Welcome to the Hotel Ljublijana

Day 136

Mileage 12068 (19308 km)

Ljublijana, City of Dragons

So we have finally made it to Croatia with our first upset of the trip behind us and a little uncertainty over future ramifications from some trouble we had at a border crossing. Leaving Bled after a couple of days of drying out and hiking we moved Southwest towards the capital, Ljublijana with the intention of briefly exploring the ‘City of Dragons’. As we packed our bikes we both noted the date, Friday the 13th, and promised each other we’d take it easy on the road ahead. Though neither of us is superstitious we wondered what the day would bring and as we pulled into the city center it appeared as though yet another party was in full swing. Slovenia was hosting the European Basketball Championships or EuroBasket and the capital was alive with fans and parties celebrating the event. The center was given over to street stalls selling a wide variety of food and merchandize so we strolled through the old town and sampled some of what they had to offer. We hadn’t planned to spend too much time there so by early afternoon we returned to our bikes and drove South towards the border with Croatia. A pleasant ride along Highway 106 took through the heart of this beautiful country to the border crossing outside Banjaloka where we assumed we could cross without hinderance. With my Irish Passport I was waved through without question but the Border Guard took a special interest in Beth’s US Passport and on further inspection he noted her only stamp, from Dublin, clearly stated she had been granted a 90 day visa. With well over 120 days on the road at this point he refused to let us go any further insisting he would have to classify her as an “overstayer” and put a fat red stamp in her passport to prove it. As this would undoubtably create issues later we pleaded our case and his only recourse was to allow us to turn back and consult our embassies in Ljublijana. As it was now late on the Friday we resigned ourselves to a longer stay in Slovenia than we’d planned for. 

Working on the bike at Avtoval d.o.o. in Grosuplje

With our initial experience of the country being so positive we returned to the capital and looked for a comfortable camp determined to research where we stood on the legal aspect of immigration and visa extensions. It didn’t take long to discover the Schengen Agreement and its implications for the various EU countries that signed it. Designed to ease border crossings for EU citizens the treaty has opened trade and commerce opportunities but dissolved the role of official border posts. It is now virtually impossible to get a stamp when crossing a land border within Europe though each country appears to have their own interpretation and guidelines for how it is enforced. On paper it looked as though Beth had overstayed but she hadn’t entered Schengen territory until we rode into France. Ireland and the UK refused to join. Each country  within Europe can be either EU or Schengen, both or neither and this rather observant border guard had mistook sweet, innocent Beth for a deviant criminal. Luckily for both of us he didn’t insist on a cavity search. The weekend passed quickly, we were able to catch a few of the basketball games with some of the locals and as Monday dawned we sat patiently waiting for our first embassy to open. We assumed between the British, US and Irish embassies we’d receive some help or, at least some useful advice. We had carefully checked our dates and it was just about 90 days since Beth had entered France but with nothing to prove it we hoped for a sympathetic diplomat to throw us a lifeline. The expressions “tits on a bull” and “chocolate teapot” come to mind when recalling how helpful our distinguished Foreign Service employees were. The best advice we received was “try to sneak across at a busier border post and hope for the best”. By lunchtime on Monday we realized it was time to come up with our own plan so we resolved to try to sneak across a busier border post and hope for the best. In the meantime we had become rather attached to our new friends at the Laguna Campsite on the outskirts of Ljublijana and on our intended departure day the heavens opened, yet again, and we spent the entire day sheltering from the rain drinking ‘Indian water’ at the bar with an Iranian, an Israeli, a Serb and a Croat. There has to be a punchline in there somewhere.

Motorcyclists beware of large red exclamation marks

While temporarily delayed in Ljublijana we decided to take care of some basic bike maintenance, the chain and sprockets on my bike were long overdue for a change, I had stretched their lifespan to a whopping 30,000 miles and had been reminded of this daily by an uncomfortable grinding sensation every time I rolled out of camp that this was a little too far. A visit to the local BMW dealership in Ljublijana proved fruitless so we tracked down another bike workshop on the outskirts of town who were most helpful, pointing us in the direction of another BMW supplier 10 kilometers away in Grosuplje. We made the short journey out of the city and talked to Dejan Valentincic who insisted on selling us the parts at a 15% discount and fitting them for free. For the first time in many years we left a BMW dealership feeling as though we hadn’t been taken advantage of, the mechanics even let us get involved in the workshop in case we had to do it ourselves somewhere down the road. The staff at Avtoval d.o.o. ought to be commended for lending support to people actually using their bikes for the purpose for which they were designed. 

The old and the new, Zagreb

With deep regrets that we couldn’t stay longer we bade farewell to our new found friends in Ljublijana who tried to ply us with more ‘Indian water’ on the morning of our departure. We adjusted our route to take us East towards Croatia through Slovenia’s second busiest border crossing.  By early afternoon we had followed the Sava River to the border and after a cursory glance at our passports on the Slovenian side we passed through a deserted Croatian border post and cruised on towards Zagreb. We found a camp on the outskirts of the city and spent the rest of the day exploring the capital. We met a friendly German couple who suggested we alter our intended route South to take in the Plitvicki National Park so the following morning we wound our way along Highway 1 taking in the impressive countryside of this new country. Quiet villages lined the road as locals worked the land harvesting crops by hand, another reminder of the impending end of the Summer season, the tranquil settings subtly marred by the pockmarked walls of shell shocked buildings, evidence of the conflict that gripped this region not so long ago. 

Plitvicki National Park, Croatia

Plitvicki National Park proved to be a worthy detour and we set camp for a couple of days to give us time to explore the area. Unfortunately our visit coincided with the weekend and an endless stream of tour buses converged on the park as we pulled up, we tried to get off the beaten track to explore the lesser visited areas of the park but the most popular attractions were swarmed with tour groups doing their best to keep up with overwhelmed guides. The park itself was beautiful, a cascade of pristine lakes linked by crystal clear waterfalls, criss-crossed by wooden walkways and narrow paths. We spent an entire day marveling at the wonderful sights and dodging the crowds before returning to camp and plotting the next leg of our journey. For as long as I can remember the coastal roads of Croatia have held a special place amongst the worthy roads in biker lore and we were both eager to see if they lived up to their reputation. As we came over the last ridge and the Mediterranean Sea opened up before us with countless islands stretching off over the horizon we knew we were in for a treat. We joined Highway 8 at Senj and turned South hugging the shoreline, the subtle tang of ocean air wafting up from the translucent waters. The temperature rose and the road surface improved allowing us to thoroughly enjoy the twists and turns, losing ourselves in the delight of riding this incredible stretch of highway. We were so lost in the moment we almost didn’t notice the gnarly old traffic cop in his crinkled uniform waving us over after checking our speed on his radar. Beth, ever the diplomat, cracked open her helmet and gave him a smile that instantly melted his steely expression, he was soon smiling with her and asking, respectfully, if we could slow it down a bit. Branching off the main highway we crossed onto the island of Pag and, riding to its most northerly point we found a camp and were soon settling down to a peaceful night under the stars. We enjoyed the warmer temperatures and slept fitfully, excited at the prospect of riding more of the Croatian coast.

Pag Island, Croatia

As day dawned we packed up and were soon back on Highway 8, passing tiny fishing villages clustered around pristine inlets. Blue skies and azure waters made for a spectacular day’s riding and before we knew it we had reached our destination. The city of Split on the Dalmatian coast has an incredible center nestled within sprawling suburbs. The Diocletian Palace forms the heart of the old town, a beautifully preserved Roman ruin that still serves as a bustling hub of shops, restaurants and accommodation. The polished stone pathways have welcomed countless visitors since it was first inhabited in the 5th century AD and after the deserted ruins of Rome it was refreshing to see and feel the complex brought to life. It didn’t take much imagination to get a sense for how it must have felt during the reign of the Roman Empire. A few enterprising locals in Legionnaire costumes roamed the streets posing for photos with tourist willing to pay for the privilege adding to the overall atmosphere. From our relaxed camp outside the city we could bus into town avoiding the choked city streets while enjoying a refreshing drink at the same time. Evenings were spent relaxing on the beach watching the sunset over the ocean and morning swims in the cool pristine waters made for a great start to the day. 

 Diocletian's Palace, Split

From here we plan to try our luck at the border of Bosnia-Herzegovina before returning to Dubrovnik in the near future. Our episode at the Slovenian border has served as a useful reminder of how officialdom can throw a spanner into our plans at any time and the likelihood of more difficulties as we progress towards less cooperative countries. We’ve received plenty of well intentioned advice but with the myriad of nationalities and bureaucracies involved only time will tell how our journey will evolve. 

Colorful Croatia

Abandon all maps, ye who enter here...

Day 129

Mileage 11490 (18491km)

Venice side 'street'

From Rome we turned North towards the ancient City of Assisi in the Umbrian region East of Tuscany. An endless blanket of vineyards and olive groves covered the rolling landscape with Roman forts and medieval settlements capping the peaks on either side of our route. Upon arriving at the campground near Assisi we were immediately adopted by a very kind Italian couple who insisted on feeding us in exchange for some tales from our journey and a few songs on the guitar. With such warm hospitality and amazing food we stretched our stay and rented a couple of bicycles to explore the pristine city at a more leisurely pace. The steep, cobbled streets and immaculate buildings displayed little evidence of the earthquake that devastated the region in 1997. If anything, it all appeared a little too perfect with reconstruction so recent it had little chance to weather and age like other towns of that period. On our third day we bade a sad farewell to our new found friends and made our way indirectly to San Marino, the world’s smallest republic. Taking a maze of rural backroads we crossed the border without even realizing it and were soon winding our way up the side of Monte Titano and into the capital where the Three Towers of San Marino overlook this lilliputian country. With a population of approximately 33,000 people the Sammarinese people enjoy one of the highest life expectancies in the world which we suspect may have something to do with the exercise they get from their steep streets and endless steps. 

Sunset in the Venetian Lagoon

After a short stay in San Marino we coasted downhill towards the Adriatic Sea determined to complete or Italian experience with a visit to Venice. A Polish/Ukrainian couple we’d met in Rome had recommended a campsite to the East of the city so our route curled around the North side of the marshy Venetian lagoon before turning back along the peninsula to Punta Sabbioni. Our camp was an easy walk from a ferry terminal which ran regular shuttles between some of the 118 islands that make up the city. We had been forewarned by fellow travelers to expect to get lost in the warren of alleys and canals that carve up the small city so in order to avoid this we simply abandoned our map and wandered aimlessly. Without a destination it is impossible to become lost and as we dodged frustrated tourists spinning their maps this way and that we stumbled upon some of the less visited parts of the city. We caught occasional odd looks from the shy locals as they wondered what we were doing in ‘their’ part of the city. Venice is a truly remarkable place, once a major maritime power, its former wealth and extravagance is still evident in the wonderful, yet crumbling, remains. It would be difficult to imagine such a ‘floating’ city if it didn’t already exist. One local we spoke to, who’d lived there for several years, joked about how each time she goes from A to B she discovers a new street. 

Venice at night.

We spent a meager two days in Venice without ever getting truly lost, is it even possible when you’re on an island? As the sun set on our last evening we enjoyed a delicious picnic on the side of a canal watching romantic couples drift by in intricately detailed gondolas. Olives, cheese, bread and tomatoes washed down with a local red wine provided a fitting last supper for our time in Italy. As we gathered our belongings a plump rat scampered past our feet before diving into the narrow canal and swimming off towards a sagging house upstream.

New terrain and a challenging language welcomed us as we crossed the frontier into Slovenia, a country we both know so little about. The early signs of Autumn were beginning to show on the vast expanses of forest that coat over 50% of this republic, a reminder of how long we’ve been on the road. As our route climbed into the Julian Alps a light drizzle was accompanied by a significant drop in the temperature and we added layers to counteract the chill. While pulled over to compare our map to the confusing road signs another long distance biker from Serbia joined us to take photos and share stories, his positive attitude and beaming smile quickly made us forget about the inclement weather and our damp spirits. Suitably encouraged, we pushed onwards and upwards into the Triglav National Park settling for a campsite near the village of Boh. Bistrica. Within minutes of setting camp and cooking dinner a torrential downpour began that lasted well into the following day. After a long night of thunder, lightning and relentless rain we packed out soaked gear and retreated to a warm, dry hostel in the nearby town of Bred. 

Our first taste of Slovenia

Two nights in Bred gave us the opportunity to dry our gear and plan the next leg of the journey while enjoying some of the local hikes and sights. We had booked ourselves into the Traveller’s Haven only to discover it was owned by an Irish couple from Armagh. With covered motorcycle parking and spacious rooms it made for a perfect base to explore the local network of trails that spread out from the lakeside village. 

Bled, Slovenia

Let Her Eat Cake.

Day 116

Mileage 10786

French Pastry, Monaco

With over 100 days on the road, 10,000 plus miles behind us and no idea of how many more lie ahead, it feels as though we have passed our first milestone, the 3 month mark went by unnoticed and as the miles accumulate, each thousand is cause for little remark. We’ve had our ups and downs, good days and bad but, as yet, no major catastrophes. Our intended route has been modified and adapted by suggestions and tips from people we’ve met along the way and it continues to evolve with each day that passes. Ideally we would miss the worst of the wet seasons in Africa but, as vast as the continent is and as unpredictable as the weather patterns are becoming, it is unlikely we will miss them all.

Alhambra tile work, Granada, Spain

Alhambra detail

Alhambra

From Gibraltar we turned East towards Granada leaving behind the cooler, coastal climate for the stifling, dry air of the Sierra Nevada mountains. What looked like a beautiful, winding coastal road on the map, from La Linea to Malaga, turned out to be an overdeveloped strip of endless resorts with countless billboards promising to fulfill our every desire. After living in California for so long we consider ourselves immune to this type of marketing so after a lunch of thirst quenching Coca Cola and a delicious, juicy Big Mac, we turned inland onto one of the most spectacular roads we’ve ridden to date. The SO2, climbing steeply out of Almunecar pierces the Southern side of the Sierra Nevada mountains quickly gaining altitude with each hairpin bend, a well maintained surface and little other traffic had us utilizing every inch of tarmac, leaning the bikes into turns pushing them to the very limits of their intended use. Sparks flew from the underside of Beth’s bike as she tested her nerve and ability, I rode behind balancing equal measures of fear and admiration. 

Alhambra

Entering Granada, we began a fruitless search for the campsite on our map leaving us hot and thirsty, by the time we stumbled across a site on the edge of the city, the camp host welcomed us with the sad news they were full for the night, the brief Spanish holiday season was still in full swing. Disheartened, we turned to leave, but not before we let slip the fact I was from Ireland after noticing a newspaper with a front page dedicated to the Gibraltar dispute. All of a sudden a reshuffle took place and a modest space was provided. After pitching the tent we quenched our thirst with an ice cold beer and raised a glass to British foreign relations. The central purpose for our visit was to explore the Old City and the Alhambra. Eight centuries of occupation by the  Moors have left behind an indelible imprint of the Muslim culture and the twisting narrow streets are home to many a tea house with low tables, lush rugs and plentiful hookah pipes. In the Sacromonte district the gypsy caves are carved out of the soft rock hillsides, quiet and reserved during the day, after dark they come alive with the sultry tones of classical guitar and the provocative moves of the fierce Flamenco dancers. The nearby gritty Albayzín district provides an impressive view of the Alhambra fortress while its narrow, winding streets bring to mind its Medieval Moorish past.

Alhambra detail

Within the Alhambra complex the ancient castles of the Nasrid dynasty overlook the city of Granada, so plain on the outside they reveal an exquisite interior of remarkable beauty and intricate detail. Every carved tile has a story, combined they form a poetry, exalting the achievements of a long dead empire. Intended to represent an image of paradise, the palace blends running water, sunlight, open air and subtle symmetry to create a peaceful oasis while concealing a past tainted with intrigue and bloodshed. We spent a long, hot day exploring the site  before returning to the Albayzin district as night fell to enjoy cold beer and tasty tapas. The following day saw us back in the saddle, moving North through the Sierra de Segura mountains and lakes before pulling over at Alcazar for the evening’s camp and the best paella we’ve ever tasted. 

Riding into Andorra

Torn between the mountains and the ocean we moved towards Andorra, at times hugging the coast before seeking the cooler inland air of the higher elevations. Campsites are more common the closer you get to the Mediterranean Sea but they start to resemble large scale holiday resorts with scheduled events for the whole family to enjoy, we pulled up at one site and asked for their cheapest site only to be told it would cost us 60 euros for a 12 by 12 foot piece of dirt and a tepid shower. I enquired why it was so expensive and was assured it was because this was ‘high’ season, when I asked the receptionist if she was high the irony was, fortunately, lost in translation. Turning our bikes around we discovered a perfect ‘wild’ camp nearby and wandered back later to use their facilities. Sadly, this stretch of Spanish coastline felt, at times, over developed and at others totally abandoned. Prostitutes became a common site every few miles along the roadside, sitting quietly under red umbrellas, wearing silk and lace over tired bodies. 

Olive groves

Another tip from a fellow traveller took us inland towards the paragliding mecca of Ager in the Southern Pyrenees, as we neared the area, countless colorful wings gently soared on the last of the days thermals before drifting down towards a field behind our campsite. Later that evening many eager pilots studied weather charts for the following day while sipping beer at the local bar. At exactly midnight, the town of Ager, which looked as though it couldn’t have been home to more than 2000 people erupted in a festival of dance and music which continued until 6 in the morning, clearly they had heard Beth and I were passing through their community and they wanted us to feel as welcome as possible. 





Leaving Ager we took a spectacular road Northeast into the tiny principality of Andorra, a unique nation famous for it’s skiing and shopping. With its twisting mountain roads and extensive ski resorts it felt as though we were back in Switzerland and we couldn’t resist parking the bikes for a couple of days and exploring the area. Andorra has only three major roads so it took less than a day to ride them all. A vague network of hiking trails allow access to some of the most spectacular scenery in the Pyrenees mountains and before long we were puffing and panting our way up into deserted valleys towards exposed summits of loose rock and chilling winds. Towards the top we noticed a large bird soaring above taking a particular interest in our every step, we had heard stories of the Lammergeier Vulture, a native to this region,  knocking inattentive shepherds off the edges of steep gullies so as to feast on the tenderized carcass after the fall. Whether we were just too sure footed or the odor of several months on the road was not very appetizing the vulture let us pass unhindered.

Ending poverty in Monaco?

From Andorra we descended into France determined to give the Mediterranean coast another chance only to find the region hideously over priced and over used. Turning the bikes inland we found many hidden gems, small towns surrounding impressive strongholds, delightfully empty roads and an impressive landscape. The Verdun gorge provided us with plenty of thrills, the road clinging to the sheer walls of the contorted canyon, castles standing out on distant hilltops and vertigo inducing drops just beyond the road’s edge. No visit to this region would be complete without a detour into the tiny principality on Monaco, a tax haven and, coincidentally, home to some of the richest people on the planet (imagine what kind of a stimulus package it would be if rich people actually paid taxes).  Nestled between the Southern Alps and the Mediterranean sea it occupies a spectacular coastal area which it does its best to spoil with high rise apartment blocks and gaudy casinos, the true potential of the extravagant, luxury sports cars that prowl the streets is wasted on the constant gridlock of this compact state. Super yachts crowd the bay, some too big to dock in the harbor, while helicopters are needed to shuttle their owners to and from the mainland. After half a day marveling over the excess of this upside down country we rode east towards Italy zipping past the growling Bugatis and Bentleys that choked the narrow streets.

Quiet town of Tende, French Italian border

Italy is a fascinating country, our first night at a campground off an obscure road North of Ventimiglia turned out to be one of our best yet, a wonderful Dutch couple introduced us to the quintessential Italian dining experience. Once a week, the locals fire up a huge brick oven and turn out pizzas, two at a time, to feed the crowds of hungry diners who bide their time with good conversation and cheap wine, we had six nationalities at our table that evening and little difficulty communicating. Our new Dutch friends, over homemade cappuccinos the following morning, recommended several routes for the next leg of our journey and, seduced by the prospect of more winding mountain roads, we turned North on the 6204 towards Cuneo. The road meandered between France and Italy while climbing towards the Col de Tende. We stopped for lunch in the tiny town of Tende before crossing back into Italy, wandering its quiet streets intrigued by the warren of alleys and passageways that seemed to follow no logical pattern. Back in Italy we had set our sights on the town of Alba as our goal for the day and as the  road gradually returned to the foothills we entered Italy’s wine producing region. Vineyards stretched off into the horizon and the afternoon clouds had us stopping at every turn to try to capture the magical landscapes. Soon, the clouds which had looked so impressive from afar were overhead and beginning to take on a more threatening appearance, as the sky darkened the first few fat drops of rain fell and we sought shelter beneath an abandoned gazebo. No sooner had we pulled our bikes out of the rain when an immensely powerful lightning storm lit up the darkened skies. We planned to wait it out, we were dry and had all the supplies we needed so we settled down and cooked a delicious meal while bolts of lightning singed the surrounding air. After a couple of hours it appeared as though the storm had settled overhead so we relented and booked ourselves into a hotel enjoying our second night in a bed since entering Europe. 

Leaning bikes in Pisa

Well rested, we made our way South once more and picked up the coastal road towards Pisa, the previous night’s storms had washed out several sections of the smaller local roads and lack of clear signage had us backtracking and following our instincts on several occasions. We pulled into Pisa and enjoyed a late evening walk around the surprisingly small historical centre, as we gazed upon the leaning tower the church choir sang beautifully, their voices carried by the light evening breeze. Far to the North another thunder storm flashed and flickered behind thick ominous clouds silhouetting the entire Plaza. Turning inland we next arrived in Florence amazed to discover that Italy could get more beautiful, we found ourselves wondering if we had found the place where we could end our journey. The people, the architecture, the atmosphere, the food all combine to give this country a unique flavor of how life should be, there is a noticeable passion in the simplest of events, even a conversation can feel like a performance. We’ve attracted many excited enquiries about our motorcycles and our journey, invitations to dinner and advice on the best roads to take. 

Colosseum, Rome

Just when we thought it couldn’t get any better we arrived in “The Eternal City” of Rome, a place so unlike anything we have ever experienced. Every turn reveals a glimpse of an impressive history spanning over 2500 years. Monuments abound, some in ruins, some restored each one with its own fascinating story. We would often eavesdrop on the guided tours and pick up snippets of captivating detail. We spent only three days in the historical city, reminded yet again that our allotted time for this journey will never be enough. We arrived on a Sunday and made our way towards St Peter’s Basilica in the Vatican City as, literally, thousands of people where slowly leaving the area. As it turned out we had just missed the celebration of  Sunday Mass, old habits die hard I guess. The scale of the event and its location is hard to fathom, all the places of worship we’ve seen up to now were dwarfed by the locale, the very heart of the Catholic church. It was also a little unsettling, we could only wonder at what a difference such exorbitance would make to the lives of so many in much greater need. Wandering the floors of the Vatican museum with its overwhelming display of antiquities and masterpieces from throughout the ages and gift shops at every turn left us questioning how the church reconciles this hoarding of priceless treasures with the teachings of its founders. 

Michelangelo Park, Rome

Our whirlwind tour of Rome took us to countless wonderful sites and, no doubt, we blindly strolled past many more. What little preparation we had made before our visit was never going to be enough, Rome would take a lifetime to explore and fully appreciate but we both tossed a coin over our shoulders into the Trevi Fountain hoping to ensure our safe return as the custom dictates. 

Why is there never any toilet paper in Europe?

St Peter's Basilica, Rome