29 September to 7 October 2019.
Croatia by Boat and Bicycle.
438 miles (by bike) with 27460 feet of climbing.
Croatia by Boat and Bicycle.
438 miles (by bike) with 27460 feet of climbing.
I entered the land of the Croats for the first time in my life, with anticipation that would be met and then some over the next week, on September 29th, 2019, at about 11:30 am, through the Rupa border station. Other than my own, unawarranted it turned-out, internally generated anxiety, light but nontheless real, I experienced no other trauma worth noting as I stopped briefly on each side of this armed border, the first on a bicycle tour that began at Duncansby Head in far away northeast Scotland. It's worth noting here, for future travelers by any means, that Slovenia, like Italy for example, is a full member of the European Union and so the border with other EU-member countries is nothing more than a sign consisting of a blue background, the abbreviation of the EU country in the middle surrounded by gold stars. Some exceptions, namely larger signs, certainly exist but rarely is there a human form patroling passage beween full EU-member states. Prior to arriving to Croatia, all of the borders that I encountered were full-member junctions without border agents.
One could and some no doubt have written entire books on the relationship between Slovenians and Croatians, and the myriad of relationships, good and bad, elsewhere within the former-Yugoslavian nation. For the most part, below, I've avoided discourse that encompasses any part of the history and politics of the former-Yugoslavia but I do encourage readers to educate themselves on this important topic, for their own benefit and the benefit of future generations that we inevitably inspire in our own ways, towards war or peace among them.
Much later in this travelogue, you'll meet a young man named Ibrahim and his father, Ado. Ado was a military officer in the Bosnian Army stationed in Sarajevo during the Bosnian War; Ibrahim was born in that city part-way through the siege of Sarajevo, a siege primarily but not exclusively assembled by the Serbian military including tanks and other war machines. I was recently (27-28 January 2020) in touch with Ibrahim and he suggested that I read The Cellist of Sarajevo by Canadian novelist Steven Galloway. I intend to start my formal education of the region including its conflicts with this book and offer you, my readers, the same as a suggestion to start your own journey into a topic that, I assure you, will break your heart.
With passport including exit and entry stamps safely tucked-away in my top-tube bag from Bedrock Bags (exceptional quality, made in Durango, Colorado), I crossed the gap on the primary, high-speed road from the border to the town center of Rupa, not much bigger than a village but because of its proximity to a significant border crossing the town had all of the resources a traveler might need or desire. I wasn't in need of anything, other than a deeper penetration into the latest country on my tour to soften my mounting curiosity, so I didn't stop in Rupa, South of town I transitioned to a road, Route 8, that turned-out to be very similar, traffic patterns, surface quality, scenery, to Route 6, the road I was following back in Slovenia before I arrived to the border,. For the next ca. 10 miles, I pedaled my way south on Route 8 across an expansive rolling plain with larger hills here and there, which gave the impression of more topography than there was, in reality, on either proximate side of my bike. Not far away, to the west and southwest, the Učka Mountains, the highest range in the more expansive Ćićarija Mountains (which extend into adjacent Italy), were easy to detect. To the east, towards the big Croatian town of Rijeka, the Dinaric Alps loomed, from the perspective of a wee bike rider, on the horizon.
I continued south towards Jurdani and Jušići then west-southwest to Rukavac, close to the larger coastal towns of Matulji and Opatija. Along the way, I captured this image and later, that evening, posted the image and the following caption to Instagram and Facebook, "Rukavac, Primorje-Gorski Kotar County, Croatia. The moment that I glimpsed the Adriatic Sea happened close to Rukavac, it was and will remain a cherished encounter from the tour, and I can tell you it's a long way from Duncansby Head on a bicycle regardless of the route!" This wasn't the first and wouldn't be my last encounter with emotions that flooded both eyes as I processed my overwhelming good fortune to arrive at a particular moment, weighted by what came before and the cleansing realization, always temporary but no less valuable, of what really matters in a lifetime. Firsts, last, and middles withstanding, that initial glimpse of the Adriatic between hills, villages, and forests on a blue sky day, broken by a few, white, puffy clouds, was a special moment, and with it came a feeling of accomplishment that penetrated my central nervous system to an extent that was rare on the tour and has been, similarly, in life.
A handful of miles west of Rukavac, I began to ascend into the Učka Mountains and eventually into its namesake, Učka Nature Park. It was roughly 1:50 pm, I was ca. 850 feet above sea level; for the next ca. 70 minutes (including a 10-15 minute stop at St. Marks Church) I'd climb until I was just under 3200 feet above sea level; grades along the way occasionally exceeded 14%. Over my left shoulder, the coastline in all of its splendor gradually came into view until I could easily resolve the main belt of the Dinaric Alps trending north to south, beyond the coastline, and all of the coastal towns between there and my here-and-now in one massive glance. Spreading outward to the south, a palatial expanse of the Adriatic Sea was also visible, so much so that supertankers were no larger than an average-sized tiger beetle widely spaced on a gymnasium floor, viewed from the surrounding bleachers. Amidst this sea-scape Croatia's coastal islands dominated the southern horizon including the Island of Cres that I would eventually visit on this tour. The vista was so enormous that I forgot about the long journey that I had amassed in legs, heart, and mind, and otherwise climbed unperturbed by any thoughts about distances and grades that lay ahead. This was another instance of a point when I should, using inexperienced logic and conclusions, have been struggling by the burden of rolling a 65-ish pound bike and gear up a series of connected climbs. Instead, consistent with Science and experience, my body went where I willed my mind to go and as long as my mind was content with the process then my body was too and freely gave of its resources including an essentially inexhaustable supply of lipids to fire the mitochondrial furnaces that were my primary movers at this late stage in my tour.
Not far from the highest summit in the Učka's, Vojak Mountain (4580 feet; 1396 meters), I temporarily departed my primary route and ascended an old road, a cul de sac, to St. Mark's Church above the ancient town of Veprinac where I enjoyed even more of the spectacular view of the Adriatic Sea and surrounding Croatian coast. By this time, it was creeping into the middle of the afternoon and I still had no idea, not unusual by any means, where I would spend the evening. I also had no idea what was in store for me and my Niner Bikes RLT 9 Steel as far as road conditions for what remained, most of it anyway, of the journey ahead before nightfall.
At some point beyond Veprinic, perhaps beyond Vela Učka or even beyond that village, the secondary road that I was following, the 500, transitioned to very rough track and eventually so rough that it was proper only for mountain bikes, off-road motorcycles, ATVs, and goats, a list that certainly does not include even "light" touring bikes and loads. Initially, still high from everything that I'd experienced so far in Croatia, I anticipated that the route would improve quickly. When that didn't happen, and instead the route continued to degrade, I eventually was not feeling exceptionally positive, a brief slip in an otherwise fairly successful, implying "positive", 63 days of touring, eventually, through uncharted territory. Rough roads persisted for many kilometers, until I was approaching the village of Gračišće when I suddenly rolled back, out of the forest, onto tarmac. By this juncture, fairly depleted from the effort spent maneuvering the bike, on and off the saddle, and sometimes pushing it up steep, pulverized road surfaces that were a mix of dirt, loose stone, and bedrock, I was thrilled to roll onto a smooth, predictable surface. Looking back on the duration of that particular challenge from the tour, I can see the value, through perspective, and so naturally am grateful that the day was long enough to allow me to process my way, through internal and external conversation, to a laugh-out-loud conclusion that was far more sensible than alternatives. Not far from the edge of the forest, gratitude overwhelmed regret and perhaps this played a part in the events that came to fruition over the next couple of hours.
The village of Gračišće is visible for miles because of its placement high on a hill above an extensive valley to the north and east that gradually slopes downward to the Adriatic, and the prominence of a church tower (here's an image), possibly built during the Roman era, not far from the face of the hill that overlooks the valley. Given its prominence, I had seen the church, and by implication the town, many times on my journey from the north through the Croatian outback. When I was finally presented with a paved road that promised to close the gap to this silent, beckoning companion, I was essentially powerless to avoid taking that out-of-my-way left turn. Closing the gap took only minutes and then I was rolling through a village gate, made of ancient stone and wood, into a courtyard that led to more of the same, a picture book scene of medieval Europe that effectively transformed my mind state into blissful, explorer harmony. Nearby, a family was gathered around a plate of chips ("French fries" in the United States) and sausages outside the only restaurant that was open for business this late in the fall, well past high season for tourists. The thought of lipids and carbohydrates to contribute to my depleted stocks was so powerful that I barely slipped past these visuals and accompanying smells before I had a chance to explore the village including the church tower that had beckoned me to arrive.
Not far away, close to the shadow of the church tower, a wall kept even the most distracted tourists from tumbling down a steep slope into the valley that I already mentioned. I parked my bike there and went to work with my camera, including a video to capture the moment which in hindsight I may have posted to my Facebook account but not Instagram because despite my best effort I couldn't squeeze my commentary down to the 60 second format required by standard, Instagram video posts. Beyond the smells of pork sausage, and the fire place burning inside the same pub, I was able to refocus and celebrate the moment as I absorbed all that had happened not only on this day but all the days that led to my arrival to this anonymous village, set high above an exceptional presentation of landscape and ecology, in a country where I had no previous experience. For me, motivated primarily by wanderlust and discovery, arriving to Gračišće and especially after hardship was a perfect day and conclusion, including the warm light that filled my imagination and my reality, for a moment king of all that I could see, like Yurdle the Turtle, and what a plethora of seeing I beheld beyond that old stone wall, an immense value for each pedal stroke and step on the eroding dirt tracks that led me there.
Back at the pub, as I was waiting for an extraordinary plate of carbohydrates, fat, and protein accompanied by bread, a salad, and a glass of locally-crafted, Croatian red wine, I came back to daily responsibilities, set with a wide grin, and went to work searching for a place to stay. Previously, I asked my waitress, also the bartender, who subsequently inquired by phone on my behalf to places in the village, mostly shut for the season. When that turned-up nothing of interest, aka a place with character, I transitioned to Airbnb's app and, despite the time of day, roughly 6 pm by now, easily found an option about five miles away. I may have had a second glass of wine, if not the first was enough to render me slightly intoxicated, which I recall primarily from affects that it had on my ability to ride a bike from the pub to the guest house in the village of Križ Landarski where I arrived to just before dark.
My hosts Ilona and her husband Raitis took exceptional care of me, including beer and conversation, followed by a bountiful breakfast the next morning. The night before, back at the pub, the bartender had encouraged me to visit two places on the west and south coasts of the Istrian Peninsula. I'd ridden onto the Istrian peninsula as I ascended the Učka Mountains. More than my tour across mainland Europe, now that I was in the Balkans I was literally planning each day the night before and would continue to do so with few exceptions all the way to Istanbul. Without a commitment in sight, ideas, like those offered by the bartender, were easy to accommodate. By morning, I had a GPS route, built using Ride With GPS, stored on my Garmin 1030.
From Križ Landarski I rode south and slightly west on Route 283 to Zminj where I turned right and subsequently, a few kilometers later, left, sticking to the 283, towards Pifari. A high plain rose above, to the north, of Pifari. The remainder of my route paralleled, east to west, the tightly packed contour lines of this ridgeline. Unlike the second half of the day before, the roads were truly secondary in character, paved, lightly traffic, overall pleasant for a bike rider. And so much so that I began to forget about the goat tracks above Gračišće, a slip in sensibility that I would eventually pay a small price for. In the meantime, I was thrilled to feel the turbulence of air around my body as I navigated Niner Bikes RLT 9 Steel across the heart of the Istrian Peninsula. My initial goal for the day, 30 September 2019, was the coastal town of Rovinj, in particular the historic old town.
Ancient Rovinj, a settlement established Before the Common Era (BCE) by local Illyrian tribes, invading Venetians, and eventually Romans, is built on what once was an island but is now connected to the mainland (since 1763). One could easily conclude why the island attracted empires throughout recorded history, surrounded by water with a prominent hill that rises in the middle offering a view of anyone that approaches, by land or sea. I ate a quick lunch within view of the islands east quarter and then for about the next hour I zigzagged my way through the old town’s narrow passage ways, where no cars could pass even if they were allowed. Cobble stones under my tires were as smooth as glass, polished from millennia of use. No doubt, under wet conditions, tire choice matters when rolling through these walkways, which can be exceptionally steep. At the top of the hill, overlooking the Adriatic and the ridge-line visible to the east that I followed from Pifari, I found myself sharing a part of my tour with strangers on holiday from a wide-swath of nations including the United States which I could easily pick-out by their baseball caps, tacky tee-shirts, and washed-out blue jeans. As I sometimes do, I remained anonymous, choosing instead to observe and process without dilution other than what my senses would inevitably detect and be affected by.
I eventually made my way down, down, down, retracing my route, to the area where my impression of Rovinj began, not far from a line of local fishing boats that were selling their catch to locals and tourists. Nearby, I ate a second lunch and by chance had a conversation with a British fellow, touring by bus, which shared his thoughts about Bosnia and Serbia, none of them were good. Although I've not written elsewhere about this line of questioning and its conclusions, this was not the first, or last, stranger that provided commentary on their impression of safety and related factors in the Balkans. I packaged his comments away, pulled some Kuna, the local currency, from a local ATM, and then sauntered along the coastline that overlooks old Rovinj. Just before I said Doviđenja ("good bye"), I captured this photo of the west and south shores of an island that became a town well before the birth of Julius Caesar, that became part of the Nation of the Croats on June 25, 1991, and that filled the imagination of a lone-American cyclist with fodder that will take years to unpackaged.
From Rovinj, I'd chosen, the night before, a route that proved to me a mix of two-lane, secondary roads, rough and smooth gravel, and even single track lined by hand-built, New England-style walls on either side and sharp, limestone bedrock under my tires. I took each surface and encounter with a breath and a smile and proceeded without any incident other than a few surprised locals as I arrived to places that are far from the typical tourist map. My route often followed the coastline, especially as I road south from my next destination for the day, Pula.
It's not every day that you roll into a town and find yourself face-to-face with a towering and unexpected collosseum built, between 27 BCE and 68 CE, by the Roman Empire. Amongst all of the moments from my life that I would categorize as serendipitous, wonderful events that (seem to) happen by chance, rolling up on the Pula Amphitheatre was certainly a highlight. Whatever else I might have discovered in this city, by far the largest that I visited on the Istrian Peninsula, those places were much more likely to remain hidden from my view in the presence of this amphitheatre, which is still used for concerts to this day. Nonetheless, after pausing for images and perspective, I did manage to investigate the old town of Pula where I inquired about ferry boat tickets to places like Split, Croatia to the southeast, worshiped a mid-afternoon cappuccino, and searched for a place to spend the night that was closer to my last destination for the day, Cape Kamenjak Nature Park.
This was the second tip from the bartender, my server and informant back in Gračišće the night before. From Pula, the route often degraded. until, as noted above, I was navigating single track and doing my best to avoid slicing a tire on exposed, sharp, bedrock. As I entered the park, by now on a narrow strip of land that extends out into the Adriatic Sea, the southernmost point of terra firma on the Istrian Peninsula, roads were rough gravel, loose and dusty, but otherwise not an issue for my light-touring set-up. But sadly, despite navigating down all these alternative tracks, the conclusion was so far from my imagination that it was nowhere in sight. Instead, I found a landscape that was overrun by tourists in search of something that wasn’t there. and they'd seemingly walked on, versus over, every green something within 50 meters of the roads. it wasn't tragic, but it certainly demonstrates what can happen if people are allowed to wander anywhere they wish in a nature park. Sadly, we should all know better and want to do better but often that's not the case and some sort of signage, at a minimum, is needed to avoid this sort of conclusion. Impressions like this one aside, I was thrilled to explore the periphery of the Istrian Peninsula. And the end of that exploration also placed me nearly in the village where I spent the night, Premantura, where I was hosted by a kindred spirit, Vlado, wanderer, philosopher, humanitarian, etc, in a space that celebrated character and, beyond its jungle-inspired entry, welcomed all without bias. I spent my first hour eating, enjoying a cold, Croatian beer, and sharing stories with Vlado but I could have easily spent, with pleasure, many more over many days. Among the hosts that I'll easily recall down the road, Vlado will certainly be among them.
The two days exploring the Istrian Peninsula were sufficient to allow me to conclude on how I wanted to proceed towards and eventually into Bosnia. From Vlado's, I mapped-out and rode the next day a route that brought me to the village of Brseč on the northeast coast of the Peninsula, not far from my route the day I arrived to Croatia. My plan was to take a full rest day in Brseč then catch an early ferry the following morning to the adjacent Island of Cres. Once on Cres, I'd would island hop, by road and bridge, to Mali Lošinj where I'd spend a night and then catch a second ferry boat to Zadar, an ancient town that's now an urban phenomenon in Croatia, on 4 October 2019. Once on the mainland again, on the outskirts of Zadar, I'd rest, visit the old town the next morning, then ride to the outskirts of Split. More touring the next morning, then southward to a sensible point to make a left turn eventually into Bosnia to Mostar and then Sarajevo. On digital media, my small dell laptop monitor, the route and the plan looked sensible and exciting which in reality it never strayed away from.
By the time I departed Vlado's guest house in Premantura, I was well versed on the state of tertiary roads in Croatia. And given my level of fatigue at that moment, fairly deep in part from the physical and mental challenges associated with crossing no fewer than five mountain ranges since departing Ljubljana, Slovenia, I decided to wisely, in my view, avoid the possibility of hours spent navigating rough tracks. Otherwise, readers take note, if priorities that day had been different there are tracks, no doubt a mix of gravel roads and single track, which avoid most of the first half of the secondary road choices that I favored on this particular day. These are clearly marked, some as trails, on map layers available using Ride With GPS software.
The most significant part of my day from Vlado's to Suzana's guest house in Brseč was the unexpected encounter with an opportunity to ride and explore the valley below the church tower in Gračišće. My perspective had changed 180 degrees, from looking down into the valley to looking up from the valley floor. Along the way, despite my best route-building efforts, I did end up on a section, ca. 5-10 kilometers, of super-rough gravel track, aka "jeep trail" if I was to use common US-speak. However, I must have been at least marginally, mentally and physically rested, enough to overcome the minds tendency to go into the negative spectrum when it's fatigued, because I don't recall any significant dips in my happiness. I even embraced the view of a massive coal plant set at the bottom of the valley as something to behold. At this juncture, I paused for a video which captures my state-of-mind and the scenery from this part of the tour.
In Brseč, my hosts Suzana and her parents, German by language and descent, were a joy to spend two nights with, and my room including this fabulous view was exceptional for only ca. $30 per night. The village, sleepy and modest in all things other than history, was also very special. Each evening, for variety and to contribute to the local economy, I ate dinner at the only restaurant in town (this time of year) and shopped at the only grocery shop, a wee shop, just one room, where I enjoyed friendly chit-chat with the owner that spoke fluent English. Meanwhile, in the background, Planet Earth's predictable revolution on its tilted, vertical axis produced a silent but no less real tick-tock-tick that inevitably transitioned me to a familiar courtyard and gate and in the next moment my exit from Brseč. A short ride that concluded with a thousand foot plummet down to the coastline was all that was needed to arrive to the Brestova (mainland)-Porozina (Island of Cres) ferry terminal. Whilst waiting for my ship, serendipity, the weather in particular, blowing hard from the south, led to a unique video opportunity for my tour, filmed as the ferry boat was approaching Brestova, you can watch it here.
The Island of Cres is easily visible across a narrow strait from the Brestova dock. Even on a rowdy, wind-inspired day, the crossing takes only about 20 minutes. A few more minutes are required to offload and then the enviable, versus those in tourist buses, are cycling-up a long climb to the summit of this portion of the island. Due in part to the off-season time-of-year when I visited, I shared the road with almost no one most of the way to my destination, the island and town of (same name) Mali Lošinj. Along the way, as you can see for yourself, from this image, the weather wasn't ideal: overcast, chilly, and sometimes wet. But overall, on my tour, I couldn't complain, now or then, the weather was quite reasonable most days after the initial battering that I absorbed in Scotland and Ireland.
By now, the norm as far as my road-side observations in Croatia, soils were thin and on the island were paper thin, more often the ground presented deeply rutted bedrock, including sharp edges, from the chemistry of slightly acidic water when it contacts limestone (deposited at the bottom of a shallow sea during the reign of the dinosaurs). For this reason, the island certainly isn't an ideal place for agriculture, but it does support horticulture including a number of goats in particular, and likely sheep and cattle as well. The vegetation, low growing trees, shrub-like, and a variety of non-woody and woody plants making up the under- and often the only-story (no canopy), was unlike any plant community that I encountered on the mainland. even the adjacent Istrian Peninsula. Although my observations are far from Science-based, what I could see suggests that a unique assemblage of plants and animals rely, for their existence, on the ecological integrity of the archipelago of islands found along Croatia's major coastline including the islands of Cres and Mali Lošinj. If that's the case, consistent with everything Science knows about island biogeography, then travelers to these islands should take care not to damage or otherwise detract from what they experience.
I had plenty of time to reach Mali Lošinj which compelled me, along the way, to saunter at times, and I enjoyed a picnic-style lunch on a bench, a chat with two locals, and a cappuccino on the house in Osor, before finally concluding the cycling portion of my day. Osor is also where I encountered the bridge that connects the islands of Cres and Mali Lošinj. Back in the here-and-now, as I pedaled over the steel bridge I enjoyed sunny skies above and tail-wind from behind. A grin that did not deny pleasure directed my gaze and pace as I raced with little effort along smooth, quiet tarmac roads, seemingly cheating my way the last twenty-miles or so to the beautiful and historic port of Mali Lošinj.
Given the remoteness of Mali Lošinj, I was quite surprised and still am that the UCI, World, Downhill Mountain Bike Championship will take place just outside of town in 2020. Competitors and their supporters will no doubt have stories to share about their adventure to and from the island and the town. In the meantime, when I arrived there was no haste in sight, only a beautiful waterfront for me to absorb, at very slow speed, including restaurants and coffee shops. I had pizza on my brain and found a delightful, taste buds and character, location run by a German couple up the hill a short distance from the main attractions. After dinner, I needed some assistance finding my flat for the evening, an entire apartment for less than $30 dollars a night, three confusing turns from the sea down a series of narrow, stone-surfaced pedestrian-ways. Showered, fed, and feeling relaxed, I spent the last part of my evening just strolling along the waterfront, "taking it all in" as we sometimes say in English. It was a perfect conclusion to the latest chapter of a very long bicycle tour. Back at the apartment, I rearranged the furniture so that I could sleep closer to open windows, inviting my sleeping mind to imagine under the influence of whatever wandered in through the open windows in this foreign land , smells, sounds, and charged particles among them.
I lazily met the check-out time requirements the following morning and then proceeded to explore, by bicycle, Mali Lošinj above the waterfront and beyond, in particular a concrete-surfaced bicycle path that followed the coast around the peninsula that encloses Mali Lošinj harbor on the west side. A few hours later, fattened on local food and a cappuccino, I made my way to my next ferry terminal, in hindsight the last for the tour until I reached the west-side of the Bosphorus in Istanbul. Amongst my waiting companions, I had the pleasure to meet and spend some time with an American couple and their youngster, all of them traveling by bicycle on their own tour of Croatia. At the same time, a young man in his twenties that had ridden his bike from his home in Munich was also great company. Our departure was scheduled for about four post meridiem (4 PM) which came and went, and then went some more, and on and on until we finally did see the ship and eventually depart sometime after six. Apparently, these sorts of delays in Croatia are not unusual, but with so many friends nearby the time were easily absorbed by the curiosity of like-minded travelers. Nevertheless, I was aware of some simple, yet important arithmetic given the value of sleep for my ambitious tour, and in general a healthy life.
The crossing, including many stops at various island ports, from Mali Losinj to Zadar, a major city on the Croatian mainland, was all of six hours and perhaps a bit more. Simple arithmetic, assuming no additional delays and there turned out to be none in hindsight, placed me on the dock, on the outskirts of Zadar, under street lamps at about 12:30 AM the following day. From there, the distance to my next Croatian apartment, for about $25, was less than 10 kilometers, about 6 miles.
My companions and I continued our flowing chit-chat well into the evening before, one-by-one, we began to settle into the best bed we could find, typically a flat bench nearby. I slept not wink but I was able to rest my eyes and beating heart, a fraction of a gain on an otherwise deficient and declining suite of internal resources. Considering journeys by boat and how we might judge them, this tour of the islands was marginal but only because the exploration was almost 100% concealed by darkness, a notable exception was the beautiful sunset over the Bay of Mali Lošinj as we exited the harbor. At the ferry terminal in Zadar, hours later, street lamps were in fact blazing, for a few kilometers anyway, as I rode into an intimidating, industrial scene and then into suburbs beyond mostly, by this point, on a road that by day was the primary route into and out of bustling Zadar.
By the time I arrived to my bed for the evening it was well after 1 am. A quick call to my host sped-up our rendezvous, as he materialized into a dark something on the road ahead of me where previously there was only stillness and silence. My host kindly allowed me to stash my bike in one of his units that was under construction, and then gave me a tour of the space before departing. Although I hadn't cycled more than 20 miles this day, I was nonetheless well inside of zombie format by the time I took a warm shower and then crawled into bed. Knackered withstanding, the day had been an overwhelming success, sure I didn't get to "see" the famous coastal archipelago over most of the six-hour crossing but the adventure was far from uninteresting and it had ultimately brought me to the starting point of the final and most unknown component of Le Tour de Europe, a spectrum of possibilities from disastrous and deadly to epic and enlightening. I slept well but only for a few hours. As significant as lost sleep is for human performance, and its foremost, my childhood-like energy to ride into that spectrum of exceptionally unknown outcomes was more than enough to elevate my senses and motivate my drive train.
I made my decision not the night before but the morning of, 5 October 2019, to back-track towards the ferry terminal and a few miles more to visit the old part of Zadar (here's my route), built by Venetians and Romans on a peninsula to the north and west of the modern town. I was now in the Dalmatian region of Croatia, well known among travelers including its second largest city, Zadar. Zadar's origins as a place on a map, beyond the Stone Age when it was already a busy venue for our ancestors, dates to the 9th century BCE when it was known as Lader by its inhabitants, the Illyrian tribe known as Liburnians. The Romans renamed the town Laderer in 59 BCE and by 49 CE the town had established itself as a Roman colonia (which is the origin of the English word "colony") which implied, at that time, the highest status available for a Roman city.
Navigation by bicycle was dicey at times as I made my way from industrial settings and suburbia into the heart of the beast and eventually into the old town itself. As it often is, the transition from new to old city is immediate and overwhelming; from fast, tarmac roads clogged with buses and taxis to polished cobble stones and spellbound pedestrians, and Zadar was no exception. At my first opportunity, when intuition strongly compelled me to turn left, I abandoned my Garmin 1030 GPS and wasn't disappointed. At that juncture, I descended down a worm hole that brought me centuries back through human history. As elsewhere in old Europe, the architecture transitioned from wood, mortar, and block to quarried stone, some stones as large as a modern electric vehicle but typically much smaller, for construction of streets and buildings, aided and directed by the hands of laboring men that will forever remain anonymous despite the relative permanence of their collective accomplishments, a shocking conclusion that I enjoy dwelling on from time to time. And another thought that usually overlaps that one, somewhere nearby there is or are places that were drastically depleted of stone, such as the limestone quarries below Paris, now partially filled with human bones (ossuary), that were the source of the stone used to construct the oldest parts of that city.
For my tour of Zadar, I eventually settled-into a Roman-inspired scene, including the Roman forum and the foundations from the shops, known in Roman times as tabernae, that once lined a portion of the streets in this part of the ancient city. Just beyond, in plain view, of these foundations, I enjoyed a moment of internal humor as I watched a Catholic nun, in full uniform, walk briskly past the 9th-century (CE) Church of St. Donat, patiently, despite her pace I assume, awaiting the promised return of a so-far quite absent savior of a favored minority of Planet Earth's human occupants, only those in the know and more or less faithful. Apparently, the building is no longer considered Holy, it's been de-consecrated by the Catholic Church, but it remains in use as Zadar's premier concert hall. I wrapped-up my photo shoot of bike and, sometimes, body too using the nearby Benedictine Convent, currently the Museum of Church Art that is locally referred to as the Museum of "Gold and Silver" for its biased collection.
Eventually, following a much loved, "worshipped" wouldn't go too far, cappuccino plus a snack not far from the Convent, I began my journey south at 11:19 am, away from Zadar, after a brief stop to try to locate new tires for my RLT, which wasn't successful to my surprise. I decided to try again in the larger city of Split, where I was headed. I'd ridden just under seven miles to get to Zadar and pretty much on flat roads. For the next part of my day and journey, I'd add 96 miles and 5000 feet of elevation gain. Looking ahead, 6 hours and 21 minutes, moving time (stops excluded), later, I'd finish well after dark, lights blazing, deeply fatigued by that point, after an unadvised, fast nocturnal descent from Croatia's interior valleys and mountains back to the coastline. Here's the complete route on Strava.
South of Zadar, after about an hour’s cycling, I headed inland on the 6040 towards Galovac and Prkos. Beyond Prkos, in Škabrnja, by now satisfied with the displacement from the busy coastline, I turned south on the 6021 and eventually transitioned, same trajectory, onto the 6278. All of these were lightly trafficked, well surfaced tarmac roads. At Škabrnja I was an hour and twenty minutes into my ride and ascending on my way to 620 feet above sea level, the first pass, I can easily count eight using the elevation profile provided by Strava, of many that I'd roll over between here and the densely settled burbs south of Split. Despite the implied difficulty of the route, the setting throughout, beyond Škabrnja, was among the best, rendering me thoroughly inspired, that I experienced on my tour from Duncansby Head. Proximity to the busy coast, never farther than about 20 miles, didn't detract from rural setting, dominated by tractors and humble farms, quaint villages, hand-crafted and nurtured orchards, patched barns, and curious livestock. Beyond these human possessions, valleys extended gradually and sometimes steeply, forming mountains that provided ample inspiration for goats and adventurous people (here's an image). The greens of the valleys were soft, reminiscent of the color of sage where it dominates the only-story (no canopy) in some of North America's deserts. The browns and grays, of soil and stone, were washed-out in a similar way, creating a tapestry that blended into one seamless palette, with rivers and streams running between, a living whole, composed of physics and life that lifted me up and over each pass.
Of course, there are limits for all machines, and the human machine is not an exception. So as I rolled into a palatial valley and could see a significant climb on the other end, a quick check of the time led to some concern, and even a little bit of crankiness. That climb turned out to be the longest for the day, predictable given the universe's famously devious sense of humor. I began the ascent at roughly 6:26 pm and topped-out at about 7:10 pm, nearly 1300 feet above the level of the nearby Adriatic Sea. Grumpiness withstanding, I did take a moment for images, including this one looking north not far from the top of the climb back towards the valley from which I'd come. On the back-side of that climb a descent that must be famous among local cyclists immediately consumed all of the focus that remained in my tired mind. Quickly, I was plummeting with both hands fixed firmly in my drops, the preceding climb completely forgotten for the moment. Part-way down, my lights were my savior, by this point darkness would otherwise have concealed my small bike and body relative to the light traffic that occasionally approached but never passed, on my side, because of my free-fall pace. At the bottom, I collected myself, adjacent to a small, boisterous soccer pitch, and from here navigated what seemed like a never-ending stretch of suburbia to a guest house of exceptional quality hosted by Goran and his mum, in Segit Donji, that I'd booked into for $24 before I departed Zadar.
As is often the case, I spent the evening, after a tour of the property, focused on food, a shower, and hydration. Nonetheless, I did manage to interact with Goran several times, his mum too, and each time I gained a little more perspective from this friend that I never knew I had, which is how I would describe all strangers the moment after I meet them, something to keep in mind (?) as American's that are at least partially responsible for behavior of our politicians and armies. My experience compels me to suggest that we consider all strangers friends, with all of the benefits that come with friendship, which we have not yet met so why should we ever conclude that annihilating their ability to live the same life that we desire, or annihilating their life itself, is a good idea? I propose we fast-track to a much different outcome, one that replaces fear with prosperity for all and associated benefits for man, beast and vegetable.
Breakfast the next morning seemingly doubled my weight before I said goodbye and began a very short journey, back the way I'd come the night before and towards Split, to Trogir, perhaps the best bit of local advice that I acquired on the entire tour. My visit (here's an image) to this ancient town, dating to the 3rd-century BCE, was short but that didn't preclude the depth that it penetrated into my heart and memories. It was a few pedal rotations from the route I otherwise intended on taking to Split, but those few were exceptional by any measure. I hopped the curb at their conclusion and rolled onto stones that were polished like their kin back in old Rovinj and for the same reason, millennia of use by foot and hoof. Streets in this enchanted village are often too narrow to allow a full right and left outstretched reach of hands. Passing pedestrians by bicycle must be done with care, as well when literally riding through the village's many street cafes and restaurants, the childhood joy of that experience was truly fabulous.
Beon Trogir, in the company of more buses than I'd seen since departing Lake Garda, back in Italy, I headed south along the coast en route to Split, and of course the old part of that city. Ancient is the standard in this part of the World, or so it seems anyway, and Split's old city quarter is certainly not an exception. After a not-so-brilliant, imagine infrastructure and mans motorized beasts, whizzing in all directions, I eventually found my way to old Split, on the side of town opposite to where I entered. The last few kilometers were assisted by a kind local that assured me that I was heading in the correct direction, a GPS doesn't excel at finding, say, an "old quarter" of an urban metropolis, but old-fashioned asking rarely dismisses these details.
Quality in life and experience nearly always comes with a price, and is one reason why I argue that a couch is no place to spend any more of a human lifetime than is absolutely necessary, snuggling with a sweetheart exempted and encouraged. The cost, in patience and time, for my visit to old Split was amply rewarded, sensibly, I even enjoyed the convergence of massive cruise ships and their recently off-loaded occupants that filled the main, waterfront square before I assumed a far less social exploration of the adjacent, old town. Unlike my exploration of Zadar, for which I targeted the Roman's and their relicts, I had no objective in Split, other than to fill my eyes and mind with treasures from this inspired window into wonderland for what remained of this day and beyond. This journey led me down many streets, eventually towards the top of a hill, and then down to a much loved piazza where I captured this image of bike and rider. Not far away, on my initial hints at departure from Split, an attractive woman glanced in my direction, or so I thought anyway, and my mind tumbled towards human conclusions. Among all the other moments I've had like that one, subtle, seemingly insignificant, I nonetheless wondered, as I rolled towards new town and then back into the coastal mountains, why the universe had lifted my gaze, it seems there is always a purpose and I reveled in that enviable space, as I often do on my bike tours, allowing my mind to drift and dream.
Departing Split turned-out to be far more difficult that I anticipated, and I actually wasn't looking forward to it. On the south end of town I arrived to what I perceived to be a highway and spent the next 30-45 minutes trying to avoid it, which I eventually did and close to a local bakery. I partially filled my stomach with food cooked with love by locals and then filled my pockets for the ride before beginning the first ascent out of town. As I often do, I began with no clues as to where I'd finish. Instead, I set-out with simple goals, to ride about 100 miles and conclude close to the border with Bosnia, so close that the next morning I would roll onto Bosnian soil by mid-morning at the latest. My journey from Split, moving time, was just under 7 hours - here's the route and metrics on Strava. Distance was 88 miles with 5800 feet of climbing. Seven hours into the 'moving time' I arrived at the top of the elevation profile, about 2350 feet above the Adriatic and its coastal communities including Split. Along the way, I absorbed more of the same hills, mountains, and valley scenery that I witnessed the day before, with equal affect on my immediate satisfaction and evolving perspective. Looking back, that perspective foremost, the two days that I spent cycling from Zadar to Split and Split to [x] were among the very best from the tour. Landscape, culture, and perhaps a mind tamed by many miles by this point, converged, transforming my gratitude for space and time beyond previous boundaries. When I say that Le Tour de Europe pushed out "all of my perspectives" this is a place, a couple of days, where a steady, forward, progress was punctuated by a relative leap, and for reasons I will likely never completely understand but that's fine by me, the universe can keep some secrets if it wishes.
At the top of my highest ascent, at 2350 feet and adjacent to Biokovo Nature Park, peaks known as Sveti Jure and Kimet in the intimidating mountain belt to my right had been overlooking my progress for hours. From here, I descended quickly to a valley that remained more or less flat all the way to the town of Kozica where it descended again to another intermontane plateau. Eventually, I rolled through Ravča before descending one last time to what would turn-out to be the conclusion of my day, a guest house in Vigorac not far from the Bosnian border.
The conclusion of my evening, how I found a place to stay that night, might be of interest to travelers and is a fun story. About 10 miles west of Vigorac, by now absolutely committed to the road I was on, an alternative route would require an extensive, reverse direction detour, I came to a blockade across the road including signs that were in Croatian. It was already dipping into early evening. As I rolled up on the blockade, I couldn't believe what I was seeing even though I'd been in similar situations elsewhere on bike tours. Without stopping, but certainly much slowed from my former pace, I glided past, thinking as I proceeded and quickly deciding to take a chance in hopes that I could reach Vigorac where I hoped to find a place to stay for the night. On the last descent into that town, I came upon a man walking in the opposite direction, stopped and asked him what the problem was. Fortunately his English was quite good, and even better, he said I'd have no problem getting through. Ahead the road had broken away and slid down a steep bank but a bike or pedestrian could easily pass and safely. Before I departed, I also asked him about local places to stay, on a budget, and he directed me to a guest house where I was treated like a prince for 20 Euro, about 22$, including dinner and breakfast, homegrown, prepared, and served with a smile in my own apartment. If you make your way to Vigorac, less than 10 miles from the border with Bosnia, then I can assure you of a couple of things: 1) you're a long way from Duncansby Head, Scotland; and 2), you're in a privileged space, mind and body, especially if you came the way that I did through the coastal mountains and valleys of Croatia by bicycle, preferably, or any other means.
The next morning, I dove deep into coffee, I generally do, made by the cup by my host, a lovely woman, before dropping from the sky down to town, that's how steep the street and driveway was leading up to the guest house. Soon I was descending again, out of town, heading south but ultimately east towards Bosnia (here's my route), the second most anticipated country for my tour as far as concern for my safety. And Serbia would be next on the agenda, the country that gave me the greatest concern. In the meantime, I rode on with confidence and no lack of curiosity about what really was beyond those borders. When I reached the crossing into Bosnia in less than an hour, I encountered a smiling man, lightly armed, and certainly not a threat in demeanor or intention. He checked my passport and then welcomed me to Bosnia before he waved me through and I was on my way, navigating a narrow, paved, country road between homes constructed here and there across a wide valley amidst pastures and agricultural fields. Deciduous trees lined both sides of the road, often concealing sleepy, entrenched streams. The next adventure was underway ...
One could and some no doubt have written entire books on the relationship between Slovenians and Croatians, and the myriad of relationships, good and bad, elsewhere within the former-Yugoslavian nation. For the most part, below, I've avoided discourse that encompasses any part of the history and politics of the former-Yugoslavia but I do encourage readers to educate themselves on this important topic, for their own benefit and the benefit of future generations that we inevitably inspire in our own ways, towards war or peace among them.
Much later in this travelogue, you'll meet a young man named Ibrahim and his father, Ado. Ado was a military officer in the Bosnian Army stationed in Sarajevo during the Bosnian War; Ibrahim was born in that city part-way through the siege of Sarajevo, a siege primarily but not exclusively assembled by the Serbian military including tanks and other war machines. I was recently (27-28 January 2020) in touch with Ibrahim and he suggested that I read The Cellist of Sarajevo by Canadian novelist Steven Galloway. I intend to start my formal education of the region including its conflicts with this book and offer you, my readers, the same as a suggestion to start your own journey into a topic that, I assure you, will break your heart.
With passport including exit and entry stamps safely tucked-away in my top-tube bag from Bedrock Bags (exceptional quality, made in Durango, Colorado), I crossed the gap on the primary, high-speed road from the border to the town center of Rupa, not much bigger than a village but because of its proximity to a significant border crossing the town had all of the resources a traveler might need or desire. I wasn't in need of anything, other than a deeper penetration into the latest country on my tour to soften my mounting curiosity, so I didn't stop in Rupa, South of town I transitioned to a road, Route 8, that turned-out to be very similar, traffic patterns, surface quality, scenery, to Route 6, the road I was following back in Slovenia before I arrived to the border,. For the next ca. 10 miles, I pedaled my way south on Route 8 across an expansive rolling plain with larger hills here and there, which gave the impression of more topography than there was, in reality, on either proximate side of my bike. Not far away, to the west and southwest, the Učka Mountains, the highest range in the more expansive Ćićarija Mountains (which extend into adjacent Italy), were easy to detect. To the east, towards the big Croatian town of Rijeka, the Dinaric Alps loomed, from the perspective of a wee bike rider, on the horizon.
I continued south towards Jurdani and Jušići then west-southwest to Rukavac, close to the larger coastal towns of Matulji and Opatija. Along the way, I captured this image and later, that evening, posted the image and the following caption to Instagram and Facebook, "Rukavac, Primorje-Gorski Kotar County, Croatia. The moment that I glimpsed the Adriatic Sea happened close to Rukavac, it was and will remain a cherished encounter from the tour, and I can tell you it's a long way from Duncansby Head on a bicycle regardless of the route!" This wasn't the first and wouldn't be my last encounter with emotions that flooded both eyes as I processed my overwhelming good fortune to arrive at a particular moment, weighted by what came before and the cleansing realization, always temporary but no less valuable, of what really matters in a lifetime. Firsts, last, and middles withstanding, that initial glimpse of the Adriatic between hills, villages, and forests on a blue sky day, broken by a few, white, puffy clouds, was a special moment, and with it came a feeling of accomplishment that penetrated my central nervous system to an extent that was rare on the tour and has been, similarly, in life.
A handful of miles west of Rukavac, I began to ascend into the Učka Mountains and eventually into its namesake, Učka Nature Park. It was roughly 1:50 pm, I was ca. 850 feet above sea level; for the next ca. 70 minutes (including a 10-15 minute stop at St. Marks Church) I'd climb until I was just under 3200 feet above sea level; grades along the way occasionally exceeded 14%. Over my left shoulder, the coastline in all of its splendor gradually came into view until I could easily resolve the main belt of the Dinaric Alps trending north to south, beyond the coastline, and all of the coastal towns between there and my here-and-now in one massive glance. Spreading outward to the south, a palatial expanse of the Adriatic Sea was also visible, so much so that supertankers were no larger than an average-sized tiger beetle widely spaced on a gymnasium floor, viewed from the surrounding bleachers. Amidst this sea-scape Croatia's coastal islands dominated the southern horizon including the Island of Cres that I would eventually visit on this tour. The vista was so enormous that I forgot about the long journey that I had amassed in legs, heart, and mind, and otherwise climbed unperturbed by any thoughts about distances and grades that lay ahead. This was another instance of a point when I should, using inexperienced logic and conclusions, have been struggling by the burden of rolling a 65-ish pound bike and gear up a series of connected climbs. Instead, consistent with Science and experience, my body went where I willed my mind to go and as long as my mind was content with the process then my body was too and freely gave of its resources including an essentially inexhaustable supply of lipids to fire the mitochondrial furnaces that were my primary movers at this late stage in my tour.
Not far from the highest summit in the Učka's, Vojak Mountain (4580 feet; 1396 meters), I temporarily departed my primary route and ascended an old road, a cul de sac, to St. Mark's Church above the ancient town of Veprinac where I enjoyed even more of the spectacular view of the Adriatic Sea and surrounding Croatian coast. By this time, it was creeping into the middle of the afternoon and I still had no idea, not unusual by any means, where I would spend the evening. I also had no idea what was in store for me and my Niner Bikes RLT 9 Steel as far as road conditions for what remained, most of it anyway, of the journey ahead before nightfall.
At some point beyond Veprinic, perhaps beyond Vela Učka or even beyond that village, the secondary road that I was following, the 500, transitioned to very rough track and eventually so rough that it was proper only for mountain bikes, off-road motorcycles, ATVs, and goats, a list that certainly does not include even "light" touring bikes and loads. Initially, still high from everything that I'd experienced so far in Croatia, I anticipated that the route would improve quickly. When that didn't happen, and instead the route continued to degrade, I eventually was not feeling exceptionally positive, a brief slip in an otherwise fairly successful, implying "positive", 63 days of touring, eventually, through uncharted territory. Rough roads persisted for many kilometers, until I was approaching the village of Gračišće when I suddenly rolled back, out of the forest, onto tarmac. By this juncture, fairly depleted from the effort spent maneuvering the bike, on and off the saddle, and sometimes pushing it up steep, pulverized road surfaces that were a mix of dirt, loose stone, and bedrock, I was thrilled to roll onto a smooth, predictable surface. Looking back on the duration of that particular challenge from the tour, I can see the value, through perspective, and so naturally am grateful that the day was long enough to allow me to process my way, through internal and external conversation, to a laugh-out-loud conclusion that was far more sensible than alternatives. Not far from the edge of the forest, gratitude overwhelmed regret and perhaps this played a part in the events that came to fruition over the next couple of hours.
The village of Gračišće is visible for miles because of its placement high on a hill above an extensive valley to the north and east that gradually slopes downward to the Adriatic, and the prominence of a church tower (here's an image), possibly built during the Roman era, not far from the face of the hill that overlooks the valley. Given its prominence, I had seen the church, and by implication the town, many times on my journey from the north through the Croatian outback. When I was finally presented with a paved road that promised to close the gap to this silent, beckoning companion, I was essentially powerless to avoid taking that out-of-my-way left turn. Closing the gap took only minutes and then I was rolling through a village gate, made of ancient stone and wood, into a courtyard that led to more of the same, a picture book scene of medieval Europe that effectively transformed my mind state into blissful, explorer harmony. Nearby, a family was gathered around a plate of chips ("French fries" in the United States) and sausages outside the only restaurant that was open for business this late in the fall, well past high season for tourists. The thought of lipids and carbohydrates to contribute to my depleted stocks was so powerful that I barely slipped past these visuals and accompanying smells before I had a chance to explore the village including the church tower that had beckoned me to arrive.
Not far away, close to the shadow of the church tower, a wall kept even the most distracted tourists from tumbling down a steep slope into the valley that I already mentioned. I parked my bike there and went to work with my camera, including a video to capture the moment which in hindsight I may have posted to my Facebook account but not Instagram because despite my best effort I couldn't squeeze my commentary down to the 60 second format required by standard, Instagram video posts. Beyond the smells of pork sausage, and the fire place burning inside the same pub, I was able to refocus and celebrate the moment as I absorbed all that had happened not only on this day but all the days that led to my arrival to this anonymous village, set high above an exceptional presentation of landscape and ecology, in a country where I had no previous experience. For me, motivated primarily by wanderlust and discovery, arriving to Gračišće and especially after hardship was a perfect day and conclusion, including the warm light that filled my imagination and my reality, for a moment king of all that I could see, like Yurdle the Turtle, and what a plethora of seeing I beheld beyond that old stone wall, an immense value for each pedal stroke and step on the eroding dirt tracks that led me there.
Back at the pub, as I was waiting for an extraordinary plate of carbohydrates, fat, and protein accompanied by bread, a salad, and a glass of locally-crafted, Croatian red wine, I came back to daily responsibilities, set with a wide grin, and went to work searching for a place to stay. Previously, I asked my waitress, also the bartender, who subsequently inquired by phone on my behalf to places in the village, mostly shut for the season. When that turned-up nothing of interest, aka a place with character, I transitioned to Airbnb's app and, despite the time of day, roughly 6 pm by now, easily found an option about five miles away. I may have had a second glass of wine, if not the first was enough to render me slightly intoxicated, which I recall primarily from affects that it had on my ability to ride a bike from the pub to the guest house in the village of Križ Landarski where I arrived to just before dark.
My hosts Ilona and her husband Raitis took exceptional care of me, including beer and conversation, followed by a bountiful breakfast the next morning. The night before, back at the pub, the bartender had encouraged me to visit two places on the west and south coasts of the Istrian Peninsula. I'd ridden onto the Istrian peninsula as I ascended the Učka Mountains. More than my tour across mainland Europe, now that I was in the Balkans I was literally planning each day the night before and would continue to do so with few exceptions all the way to Istanbul. Without a commitment in sight, ideas, like those offered by the bartender, were easy to accommodate. By morning, I had a GPS route, built using Ride With GPS, stored on my Garmin 1030.
From Križ Landarski I rode south and slightly west on Route 283 to Zminj where I turned right and subsequently, a few kilometers later, left, sticking to the 283, towards Pifari. A high plain rose above, to the north, of Pifari. The remainder of my route paralleled, east to west, the tightly packed contour lines of this ridgeline. Unlike the second half of the day before, the roads were truly secondary in character, paved, lightly traffic, overall pleasant for a bike rider. And so much so that I began to forget about the goat tracks above Gračišće, a slip in sensibility that I would eventually pay a small price for. In the meantime, I was thrilled to feel the turbulence of air around my body as I navigated Niner Bikes RLT 9 Steel across the heart of the Istrian Peninsula. My initial goal for the day, 30 September 2019, was the coastal town of Rovinj, in particular the historic old town.
Ancient Rovinj, a settlement established Before the Common Era (BCE) by local Illyrian tribes, invading Venetians, and eventually Romans, is built on what once was an island but is now connected to the mainland (since 1763). One could easily conclude why the island attracted empires throughout recorded history, surrounded by water with a prominent hill that rises in the middle offering a view of anyone that approaches, by land or sea. I ate a quick lunch within view of the islands east quarter and then for about the next hour I zigzagged my way through the old town’s narrow passage ways, where no cars could pass even if they were allowed. Cobble stones under my tires were as smooth as glass, polished from millennia of use. No doubt, under wet conditions, tire choice matters when rolling through these walkways, which can be exceptionally steep. At the top of the hill, overlooking the Adriatic and the ridge-line visible to the east that I followed from Pifari, I found myself sharing a part of my tour with strangers on holiday from a wide-swath of nations including the United States which I could easily pick-out by their baseball caps, tacky tee-shirts, and washed-out blue jeans. As I sometimes do, I remained anonymous, choosing instead to observe and process without dilution other than what my senses would inevitably detect and be affected by.
I eventually made my way down, down, down, retracing my route, to the area where my impression of Rovinj began, not far from a line of local fishing boats that were selling their catch to locals and tourists. Nearby, I ate a second lunch and by chance had a conversation with a British fellow, touring by bus, which shared his thoughts about Bosnia and Serbia, none of them were good. Although I've not written elsewhere about this line of questioning and its conclusions, this was not the first, or last, stranger that provided commentary on their impression of safety and related factors in the Balkans. I packaged his comments away, pulled some Kuna, the local currency, from a local ATM, and then sauntered along the coastline that overlooks old Rovinj. Just before I said Doviđenja ("good bye"), I captured this photo of the west and south shores of an island that became a town well before the birth of Julius Caesar, that became part of the Nation of the Croats on June 25, 1991, and that filled the imagination of a lone-American cyclist with fodder that will take years to unpackaged.
From Rovinj, I'd chosen, the night before, a route that proved to me a mix of two-lane, secondary roads, rough and smooth gravel, and even single track lined by hand-built, New England-style walls on either side and sharp, limestone bedrock under my tires. I took each surface and encounter with a breath and a smile and proceeded without any incident other than a few surprised locals as I arrived to places that are far from the typical tourist map. My route often followed the coastline, especially as I road south from my next destination for the day, Pula.
It's not every day that you roll into a town and find yourself face-to-face with a towering and unexpected collosseum built, between 27 BCE and 68 CE, by the Roman Empire. Amongst all of the moments from my life that I would categorize as serendipitous, wonderful events that (seem to) happen by chance, rolling up on the Pula Amphitheatre was certainly a highlight. Whatever else I might have discovered in this city, by far the largest that I visited on the Istrian Peninsula, those places were much more likely to remain hidden from my view in the presence of this amphitheatre, which is still used for concerts to this day. Nonetheless, after pausing for images and perspective, I did manage to investigate the old town of Pula where I inquired about ferry boat tickets to places like Split, Croatia to the southeast, worshiped a mid-afternoon cappuccino, and searched for a place to spend the night that was closer to my last destination for the day, Cape Kamenjak Nature Park.
This was the second tip from the bartender, my server and informant back in Gračišće the night before. From Pula, the route often degraded. until, as noted above, I was navigating single track and doing my best to avoid slicing a tire on exposed, sharp, bedrock. As I entered the park, by now on a narrow strip of land that extends out into the Adriatic Sea, the southernmost point of terra firma on the Istrian Peninsula, roads were rough gravel, loose and dusty, but otherwise not an issue for my light-touring set-up. But sadly, despite navigating down all these alternative tracks, the conclusion was so far from my imagination that it was nowhere in sight. Instead, I found a landscape that was overrun by tourists in search of something that wasn’t there. and they'd seemingly walked on, versus over, every green something within 50 meters of the roads. it wasn't tragic, but it certainly demonstrates what can happen if people are allowed to wander anywhere they wish in a nature park. Sadly, we should all know better and want to do better but often that's not the case and some sort of signage, at a minimum, is needed to avoid this sort of conclusion. Impressions like this one aside, I was thrilled to explore the periphery of the Istrian Peninsula. And the end of that exploration also placed me nearly in the village where I spent the night, Premantura, where I was hosted by a kindred spirit, Vlado, wanderer, philosopher, humanitarian, etc, in a space that celebrated character and, beyond its jungle-inspired entry, welcomed all without bias. I spent my first hour eating, enjoying a cold, Croatian beer, and sharing stories with Vlado but I could have easily spent, with pleasure, many more over many days. Among the hosts that I'll easily recall down the road, Vlado will certainly be among them.
The two days exploring the Istrian Peninsula were sufficient to allow me to conclude on how I wanted to proceed towards and eventually into Bosnia. From Vlado's, I mapped-out and rode the next day a route that brought me to the village of Brseč on the northeast coast of the Peninsula, not far from my route the day I arrived to Croatia. My plan was to take a full rest day in Brseč then catch an early ferry the following morning to the adjacent Island of Cres. Once on Cres, I'd would island hop, by road and bridge, to Mali Lošinj where I'd spend a night and then catch a second ferry boat to Zadar, an ancient town that's now an urban phenomenon in Croatia, on 4 October 2019. Once on the mainland again, on the outskirts of Zadar, I'd rest, visit the old town the next morning, then ride to the outskirts of Split. More touring the next morning, then southward to a sensible point to make a left turn eventually into Bosnia to Mostar and then Sarajevo. On digital media, my small dell laptop monitor, the route and the plan looked sensible and exciting which in reality it never strayed away from.
By the time I departed Vlado's guest house in Premantura, I was well versed on the state of tertiary roads in Croatia. And given my level of fatigue at that moment, fairly deep in part from the physical and mental challenges associated with crossing no fewer than five mountain ranges since departing Ljubljana, Slovenia, I decided to wisely, in my view, avoid the possibility of hours spent navigating rough tracks. Otherwise, readers take note, if priorities that day had been different there are tracks, no doubt a mix of gravel roads and single track, which avoid most of the first half of the secondary road choices that I favored on this particular day. These are clearly marked, some as trails, on map layers available using Ride With GPS software.
The most significant part of my day from Vlado's to Suzana's guest house in Brseč was the unexpected encounter with an opportunity to ride and explore the valley below the church tower in Gračišće. My perspective had changed 180 degrees, from looking down into the valley to looking up from the valley floor. Along the way, despite my best route-building efforts, I did end up on a section, ca. 5-10 kilometers, of super-rough gravel track, aka "jeep trail" if I was to use common US-speak. However, I must have been at least marginally, mentally and physically rested, enough to overcome the minds tendency to go into the negative spectrum when it's fatigued, because I don't recall any significant dips in my happiness. I even embraced the view of a massive coal plant set at the bottom of the valley as something to behold. At this juncture, I paused for a video which captures my state-of-mind and the scenery from this part of the tour.
In Brseč, my hosts Suzana and her parents, German by language and descent, were a joy to spend two nights with, and my room including this fabulous view was exceptional for only ca. $30 per night. The village, sleepy and modest in all things other than history, was also very special. Each evening, for variety and to contribute to the local economy, I ate dinner at the only restaurant in town (this time of year) and shopped at the only grocery shop, a wee shop, just one room, where I enjoyed friendly chit-chat with the owner that spoke fluent English. Meanwhile, in the background, Planet Earth's predictable revolution on its tilted, vertical axis produced a silent but no less real tick-tock-tick that inevitably transitioned me to a familiar courtyard and gate and in the next moment my exit from Brseč. A short ride that concluded with a thousand foot plummet down to the coastline was all that was needed to arrive to the Brestova (mainland)-Porozina (Island of Cres) ferry terminal. Whilst waiting for my ship, serendipity, the weather in particular, blowing hard from the south, led to a unique video opportunity for my tour, filmed as the ferry boat was approaching Brestova, you can watch it here.
The Island of Cres is easily visible across a narrow strait from the Brestova dock. Even on a rowdy, wind-inspired day, the crossing takes only about 20 minutes. A few more minutes are required to offload and then the enviable, versus those in tourist buses, are cycling-up a long climb to the summit of this portion of the island. Due in part to the off-season time-of-year when I visited, I shared the road with almost no one most of the way to my destination, the island and town of (same name) Mali Lošinj. Along the way, as you can see for yourself, from this image, the weather wasn't ideal: overcast, chilly, and sometimes wet. But overall, on my tour, I couldn't complain, now or then, the weather was quite reasonable most days after the initial battering that I absorbed in Scotland and Ireland.
By now, the norm as far as my road-side observations in Croatia, soils were thin and on the island were paper thin, more often the ground presented deeply rutted bedrock, including sharp edges, from the chemistry of slightly acidic water when it contacts limestone (deposited at the bottom of a shallow sea during the reign of the dinosaurs). For this reason, the island certainly isn't an ideal place for agriculture, but it does support horticulture including a number of goats in particular, and likely sheep and cattle as well. The vegetation, low growing trees, shrub-like, and a variety of non-woody and woody plants making up the under- and often the only-story (no canopy), was unlike any plant community that I encountered on the mainland. even the adjacent Istrian Peninsula. Although my observations are far from Science-based, what I could see suggests that a unique assemblage of plants and animals rely, for their existence, on the ecological integrity of the archipelago of islands found along Croatia's major coastline including the islands of Cres and Mali Lošinj. If that's the case, consistent with everything Science knows about island biogeography, then travelers to these islands should take care not to damage or otherwise detract from what they experience.
I had plenty of time to reach Mali Lošinj which compelled me, along the way, to saunter at times, and I enjoyed a picnic-style lunch on a bench, a chat with two locals, and a cappuccino on the house in Osor, before finally concluding the cycling portion of my day. Osor is also where I encountered the bridge that connects the islands of Cres and Mali Lošinj. Back in the here-and-now, as I pedaled over the steel bridge I enjoyed sunny skies above and tail-wind from behind. A grin that did not deny pleasure directed my gaze and pace as I raced with little effort along smooth, quiet tarmac roads, seemingly cheating my way the last twenty-miles or so to the beautiful and historic port of Mali Lošinj.
Given the remoteness of Mali Lošinj, I was quite surprised and still am that the UCI, World, Downhill Mountain Bike Championship will take place just outside of town in 2020. Competitors and their supporters will no doubt have stories to share about their adventure to and from the island and the town. In the meantime, when I arrived there was no haste in sight, only a beautiful waterfront for me to absorb, at very slow speed, including restaurants and coffee shops. I had pizza on my brain and found a delightful, taste buds and character, location run by a German couple up the hill a short distance from the main attractions. After dinner, I needed some assistance finding my flat for the evening, an entire apartment for less than $30 dollars a night, three confusing turns from the sea down a series of narrow, stone-surfaced pedestrian-ways. Showered, fed, and feeling relaxed, I spent the last part of my evening just strolling along the waterfront, "taking it all in" as we sometimes say in English. It was a perfect conclusion to the latest chapter of a very long bicycle tour. Back at the apartment, I rearranged the furniture so that I could sleep closer to open windows, inviting my sleeping mind to imagine under the influence of whatever wandered in through the open windows in this foreign land , smells, sounds, and charged particles among them.
I lazily met the check-out time requirements the following morning and then proceeded to explore, by bicycle, Mali Lošinj above the waterfront and beyond, in particular a concrete-surfaced bicycle path that followed the coast around the peninsula that encloses Mali Lošinj harbor on the west side. A few hours later, fattened on local food and a cappuccino, I made my way to my next ferry terminal, in hindsight the last for the tour until I reached the west-side of the Bosphorus in Istanbul. Amongst my waiting companions, I had the pleasure to meet and spend some time with an American couple and their youngster, all of them traveling by bicycle on their own tour of Croatia. At the same time, a young man in his twenties that had ridden his bike from his home in Munich was also great company. Our departure was scheduled for about four post meridiem (4 PM) which came and went, and then went some more, and on and on until we finally did see the ship and eventually depart sometime after six. Apparently, these sorts of delays in Croatia are not unusual, but with so many friends nearby the time were easily absorbed by the curiosity of like-minded travelers. Nevertheless, I was aware of some simple, yet important arithmetic given the value of sleep for my ambitious tour, and in general a healthy life.
The crossing, including many stops at various island ports, from Mali Losinj to Zadar, a major city on the Croatian mainland, was all of six hours and perhaps a bit more. Simple arithmetic, assuming no additional delays and there turned out to be none in hindsight, placed me on the dock, on the outskirts of Zadar, under street lamps at about 12:30 AM the following day. From there, the distance to my next Croatian apartment, for about $25, was less than 10 kilometers, about 6 miles.
My companions and I continued our flowing chit-chat well into the evening before, one-by-one, we began to settle into the best bed we could find, typically a flat bench nearby. I slept not wink but I was able to rest my eyes and beating heart, a fraction of a gain on an otherwise deficient and declining suite of internal resources. Considering journeys by boat and how we might judge them, this tour of the islands was marginal but only because the exploration was almost 100% concealed by darkness, a notable exception was the beautiful sunset over the Bay of Mali Lošinj as we exited the harbor. At the ferry terminal in Zadar, hours later, street lamps were in fact blazing, for a few kilometers anyway, as I rode into an intimidating, industrial scene and then into suburbs beyond mostly, by this point, on a road that by day was the primary route into and out of bustling Zadar.
By the time I arrived to my bed for the evening it was well after 1 am. A quick call to my host sped-up our rendezvous, as he materialized into a dark something on the road ahead of me where previously there was only stillness and silence. My host kindly allowed me to stash my bike in one of his units that was under construction, and then gave me a tour of the space before departing. Although I hadn't cycled more than 20 miles this day, I was nonetheless well inside of zombie format by the time I took a warm shower and then crawled into bed. Knackered withstanding, the day had been an overwhelming success, sure I didn't get to "see" the famous coastal archipelago over most of the six-hour crossing but the adventure was far from uninteresting and it had ultimately brought me to the starting point of the final and most unknown component of Le Tour de Europe, a spectrum of possibilities from disastrous and deadly to epic and enlightening. I slept well but only for a few hours. As significant as lost sleep is for human performance, and its foremost, my childhood-like energy to ride into that spectrum of exceptionally unknown outcomes was more than enough to elevate my senses and motivate my drive train.
I made my decision not the night before but the morning of, 5 October 2019, to back-track towards the ferry terminal and a few miles more to visit the old part of Zadar (here's my route), built by Venetians and Romans on a peninsula to the north and west of the modern town. I was now in the Dalmatian region of Croatia, well known among travelers including its second largest city, Zadar. Zadar's origins as a place on a map, beyond the Stone Age when it was already a busy venue for our ancestors, dates to the 9th century BCE when it was known as Lader by its inhabitants, the Illyrian tribe known as Liburnians. The Romans renamed the town Laderer in 59 BCE and by 49 CE the town had established itself as a Roman colonia (which is the origin of the English word "colony") which implied, at that time, the highest status available for a Roman city.
Navigation by bicycle was dicey at times as I made my way from industrial settings and suburbia into the heart of the beast and eventually into the old town itself. As it often is, the transition from new to old city is immediate and overwhelming; from fast, tarmac roads clogged with buses and taxis to polished cobble stones and spellbound pedestrians, and Zadar was no exception. At my first opportunity, when intuition strongly compelled me to turn left, I abandoned my Garmin 1030 GPS and wasn't disappointed. At that juncture, I descended down a worm hole that brought me centuries back through human history. As elsewhere in old Europe, the architecture transitioned from wood, mortar, and block to quarried stone, some stones as large as a modern electric vehicle but typically much smaller, for construction of streets and buildings, aided and directed by the hands of laboring men that will forever remain anonymous despite the relative permanence of their collective accomplishments, a shocking conclusion that I enjoy dwelling on from time to time. And another thought that usually overlaps that one, somewhere nearby there is or are places that were drastically depleted of stone, such as the limestone quarries below Paris, now partially filled with human bones (ossuary), that were the source of the stone used to construct the oldest parts of that city.
For my tour of Zadar, I eventually settled-into a Roman-inspired scene, including the Roman forum and the foundations from the shops, known in Roman times as tabernae, that once lined a portion of the streets in this part of the ancient city. Just beyond, in plain view, of these foundations, I enjoyed a moment of internal humor as I watched a Catholic nun, in full uniform, walk briskly past the 9th-century (CE) Church of St. Donat, patiently, despite her pace I assume, awaiting the promised return of a so-far quite absent savior of a favored minority of Planet Earth's human occupants, only those in the know and more or less faithful. Apparently, the building is no longer considered Holy, it's been de-consecrated by the Catholic Church, but it remains in use as Zadar's premier concert hall. I wrapped-up my photo shoot of bike and, sometimes, body too using the nearby Benedictine Convent, currently the Museum of Church Art that is locally referred to as the Museum of "Gold and Silver" for its biased collection.
Eventually, following a much loved, "worshipped" wouldn't go too far, cappuccino plus a snack not far from the Convent, I began my journey south at 11:19 am, away from Zadar, after a brief stop to try to locate new tires for my RLT, which wasn't successful to my surprise. I decided to try again in the larger city of Split, where I was headed. I'd ridden just under seven miles to get to Zadar and pretty much on flat roads. For the next part of my day and journey, I'd add 96 miles and 5000 feet of elevation gain. Looking ahead, 6 hours and 21 minutes, moving time (stops excluded), later, I'd finish well after dark, lights blazing, deeply fatigued by that point, after an unadvised, fast nocturnal descent from Croatia's interior valleys and mountains back to the coastline. Here's the complete route on Strava.
South of Zadar, after about an hour’s cycling, I headed inland on the 6040 towards Galovac and Prkos. Beyond Prkos, in Škabrnja, by now satisfied with the displacement from the busy coastline, I turned south on the 6021 and eventually transitioned, same trajectory, onto the 6278. All of these were lightly trafficked, well surfaced tarmac roads. At Škabrnja I was an hour and twenty minutes into my ride and ascending on my way to 620 feet above sea level, the first pass, I can easily count eight using the elevation profile provided by Strava, of many that I'd roll over between here and the densely settled burbs south of Split. Despite the implied difficulty of the route, the setting throughout, beyond Škabrnja, was among the best, rendering me thoroughly inspired, that I experienced on my tour from Duncansby Head. Proximity to the busy coast, never farther than about 20 miles, didn't detract from rural setting, dominated by tractors and humble farms, quaint villages, hand-crafted and nurtured orchards, patched barns, and curious livestock. Beyond these human possessions, valleys extended gradually and sometimes steeply, forming mountains that provided ample inspiration for goats and adventurous people (here's an image). The greens of the valleys were soft, reminiscent of the color of sage where it dominates the only-story (no canopy) in some of North America's deserts. The browns and grays, of soil and stone, were washed-out in a similar way, creating a tapestry that blended into one seamless palette, with rivers and streams running between, a living whole, composed of physics and life that lifted me up and over each pass.
Of course, there are limits for all machines, and the human machine is not an exception. So as I rolled into a palatial valley and could see a significant climb on the other end, a quick check of the time led to some concern, and even a little bit of crankiness. That climb turned out to be the longest for the day, predictable given the universe's famously devious sense of humor. I began the ascent at roughly 6:26 pm and topped-out at about 7:10 pm, nearly 1300 feet above the level of the nearby Adriatic Sea. Grumpiness withstanding, I did take a moment for images, including this one looking north not far from the top of the climb back towards the valley from which I'd come. On the back-side of that climb a descent that must be famous among local cyclists immediately consumed all of the focus that remained in my tired mind. Quickly, I was plummeting with both hands fixed firmly in my drops, the preceding climb completely forgotten for the moment. Part-way down, my lights were my savior, by this point darkness would otherwise have concealed my small bike and body relative to the light traffic that occasionally approached but never passed, on my side, because of my free-fall pace. At the bottom, I collected myself, adjacent to a small, boisterous soccer pitch, and from here navigated what seemed like a never-ending stretch of suburbia to a guest house of exceptional quality hosted by Goran and his mum, in Segit Donji, that I'd booked into for $24 before I departed Zadar.
As is often the case, I spent the evening, after a tour of the property, focused on food, a shower, and hydration. Nonetheless, I did manage to interact with Goran several times, his mum too, and each time I gained a little more perspective from this friend that I never knew I had, which is how I would describe all strangers the moment after I meet them, something to keep in mind (?) as American's that are at least partially responsible for behavior of our politicians and armies. My experience compels me to suggest that we consider all strangers friends, with all of the benefits that come with friendship, which we have not yet met so why should we ever conclude that annihilating their ability to live the same life that we desire, or annihilating their life itself, is a good idea? I propose we fast-track to a much different outcome, one that replaces fear with prosperity for all and associated benefits for man, beast and vegetable.
Breakfast the next morning seemingly doubled my weight before I said goodbye and began a very short journey, back the way I'd come the night before and towards Split, to Trogir, perhaps the best bit of local advice that I acquired on the entire tour. My visit (here's an image) to this ancient town, dating to the 3rd-century BCE, was short but that didn't preclude the depth that it penetrated into my heart and memories. It was a few pedal rotations from the route I otherwise intended on taking to Split, but those few were exceptional by any measure. I hopped the curb at their conclusion and rolled onto stones that were polished like their kin back in old Rovinj and for the same reason, millennia of use by foot and hoof. Streets in this enchanted village are often too narrow to allow a full right and left outstretched reach of hands. Passing pedestrians by bicycle must be done with care, as well when literally riding through the village's many street cafes and restaurants, the childhood joy of that experience was truly fabulous.
Beon Trogir, in the company of more buses than I'd seen since departing Lake Garda, back in Italy, I headed south along the coast en route to Split, and of course the old part of that city. Ancient is the standard in this part of the World, or so it seems anyway, and Split's old city quarter is certainly not an exception. After a not-so-brilliant, imagine infrastructure and mans motorized beasts, whizzing in all directions, I eventually found my way to old Split, on the side of town opposite to where I entered. The last few kilometers were assisted by a kind local that assured me that I was heading in the correct direction, a GPS doesn't excel at finding, say, an "old quarter" of an urban metropolis, but old-fashioned asking rarely dismisses these details.
Quality in life and experience nearly always comes with a price, and is one reason why I argue that a couch is no place to spend any more of a human lifetime than is absolutely necessary, snuggling with a sweetheart exempted and encouraged. The cost, in patience and time, for my visit to old Split was amply rewarded, sensibly, I even enjoyed the convergence of massive cruise ships and their recently off-loaded occupants that filled the main, waterfront square before I assumed a far less social exploration of the adjacent, old town. Unlike my exploration of Zadar, for which I targeted the Roman's and their relicts, I had no objective in Split, other than to fill my eyes and mind with treasures from this inspired window into wonderland for what remained of this day and beyond. This journey led me down many streets, eventually towards the top of a hill, and then down to a much loved piazza where I captured this image of bike and rider. Not far away, on my initial hints at departure from Split, an attractive woman glanced in my direction, or so I thought anyway, and my mind tumbled towards human conclusions. Among all the other moments I've had like that one, subtle, seemingly insignificant, I nonetheless wondered, as I rolled towards new town and then back into the coastal mountains, why the universe had lifted my gaze, it seems there is always a purpose and I reveled in that enviable space, as I often do on my bike tours, allowing my mind to drift and dream.
Departing Split turned-out to be far more difficult that I anticipated, and I actually wasn't looking forward to it. On the south end of town I arrived to what I perceived to be a highway and spent the next 30-45 minutes trying to avoid it, which I eventually did and close to a local bakery. I partially filled my stomach with food cooked with love by locals and then filled my pockets for the ride before beginning the first ascent out of town. As I often do, I began with no clues as to where I'd finish. Instead, I set-out with simple goals, to ride about 100 miles and conclude close to the border with Bosnia, so close that the next morning I would roll onto Bosnian soil by mid-morning at the latest. My journey from Split, moving time, was just under 7 hours - here's the route and metrics on Strava. Distance was 88 miles with 5800 feet of climbing. Seven hours into the 'moving time' I arrived at the top of the elevation profile, about 2350 feet above the Adriatic and its coastal communities including Split. Along the way, I absorbed more of the same hills, mountains, and valley scenery that I witnessed the day before, with equal affect on my immediate satisfaction and evolving perspective. Looking back, that perspective foremost, the two days that I spent cycling from Zadar to Split and Split to [x] were among the very best from the tour. Landscape, culture, and perhaps a mind tamed by many miles by this point, converged, transforming my gratitude for space and time beyond previous boundaries. When I say that Le Tour de Europe pushed out "all of my perspectives" this is a place, a couple of days, where a steady, forward, progress was punctuated by a relative leap, and for reasons I will likely never completely understand but that's fine by me, the universe can keep some secrets if it wishes.
At the top of my highest ascent, at 2350 feet and adjacent to Biokovo Nature Park, peaks known as Sveti Jure and Kimet in the intimidating mountain belt to my right had been overlooking my progress for hours. From here, I descended quickly to a valley that remained more or less flat all the way to the town of Kozica where it descended again to another intermontane plateau. Eventually, I rolled through Ravča before descending one last time to what would turn-out to be the conclusion of my day, a guest house in Vigorac not far from the Bosnian border.
The conclusion of my evening, how I found a place to stay that night, might be of interest to travelers and is a fun story. About 10 miles west of Vigorac, by now absolutely committed to the road I was on, an alternative route would require an extensive, reverse direction detour, I came to a blockade across the road including signs that were in Croatian. It was already dipping into early evening. As I rolled up on the blockade, I couldn't believe what I was seeing even though I'd been in similar situations elsewhere on bike tours. Without stopping, but certainly much slowed from my former pace, I glided past, thinking as I proceeded and quickly deciding to take a chance in hopes that I could reach Vigorac where I hoped to find a place to stay for the night. On the last descent into that town, I came upon a man walking in the opposite direction, stopped and asked him what the problem was. Fortunately his English was quite good, and even better, he said I'd have no problem getting through. Ahead the road had broken away and slid down a steep bank but a bike or pedestrian could easily pass and safely. Before I departed, I also asked him about local places to stay, on a budget, and he directed me to a guest house where I was treated like a prince for 20 Euro, about 22$, including dinner and breakfast, homegrown, prepared, and served with a smile in my own apartment. If you make your way to Vigorac, less than 10 miles from the border with Bosnia, then I can assure you of a couple of things: 1) you're a long way from Duncansby Head, Scotland; and 2), you're in a privileged space, mind and body, especially if you came the way that I did through the coastal mountains and valleys of Croatia by bicycle, preferably, or any other means.
The next morning, I dove deep into coffee, I generally do, made by the cup by my host, a lovely woman, before dropping from the sky down to town, that's how steep the street and driveway was leading up to the guest house. Soon I was descending again, out of town, heading south but ultimately east towards Bosnia (here's my route), the second most anticipated country for my tour as far as concern for my safety. And Serbia would be next on the agenda, the country that gave me the greatest concern. In the meantime, I rode on with confidence and no lack of curiosity about what really was beyond those borders. When I reached the crossing into Bosnia in less than an hour, I encountered a smiling man, lightly armed, and certainly not a threat in demeanor or intention. He checked my passport and then welcomed me to Bosnia before he waved me through and I was on my way, navigating a narrow, paved, country road between homes constructed here and there across a wide valley amidst pastures and agricultural fields. Deciduous trees lined both sides of the road, often concealing sleepy, entrenched streams. The next adventure was underway ...
Views and east from the village of Gračišće.
Roman amphitheatre in Pula.
Example of road and trail surfaces encountered between Pula and Premantura.
En route to Brseč from Premantura, lunch, goat tracks, and coal-burning power plants.
Above, the view from my room at Suzana's guest house in Brseč; below, wandering the narrow passages inside Brseč.
Ferry crossing from a village just south of Brseč to the Island of Cres.
Above, images from the Island of Cres; below, images from the town of Mali Lošinj on the island of the same name.
Inspired mountains, villages, and farm tracks between Split and Vgorac.