Riding among ghosts: Bike touring through the Balkans: Part One

Prologue

My moment of revelation took place on the runway of Tirana airport some four and a half years ago.

I was on my way to Pristina on a work trip and the plane stopped over in Tirana for an hour. It was a glorious spring day, and as we flew in over Albania, I was mesmerised by the landscape: desolate floodplains rolling up to two waves of sharp serrated mountains with a lush green plain in between. Cheerful red-hatted villages spread out and the odd pencil-straight line of a highway stabbing up through them.

After the plane landed, I gently poked my head out of the rear exit and took in the purple mountains in the distance. I was entranced.

I had been to Tirana once before, twenty-four years earlier, as a postgraduate student at the College of Europe on a memorable ‘study visit’, meeting key politicians including the then Albanian Prime Minister, Sali Berisha. We had also spent time on a side trip to the Albanian hills and seaside. It was more basic than anywhere else I had visited, and even the Romanians on my course were tut-tutting at it all. But it was fun and mad and the people were warm-hearted.

As I looked at those purple mountains on that wonderful day, it was clear to me that I had to come back… by bike. And that in turn led to the idea of a multi-stage bike tour from the southernmost town in Europe to the northernmost, spending a few weeks each year and then starting the next year’s ride at the final city I had reached the year before.

It would be a perfect excuse to ride through the Balkans and to see countries that I had never visited before: Bosnia-Herzegovina and Montenegro, and of course to return to Albania. And that in turn led to an amazing trip in Spring 2019 from the eastern tip of Crete, along and up through mainland Greece and then through Albania to Tirana.

If you are interested, you can read about it here:

Leaving Tirana at the end, I looked forward to resuming my trip a year later, onwards to Sarajevo, Split and possibly Ljubljana… What could possibly go wrong?

A year later, we were firmly in lockdown… So I postponed my plans. And then postponed them again. And again. And again. Each time being thwarted by some new wave or variant of the virus. In the meantime, I had some jolly nice impromptu trips to Brittany, northern Italy, the Jura, and Andalusia. You can read about them elsewhere on the site.

But I never gave up, and on Wednesday 13^th April 2022, I got up groggily at 3.30 am and headed to Brussels airport and then back to that same runway on an eerily similar beautiful day…

This is the story of my little adventure, split into meal-sized chunks. I hope that you enjoy it and even better that it intrigues you enough to plan a bike trip to some or all of the five beautiful countries I passed through. Let me know what you think…

Part One: A bike tour through Syldavia and Borduria

Wednesday 13^th April and Thursday 14^th April: Tirana

I hate these early morning flights. Even though I have never slept through an alarm ever and certainly not one before a trip, my brain still acts as though it can’t possibly go to sleep or I might never wake up again. I spend the night tossing and turning and rehearsing the many things that could go wrong on my trip:

1. COVID… and why am I coughing a bit and my throat feeling rather scratchy?
2. Border closures due to COVID…
3. Getting ill with the flu
4. One or both of my parents falling ill
5. One of my family falling ill
6. Gastric flu or food poisoning
7. A pulled muscle
8. A broken bone
9. Toothache
10. Earache
11. Back ache
12. Bottom ache
13. Belly ache
14. Something else-ache
15. Being bitten by a dog
16. Being bitten by a snake
17. Being butted by a goat
18. Being flattened by a cow
19. Being hit by thunder
20. Being knocked over by wind
21. A bike accident
22. A car accident
23. A stolen bike
24. Being late for my flight
25. The airline losing my luggage
26. The airline losing my bike
27. The airline damaging my bike
28. Me damaging my bike when putting it back together again… As has already happened once or twice…
29. Being attacked or robbed
30. An escalation of the Ukraine war…
31. Forgetting something else to worry about and then having a heart attack. Come to think of it, my muscles do feel quite tight…

I continue to muse on these things in the near emptiness of Brussels airport and then, ever more groggily on the flight to Tirana, sleeping fitfully… Until I see those rippling hills like whipped cream, those red-roofed villages and the stunning beauty of Lake Skadar and realise that it is finally happening. Finally. Unbelievable.

And then down to earth in the Balkan sunlight, those purple mountains in the distance. And the sheer swarming human madness of Tirana. The chaotic rush of people in all directions on all modes of transport. Everything under construction. Everything on the move.

But my throat is dry and I feel shattered. Luckily I appear to have booked the nicest run hotel in Tirana. At the Metro Hotel in the trendy district of Blloku, it is all smiles even when I appear at 9.30 in the morning looking like a shrivelled haemorrhoid, with a bike in a cardboard box and a mass of bags in tow.  Take your time, have a coffee, your room will be available in a few minutes. No worries…

After a cappuccino, I feel vaguely human again… And the feeling is even better after a few hours’ sleep. I spend the rest of the day getting my bearings, putting the bike back together without incident, and getting caught out by how early the sun sets. I am able to watch the people out on the evening walk: pouting girls with hair of all colours, stern looking boys with shaved heads and stubbly beards in leather jackets and black jeans, dusty old men in faded baggy suits.

I spend the following morning exploring Tirana. Not a huge city and not a huge amount of sights but good to wander and pick up the air.

I spend a few hours at the House of Leaves, a museum set in a former surveillance centre of the Sigurimi, Albania’s secret police during communist times. Within these quiet grey walls, in an understated fashion, the horrors are quietly told: a regime that became more and more paranoid, seeing spies and traitors everywhere. Room upon room of bugs, spy cameras, paperwork, pictures and video testimony of those arrested, even front pages of the regime’s in-house magazine, going from ‘heroic’ designs of the 1950s and 1960s to more prosaic colour photos of agents inspecting security facilities in the 1970s and 1980s. Outside in the courtyard, pictures of the many leaders of the regime and secret police, most of them allowed to move on after the democratic transition without even a truth and reconciliation commission.

But I sense that society has had the last laugh: modern Tirana has a raucous energy and a vibrant individualism. Forty-five years of repression could not subdue these people. There is a wilful anarchism in the air which should make Hoxha turn in his grave, the evil bastard. I love it. The beautiful, beautiful madness. It is so anarchic, it would make a Swiss person have a conniption. Wonderful.

So on I walk, and end up past the prime minister’s residence where we met Berisha, the university and at the edges of the city park at a restaurant devoted to modern Albanian cuisine: Mullixhiu. I had read about it in Culture Trip and the menu is quite wonderful. Even with the English language menu, half of it is incomprehensible: dromsa, trahana, jufka, mishaim, arapash, rosnica, laknor, fli, peremesh. The waitress translates some of them as being types of pasta and on her advice, I settle for jufka with porcini mushrooms followed by a dessert of fli with cheese curds and honey. It is not outstanding, but it is interesting and I rather regret not having the time to go back.

Disappointingly, my friend and former classmate A selects a Tex-Mex restaurant for dinner when we meet up, on the pretext that it is one of his favourite places in town. I tease him about coming all the way to Albania to have Mexican food. But when the food arrives, it is quite delicious. We talk about all the things friends catch up with when they see each other: the family, the job, other friends, and of course politics, the pandemic and war, these inescapable realities hanging over us. I head to bed, happy to be on the road again, and happy to have spent two days in this happily crazy city.

Friday 15^th April 2022: Tirana – Lezhë: 71km

Off at last. Unbelievable to be finally out there on the bike, careening my way over the smooth coloured stones of Skanderbeg Square and out through the chaos on a stunning sunny morning.

At a set of traffic lights, I come across another bike tourist heading north and we exchange pleasantries. He is called Hugo and comes from the Netherlands. We are both loosely following the Eurovelo 8 out, so we agree to ride together. Mercifully, the Eurovelo keeps us largely off the main drags – so much so that at one point, we have to walk the bikes over a rickety and wobbly wooden pedestrian bridge – and then out back towards the airport. After a bit of main road past the airport, the road becomes quieter once we pass Fushë-Krujë.

It is nice to have company on my first day out and to share stories from the road. I had expected a boring day along flat and featureless roads, but once beyond the airport, the hills rise to our right, never boring, always changing. Some serrated, some grassy with rockfaces jutting out, solitary farmhouses clinging to the hillsides.  It is all rather magical.

Sheep, donkeys, the odd stray but harmless dog. Children shouting out “Hello”. Old men raising their hats and calling “Avanti!” or “Bravo!”. A country that just over thirty years ago had been cut off from the outside world was full of relaxed warmth.

When I was younger, I read my way through the Adventures of Tintin, and was particularly fascinated by King Ottakar’s Sceptre, a story set in the fictional country of Syldavia, with even its own tourist brochure and language. I really wanted to visit Syldavia. I guess it was what led to my fascination with Eastern Europe and an urge to travel and explore.

Travelling through Albania that fine afternoon and the two following days, I felt like I was on a bike tour through Syldavia. Quite wonderful.

But Syldavia with bad roads. I had to keep my eyes on the road for massive potholes, sleeping policemen, and the odd overexcited driver coming too close.

Hugo’s pace is much quicker than mine, so we agree to split. I take my time, stopping regularly to take it all in, feeling like I have the whole place to myself.

When I reach Lezhë in late afternoon, Hugo calls out to me from a café table and says that he has decided to stop there for the night. Luckily there are rooms at my hotel, so after a few hours break to clean up and walk around, we meet up for dinner.

I looked forward to a real Albanian meal and the place had a buzzing air, with a number of riverside bars and cafes…. But no open restaurants. At 7.30 on a Friday night in April, all the places listed on Google Maps were closed, apart from the hotel restaurant, which looked empty and grim.  We trogged around. There were two pizzerias open but both of them assured us that they were not serving food… It was admittedly Ramadan but the sun had firmly gone down. We were getting desperate when I looked up and saw a first-floor pizzeria. Mercifully, they were indeed open and served us with a smile, including one of the best Caesar salads I have had in my life.

Saturday 16^th April: Lezhë – Shkoder : 45km

I took my time getting up in the morning, whacked after my first day on the bike, and passed Hugo in the hotel restaurant, finishing his breakfast. We wished each other luck and headed off our separate ways, he riding over 100k to Virpazar, and me having a much more relaxed ride to Shkoder.

For most of the ride, the scenery was quietly fabulous: for 30 glorious kilometres, I rode up and down and then along the flat of a valley along a quiet country road, coasting along the bottom of a line of hills separating central Albania from the coast.

There were few cars so I could listen to the wonderful sound of nature in Spring: dogs, frogs, cocks and the sounds of mowing. And of course, the usual greetings and words of encouragement. “Pershendetje”, I called, “Hello” they replied.

A bucolic charm of thatched farm houses, rusting tractors and roaming chickens. Even the names of the villages and towns were wonderful: Trush, Barballush, Fishte, Melgushe, Zojz…

Sadly, the twenty-first century intruded for the final ten kilometres as I rejoined the main road, the SH1, being buzzed by Saturday lunchtime traffic and the dreary sights of shopping outlets, warehouses, petrol stations and auto repair shops to keep me company. Even Syldavia has to move with the modern world.

Shkoder was a funny one: a rather ugly town, street after street of grey apartment blocks and not much to see, but my, what a wonderful buzzy atmosphere on the streets! Cheap clothes shops mingling with cafes mingling with – is that a toilet seat? Dusty cafes for old men, sharp new cafes in modern fonts for young couples, all chain-smoking away.

And the restaurants were fully open so I had that most Albanian of dishes: tave kosi: baked lamb with rice, and quite wonderful it was too. If you want to try it, you can follow this very good Rick Stein recipe:

Sunday 17^th April: Shkoder – Bar: 48km

Already leaving Albania! What a shame! Part of me wanted to turn round and see more of this delightful country. And for a while, it looked as though the wind would stop me advancing further, because I woke up to a howler: a bleak grey day with trees bending in a fierce gale. And I was short of sleep thanks to the call to prayer waking me at 4am…

But I figured that I might as well get on with it, so out I went, out through the joyous anarchy of Shkoder, out over a bridge with stunning sights of minarets and mountains, and out… a gently scenic ride: nothing spectacular but pleasant enough, my only distractions the odd brand-new mosque out in the middle of nowhere, some looking as though they had never even been entered and with the telltale Turkish flag much in evidence. Mercifully, the wind was hidden from me for most of the day by a headland separating the Adriatic from Lake Skadar.

Then to the border crossing and a separate line for pedestrians and cyclists. I had a friendly chat with a French gendarme outside the passport control, while my passport was checked on the Albanian side and wordlessly passed to his counterpart on the Montenegrin side.

For a while though I could have been forgiven for thinking that I was still in Albania: a mass of red flags with the black eagle and signs in Shqip. Still the gently rising and falling roads but with stark granite rocks coming into view. I followed the main drag – the M1 – for 11 kilometres before turning off towards Bar on a smaller road climbing steadily through olive groves and past the odd forlorn Muslim graveyard. I did not have it to myself: a regular stream of cars and the odd thuggish tour bus pushing everyone out of its way.

And then, after a plateau, the Adriatic for the first time, and a gentle squiggle down the hillsides to Bar, the skies clouding over and the wind reappearing. I took a shower and headed out through a rather plain town. Not ugly, but plain, and rather empty. The beach was rather empty apart from a few madly grinning souls, and for all that, rather wonderful.

Monday 18^th April: Bar – Kotor: 63km

I wake up to a beautiful sunny day, though still quite gusty, with the wind on and off and hitting me mostly as I approach the brows of hills.

After the relative peace of Albania, it is a day for following the main coastal road – the M1 – all the way to Budva and then on to the Bay of Kotor. Lots of traffic for most of the route.

And my first unlit tunnels, and time to test my front light… and see that it shows me absolutely nothing ahead… Luckily, my rear light is visible enough and I put on a lightweight reflective vest and the constant stream of cars passing me light my way. Still, it is scary.

The scenery though is fabulous: the deep blue Adriatic to my left and a line of craggy hills to my right. Lots of climbing: steady up and fast down. So fast in one case, that I completely overshot the turn off to the causeway to the beautiful islet of Sveti Stefan, and only realised too late.

After turning off to run round the side of Budva, up a steep hill and through a long tunnel, mercifully open to the sea for the second half. Then a rather grim stretch of ten kilometres inland over towards Kotor and Tivat, with nothing remotely redeeming and cars passing every few seconds.

Mercifully, my route finally turned off to avoid a major car tunnel, and up the old road over the hills towards Kotor, marked with “Panoramic Route 3” signs.

It was a strenuous climb, and by the end, my eyes were nearly blind with sweat, but my goodness, it was magnificent. As I climbed, better and better views over towards the Bay of Kotor, gleaming away. I took my own sweet time, so by the time I reached the top of the pass at the hamlet of Trojica, it was nearly six and the sun was setting. Hardly any traffic, but no cyclists either.

I took a moment to take in the wonderful view down the other side to Kotor… and to note that the road I was about to descend would be one that I would have to work my way back up again two days later… and then continue climbing and climbing.

I donned my jacket and made a cold but stunning descent, hairpinning down to Kotor: the city and coast lit up gold in the distance, an amazing feeling. Down, down, down…

And then a quiet evening at a rather drab restaurant recommended by my host, where I was the only diner: an equally drab Shopska salad, followed by an overcooked escalope and tart red wine. But after four days on the bike and over 1000m of climbing to Kotor on the day, I was absolutely exhausted. Time for a day off.

Tuesday 19^th April: Kotor

I wake up to a quite magnificent sight from my apartment balcony in the neighbouring village of Dobrota: the mountainside that I had ridden down towering over Kotor and a massive cruise ship in the harbour. I take my time to drink it all in.

Another difficult night though, waking up with stomach cramps. These came on and off all day and were bad again the following night. Looking back, after all my efforts to drink bottled water, I had made the classic mistake of ordering salad, washed in the very water that I was trying to avoid. One gets so used to the high standards of water in EU Member States that one forgets just how contaminated the water can be elsewhere.

Despite my cramps, I am determined to enjoy the day and head up the “Ladder of Kotor”, a snaking path to the left of the city walls, ending up at a lonely church. Fabulous.

Then, up a real ladder and through a gap in the walls and down to the town over slippery cobbles and passing breathless cruise ship passengers painfully making their way up.

When I get to Kotor, it is pretty enough but teeming with tourists, so I duck out quickly and end up at a lakeside café at Dobrota and a splendid lunch of grilled squid with blitva: spinach, potatoes and garlic. My stomach is still hurting so I take a good nap and a light dinner of sea bream with blitva. With the cruise ship back out in the Adriatic, Kotor regains a charm, but I still prefer the majesty of the mountains and lake on which the town has turned its back.

Wednesday 20^th April: Kotor – Cetinje: 45km

When I had planned the route, I had known that to see Kotor but also head to Sarajevo and see a bit of inland Montenegro, I would need to climb up towards Mt Lovcen, a snaking climb of over 1000 m. I felt good about doing it though after a similar ride in the Alpujarras mountains of Andalusia the autumn before, when I had had an amazing time.

But I had reckoned without doing that long climb with stomach cramps, a tired and weakened body… and rain and cold. I woke up after another tormented night to heavy grey skies, the mountains missing under thick granite clouds. Savagely beautiful… but daunting.

At times like this, you have to get on with it. And my host wanted me out by 10, so out I went…

For the first part of my climb as I retraced that giddy descent, I thought that I might get lucky, with a mild mist cooling me down as I stretched my way out of the bay, pausing here and then to take in the steadily shrinking town and cruise ship, and my stomach mercifully quiet. It was good all the way up to Trojica and then as I climbed higher and higher, I got views in both directions: over to Tivat on my left and to Kotor on my right.

But my luck ran out, with bands of heavy rain and mist passing through. It was not just the rain: it was also naturally getting colder with the rain and climb. When I had packed for the trip, I had anticipated a certain amount of cold weather at the start, and packed a fleece, arm warmers, leggings and medium gloves. But I had concluded that thick waterproof socks and shoe covers would be overkill.

How wrong I was! My drenched feet were steadily turning into blocks of ice and my gloves were sadly inadequate to the combination of rain and cold. My GPS told me that it was 4C. I think probably slightly warmer than that but certainly enough to be miserable. At one point, even with the rain continuing, I pulled out a dry pair of summer socks from my bag to replace the sodden ones, and later when it had dried out but was still freezing, put on my casual jacket over my rain jacket and a further pair of casual socks. Even with those, usually enjoyable descents became a numbing torture.

It was sad because the views were quite incredible and I would have loved to have taken my time to admire. The climbing was steady and the grade reasonable and not too many cars. My stomach was mostly OK but from time to time, it spasmed.

At the top, I had given myself the choice between a longer scenic route to my right going up to Lovćen National Park, and a more direct route to my left to Cetinje. Sadly, I had to take the latter: I was not in a shape to punish myself further.

Then out through the town of Njeguši almost everything closed, and a switch from the greenery of the coast to brown hills still very much in winter, and hardly a soul out. The sun came out but it was bitterly cold, so I ploughed on, dipping and then grinding up a steady climb towards the turn off to Cetinje to avoid a long tunnel but taking another set of hairpin bends over the top. At the top, the landscape was splayed before me: an almost deserted unworldly brown, yellow and grey twist of hills and road.

Back to the main road and a very quick descent to Cetinje, the former capital of Montenegro, notably from its independence in 1878 until 1946. It was cold, I was tired and I was desperate for it to be over. One of those days. In 45 km, I had climbed 1,250m albeit at a measly 10.4kph.

Sometimes you just have to grind it out.

Luckily, my hotel in the centre of town, the Gradska, was excellent and they upgraded me to a super room, overlooking the town square. A magical shower to bring my feet back to life.

After a decent rest, out to see Cetinje in the setting sun: a pretty place smelling of wood fire with historic monuments and former embassies. But it was bitterly cold even in the sunshine.

I checked out the eating options and settled for a place with good reviews, but which I regretted the minute I had walked in: empty apart from a grumpy chain-smoking waitress looking like a jaded Martina Navratilova: 1980s glasses and all. I thought that bean stew would help give me some fibre and it was nice but spicy. Then a massive grill of meat and chips big enough for two. Again I drew the grumpiness of the waitress by not making much progress.

Thursday 21^st April: Cetinje – Danilovgrad: 59 km

Another disrupted night’s sleep with my symptoms getting worse. I would clearly have to switch to the BRAT diet from here on: bananas, rice, apple sauce, toast. A shame in such a wonderful hotel.

More clouds and rain, and no way of dodging them. I delayed my departure to 12 to give myself the maximum time to recover and to give the rain time to clear but to no avail. Up, up, up the route that I had descended the previous afternoon and then out along quiet country roads up and down, up and down in on-off rain and chilly temperatures, depleted by my illness and the hard climb the previous day.

It was a tough day on lonely narrow and winding roads: everything brown, forbidding and featureless. It had a stark beauty but in the cold and wet, I was in no position to appreciate. Even the people seemed grim. Where the Albanians had been cheery, waving and greeting, the few Montenegrins that I passed looked at me like an idiot when I wished them “Dober dan”. I felt like I had crossed from Syldavia to Borduria, the fascist state next door.

Even the landmarks were grim: regular stark grey communist memorials to those who had died during the Second World War. Constant reminders of Montenegro’s historical struggles.

And even the roads were unfriendly: there was a lot of roadwork going on. Roads would abruptly terminate in a pile of gravel and no sign as to where to go, so I would have to take the unfinished empty new road, hoping that it would connect me to something, and relying on my bike GPS to see where it might connect.

Then back onto the thin potholed main road like a discarded snake skin. A snake skin with warts. I had to keep my eyes firmly on the road to avoid large chunks of rock.

Then finally a descent to the valley floor, made more agreeable by first finding a dry balcony of someone’s deserted house to remove my cold and wet socks, massage my freezing toes, and put two pairs on with an extra rain jacket. It was a fabulous descent through the clouds, but with my eyes firmly on the road for potholes, rocks and the odd careening 4×4, making no compromise for a lonely cyclist.

But my hotel in Danilovgrad, indeed the only one around: Hotel Zeta, was a treat, greeted warmly by the receptionist and quickly warm under a wonderful shower.

In the rain, I took a wander round the town, though there was not much there apart from a small sculpture park and a socialist realist war memorial of bright young fighters for liberty. Again, the past was very present.

Friday 22^nd April: Danilovgrad – Nikšić

After a slightly better night’s sleep, more grey skies and with a grim weather forecast: a thick front of rain, strong winds, even chillier temperatures – down to 4C – and worst of all, the prediction of thunderstorms, lit red on the weather radar. The prospect of riding 850m uphill over just under 40km.

I had asked the owners of the apartment that I was due to stay in in Nikšić if I could arrive early, thinking that I might outrun the worst of it. They had agreed, but had said “you could always come by train”… Out of interest, I looked for train times, and yes, there was a train at 1.19, getting in just before 2. It would mean a gap in my journey across Europe. It would mean missing the chance to see the fabulous Ostrog monastery, one of Montenegro’s top sights.

But it would also mean missing the risk of getting zapped to death by a thunderstrike while labouring uphill with the wind against me in freezing cold temperatures, whilst weakened from a bout of gastroenteritis… Tough call. And indeed it was a call with my youngest sister who decided it for me. “Why would you take the risk?”.

So reluctantly, I delayed my departure for a few hours and then cycled over to the empty train station, a half hour before the train was due and then had to hop across the track when the train came in on a deserted platform… and was completely modern with a bike ramp… for a princely 3 Euros.

In the end, the thunderstorms did not appear until the evening, but it was still wet and windy and as the train swept calmly up the hillsides, I had visions of my alternate universe self, labouring my way up and cursing everything.

I stayed in an apartment in a block not far from the station: not wonderful, but a chance to rest up after the difficulties of the last days. And continue my exciting diet of apple juice, brown bread, saltine crackers and bananas.

I took an early night after a superbly nutritious dinner of bananas, brown bread and saltine crackers, washed down with a few glasses of the local jus de pomme concentrate and was half asleep at just past eleven, when the apartment started shaking. It took me a few seconds to realise that it was an earthquake… Nothing too severe. I suppose that I should have evacuated the building to be sure. But this was my second earthquake and I stepped out onto the balcony, saw no one around and then went back to bed and slept like a king. Aftershocks and gastroenteritis be damned…

Saturday 23^rd April: Nikšić

After a simply glorious night’s sleep, I wake up to a fantastic sunny morning, and a wonderful lack of concern from my family who usually want urgent reassurance that I have survived the terrors of the Eurostar train from London to Brussels, but are apparently blissfully unaware or unworried that I have just survived a force 5 earthquake on the top floor of a shoddily built apartment block not two hundred kilometres from its epicentre…

Having feasted on a sublime breakfast of brown bread, bananas, some saltine crackers for that earthy kick and some joyous apfelsaft, I set out to explore Nikšić and to find a bike shop selling front lights… Only to be informed by the one bike shop in town that they have plenty of rear lights, but what would I be doing wanting a front one?

So I head out to explore. A fabulous Serb Orthodox cathedral with glittering iconography. Plenty of busts and statues of young Partisans, cut down tragically young during the Second World War. Another depressing 1970s style concrete war memorial. A woody park around the town hill, desecrated by litter. And a deserted and damaged castle on the edge of town.

And many of these as well as the apartment blocks covered in ill-tempered graffiti, including a number with what I came to recognise as the symbol of the nearby Serb enclave of Bosnia, the Republika Srpska and the lettering “NATO 1988”. Mystified, I check, and there do not seem to be any records of Yugoslav-NATO tensions in 1988. Perhaps they were referring to the NATO bombing in 1998. Typical fascists: they always really struggle with the facts.

Intriguingly, and something I had begun to notice in Cetinje, a clash of alphabets: official buildings and most shops and restaurants in the Latin alphabet, street signs in both, and more regular houses and graffiti tending to be in Cyrillic. I wondered if there was a sort of tension between those favouring the Latin alphabet and those the Cyrillic. One turning towards the West, the other to Serbia and Russia… Montenegro was the last part of Yugoslavia to break with Serbia, and it showed… Parts of it seemed to be clinging to the certainties of the past, wrapping itself up in past glories and past arguments rather than embracing the future. The ghosts of past conflicts and tensions were all around: not just the Second World War, but the end of the Ottoman Empire, and more recently the break-up of Yugoslavia. It was a huge contrast with the buzz and positivity that I felt in Albania.

And as I was making my trip, the dangers of this reluctance to accept the present and move on from the past were being shown several hundred miles to the northeast with the first invasion on European soil since the end of the war that had taken the lives of all these tragic young people on their plinths. Wounds that are not treated, fester and spoil.

In truth, there was not a bunch to do in Nikšić. All the better. I used that day to take care of myself physically, allowing my body and stomach to recover and reset after the difficulties of the previous week. But I also used that day to reset myself mentally. The last days had been difficult but I had three and a half weeks left and a lot of riding to do. I had to put things in perspective, put things behind me and get back to enjoying myself. The weather forecast was more positive, promising more sun and warmer temperatures.

Sunday 24^th April: Nikšić – Plužine: 61km

With my stomach feeling much better, having restored my sleep, and the weather turning a corner, I fuelled myself with a breakfast of a few choice ingredients whose exciting details I will not trouble you with but which was strangely familiar by now, and set out.

It was a joyous morning: full springtime even if still with a nip in the air. The first 10-15k were relatively flat, passing through farmland along a small bubbling river, little bridges linking with houses on the other side.

Even the Bordurians, sorry Montenegrins, seemed to be in a good mood. I had to keep my eyes out for the odd nervous dog though, perturbed by the unusual sight of a cyclist. I have never been in a country with so few riders. A shame because of such magnificent scenery.

Beyond the farmland to my right was a much larger river, swollen by the recent rains, and in the distance, snowy peaks. Quite glorious.

Then uphill on a tolerably busy main road along a long and steady drag, counting off the meters climbed. The scenery was not spectacular, but it was pleasant, with regular views over to snowy peaks and regular changes of view all day. Even the wind was rather supportive for once, pushing me gently uphill. I felt that my fortunes had turned. As throughout my time in Montenegro, there was however, the regular spots where drivers appeared to have stopped the car and dumped a whole load of rubbish. And nearby, plenty of ugly grey metal rubbish carts that they could easily have dumped it in…

At the top of the first long hill, I ran into a bunch of Canadian cyclists heading the other way, the first touring cyclists I had seen in Montenegro. They were taking a short trip through Montenegro, doing a loop from the capital, Podgorica. They had toughed out the Friday storms in Durmitor National Park and had a grim satisfaction from it all.

Then off and a day of steady ups and downs with some memorable if still chilly descents, peeling my eyes for regular rocks on the road. It was a lot of climbing: just over 1000m, but it felt less than my earlier exertions. It was a day to restore my faith and enjoyment in bike touring. A day of what might have been.

A final chilly descent to the tourist village of Plužine and a cabin right on the lake: a wonderful spot but rather basic. I was feeling well enough to eat out, and so ate at a place recommended by the Canadians: a wooden cabin called Zvono. I had a warming bowl of beef and vegetable soup followed by wonderful grilled marinated lamb, beautifully soft and herbed, served with grilled leeks, courgettes, aubergines and carrots. Maybe it was because I was finally off my bland diet, but that dinner in that quiet cabin, warmed with a delicate glass of Montenegrin red, was a highlight of my trip.

Monday 25^th April: Plužine – Foča: 51km

My cabin might have been in an idyllic spot, but it was ill-suited to a cold early spring night, even with the portable heater provided, so I had a cold night and woke up to howling wind, followed by rain.

Luckily, it had cleared by the time I had had my breakfast, so off I went, back up that long hill, along the E762, and along the Piva Canyon: 57 tunnels, most of them very short but two or three long ones, where I hugged the middle of the lane and picked up the spots of light as I could.

But it was absolutely worth it for the magnificent views of the turquoise river and steep hills rising on each side. With little traffic, I could more or less stop where I wanted, so took my own sweet time. No guts, no glory.

The tunnels were not the only danger: the wind was still very present, and big thick rocks on the road, so I had to be attentive. But it was much warmer and I would not have missed it for the world.

After the Mratinje dam, there was a nice descent through more tunnels before a steady climb and then a final descent to the Bosnian border at Šćepan Polje. As with my entry to Montenegro, it was preceded by graffiti and murals of the people over the border: the Serbs in Bosnia. The ghosts of partitions, the ghosts of war.

I felt a pang of regret at not having seen Montenegro at its best (or my best), but glad that I had made the effort to ride inland and see a bit more of the country rather than continuing up the coast on the standard bike route along the EV8. I sensed that there was a lot more to see in Montenegro and that the bits I had seen would look a whole lot better a few weeks later. Maybe one day I will return and do a loop from Podgorica and maybe take in Kosovo, North Macedonia, and possibly return to that wonderful madness of Albania. Maybe one day.

But for now, I was at the border bridge to Bosnia, an old one-laned wooden bridge, the planks rotting away dangerously, with several rafting camps on the Montenegrin side, and on the other, one of the oddest entries to a country I have ever made…

But that is for the next part….