DIA 329-332 - Italia: The Land of Lycra

Split - Ancona-Jesi-Gubbio-Foiano de Chiana-Siena Dt = 12948 Km

We catch a night ferry from Split to Ancona in Italy and wake up in Europe. I try not to contemplate the next mountain range we have to ride over - the Appenines. Luckily, there is not too much time lost in contemplation since we ride over the Appenines in a day. I am still not sure how that happened, but we came shooting down the side of a mountain into rolling hills around late afternoon.

The next day is spent cruising along a valley. This is where we start blending with a crowd. It is Sunday and the hardcore Italian cyclists are out and about, zooming past us at great speeds, clad in full-body lycra with plenty of publicity across their chests and the usual clashing of colours. So we do not blend quite as well as we do in my imagination, but at least they are on bicycles! They shout out a 'ciao' as they become specks on the horizon.

In fact, it is not just the Tour de France contenders who ride bikes in this country, it is everyone. Which makes a wonderful change. Cyclists have been few and far between since India, and here in Italy we are accepted on the roads as opposed to being chased off them by buses and trucks. In little Italian villages every age group pedals about, although some nonnas have electrified their bikes, so they whizz past with only a few desultory pedalling actions. The villagers tend not to cycle in lycra, however. The lycra club is reserved for males who are capable of cycling a 10 second kilometre.

So the roads are narrow in Italy as well, but we all fit. It is still a novelty hearing car horns which are not directed at us. The other novelty is drinking a mid-morning coffee that is not so strong that it has an amphetamine effect for the rest of the day (In the Balkans, everyone is completely wired on coffee!). Italy is truly a civilised cycling destination.

DIA 328 - The Split of Diocletian

Stari Grad - Split

DIA 325-327 - The Quiet Islands

Dubrovnik - Drace - Sucuraj - Stari Grad Dt = 12674 Km


Croatia has a coastline littered with islands. Yachts sail tranquilly between these islands, and mountains reach skyward. Cycling is common here, but there is friction between cars and bikes because the roads are narrow. When there are no cars, the scenery and the peace are enchanting. We ride through vineyards and olive groves, up to the top of mountains, then whistling down to the sea, then up again. The average tourist is middle-aged: You need to have earned some money before coming on a civilised retreat such as this. Most people do not dive into the bushes as the sun sets and camp, like we do...

Today we are on the island of Hvar, said to be the greenest of Croatia's 1000 or so islands. It stretches at right angles from the coast. Last night we slept in an olive grove and there were no clouds so we could star gaze. Perfect. The islands are large - Hvar is more than 80kms long. It is an island for people who crave serenity on their holidays. There is little to do but stare meditatively at the turquoise sea (it is too cold to swim) or kill yourself cycling up and down mountains. Most people choose the former option, but we have met more fellow cyclists here than anywhere else on the trip....although they are not such long haul travellers!

The only downside of the Dalmatian coast is the rain. When the sun comes out and warms the pine needles up in the mountains enough to produce a heady aroma, and fluffy clouds scud across the sky and wrap themselves around the higher coastal mountains, and the sea twinkles far far below, it is paradise on earth. When it rains, it is cold, and it is hard to keep things dry, and the squeak-squeak of a bike chain washed free of grease reminds you of the unhappiness of your beloved steed. Today it is fine and we are in heaven.

DIA 323-324 - Dubrovnik (Ragusa)

Cipili - Dubrovnik

I am a 16th Century Venetian Cloth Merchant

Hello. My name is Pietro Dandolo. Women love me for my charming manners and my fine length of leg. But I am even better known as a talented and highly successful cloth merchant. The only cloth merchants more successful than I live in a Godforsaken city named Ragusa. The merchants of Ragusa thieve our trade, and must be stopped.


They have 200 merchant ships in their fleet. It is the biggest fleet in the world. We need to rule over them once more so that we may share in their good fortune. In the Year of Our Lord 1205 we took their city, and they were forced to pay us tribute. We also took freely from their supplies of silver, hides and wax. The position of rector of the city was allotted to a Venetian. However, we lost our claim to the city in 1358 - Ragusa fell into the control of the Hungarians.


The situation worsened when the infidel Ottomans began terrorising Europe. One day they will be judged by God, just as the Byzantines were judged and found wanting, but that day has not yet arrived. The citizens of Ragusa pay a thousand gold coins to the Porte, and these handed over with the honeyed words of the shrewd diplomat. The Gran Signore (our name for the Sultan) left them alone, and their unholy alliance has given them trading rights with the infidel. They trade freely with the East and with the West, all the way to Syria, Egypt, France and Spain. They specialise in glass-blowing, weaving, textiles, and they have recently started trading in salt. They put their consulates all over the world - they know the latest intrigues and sell others the political information they have gleaned. They would no doubt deliver up their grandmothers if the price was right.


True, their city is beautiful, in similar tradition to Venice. In 1292 regulations were laid down, and everyone must abide by these, from successful merchants like me to lowly butchers. Windows and doors must be just so and houses made of stone. Their sewage system has lasted over 100 years and perhaps will last into a new millenium. The main street is paved and plays with the light in the most delightful way. A huge fountain near the entrance of the city brings in water from eight miles hence. The city holds wheat silos filled with wheat, and the citizens continue to construct additional fortifications to protect themselves against our might. The Fransciscans, Dominicans and Benedictines all have churches within the city walls.


Nevertheless, I pray to God everyday to let justice be done. These so-called Catholics do business with infidel. I would never sully the beauty of my rolls of cloth by allowing ungodly hands upon them. The citizens of Ragusa may pride themselves upon their diplomacy, but I predict that a man named Napoleon Bonaparte will take the city in 1808, and that the city will later be ceded to the Austrians. My intuition tells me so. God always judges in the end.


Now I must leave you. The brothel calls, and it would not be gentlemanly to keep the ladies waiting.

DIA 320-322 - Montenegro: Cycling Over a Cliff

Koplik - Podgorice - Lovcen - Cipili Dt = 12433 Km

Up and down, up and down, all the way from Thessaloniki, but a lot more up than down. All of this gradual ascent led us to Monte Negro, the mountain after which the country is named, and then over a cliff, down-down-down to the sea far below. There are more than 25 switchbacks the drop is so steep, and the view from the top, just as the sun was setting is overwhelmingly beautiful.

DIA 317-319 - Albania: Riders in the Storm

Struga - Elbasan - Rinos - Koplit Dt = 12235 Km

We are sitting in a tiny roadside restaurant in Albania while the rain pours down outside. The restaurant is cozy, but my legs in soaking wet bike pants are freezing. Thunder growls. We have just finished eating a huge plate of lamb cooked on a covered spit outside, a generous salad, chips and plenty of freshly baked bread. Amazing how much you can eat when you are cold!

The two people working here look like brother and sister. They are the best-looking Albanians we have seen all day - we rode over the FYROM-Albanian border this morning. They smile constantly. At the moment they are outside with a fresh goat, but it gets hung from a tree, waiting to be prepared for the spit. The old man at the next table is ploughing his way through the head of the last spitted goat. He has eaten the eyes first.

The restaurant is a small outfit with only four tables and a red lino floor. The side facing the street is encased in glass. The kitchen is tiny. I followed the sister in earlier to point at what we wanted to eat. The brother is cutting the innards out of the goat hanging from the tree. It is still raining heavily.

It is Sunday today and we notice that everyone is wearing their Sunday best. Strange in a predominantly Moslem country. During the long Ottoman occupation many Albanians converted to Islam, and many of those who preferred to stay Christian Orthodox went to Italy. Albanians were then generally treated well by the Turks, and often helped the Turks in quelling Orthodox uprisings in the region.

We stay in the restaurant for two hours waiting for the heavy rain to abate. It doesn't, so we finally head off downstream. The three days we spend in Albania are stormy. Albania will be forever etched in my memory as the land of the long black cloud...

DIA 315-316 - "FYROM"

Niki - Resen - Struga Dt = 11988 Km

En route to Thessaloniki a policeman was angry with Angel. The conversation started pleasantly enough, and the policeman asked Angel where we were headed after Greece. Angel said 'Macedonia'. Wrong answer. The policeman told us in no uncertain terms that we were in Macedonia and we were headed to FYROM (the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia).

The Greeks have a right to be angry, considering that original Macedonia is an extremely important region in the national psyche. It is not even correct to say that the whole of FYROM was conquered by Alexander the Great, thereby becoming part of Greater Macedonia: He only conquered a small part of the region which currently constitutes FYROM. We agreed with the Greeks on the issue, and were curious about the choice of name. We then also became worried about the people when a woman near the Greek-FYROM border told us that the people in FYROM would try to rob us, and it was unsafe to camp.

It was therefore an absolute delight to find the people of FYROM warm, friendly and helpful. It took two days to ride through the country, but only because we tried to prolong our stay. There are a mere two million people, which leaves the roads relatively free of cars. Horses and carts and tractors were also regular features - nice when you are travelling by bike because they travel at the same speed! Many people have ties with Australia, and one man bought us both a drink because I was Australian. Food was tasty and very cheap - real coffee cost 50 euro cents. Internet worked and Windows was in English for the first time on this trip (not great for the Macedonians that there is not enough of a market for Macedonian version, but great for us!). The mountains were beautiful and lush. It was hard to leave in the end.

So yes, the right of the Macedonians to borrow a Greek name and heritage is dubious (although, when they first started fighting for their independence before the First World War, the region DID include what is currently known as Greek Macedonia. Greeks were apportioned this land by the Great Powers after the defeat of Ottoman Turkey). But the country itself? A real pleasure. We vote FYROM our favourite Balkan country!

DIA 312-314 - Rumbo a Yugoslavia?

Peristera - Pella - Edessa - Niki Dt = 11877 Km

DIA 304-311 - Mount Olympus

Vergina - Meteora - Pelion Peninsula - Mount Olympus - Peristera

I have dreamed of Mount Olympus since I was little. Ever since my imagination was set on fire by Greek mythology, the home of the Greek gods was a shadowy place, majestic and unreal. It was, and still is, difficult to believe that one can ascend its peaks with no superhuman powers - just sweat and sturdy knees.

There is a village called Litohoro which lies between Mount Olympus and the sea. We followed the advice of our Greek host Versilios, and began and ended our three-day hike at this popular tourist destination. The beginning of our trail lay about 7kms out of town and we camped in a secluded spot nearby in order to get an early start the next morning. An early start meant 11am due to interesting breakfast conversation, and the usual feast of Spanish jamon and cheese brought over by Piluca and Ester.




Off we went, plodding up the mountain, finding a rhythm. Not unlike cycling up mountains: slip it into the lowest gear and no rapid movements. The views were magnificent. We could see all the way to the sea. I have never been up so high (outside an aeroplane!) and been able to see all that sparkling blue. Black pines gave way to a more alpine landscape above. Mountains are the most beautiful of places. I always feel such a sense of peace...and suffering! But there is no place I would rather be.


Mount Olympus is the name for the whole area and the highest peak is called Mitikas (2917m). There are two refuges about 300m lower than the peak and we stayed in one of these. It was bitterly cold due to the fierce wind, but in the night the wind dropped. I needed to go to the toilet around 2am and the landscape took my breath away. The air was still, the silence complete, and the stars arching across the heavens as bright as I had ever seen them.

The next morning we set out to scale Mitikas. The final 200m are a scramble and it is wise to leave backpacks below. Arrows point the way up the rock. It is easy climbing but formidable for anyone who has never climbed before. There is plenty of exposure, loose rock and, as Banjo Paterson would say, any slip is death. Piluca and Ester, both of whom have no climbing experience, did impressively well. It was wonderful to witness Ester's elation at making it to the top...which constituted a tiny little space filled with a cheerful group of climbers. There was a Russian couple who cracked open a bottle of champagne. It just had to be the Russians! We had a few sips of champagne to commemorate the occasion.

Going down, as usual, was harder than going up. Then, when we started descending along the path carved into the side of the mountain, it became more painful than scary. When it got dark, we hobbled as quickly as we could to a suitable camping spot close to a river. We slept in the open air, which was a delight, although my too-vivid imagination conjured up beetles living in the leafy groundcover crawling into ears.

In the morning, ears mercifully free of beetles, we set off, legs aching. It was the day of the Mount Olympus marathon - people almost completed what we were doing in three days in four hours (and two knees). It took our friend Versilios five hours, the lazy bastard! The first runners we egged on enthusiastically, especially the girls. But after the 100th runner on the narrow path, we decided that these sort of events destroyed the serenity of the mountains.

When we staggered into Litahoro like bedraggled (and smelly) rats, it was Piluca who was the most cheerful, thinking that we had been telling her how strong she was to encourage her, only realising belatedly that the 'youngsters' where in as much pain as she was!

And the gods? I hear you ask. The burning question. Are Zeus and Hera and Athena and all the rest really there? Or are they just a huge pile of...myth? The answer is yes, they are there. Not at the top of Mitikas - it is way too cosy up there for all twelve gods and goddesses. Not even up high when the mountain becomes alpine and the trees disappear. And not down below where the beeches grow. The gods live in the shadows of the black pines just below alpine level. If you stay still, or walk very quietly, they are all around. But they come to you only if you let them.