Split to Podgorica
I almost don't know how to begin the write up today. It's been one of those wow/feck/yee hah/blimey/eek days.
So I just didn't know where to go today. I stayed up until the early hours looking at the web and the map and just had so many thoughts that I couldn't crystalise on. Stupid really. I think this is a by product of a very busy mind for years in my work now having little to do and making a silly meal of it for no real reason. Odd, not me, and not reasonably explained, along with another couple of odd and unexpected character traits that I wasn't expecting in this whole thing. Still, that's another story, another post.
So ultimately I went to bed, and my dear brother insisted on having the Steptoe and Son movies play through the night, such as he is, so I was serenaded to a sort of sleep by such immortal lines as 'I told you Harold, he's a wanker', which made me sleepily giggle through the wee hours. So that reduced me to just a few hours sleep, which was not for the best.
I'm woken at 7.30 as Nick's flight is this morning and he needs to be at Split airport by 9am. So it's getting everything together which actually goes a lot better than I'd anticipated. The run to Split airport is fine, punctuated by the poor Croat city driving, but I know it's there and all is fine. I drop him off and we say goodbyes.
So there I am without plan. I watch for the cars at the airport junction. If the first one comes from the left, I will go North. If the first one comes from the right, I will go South. Right is the first, so South it is.
I join up with the A1 motorway just outside Split to get a wiggle on south. A quick look at the map and I'm decided to go to Montenegro, figuring I wouldn't be in the region again for a while and the chance to go by again was going to be too good to miss. This, I feel, is a good decision and hope that fate sets me straight.
I loved Montenegro. I think I rode most of the last trip around Kotor bay with my jaw dropped, the scenery is just so, so amazing.
Anyway. Rather than take the coast road, which now is well trodden by yours truly over recent weeks, I decided to hop the motorway and munch some miles, then drop into BiH once again and then cross to Montenegro. It looks wiggly. Interesting.
The motorway from Split to, well the end of the motorway (it sort of ends nowhere) is a great way to spend an hour or so. Lovely- perfect tarmac, impressive scenery, not too hot, temperature dropping to the mid 20's and it's just well.. Nice.
My own personal Motorway. Splendid tarmac miles. Rider rocks out and nods head enthusiastically to Deep Purple's 'Highway Star'.. 'Alright, hold tight, I'm a highway star…."
For lovers of other music, 'It's fun fun fun on the Autobahn' as I believe Kraftwerk put it.
And here's the lovely motorway ending abruptly, it appears they're still saving for the next bit..
And so we're deposited, sort of nowhere to work our way on. So I take the road over towards the Bosnia Herzegovinia border. Now. If you've ever wondered what those little roads on the map are without the 'border crossing' signs on them, but still cross the borders do, I will let you in on it. I pull down to one of these and am met by a smiley border guard. 'English' she says, looking at the number plate on the bike. 'Yes' is my stock reply. 'Sorry- you can't cross here' she says 'this is for locals only'. I see.
"This is a local border crossing, for local people." Very League of Gentlemen. Ah.
She directs me a few KM down the road to a main road crossing. She is friendly, very charming and apologetic. I pass on my many thanks- no problem I say, and head off to where I am sent. Hitch, though. This one is rammed- about 30 cars or so, camper vans etc on a narrow road, with a single point of crossing. Filtering here would probably result in a 'punch up the bracket' so I decide to turn around, there'll be plentiful opportunities to cross.
Down small roads. I counted ten Fire engines, I think filling up from the river. Constant reminder of the fire risk.
Now.
My route now is headed over to Metkovic, and then on towards Montenegro in a left to right left to right pattern. I cross in to BiH at another small post but this one is OK. There's no computer here, the miserable guard just spends an age looking at my passport and Carole Nash's finest administrative bod's scrawl.
Going up..
So. At this point two things happen. 1) The maps on the Zumo, predictably begin to become completely rubbish, hardly even useful. 2) More unpredictably, my Zumo touch screen decides to start fecking up, as though it’s being consistently prodded (see other threads). It's OK. I take to using my directional sense and the not so good map to get me on, and Zumo's odd jumpy general directions.
My efforts take me (I must add Zumo guided, just, but still at this point)
Past a hydro electric thingamybob..
.. Down small roads..
.. Meeting locals
.. Down tracks..
.. Down smaller tracks..
.. Erm.. not much road left now..
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.. A Church in the valley somewhere..
The very occassional farmed patch, I assume where the land permits for it now..
I get to a point in a valley where I can pass no more. I go across a bridge that goes precisely nowhere, looking at it and age I can only assume this was an abandoned intended development from before the war.
Now, if I can link up with the town about 16km SW all should be good. There are indications vehicles have taken the concrete by the river, the storm drain. So I take that for a bit. I ride up the side walls. 'Woohoo… greased lightnin'. But Olivia Newton-John isn't perched up top of this one with her arms around her knees. In fact I haven't seen a soul for the best part of an hour now.
I begin to get to more awkward spots. I switch off my music and get more serious. It is brief seriousness though- I get round some rather tricky obstacles if I do say so myself on such a loaded bike. I start humming the theme tune to 'Kick Start' and thinking of whatever happened to Peter Purves. Note to self: I wonder what Carole Nash recovery would make of a call now. Eventually I come to a spot that looks just too suspect- a track onwards that's not well used, and I'd need to vault a sump-fecking concrete step to get there, which in a silly way I'm game for. But, mindful of the advice in the region about what lies beneath I decide to turn back, so do 16km or so of silliness all over again.
Eventually I get back to a proper road and go another way. I follow what Garmin has routed as a railway track for some miles. FFS. Continuing the bloodhound angle I continue along a valley.
Now, as I'm getting older, I tend to get more senior moments and I lose the odd words to describe things, to which I tend to use the generic term 'Doobry do' as some do 'thingamyjig' or 'whaddayamecallit'.
Well now I've found it, so I know to what I refer, when I know not of what I refer to..
There is a curious mist in the distant valley ahead. As I get closer I begin to smell the mist and it is actually smoke. Fire again.
Now Normally my write-ups as you will know are all smiley and happy go lucky ducky affairs. But I feel myself becoming darker of mood.
There's many a GSer here who has visited the French ruins of Oradour-sur-glane, and of course that is a terrible place, but I tell you this- This was a 90 minute motorised drive by display version of something similarly sinister. It was just haunting; absolutely and incredibly heartbreaking.
A ruined junction..
a churchyard what is now in the middle of nowhere..
I continue for mile after mile. I don't seem to be making a great deal of progress, I'm doing a sort of steady 45mph down these rather iffy single tracks but getting nowhere. And there are towns. Well- yellow town signs, ruins, and then signs with little red 'no more town' slashes through them- but in so many there is no one here. All bombed out. Dead zone.
Pictures. Just so, so sad and awful to see.
…
A long stretch to the distance..
Dead houses with pictures on folks on the gates with notes; red graffiti with 'OK' on it. I know not of what, but can guess.
I wonder what that came off of..?
Anyhow. For all the shite that goes on in life this is no better illustration to just be happy for what you have.
Minefields mapped. Bad place to get lost off the beaten track..
On a lighter note, I do believe it is a circa 1966 microbus. Restored, this'll make a few quid. Spot of turd polishing anyone?
Long path to take, and I don't know what the squiggles mean. Proper reward for an ignorant tourist, I suppose. Whatever goes I stay on the road.
32km of caution..
Meaning, regarding?
Old Firetrucks from ze Germans..
I meet an elderly man on the track and he flags me down. OK? He asks. Yes, and I sort of stumblingly ask 'does this road go anywhere'. He has no English, but is clearly delighted that's where I'm from. Yes, he says, using his fingers to demonstrate 4.5km to the next town and 10km to somewhere obviously more significant. He is all smiles and we shake hands warmly. 'Thank you, thank you', I tell him. Real warmth, great stuff.
Monument in the middle of nowhere..
Eventually, and really I mean eventually, I pop out at what is termed as the M6. A tad different to ours. But it's a main road, and that's cool, and I can get where on with the business of getting on. About 25 minutes later I'm sat in a Petrol Station, called 'Best'. In the bar (this one has a bar and seems to be the local centre of everything) it has Chris Isaak's 'Wicked Game' on repeat, and there's a rather solemn looking girl behind the counter who serves me a cappuccino with an awkward shy smile. She speaks English, but I deem it is best not to ask. They have internet, so I post about my Zumo problems and get some instant useful help. Grand, thanks folks. I book a hotel for tonight and get my route manually worked out to Podgorica.
Through the glass the bike is a major source of curiousity here. There are long stares and gazes, discussions of what is for what, exchanges in views amongst folk. Quite something. There are two girls sat in the bar, they nod at me when people come in and mention the bike. I think it underlines not many visitors to this part.
I set out through Trabinje, where I meet a local helmetless shorts and flip flops clad couple on a ZZR1100 who say Hi and welcome. Oh. It looks like the Kwaka has been fitted with a rear car tyre. Surely not. No, it can't be, can it? No pic to help validate I'm afraid, I'm busy wondering.
We're both nearly run off the road by a taxi driver who is in a complete hissy fit. The ZZR captain gives him an earful, there's a brief but unpleasant exchange and he is telling him what to go and do. If that'd have happened in the UK everyone would be 'having it on the cobbles', no doubt. Strange.
I get out from town and up into the flowing hills. Up we go and it things ride very well indeed, the mood is lifted a little. After a time of rapid freedom I meet up with a tanker driver heading up the hills and using all of the road. The film 'Duel' still gives me the fear, so I just amble along for some time until we get a long glorious stretch of straight and I can zoom past. I squeze past, toot and give him a wave, I figure this that way we'll be mellow, all will be OK and I won't have to make him drive off a canyon like Dennis Weaver had to.
The going gets more wiggly and more pretty. I get off and take some quick snaps Benny Hill chase style in order to make sure I'm on the road before my tanker matey catches up.
Not all drivers are bad though. A thoughtful Volvo aggregate truck driver indicates to let me by and waves. I stop further down the line to take a picture and he goes past, flashing and tooting hello. I catch him up again later and we do the same dance again. With the standard of driving poor as it is, it's blessed to find someone out there who is cogniscant of someone else on the road.
In fact, a riding tip for the region. Now you might have a RoSPA or and IAM, but here's the thing here: Little red lights work. I mean, it's good to be tidy rider and use minimal braking and all that, but that's no good when the brim of the the blokes straw hat in the car behind is touching your number plate. If you show them a brake light, they see it and as their queue to brake. Trust me,it works.
Eventually we cross to Montenegro. It is a high outpost and very remote. The guard is has his best wasp-chewing face on and wants every piece of documentation. There are lots of people wandering around, looking like they're stuck here.
I cross over once Mr. Particular is happy. Sensational views, and the smouldering of a fire in the distance.
So, whilst I'm at it, I'd like to highlight the 'maps' that Garmin purport to be of this region. I'm figuring how they did the plotting. I think they got a dodgy satellite photo, and then all went out to the firm Christmas do and had a huge number of free beers, and then came in next day and copied everything out in felt tip pen by hand prior to it going to be stuck in the computer. They're crap.
So an hour and a half of good riding later and I'm in Podgorica, heading for the Ideal hotel, which turns out to be, well, Ideal.
I decide to head out to take the evening air. The ever so friendly hotel bod calls me a taxi. I'm on my way in to town; the meter on the taxi barely turns over, a ten minute taxi ride in to town that costs 1.30 Euros.
I wander along the plaza and stumble across the confusingly named 'Nag's Head', so I go in. It's an Only Fools and Horses themed pub. There are pictures of Del, Rodney et all everywhere. The bar staff have t-shirts bearing the legend 'Plonker'. Baffling but amusing, later it transpires that the sitcom was immensely popular in Former Yugoslavia.
It explains a random picture I came across in the Underground bar in Sarajevo too, I suppose.
I stop to write up some of the events today and get engaged, not noticing most of the town cramming into the pub as I write. They look at me oddly, but there's no worries. It's a cool place. People are polite. Two young girls come up to me and ask in good plain English 'Is it OK for us to stand here?'. It couldn't be more OK love.
I meet an animated local called Dean, his explanation of life here in Podgorica revolves solidy around which pretty young lady in the bar he wants to jump on. Some interesting observations and it is amusing to listen to his Montenegrin Joe Pesci style yarning for a bit, but as there's no cultural enlightenment of the region I decide to hop off into the warm night: I can get this pish patter in Essex.
I realise I didn't eat a single thing today and had five pints of beer. Not the best, but I kind of didn't even notice, which must say a lot.
Back to base. An incredible day of highs, lows, bizarres. Top, top stuff