27-29 September 2019.
An Inspired Tour of Slovenia in Search of the Endurance Legend, Jure Robič.
168 miles with 8074 feet of climbing.
An Inspired Tour of Slovenia in Search of the Endurance Legend, Jure Robič.
168 miles with 8074 feet of climbing.
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Top right, 250 meters from the Slovenian border, just inside of Fusine Confine, Italy; bottom, Dovje, Slovenia, a representative setting for the area, mountains, villages, and farmland, above the Sava River between the border with Italy and Jesenice, a large town in Slovenia.
By chance, my destination, the village of Camporosso, was only a few kilometers from the top of the last climb on Italian soil along the bike path that paralleled the nearby Strada Statale 54 motorway. As this implies, my decision to rest here was based on decisions made, primarily, during the previous 24-hours that factored, on the fly, lodging costs, locations, and fatigue. On the fly had long ago, during my explorations by motorcycle in particular, become my preferred method of traveling on any adventure. So far, on my most ambitious tour to date, Le Tour de Europe, I hadn't swerved from this modus operandi; and looking ahead, that sensibility remained status quo all the way to the tour's natural conclusion half-way across the Bosphorus, the strait that connects the Black Sea to the Sea of Marmara and is the official conclusion of the European subcontinent in this part of the World.
Beyond Camporosso and an anonymous col, at about 1130 am on the 27th of September 2019, I rolled-up to a sign that marked the border between Italy and Slovenia, one more physical and mental step closer to my goal to reach Istanbul, by bicycle, in 10 weeks. In my neurons, I was already carrying a lifetime's-worth of stories to share over coffee, with myself, friends, and strangers too. But these treasures were far from my consciousness as I collected another significant memory to add to my adventure story. Riding into Slovenia was a great moment that I can easily recall in emotional detail even now, weeks after finishing the tour. Beyond the sign, I allowed gravity to assist my fall as I gently descended along a grade dictated by the the Sava River. With each passing kilometer, the river steadily grew in depth and breadth as the watershed diligently collected smaller streams, that I noticed or not, en route to the historically significant Danube River and its conclusion at the Black Sea. From my perspective, sitting on a carbon fiber saddle covered by a thin veneer of leather, I was quite surprised, looking up, surrounded by sharp-edged foothills and much higher peaks in the background, that the Sava actually made its way east to the Black Sea versus south-southwest to the proximate Adriatic. This quirk of geological history must make for an interesting anecdote in the classrooms of geology courses taught in the region.
Above the Sava, a narrow, mostly flat, green valley provides sustenance for the locals and their neighbors, near and far, as their products make their way in all directions, beyond the valley, to grocery stores and their kin. Above this green strip of cultivated land, forested foothills, dominated by species of pine and larch, created long shadows across the valley twice daily. Farther north, but occasionally visible through notches in the foothills, the Karavanke Mountains (aka, "the Karawanks") were not far away, and the same was true for the Julian Alps to the south; both sub-units of the Dinaric Alps, a complex of mountains that are, themselves, sub-units of the extensive mountain-valley region known as the Alps that stretch from the Jura Mountains in France to the Dinaric Alps in the Balkans. Due to their high alpine and rugged character, the Dinaric Alps (aka, "the Dinarides") have been pivotal in the history of mankind within and on both sides of these mountains and the same would be true, "pivotal" in every sense, for a wee bike rider on a steel bike on the last leg of an ambitious tour as he pedaled across a region known as "the Balkans".
Back down amidst the sunshine and chlorophyll, in the here and now, at a level above the Adriatic Sea preferred by the majority of locals, my initial experience within the borders of the former Yugoslavian-country of Slovenia was already a highlight of the tour. The paved bike path that I'd serendipitously discovered above the Tagliamento River, in Italy where it's banks are deeply burdened by scree and talus slopes falling down from the impressive Dinarides, seemed to go on forever and always deeper into wonderland. The feeling of the space on either edge of the bike path which navigated into and out of often sleepy, well-kept villages but occasionally, bustling with the energy of visitors and locals, was one of friendship and comfort. Despite how far I'd come into the unknown, and despite concerns that a handful of strangers had expressed as I approached the Balkans, these concerns were nowhere in sight. Instead, I felt only a kinship to these people, to their independence, to the choice that they had obviously made to respect, versus discount the value of, the water, air, and soil that sustains them; a choice that was obvious in all directions, including the clear water flowing within the Sava and the absence of litter.
Modesty in form was not unusual in this space, nonetheless exceptional was the norm, spectacular in practice and proximity, I welcomed its lessons and experiences to travel as deep into my soul as any other place I'd previously visited including the majestic splendor of the epic masterpiece of Planet Earth's primary sculptor, erosion, the Grand Canyon. I felt, and still do weeks later, as if this part of the universe, the Upper Sava River Valley, was aware of my visit and beckoned me, through the mysteries of quantum physics, to stay longer and return on another tour which I am already reflecting on with fond anticipation.
Mysteries aside, I followed the Sava to a point where I was sure that I was approaching, versus in reality, already passed, a restaurant owned by the family of Race Across America (RAAM) legend, Jure Robič. My senses had been so distracted by the space that I'd clumsily cycled, unbeknownst to me, past the final resting place of Jure; same for his memorial along the bike path, in plain view; and lastly the restaurant that was now managed by his only surviving sibling, his half brother Marco Robič. For a moment, just east of Mojstrana, I considered pressing on, a rare expression of a less desirable order of priorities. But that didn't last long, soon I was pedaling bonus miles and elevation, up the Sava Valley, towards a hoped-for introduction to Marco at Gostilna in picerija Jožica in the village of Gozd Martuljek.
Once aware of my place relative to all the other GPS locations on the surface of Planet Earth, backtracking to the restaurant was not difficult. At a familiar intersection, I exited the comfort and security of an exceptional bike path and proceeded west on the primary auto-route in the valley, Route 201. Following a brief rendezvous with high speed, high energy traffic, I arrived to Gostilna in picerija Jožica, stashed my bike behind a small utility trailer adjacent to the restaurant, and then navigated, tap tap tapping my way in mountain bike shoes manufactured by Specialized, across wooden floors, to a seat inside the bar portion of the restaurant. I ordered a cappuccino without too much drama, i.e., foreign language collisions, and then settled-in to contemplate my next move.
It seemed apparent that my server wasn't well versed in the English language so asking her, in detail, about Jure and Marco would, my thinking at the time, be bumpy at best, and perhaps get me nowhere. So instead, I carefully typed and revised what I would otherwise have spoken to her, in English, and then used Google's translator feature to translate to Slovenian. Once I was satisfied, cappuccino properly displaced by now, I approached, with a friendly smile, and presented my smart phone screen containing the translated black text on a white background to the bartender.
Within moments, she too was smiling, really smiling, from one ear to the other, so much so that her response was contagious and I was filled with a great sense of relief. My own smile thickened in response, somewhat embarrassed but no less thrilled by the outcome. To my surprise, she concluded her reading with quite understandable English, not perfect by any means but functional; then dashed off to locate Marco. Marco came right away and immediately I had a friend, in fact two because the bartender certainly was on my side as well, in a village that I could not pronounce! Marco's English was well practiced; we fell into comfortable conversation, the sort reserved for long-term friends or mutually curious strangers. I asked him, respectfully, if he'd provide me with directions to visit Jure's grave. In his response, he also described a monument to Jure that his family and the village had erected along the bike path. Before I departed, he asked me to return for a meal and suggested that I consider a combination of Jure's favorite dish, pasta Bolognese with fresh basil. alongside fresh mushrooms that were recently collected from the forests above the Sava River.
Beyond the restaurant, I made my way, the wrong way a couple of times, towards Jure's monument. When I arrived I was surprised by the monument's proximity to the bike path that I was following, literally alongside but I'd nonetheless completely missed, on my initial pass, the multifaceted memorial to the late RAAM legend. I paused for respect, reflection, and eventually photographs before going in search of my primary ambition, Jure's final resting place. That too was preceded by a search, this way and that way, and likely would have gone on much longer if not for a kind local, on her mid-day jog, that I happened into, by now off the bike path on a steep, gravel climb above the monument.
Jure was laid to rest, as we often say in popular English, in a cemetery not far from his family's restaurant, the next village to the west, Kranjska Gora, up the Sava River Valley. The graveyard is just above the bike path, nearly within reaching distance of a rider on his or her cherished saddle; and like everything else in the valley, it is modest in size and well kept. In addition, my impression from my short visit, it's also frequently visited by loved ones that want to remember their lost companions.
You would think a guy that successfully arrived, by bicycle, to Slovenia from Duncansby Head in the far north of Scotland would be able to efficiently find a monument, a graveyard, and then a plot within the latter, but apparently I'm an exception to that logic. Inside the graveyard, I wandered back and forth between about a half-dozen, west-to-east oriented, and stone-studded rows, without success. In the meantime, a woman arrived and I eventually asked her if she by chance knew the whereabouts of Jure. Did I mention that the Upper, in particular, Sava Valley and villages within are small by any standard? And for this reason, deeply connected? I wish I could recall this lovely woman's name, but I'll likely not soon forget, in partial forgiveness, the stories that she eventually told me.
She certainly did know and she led me there in an instant where we settled into discussion for about fifteen minutes; a span of time that dissipated, seemingly, much faster than the laws of physics strictly predicts. Here's how the story unfolded, told to me by my local guide in the graveyard: despite being married, Jure had a girlfriend and this woman lived with my acquaintance and guide, as her tenant. Jure would ride his bike to her residence to visit his girlfriend, stay as long as he could, then return to his famously difficult training, as well as his domestic responsibilities. During this time, and not long before Jure was tragically killed when he struck a tractor whilst descending a forest road at high speed on his mountain bike, his girlfriend became pregnant. She would give birth to the child, my impression anyway, not long after Jure was killed and all of this would be delivered to his family around that time as well.
None of this was any of my business of course, but if you arrive to a small village and by chance fall into conversation with a local then you might be surprised by their forthcoming openness, especially if you've come in search of one of their kin whilst showing a deep respect for their accomplishments. Her comments were mostly flattering by the way, about Jure, as she weaved her way to the conclusion of her story with many tangents between. As I said, the 15 minutes were far from satisfying, short by feel and any, more reproducible measure (for a fascinating read about all-too-often taken for granted time pieces I enthusiastically recommend reading Longitude by Dava Sobel, it's a story in large part about John Harrison).
We parted with smiles and then I spent some time, alone, with Jure and his brother, Sašo, a professional skier, laid to rest beside him. By now knowing my way, and all the wrong ways too, within proximate villages I efficiently made my way back to the restaurant where I reconnected with my friends, the bartender and Marco. The meal they served me was certainly among the very best from the tour, served with love of course and that value wasn't overlooked by me as I delved into the plate, but also in presentation and flavor. Every morsel of the locally harvested chanterelle mushrooms was a delight for my taste buds and the pasta, served Jure-style, was more meaningful than any other meal I could recall then or now. Hours after my initial arrival, with visits between and a meal, I hesitantly bid farewell to my companions in anticipation of returning to my solo journey into the unknown. However, I'd be a little less alone on this portion of the journey than I had before, with new friendships safely tucked into my heart and many fond memories to process along the way.
Satiated, and perhaps a bit more, I returned to my, by now, beloved bike path, a gem among all others, backtracked to where I'd made a u-turn, and then mostly glided downhill into Hrušica and then to Jesenice. Given its status as the seat of the Municipality of Jesenice and "the Slovenian home of mining and iron making industries", I shouldn't have been be surprised, in hindsight, that my arrival to Jesenice concluded my romance with a cycle route, mostly bike path, that had lasted for most of two days, all the way back to, roughly, the village of Enemonzo in northeastern Italy. In Jesenice, what unfolded ahead of me was unpleasant relative to where I'd just been, the seemingly remote, always green, and soothing, Upper Sava River Valley. But that's the price we occasionally have to pay, in bike touring and life in general. After all, our metal things, among others, must be constructed somewhere from something, such as steel that eventually made its way to a factory to be formed into a bicycle frame before being labeled an RLT 9 Steel from Niner Bikes.
Sensible conclusions withstanding, I nonetheless expressed a rare bit of crankiness as I otherwise cranked my way, one revolution at a time, through the complexities of infrastructure that I knew well from my tours and months living in Hamburg, Germany in particular. As is often the case, eventually I was rewarded by a sudden departure into agricultural lands, open and peaceful relative to a moment before, a much welcomed transition for a soul constantly battered by its proximate environment, whilst bicycle touring, including the energy dissipated by haulers of all shapes and sizes.
Beyond Jesenice, I eventually arrived and navigated through additional, though less threatening, urban spaces including the large towns of Vrba, Lesce, and Kranj. However, these spaces were not without their desirable highlights, including a narrow bicycle and footbridge over the River Sava in a forgotten village. Overhanging the river, deciduous trees, in yellow and orange highlights of autumn, reminded me of my childhood home in Massachusetts, including similar temperate forest scenes above the Charles River. On the water itself, more familiarity as I crossed the bridge by happenstance when a small group of pleasure boaters, in canoes, were passing by. Their laughter bridged our language barrier, within their voices I could hear my own, and friends too, from days gone by but not forgotten. I took a moment to reset on this marvelous little piece of mankind's infrastructure amidst an otherwise insignificant moment in space-time.
Perhaps because I was now aware of what mattered, at this point I descended, without initial notice or effort on my part, into the wonderland that I am often in search of on my tours, beyond the bridge, now seemingly less aware of those aspects of reality that can sometimes bring me down. Sometime after, as I approached the village of Smlednik, I could easily see the ruins of a former castle above the settlement. As I often do in situations like this one, I quietly hoped, despite a long day on the saddle, that my route would deliver me to a vantage where I could capture the scene, now bathed in the warm light of early evening. That wish came true, following a short detour up the road that led to a path to Grad Smlednik, a castle with a history dating back to at least the 12th century CE (Common Era). The vantage was good but not great so after a moment to assess the sensitivities of anyone nearby, I hopped off the bike, carefully slid under a wire fence and then took a few steps into a pasture, amidst the curious glances of a few cattle, At the conclusion of this off-road foray, the vantage was much improved and I proceeded to capture a few cherished images for the tour and my kind followers, friends, family, and strangers, on Instagram and Facebook in particular.
Each day it's my hope to capture 1-3 photographs that I can subsequently manipulate, primarily by a simple but nonetheless extraordinary crop (this is the exceptional artist that inspired my cropping tendencies), to share with followers of my tour and for my own personal reflection. Of course, sun and clouds do not always cooperate, and on this particular day I thought that would be the case. However, Smlednik and its castle, my inspiration for taking a detour, were exceptions to this rule, and this happened a second time, to my surprise, as I approached, within five kilometers, the capital of Slovenia itself, Ljubljana. At that point, I was somewhere in the vicinity of the village of Šentvid, amidst agricultural fields and a few isolated hills, remnants of once much larger foothills of the nearby Karawaks and Julian Alps. I paused for a video, then images, all the while in the company of a group of youngsters that were casually flirting as they went in search of simple treasures.
A grocery stop delayed my plunge into Ljubljana, a city of (metro) a half million that, itself, dates to the 12th century CE. However its roots go much deeper, to a city of antiquity built by the Romans, Emona. The whisper of Emona, its voice below the continuous onslaught of the modern town, recalls stories that date to the 6th century BCE including war campaigns advanced by the Huns and the Visigoths. Upon departing the supermarket, one of the largest I'd experienced so far on the tour, I braced myself for collision with an urban jungle and all its dangling arms. That turned-out to be warranted. Soon I was racing down bicycle lanes, dodging pedestrians and others bikes, dropping occasionally onto the road, and back again with far too many traffic stops along the way. By now, day had also transitioned to dark, but with the city lights blazing and my enviable Sinewave dynamo-powered front and rear lights doing the same, darkness mattered not so much.
Amidst this relatively chaotic part of my journey, I fell into a surprisingly mellow conversation with a pair of youngsters on a scooter which I enjoyed keeping pace with between traffic signals, and this was no doubt part of the charm that led them to make their introductions. They too were on the bike path, zipping along as I was occasionally on the sidewalk, a normal solution in modern European cities for keeping bikes off the road that is nonetheless a hazard for pedestrians especially scooters going full throttle. Add to this our habit, in the prosperous west, of walking like zombies, gaze locked on our cell phone screens, and accidents become inevitable. Fortunately, I neither contributed to nor witnessed any on my high paced, nocturnal transect of Ljubljana.
Eventually I arrived to the opposite side of the city, nearly out of the city by this point, to a dark street, quiet and idle, lined on both sides with mostly gated homes. Once I thought my point on my cell phone's GPS tracker was in front of my destination, my, my, my, I approached and knocked on the door. During this transition, a woman had quietly slipped-in behind me and, just after I rang the bell, spoke with an eastern European or perhaps a Russian accent, she spoke in a way that implied that I might have had bad intentions, a burglar etc. I smiled a wide grin, puzzled by her response but not offended, and said something like "I'm your next guest, booked using the Airbnb app". By this point, the door opened and another youngster, perhaps even younger than the woman, greeted me without concern for my intentions. He kindly invited me and my bike inside and a short tour followed of the recently built guest house which turned-out to be a great value. I quickly settled-into the initial stages on my evening routine: food; shower; more food.
Unfortunately, a short interaction with my three companions, one the host and all of them, I eventually learned, Russian, left me feeling left-out versus a curiosity, at the very least. This was a rare conclusion, in general the tour tended to bring me into the company of social opportunities that I enjoyed and often into the evening hours when I should have been sleeping! So in this case, I took advantage, processed a load of laundry, caught up on tasks related to the tour, and went to bed early.
I was uncertain whether I'd ride back into the old town the following morning, but memories of my nocturnal adventure through the old city the evening before were enough to send me back the way I'd come, twice in two days gong in reverse on a long tour! That decision was amply rewarded, with textured streets made of a variety of stones, each one placed by a meticulous craftsman, so much so that they've persisted, in some cases, for hundreds of years. Above, buildings on either side were made by the same skill and hands, and then finished with wood and color, including reds and oranges. Eventually sunshine and blue sky, between rooftops, filled in the middle. The River Sava was nearby, running through the middle you might say in rough speak, and its edges were accented by greens and golds, the reflection of pigments from a variety of planted trees. The old city is primarily a place for walking and respectful cycling, i.e., at a pace and focus that doesn't elevate the risk of injury to wide-eyed tourists and the myriad of people busy running support for local businesses flourishing above and beyond the channeled Sava River.
After a warm breakfast and two cappuccinos, I went in search of images and found many in and close to the old town center. Subsequently, with reluctance, a sign that all is well on a tour, I began my departure from town on a route that was looking up at me from my Garmin 1030 GPS, primarily south directly at a series of mountain passes towards the Adriatic Sea. The Adriatic was never a planned goal on the tour, such as Lake Geneva, Innsbruck, or Lake Garda, but it hindsight it certainly would have been a sensible secondary goal to follow my departure from Pedemonte, with my arrival to Slovenia between these two.
The complex of hills and some summits of note that I was approaching, as I rode south out of Ljubljana, are part of the Rakitna Plateau. At that time, from the vantage of my saddle, I had no idea what to expect but I was feeling the same sort of unhinged curiosity as I had when I rode towards Duncansby Head from Wick on the first morning of the tour. In fact, on this bike tour, I was literally excited to climb onto my bicycle and ride-on every day, other than rest days which I was even, often times, reluctant to take. The Rakitna Plateau, possibly an elevated plateau that was subsequently, over millions of years of Earth history, sculpted into hills and valleys by local streams, like the Catskill Mountains in New York (United States), is part of the Dinaric Alps. Just to the south, I also visited the Javornik Hills, a sub-component of the same, as I approached my next bed for the evening.
Back within the boundaries of the Rakitna Plateau, my pace was marginalized by spectacular, country scenery and seemingly impossible, for their duration, climbs for an area known for its "hills". Among those, the ascent of Route 728 from about Iška to Rakitna was exceptional. Never cruel, as far as grade, but nonetheless extensive. From Ljubljana, I pedaled through a relatively warm valley and then up a series of connected steps, into the upper atmosphere, through temperature layers eventually into the clouds and the moisture that forms them. Cool temperatures and rain withstanding, the climb generated sufficient heat to stay comfortable and the scenery was more than enough to generate a curiosity and drive to keep moving. At Rakitna, I stopped for a photo and a layer, before pressing on across a wide, elevated valley, then over a few more hills before descending towards the Javornik Hills.
During this transect, from Ljubljana to Rakitna, I stopped for a photo that would become one of my favorites from the tour. Here's the caption from that image, posted to Instagram and Facebook the following evening, including the thoughts that were prominent in my conscious mind at that time, "28 September 2019. Preserje, Slovenia, Municipality of Brezovica. [This image is] untouched, not even a crop has been inserted between my experience and yours. This was the light that I rode through yesterday. A few showers withstanding, today's experiences, a menagerie of light and landscapes, were worth every ounce of resources that I've used to get here. My anticipated date into Istanbul is approaching, 23 Oct, yet the beauty of Planet Earth and my species creations, villages and more, continue to leave me spellbound and inspired to ride on."
Beyond Rakitna, always favorable and desired on my tours, I sought the road less traveled and in doing so arrived, serendipitously, on gravel, to Krajinski park Rakov Škocjan, a regional park and oasis for outdoor recreation amidst a deciduous forest in all the glory of fall colors, broken by crisscrossing streams, and impressive sink holes below tall cliffs of possibly igneous rock such as a common "columnar" expression of basalt that can be viewed, e.g., at the famous Devil's Tower in South Dakota, Yosemite National Park, and many other places where once molten rock was extruded onto the surface and then solidified. I took the opportunity to record a short video on the bumpy, gravel roads within the park and nearly dropped my camera on an unanticipated stretch of washboard! You can view this video and more on my Instagram and Facebook accounts.
From the park, I exited onto a series of rough roads, including a stretch of tractor track, that paralleled the E61, a regional highway unfit and likely off-limits to bicycles. Not far south and west of the village of Postojna, I connected to Route 6 and plunged south along the drainage of the Pivca River, downstream, away from its headwaters. On the map, Route 6 gives the impression that it could be a busy, trafficked road. But in practice, it's a gem of a bicycle route, twisting and winding its way south along the valley floor and sometimes up and over hills alongside the Pivca River which it never deviates far from.
In this enviable space, on a beautiful, sunny, blue sky day, I approached and rode through one sleepy village after another. Somewhere inside this part of Wonderland, in a village that never relinquished its name, feeling super hungry and a little sleepy, I looked for a place to eat a makeshift lunch and found what I thought was an abandoned home. I carefully rolled through a jumble of European Chestnuts including their thorny hulls, and coasted to a stop under a roof meant to project a parked vehicle. Close-by, a plank rested comfortably on two concrete blocks, the plank was dusty but nonetheless it was clearly intended, by a previous occupant, for taking a rest protected from a warm sun. The shade was contagious, I settled in, laid-out what I had in my panniers for food including bread, cheese, and salami, and peacefully went to work, contemplation foremost on my mind, on recovering from a calorie deficit, the cost of a morning of exceptional exploration. Once satisfied, I prepared for my departure, during which I had a "nature break", as professional bicycle racing commentators often say versus "a piss", a few steps beyond the shade and then, curiously, peaked into a few windows.
None of this led to any concerns that I might be sitting in someone's driveway versus an abandoned property, that didn't occur to me until I was rolling-out and happened to glance over my left shoulder. Fresh laundry was hanging above the rooftop that shaded my lunch, and investigation of the lower level of the house but not my nature break. The entire visit seemed to go unnoticed, other than the family cat, or the neighbor’s cat, plus a barking dog locked in a nearby shed! That dog no doubt knew about my crime, but in this case fortune, shade in this case, rewarded the brave even if that bravery was unbeknownst to the awarded cyclist.
If you've ever gone exploring on a bicycle, on a tour or otherwise, you'll understand what I mean when I propose that the end of a long day of adventure often concludes, more than chance would predict, with a significant hill climb. For me, September 28th was not an exception. At the namesake of the river that I was following, Pivka, I maintained my connection to Route 6 by taking a right at a prominent fork in the road. towards Ribnica. Roughly 30 minutes later I arrived at a suspicious left-turn off of Route 6, in the village of Dolnja Bitnja (Ilirska Bistrica, Inner Carniola region). It was suspicious because from experience all signs suggested a steep climb between bike rider and destination a few kilometers away, beyond that left turn. That suspicion turned-out to be precise, one might even suggest cruel, as the road repeatedly kicked-up to grades well over 8%. Cruel withstanding, I nevertheless knew, thanks to the wizardry of a modern GPS, that I was on the doorstep to the day’s conclusion, and so I settled in, in no hurry to approach the clouds, peacefully talking to myself or the birds, adding to the mixture of sounds in my little part of the gigantic universe.
At the top of the hill, I found the bed and breakfast that I was seeking, booked through Airbnb's app earlier in the day or perhaps the night before, that promised to exceed my expectations, which it did. Active barns of all shapes and sizes, beasts of the same, svelte children burning kilojoules by voice and activity, parents cooking in the kitchen or greeting guests, and a fabric in the middle that created the matrix of an exceptional hill-top setting nestled comfortably in the Slovenian countryside. Amidst other privileges that I experienced at this unusual oasis, the hosts made it easy for me to wash my bike, buckets, water, soap and sponges, and then fed me a fabulous home grown and home cooked meat and potatoes meal that all but dissolved my memory of the days concluding hill climb. Truth be told, this wouldn't be my cheapest accommodation in the Balkans, far from it, but it wasn't expensive either, just $34.70 per night. Meals and other add-ons were paid on top of this lodging fee. But like elsewhere in my explorations on this tour and others, it was a small price to pay for the experience including the people that overlapped with me, shared their stories and asked for details of my own, in the village on a hill, Ratečevo, Slovenia where the road ends amidst pastures, barns, forest patches, and old stone walls.
I was considering a second day, a rest day, at the family-operated bed and breakfast, but eventually concluded that fine weather and a healthy, seemingly rested, ambition to ride to Croatia was my preference. Blue skies beckoned that ambition the next morning and I didn't delay long after a breakfast that was as delicious as the evening meal the night before. I also enjoyed the coffee, made fresh by the cup with the entire dairy from the facilities cows, in a barn or a pasture not far away, that I desired. I didn't go as far as to drop a chip of butter in each cup but I was at least tempted. Fortunately, a sensible distraction, the bread was also fabulous, baked in the kitchen under my room, and along with the butter dish was often replenished, possibly to the concern of the lady of the house. I'll never know for sure but who could blame her, a cyclist on tour, of my height and weight, will consume about 8,000 calories a day!
A fast descent brought me to the edge of Route 6 before I had a chance to wipe the wind-motivated tears out of my eyes generated as I plunged with childhood joy away from the quaint bnb. At the bottom, I turned left towards the Croatian border, about 23 kilometers away. Given all the coffee, butter, bread, and more that I consumed back at the farm, there was no need to stop, other than some quick photos, and soon I was coasting to my first guarded border crossing versus sign posts that were sometimes difficult to find as I passed between each member-country of the European Union, the case from the UK to this point. As I approached Croatia, I approached two armed border crossing facilities. First, the crossing station operated by the Slovenian border patrol; then the next, between brief sections of no-man's land, the facility operated by the Croatians. I'll pick this story back-up in my recollection of Croatia, the next chapter, a journey that turned-out to be far more extensive and diverse than I'd anticipated...
Beyond Camporosso and an anonymous col, at about 1130 am on the 27th of September 2019, I rolled-up to a sign that marked the border between Italy and Slovenia, one more physical and mental step closer to my goal to reach Istanbul, by bicycle, in 10 weeks. In my neurons, I was already carrying a lifetime's-worth of stories to share over coffee, with myself, friends, and strangers too. But these treasures were far from my consciousness as I collected another significant memory to add to my adventure story. Riding into Slovenia was a great moment that I can easily recall in emotional detail even now, weeks after finishing the tour. Beyond the sign, I allowed gravity to assist my fall as I gently descended along a grade dictated by the the Sava River. With each passing kilometer, the river steadily grew in depth and breadth as the watershed diligently collected smaller streams, that I noticed or not, en route to the historically significant Danube River and its conclusion at the Black Sea. From my perspective, sitting on a carbon fiber saddle covered by a thin veneer of leather, I was quite surprised, looking up, surrounded by sharp-edged foothills and much higher peaks in the background, that the Sava actually made its way east to the Black Sea versus south-southwest to the proximate Adriatic. This quirk of geological history must make for an interesting anecdote in the classrooms of geology courses taught in the region.
Above the Sava, a narrow, mostly flat, green valley provides sustenance for the locals and their neighbors, near and far, as their products make their way in all directions, beyond the valley, to grocery stores and their kin. Above this green strip of cultivated land, forested foothills, dominated by species of pine and larch, created long shadows across the valley twice daily. Farther north, but occasionally visible through notches in the foothills, the Karavanke Mountains (aka, "the Karawanks") were not far away, and the same was true for the Julian Alps to the south; both sub-units of the Dinaric Alps, a complex of mountains that are, themselves, sub-units of the extensive mountain-valley region known as the Alps that stretch from the Jura Mountains in France to the Dinaric Alps in the Balkans. Due to their high alpine and rugged character, the Dinaric Alps (aka, "the Dinarides") have been pivotal in the history of mankind within and on both sides of these mountains and the same would be true, "pivotal" in every sense, for a wee bike rider on a steel bike on the last leg of an ambitious tour as he pedaled across a region known as "the Balkans".
Back down amidst the sunshine and chlorophyll, in the here and now, at a level above the Adriatic Sea preferred by the majority of locals, my initial experience within the borders of the former Yugoslavian-country of Slovenia was already a highlight of the tour. The paved bike path that I'd serendipitously discovered above the Tagliamento River, in Italy where it's banks are deeply burdened by scree and talus slopes falling down from the impressive Dinarides, seemed to go on forever and always deeper into wonderland. The feeling of the space on either edge of the bike path which navigated into and out of often sleepy, well-kept villages but occasionally, bustling with the energy of visitors and locals, was one of friendship and comfort. Despite how far I'd come into the unknown, and despite concerns that a handful of strangers had expressed as I approached the Balkans, these concerns were nowhere in sight. Instead, I felt only a kinship to these people, to their independence, to the choice that they had obviously made to respect, versus discount the value of, the water, air, and soil that sustains them; a choice that was obvious in all directions, including the clear water flowing within the Sava and the absence of litter.
Modesty in form was not unusual in this space, nonetheless exceptional was the norm, spectacular in practice and proximity, I welcomed its lessons and experiences to travel as deep into my soul as any other place I'd previously visited including the majestic splendor of the epic masterpiece of Planet Earth's primary sculptor, erosion, the Grand Canyon. I felt, and still do weeks later, as if this part of the universe, the Upper Sava River Valley, was aware of my visit and beckoned me, through the mysteries of quantum physics, to stay longer and return on another tour which I am already reflecting on with fond anticipation.
Mysteries aside, I followed the Sava to a point where I was sure that I was approaching, versus in reality, already passed, a restaurant owned by the family of Race Across America (RAAM) legend, Jure Robič. My senses had been so distracted by the space that I'd clumsily cycled, unbeknownst to me, past the final resting place of Jure; same for his memorial along the bike path, in plain view; and lastly the restaurant that was now managed by his only surviving sibling, his half brother Marco Robič. For a moment, just east of Mojstrana, I considered pressing on, a rare expression of a less desirable order of priorities. But that didn't last long, soon I was pedaling bonus miles and elevation, up the Sava Valley, towards a hoped-for introduction to Marco at Gostilna in picerija Jožica in the village of Gozd Martuljek.
Once aware of my place relative to all the other GPS locations on the surface of Planet Earth, backtracking to the restaurant was not difficult. At a familiar intersection, I exited the comfort and security of an exceptional bike path and proceeded west on the primary auto-route in the valley, Route 201. Following a brief rendezvous with high speed, high energy traffic, I arrived to Gostilna in picerija Jožica, stashed my bike behind a small utility trailer adjacent to the restaurant, and then navigated, tap tap tapping my way in mountain bike shoes manufactured by Specialized, across wooden floors, to a seat inside the bar portion of the restaurant. I ordered a cappuccino without too much drama, i.e., foreign language collisions, and then settled-in to contemplate my next move.
It seemed apparent that my server wasn't well versed in the English language so asking her, in detail, about Jure and Marco would, my thinking at the time, be bumpy at best, and perhaps get me nowhere. So instead, I carefully typed and revised what I would otherwise have spoken to her, in English, and then used Google's translator feature to translate to Slovenian. Once I was satisfied, cappuccino properly displaced by now, I approached, with a friendly smile, and presented my smart phone screen containing the translated black text on a white background to the bartender.
Within moments, she too was smiling, really smiling, from one ear to the other, so much so that her response was contagious and I was filled with a great sense of relief. My own smile thickened in response, somewhat embarrassed but no less thrilled by the outcome. To my surprise, she concluded her reading with quite understandable English, not perfect by any means but functional; then dashed off to locate Marco. Marco came right away and immediately I had a friend, in fact two because the bartender certainly was on my side as well, in a village that I could not pronounce! Marco's English was well practiced; we fell into comfortable conversation, the sort reserved for long-term friends or mutually curious strangers. I asked him, respectfully, if he'd provide me with directions to visit Jure's grave. In his response, he also described a monument to Jure that his family and the village had erected along the bike path. Before I departed, he asked me to return for a meal and suggested that I consider a combination of Jure's favorite dish, pasta Bolognese with fresh basil. alongside fresh mushrooms that were recently collected from the forests above the Sava River.
Beyond the restaurant, I made my way, the wrong way a couple of times, towards Jure's monument. When I arrived I was surprised by the monument's proximity to the bike path that I was following, literally alongside but I'd nonetheless completely missed, on my initial pass, the multifaceted memorial to the late RAAM legend. I paused for respect, reflection, and eventually photographs before going in search of my primary ambition, Jure's final resting place. That too was preceded by a search, this way and that way, and likely would have gone on much longer if not for a kind local, on her mid-day jog, that I happened into, by now off the bike path on a steep, gravel climb above the monument.
Jure was laid to rest, as we often say in popular English, in a cemetery not far from his family's restaurant, the next village to the west, Kranjska Gora, up the Sava River Valley. The graveyard is just above the bike path, nearly within reaching distance of a rider on his or her cherished saddle; and like everything else in the valley, it is modest in size and well kept. In addition, my impression from my short visit, it's also frequently visited by loved ones that want to remember their lost companions.
You would think a guy that successfully arrived, by bicycle, to Slovenia from Duncansby Head in the far north of Scotland would be able to efficiently find a monument, a graveyard, and then a plot within the latter, but apparently I'm an exception to that logic. Inside the graveyard, I wandered back and forth between about a half-dozen, west-to-east oriented, and stone-studded rows, without success. In the meantime, a woman arrived and I eventually asked her if she by chance knew the whereabouts of Jure. Did I mention that the Upper, in particular, Sava Valley and villages within are small by any standard? And for this reason, deeply connected? I wish I could recall this lovely woman's name, but I'll likely not soon forget, in partial forgiveness, the stories that she eventually told me.
She certainly did know and she led me there in an instant where we settled into discussion for about fifteen minutes; a span of time that dissipated, seemingly, much faster than the laws of physics strictly predicts. Here's how the story unfolded, told to me by my local guide in the graveyard: despite being married, Jure had a girlfriend and this woman lived with my acquaintance and guide, as her tenant. Jure would ride his bike to her residence to visit his girlfriend, stay as long as he could, then return to his famously difficult training, as well as his domestic responsibilities. During this time, and not long before Jure was tragically killed when he struck a tractor whilst descending a forest road at high speed on his mountain bike, his girlfriend became pregnant. She would give birth to the child, my impression anyway, not long after Jure was killed and all of this would be delivered to his family around that time as well.
None of this was any of my business of course, but if you arrive to a small village and by chance fall into conversation with a local then you might be surprised by their forthcoming openness, especially if you've come in search of one of their kin whilst showing a deep respect for their accomplishments. Her comments were mostly flattering by the way, about Jure, as she weaved her way to the conclusion of her story with many tangents between. As I said, the 15 minutes were far from satisfying, short by feel and any, more reproducible measure (for a fascinating read about all-too-often taken for granted time pieces I enthusiastically recommend reading Longitude by Dava Sobel, it's a story in large part about John Harrison).
We parted with smiles and then I spent some time, alone, with Jure and his brother, Sašo, a professional skier, laid to rest beside him. By now knowing my way, and all the wrong ways too, within proximate villages I efficiently made my way back to the restaurant where I reconnected with my friends, the bartender and Marco. The meal they served me was certainly among the very best from the tour, served with love of course and that value wasn't overlooked by me as I delved into the plate, but also in presentation and flavor. Every morsel of the locally harvested chanterelle mushrooms was a delight for my taste buds and the pasta, served Jure-style, was more meaningful than any other meal I could recall then or now. Hours after my initial arrival, with visits between and a meal, I hesitantly bid farewell to my companions in anticipation of returning to my solo journey into the unknown. However, I'd be a little less alone on this portion of the journey than I had before, with new friendships safely tucked into my heart and many fond memories to process along the way.
Satiated, and perhaps a bit more, I returned to my, by now, beloved bike path, a gem among all others, backtracked to where I'd made a u-turn, and then mostly glided downhill into Hrušica and then to Jesenice. Given its status as the seat of the Municipality of Jesenice and "the Slovenian home of mining and iron making industries", I shouldn't have been be surprised, in hindsight, that my arrival to Jesenice concluded my romance with a cycle route, mostly bike path, that had lasted for most of two days, all the way back to, roughly, the village of Enemonzo in northeastern Italy. In Jesenice, what unfolded ahead of me was unpleasant relative to where I'd just been, the seemingly remote, always green, and soothing, Upper Sava River Valley. But that's the price we occasionally have to pay, in bike touring and life in general. After all, our metal things, among others, must be constructed somewhere from something, such as steel that eventually made its way to a factory to be formed into a bicycle frame before being labeled an RLT 9 Steel from Niner Bikes.
Sensible conclusions withstanding, I nonetheless expressed a rare bit of crankiness as I otherwise cranked my way, one revolution at a time, through the complexities of infrastructure that I knew well from my tours and months living in Hamburg, Germany in particular. As is often the case, eventually I was rewarded by a sudden departure into agricultural lands, open and peaceful relative to a moment before, a much welcomed transition for a soul constantly battered by its proximate environment, whilst bicycle touring, including the energy dissipated by haulers of all shapes and sizes.
Beyond Jesenice, I eventually arrived and navigated through additional, though less threatening, urban spaces including the large towns of Vrba, Lesce, and Kranj. However, these spaces were not without their desirable highlights, including a narrow bicycle and footbridge over the River Sava in a forgotten village. Overhanging the river, deciduous trees, in yellow and orange highlights of autumn, reminded me of my childhood home in Massachusetts, including similar temperate forest scenes above the Charles River. On the water itself, more familiarity as I crossed the bridge by happenstance when a small group of pleasure boaters, in canoes, were passing by. Their laughter bridged our language barrier, within their voices I could hear my own, and friends too, from days gone by but not forgotten. I took a moment to reset on this marvelous little piece of mankind's infrastructure amidst an otherwise insignificant moment in space-time.
Perhaps because I was now aware of what mattered, at this point I descended, without initial notice or effort on my part, into the wonderland that I am often in search of on my tours, beyond the bridge, now seemingly less aware of those aspects of reality that can sometimes bring me down. Sometime after, as I approached the village of Smlednik, I could easily see the ruins of a former castle above the settlement. As I often do in situations like this one, I quietly hoped, despite a long day on the saddle, that my route would deliver me to a vantage where I could capture the scene, now bathed in the warm light of early evening. That wish came true, following a short detour up the road that led to a path to Grad Smlednik, a castle with a history dating back to at least the 12th century CE (Common Era). The vantage was good but not great so after a moment to assess the sensitivities of anyone nearby, I hopped off the bike, carefully slid under a wire fence and then took a few steps into a pasture, amidst the curious glances of a few cattle, At the conclusion of this off-road foray, the vantage was much improved and I proceeded to capture a few cherished images for the tour and my kind followers, friends, family, and strangers, on Instagram and Facebook in particular.
Each day it's my hope to capture 1-3 photographs that I can subsequently manipulate, primarily by a simple but nonetheless extraordinary crop (this is the exceptional artist that inspired my cropping tendencies), to share with followers of my tour and for my own personal reflection. Of course, sun and clouds do not always cooperate, and on this particular day I thought that would be the case. However, Smlednik and its castle, my inspiration for taking a detour, were exceptions to this rule, and this happened a second time, to my surprise, as I approached, within five kilometers, the capital of Slovenia itself, Ljubljana. At that point, I was somewhere in the vicinity of the village of Šentvid, amidst agricultural fields and a few isolated hills, remnants of once much larger foothills of the nearby Karawaks and Julian Alps. I paused for a video, then images, all the while in the company of a group of youngsters that were casually flirting as they went in search of simple treasures.
A grocery stop delayed my plunge into Ljubljana, a city of (metro) a half million that, itself, dates to the 12th century CE. However its roots go much deeper, to a city of antiquity built by the Romans, Emona. The whisper of Emona, its voice below the continuous onslaught of the modern town, recalls stories that date to the 6th century BCE including war campaigns advanced by the Huns and the Visigoths. Upon departing the supermarket, one of the largest I'd experienced so far on the tour, I braced myself for collision with an urban jungle and all its dangling arms. That turned-out to be warranted. Soon I was racing down bicycle lanes, dodging pedestrians and others bikes, dropping occasionally onto the road, and back again with far too many traffic stops along the way. By now, day had also transitioned to dark, but with the city lights blazing and my enviable Sinewave dynamo-powered front and rear lights doing the same, darkness mattered not so much.
Amidst this relatively chaotic part of my journey, I fell into a surprisingly mellow conversation with a pair of youngsters on a scooter which I enjoyed keeping pace with between traffic signals, and this was no doubt part of the charm that led them to make their introductions. They too were on the bike path, zipping along as I was occasionally on the sidewalk, a normal solution in modern European cities for keeping bikes off the road that is nonetheless a hazard for pedestrians especially scooters going full throttle. Add to this our habit, in the prosperous west, of walking like zombies, gaze locked on our cell phone screens, and accidents become inevitable. Fortunately, I neither contributed to nor witnessed any on my high paced, nocturnal transect of Ljubljana.
Eventually I arrived to the opposite side of the city, nearly out of the city by this point, to a dark street, quiet and idle, lined on both sides with mostly gated homes. Once I thought my point on my cell phone's GPS tracker was in front of my destination, my, my, my, I approached and knocked on the door. During this transition, a woman had quietly slipped-in behind me and, just after I rang the bell, spoke with an eastern European or perhaps a Russian accent, she spoke in a way that implied that I might have had bad intentions, a burglar etc. I smiled a wide grin, puzzled by her response but not offended, and said something like "I'm your next guest, booked using the Airbnb app". By this point, the door opened and another youngster, perhaps even younger than the woman, greeted me without concern for my intentions. He kindly invited me and my bike inside and a short tour followed of the recently built guest house which turned-out to be a great value. I quickly settled-into the initial stages on my evening routine: food; shower; more food.
Unfortunately, a short interaction with my three companions, one the host and all of them, I eventually learned, Russian, left me feeling left-out versus a curiosity, at the very least. This was a rare conclusion, in general the tour tended to bring me into the company of social opportunities that I enjoyed and often into the evening hours when I should have been sleeping! So in this case, I took advantage, processed a load of laundry, caught up on tasks related to the tour, and went to bed early.
I was uncertain whether I'd ride back into the old town the following morning, but memories of my nocturnal adventure through the old city the evening before were enough to send me back the way I'd come, twice in two days gong in reverse on a long tour! That decision was amply rewarded, with textured streets made of a variety of stones, each one placed by a meticulous craftsman, so much so that they've persisted, in some cases, for hundreds of years. Above, buildings on either side were made by the same skill and hands, and then finished with wood and color, including reds and oranges. Eventually sunshine and blue sky, between rooftops, filled in the middle. The River Sava was nearby, running through the middle you might say in rough speak, and its edges were accented by greens and golds, the reflection of pigments from a variety of planted trees. The old city is primarily a place for walking and respectful cycling, i.e., at a pace and focus that doesn't elevate the risk of injury to wide-eyed tourists and the myriad of people busy running support for local businesses flourishing above and beyond the channeled Sava River.
After a warm breakfast and two cappuccinos, I went in search of images and found many in and close to the old town center. Subsequently, with reluctance, a sign that all is well on a tour, I began my departure from town on a route that was looking up at me from my Garmin 1030 GPS, primarily south directly at a series of mountain passes towards the Adriatic Sea. The Adriatic was never a planned goal on the tour, such as Lake Geneva, Innsbruck, or Lake Garda, but it hindsight it certainly would have been a sensible secondary goal to follow my departure from Pedemonte, with my arrival to Slovenia between these two.
The complex of hills and some summits of note that I was approaching, as I rode south out of Ljubljana, are part of the Rakitna Plateau. At that time, from the vantage of my saddle, I had no idea what to expect but I was feeling the same sort of unhinged curiosity as I had when I rode towards Duncansby Head from Wick on the first morning of the tour. In fact, on this bike tour, I was literally excited to climb onto my bicycle and ride-on every day, other than rest days which I was even, often times, reluctant to take. The Rakitna Plateau, possibly an elevated plateau that was subsequently, over millions of years of Earth history, sculpted into hills and valleys by local streams, like the Catskill Mountains in New York (United States), is part of the Dinaric Alps. Just to the south, I also visited the Javornik Hills, a sub-component of the same, as I approached my next bed for the evening.
Back within the boundaries of the Rakitna Plateau, my pace was marginalized by spectacular, country scenery and seemingly impossible, for their duration, climbs for an area known for its "hills". Among those, the ascent of Route 728 from about Iška to Rakitna was exceptional. Never cruel, as far as grade, but nonetheless extensive. From Ljubljana, I pedaled through a relatively warm valley and then up a series of connected steps, into the upper atmosphere, through temperature layers eventually into the clouds and the moisture that forms them. Cool temperatures and rain withstanding, the climb generated sufficient heat to stay comfortable and the scenery was more than enough to generate a curiosity and drive to keep moving. At Rakitna, I stopped for a photo and a layer, before pressing on across a wide, elevated valley, then over a few more hills before descending towards the Javornik Hills.
During this transect, from Ljubljana to Rakitna, I stopped for a photo that would become one of my favorites from the tour. Here's the caption from that image, posted to Instagram and Facebook the following evening, including the thoughts that were prominent in my conscious mind at that time, "28 September 2019. Preserje, Slovenia, Municipality of Brezovica. [This image is] untouched, not even a crop has been inserted between my experience and yours. This was the light that I rode through yesterday. A few showers withstanding, today's experiences, a menagerie of light and landscapes, were worth every ounce of resources that I've used to get here. My anticipated date into Istanbul is approaching, 23 Oct, yet the beauty of Planet Earth and my species creations, villages and more, continue to leave me spellbound and inspired to ride on."
Beyond Rakitna, always favorable and desired on my tours, I sought the road less traveled and in doing so arrived, serendipitously, on gravel, to Krajinski park Rakov Škocjan, a regional park and oasis for outdoor recreation amidst a deciduous forest in all the glory of fall colors, broken by crisscrossing streams, and impressive sink holes below tall cliffs of possibly igneous rock such as a common "columnar" expression of basalt that can be viewed, e.g., at the famous Devil's Tower in South Dakota, Yosemite National Park, and many other places where once molten rock was extruded onto the surface and then solidified. I took the opportunity to record a short video on the bumpy, gravel roads within the park and nearly dropped my camera on an unanticipated stretch of washboard! You can view this video and more on my Instagram and Facebook accounts.
From the park, I exited onto a series of rough roads, including a stretch of tractor track, that paralleled the E61, a regional highway unfit and likely off-limits to bicycles. Not far south and west of the village of Postojna, I connected to Route 6 and plunged south along the drainage of the Pivca River, downstream, away from its headwaters. On the map, Route 6 gives the impression that it could be a busy, trafficked road. But in practice, it's a gem of a bicycle route, twisting and winding its way south along the valley floor and sometimes up and over hills alongside the Pivca River which it never deviates far from.
In this enviable space, on a beautiful, sunny, blue sky day, I approached and rode through one sleepy village after another. Somewhere inside this part of Wonderland, in a village that never relinquished its name, feeling super hungry and a little sleepy, I looked for a place to eat a makeshift lunch and found what I thought was an abandoned home. I carefully rolled through a jumble of European Chestnuts including their thorny hulls, and coasted to a stop under a roof meant to project a parked vehicle. Close-by, a plank rested comfortably on two concrete blocks, the plank was dusty but nonetheless it was clearly intended, by a previous occupant, for taking a rest protected from a warm sun. The shade was contagious, I settled in, laid-out what I had in my panniers for food including bread, cheese, and salami, and peacefully went to work, contemplation foremost on my mind, on recovering from a calorie deficit, the cost of a morning of exceptional exploration. Once satisfied, I prepared for my departure, during which I had a "nature break", as professional bicycle racing commentators often say versus "a piss", a few steps beyond the shade and then, curiously, peaked into a few windows.
None of this led to any concerns that I might be sitting in someone's driveway versus an abandoned property, that didn't occur to me until I was rolling-out and happened to glance over my left shoulder. Fresh laundry was hanging above the rooftop that shaded my lunch, and investigation of the lower level of the house but not my nature break. The entire visit seemed to go unnoticed, other than the family cat, or the neighbor’s cat, plus a barking dog locked in a nearby shed! That dog no doubt knew about my crime, but in this case fortune, shade in this case, rewarded the brave even if that bravery was unbeknownst to the awarded cyclist.
If you've ever gone exploring on a bicycle, on a tour or otherwise, you'll understand what I mean when I propose that the end of a long day of adventure often concludes, more than chance would predict, with a significant hill climb. For me, September 28th was not an exception. At the namesake of the river that I was following, Pivka, I maintained my connection to Route 6 by taking a right at a prominent fork in the road. towards Ribnica. Roughly 30 minutes later I arrived at a suspicious left-turn off of Route 6, in the village of Dolnja Bitnja (Ilirska Bistrica, Inner Carniola region). It was suspicious because from experience all signs suggested a steep climb between bike rider and destination a few kilometers away, beyond that left turn. That suspicion turned-out to be precise, one might even suggest cruel, as the road repeatedly kicked-up to grades well over 8%. Cruel withstanding, I nevertheless knew, thanks to the wizardry of a modern GPS, that I was on the doorstep to the day’s conclusion, and so I settled in, in no hurry to approach the clouds, peacefully talking to myself or the birds, adding to the mixture of sounds in my little part of the gigantic universe.
At the top of the hill, I found the bed and breakfast that I was seeking, booked through Airbnb's app earlier in the day or perhaps the night before, that promised to exceed my expectations, which it did. Active barns of all shapes and sizes, beasts of the same, svelte children burning kilojoules by voice and activity, parents cooking in the kitchen or greeting guests, and a fabric in the middle that created the matrix of an exceptional hill-top setting nestled comfortably in the Slovenian countryside. Amidst other privileges that I experienced at this unusual oasis, the hosts made it easy for me to wash my bike, buckets, water, soap and sponges, and then fed me a fabulous home grown and home cooked meat and potatoes meal that all but dissolved my memory of the days concluding hill climb. Truth be told, this wouldn't be my cheapest accommodation in the Balkans, far from it, but it wasn't expensive either, just $34.70 per night. Meals and other add-ons were paid on top of this lodging fee. But like elsewhere in my explorations on this tour and others, it was a small price to pay for the experience including the people that overlapped with me, shared their stories and asked for details of my own, in the village on a hill, Ratečevo, Slovenia where the road ends amidst pastures, barns, forest patches, and old stone walls.
I was considering a second day, a rest day, at the family-operated bed and breakfast, but eventually concluded that fine weather and a healthy, seemingly rested, ambition to ride to Croatia was my preference. Blue skies beckoned that ambition the next morning and I didn't delay long after a breakfast that was as delicious as the evening meal the night before. I also enjoyed the coffee, made fresh by the cup with the entire dairy from the facilities cows, in a barn or a pasture not far away, that I desired. I didn't go as far as to drop a chip of butter in each cup but I was at least tempted. Fortunately, a sensible distraction, the bread was also fabulous, baked in the kitchen under my room, and along with the butter dish was often replenished, possibly to the concern of the lady of the house. I'll never know for sure but who could blame her, a cyclist on tour, of my height and weight, will consume about 8,000 calories a day!
A fast descent brought me to the edge of Route 6 before I had a chance to wipe the wind-motivated tears out of my eyes generated as I plunged with childhood joy away from the quaint bnb. At the bottom, I turned left towards the Croatian border, about 23 kilometers away. Given all the coffee, butter, bread, and more that I consumed back at the farm, there was no need to stop, other than some quick photos, and soon I was coasting to my first guarded border crossing versus sign posts that were sometimes difficult to find as I passed between each member-country of the European Union, the case from the UK to this point. As I approached Croatia, I approached two armed border crossing facilities. First, the crossing station operated by the Slovenian border patrol; then the next, between brief sections of no-man's land, the facility operated by the Croatians. I'll pick this story back-up in my recollection of Croatia, the next chapter, a journey that turned-out to be far more extensive and diverse than I'd anticipated...
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Panorama: Gozd Martuljek, Slovenia, an inspired scene that is the standard for many miles along the Sava River. Images directly above the panorama are also from the Sava River Valley, upstream, towards Italy. I viewed and photographed all of this and more from the comfort of an exceptional cycle path.
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Panorama: Šentvid, a suburb of Slovenia's bustling capital city, Ljubljana, which is surprisingly only a few kilometers away from this agricultural scene.
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