Late afternoon and tired is not the best time to appreciate the finer points of a city's cultural history. Luckily the cars had been few and the kilometres many, so I made it to Kragujevac before the sun set. This is one of the largest towns in Serbia, but I failed to look up any details and did not really want to tour around. Far more by luck than judgement I ended up in a street with a few hotels, prepared to pay up for a good night's rest. Even better, the first hotel I looked at was more than adequate. Hotel Zeneva had a couple of mothers hanging out 'al fresco' but in the shade, while kids played in a special play area, pleasantly fenced in with soft netting, so they looked more like zoo animals. As long as the noise wasn't terrible this looked fine. All white and open, with modern styling the image was only brought down by a dirty bedraggled biker, but I didn't have to look at me.
Straight to my room for a shower and a change and back down for a beer and a well earned steak, with some local red wine. It was a quiet evening, with a couple of conversations in German and English as people got curious and wanted to know where I was from and what I was doing. Just curious.
Sleep was good and I was waiting as they prepared the breakfast tables. I fuelled up with a big breakfast for a long day's riding and set off with a general idea of some towns on the way to the ferry. Knic, Cacak and Pozega. But of course the map is never the same as the road. The big yellow lines on the map do not translate into big yellow roads, so we had a couple of diversions and a slough of uncertainty when signposts were sparse. But we steadily found the towns and headed for Bosnia.
Approaching the border the wide open countryside steadily evolved into hills and mountains and infertile gorges with occasional bushes and excellent sniper positions. Somehow the war, even though it was 20 years ago and I didn't follow very closely, was still at the forefront of my musings.
The riding was good, only in the towns was there significant traffic, people were well-mannered on the road and fairly forgiving of my faffing as I tried to figure the multiple roads with signposts to places not on my list.
But the border felt very different. A huge observation platform dominated one hilltop, an old narrow gauge railway would along near the road, superb for transport heavy artillery, or lots of troops, those images of war kept repeating.
And the border was fairly simple to cross. We are so lucky living in a Schengen area. borders are a pain. The wait, the anxiety in case you're asked anything, or framed, or hassled. But there was none of that, a couple of minutes wait, a cursory glance at the UK passport and a wave through.
The bike was very low on fuel, as I knew that petrol in Bosnia was very cheap. By this time I was edgy about running out and being very careful with the riding style as there was no sign of a town, or a petrol station near the border. It was close to 15km before getting to Visegrad. After the relief of petrol and a coffee the town was surprising. Suddenly there was a big river and a castle and all sorts of stuff with people and shops and things.
So I rushed past all of those and was soon out in open countryside again. It seems unreal, looking back, just how little traffic there was and how much open road.
Small villages, occasional churches, big views and mountains in the distance. In addition it was warm,so the biker breeze was welcome.
And seemingly in this part of the world all roads lead to Sarajevo. The signposts on the outskirts of the capital were a little confusing for this amateur so I went through the centre, which I probably didn't need to, but I was rushing so I ended up taking the slower route!
Sarajevo is definitely a place of misplaced memories. You have preconceptions about this place, which are probably unjustified and are definitely out of date. But they are deeply embedded in the subconscious so have to be accounted for.
The whole idea of religions mixing seems anomalous, provocative and possibly dangerous. But it is obviously not so, at least to a biker in a hurry.
The minarets still seem a little surprising.
Eventually there were signs for points south, but I ended up on a motorway, which I'd been trying to avoid. Nevertheless it seemed the easiest way to get towards the coast. The motorway ended at Tarcin, so from there it was merely the main road to Konjic and then back across the hill country.
The roads were very good and the bike is perfect for eating up the kilometres. What also made the day easier was that the countryside was interesting. Always different panoramas, with surprises like the beautiful lake high up in the hills. It is easy to imagine this as ripe for a property boom. Some day soon will be discovered and developed.
.
Straight to my room for a shower and a change and back down for a beer and a well earned steak, with some local red wine. It was a quiet evening, with a couple of conversations in German and English as people got curious and wanted to know where I was from and what I was doing. Just curious.
Sleep was good and I was waiting as they prepared the breakfast tables. I fuelled up with a big breakfast for a long day's riding and set off with a general idea of some towns on the way to the ferry. Knic, Cacak and Pozega. But of course the map is never the same as the road. The big yellow lines on the map do not translate into big yellow roads, so we had a couple of diversions and a slough of uncertainty when signposts were sparse. But we steadily found the towns and headed for Bosnia.
Approaching the border the wide open countryside steadily evolved into hills and mountains and infertile gorges with occasional bushes and excellent sniper positions. Somehow the war, even though it was 20 years ago and I didn't follow very closely, was still at the forefront of my musings.
The riding was good, only in the towns was there significant traffic, people were well-mannered on the road and fairly forgiving of my faffing as I tried to figure the multiple roads with signposts to places not on my list.
But the border felt very different. A huge observation platform dominated one hilltop, an old narrow gauge railway would along near the road, superb for transport heavy artillery, or lots of troops, those images of war kept repeating.
And the border was fairly simple to cross. We are so lucky living in a Schengen area. borders are a pain. The wait, the anxiety in case you're asked anything, or framed, or hassled. But there was none of that, a couple of minutes wait, a cursory glance at the UK passport and a wave through.
The bike was very low on fuel, as I knew that petrol in Bosnia was very cheap. By this time I was edgy about running out and being very careful with the riding style as there was no sign of a town, or a petrol station near the border. It was close to 15km before getting to Visegrad. After the relief of petrol and a coffee the town was surprising. Suddenly there was a big river and a castle and all sorts of stuff with people and shops and things.
So I rushed past all of those and was soon out in open countryside again. It seems unreal, looking back, just how little traffic there was and how much open road.
Small villages, occasional churches, big views and mountains in the distance. In addition it was warm,so the biker breeze was welcome.
And seemingly in this part of the world all roads lead to Sarajevo. The signposts on the outskirts of the capital were a little confusing for this amateur so I went through the centre, which I probably didn't need to, but I was rushing so I ended up taking the slower route!
Sarajevo is definitely a place of misplaced memories. You have preconceptions about this place, which are probably unjustified and are definitely out of date. But they are deeply embedded in the subconscious so have to be accounted for.
The whole idea of religions mixing seems anomalous, provocative and possibly dangerous. But it is obviously not so, at least to a biker in a hurry.The minarets still seem a little surprising.
Eventually there were signs for points south, but I ended up on a motorway, which I'd been trying to avoid. Nevertheless it seemed the easiest way to get towards the coast. The motorway ended at Tarcin, so from there it was merely the main road to Konjic and then back across the hill country.
The roads were very good and the bike is perfect for eating up the kilometres. What also made the day easier was that the countryside was interesting. Always different panoramas, with surprises like the beautiful lake high up in the hills. It is easy to imagine this as ripe for a property boom. Some day soon will be discovered and developed.
But the ferry called. It was time to get home. Dropping out of the hills I managed to refuel a little way out of a town called Tomislavgrad, which sounded so Soviet I was anticipating huge state grown industry polluting the landscape. But on a small scale, more like a dormitory town attached to an industrial park. Not to hold my attention for long. There were signposts for Split and it was early afternoon so there was every chance of getting a ferry.
It felt carefree and slightly liberating, the idea of turning up at a port with no pre-booked ticket. No internet searches for special deals, or preferred times. Just turn up and see what's there.
There were a lot of people there.
The port is not large but the parking lot and ticket area were jammed. Parking up the bike I dragged the tank bag and helmet through the throng. Only one ferry was running, this was August 15th, a major holiday in this part of the world. So the nerves set in as the queue for tickets was very long and moved very slowly. Would there be a space left. Reckless, the idea of turning up without a pre-booked ticket. What sort of idiot does that? Me.
Smiling at the counter I got me and the bike booked, opting to share a cabin, but no idea who with, still you have to live a little. As I got back to the bike a 911 with German plates pulled up alongside. Of course the owner was English and an avid Economist reader, so conversation was easy. We shared a couple of beers I'd stocked up with at the refuelling in Tomislavgrad. At least they were still cool. It was very refreshing, both the beer and the very wide ranging conversation. After an hour or so boarding started and I pushed through with the bike. Up front was a group of new Triumph Tigers, looking very smart, with English plates. So another conversation, but about bikes and trips. There were a lot more bikes on this return journey, and a lot more proper tourers. Bikes with stickers and waterproof bags and pillion passengers and things. Luckily I didn't drop the bike while parking, so they probably didn't twig I was a complete amateur at this game.
A selfie as we left port, followed by a shower and a change of clothing helped restore some semblance of civility. I only had sweaty biker boots and did not want to traipse around in those so just wore socks. Of course that meant I couldn't get into the on-board restaurant and ended up in the bar with a self-service supper. Just what you need on a ship, ballast. It worked well, as did the beers. The Triumph team were having a fun time and after supper I found a way to join them. As a Brit abroad, the subject of Brexit came up and it as interesting to see some of them almost apologetic that they had voted Leave in the expectation that Remain would win and they would have moaning rights till the end of time. It didn't work out that way. The good part was that we all had a lot to talk about! No one was sharing the cabin so it was the usual fitful strange place/ship motion sleep, waking up and reading a few times during the night.
The morning brought a lovely sunrise and a finality to the bike blast. We approached Ancona port seemingly quickly and slowly at the same time. The water under the boat was rushing by, but the port seemed to sidle up to us. Watching the approach was the 911 driver and we continued a lengthy and deep conversation about the challenges of teenage kids, work, life and happiness! We were angrily summoned by a loudspeaker as the boat was mooring, swapped business cards and went our separate ways.
I was really looking forward to some proper Italian coffee. The trouble was that the port in Ancona is more industrial that touristy, so no portside bars to catch your breath at. Just a queue to get through customs. This is an Adriatic port and most of Europe's dope is grown in Albania so make sure you don't look like a dope smuggler. On a bike that is slightly easier.
And so on the well ridden road home, but along the coast, still avoiding motorways where possible. I got the coffee just outside Ancona and stopped again as the road ran alongside the coast. After a dozen years outside England, this feels like home now. And the Tiger looks serene.
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