatbed truck with speakers blasting out local dance music while forty or fifty dance in the street, the women, all dolled up, looking incongruously glamorous with their coils of shining black hair and jewellery. An infant is being passed around with much happiness so I would guess that this might be a baptism party. More often than not however what distinguishes the Roma from their neighbours is their poverty, though the most depressing Roma settlement that I have seen so far was just across the border in Serbia and was utterly wretched.
More country matters tomorrow and just in case you had forgotten I am trying to raise money for the Alzheimer's Society. To donate here is the link: www.justgiving.com/Ted-Irwin1 The '1' at the end is important as it differentiates between the old (timed-out) page and the new one. Many thanks to those who have already donated.
Budapest to the Black Sea
Sunday, 3 November 2013
Saturday, 2 November 2013
Black Sea or Bust - Day 12 Vidin - Bechet 102 Km (63 miles)
I have to ride and I have to start early, even earlier than I thought because (and I'm sure you all knew this) Bulgaria is two hours ahead of London and Roumania only one hour. The complexities of all this confuse me but it boils down to the simple fact that if I sleep in Bulgaria I have to get up so early (first light!) that I have to miss breakfast. If I had slept in Roumania I could have had a leisurely breakfast in my silk dressing gown while reading a copy of the London Times.
I cycle round the Euro-loop roads, only noticing, rather late on, that I am prohibited from doing so, but not the bridge itself. I don't care, I am the only person using them. I return to Roumania and Calafat, the route for Bechet is clear and straight. This is the only night for which I have not been able to book a hotel. In theory there is one described on a cyclist's blog as one of the worst that he had stayed at. If that doesn't look good I will turn south and cross the river to Bulgaria and spend the night in Oryahavo. Means missing breakfast though.
And now the bad news. The next six days are a steady plod through rural Roumania. No scenic splendours just a straight, mainly flat route which my Guide Book suggests you could skip and take the train. Tempting but unthinkable. In any case it will take a fair amount of invention on my part to keep this blog going.
This particular morning, after I have crossed the bridge, is misty, pink and rather beautiful. I stop to take photographs in a local cemetery where most of the crosses have funny little roofs. Most of the massive tomb slabs have sturdy rings and come funeral time presumably heavy lifting equipment is brought in as the next family member is interred in the vault. Should you be considering a move to Roumania to avoid the dismal economic climate in the UK (though my wife seems to be doing her bit in boosting sales in the N Hants area in my absence) then cemetery flowers seem to be the business to be in. The amount of flowers, fresh flowers, in evidence in this densely packed graveyard is extraordinary and every tiny village has a funereal florist, you may not be able to buy a can of beans but you can always buy a new wreath for Granny.
I am riding parallel to the Danube but for most of the day it is a couple of miles south and apart from a brief glimpse at the end of a lane or a distant shimmering in a gap in the trees I will see nothing of it. Early in the morning there are flocks of starlings in the fields and for a few moments I find myself in the middle of one that is flying in exactly the same direction and at exactly the the same speed as me and it is quite disorientating.
It's a longish day, yet again the sun shines, and when I get to 'the worst hotel' I decide to give it a go. It's quite jolly and cheap enough but as is always the case it's the bloody shower that let's it down. The difference between a good hotel and a bad hotel is not the concierge, cuisine, location, decor, it's the fact that in a bad hotel the shower leaks instantly and totally the moment you switch it on leaving the bathroom an inch deep for the rest of your stay with soggy smelly bath mats etc. Ugh.
I cycle round the Euro-loop roads, only noticing, rather late on, that I am prohibited from doing so, but not the bridge itself. I don't care, I am the only person using them. I return to Roumania and Calafat, the route for Bechet is clear and straight. This is the only night for which I have not been able to book a hotel. In theory there is one described on a cyclist's blog as one of the worst that he had stayed at. If that doesn't look good I will turn south and cross the river to Bulgaria and spend the night in Oryahavo. Means missing breakfast though.
And now the bad news. The next six days are a steady plod through rural Roumania. No scenic splendours just a straight, mainly flat route which my Guide Book suggests you could skip and take the train. Tempting but unthinkable. In any case it will take a fair amount of invention on my part to keep this blog going.
This particular morning, after I have crossed the bridge, is misty, pink and rather beautiful. I stop to take photographs in a local cemetery where most of the crosses have funny little roofs. Most of the massive tomb slabs have sturdy rings and come funeral time presumably heavy lifting equipment is brought in as the next family member is interred in the vault. Should you be considering a move to Roumania to avoid the dismal economic climate in the UK (though my wife seems to be doing her bit in boosting sales in the N Hants area in my absence) then cemetery flowers seem to be the business to be in. The amount of flowers, fresh flowers, in evidence in this densely packed graveyard is extraordinary and every tiny village has a funereal florist, you may not be able to buy a can of beans but you can always buy a new wreath for Granny.
I am riding parallel to the Danube but for most of the day it is a couple of miles south and apart from a brief glimpse at the end of a lane or a distant shimmering in a gap in the trees I will see nothing of it. Early in the morning there are flocks of starlings in the fields and for a few moments I find myself in the middle of one that is flying in exactly the same direction and at exactly the the same speed as me and it is quite disorientating.
It's a longish day, yet again the sun shines, and when I get to 'the worst hotel' I decide to give it a go. It's quite jolly and cheap enough but as is always the case it's the bloody shower that let's it down. The difference between a good hotel and a bad hotel is not the concierge, cuisine, location, decor, it's the fact that in a bad hotel the shower leaks instantly and totally the moment you switch it on leaving the bathroom an inch deep for the rest of your stay with soggy smelly bath mats etc. Ugh.
Friday, 1 November 2013
Black Sea or Bust - Day 11 Dobreta-Turnu Severin - Vidin (Bul) 120 Km
Oh woe is me. I cannot cycle. I lie in bed plotting. There is no direct train to Calafat and according to the Roumanian railway map no passenger service there at all. I totter down to breakfast and force myself to eat as many egg based dishes as possible in order to try and stem the flow. Then I ask the raven haired beauty to find someone to drive me to Calafat. She is confused and finds a map to show me where Calafat is. The problem is that I haven't mentioned the magic word 'Taxi'. Universal from Bhutan to Buenos Aires, is there a more universal word? Surely not. Consternation at Reception. A taxi to take me more than 100 Km! Shocking! For a moment I feel like Phileas Fogg in Around the World in Eighty Days with an imaginary Passepartout at my side with a carpet bag full of money. Yes I say to the girls at reception "I don't care how much it costs, I want someone to drive me and my bicycle to Calafat" Being Phileas Fogg just for a few moments feels really good. At this point the hotel handyman who has been listening steps forward and volunteers. Sensible chap. With a bit of puffing and grunting we manage to get Cynthia and my luggage into the back of his car and I go off to a bankomat to make sure that I have enough money to pay him. It gives me a certain amount of pleasure to use an ATM belonging to 'The Bank of Transylvania'. So off we go.
Mid-morning he drops me off at a petrol station on the outskirts of Calafat. It costs less than £50. I ride gently into town, there's not much to it, and I stop for coffee and toilet facilities at a terrace cafe awash with potted palms. Then I set off for my final destination that day, the Bulgarian city of Vidin. There is a brand new bridge, only completed in June of this year, a 'Friendship' bridge between these two antagonistic nations, funded by the EU. There are several kilometres of loop roads before you get anywhere near the bridge but it is like cycling on a billiard table (please don't try this at home), the tarmac is so smooth. Eventually I arrive at the border checkpoint and am waved cheerfully through by both Roumanians and Bulgarians I set out for the 3 Km bridge proper. It is a Monday morning and in the entire time it takes me to cycle those 3 Km not a single other vehicle uses the bridge in either direction. Not much friendship going on then?
At first Vidin appears to be a shabby, crumbling post communist city, with broad avenues that go nowhere and scruffy parks that no one uses, just like half a dozen others that I have passed through. I have a thumbnail map on my booking confirmation which shows that my hotel is on the riverside and as I get closer the scene changes from despair to joy as I find myself in a park that belongs in Bulgaria's Golden Age. I am not sure when Bulgaria's Golden Age was but I am guessing that it was between the wars, and along the river there is a promenade fronting a string of elegant 1930s buildings including a tiny theatre. There is a Promenade, old men play chess in the leafy avenues in the park and there in the middle of it is my hotel. It's all charming. I have lunch in the theatre cafe and then crash out in the hotel.
Trivia for celeb followers. For many years U2's Bono has been holidaying discreetly in Bulgaria not far from Vidin and has made many generous contributions to local community projects. Apparently the success of Vidin's one-way system is as a result of a massive cash injection from the Irish rock star. In recognition in 2006 the Bulgarian government renamed the province of which Vidi is the capital as 'Bononia'. Bet you didn't know that.
Mid-morning he drops me off at a petrol station on the outskirts of Calafat. It costs less than £50. I ride gently into town, there's not much to it, and I stop for coffee and toilet facilities at a terrace cafe awash with potted palms. Then I set off for my final destination that day, the Bulgarian city of Vidin. There is a brand new bridge, only completed in June of this year, a 'Friendship' bridge between these two antagonistic nations, funded by the EU. There are several kilometres of loop roads before you get anywhere near the bridge but it is like cycling on a billiard table (please don't try this at home), the tarmac is so smooth. Eventually I arrive at the border checkpoint and am waved cheerfully through by both Roumanians and Bulgarians I set out for the 3 Km bridge proper. It is a Monday morning and in the entire time it takes me to cycle those 3 Km not a single other vehicle uses the bridge in either direction. Not much friendship going on then?
At first Vidin appears to be a shabby, crumbling post communist city, with broad avenues that go nowhere and scruffy parks that no one uses, just like half a dozen others that I have passed through. I have a thumbnail map on my booking confirmation which shows that my hotel is on the riverside and as I get closer the scene changes from despair to joy as I find myself in a park that belongs in Bulgaria's Golden Age. I am not sure when Bulgaria's Golden Age was but I am guessing that it was between the wars, and along the river there is a promenade fronting a string of elegant 1930s buildings including a tiny theatre. There is a Promenade, old men play chess in the leafy avenues in the park and there in the middle of it is my hotel. It's all charming. I have lunch in the theatre cafe and then crash out in the hotel.
Trivia for celeb followers. For many years U2's Bono has been holidaying discreetly in Bulgaria not far from Vidin and has made many generous contributions to local community projects. Apparently the success of Vidin's one-way system is as a result of a massive cash injection from the Irish rock star. In recognition in 2006 the Bulgarian government renamed the province of which Vidi is the capital as 'Bononia'. Bet you didn't know that.
Thursday, 31 October 2013
Black Sea or Bust - Day 10 Berzasca - Dobreta-Turnu Severin 115 Km (71 miles)
I have spent all night sitting on the loo. Was it the local water or the fish? I suspect the latter. I come down for breakfast feeling dreadful and eat virtually nothing. I can see no alternative to cycling on and that is what I do. The route continues along the Danube Gorge with more spectacular views. The weather extraordinarily remains fantastic, day after day of warm sunshine the exact reverse of my experiences on the upper Danube in the Spring. According to advanced forecasts there is no rain coming in the next week.
Before I go on, apart from the fish and the lack of a sign (I am not one to bear grudges), this hotel must have one of the best scenic locations of any hotel that I have experienced. Staggering out onto my balcony between stomach cramps I could see a good five miles upstream and three downstream.
I pedal gingerly down the road which is relatively flat and winds along the Gorge and I pass the narrowest point where the river is a mere 60m across and God knows how deep. As you can see from the photo it is a bit special even if stomach cramps leave you staring at the tarmac most of the time. There is a killer hill before the town of Orsova which leaves me on my knees but as ever a glorious freewheel into a pretty town with a riverside walk.
After Orsova the Danube Path joins a brand new (EU funded I am guessing) main road which runs along the gorge and for the first time I am dealing with really fast moving traffic and it is hateful. Because of the nature of the terrain there are many bridges between cliff outcrops and at every bridge the road narrows and fast moving cars (thankfully it is a Sunday and there aren't too many trucks) howl past inches from my left elbow. Worse, there are tunnels. One of the reasons I chose to ride the Roumanian side, which is longer, is that there are many tunnels on the Serbian side. There are only a few on my side and eventually I devise the strategy of waiting for the biggest gap in the traffic coming up behind me and then pedal like fury into the tunnel (having donned my Hi-Viz etc) hoping that I can get out the far end before they get me. It works, I live to tell the tale.
However all this high power pedalling is taking it's toll and by the time I reach the outskirts of Dobreta-Turnu Severin I am out on my feet and it's pitch dark when I pull over to buy water from a bakers shop that is just closing up. I slump in a chair and drink while the kind lady owner bustles round cleaning her display cases. I am not sure that I can get up and nor is she. Finally I stagger out, get my leg over Cynthia and by some miracle of transcendental navigation ride straight to the front door of my hotel. The tall, raven haired and very beautiful receptionist takes one look at me and seizes my bags and marches me upstairs to my room. I sit on the bed and wake up fully clothed six hours later feeling absolutely awful. I cannot ride tomorrow.
Before I go on, apart from the fish and the lack of a sign (I am not one to bear grudges), this hotel must have one of the best scenic locations of any hotel that I have experienced. Staggering out onto my balcony between stomach cramps I could see a good five miles upstream and three downstream.
I pedal gingerly down the road which is relatively flat and winds along the Gorge and I pass the narrowest point where the river is a mere 60m across and God knows how deep. As you can see from the photo it is a bit special even if stomach cramps leave you staring at the tarmac most of the time. There is a killer hill before the town of Orsova which leaves me on my knees but as ever a glorious freewheel into a pretty town with a riverside walk.
After Orsova the Danube Path joins a brand new (EU funded I am guessing) main road which runs along the gorge and for the first time I am dealing with really fast moving traffic and it is hateful. Because of the nature of the terrain there are many bridges between cliff outcrops and at every bridge the road narrows and fast moving cars (thankfully it is a Sunday and there aren't too many trucks) howl past inches from my left elbow. Worse, there are tunnels. One of the reasons I chose to ride the Roumanian side, which is longer, is that there are many tunnels on the Serbian side. There are only a few on my side and eventually I devise the strategy of waiting for the biggest gap in the traffic coming up behind me and then pedal like fury into the tunnel (having donned my Hi-Viz etc) hoping that I can get out the far end before they get me. It works, I live to tell the tale.
However all this high power pedalling is taking it's toll and by the time I reach the outskirts of Dobreta-Turnu Severin I am out on my feet and it's pitch dark when I pull over to buy water from a bakers shop that is just closing up. I slump in a chair and drink while the kind lady owner bustles round cleaning her display cases. I am not sure that I can get up and nor is she. Finally I stagger out, get my leg over Cynthia and by some miracle of transcendental navigation ride straight to the front door of my hotel. The tall, raven haired and very beautiful receptionist takes one look at me and seizes my bags and marches me upstairs to my room. I sit on the bed and wake up fully clothed six hours later feeling absolutely awful. I cannot ride tomorrow.
Tuesday, 29 October 2013
Black sea or Bust - Day 9 Kostolac - Berzasca 110 Km (68 miles)
Probably the most interesting day's cycling yet which started with a remarkably frugal breakfast in the Hotel Kostolac. Then off in time to catch the 10.15 ferry at Ram to cross to Banatska Palanka. I went early having read on various blogs from other Danubian cyclists that the ferry sometimes leaves early. Yes there are others who do this. There is one exceptionally earnest young Vegan rider last heard of somewhere east of Tehran who certainly likes to suffer. His daily mileages are staggering and a minibar is an alien thing to him. Anyway a pleasant ride in glorious sunshine to Ram, where the ferry ramp is overlooked by an old Turkish fort. The ferry will leave as advertised at 10.15 so I have time to give Cynthia the once over and a little lubrication and she runs all the sweeter because of it.
The Danube here is very wide and I look at the ferry which had been described by the plausible rogue back at the hotel as "not really a ferry. It's just made of wood" and he has that about right, there is water showing through the planking, but luckily there is no chance of overloading in that at that moment there is only me, Cynthia and an elderly couple in a Fiat Uno on board. We are about to leave when the ferryman's mobile rings. It's a call from someone down the road asking if he could wait for them. He did and a few minutes later a white VW with two young Serbs bounces down the ramp onto the ferry. I talk to them during the twenty minute crossing. They live in Vienna and have come back to visit friends. They recommend the fish restaurant next to landing ramp but I have a lot of miles to go and the ferry timetable has put me behind the clock.
It's a twenty kilometre ride to the Roumanian frontier where everyone is interested in my passport and then I have to face my own personal Alpine section. But first farewell to Serbia, interesting, but would I recommend it for a holiday? Well the Serbs seem a bit dour, a bit like the Poles were when I first visited Poland in the late eighties, suffering from post-totalitarian syndrome. After all it's not that long since Milosevic lost power and a democratic system started to work in Serbia. The scenery and the low cost must make it a winner though, take a car spend a day in Novi Sad, two or three in Belgrade then head for the mountains.
Described in my Danube Path Guide as follows "The next 20 kilometres are especially scenic and can be counted as a natural highlight in and of themselves (??? German publisher!). Hills, woods and lush fertile meadows lift the bicycle tourist's spirit and distract from the hard work that his or her legs must deliver to power the bicycle over the numerous and steep hills." Hmm "numerous and steep".There is an alternative route, cycling round the hill, but that's more than 20 Km longer so I decide to go the direct 18 Km route.
So off I go. How bad can it be? It's the hottest part of the day and I start cycling up and up. I knew it was going to be tough and I have developed a routine, cycle until you can bear it no longer then walk a bit, you use different muscles. The important thing is to keep moving otherwise you become becalmed in despair. On and on, up and up, every curve reveals the slope going up and up. I am drenched in sweat, I've run out of water and I am being tormented by midges. Surely I must be at the top soon. On and on, up and up, my thighs are on fire, my lungs bursting. Why can't I have the same drugs as Lance Armstrong? And all the time at the back of my mind is the phrase " numerous and steep". What if I make it to the top and I do a blissful freewheel to the bottom of a valley but then there is another climb and perhaps another after that. I know that I won't be able to do it. I can only do this once. I make it to the top and there shimmering in the distance is the Danube. I have made it to the top and there is just one hill and I am proud to be there. Then for nearly twenty minutes I don't have to pedal at all, as the freewheel takes me to the very bank of the river. People do these mountain climbs for fun. Idiots!
I rejoin the Danube just a few miles before the start of the Danube Gorge, the most spectacular part of the whole journey and it doesn't disappoint, it lives up to it's billing. I could waffle on for pages about how stunning it all is but photos do it better. These are the Iron Gates where the Danube has scoured its way through the mountains toward the east, Roumania on the north shore and Serbia on the south. At the narrowest point the river is only 60metres across.
I cruise along the north shore road feeling that I have deserved this reward for my hill climb. My destination Berzasca is about half way along the Gorge and it's just starting to get dark as I arrive on the outskirts of the village. This is not a booking.com job this, it is an independent booking so I have only an address and a phone number, no map. To be safe I stop on the outskirts of the village and ask a couple of blokes.
"Oh yes. Two kilometres further on, turn left"
To be sure after a kilometre I ask again.
"Oh yes. One kilometre further on, turn left".
On I go and I cycle slowly, checking for turnings or signs advertising the hotel. I ride a great deal more than 1 Km, I almost ride to the next village. There are no turnings. just a couple of farm tracks and a cliff path. It is now pitch dark. It's not dangerous in that there is no other traffic, but I suppose I could have ridden off the edge of the road and plunged to my death on the rocks 200m below. I haul out my I-pad and find the hotel's number and dial it on my mobile. Someone answers.
" Hello I am staying with you tonight, my name is Irwin but I can't find you."
There is a pause. "I am sorry but I think you have a missing number"
A wrong number. Bugger! But this kind man man doesn't give up on me, after I explain my situation to him he goes off to find the correct number.
"If you can't find them, call me and I will help you again".
I get through and try to get them to tell me how to get there when I don't know where I am and can't see my hand in front of my face. The lady at the hotel does her best but her English is as good as my Roumanian so progress is slow and I am getting very angry. I am about to say "Fuck it! I am going to stay somewhere else." Which would not be the brightest thing to say when there was no other accommodation within 20 Km. Before I say it, she says in desperation "I will send a boy in red into the road".
OK. I have to decide whether to go forward or back, I gamble on back and after a kilometre I see a figure in the road with a torch. It is the 'boy in red'. The hotel is up one of the farm tracks. I am still cross and fear the worst as I push Cynthia up a steep rutted track. The 'boy in red' speaks fair English and makes desperate small talk, trying to placate me as I snarl "There's no fucking sign! There's no fucking sign!" (and there is no fucking sign). But we arrive at the top of the track and there is a brand new, beautiful hotel. People rush to take my bags, Cynthia is wheeled away, I am shown to a room on the top floor and it's beautiful. To be honest people in this part of Europe tend to overdo the decoration but someone classy designed the hotel and the room. I have a bath, I eat, I drink, I sleep but there's worse to come.
The Danube here is very wide and I look at the ferry which had been described by the plausible rogue back at the hotel as "not really a ferry. It's just made of wood" and he has that about right, there is water showing through the planking, but luckily there is no chance of overloading in that at that moment there is only me, Cynthia and an elderly couple in a Fiat Uno on board. We are about to leave when the ferryman's mobile rings. It's a call from someone down the road asking if he could wait for them. He did and a few minutes later a white VW with two young Serbs bounces down the ramp onto the ferry. I talk to them during the twenty minute crossing. They live in Vienna and have come back to visit friends. They recommend the fish restaurant next to landing ramp but I have a lot of miles to go and the ferry timetable has put me behind the clock.
It's a twenty kilometre ride to the Roumanian frontier where everyone is interested in my passport and then I have to face my own personal Alpine section. But first farewell to Serbia, interesting, but would I recommend it for a holiday? Well the Serbs seem a bit dour, a bit like the Poles were when I first visited Poland in the late eighties, suffering from post-totalitarian syndrome. After all it's not that long since Milosevic lost power and a democratic system started to work in Serbia. The scenery and the low cost must make it a winner though, take a car spend a day in Novi Sad, two or three in Belgrade then head for the mountains.
Described in my Danube Path Guide as follows "The next 20 kilometres are especially scenic and can be counted as a natural highlight in and of themselves (??? German publisher!). Hills, woods and lush fertile meadows lift the bicycle tourist's spirit and distract from the hard work that his or her legs must deliver to power the bicycle over the numerous and steep hills." Hmm "numerous and steep".There is an alternative route, cycling round the hill, but that's more than 20 Km longer so I decide to go the direct 18 Km route.
So off I go. How bad can it be? It's the hottest part of the day and I start cycling up and up. I knew it was going to be tough and I have developed a routine, cycle until you can bear it no longer then walk a bit, you use different muscles. The important thing is to keep moving otherwise you become becalmed in despair. On and on, up and up, every curve reveals the slope going up and up. I am drenched in sweat, I've run out of water and I am being tormented by midges. Surely I must be at the top soon. On and on, up and up, my thighs are on fire, my lungs bursting. Why can't I have the same drugs as Lance Armstrong? And all the time at the back of my mind is the phrase " numerous and steep". What if I make it to the top and I do a blissful freewheel to the bottom of a valley but then there is another climb and perhaps another after that. I know that I won't be able to do it. I can only do this once. I make it to the top and there shimmering in the distance is the Danube. I have made it to the top and there is just one hill and I am proud to be there. Then for nearly twenty minutes I don't have to pedal at all, as the freewheel takes me to the very bank of the river. People do these mountain climbs for fun. Idiots!
I rejoin the Danube just a few miles before the start of the Danube Gorge, the most spectacular part of the whole journey and it doesn't disappoint, it lives up to it's billing. I could waffle on for pages about how stunning it all is but photos do it better. These are the Iron Gates where the Danube has scoured its way through the mountains toward the east, Roumania on the north shore and Serbia on the south. At the narrowest point the river is only 60metres across.
I cruise along the north shore road feeling that I have deserved this reward for my hill climb. My destination Berzasca is about half way along the Gorge and it's just starting to get dark as I arrive on the outskirts of the village. This is not a booking.com job this, it is an independent booking so I have only an address and a phone number, no map. To be safe I stop on the outskirts of the village and ask a couple of blokes.
"Oh yes. Two kilometres further on, turn left"
To be sure after a kilometre I ask again.
"Oh yes. One kilometre further on, turn left".
On I go and I cycle slowly, checking for turnings or signs advertising the hotel. I ride a great deal more than 1 Km, I almost ride to the next village. There are no turnings. just a couple of farm tracks and a cliff path. It is now pitch dark. It's not dangerous in that there is no other traffic, but I suppose I could have ridden off the edge of the road and plunged to my death on the rocks 200m below. I haul out my I-pad and find the hotel's number and dial it on my mobile. Someone answers.
" Hello I am staying with you tonight, my name is Irwin but I can't find you."
There is a pause. "I am sorry but I think you have a missing number"
A wrong number. Bugger! But this kind man man doesn't give up on me, after I explain my situation to him he goes off to find the correct number.
"If you can't find them, call me and I will help you again".
I get through and try to get them to tell me how to get there when I don't know where I am and can't see my hand in front of my face. The lady at the hotel does her best but her English is as good as my Roumanian so progress is slow and I am getting very angry. I am about to say "Fuck it! I am going to stay somewhere else." Which would not be the brightest thing to say when there was no other accommodation within 20 Km. Before I say it, she says in desperation "I will send a boy in red into the road".
OK. I have to decide whether to go forward or back, I gamble on back and after a kilometre I see a figure in the road with a torch. It is the 'boy in red'. The hotel is up one of the farm tracks. I am still cross and fear the worst as I push Cynthia up a steep rutted track. The 'boy in red' speaks fair English and makes desperate small talk, trying to placate me as I snarl "There's no fucking sign! There's no fucking sign!" (and there is no fucking sign). But we arrive at the top of the track and there is a brand new, beautiful hotel. People rush to take my bags, Cynthia is wheeled away, I am shown to a room on the top floor and it's beautiful. To be honest people in this part of Europe tend to overdo the decoration but someone classy designed the hotel and the room. I have a bath, I eat, I drink, I sleep but there's worse to come.
Monday, 28 October 2013
Black Sea or Bust - Day 8 Belgrade - Kostolac 89 Km (56 miles)
Breakfast at 6.00 and it was still dark when I left the hotel. Cynthia and I retraced our steps across the railway tracks to the riverside cycle path, back to the centre of the city then we cut across to find the road out of town. A main road but not too scary and on the whole a pleasant day's ride. I stop for the first beer of the day at a rather posh restaurant in Smederevo. I ask a smart young waiter for a large beer. After five minutes he returns to tell me that he is very sorry but they don't have a big beer. "Fine" I say "I'll have a small one. In fact why not bring two".
As I leave Smederevo I cycle past Serbia's biggest steel mill looking very dark and satanic, but soon we are back in the country. My route turns off the main road along a 10 Km stretch of rural delight. It is a hot afternoon, lizards and dragonflies are about and on the lane I pass locals on their way on foot or by tractor to and from the fields. They look cheerful and frankly they are the first cheerful Serbians that I have seen (apart, of course, from the blonde hotel receptionist in Belgrade).
Slowly the landscape becomes more industrial again, or perhaps I should say post industrial, because the waste ground on either side of the road is littered with vast chunks of obsolete machine and as I ride along I try and guess what these their original purpose was and in most cases I have no idea. I am getting near my destination for the night at Kostolac and scattered among the industrial detritus is my hotel. As I approach I fear the worst, unlike nearly all the hotels on this trip which have been done via Booking.com I wrote (yes in the post) to this hotel but got no reply but as it appeared to be the only hotel in the district I thought I would risk it. Welcome to the second worst hotel so far. One thing it did have going for it was a plausible rogue behind the reception desk with very good English. I mentioned my letter, he waved that away saying that they had a room available for me so no problem. Looking at the pigeonholes behind I would say he had fifty rooms available for me. If you book through booking.com you can guarantee one thing, the hotel has a computer not the case here I would guess. Nor indeed did they have much. my room was foul and overheated "Oh sorry we have heating problem, we are linked to power station", the bathroom looked like an abattoir and bizarrely the room was furnished with rickety book shelves, nothing else apart from an ancient office swivel chair with its stuffing oozing out. I popped down to enquire about the Wi-Fi password from the rogue.
"Ah sorry there is a problem, the Wi-Fi only works on the second floor" I was about to ask for a room on the second floor but couldn't be bothered. I went back upstairs and heaved the office chair out onto the rusting balcony and sat in my boxer shorts drinking beer and was well content as I watched local life while the sun set. I went down to ask where I could eat.
"You could have dinner er supper here"
"OK. What would that be exactly?"
"It would perhaps be meat and some vegetables"
"Hmm sounds good I'll try it"
Served by a white haired version of Lurch from the Adams Family dinner consisted of a Wiener Schnitzel served with some mashed potato served in an interesting wave pattern on the plate, peas and carrots. It could have been worse.
The bill for room, breakfast and dinner came to 14 euros and one can't complain at that price can you? And I didn't.
As I leave Smederevo I cycle past Serbia's biggest steel mill looking very dark and satanic, but soon we are back in the country. My route turns off the main road along a 10 Km stretch of rural delight. It is a hot afternoon, lizards and dragonflies are about and on the lane I pass locals on their way on foot or by tractor to and from the fields. They look cheerful and frankly they are the first cheerful Serbians that I have seen (apart, of course, from the blonde hotel receptionist in Belgrade).
Slowly the landscape becomes more industrial again, or perhaps I should say post industrial, because the waste ground on either side of the road is littered with vast chunks of obsolete machine and as I ride along I try and guess what these their original purpose was and in most cases I have no idea. I am getting near my destination for the night at Kostolac and scattered among the industrial detritus is my hotel. As I approach I fear the worst, unlike nearly all the hotels on this trip which have been done via Booking.com I wrote (yes in the post) to this hotel but got no reply but as it appeared to be the only hotel in the district I thought I would risk it. Welcome to the second worst hotel so far. One thing it did have going for it was a plausible rogue behind the reception desk with very good English. I mentioned my letter, he waved that away saying that they had a room available for me so no problem. Looking at the pigeonholes behind I would say he had fifty rooms available for me. If you book through booking.com you can guarantee one thing, the hotel has a computer not the case here I would guess. Nor indeed did they have much. my room was foul and overheated "Oh sorry we have heating problem, we are linked to power station", the bathroom looked like an abattoir and bizarrely the room was furnished with rickety book shelves, nothing else apart from an ancient office swivel chair with its stuffing oozing out. I popped down to enquire about the Wi-Fi password from the rogue.
"Ah sorry there is a problem, the Wi-Fi only works on the second floor" I was about to ask for a room on the second floor but couldn't be bothered. I went back upstairs and heaved the office chair out onto the rusting balcony and sat in my boxer shorts drinking beer and was well content as I watched local life while the sun set. I went down to ask where I could eat.
"You could have dinner er supper here"
"OK. What would that be exactly?"
"It would perhaps be meat and some vegetables"
"Hmm sounds good I'll try it"
Served by a white haired version of Lurch from the Adams Family dinner consisted of a Wiener Schnitzel served with some mashed potato served in an interesting wave pattern on the plate, peas and carrots. It could have been worse.
The bill for room, breakfast and dinner came to 14 euros and one can't complain at that price can you? And I didn't.
Black Sea or Bust - Day 7 Belgrade (No cycling just tourism)
I had promised myself that whatever I did in Belgrade on my 'day off' it could not be strenuous. The first six days of the trip had proved tougher than I had expected and my body was not recovering overnight, a day off was desperately needed. The night before I had tottered off to the nearest restaurant as directed by the hotel receptionist and had promptly fallen asleep at the table.
So what does one do on a non-strenuous day in Belgrade? Start with a tram ticket. Go to the main station, have a coffee and watch goings on there. Then a general walkabout. There are a fair number of impressive buildings, squares and so on but nothing breath taking. There is a pedestrian 'Old Town' full of fashion chain stores but certainly the best was the fortress that sits high above the confluence of the Danube and the Sava with stunning views all round. I had a delicious lunch of roast pork and beans in an old fashioned restaurant and then just loafed.
One thing that I have noticed is that all Serbian drivers talk on their mobiles all the time. It took me a while to find out that as part of a campaign to cut down on road deaths caused by drivers sleeping at the wheel the government insists on the use of mobiles when a vehicle is in motion. On the spot fines will be imposed by the police who are vigilant in this respect, penalties for drivers of public service vehicles are particularly heavy. At the border foreign visitors will be issued with cheap rate chat-line numbers in their own language that they can use while driving in Serbia.
What else did I do in Belgrade? Ate a disgusting pizza and went to bed early.
So what does one do on a non-strenuous day in Belgrade? Start with a tram ticket. Go to the main station, have a coffee and watch goings on there. Then a general walkabout. There are a fair number of impressive buildings, squares and so on but nothing breath taking. There is a pedestrian 'Old Town' full of fashion chain stores but certainly the best was the fortress that sits high above the confluence of the Danube and the Sava with stunning views all round. I had a delicious lunch of roast pork and beans in an old fashioned restaurant and then just loafed.
One thing that I have noticed is that all Serbian drivers talk on their mobiles all the time. It took me a while to find out that as part of a campaign to cut down on road deaths caused by drivers sleeping at the wheel the government insists on the use of mobiles when a vehicle is in motion. On the spot fines will be imposed by the police who are vigilant in this respect, penalties for drivers of public service vehicles are particularly heavy. At the border foreign visitors will be issued with cheap rate chat-line numbers in their own language that they can use while driving in Serbia.
What else did I do in Belgrade? Ate a disgusting pizza and went to bed early.
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