Travel Tips

Day 67 .. 3944km .. 2450 miles

When I thought of Serbia, our tenth country on this journey, all that came to mind was Kosovo, war, ethnic cleansing, NATO intervention and violence.

The border post was out on a wild, deserted hillside. We appeared to be almost the only traffic passing through. Our passports were examined and stamped. We were questioned as to where we were going and told to be careful.

We continued on to our first town, Vrsac. The campsite marked on my map did not exist. As it transpired later, none of the campsites existed in Serbia. The information was long out of date.

We circled the town deliberating as what to do. The streets were almost deserted. Was it because of the 38C heat or was it for reasons as yet unknown to us?

It was an appropriate moment for a lapse into madness. “Lets stay in a hotel!” I suggested. After three and a half months in a tent it sounded outrageous.

So we checked into the Hotel Serbia, feeling a little awkward lingering in the marble and glass reception.

In our room, soon to be transformed into a gypsy camp, I checked out the BBC World News to see what was happening in the world. I saw the European weather forecast and used the remote to adjust the air conditioning to see what it felt like to be back in England. Brrr! Bit extreme! I clicked it back up a few degrees.

A day off to enjoy the hotel, adjust to Serbia and get Mybike fixed. The casing around a gear cable had frayed buckled reducing Juliets gears down from 27 to just 3. We were referred to a bicycle mechanic at a private address.

We found Lazik in a shady garden chatting with a friend. We were invited to join them for a coffee which later evolved into a beer. We spent half the day there, an hour of which Lazik worked on Mybike in his workshop, replacing the casing and giving the bike a general service.

They were lovely people and incredibly Laic refused any payment for all his work and kindness. Serbia was confusing me.

We left Vrsac and began our journey south. Stopping in a small town for our morning break and a lecturer came over to us at the side of the road to say hı. She left and moments later emerged from a shop with a gift of a pack of pens. “A souvenir for you,” she explained. A book translator stopped to chat. He disappeared and returned with an egg and pastry cake for us both. “A traditional Serbian breakfast,” he told us. The village priest materialized. Would we like to camp in the village church yard? It was too early in the day to accept his kind offer. Overwhelmed, we rode on.

In a tiny village we stopped for lunch at the only shop, a general store. Within minutes a man had bought us a couple of apples. Another then bought me a beer.

That evening we stopped in a village where most of the inhabitants appeared to be hanging around the local shop drinking beer and chatting. I asked if they could recommend a good place for us to camp where we would not disturb anyone.

We were directed to a ‘monastery’, a church set in a walled green lawn, about 2km away. Having set up camp a vehicle arrived with a group of men come to check we were all right, one offering the use of a shower in his home. We declined gratefully.

An hour later and another car rumbled down the dirt track. Again, more men this time with their kids, come to ensure we were okay. After we were left in peace and very confused. I would never expected such generous hearts in Europe, especially from a nation infamous for conflict. Naturally, we grew very fond of Serbia.

It took a further five days to crawl down through Serbia, staying at a variety of accommodation bar campsites. The terrain was variable, the people always hospitable and the heat fierce.

On one stretch of highway I was ahead when I heard a scream from Juliet behind. I screeched to a halt and looked back to see her sprawled across her bike in the middle of the road. Panic surged through me as I turned and peddled hard back.

A lorry had forced her into a huge pot hole and the front wheel had slipped causing her to crash, very nearly going under the juggernauts wheels. She wasn’t badly hurt but very shaken.

I probably crash around once a day, but not nearly so dramatically. Trying to map read whilst cycling takes a lot of scrutinizing and often Hagar begins to swerve off course. Once he starts, there is little I can do to control him and I just have to drop into the ditch at the side of the road and crash as gracefully as possible into the hedge, hopefully remaining upright.

We timed our decent through Serbia so as not to over-night along the Kosovo border. Only a few months previous I had seen news footage of unrest in the area.

The road was beautiful, despite being a main highway, cutting through a deep wooded gorge beside a meandering river. The tunnels were a little unnerving. Even a tinny Lada sounds like a juggernaut bearing down on you in the darkness.

I was sad to leave Serbia with its big heart and pretty countryside.

I had no idea what to expect of the next country …

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