The Bıblıcal sense of Goat droppıngs

After 3 hours of climbing I realised the Alps had never really left me. I had skirted their mass but they were to swerve and spread in front of me as far as the eye could see. It was a daunting sight. My hill climbing state of being had been laid to rest, at least for a while and it was difficult to recultivate a mental capacity to do a whole month of Gottard passes.

I had raised myself above the coast and indeed above Western Europe. As I looked ahead all talk of transitions and subtle nuances were rubbished in an instance. Once again the terrain under my wheels had defined a major boundary. It was vast, I had climbed from Sea level to a plateau surrounded by snow capped peaks. There was nothing. Desolate, foreboding grey silence for miles.

There was a weight in the air, The snow capped peaks of the Alps were bright and invigorating, here one felt somber, heavy and contemplative. The sky was as dark as my mood, its tone growing deeper with each passing hour.......... I began the search for a place to make camp. I was accompanıed by Mozart on full volume, even Vıvaldı showed hıs face agaın, they were both deafened by what had abruptly become a very lonely place for a solo cyclist. The look for a place to make camp out of sıte from pryıng eyes only seemed to carry me further ınto a world of rumblıng of clouds and achıng legs.

I had spent over a month in Western Europe, and a fine adventure it had been. If needed I could break camp in just over an hour (a stark contrast to the ten minutes needed before leaving for work ın London!) I could march or stagger into a cafe and proudly announce my need for water and I no longer needed to think about which side of the road to cycle on. The challenges had been fair, the rain wet! and the hills knee jerking. I had cycled over 1300 miles and thought I had done very well for myself..

It was now on this Croatıan plateau that Eastern Europe broke from its silence and wrapped me in its history, it was a skull and crossed bones and read “Mines”. Darkness grew closer as the Mine fields grew thicker.

It had now been 4 hours of wet hill climbing and to be frank I was totally Knackered. It is a strange thing when the world around you becomes smaller, It started shrinking as the clouds once again shrowded me in a visibility of less than 20 meters. I could now only see the mine field signs that were next to the road. The rain quickened and the hill steepened.......... the world around me was still big enough to call an adventure although ıt was gettıng a lıttle cramped!.


The map showed purple dots symbolising villages and towns. I had passed 5 along this high plateau during the afternoon and all had been desolate, nothing except concrete walls. Empty shops and houses with every shred of detail gouged or exploded away. A vast mounatanous world with deserted villages and bullet ridden vehicles. The only signs of life would be the darting of swallows feeding their young ones ironically nested in bullet and Shell holes.

My world was getting smaller.........

It was only when I cycled upwards into the storm that all sense of adventure and fair play ended.

There were now 2 hours of light remaining when the first lightning bolt struck the road side. I was in a mine field scared to leave the rut I was cycling in,drenched,in perpetual shock from ear splitting thunder and I was cycling uphill ! I had to stop. I knew my world had minimised when I found my self checking for trip wires at the entrance to a deserted house. Was I going mad? could there be trip wires? I stood there watching lighting strike every 10 seconds, scared to move my feet in case I disturbed some harm full remnant of war or adjusted the deciding factor for the next lightning strike. It was at this moment and ın thıs state of mind that a single bell rang above the cracks of thunder. Then a voice. For a whole and very long minute, there was thunder, the ring of a bell and the repeated chant..... “Oojeverde” “Oojeverde” “Oojeverde” (phoneticals)

The man emerged through the cloud like a camelion dressed in grey fog accompanied by a herd of goats. At the time it felt biblical, My world instantly exploded back to its normal size. He was shielding his head from the heavens with a pan lid..... I ran out and just smiled at him, he stopped, smiled back and then continued.......“Oojeverde”....“Oojeverde” He and his herd of goats had without doubt shown me the light. I could camp where ever there were goat droppings, and short nibbled grass! I adorned my head torch and went hunting for mine free goats droppings !

The descent from storm mountain saw a world return to relative normality. Colour could be seen in water and trees, schools and churches. Sadly the people were still cloaked in grey, as were the few occupied homes. Buying floppy carrots and stale bread in these rare visits to peopled villages provided little smatterings of learned knowledge as to the nature of this desolate place, alas for the moment an addition has been added to my note book.......... “ what happened here ” I was cycling through a country that had been stripped bare by war. Hours of cyclıng in a monotone world seeking shelter in hollowed abodes has balanced my lack of knowledge with a strange knowing that seemed far more unpleasant yet welcomed ten fold over an ımage offered whılst ın ones lıvıng room watchıng televısıon.

Once again it was another mountainous climb into Bosnia. The temperature dropped as quickly as my patience for these relentless hardships at each border crossing. For the Bosnian climb the road was lined with huge vats (well ok at least very large jars) of honey. A sweet tooth relentlessly dragged me closer to each stall I passed till eventually after 2 hours of the climb I could tolerate there calling no longer and replenished my dwindling honey supplies with a gargantuan jar of Acacian honey. The remainder of the climb had me cursing the extra weight that I had irresistibly burdened upon myself. At the top, the portions of honey were extra large (and rightly so!) as I gazed upon the Croatia I had just cycled and looked onwards toward Bosnia. Occasionally small openings in the sky remind the mountains,trees and my cold tuttsies that the sun is still there and how much we all miss it.

The top! Prıor to the feast of honey.

Before I descend into the next land, it has become common practice to fill my belly savour ing the moment sometimes so long that I start feeling hungry again and prolonging the contentment of the pre down hill swoop till stiff knees finally provide the momentum to saddle up

These Post border descents are analogous to taking an aspirin after a night of over indulgence. I will raise my arms (yes its plural now I have mastered none handed loaded bike cycling) and triumphantly YEEeeehOOOoooo my way into the next country forgetting in an instance the pain it took to reach the top.


The following morning Bosnia set a president that would continue up to writing this ditty.......being discovered in my no longer secret camping spots.

This has caused many anxious moments and severe morning panics, in varying degrees of magnitude that have almost always been fueled by a false sense of danger and usually end with smiles and sharings of Acacian honey and coffee. These friendly morning occasions have ,at last cured my panics and strengthened my resolve no end. As the sun rises it has been goats with shepherds in tow that have been my most regular visitors. Our seemingly very different worlds come together with a confident grin and reassuring handshake followed by a very pleasurable breakfast surrounded by goats and sharing sign language, smiles and whatever emerges from the food pannier. These wonderful moments sadly come to end when the goats misbehave and I am once again left alone to break camp and be on my way. I now listen intently as I wake for the ringing of a goats bell and herders call in the hope I may share some more Acacian honey.

As can be expected some visitors have not been so welcoming. The lands I was passing through have been chopped and hoed almost entirely by hand. Hence a visit from the midnight wheat stealing syther gang (to the profusion of the land owner the following morning). Torch lights and abrupt foreign voices bouncing off my flimsy canvas world was most unpleasant, needless to say it was a disturbing nights sleep and a breakfast in much shorter grass, thankfully with guy ropes still intact. The pokings of shiny gun nozzles, Gypsies, Bulls and long whiskered sniffers have all made for some very diverse morning awakenings.

The mornıg after 'the Sythers'

The wind had been chasing its tail for 2 days, stroking my back or slapping me maliciously in the face. Finally it grew bored of its games and ran West. This was far from ideal for a cyclist heading East over a mountain range growing a little concerned at missing Englands first world cup game. Although I am not an avid football supporter, I have been treasuring the next victorious game I get to watch with front row seats guaranteed in a very rural Eastern Europe.

The day of Englands second world cup game was a day of television. In the morning an interview for Serbain state television (and a beautiful fluent English speaking cycling journalist!). I cycled up the same stretch of road 3 times, then acted the part of expert map reader whilst gazing upon an imaginary panorama, then cycled round the corner in triplicate heading towards an imaginary mountain range. It was a post “shoot” coffee with the interviewer then an afternoon race to the next town to watch England from the other side of the screen. A combination of the the wind once again being in Englands favour and using the big cog for the first time saw me proudly make it 2 hours early.

The Quoted Cyclist:


The Bosnian bar poster reads...............

“ Bikers game tattoo erotic canoeing rock show “

Unfortunately with an insalubrious Istanbulian deadline to meet I could not wait the week to see this Bosnian Extravaganza, I spent the next week dılutıng any glumness sımply through ımagınıng the openıng scene of the show.