For at least three years I have a GPS route on my computers that was expertly crafted by a workmate with Serbian roots. She has prepared a nice route through the Balkans for me. If you go back to my 2017 spring voyage you will find me on the way to ride that very route, when suddenly the weather closed in and forced me to divert to Italy instead.
But first, as is a tradition on my blog, here is a picture of my bike in full battlegear:
This year the weather on my ride eastwards is practically the same as back in May 2017; a weak front has passed through last night and it is still drizzly in the morning. In 2017 my GPS froze on day one of the ride and it took until midday until all was ready. Today the GPS is fine, but I have to wait until noon for the weather to improve sufficiently. Like in 2017 I am basically following the bad weather eastwards, so soon the sky ahead looks gloomy again. But waiting for better weather is no option, because unstable air is coming from the south tomorrow, causing torrential downpours all along the southern ridge of the Alps. I will have to outrun the unstable air coming from the south-west while at the same time trying not catch up the frontal system I am following eastwards.
I think that I made a fairly decent job of this and manage 250 km before the increasing number of wet patches on the road indicate that I have caught up with the bad weather, so I call it a day at 1700 hours near Oberammergau. I even find some decent digs next to the Linderhof Palace, one of Bavarian King Ludwig's fairy castles. Of course the place is swarming with tourists, but they all want to see the palace and don't bother me at the hotel. I do just the opposite of what these tourists do; I give that silly palace a miss and only take a picture of the hotel:
Austria in wide parts is bikers heaven. Unfortunately the gods placed the Vorarlberg province in between Switzerland and the real Austria. If motorbiking has a bright, shiny centre somewhere on this planet, then Vorarlberg is about as far away from that centre as possible. The province must be run by some Eco-terrorists who despise the internal combustion engine to such an extent, that they have implemented a practically province-wide speed limit of 60 kph (that of course is outside of urban areas) while in towns and villages the limit is usually set to 30 or 40 kph.
So over the years I have spent a significant amount of money in Austria while biking through it - except for the Vorarlberg, where I haven't spent even the literal penny in decades. And my diversion through Bavaria yesterday has again enabled me to reach the real Austria without having to pass through that rathole called Vorarlberg, except for a few miles on the motorway.
But today the real Austria is waiting for me. The new day starts with blue skies and 11 degrees - that I am about 3000 ft. above sea level probably didn't help the chilly conditions. But an extra jumper and switching on the heated grips and the eggboiler (i. e. the heated seat) helps tremendously. The hotel doesn't serve breakfast before 0800 hours, so it's after 0830 by the time I am back on the road, continuing my ride eastwards.
I soon reach the Austrian border again and start my traverse of the Alps via the Ziller valley, the High Tauern and the Lower Tauern. Here is an image of the countryside I am in:
The picture doesn't really show how enjoyable the ride is. But I also shot about 8 GB of video footage today, so at the end of the journey you can expect a little video here with a compilation of the ride including today's breathtaking scenery.
Another memorable ride is the Graberl Pass I have to cross on my way from Judenburg via Köflach to my final destination for today, the town of Stainz.
I did call the mountain hotel I stayed at in 2017 when I was in the area (and which I quite liked), but they tell me on the phone that their restaurant is closed this evening. So I end up in Stainz, where the hotel restaurant is also closed, but the town has a few eating places that are open until 2300 hours.
I have done nearly 500 km today, and successfully traversed the Alps. My weather gamble also worked out fine. I have escaped the rain that slammed the southern ridges of the Alps further out west today. There is also no indication that the weather is suddenly going to change like in May 2017 - in short; it all looks too good to be true...
The only hiccup today was that I shot so much video that I had to change the battery on my Go-Pro camera - and found later in the hotel this evening that taking the camera out of its air-tight housing at an altitude of 6000 ft. this afternoon to change the battery was generally a bad idea; trying to pry the housing open in the hotel this evening at 1000 ft. proved to be an extremely difficult task.
It is already 17 degrees when I set out just before 0900 hours this morning. It's only about 50 km to the Slovenian border, which I reach by 1000 hours. Slovenia, though part of former Yugoslavia, is already an EU member, so there are no border controls. Another hour later I have run out of Slovenia already; ahead is the third country of today, Croatia. Unfortunately I am unable to find it. I follow my GPS along the toll-free byroad parallel to the motorway - Slovenia is much too beautiful for rushing through it on the motorway. But at a roundabout the signing for that road ends. I continue nevertheless and the road ends in the massive crater of a building site - the toll free road is no more. It takes a moment before I realize that the Slovenians have waived the toll on the motorway section up towards the Croatian border ever since the roadworks on the toll-free bit began. How very thoughtful of them.
Just after noon I'm finally in Croatia. I am down to 500 feet above sea and it's 30 degrees. I stop at an ATM in Jastrebarsko to get some Croatian Kuna and have a cold lemonade at a bar next door:
The number of able-bodied males sipping large pitchers of beer on this ordinary Monday at 1300 hours is astonishing. That none of them speaks any of my languages is even more so. Then a man about my age appears who speaks some broken English. Apparently most of the patrons are veterans from the Bosnian War. I am a bit at a loss because this is Croatia, not Bosnia, and it also is confusing to me that "being a veteran" out here appears to be a recognized full time occupation.
I finally give up, as communicating through one person with limited language skills is too trying. But I get the gist from all around that my plan to head for Bosnia is approved (..."they are good people there"), while my revelation of having just arrived from Slovenia is frowned upon. Veterans from the Bosnian War sipping beer in Croatia, praising the Bosnians and disliking the Slovenians - I will never understand these strange people.
The whole idea of this ride came after I did a study on Serbia during the Great War. It became clear to me that the Serbs in those days accepted only two possible ways; their way or no way. Read up on Serbian history yourself if you got intrigued by this. But even if you don't read up on this matter, I'd strongly recommend never to cross a Serb.
That is why I have to choose my next words very carefully when describing my route from the Slovenian border via Jastrebarsko all the way to Karlovac and beyond (trying not to raise the wrath of a certain Serbian workmate); it may come to a surprise to some of my readers that the individual whom your present interlocutor is in the habit of defining by means of the perpendicular pronoun, has implemented the following opinion with appropriate give and take on all sides, assuming that the climate for this may be right, and has a reasonable probability at the end of the day of leading, rightly or wrongly, to a not inconsiderable dissatisfaction with that explicit set of roads.
However, shortly after Karlovac the Dinaric Alps appear on the horizon and suddenly the ride is sheer bliss; traffic dwindles to a trickle and the Plitvice Lakes National Park makes my tyres wear at the outside only. I can't get the smile off my face, these roads are terrific - and I meet lots of other bikers who probably think the same. The park area is well stocked with tourists and practically every building along the route offers some form of accommodation. But the great road makes up for the tourist mayhem.
I turn eastwards again and cross the border into Bosnia and Herzegovina, my fourth country for today. Cyrillic letters appear aside the latin names of roadsigns and church spires are replaced by minaretts. At Bihać it temporarily gets crowded again, but beyond Ripač I have the excellent road all to myself. By 1700 hours I have reached the mountains overlooking the valley of Drvar:
I can hear you saying "Oh, look, what a lovely place". It may look lovely from that distance, but Drvar is one of the grimmest towns I have seen in a long time. No more posh digs and foreign tourists out here. Read up on the Wiki page if you want to know why - by the time I got settled in my hotel room, the daylight was too weak to take some pictures. I'll try to take a few tomorrow.
The distinct smell of tobacco fills the breakfast room of the hotel "Drvar" this morning. It's the only hotel in town and everything inside is pre-war (which out here means the Bosnian War). The hotel has seen better times, but the shopping centre next to the hotel that was under construction at the outbreak of the war certainly had worse:
Given the towns history I suppose it is understandable that everybody appears to be a smoker and that ashtrays galore are provided at all tables, in every room and all facilities, even the loos.
The hotel only accepts cash, so when I paid the 32 Euros for the room including breakfast I got my change back in Convertible Mark, the local currency. I paid 17 Mark for my diner in the hotel restaurant, but still have 21 Mark left.
By 0900 I am back on the road on my eastward course. Beyond Drvar there is nothing. The immaculate road leads through a total wasteland. Destroyed or abandoned farms, houses and barns line the empty road:
I can still see the outlines of the former fields, but nowadays only weed is growing there. There appears to be no one left to till the soil.
This goes on for about 100 km beyond Drvar. However, being my politically correct self, I have to admit that clearing the population from a countryside makes for excellent motorbiking conditions - no population means no traffic.
At Livno however the fun is over. I am again in a sprawling urban area where one village ends and 10 feet on the next one starts. I spend my last 21 Convertible Mark on petrol (lots of petrol stations in towns & cities and all of them in the countryside will not accept credit cards). This urban traffic chaos goes on for three hours all the way to and through Sarajevo. And having to bike 10 km through the city centre of Sarajevo in stop-and-go traffic and 30 degrees is no fun, either. Luckily beyond Sarajevo the traffic dwindles to a trickle, but now for the very first time the road gets bad. "Come on," you might say, "man up. Those potholes outside my drive are so bad that I already called my council three times about it."
Well, out here they have potholes you wouldn't call your local town council about, the ones out here are the type that legends are made of:
Because of the slow progress all I have to show for eight solid hours on the bike (honestly, I only stopped for petrol, going for the little boys and taking the odd picture) is just over 400 km. I don't even reach Serbia, but have to stop at Višegrad just after 1700 hours and let the GPS guide me to the only three-star hotel in town. The place however has been invaded by a horde of Belgians on motorbikes and is fully booked:
But other than yesterday there is another place available on the opposite side of the Drina river, where my twin room goes for 15 Euros:
The war history of Višegrad is far worse than Drvars, but at least the place looks well kept in comparison. The room is comfy and quiet and the internet has a solid 2 MB/second as download. I wonder if I'd have the same at the other place, having to share it with 30 Belgians...
There is a large Serbian flag in the restaurant this morning when I try to explain to my host that I would like my breakfast and the bill, please. I finally give up and get the laptop out. The online translator translates from English to Serbian using cyrillic letters, though everything in here uses Latin letters. Never mind, I just switch to Croatian - and it works, now my host understands. 25 Euros for diner last night, accommodation and breakfast - and I slept like a rock.
By 0900 hours I am back on the road due East towards the Serbian border. Crossing it is no problem, they simply slam another stamp into my passport. At Užice I turn north. The route is following the Drina river on the Serbian side towards Šabac and on to Belgrade. However, the road is heading away from the mountains. Not only is it infernally hot, but also the way in which these lowlands are populated are the same in Serbia as in all the other countries of the former Yugoslavia I have visited; towns and villages do not have a defined centre, but instead sprawl away over a large area until this area seamlessly changes over into the next town or village. For motorbiking, as already mentioned before, this is certainly far from ideal.
A few miles beyond Loznica the road is blocked due an accident. I sit there in 32 degrees and ponder my options. The original route was planned to keep in the mountains and only touched a small section of Serbia before going off into Montenegro. The extension into Northern Serbia was added as an afterthought a year later. I can't deny that there are nice spots along this route:
However, no one could foresee this heat - though possibly this kind of countryside...
I decide to head back into the mountains, but not using the original route (which contained only just over 100 km through Serbia), but instead to insert a new route that allows me to see more of the mountainous southern part of the country. So I turn around and head back the way I came. I stop after 80 km on the roadside. Lots of garbage and plastic has been fly-tipped here, but at least I am in the shade here. I get my laptop out and plot a new route back into the mountains. A moment later a car with local plates stops. The driver appears to be on the verge of driving off, then changes his mind, gets out of the car, opens his boot and starts dumping his bootload of building rubble to the existing pile of garbage. His change of heart obviously came upon seeing my foreign number plate. I don't think that anyone can accuse me of being a radical green Eco warrior, but even I would say that fly-tipping is a definite "no-no". However, due to my previous enquiries into the mindframe of these people I refrain from confronting this fellow - and blame my language deficit for it...
At Ljubovija I leave the previous route and navigate my first bit of "homemade" route, 40 km eastwards towards Valjevo. The initial 20 km of route are in perfect nick, and plenty of signs show who paid the bill for it:
The mountains are only about 600 metres high, but it already is markedly cooler here. But the best bit is; no traffic and no urban speed restrictions:
The road quality meanders from "Top-notch" to "Tito last fixed them" within 500 feet. Luckily my suspension is much better than the one of most of those cars and trucks I am overtaking. The day ends after 400 km in downtown Valjevo in the Grand Hotel. You may now think that I have completely lost it and am planning to dine with film stars and the Other Half. Rest assured that a room in this Grand Hotel costs no more than the room in war torn Drvar. While Valjevo was apparently at the receiving end of NATO bombing during the war, whatever damage was done has been meticulously repaired and the town looks very nice.
This morning for the first time during this trip I have to plot a route myself. That takes about an extra hour, meaning that it is 1000 hours when I set out back on the road.
My route continues eastwards via Kragujevac and Paraćin towards Zaječar which is close to the Bulgarian border. Zaječar is also the easternmost place I am visiting during this journey at about 22 degrees East of Greenwich. From there I turn South towards Niš, where I arrive at just after 1700 hours.
Whenever the Swiss see a mountain they build a railway line up to the summit, usually followed shortly afterwards by a cablecar. The people in Serbia are more pragmatic; they build their railway lines and roads through the valleys instead of over the mountains. As a result the highest point I reach today is less than 2000 feet above sea. But the road is excellent all through except for about 20 km just after Zaječar. And the villages are tiny and not sprawled out over miles of countryside, so I am enjoying the ride tremendously - so much that I didn't take a single picture all day.
In Niš the first hotel is fully booked, but they phone around and book me a room at a place nearby which even has a garage for the Marsupilami Mark II - which I have to say so far is running perfectly and has long surpassed the mileage its Mark I counterpart ever achieved before it packed up so miserably.
Below is the usual map with my GPS tracklog.