Over a number of years, I have been riding from the southernmost town in Europe, Ierapetra in Crete, to the northernmost point, Nordkapp. Each year, I start in the city where I had left off the previous year. In 2022, I rode from Tirana to Ljubljana via Montenegro, Bosnia-Herzegovina and Croatia. To read my account, click here.
In May 2023, I rode the third stage, from Ljubljana to Prague, passing through Austria. To make it manageable, I have broken my account into two parts. This first part covers the ride from Ljubljana to Hallstatt. For the second part, click here.
Friday 5th May 2023 – Ljubljana
I was back in Ljubljana in what seemed like a heartbeat since the end of the last leg of my trip a year earlier. Spring was in the air, there was a warm breeze, and everyone was out, wandering happily along the narrow lanes by the Ljubljanica river or hovering at the Three Bridges, posing for photos in front of the frosted pink and white Franciscan Church of the Annunciation, eating ice cream and drinking those orange Aperol spritzes that are the new sign of summer.
I was determined to join in with the spirit and have a good time. Yet there were clouds ahead, both literally and figuratively. Rain was forecast for most of the next two weeks which offered a tough start to my trip. But much worse, my 95-year old father was in bed with a an infection and getting worse. So my mood was subdued and my mind elsewhere.
Saturday 6th May – Ljubljana – Skofja Loka – 22 km
Still, on the first morning at least, the sun was out, so I did my best to enjoy it.
A very easy ride to warm up, getting the legs going and testing out the bike ahead of the bigger distances to come. One of those days when you set off as late as you can and still have time to kill before your hotel is ready for check in.
Out through the suburbs of Ljub, mercifully short and with bike route all the way, and then into countryside, and some gently rolling hills, the mountains in the distance to my right. Everyone out as I passed through charming villages roaring with lawn mowers and yapping with small dogs.
Skofja Loka was a small delight, a compact old town with a small castle up on the hill, and my hotel, the Zamorc, was a comfortable one, my hosts turning up on road bikes… A band was tuning up outside for an open air concert of movie classics. I could hear them rehearsing the tune to Rocky…
My old friend M who I had last seen in Ljub a year ago, joined me in the evening, showing me his old school town before heading over to the restaurant under fearsome skies. No place for us on the terrace, so we sat at a communal tables inside, having a pleasant but basic meal.
We had hardly started eating before there was an enormous CRACK. The lights went out and everyone rushed in. Lightning had struck the wooden beams of the bar outside and the wood was still smoking…
So an early night for us and the poor old musicians, abandoning their concert.
Sunday 7th May: Skofja Loka – Bled: 49 km
Out early after a lovely breakfast, determined to beat the threatened rain, and with my host insisting on a new route that would take me up into the hills and give me a better taste for the landscape. Off along the busy 210 towards Kranj for 8 tricky kilometres then along the floodplain of the Sava, before turning left and up into the hills.
Far from rain, it was heat that quickly became the problem, and I snaked my slow way up to Podblica, sweating heavily in the raking sunshine and then realising that the climbing was only just beginning, and I was working my way through my water at an alarming rate, and on a Sunday…
A stiffening 200m climb up to Jamnik and cranking up to 17%. Up and up it went, down and down went my water. A few cyclists haring downhill with very satisfied looks on their faces…
Near the top, I saw a roadside fountain marked “Pitna Voda” which my Google Translate unhelpfully rendered as “Question Water”. So I did not take the chance. So on I went, reaching a plateau at last and a wonderful view over to the church at Jamnik before a brutal descent to the valley, having to brake most of the time, denied any reward for my heroics.
I stopped halfway down in the charming town of Kropa, spotting another fountain and the sign “Pitna Voda – Trinkwasser – Drinking Water”…
Chagrined but relieved, I gulped down that refreshing water…
As I hit the valley, it clouded over, and then a turn left again into the woods and along a reasonable gravel track beside a gushing turquoise river, rain fresh on the ground, before a final short climb over to Ribno and then out onto Lake Bled.
My third or fourth time in Bled. Wonderful setting. Awful town. Touristed up to the hilt, with Oompah bands keeping the Germans and Austrians happy and Romanian accordionists doing their best for everyone else.
But there was one tough aspect to this otherwise good day. On the road near Kranj, I found a quiet hamlet to speak with my dear father, with my sister kindly holding the phone to his ear. I felt in my bones that it would be the last time, even if a week earlier, he had waved me off with “Don’t worry lad, I’ll still be here when you get back”. So I said the thanks that needed to be said, never knowing how much went in and on I went, hoping for another time.
Monday 8th May: Bled – Tarvisio: 56 km
I woke up to the inevitable rain, which fit with my low mood. Low clouds, drizzle, and distinctly chilly. But nothing to do but ride.
A slow climb up towards the Vintgar Gorge along a quiet road – the 634 – but as I crested the hill, the rain picked up, and so did the traffic. A splishedy-sploshedy curving descent down to Jesenice on the valley floor, face set grimly into the rain, shoes filling up with water, clothes quickly soaked.
And then after a bit of sodden suburbia, out along a bike path whose features I would have observed more closely had I not been frowning with cold rain water snaking into all parts of my anatomy, my only company the odd smug e-biker, and hundreds and hundreds of snails.
Slowly it dried out, and I emerged into the delightful but rather empty ski town of Kranjska Gora in splendid sunshine. A steady uphill for 45 kilometres as I followed the D2, and perfectly bearable, with some tremendously beautiful quiet open valleys to reward my efforts. I was working my way out of Slovenia, sad to have had only a relatively brief exposure to its glorious mountains and woody charm.
And then, in the middle of a valley, a simple “Bike Border” on the remains of an old railway track, and two small white stones dating from 1947, all that was left of what used to be the border of the Iron Curtain… A blemish of history for nearly 45 years, and now gone for nearly 35…
After a final ascent, a tremendous slow descent along that converted railway line down to Tarvisio, hardly touching the brakes. Italy, albeit briefly.
Tuesday 9th May: Tarvisio
A drab day in a drab town. I had expected Tarvisio to have an Italian sparkle to it, at least a bit of pizzazz or flair to set off the gloominess of the skies.
But the town was closed for the season, and most of the restaurants shut. The town had dolled itself in pink ribbons ahead of the visit of the Giro d’Italia a few weeks’ later, but the garish pink only highlighted the dreadful greyness of the rest of the place. Like your boring co-worker who puts on a Mickey Mouse tie to look interesting.
The tourist office’s only suggestion was some springs back up the hill I had come down. So I thought ‘Bugger that’ and went to bed for the afternoon…
Wednesday 10th May: Tarvisio – Seeboden: 78 km
My brief incursion into Bella Italia over, I trekked back up the valley for a few miles, joining the Ciclovia Alpe-Adria Radweg (CAAR) a long-distance route from Salzburg to Grado on the Adriatic.
On the good side, this meant dedicated bike path for most of the day. On the bad side, sometimes people have an odd idea of what a bike path should be like. At one point, I had to walk over a plank to cross a stream, leaving poor Randy to take the brunt as I wheeled him through the water. But it was flat, and indeed mostly downhill, so life was much easier.
I was happy to be in Austria. And lo and behold, a sign for the Gasthaus Wanker to encourage me. I thanked the Gods of Unintentionally Rude Names in Other Languages, knowing that I would be indulged on that front. Two days later, I passed a sign for Berge und Muzik Bum and my inner fourteen year old rejoiced.
I spent the morning in mostly cloudy skies, along a dedicated bike path along the side of a main road heading to Villach before a bike path that paralleled the A2 motorway.
But Villach was a pleasant relief: a charming town, bustling with people. I regretted not heading straight there from Slovenia.
But as I finished my lunch, the threatened rain finally arrived, so off along the Drau valley in steady drizzle, getting colder and colder, with only brief stops under railway bridges for tea from my small thermos bottles, the bike track becoming sludgier, the river ever fuller, the rain ever heavier, and the riding ever more soulless. It was a shame because on another day, it would have been quite delightful.
Gone were the e-bikers. Gone were the snails. I swished through the town of Spittal an der Drau with spittle of my own, before a turn off up the Lieser river. The road was blocked for roadworks, but as a good cyclist, I cheerfully ignored this and had an excellent road with no roadworks to myself. Albeit one on which I was being absolutely sluiced with rain.
I had chosen Seeboden, because I thought that the Millstatt Lake might offer me some reward after a long day on the bike. But I saw nothing in that drenching rain which did not stop the whole time that I was in the town, and my overcooked dinner of Grillteller and an insipid beef noodle soup was not so much balm for the soul as crazy itching powder for the soul.
But my father was still alive and eating food. For another day at least…
Thursday 11th May: Seeboden – Obervellach: 35 km
When you plan a bike trip, you have an idealised vision for how each day will go. What I had in mind for the ride to Obervellach was a short and pleasant ride in splendid sunshine, taking my time to admire the glories of the Austrian Alps, perhaps stopping for a moment for a bit of harmless badinage with the lederhosen-wearing locals who would happily proffer me – and proffer is the right word – an apple and a chunk of cheese from their farm. I would contentedly munch these with a sesame-seed laden slice of bread, and possibly some local salami. I would arrive in the town with a happy heart and spend the afternoon on a bracing hike up into the hills.
Oh the joys!
What actually happened was that I woke to another freezing rain-sodden day with no prospect of anything but rain. My loud but cheerful host at the Pension Ertl kindly allowed me to delay my departure until midday, huddling against the radiator for comfort and watching the condensation on my breath every time that I opened the window to assess the conditions.
But I couldn’t stay all day. I rejoined the CAAR, just north of Spittle and trogged away, with hardly any other bikers on the road, too wet to exchange anything but a quick greeting.
To cap it all, those 35 sodding and sodden kilometres seemed to feel as though they were all uphill. Mostly it was on tarmac, but there were a few sections of boggy, boggy mud with that ever-swelling river. On the few stops under the cover of bridges, I was able to admire what was visible of the scenery through those low clouds, but increasingly I was wet and cold and just wanted to put a stop to it all. No locals, no badinage, no cheese.
I had put on shoe covers, but the water eventually trickled right down into them. So now I was riding with my feet sloshing around in cold Alpine water, held in by… shoe covers.
Obervellach was rightly deserted when I arrived, but my hotel – the Gasthaus Pacher – was a nice one and my hostess helped me store my bike without a word about the fact that I was covered in mud and that this was splattering all over the clean floor.
As soon as I passed through the hotel room door, I went straight to the bathroom, stripped off and stepped straight into a superbly hot shower before heading out to the local supermarket for a beer, a packet of crisps and a pate sandwich, eaten in bed… Classy.
The rain did not stop, but the warmth of the Gasthaus Pacher more than made up for it. I am a great believer in accepting it when they offer you their evening meal and this cheered my soul, even as I ate it in an almost empty dining room. A buffet salad, beef soup with dumplings, delicious grilled salmon in a buttery tagliatelle and a few white asparagus, topped off with a gentle cake in a warm vanilla custard. And a solid carafe of red wine. For purely medicinal purposes.
Friday 12th May: Obervellach – Werfen: 52 km
Part of the secret to happy bike touring is good preparation. In planning this trip, I had seen that the CAAR involved taking a car train through the Tauerntunnel to go under the mountains. It all seemed fairly straightforward for bikes.
Closer to my trip, I thought it best to check the exact times of the trains, and came across an unpleasant surprise… The Tauerntunnel would be closed for repairs until a week after I was due to pass through it.
A bit of Googling led me to an Austrian company providing a replacement minivan service for bikers once a day. So I reserved my place, needing to make it to Mallnitz railway station by around 1.
As this was around 8km from Obervellach, I relaxed, took a gentle breakfast and a stroll around the village, welcoming the end of the rain, the dissipation of most of the clouds, and the arrival of gorgeous, gorgeous sun, before redeeming my mud-caked mustang…
… Only to discover that my otherwise perfect planning had overlooked one minor detail: the fact that most of those kilometres were entirely uphill: over 500 metres of climbing at about an average of 7-8%. It was a mountain pass… And I had a once a day bus to catch. And as my father would keep reminding me, I am not a young man anymore.
So imagine if you will, a stunning Adonis-type figure, tackling those hairpin bends with supreme ease, cheered on in his supreme athleticism by local crowds. That would be Primoz Roglic a few weeks later, destroying Geraint Thomas on a time trial in pink-grey Tarvisio.
I however lumbered up the Mallnitz pass, my panniers fully laden, with all the grace of a diseased snail. Metre by metre, hardly daring to stop and drink or take in the now visible landscape.
I did it though. My average speed might have been a woeful 7kph – and that with a small final descent for the final kilometre – but I made it. And if you want to laugh at me, you can. And then I’ll challenge you to a time trial right up there.
I had an hour to spare to wonder where of if that bus was going to arrive because no one at that station appeared to know. An hour to have my lunch… and an hour to watch a random bunch of people walking a herd of alpacas go by.
Finally the minivan arrived with a bike trailer and disgorged four extremely satisfied bikers, togged up in heavy winter jackets and waterproof trousers, taking selfies of their monumental achievement.
I had rather more respect for them by the time the minivan dropped me and one other person off on the other side of the mountain at Bad Hofgastein.
My family and friends fret a lot about my bike travels, worrying that I will be knocked over by a slivovitz swilling Slovakian in an SUV or career off an unalliterated mountainside.
But let me tell you: that bus transfer was the most dangerous few hours I ever experienced on that bike trip, up there in my personal list of near-death experiences with an almost suicidally fast taxi ride to Istanbul airport during Ramadan, and foolishly accepting the offer of a lift across Washington, DC from a drunk and dangerous diplomat who went on to become the German Ambassador to Lithuania…
It was already bad in the first few kilometres when the driver swished back down that pass that I had so slowly worked my way up, and did so with the reckless insouciance of a champion skier, all the while talking to his boss with one hand holding a mobile phone to his ear. At Spittle, he stopped at a petrol station to buy himself a sandwich and a can of beer, which he intermittently swapped for the phone, and – to liven things up a bit – did a bit of searching left, right and over in the glove pocket for something he had lost, all the while speeding along a motorway… The bits that had me worrying about the future destination of my lunch were when he did this while going through a narrow motorway tunnel…
I gritted my teeth and held on to the bitter end, staggering out of the minivan, my face as white as the Alpine snow, and my lunch mercifully still in my stomach. Somewhere. I almost took a selfie to celebrate, grinning warmly at the bike tourists taking my place in the minivan.
It wasn’t quite all downhill all the way to Bischofshofen, but even the small climbs were a delight: fresh Alpine villages, neat fields and subdued cows, the bike path mostly staying away from the main road. Even the three tunnels that I had to go through were totally lit, and had a bike path separated with a metal railing: a luxury.
But with the minivan only arriving at 4.15, I did not have time to linger, following the CAAR along the Schwarzach river, the scenery slowly opening up until the castle of Hohenwerfen loomed overhead like something out of Gormenghast, silhouetted against the setting sky, with a line of mountains to its right. It was all rather magical.
My hotel, the Weisses Roessl, might not have been much – I had a poky garret room that I nearly cracked my head on, but the restaurant was a happy one: a draft beer, a decent salad, and pork escalopes in tomato and mushroom sauce, all good for the spirit.
Saturday 13th May: Werfen – Hallstatt: 62 km
I woke to bright sunshine, a wonderful spring morning to be out, the CAAR going one side and then the other of the swollen Schwarzach, mostly separated from the main road, but with a few stretches along it where the valleys narrowed.
It was a morning for milking it all in, admiring the crags on both sides and feeling wonderfully small in nature. And I had lots of company with bikers in both directions, including a lot of bike tourers.
It was mostly downhill, but with the odd climb here or there. But mostly it was one of those days that renews your faith in bike touring. Why would I want to be doing anything else?
After 15 kilometres, on the outskirts of Golling an der Salzach, I split from the CAAR for the last time and spent an hour following the turquoise Lammer gently upstream.
Near the happily named town of Wallingwinkl, the road started a long but mostly bearable climb up the Gschuttl Pass, initially a delightfully quieter route up smaller roads, before taking the road for the final slope.
My efforts were rewarded with a tremendous descent towards Lake Hallstatt. The lake was hardly visible but Hallstatt itself was obvious when I came to it, stuffed full of tourists of all nationalities, gawping at the old houses perched on the lake shore. More tourists than residents, and the whole place overpriced.
Sunday 14th May: Hallstatt
A day off, just as well given the weather. It looked bearable over breakfast so I set off along the lake to Obertraun, 4km away and got there just as the rain started. And continued. And never stopped. I nursed a cup of tea on a cafe overlooking the lake for as long as I could before admitting defeat and trudging back in the rain to Hallstatt and its overpriced touristy tat. A mistake.
And my mood not improved by the news from home: my father still alive but barely. Very close to the end.