I would hit something like 4 peaks in four days, doing them at opportune moments when my energy levels felt good. This generally happens during the evening when things cool off. The heat of the day can be so debilitating but when your body is on form the cooling system works wonders. Currently I was still high up, the border to Macedonia was on a plateau near a place called Rrayce. From here I could see Lake Struga and I had taken a slow morning. I had remembered what Leonard had said about Albania, that although they had missed the Yugoslav war, here there was only collapse. Everybody had guns then to protect themselves from the social mistrust. When I came to Athens before they hosted the Olympics in 2004 I recall the political issues regarding the trafficking of weapons by Albanians, and the Greeks got paranoid about it, arresting me under pretext just to find out who I was. NATO had intervened to create peace, an alliance of 28 countries for which Albania is a member. On this occasion though there was no such worries, I was supposedly in the land of my genes, my original father was a Greek Cypriot. I would subsequently learn though, that the identity of these peoples was a very hot issue – I was stepping into a volcano it seemed.

Having no local money (denar) I came by the town of Struga. I was immediately approached by friendly people, spending a measly €5 in a supermarket. They illegally accepted euro here because they could spend it everywhere else. An argument broke out between a married couple and my intuition told me that it was about me. The man had just honestly converted my euros into denari and tendered me correctly. When he left with his child I decided to buy a bottle of ice tea. His wife deliberately overcharged me – her expression made her look like the guiltiest person in the world. Because it was in euros I wasn’t going to argue. So I continued to the beach and swam, alone as usual. Grabbing a very cheap ice cream I played my music. I was on top form again, making nothing for about 2 hours. Then a flood of money came in, making about 150 denari (about €3). As I again hit the flat road along the shore my blood sugar levels suddenly plummeted. I struggled to the next town on the way to Ohrid and bought myself munchies, that essential stuff to get you going again. Buying masses of cheap compressed cake I had decided that I needed to get my carbohydrate levels up, as well as my protein fats. This was a mistake because, like all consumerists, if you give me a lot of something I eat it all as fast as possible. I made friends with a dog full of fleas and actually felt very sorry for the wretched thing. It was obviously a regular, for no sooner had I decided to leave the area was it pelted by the shopkeeper. I wish I had given it all my cake actually. I slowly munched my way back into physical form and blasted another mountain peak that night. I found a placid spot just off the road with perfect cover for my hammock; it looked like a meadow at night. The condition of the road drastically deteriorated, it was like the inside of a volcano. These were the worst roads since my journey begun and told me everything I needed to know about this country. Nevertheless, the distant bark of dogs was a welcome sound, and I settled in nicely. In the morning I woke to cars starting and stopping. These mountainous areas are famed for their snails, big muthas that are traditionally eaten. I chatted with the man after I packed up my gear and thought, I could have a go at this. Within 30 minutes I had a bagful. I was told to take them to Resen where they buy them. I almost made a fire and cooked them actually but I wanted to know how they did it traditionally, so I carefully packed them and set off. Entering Resen I immediately sought information regarding these snails. A Muslim told me they had no problems here with eating them. Then I found out that they eat them at home, and restaurants are only likely to buy them in large quantities. What to do? Umhh. A man in a shop offered me coffee and I sat down. It was then that he spoke of his country; I have a knack for finding informative people. I asked him who were the Macedonians and he replied that they were a mix now, of Greek, Albanians, and Bulgarians but that the Slavish (Etruscans) had moved here in the Middle-Ages. Further to this the country has a high percentage of gypsies who are capable of speaking Albanian, Turkish and Macedonian. They are descendants from Alexander the Great’s armies from Egypt, hired soldiers including Persians. Gypsies make up 7-10% of the population, 2 million people but that the more likely figure is 1.4 million since data from Turkey and Albania corrupt the figures. So I still don’t know who the Macedonians are but Steryo was adamant that they retained a true heritage that goes back before the Greeks. Apparently they are unique in their genetics, having something of a similar vein to the Basque, descended from the ancient Antiochians of Asia Minor. (A mixture of tribes of Greek and Illyrian) I was severely lacking in my history here and continued with a passive ear. Pre-occupied with foreign claims to their land, including the Greeks who claim to be the true Macedonians (When Steryo considered the Greeks, he must mean the tribes, as Arabs descended from Danai, a part of Egypt), I knew that any opinion here was just that, and that the mixing of cultures nowadays will always throw everything into obscurity. A quick look at Wikipedia will confirm that Macedonia has a lot of interpretations. To bore you with the facts here goes then:

“Republika Makedonija is a country located in the central Balkan peninsula in Southeast Europe. It is one of the successor states of the former Yugoslavia, from which it declared independence in 1991. It became a member of the United Nations in 1993 but, as a result of a dispute with Greece over its name, it was admitted under the provisional reference of the former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia, sometimes abbreviated as FYROM... The name (Greek: Μακεδονία (Makedonía) translated as ‘tall, taper’, is originally believed to have meant either "highlanders" or "the tall ones", possibly referring to the physical character of the ancient Macedonians and their mountainous land.” King Phillip II unified the kingdom after which his son Alexander the Great ushered in the Hellenistic period of Mediterranean culture. During the post Roman period for about eight hundred years the Byzantium and Slavic peoples fought it out. In the 14^th century the last major Balkan power fell and with it Christian denomination, allowing the Ottoman Turks to subsume power in the region. There we have it then, but that would not be the end of it. Steryo felt that the Muslim presence was more cancerous than beneficial, encroaching slowly across the landscape and being intolerant of Christian sentiments. I think this is a little off the mark. I have heard it said of positive movements also like Transition Towns described as being viral. The nature of their spread in ecological terms is more as generalists – they fit into an ecological niche made available by a general loss of specialisation.  He also considered them a very clever peoples, avoiding most political contestation and living in isolation. He meant this in very honest tones, considering that Macedonia is probably the most undeveloped country in these regions and nobody was going anywhere, whilst the Muslims find these conditions quite accommodating. I watched the people go by, wondering how anybody makes any money here other than running a cafeteria. Eventually Steryo made some sales whilst I sat outside entertaining gypsies with my music – I was such a novelty to look upon. It was only since last year that the people regained their rights to travel to the West having lost them in 1980.

Moving off and engaging the pot-holed road to Bitola, snails in hand, I passed by a garage who were only too keen to blow up my tyres. Like I said, things are best left alone if they work, and lo and behold, the increased pressure displaced an old puncture patch on the way down from another mountain climb. I was in the middle of nowhere messing about on the side of the road where I decided to fix everything including 2 spokes, arriving into Bitola late and spending the evening in a library. Just as I finished updating my blog, battery power on the brink of closure, demolishing the cake with awful hindsight, and ready to hit the road at night, a man called me over and invited me to coffee. So I did, and what a brain he had! At first I thought he had been hired, he behaved like a stand-up comedian. I got the nationalist spiel from him too. He told me many things about his country, not least how communism had destroyed the old culture of the last fifty years. He considered the country as a “melting pot for every strain of DNA there has ever been” and for a moment I tried to put things in perspective. In this he meant that human evolution evolved out of Africa through this region, retarded now due to the Russian-imposed Victorian education system in the Balkan states. It was obvious that I was dealing with an intellectual, who spoke perfect English because he was a lawyer. He didn’t believe in God, which may have helped him get out of some sticky mental patches his life history records, and he had this thing about homosexuality, saying that it usefully controls population expansion especially in fast developing cities. The figures he came up with were that 1% population growth keeps the city from expanding faster than its economic threshold whereas a 9% growth rate doubles the population every forty years. Dayan and Dimiter, the other was a psychologist, were exercising some sort of mental aptitude here, something I am used to. In fact, I am beginning to wonder if something is following me around and testing my integrity. I told him where he could find God, in the collective consciousness. I told him of my hypothesis on religious evolution of man and he subsequently told me it was a nothing new. So I put it to him that if I came to realise God as a co-evolution of the human mind who has been created in man’s image when primates became humans, only for man to create this ineffable distant longing for homoestasis (technological societies), then surely the revelation of this idea for which I had not read elsewhere will allow me to discover further realisations of this kind and continue to develop my hypotheses. He granted me this. Not long after that I saw God, in the movement of snails tightly constricted in a plastic bag heading towards the edge of the table as a singular unit. The moral of this story is that God is not a fragmented being, but the unification of all life processes. Those snails were my gift for him, and I was glad for them, a sacrifice to our coming together and food for thought. In return he gave me a website (which I won’t name here) where I could get rich quickly. It is one of those loyalty schemes where you sign up for a card and for which every purchase you make gives a tiny profit to your patrons. Hence, if you yourself sign up new members you become their patron too, and receive a proportion of their purchase costs. The brilliance of the scheme is that the retailer takes all the costs and us, the consumers, receive increasing amounts of money from subsequent sales. It works as a hierarchy of profit. Dimiter’s father makes 30,000-40,000 euros per year for doing nothing more than collecting new members – each tier returns a profit to the original patron. But capitalism is capitalism, and the greedy bastard at the top is fooling everybody if he thinks this is the way to make people happy. Ultimately Jo Public foots the bill because supermarkets will raise the price of products. This isn’t about making poor people rich, but rather increasing the disparity between rich and poor. I believe in honest money, not some intellectual stunt based upon an already corrupt and flawed economic system. I couldn’t fault Dimiter’s kindness though. It was because of his general hospitality that I discovered something special about this place. Dimiter was a walking encyclopaedia and informed me of one of his favourite haunts. If it wasn’t for him I would never have visited it, but it turned out to be a little gem of archaeological discovery. He accompanied me there that night and told me where I could sleep before visiting the ancient city in the morning. He was acting as my tour guide, his friend even gave me a donation for my cause which would subsequently keep me going just long enough to get over the border to Greece, a handful of kilometres down the road. So that night I chatted a little more, and next to a stream sought to rest on a bench. It was nearly 5 O’clock now, on this occasion the dogs got the better of me and I quickly set up the sleeping bag underneath some shrubs near a meadow, just to shut the dogs up as quickly as possible. Ironically, the sound of nightingales drowned out their barking; I was beneath a canopy of opera singers. The morning I woke to a growling dog and contentious bugs biting at my legs but I quickly got my stuff together and headed down to the stream. There I admired the graffiti trees, played a few tunes to the nightingales, and headed down to Heraclea Lynkestus. You would never find this place unless somebody brought you here. Founded by Phillip II it lies in obscurity, having no refreshments or promotional literature. The theatre had been restored and is used often during the summer for musical and theatrical performances. Having negotiated a free entry (I paid my cat tax the night before with the remains of the cake and even they didn’t eat it – I must have been below them in the psychical hierarchy of liberated beings) the host allowed me to play to an invisible audience in the theatre. I think it is brilliant that these places are still professionally used by performers, and come the summer I was informed that the cafeteria and promotional material will be available. As usual it all comes down to money. I duly left the ancient city as well as a substantial amount of cake in the toilet, metamorphosed through the length of my bowels, and headed towards the border. It would be a reminder of the massive cultural influence Macedonia and Greece have had on the world. Using unlimited amounts of electricity in the restaurant I updated my work and set off for the border. Two policemen tried to get shirty with me but I used my cat sense to put them in their place, but it was obvious they were looking for trouble, hanging about 100 metres from border control. They do fear a British passport here also.

My first stop would be Edessa but before I got there I had to adjust to the landscape. The first thing you notice is a lack of traffic. Next, there is a lack of activity, then a lack of geology and finally a lack of towns. Everything is big and open, the plains with their distant mountains were brewing an electric storm. The backdrop was moody, and even Alexander the Great looked like he was coming alive (see photo). The other thing you notice straight away are the signs, in both English and Greek lettering. Local variations in names made it even more difficult; I found it best to follow the cardinal points. As sunset came upon me I sought a sleeping spot, and duly found an outcrop just off the road. It looked sacred and held my attention long enough not to change my mind. As it goes I spent one and a half hours looking for two trees spaced widely enough for the hammock, in the meanwhile the lightning was creating a theatrical performance all of its own. The night was perfect, and what a view. The country is clean, the roads very long and in good condition. My condition though, was ailing; my good toilet habits disappeared with that cake. I was lethargic and slow; something in the atmosphere was so debilitating. Long hours for relatively short distances eventually brought me to Edessa. It was time to stop and a bike shop caught my attention. The old man was very friendly, grabbing maps and allowing me to use his electricity. I felt that Edessa had little to offer me, so having said farewell I trundled into the tourist part. After discovering that there was an old town (which would wait ‘til tomorrow) and a beautiful waterfall, one that would rival Jayce in the Replubic of Srpska, I decided to stick around and play for a few euros. I was deliberately not buying anything and so the pattern of giving and alms continued. I played really well and made 50 cents after about 2 hours. The guy who came to me was a Greek. He sat down and offered me cherries from his dad’s orchard. It wasn’t long before I got the nationalist spiel again. For one thing, he told me it was a mistake that Macedonians are descendants from Alexander the Great; he was born 40km from here and Edessa was just as important as Athens then, being one of the major cities here. I would find out more tomorrow when I visited the old part; the new part was the acropolis. The inhabitants of Scopia (pronounced like this by the Greeks) are bringing fake ideas about Greek culture although he had no problem with referring to Scopia as northern part of the Macedonian kingdom. I remember Dimiter telling me that this argument has been going on for 50 years. In complete honesty if you take a look at the Greeks they look like they come from everywhere. I, myself, am just as much Greek as the mainland peoples. Actually it pleased him that I was part Greek. He considered the modern Greeks as a failure, a people who have lost their identity. There was real disappointment when he talked about them. He iterated that the Greeks were not a pure race, some were Latin and others Slavic. He considered the Greeks as the worst peoples in the Balkans, along with the Bulgarians, and that they deserve a government like this. Yet there was a faint glimpse of hope detected in his voice as he wished for peace and sang a song with me. Personally, I don’t think you have seen the last of it yet; they behave like a hated race (xenophobia). In fact when you look at the history of these lands, everyone has had a go at claiming it. Alexander had said, in justifying hiring Persians into his army, that a barbarian is better than a bad Greek. He didn’t care for religion but for the quality of man. One need look only a little deeper into their history and understand that from the time of Homer (800BC) and the Odyssey and Iliad through to Socrates and Sophocles who wrote Oedipus the King the Greeks were an incredibly noble race, inaugurating the civilising developments of Europe and Asia Minor through the creation of the polis. Even today most people live in these city states (two thirds), a population of 11 million and a nation of numerous islands sparsely populated. Fundamentally rooted in a history of military governance this seems to be the contemporary pattern as resentment and stifling commitment in Europe has somewhat repressed their inner nature. During the Byzantine period Venetians, Franks, Normans, Slavs, Persians, Arabs and Turks all played a role in creating its history. Beneath every Greek resurgence though is this sentiment to reunite the kingdom, with Otho of Bavaria the king in 1833 and Venizelos after the First World War. Likewise General Mataxas as prime minister shared this grand vision leading up to the Second World War. Unfortunately the civil war that ensued between royalists and communists after the war caused a mass exodus of one million Greeks to all parts of the world. This is the inherited mentality of today. The socialist government of the 1980’s and entry into the EU brought fresh waves of corruption. The 90’s and the millennium only continued the mismanagement of the economy with the euro being introduced in 2002. You don’t need to research this history, just talk to the people, everyone has a really good idea; their language is a testament to understanding their culture, pregnant as it is with meaning.

Edessa means something like “the place of wind and water”. Early Christians built on ancient Edessa and its Hellenistic heritage. So having spent the night in the car of my new friend (we made a video together of a song to be posted to Facebook) and having gratefully received some bread from him, the following morning I got to the old town quickly and immediately linked up with the archaeologists. I watched intensely as they uncovered a new wall and gleaned some more information from them. I always fancied being one myself when I was a small kid, having the bug to explore hidden things. Maria told me that archaeology is funded by the Cultural Ministry and as always are waiting for money. This site was a Roman garrison between 100BC and 300AD with the important via Ignatia constructed that goes all the way to Turkey. The walls of the old city have been restored and I wandered through, grabbing a free cup of coffee from the office and receiving a bit more information as to where I could go from here. Tassos, short for Anastasios (he told me his name meant the resurrection of Jesus Christ) substantially satiated my thirst with knowledge and so I took advice that 40km south towards Mount Olympus (pronounced “oli-bus”), the highest mountain in Greece, lies the old city of Vergina. The site of ancient burials enticed me, but what I would not appreciate ‘til I got there was its location as the ancient capital of Macedonia. I thought I could make the trip quite quickly, stopping by a roadside cherry tree and filling my stomach. I ambled along catching the odd burial site including Kinch’s tomb just before Veroia, and the Judgement Tomb (4^th ce. BC) a little further along. It was closed but I caught the workmen and artists who were restoring the building. They opened it up especially for me and I had a look inside; it looked and felt Egyptian. On the wall were the images of the mythical figures that were being recreated by the artists. They were that of the dead man, believed to be a military figure, Hermes Psychopompus, the accompanier of souls, and the two judges Aekos and Rhadamanthys. I was privileged here, gave them thanks and went on my way. As I continued along I seemed to be getting slower and slower. I just felt bored with the cycling, but no sooner had I learnt that Vergina was a little further than intended I put a little more effort into it. I started cursing because I knew I would miss closing time. Sweating through and through I reached the site; it was out of bounds for restoration. The museum had just closed and I was the ugliest person in the world. This really got the wind up me and I decided that what I didn’t see I didn’t know. As I left I dropped into a garage. That is where I met Akis who convinced me to stay until tomorrow to see the museum, magnificent as it would be. In fact he was a guitarist and we played all night, I meeting all his friends including Theodor. I must say, that up until that moment, including the host of the previous nights, I hadn’t seen a single smile on these Greek faces. The economy had painted a morbid picture on them. All they had left was their pride. But Akis was a breath of fresh air – we both loved music and played for joy. He taught me something of arabetical music, which sounds mathematical if you ask me. I stayed cosy on a camp bed under shelter, eating what he fed me including croissants and yoghurt. The infamous issue of coffee came to light again, because when joining the EU it used to cost 34 drachma which is about 1 euro but the price went up to 2-3 euro overnight, in line with other European prices. That practically everybody drinks coffee, especially Muslims in these Balkan states, was like hitting people below the belt. Since my experience in France I slowly drifted away from purchasing the drink, relying mainly on freebies. For me it had become the token for gift exchange, a reason to play my music. We both felt ill in the morning, a phenomenon I equate with the hostile change of weather, for it was the first time I witnessed the heavy rains here, and they are torrential. Something in the air changed our disposition, and in one moment we were struck by lightning as we huddled in the office. But I slept well and the following morning his mate got me in to the museum for free, and I must say, it is absolutely stunning. Built on the royal tomb of Phillip II who was assassinated for aligning himself with the 12 immortals at a presentation ceremony of the wedding of his daughter, as well as numerous other tombs, the discoveries resemble the crown jewels. He was buried in a “heroon” – a shrine dedicated to the deceased and considered divine. It would normally cost €8 entry fee justifying the expense in maintaining the surrounding grounds and security, but here again the pride of the Greeks treated me to a special occasion, not wanting me to miss such a thing. I have learnt that only 1% of the burial site has been excavated and 20% of the actual city, because they cannot afford to maintain these hidden treasures once they become exposed to the elements. Burial chambers are prevalent here in Greece because they are buried intact with a view to preserving them in time. The tumulus at Vergina has a 10m diameter and is 12m high. Their proof of Greek identity lies in the fact that they have Greek names and that the Macedonians were Greek. Yet I know that even the druids of the British Isles used Greek lettering, verified so in the history of the emperors and Roman wars. I am beginning to consider that Greece was the intellectual centre of the world whose militant background favoured that of the Celtic tribes. The country is an archaeological dream waiting to be discovered. How many more theatres, racecourses, municipal buildings, temples, tombs, walls, military garrisons etc. wait for an upturn of economy. The whole of Greece should be a World Heritage site!

So I set off with a smile on my face. I learnt yesterday that the Olympic torch was lit from Athens. Pulling up at a fruit stall to pick up my own banana the vendor gave me two for free and asked me to play. No-one was offering to drink my raki so all I could do was give them back my music. The road to Thessaloniki was flat and easy. At times the rain came again. Just before reaching the city my sugar levels dropped again, and by the grace of God I pulled into a shop front with a bench and sat down to drink my ice tea purchased from the 1 euro I found on the road. The man was a seller of ice cream and other sweets, interested as he was in my journey he gave me a massive ice-cream that had the texture of pasta. That sorted me out and now I was just about to enter the second biggest city in Greece in anticipation of its botanical gardens. I had received no replies to my emails but that doesn’t matter anymore because people always change when they meet me. Large construction programs greeted me. My first stop was the university but it was dark by now. I managed to find some very helpful students who told me where to go on Monday, since it was now Friday. Akis had told me it was Wednesday the night I stayed with him hence the confusion (unless I was abducted by aliens for a day). So I had the whole weekend and thought to go down towards the beach. The prices for this student culture were cheap; coffee started at 50 cents. I ate hot food for a change because the weather was getting wetter. After wandering around like a camel trader I happened across a bar with wifi. I sat down as usual without any intent to buy anything and took out my laptop. It wasn’t long before 3 students approached me from the bar, and by God’s amazing grace they turned out to belong to the Faculty of Forestry and Natural Environment at Aristostle University. Well, two of them were, the other was the most garrulous philosopher I have ever known, who beats that Macedonian intellectual hands down. At last I had found somebody who would drink my raki. When they discovered I was here to visit their Institute of Forest Botanics they offered me a place to sleep at theirs. George had given me his bed whilst he slept on the floor despite my insistence. The comfort was all too much for me and I had another natural emission. I knew my energy levels would begin to deplete after this. We spent the following day socialising, meeting their friends and playing music. I didn’t intend to stay too long, Monday at the least, but it felt that by the end of the weekend I had known these guys for years. Their generosity was unsurpassed, buying me food all weekend and taking me on an excursion to their botanical garden. We ate and drank like old friends, Chris was fast becoming an aspiring professor in flora, George a professional photographer in wildlife, and Michael the greatest Cynic of the modern era. I hope I do them justice in these words. It sounds like a cauldron for the coming of a saviour, one who will return their economy back to environmental homoeostasis. We loosely sketched out an idea to cycle the north coast of Africa in two years time. In the meanwhile these Greek Cypriots may become best buddies in the near future. By now I had mastered the act of non-guilt for receiving Greek sustenance for earlier this day on Sunday, after I had decided to sleep a little outside the city in a neglected piece of land, a Romanian woman took me in, her name was Maria, and fed me bountiful amounts of food and coffee after she requested me to play my music. What a lovely couple they were on a day when supermarkets close and kiosks sell their wares at significantly higher prices. I went for a swim that day but ensured taking a shower under a standpipe on recommendation. Everyone warned against swimming in the sea because this part of Greece is a closed coastline. Everything people throw in just hangs around. I must admit, it looked like pea soup; I remember seeing the boat bars pour un-drunk glasses of spirits straight into the water at the port of Thessaloniki and knew then that for once, maybe the people are aware of their environment. It was paralleled by the torrential rain we had nearly every evening and multiple tyre punctures on the bike (all self-inflicted). Nevertheless there was one last act, Chris and George would take me to their forest botanical garden and give me an in-depth tour of the shrubs and trees. These were Chris’ specialisation.

The garden was very limited, only 120 species of which 80 were indigenous. Here the contrast was all too apparent as this small area was solely used for educational purposes and not for ornamentation. Chris highlighted the poplars, the popularity of the wood is now used for fruit packing; the various oaks including Quercus robur sub sp. Pedunculiflora with its massive acorns ideal for food forage, Quercus ithaburensis sub sp. Macrolepsis the native of Macedonia, Quercus ilex with its smoothe leaves on the shady side and toothed leaves on the sunny side, and Quercus coccifera which is normally found stunted because goats love eating the leaves. George pointed out the sound of a Syrian woodpecker and the swifts that have migrated from Africa to nest and feed here. He said that due to their legs being so short they have to maintain a high perch in order to take off, not being able to fly from the ground. After admiring the beautiful cedars, brevifolia and lebananii, I was told that I should visit Cedar Valley in Cyprus, which I intend to since I have a synergistic mission out there too. There were of course some temperate favourites like Cornus mas with its strong wood, Eleagnus angustifolia which translates something like ‘pure olive’, Cotinus coggyria which the Greeks call Golden wood for it colour obviously, and maybe Mimosa azedurae, the Istanbul acacia of which the leaves close up at night. These latter plants can be found in many British gardens as ornamentals. Of the other species pointed out with interest was the Paliurus spinachristi the favourite food of the hoff finch and considered to be the plant used to crown the crucified Jesus. This was obviously a botany lesson, looking at the uneven nature of elm leaves, or the seeds of Ostrea carpinus that resemble hornbeam, as well as reflecting on the phototherapeutic value of plant saps for healing solutions, for instance turpentine is made from Pistachia poterrebinthus. We ended the tour looking at the pines in the dark, comparing the different leaves and fruit of Pinus sylvestris (smallest in Greece), halepensis (smoother needle) and bruten (no stalk on the cone). I had seen all I wanted to see, even the hooded crows grabbed my attention with its grey and white plumage. The area is under-maintained due to financial pressures; the voraciousness of bugs during the night, since I slept amongst its trees, was testament to that. I would learn more from the professors the following morning; the gardens are only maintained by 2 persons, the area formally was a forest. The plan is to develop a medicinal garden but again the emphasis is not on exotics or aesthetics. Instead the botanical gardens in Stavroupoli and the Agricultural Research Center of Macedonia and Thrace would cap my experience here when it came to ornamentation. With 50 new plantings and a staff of 3 professors and 1 lecturer the botany department is obviously making headway. They have a big congress to prepare for entitled Eurogard VI (http://www.eurogardvi.gr) which I intend going to on the island of Chios. Lying off the coast of Turkey in Greek waters the 5-day event promises to be an ecologist’s dream, taking in the flavour of the local environment also. But before I conclude this blog with the experiences of the other gardens within the city let me say that the hospitality of the Greeks is un-surpassing.

That evening I had said goodbye to Chris and George and ventured into a local cafe. There I was fed a sausage roll and a free cup of coffee as people listened to my story of travel and adventure. I played my music and retired back to the botanic garden to set up my hammock. Surprisingly I had another natural emission; (it forewarned me that my immune system would be severely compromised, and it was – see next blog) all the wet weather and ionisation in the atmosphere had charged me up. That morning the professors had called a meeting for me to ask about the seeds I was carrying, and suggested I give them to the other institutes since many were exotics. So later on Kostas took me on a round trip to the Agricultural Research Center of Macedonia and Thrace, Laboratory of Conservation and Evaluation of the Native and Floricultural Species in Foinikas. The Institutes of Agriculture (with extensive food production happening including grapes within the city itself), and of Forestry, were having a conference. But Stelios took time off to give me a guided tour. This research centre was linked to the university and was up to date concerning technological equipment and processes; it was impressive.  The main purpose of the centre was towards conservation and biodiversity, and this included seed saving. The propagation of rare and difficult plants was done through tissue conservation. The process takes about 30 days using a gel with nutrients and growth regulators. With a fully automated irrigation system and drip/capillary methods for their upkeep it helps to keep the costs down in running the station. One of the research aspects of these laboratories was towards essential oil production for both medicine and cosmetics, and ensuring everything is catalogued. The herbarium illustrated a number of pressings too. Stelios told me that this was the first year they were growing food for themselves; the method I saw was of hydroponics for tomato production. One focus was to grow traditional varieties of vegetables. The extensive nursery and exhibition beds of alpine and lower shrubs were all in production too, albeit the two gardeners have their work cut out maintaining the weeds. And to continue the educational slant there was an area of plants for human use. A couple of plants grabbed my attention, the Origanum dictamnus which is endemic to Crete and from which they make Martini, and Sideritis scardica from Olympus from which they make a tea. All this was a fulfilling adventure but there was one final visit, probably the most enjoyable of the lot. The professors organized for me to be expected at Stavroupoli the following morning and I eagerly anticipated giving them a selection of exotic seeds I was carrying. So I set off with a view to swim.

Along the coast back to the city I ambled along, forsaking the swim and meeting up with my friends again who would drink the night away with me. It rained so hard that the need to swim was negligible. We finished up the raki and the suverin, a very similar drink given to me by Chris. The bars here will close even as late as 5pm if people buy drinks. In the morning I gave my gifts of books, clothes and bike parts to my friends and waited for the early hours to head off to Stavroupoli. It was only a stone’s throw away and along the road I met a bar tender. It was ironic since a taxi driver had sent me off in the complete wrong direction when I was already next to the site. But I popped into a café since I was early, and decided that I may as well buy a coffee here whilst getting new directions. That is when I met this other George who spoke good English and told me many things. He said there was a tradition in Greece, that when the old lady stopped coming with the eggs and bread then the economy failed. He quoted Kissinger who said that to destroy the Greeks you have to hit them at their culture, history and language, and this is what is happening; there were no books at school, the teachers had to bring them. If the Greeks work 12 hours for 700 euros the Germans work 8 hours for 1,200 euros per month. After converting from the drachma the price of food went up 3-4 times but wages remained the same. Banks gave loans for which the people couldn’t pay back and consequently there has been a big number of suicides and homeless counts. George says they are trying to make Greece into another Taiwan or Pakistan with cheap labour, so that the big corporations will set up their factories here reducing wages even further. The metro system does not look like it will be finished now until 2020 since the massive haul of archaeological finds have stopped construction. In one place they discovered 1,200 skeletons all of which have to be taken to Athens for examination. There is no money anywhere and the economy hangs on by a thread. Even the fascists have won seats at the last election (hung parliament) with the communists coming in second. Everyone is about to go to vote again since a coalition could not be formed, and because the smaller parties know that their popularity increases in the face of degradation. I think the phrase to describe the situation is ‘waiting with baited breath’. I have yet to meet anyone who is wholly optimistic. The Greek people love me because I represent freedom. They feel even better when I tell them I am half Greek.

Stavroupoli gardens is an example of what can be achieved. Relative to the economy it seems the botanical institutes have got it right. I toured the gardens taking in the gorgeous array of shrubs and trees, looked at how such a small space could produce a wonder of sensual forms; the contrasting of colours and textures, shapes and sizes. I thought the design was superb, taking into consideration overall size of plants at maturity. I watched the kids going round like an eager pack, surprisingly well-behaved, in an area of the town that is peaceful. My host told me that the garden is funded by council tax, the first municipal botanic garden in Greece with over 1,000 species. It manages on one gardener and a temporary student placement. Started in 1996 it was opened in 2002 with most plants now reaching maturity. The original designers took their inspiration from Kew, Eden and Berlin amongst other world-famous gardens; it is a lesson in landscape design for an area 5,000 sq.m. only. The gardens work in association with both the agronomy and architecture departments of Aristotle University. From the photos you will notice that, as with the exhibition at the research station, floriculture is quite popular in Thessaloniki. Fania Persaki, the council agronomist, informed me of the big aspiration to extend the work of the municipal Department of Greenery for Stavroupoli into the former Pavlos Melas Army Camp, which in my ears sounds like a better use of the land. The land is 350,000 sq.m. and ideas include sustainable food production and a biosphere, and will obviously involve extending the already acknowledged importance of creating more green areas in inner city areas. It is obvious though that with the economy as it is they will need private enterprise and partnerships also, maybe on the same model that Eden was created.

After Fania and I exchanged our gifts (which I really enjoy from everyone) including lots of publications to get through, she bought me some coffee and a snack. I was exhausted from the lack of sleep and thought to relax somewhere and get my head down before setting off. Asking directions for the library I was eventually directed to the municipal offices not far from the gardens. Fania happened to be there and she did something wonderful, she organized at the expense of the vice-president and people free accommodation in a hotel in Pavlos Melas. She caught me falling asleep on the bench, but after navigating a big hill I settled in. There I said goodbye to Dimitric Ferenidic, Manolis Domenikiotic, and Gionni Binlakoc. For 24 hours I lived above my means. Hotel Byzantio was quite empty but they still laid on a buffet feast for breakfast. I managed to work incessantly at my blog and took in an archaeological site or two. It was time to get going. Both Nikos and Niki the attendants thought to have the last word and told me just a little more about the economy. She said things were better before when they were small, that after joining the EU the loans that were made easily available introduced a different value system; it was a new thing, people bought cars, new houses and clothes. But after the local economies were destroyed nothing could be paid back; large corporations had displaced family businesses. Once, people built slowly, one year the windows, the next another floor. Parents lived on the 1^st floor; Greece prided itself on the family unit. The family was the most important aspect of its culture. Here now, if you have no job and no family or friends you are ‘dead’ because the state does not pay you benefits. And businesses stopped paying their taxes because everything costs. A simple operation may set you back 5,000 euros, a more expensive one 40,000 euros. With more than 25% unemployed, 50% of those are the youth, the talent of Greece is leaving to find work abroad. Niki told me that if you want something in this country you have to pay for it because everything is poor. 90% of the youth are highly educated, many have two and three degrees. I wondered if the situation was as bad in the past. When I mentioned these points to others I was informed that corruption and the Mafia infiltrated the country. I have heard some say that the 80’s were good, maybe from the abundance of European money let into the system. Once the disparity of rich and poor was widened then the economy truly fell through and now there are no more rich people. The money they kept in their pockets has all but vanished. Maybe this is a good thing and reflects something of the public favoring and move towards more stringent policies and general welfare. I have seen this pattern across the EU, that introduction into the market only shadows the underlying motives of greedy humans to continue to monopolize the economy either through the mafia or under the false economic umbrella of a European Union. When I saw Albania I saw a working landscape. Here in Greece the farms are so large that many people don’t live in the country any more. The tourist attractions died with the economy leaving empty hotels and ghost-like resorts everywhere. It should be an obvious axiom to all candidate states to the EU, that traditional values harbor greater economic resilience because of their smallness. Hence, there is something beautiful about the stillness of the landscape, the severe lack of cars, and the general feeling that it is better to stay at home.

To Hellas and Back

Your hospitality was most welcome for the tiring traveller whose eyes dimmed with the closing sun

I blinked my last and darkness fell upon me, a most comforting journey through the descent into bedlam

For here I struck up one last fling to reunite my soul with the quiescent masses

Awaiting their turn to levitate their mortal bodies back into the world of air, water, earth and fire

And with them the sparks of eternal youth and rapturous joy

I am the phoenix in my rising, years have passed by in the hours of my slumber

And what a Byzantium feast awaited me fit for a returning king

Cereals of many grains, sweets of many fruits, stimulants for my renewed venture into the heart of the sun

I am raised upon a dais filled with the fat of the land,

And now I must give back to the peoples of these ancient lands

Return them to the economy of nature

Let the flame of Olympus bear every man, beast and plant to equal sustenance

So that once again we can feed off the foods of the gods

Every berry, leaf, and root; and let’s not forget the flower the drawer of souls into nectaries of gold

Here only God commands life, no failing human convention will denude it of life

Man must learn to live again

I write this blog from just beneath the summit of a huge climb, having completed two thirds of my journey, and lying in my hammock unwilling at first to get out. I don’t know what else is there to achieve for the peregrine; surrounded by downy oak and hornbeam, the buzzing sounds of insects and fluttering of frequent birds visiting my nest. I have perfect cover here, unseen by any humans yet I hear their vehicles go by some 20 metres below me. Occasionally I hear the footsteps of passers-by going to and fro from the village called Gracen. I chose this spot rather than the summit because of the exposure of the latter even though the views were spectacular up there. And I wanted to wake up on the mountain top and watch the sun come up from the other side whilst during the previous evening I had that fortunate experience of seeing both the setting sun and near-full moon in the sky at the same time. The country is Albania yet I could be anywhere in the Mediterranean. I complete another cycle in anticipation of the Middle East and that city once-called Constantinople which divided the eastern empire from the west. My body knows when it has achieved genetic fulfilment; the natural emission I had was due to the acceptable reluctance to go further into the metaphysical realms of godhood. I could have powered on for I had eaten well and slept long enough, but I had no motive to do so. I have achieved a perfect state between ecology and spirituality, the subject matter of which provides the material of my last chapter in the other book I am writing. In that book I talk about returning to harmony with nature as if man borrowed time from the moment he denied his species extinction 5 million years ago. In that religious quest he gained a consciousness that had to deal with suffering and the need to adapt to a new environment since, during his wanderings he ever sought to reconnect back to the natural food forests of his genetic roots. I believe his quest is to recreate those forests, which is why he has been divinely assigned dominion over nature, and developed a human realm of spatial time. I have found mine here even though I need not eat the soft growth of Spring leaves or wait for the fruits and flowers of gorse and acacia; hardly palatable foods. That other book then is one you have to wait for, but I managed to complete some important sections whilst in Montenegro, taking in by a lovely family who allowed me to stay in their apartments for 3 days whilst I took a welcome respite from the wilderness. It is here then I start, crossing the border from Croatia and suddenly finding myself in a new environment.

My shoes have been bugging me, again the souls are coming away but that last drop of Croatian money was well spent on superglue. The profit of 11 duna is a wonderment and begs the question whether I have to come back here and work for this country in the future, which I think I do. The creaking pedal arm on the bike was bugging me also, which I have come to realise are the bearings in the pedals themselves. I also recently noticed that the through-bolt on the steering column has broken but it does not seem to affect the solidity of it. I am still on one broken spoke on the back wheel and don’t put it down to a lessening of weight even though my baggage looks smaller of recent. We have a saying in Britain, “If it works leave it alone.” The tyres are understandably a little worn but still no punctures other than the self-inflicted one when I pinched the inner tube changing a spoke before, which seems ages away now. The new camera batteries this time seem to be going on for ages too before I can reutilize them with LED lights. I am clean, my body is functioning well producing now a natural oil that helps to insulate it from loss of moisture. I occasionally smell but taking the coastal route gave me ample opportunity to swim.

The coastal road would be very hilly; large swathes of what I think are Bladder campion gain my attention, and I long for the fruiting season to come on from the sheer mass of wild fig and pomegranate either side. I entered Montenegro then as a through-country to speed up my destination somewhat to Albania and Greece, but the searching of motor vehicles coming the opposite way was a reminder of the historical trafficking of drugs and guns in the recent past along these frontiers. Montenegro accepts the euro and I had some of those, not much though. The first landscape distinction were the long lines of cypresses indicating the existence of large estates. The country was fantastic and well-managed; it looked rich. My initial stop then would be the sea so I headed for the nearby town of Igalo. A few tourists jauntily roamed the street for ice-scream and ornaments but most vendors were still closed due to it being off-season. I would learn the season starts in another month, unbelievable when you think how hot is was, at times near 30^oC. The swimming platforms aid diving, and are free. The littering is disgusting – mounds of trash pile up in various areas because the locals won’t put a bit more effort into keeping their backyard clean. Deciding to hit the road I espied a second-hand shop (the first one on my travels) and thought ‘whoopee!’ they should have a pair of shoes in there. I would never enter that shop because just at that moment a women with her 8-year old son stopped me and asked where I was going. Within a five minute conversation we had decided that I could stay in her apartment for a night and that I would join them for a mountain walk. Apparently she has two German cyclists also staying there (since last winter!) in likewise manner who would be returning tomorrow. So we went up, the three of us and Jasna and Sandro treated me to a family experience. She bought me food and drink and took me to a location upstairs (this is the word Montenegrins and Albanians use for ‘upwards’ or ‘uphill’) and we had a fantastic time in a fresh water stream trundling down the mountain side into pools. Sandro, the super-sports kid tried being Tarzan from the multitude of lianas hanging down and fell straight into the river; he tries ever so hard to keep dry. I was understandably tired from the cycling and swimming previously. Over three days Jasna continued to feed me and when Jan and Marie arrived we were all very good company. They were performers and environmentalists, doing some local work in the region, but the English conversations would help to improve Sandro’s language lessons whom the German’s were teaching, using practical lessons gained from experiences in nature. I took the opportunity to swim and rest, the bountiful food brought me into tip-top condition. It turns out that Jasna goes to Richmond every year and is seeking an apartment in July and August for one month for herself and two kids. I am sure she is willing to do a flat swap for the period if anyone wants to spend a hot month or two in Montenegro directly above the sea – she has 3 apartments overlooking it. Respondents should reply to this post for her to read. I felt so good at this time that I ditched the guitar for a short while and put my energies into the new book. As I say, my health was optimum, my toilet habits perfected. I delayed leaving because they asked me to stay. I only gave when I thought I wasn’t interfering with the synergistic relationship of the 4 of them. I wondered if I would just hang around until they threw me out, but I was an interesting figure to learn about. It turned out that Jasna, who was Serbian, also had an interesting past, so I got a bit more history from her.

Her father was a chef and personally knew Tito’s grandson. Under the king these countries were divided between the kingdoms of Serbia, Croatia and Slovenia. Her great grandfather was a farmer here, living in the hills and where they still have property. They supported the royal families during the war but after the Second-World war a lot of confusion arose as to whose loyalties one should go with. Tito instituted communism and for the first 20 years it was dangerous to talk against it. He took land from the rich and distributed it to the poor, especially from detractors. He also gave away large estates to his families and close acquaintances. Igalo was one of those favourite places he visited for a few days at a time; there is a building here called Tito’s villa which is a testament to his vacations here; he would dine here where Jasna’s father was a chef in the restaurant when he was 16 years old. He later set up his own restaurant on the shores after 1980, but it was his father who had originally came down from the hills and built the first home in the city with a shop. After the earthquake of ‘79 they managed to secure this land on the beach for cheap. The house that Jasna’s father and herself were born in he extended another floor to. She tells me that the earthquake was one of the most frightening experiences she has ever had and fears it will happen again. Anyhow, disputes still exist as to who should inherit the house between his many brothers and sisters. Jasna claimed the new apartments where she tells me she has everything she wants from life; she cannot be happier. Her son looks to be another super human in the making, well balanced. I find it astonishing that I meet these types of people; it seems that if I want to get to the truth of something these encounters happen. Jasna’s sister loved the life here but Jasna herself felt that under communism she could not express herself freely enough, wanting to travel and enjoy life fully. She obviously imparts that influence to her son. There were good and bad aspects living under communist rule; apparently there was no progression, things just stayed the same. The large land owners still had dominance over the masses and it was that after his death Tito’s wife was treated very badly. During the communist era everything was owned by the state, everything was free including education, sport, the health service and cultural arts. Anyone with aspirations though had to be closely acquainted with Tito himself, who some call a very clever leader. I would learn that Yugoslavia was the only communist state that allowed movement between the west and the east, taking in the best of both worlds. Since then, Russia has bought much land and own large estates. Jasna has her own tragic tale, Sandro’s father died when he was 2 years old, but the boy is very mature from the multitude of teachers and mentors he has. I believe they made a good judgement in spotting me.

If you would look at me in a relaxed condition you may think I was just average build, lean and robust. But I transcend in my strength; years of physical activities made my body into a very powerful machine that bears no scars and no physical defects. I have incredible bodily strength evolved from the years of fighting against irritable bowel syndrome. During the 3 days in Igalo I decided that time was enough. The memory of the five of us bathing in mountain pools will live long, traversing the old cobbled roads built by the Austrians for quick movement for both farmer and soldier alike, and I hope to return another time. The regatta of Italian sailors allowed me also to take in a long swim around the boats as they docked one by one –a merman just going about his normal business. The experience was capped with a live jazz performance, apparently it was jazz day. The previous night saw me pre-empt the unexpected event by playing in a bar when we had a power cut, in complete darkness (that’s why I was crap - hehe). This to-ing and fro-ing between mental and emotional agility is a natural phenomenon of mine and playing my music seems to dictate the circumstances for my continued travel. I have a mission both ecological and spiritual, to deliver a part of the western Mediterranean to the east in the form of seeds and olive oil, which I do voluntarily. I left during the night and followed the beach road along lit boulevards and windy streets. After stocking up I knew that if I went too far I would miss the glorious landscape, so I bedded down into a lakeshore grassy verge somewhere in Herceg-Novi. I slept in a place called Dobrodosli and woke to fishermen. As I traversed the stunning bay I sought a place to swim. The whole area boasts of ruined Roman villas, prehistoric cave paintings (although the signs just disappeared and they are now extinct), cave systems and Orthodox churches and monasteries. From a distance I could see the latter on two small islands and I wondered if I could swim there. But it was too early so I continued on my round, met some workmen who lent me a spanner to tighten up the front wheel spindle, met a couple of flash men playing music who bought me an ice coffee (thanks boys – much welcomed and one day may call by again), and came to the docks where the boats go to the islands. Now it was perfect swimming time, (that coffee makes for wonder) and those monasteries were too curious. Without hesitation I climbed in and didn’t look back. About 25 minutes later I reached the island, got out and started looking around. “Excuse me, you haven’t got any clothes on, this is a monastery.” ‘Okay’, I thought, I wasn’t going to argue. “Please, just don’t walk around the island, sit over there and take a break, and then you return.” When I began to feel cold 5 minutes later I set off. Something strange went through me, about half-way along I began to sink, but I kept my pace up, in fact got faster. I gulped a few mouthfuls of water which wasn’t that salty. A ferry boat looked like it was trying to scare me. When I reached the docks all my clothing was there, nothing had been tampered with; I had complete faith in God. Now I was wild again, but the violent vibrations in my body required me to get in some direct sunbathing. I set off 30 minutes later thinking how normal the experience felt. I have seen enough to know that I wasn’t missing anything, and I was right as I flew into Kotor. This whole area boasts beautiful gardens and rich villas, and construction was unceasing, too much maybe. On the way I noticed they play petanque here but they call it bocceball. Kotor was another opportunity to earn a few euros but not before the little beggars persist with asking for money. I met two Slovenians also who had recognized me back in their own country. We engaged very happily and my impression of them remained very high. I asked them, since they were going to Sarajevo, to exchange my left over money since it would help them in Bosnia. In fact, I mistook my KM (Konvertible Marks) from the Serb Republic for Kn (kuna) meaning that they walked away with about 10 extra euros. Someone like me where every penny counts is begging for decency and honesty in a situation like this. They had met me again busking and donated a few more cents but the mistake hadn’t been mentioned. It was only later that it dawned on me what happened, something quite natural for a foreigner to make in these countries. If you are reading this lads why not make a donation from my blogsite, you don’t have to admit to anything, but my pure impression of Slovenians has been tainted otherwise. Nevertheless, the little beggar came by and gave me a marigold in a pot, so I paid him 50 cents. I taught him to water the plants, and having secured another 5 euros set off with marigold in hand. It fluttered in the wind as I reached Budva. I wasn’t going to stop, but then, a little further along in Becici during the night I saw a sign that said ‘Old Olive Tree’. After enquiring and wishing me luck the taxi driver sent me up this gigantic hill. My bike didn’t have the gears to finish it so I pushed the last 200 metres and eventually found the magnificent organism. This night I wasn’t going anywhere and quietly nestled under it to take pictures in the morning. It was a wonderment, and I got up early and packed my gear not to cause alarm on somebody else’s land. That is when I met the farmer who was very sympathetic, since he gets many visitors and knew I was hanging around. He told me the olive tree has been in his family for generations. I gave him some Catalonian olive oil, for being the carer of this tree, and in a way gave my gift to the whole of Montenegro for being a lovely people. We said farewell and I was feeling great. The hill back down got me going and I continued along my way. The Google map was illusionary, since the long straight line was more like a rocky coastline. Nevertheless, it was spectacular. Soon after I passed another Orthodox monastery in Praskvica and came across another slow worm (‘Asculapian snake’) wriggling in the road. I had to take a video of it so that my friends in Igalo can appreciate the experience. Jasna was of course terrified of snakes but her son liked chasing them into rock holes. I also couldn’t help notice the masses of what I think are Shepherd’s purse along the roadside. As the climbs got steadily higher the views became even more stupendous. I noticed that after passing the signpost for Petovac the road became a hard slog. It was indicated by a 9:7 ratio and I was beginning to wonder. My body was screaming from the inside and as I tried to change to a lower crank but it wouldn’t budge, so I started kicking the gear changer with my heel. This really pissed me off and what made it worse was that feeling that I missed my turn-off. In fact, there were a number of cars turning back round. I viewed in the distance another road heading to the coast and thought that this must be my road. It was, but I reluctantly turned around after making good headway on this steep incline; the pictures were worth it though. Later I would discover that the road went to a national parc and I considered the possibility that it could have been an accidental joy to have reached it. But there have been loads of experiences along the way and I wasn’t going to kill myself gaining them. The climb up to the olive tree the night before was adequate for me. Arriving into Bar allowed me to swim and clean up, eat some food and prepare for the border crossing. That is where I met Zoran who’s mother made me a plate of chips with meat balls, loads to drink, and after exchanging details, sent me on my way. They also had apartments at very cheap prices during this time in the year (www.jelenic.mnegro.com). Zoran was a tourist guide and asked me to promote the whole area (www.bar.travel www.visitbar.org). He was ever so kind and helpful, telling me to go to the old town of Bar and actually informing me of another old olive tree that is 2,000 years old. I had to see it. I considered afterward going to the national parc by the small road but good advice told me that it wasn’t suited to cycling. Starri Bar was a ruined walled town. It is worth a visit but after the incredible places I have been it paled in significance. I was also reluctant to pay the 2 euros for it, I am so tight-fisted sometimes. But I was happy to take Zoran’s advice. So I continued and passed by the ancient tree. They attempted to charge me 1 euro and I refused to pay. I told them that they were charging for God’s free services, and that it was against my religion. Even though she tried to tell me it was for the surrounding area she backed off at the mention of God and even took a picture of me with the tree. As you can imagine the centre of the tree was dead. I laid my hands upon it, maybe for strength (of character) and thought about the people who may have visited this tree. I was now heading up a slow incline to the border to a town called Sukobin. The road for the last 5 km was awful, being re-laid, but it is a promising sign that development is secure here.

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Pseudo_apodus1.AVI (5.92 MB)

Zoran had given me some history on Montenegro; its independence was in 1918 before it became a part of HR Serbia under the rule of the king. In 2006 they won a vote for democracy by no less than 5,000 people from a population of 630,000 people. Encompassing an area of 13,812 sq.km it was a small state, formerly much bigger with Kosovo but Jasna had told me that despite their own independence the Serbians wanted to live in peace with them. The coast generally has more Catholics than Orthodox, and vice-versa in the mainland. The Muslims on the other hand are more adventitious and can be found everywhere. On reaching the higher altitudes the lovely scenery is marred occasionally by the fly-tipping. You see it everywhere amongst the poorer communities who seem to show no regard of what people may think of their land. It makes sense when you think that the more affluence there is in a community the more pride there is. So nobody was really bothered by the road works to the border where I had to get off the bike and, in fact, spend the rest of my money quickly. The time of the year meant the farmers were making hay, and there was loads of it going on, and into Albania, either using shared machinery or the traditional hand method of scythes and rakes. I wondered what Albania would look like considering many people here practice subsistence farming. I was quietly shocked.

The border towns of Albania obviously benefit from their proximity to Montenegro. Land is divided up into smaller parcels but it just so happens that everybody chips in to help out. The women especially work their socks off. The first real sense I got was one of community. Families lived together with their cattle, donkeys and goats, rotating them variously around patches of vegetation. This often happens during the evening and explains the use of cow bells. No sooner had I entered Albania were the residents waving at me. One family called me over; no-one could speak English but some know a little Italian because many Italians come over by boat. Jasna had mentioned that the overnighter may cost as little as €25. I played a song and watched the joy in their faces. Everyone seemed to be in a good mood. The young boy brought me to his house and was obviously very proud of it. He said I could stay there, showing me the room with two beds. He plucked a rose from his garden and gave it to me. I didn’t want to make a judgement upon him so quietly refused as I know nothing of these peoples, and anyway, I wanted to make headway towards another national parc called Shkoder which happened to be the far end of the lake system that I bypassed in favour of the coast line. His pride seemed to be a little dented, especially since they lived really well with a nice shower room and large kitchen; they had everything it seemed. He followed me to the end of the road and everybody seemed to know everyone else. The stares I was getting was like watching an alien for the first time, and later I would understand this to be a factor of their isolation from Westerners. But it was a nice entry into the country and the land views matched it. As I tarried along into the dark I kept my keen vision out for a good sleeping spot. I was feeling a bit threatened; I really knew nothing of these people and I wondered whether the more populated areas would cause a problem. As I came into the first town on the outskirts of Skhoder Parc my expectations weren’t dampened. It was a poor area, a slum actually, yet everybody seemed happy and waving. The addiction of meeting one’s needs in towns and cities creates a concentration of problems, including lack of employment, the build up of waste, and increased begging. Such a beautiful lake littered at every available spot if it was not being used for recreation like fishing, which is big here. Passing a manufacturing works, obviously the labour force is drawn sporadically from the locality, I noticed what I thought was natural woodland. Unfortunately it was on a steep slope but I yanked my bike up to a safe, covered level. Quietly I set the hammock up, only for some poxy dog to sniff me out. But it got scared, and then it was called away, the croaking of mating frogs responded to its incessant barking. Not long after that a few cows went by with bells tinkling, their manure trail is an attractive smell for mosquitoes and other bugs. I thought I would never get a night’s sleep. In fact, what I thought to be security guards turned out to be night fishermen, and despite the repeated visit of the same dog (I am good at recognizing their barks) I lazily got up and headed for a swim. Reading my copy of The Land is all the intellectual stimulation I needed, and the water was like crystal. It was the most serene lake I have ever seen, and as I looked up to the ‘land-filled’ banks I didn’t want to get out. I continued along my way hoping to get to Tirane in good time.

I don’t see any reason for this country to join the EU. When I first mentioned Albania to colleagues some would look back in aghast, but it is a really productive country with a low cost of living. I think Albania feeds off Montenegro’s tourism and being the country to pass through to get to Greece. When one compares it to other EU countries and the higher cost of living it is apparent that poorer nations bond together better. The disparity in richer countries is caused by a change of values. Croatia is an example of its dependency upon tourism – it is richer and better maintained in areas where foreigners travel to. Likewise Bosnia only gets wealthier along its historical routes. This is not the case in Albania where there is no real cultural legacy for say, Europeans to stick their noses into, but then I would only traverse half the landscape. The obvious indicator of this is the quality of the roads – they are very good and need to be because of the transportation of goods along them. There seems to be people working everywhere due to the nature of the smaller farms.

All Mediterranean countries are rich with wild foods. For the last week I have been on perfect form. The honeycomb from Jasna was a real bit of motherly nurturing as was the washing of all my clothes. I gladly wear her jazzy t-shirt which makes me look quite attractive, exchanged for my very last specially-printed t-shirt made for this journey (available by request at £20). I had also given Sandro the clay tablet I found on the beach of Porquerolla in France because he had given me shells. I always keep my presents, and I am continually flagging up the importance of gift culture. There I was saying that Muslims don’t take you in but when they offered I had already created the boundary for my refusal of their hospitality. Anyhow, Albanian people are like all Adriatic inhabitants, they are very warming to know something more about you.

Like Croatia I had no money when I entered this country and would reach the capital in quick time. It was late afternoon and I was exhausted from the push I made in the last 20km to get to the botanical gardens before they closed. After getting caught in a multitude of smelly traffic I eventually found the place near more massive road works. The security guard couldn’t speak a word, of any language it appeared. I thought he could have been a mute. I eventually got the name of the boss (a professor at the University of Tirana and the Faculty of Natural Sciences), who I would subsequently learn has the same name as me when I was born Peter Elias (after my Cypriot father). Getting someone to translate was absolutely essential because not that many people speak English here. That afternoon then I returned to the central park and sat down to relax. I almost fell asleep, having no money to go off and find stimulation. Hence I took the guitar out and that is when I found out that the people here don’t really give to buskers. Hundreds passed me on the lakeshore, playing for around 2 hours and eventually making the equivalent of about £3. The little girl who made her father pay up broke the ice and made me feel welcome. I made most of this money just as I was leaving and sought to buy some bread. I went on a night walk through the beautifully paved park with its arboretum. It was filled with cafeterias and young people, from the two big universities here, the other is named the Agricultural University, hence this country prides itself on this industry. I popped into a cafe just as it was closing, and the man gave me a free coffee – I knew my luck had changed. As I continued through in the lamp-lit environment, students coming from all quarters of the landscape, I met one who offered to take me to the student village to buy cheap food. When I got there it was buzzing. The shop was cheap and I had enough left over for tomorrow also (the cost of living is that low). Then I was befriended and talked to two others, one interested in my journey and suggesting it could make a good story for the publishing company he works for. They asked how they could help me, giving me an apple. As I played my guitar one of them promptly returned to give me a new pair of shoes, since the ones I had were falling apart again. I am still breaking in the new ones whilst the old ones I gladly binned (hoorah!). Then I met a Muslim and he was most informative. He liked my music and offered to buy me a coffee and show me where to find WIFI. So we talked and I learnt of this country through a Muslim’s eyes.

Denis told me that of the 85% Muslim population only 20% actually pray. He also said that the 15% Christians pray even less. Apparently I looked like a Muslim because of the way I cut my beard around my mouth and keeping it shorter than the span of my clenched fist. This is the way of the prophet whom Muslims follow; he tells me that there has been 4,000 prophets in all. He recommended the other important book that Muslims need to read concerning the ‘Living Thoughts of the Prophet Muhammad’. The life of the prophet, the Hadith, and the Qur’an are the most important works. But this answer was prompted because I had always thought that Muslims don’t bother with the Old and New Testaments, but apparently most of them do. By this stage I felt that I was on the back foot, I didn’t like the continued prodding of his finger, something he probably done unconsciously. Unfortunately this is the other side of the coin when one shows himself to be unlearned to a degree and needing abetting. But I had told him that I studied Islam and many other religions, wanting to understand something of people’s inner thoughts. For instance, I found out that he may marry a Christian (women Muslims cannot marry Christians) and that in Albania many intermarry between religions. He also told me that the three things he sought the most was peace, have a family, and to continue a better life. He insisted that 60% Muslims don’t know their religion, 90% Christians neither (Muslims always look better in view of Christians). Sometimes he found the English difficult so I may not be getting the full picture here, but what the mouth doesn’t speak the body relates in another fashion. He was a lovely guy and wanted to do everything possible to help me find a place to sleep. It was like he wanted to impress upon me strongly the real Muslim. Taking me to a plot behind the university next to the football pitch we spied some trees; they were adequate. The ‘ever curious’ dog came by and barked at us (God help me) and Denis wanted to drag me away to another place. I told him it was fine, having bought me a hotdog also I needed no more help. But he persisted and in the end I told him about six times to leave me alone. How odd, such a lovely guy who I think thought me some delicate piece of china that needed over-protection. But I love you Denis, thanks mate. The hammock hung superb, the dog gave up and I slept beautifully. By the morning I had the dog with its belly up, belonging to the 3 tramps in a makeshift hovel amongst some other trees (Tom, Elia, & Cano - that’s the dog). I had coffee with them and then they offered me to go to the nearest bar for another drink, I couldn’t refuse. I took some pictures of them and how ironic, they dressed up smart for me putting on their finest wear. Spending 5 minutes to comb their hair (just look at the picture) all of a sudden I was the real tramp. Anyhow, I may see these guys again one day, but this morning would be for the botanical gardens. I decided to take the route through the central park, this time in the daylight, navigating loads of road works, and sighing a portentous relief that this was not going to be another Sarajevo.

Arriving in my own time I was greeted by the professor. I felt great now, in the hands of a fellow academic. This man was generous (like everyone it seems), down to earth, and clear in his perspective as to what is going on around him. Firstly he explained that the gardens have suffered severely recently, of the 1,400 species only 700 remain due to a new road built through the garden (protest meant very little), and generally the shortage of water. The arboretum was divided up into various phytographical belts – medium shrubs and trees, oak and beech. The intention here was to have an alpine belt but he says this is not possible. They employ 18 gardeners and 3 professors, so I asked him how the garden funds itself despite its attachment to the university. Events like wedding ceremonies obviously help, but thank God that they use it as an education centre, I remember hearing there to be some 20,000+ students in this city. Obviously our conversation veered into history and politics. My first question was how did Albania not fall under Tito’s communism, and I think the answer to that was that it just was not logical, the fact being that Albanian people are very different from Slovakian (their language is taken from both Turkish and Latin roots); the communist equivalent, Enver Hoxha, I doubt gave the same freedom of movement as did Tito between the West and the East. In 2012 Albania celebrated 100 years of independence, celebrated on the 28^th November last year, but the move from socialism to capitalism had provoked massive riots in 1997 with the collapse of the banks and the outstanding issues of property rights; they are still disputing land titles here. I would learn a little more history before I left the country, which is quite narrow, but now I could enjoy the gardens and play a little music. Petrit (Peter) asked me to, and just like Joze Bavcon in Ljubljana, it was a young passion of his, so I played my marriage song because it seemed appropriate for the wedding guests who were having their pictures taken. Then we exchanged seeds (my seeds are very popular in this poorer ex-communist countries), and he then gave me a traditional drink of raki. Being stronger than vodka I had to put some back in the bottle which he promptly gave to me, with a landscape calendar thrown in. He would also get me on my way with some food and an ice coffee to go, but before that I rambled through the three major areas in the garden, the arboretum, the herbaceous, and the pond (awaiting renovation because of the choking reeds). Check out the photos from the arboretum though, the first lot I have taken with such verticality in the landforms.

The road up to Tirane had been quite level, but forsaking the longer route to Greece I decided to head for Macedonia that day. It was lovely and sunny heading out to Elbasan. As I say I am on top form but my first real test came and I didn’t fail. The mountain was called Chuf Graba and it went up forever it seemed. Elbasan hadn’t been interesting enough for me but as I climbed it I stopped just the once to take a picture of the old Moscow five pointed star at Kruge. That climb was continuous at 35 minutes long at a good pace. There was no way after reaching the top that I would just float back down. I knew now that there aren’t many dogs up here, so just off the apex I went to a town called Gracen. I had eaten well, felt that life couldn’t get better, found a camping spot out of sight from everything and swung my hammock. I could not have felt more secure. I slept for maybe 13 hours, not out of tiredness but pure simplicity, and that is when I had my natural emission. The little bar on the way down with an intoxicated tender and policeman bought me a coffee. They were already drinking raki so no luck there. I played a song and floated by multitudes of cherry and fig sellers, all hanging out their wares. Macedonia was quite near now and I intended making the border soon. The one thing about traditional farming is that the animals can get onto every scrap of land, and that really counts here. I washed in a local stream knowing full well that I would get all sweaty and smelly again. Just as night was approaching some men called me over (Alex, Ardian, Niku, Leonard, Olsi, and Arianne). They were a fine lot, listening to me play and buying me coffee at the Cafe Bushtvica. The English teacher, Leonard, seemed to be the most fluent and informed, and gave me a bit more history, maybe just to make sure that I wasn’t going away with the wrong impression. For instance, in reality this country had been at war for 500 years with the Ottoman Empire; their true culture extends to the Illyrians who are much older than the Greeks. Before 1992, when the country became democratic, it was not possible to enter other countries and so people like me are a novelty, many haven’t seen the rest of the world other than through television and film. So I had to ask him what it meant for the young boy to give me a rose from his garden. He told me it was a sign of respect, that nothing would have happened. I am still curious. He also gave me some lovely advice about the forthcoming mountain, Chuf Farma, and told me to hang about up there ‘til the morning to see the views. As I powered up I eagerly anticipated Macedonia. Was it going to be another culture change? – it seems that borders are more defined here by their language differences more than anything else. That is surprising to me, yet I know that many peoples here are multi-linguists and combine everything. But there seems to be a definite change of culture in these countries  as they juggle between the possibility of EU membership with its package of alternative values both political and economic, or as traditionalists who seek to maintain something of their indigenous identities. So that night I slept just before the border near Struga, took my pictures and met a man who bought me a coffee. Entering Macedonia was a piece of cake.

On reaching Donji Vakuf I took the opportunity to buy a coffee and get free wireless. The sun was making an effort to break through. But there was nothing else here for me although whilst I ate I watched a bunch of wandering dogs fight it out. One particular dog was barking at every car on its street corner. Nobody really did anything about it, the dogs had a sense of autonomy about them. I kept watching them and eventually the whole thing subsided, with the strays going off and doing their own thing as usual. They seem to be running the gaff, I mean, they look at you waiting for some sort of response. They seem to be more civilised here in the towns than the ones that guard people’s houses. And then a strange thought occurred to me. In this dog country how long will it be before they go up to shop keepers demanding some form of sustenance; how long before they have their own civil rights? I know why animals in a human environment are domesticated, it is because they see humans as the givers of nature. In other words, humans represent an alter-nature which changes their biorhythms and needs, a symbiotic evolution. Dogs are an intrinsic part of human culture now and I believe that in this process of domestication animals take on the instinctive qualities of their owners, only that they represent them with much more purity of instinct and spirit within the context of their own animality. Humans, on the other hand, tend to repress their instincts and don’t necessarily show them with the same immediacy. Hence I say to you that dogs harbour the fears that these Bosnians and Croats did during the war, and maintain some sort of war mentality that the humans seek to repress. There was less a problem when going through the Republic of Serpska, and I believe there to be a very good reason for this. I would later understand it as a zone that escaped most of the battle action. I don’t think it is the smell of me, nor the squeaking bicycle that attracted their incessant attentions. I believe the living people here still harbour a war mentality because of the unresolved issues (outlined in the last blog) that still persist twenty years later in the older generation.

From here it was a steady climb, and I made the decision that I would start photographing mosques – everyone looked different. I was told that there was only one big hill and then it was plain sailing all the way to Travnik. It wasn’t long before the rubbish appeared in the roadside gulleys and around parking areas. I think these people share the same attitude as they do for the dogs. Likewise there seems to be a lassez fait approach to farming; you just don’t see enough going on. I reached a hilltop overlooking the valley (Ovdje), it was stunning. (See photo) It is what we would call a beauty spot. The junk and broken glass put me off the whole place. It tells me the Bosnians have no pride in their country. From here on I flew as the long road descended into the river valley. In fact I had made up so much ground that I knew I could reach Sarajevo before the end of the day. I should point out that my euro count was at seventy five and I wanted to put some distance in since despite all the help and friendships I receive no-one was going on-line to make a donation to the cause. I passed through the small town of Zensa and reached a place called Kakanj by nightfall. It was uncomfortable riding since huge motorway works had redirected traffic into lanes that were being grubbed up. Nevertheless I knew that this was Muslim country by the amount of minarets one can spot from a distance. Pulling into the first grocers I bought the last loaf of large bread; the only other alternative was a small one. When I noticed a man buy the small one I asked if he had family, which he said he did, so I gave him the large loaf. There wasn’t much difference in the price and he duly accepted. After eating something I walked another 50 feet and found a whole bunch of shops selling bread. Was it so difficult to go to another shop and request a large loaf? Did not the man consider my needs? It is a philosophical point. I ate again at the bus stop, popped into a bar and was immediately engaged in conversation. That night I had to drag myself away but I ended up having a beer and two coffees. In retrospect, I think one of the customers would probably have given me a place to stay. There are no Muslims here. So I continued my way and found an excellent road to travel by night that criss-crossed the river. The drivers though were getting worse by the hour. As I kept my eyes peeled for a good bunch of trees, and Bosnia seems to be all open country, about 20km before Sarajevo I pulled into a service station and had a friendly chat. I talked about the crazy drivers joy riding around me. I warmed up in there, they giving me a free bar of chocolate. The police turned up and had a cocky tone about their manner. They asked a lot of questions and settled down to warn me about this country. They told me it was dangerous, but I think they meant more than just mines and wild animals. By this stage I was sick of the prolonged barking of guard dogs every time I passed their property. It was ugly country and I just wanted a place to sleep. After quite a while, and another free coffee the police eventually left after playing them some of my music. They were actually really friendly at this stage. I hit the road after the shop keeper told me to go as far as possible, passing both the police car and a parked up joy rider; I tried to put some distance between us. About 10km further on the racing car screeched passed me, turned around and waited for me to pass. It looked like they were having a game with me. I don’t think the beard was helping because I met one of these twats in the service station before the police turned up. I tried to lose them, eventually pulling off the road and finding an orchard. About 2 or 3 cars passed me that night slowing down as if to search for something. But I found (I thought) a good spot – a vine-covered tree.  Not locating any hitching points for the hammock I simply laid the waterproof sac down and put my sleeping bag inside it. It began to rain but I was fine. Maybe 2 or 3 hours later about 7 dogs approached me barking their heads off. They wouldn’t stop. I had to get up and as soon as I did they mainly dispersed, but a few hung back including the leader. I wasn’t feeling great in this cold weather, having slept 3 hours the night before, decided to abandon the area and walk over to the closed service station. I waited 15 minutes wondering what the dogs were doing with my possessions, but it worked, for when I returned nothing had been altered and I quickly went back to sleep. I woke up that morning dry, but it was still raining, so cleaning myself up I quickly set off to Sarajevo. I knew it wasn’t going to be a happy experience here. The dangerous wet, narrow and windy road leading up to the town felt hard under the reduced sleep condition. I just wanted to find the next botanical garden and leave. I spotted masses of graveyards (mixed, as I would learn). Eventually I located myself to the museum where the garden was located. No-one was about but I was told to come back later. So I did, but just as I left we had torrential rain. My instinctive body was giving me signs, I needed hot food before I got a cold, discovering that food doesn’t get cheaper than this. The bureks tasted unbelievable; I went back for more later. I walked along the noisy main drag up to the Olympic pool (before the war this city was on the map for the right reasons), saw that it was too expensive and decided to walk back. It continued to rain and numerous times people would get splashed by passing traffic. This place was so noisy too. When I reached the museum I was in luck, somebody from another department would cater for me since the horticulturist was having a day off. As I talked to the palaeontologist and the museum advisor it became apparent that this botanical garden was not really functioning as such, but rather gave ornament to the surrounding museum departments. It was only a small garden and considering I was exhausted from the lack of sleep this change of route seemed like a complete waste of time. Well, at least I have seen the city. It turned out that the rest of the museum housed some very intriguing and important artefacts. My spirits were somewhat raised in light of the sun coming out and learning something about the war from these actual witnesses.

The building consists of sections divided between ethnology, natural history, archaeology, and the library, the botanical garden and lapidarium. It was founded in 1884 but became independent in 1888. It houses 200,000 publications, 700,000 inventory items in its natural history department, and 105,000 in its archaeology department. The herbarium was established in 1890. The real story came from word of mouth though. No-one has been paid for 10 months; everyone is working as a virtual volunteer. The war had come to the museum, some 50 meters away as 30 people remained in the building whilst bullets and bombs were going off from over the street. My host was one of them. All collections were nearly completely destroyed with explosives. After the war help came from Croatia who donated loads of computers. Cultural Heritage Without Borders from Sweden also helped to restore the building and re-open it (http://www.chwb.org/kosovo/english/home.htm) as well as the extensive help of Max Walters from Cambridge University. Considering how important this establishment is I put it to them whether they thought that a volunteer and student exchange system could operate here. The answer was a resounding no since no-one has security and the future looks drastic. They selected a couple of seed packets, the least I could do, and showed me the map where many people have been killed in and around this region from unexploded bombs; these were the places to avoid. I wondered if after coming all this way they would find a free place for me to sleep the night, but no. I did not feel honoured here so I decided to leave the city.

On the way to the old town I met a protest in the street, I thought they could be anti-capitalists, they turned out to be the Muslim army. They too haven’t been paid and the government had lied when it had promised them a pension fund if they continued their military vocation. Everyone talks about corruption, and in our barely legible conversation I ended up being recorded playing my guitar and song for Palestine. They were a good bunch of guys, giving me free hot delicious food. In fact the rain had only just abated and later I would learn that 5 had died in the street whose deaths were brought on by the cold, wet conditions. My disposition changed then, the sun came out and people were very interested in who I was. As I meandered around the old town with my busted guitar case and smelly clothes I almost changed my mind to stay here. But hell, just get out of here before the weather changes again. So I did finding a location some 20km down the road.

Dogs were coming at me all the time and by now my tolerance was being tested since I was in a state of sensitivity. I eventuated to discover an industrial estate with a fallow field next to it. I wondered about bombs, pinning my hammock to a group of trees with a drainage dip beneath me which logically seemed safer. I zipped up and decided I was going to stay inside it for as long as possible. All night dogs seemed to be barking. I heard one come up close to me and harangue me to the extent that I became apathetic. To be frank, after the way I was feeling I thought, “Fuk you, I am all sealed up in this cloth, you don’t know what I am or how many there are in here (in fact it probably did). I ain’t going to budge not for anything. It would be better if you walked into a mine field and left me alone.” The dogs are ruining this country, why don’t they do something about it? It eventually left and I half-slept for 12 hours, being asked to move on in the morning by one of the dog owners probably. Just before I left I washed in the adjacent stream, planted one of my fig cuttings there and hit the road for Mostar.

The countryside was now beginning to improve, entering Sarajevo gave the first signs of it. It was being farmed more for a start. With all the recent rain and high river levels it showed how much junk was truly in the environment, collecting as it does in the partly submerged trees, I began to see a bit more pride here. I entered a high hilltop in Bradina and had a conversation with a man who had travelled the world in his car. He turned out to be very informative, told me the corruption was rife, that the war was about money, not religion. Even though things have settled down people don’t talk together anymore. He indicated that the land hasn’t really changed; it has never really been farmed to its true potential, Bosnia and Croatia are just the same.  Croatia relies on Bosnia for its water and electricity, and he couldn’t believe that they were applying for EU membership before they did. Too much money goes towards administration and not enough into the workforce. So there we have it. I was trying to piece it all together. Did the Serbs anticipate the continued protection of EU states but thought to increase their slice of landscape before everything settles down into the new millennium in the post-war wake of democratization? Milosevic must have anticipated the increased difficulty of European intervention under the watchful eyes of the British, French and Germans. Whether it was for money or religion I would put it down purely to industriousness; I think the Serbs truly think they can do a better job, I mean they have already showed that in their Republic.

The landscape continued to improve greatly, the mountainous regions struck of the Pyrenees with its beautiful escarpments. I noticed they did white-water rafting and kayaking along the way although everything was off-season. I saw a hint of the Mediterranean climate which I longed for and then Konjic popped out of the landscape, a quaint town with a fantastic mountainous backdrop. I looked for a shop that sold cevapi but discovered it a little pricey and so gave it a miss. The man I had conversed with at the top of the littered hill informed me I could get authentic cevapi here. Still, I had enough on my plate already, the lakes here rivalled Garda in northern Italy, in particular it was stunning in Celebici and Jablanica; tourism seems to be on the agenda now. As I approached Potoci I noticed the dammed river had a road along its edge and I sought to get down there. As numerous more dogs would chase me down the road I wondered what they were protecting. It seems this area has good fishing, and just before nightfall I found a dry spot with alder, I think. I made a fire for the first time and settled into my hammock. The pair of boots I found turned out to be too damaged, so I burnt them. The tree I was suspended from bent inwards and I looked like a banana, my bum touching the floor. I couldn’t be bothered to change my location, not now. I heard some people with flashlights search the area and I thought, ‘Here we go again, can’t I get a decent night’s sleep?’ They turned out to be fishermen. In the morning we said hello and they fed me, I think believing I was a Muslim. Two lovely people, Ahrem and Fahroudin (means ‘pride in religion’) who I hope to hear from again. As we ate and talked the fish started biting, and I saw them catch a 5lb golden carp, amongst others. The subjects of Islam and war were discussed. Ahrem told me some very insightful things, especially concerning iman (faith), about the religiosity of being a Muslim. With iman the soul knows God’s will, and only God’s will shows one their path. This is what we strive for, putting aside all our earthly relationships and waiting for God’s destiny to manifest itself. I understood this well enough because I am religious, I know God’s will. He said that one will know how much God loves you by how much one loves God. They said the war was about religion, and has been going on for 500 years; they just don’t want Muslims here. Half of Bosnia is Muslim, the other half mainly Orthodox Christianity. When one considers that Sarajevo is 90% Muslim it obviously played a major part in the antagonisms between these two peoples. They quoted the statistics that 2 million Muslims were made refugees after the war, dispersing to other parts of Europe. 200,000 had died during the war, 11,537 in Sarajevo including children from sniper fire. 5,000 women were also raped in Bosnia, the evidence being the Muslim children who have no fathers. After the Serbs had shifted the attack from Croatia (mainly Catholic) they went onto Bosnia where, as I alluded to earlier, showed no respect for ancient artefacts including Muslim manuscripts. The bullet holes in the walls of Konjic and Sarajevo are a testament to the ferocity of the onslaught. But this would only be a spot on the battlefield, Mostar was a ruined city. The Muslim hope is for Judgement Day. We didn’t always talk about the war in fact these fishermen reminded of my brother in Canada. There was a joke which got us all laughing, one in which you have to have a sense of high morals to understand. It goes like this: Who is the more guilty of exaggerating the size of their catch, the hunter or the fisherman? The hunter, because he has to lie for his dog as well.

After saying a fond farewell I would make this last leg into Mostar, but not before encountering a market in Vrapcici. I also came across my first pomegranate on the River Neretva and I knew then that this must be Mediterranean country. In the market I couldn’t get barely 20 feet before I was engaged in conversation about cevapi and seeds. It seems people were interested in what I had. That is when I met a gardener from the Muslim University in Mostar called Dzemal Bijedic from the Agromediterranium faculty, who kindly rendezvoused with me and bought me cevapi and kaffe (whoever calls pays for the order). I knew for sure I was on the right road. Now, Mostar was not on my list of gardens to visit, in fact they don’t have a botanical garden here but when I left there was talk of starting one in the university grounds. So we had made these seed exchanges but I was then informed by Azer that it is illegal to bring seeds into Bosnia. (I would later learn that this is only true of some seeds) Apparently Libya had also prevented the movement of seeds under Gaddafi. This came as a surprise to me but was clearly indicated in the lack of diversity of the college grounds. It was the same old story here too, nobody was being paid (since December) and so nobody really works too hard. This may not be true of everybody so I partially retract the statement, but I know this to be the reality; what it really boils down to is that people lack passion and voluntarism. I hope to expand on my connection with the university, the fact that I swapped seed I believe to be my indigenous right. I take my cue from God’s will, for all this is preparation for when I truly settle down to work with Muslims and Jews.

Azer told me I looked liked a kloser, apparently it means someone who is aimless. He checked my website to make sure I was legitimate. He also asked my age (too many people ask how old I am), and said that if you are single and over 33 yrs you are crazy. Well I already knew that, but then he explained that Married families will never bring you into their homes to stay. So I had to get some lodgings, with his help, and for one I thought that with all the rain I was worth a hot shower and a bed. I managed to haggle down to 7 euros but found an excellent hostel called Miturno. It was empty, located in the old part of the town that is inhabited mainly by Muslims. There isn’t much to see here, half the buildings are blown to pieces, the war obviously hit very hard. It rained so hard that I couldn’t get away and so got another deal from the pension opposite, as well as a financial donation by the previous hostel manager who couldn’t bear to see me cycle off during the night into what I could only describe as the sea falling from the sky; the streets were rivers. Here also Muslims drink alcohol as I discovered that night from the free beer given to me, but they do all over the world, only some countries are stricter than others. So in the morning after playing a few songs in gratitude to the local Muslim lads at the bar (who paid for my coffee) and then buying a traditional fig pie I headed to the university to repay my blessings, and plant my last fig cutting; if it survives it will be a miracle. Whilst I was there the Muslim sandwich vendor gave me a free baguette.  I had learnt from a young girl that the city was divided, between Muslims in the old part and Bosnians in the other. None of the old bombed buildings will probably get renovated, no-one has any money to do so. They stand as icons in honour of a religious disposition, empty of any technocratic future. The best this city can do is keep the youth active in education and expand its departments.

I left Mostar and immediately felt a change in climate. The roadside bloomed with cultivated and wild flowers. Not least did a man call me over and give me wine and boiled eggs. We couldn’t understand a word we were saying to each other, by the way. Dubrovnik was my target for everybody has been telling me how beautiful the country is. There was also an arboretum and botanical garden there. Before crossing the border back into Croatia, Bosnia had one last gift for me. I passed by the town of Pocitelj and was drawn into this mythical wonderland (see photos). The antiquity and stonework had me captivated for hours. I met a group of Belgian tourists from Mostar who were having a guided tour by the hostel guide. He turned out to be a very extrovert figure, inviting me to take coffee in the house of a little lady. Mounting the top of this rocky hill I was besieged by a medley of fruit trees, from loquats to quince. Her free coffee and cake were a sensation to the senses, inducing me to play my music in her paradise of a garden. That would be my memory of Bosnia, a place to come back to. The guide told me that Mostar was a city of two halves, Muslims and Bosnians, which is something I would like to sample a bit more of, especially his reasonable hostel rates with brekki in the morning. Further along the road I spied a market area and picked up some discarded fruit and veg. I would pass the night in a place called Opuzen eventually locating an orange grove to suspend my hammock within. It rained again but I remained dry. At last, I was seeing the country worked to its full potential; it seems to go hand in hand with tourism (a pattern that obviously indicates farming as a cultural bridge to general prosperity). Olive was more apparent now, but also cherry, vine and pomegranate. The country was clean and tidy with the influx of tourist revenues and I was happy to feel at home again, it was so Catalonian. I went for a fantastic swim in the ghost town of Radalj, sorted myself out an apple/cabbage salad with free contributions of tomato and tuna given to me by the hostel manager, and after crossing the tiny parcel of land donated to Bosnia (apparently it was a historical occasion when Bosnia wanted to feel safer by having their own link to the sea – they should just give them the rest of the coastline too) I found my destination. For a moment I thought I was in Italy, in Hanbury Gardens. I had reached the town of Trsteno and the arboretum. There seems to be a lot of English people here too, maybe the ancient town of Dubrovnik (takes its name from the downy oak that is indigenous to this region) has something to do with that with its fantastic Catholic monuments. I would enter these gardens which are considered the most important in the whole of Croatia.

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The fireman informed me that everybody had left. But I had another 3 hours to peruse the gardens and take some shots. There were beautiful vistas to the sea and what looked to be very old structures. It definitely lacked the quality of maintenance one found at Hanbury Gardens but I would learn why the following day. Besides, it was still off-season despite the gorgeous weather. After making myself a cup of coffee, having no Croatian kuna yet again, I was left with one resolve, spend the evening writing up and locating a sleeping spot. As it turns out I would learn from the fireman that he is also the gardener (strange). I also learnt that most of their winter work is cutting back vegetation. With all the wet weather and flowing streams I didn’t think fire would be a problem here, but I had made telephone contact with Ivan the manager and now he would be expecting me in the morning. So the following morning we engaged each other and he turned out to be a very informed person with a distinct vision. Ivan was doing a PhD in the history of the gardens which included the Renaissance and Baroque periods. He wants to recreate the gardens and surrounding lands in that same period, as they once were. The whole area encompasses 28 hectares and part of the goal was to rebuild the dry-stone walls. Originally 8 to 10 hectares was put over to olive production, the rest to natural vegetation. The buildings housed an authentic olive press which only since 1980 has remained dysfunctional. The records show that in 1735 1,200 olive trees were planted producing 11,340 litres of olive oil (80 barjel). Half was kept within the family and the other half to the workers. The records continue to maintain this type of vocation; in the 19^th century most of the land was planted with olive and vines – 1,500 trees in their own fields and a further 5,900 on loaned grounds. I would subsequently learn that in order for the gardens to make an income (some sort of sustainable model) olive oil production was a prerequisite. They keep 18 varieties of olives here and the re-implementation project began in 2005/6. Of the two and a half hectares of olive 85 new trees were planted whilst 40-50 old ones remain. Interestingly I was told how to measure the age of an old tree when they have been coppiced: count the paces between the new trunks and each pace represents one hundred years. During 1991 and 2000 two large fires burned two thirds of the grounds removing many of the 300-400 year old trees. At the moment they produce a little oil (40 litres last year and 100 litres the year before which, if sold to customers, would fetch 70-80kn or €10 a litre). So Ivan’s first mission was to invest in fire prevention equipment. He started off as a fireman here and so knows the ground. The first 2 years were spent in implementing 28 hydrants and creating a workforce of 6 firemen (who double up as gardeners). They produce a day and night watch. Ivan wants to go further with a surveillance system which sounds costly and for which I would prefer to see down-listed whilst the important work of oil production gets off the grounds. They are going to need over a million euros to restore the olive press. They require a shop which is in the process of being built, selling hopefully their own merchandise and products. To me this all made sense. So what is the difference here with other botanical gardens around the Mediterranean? Whilst countries like France and Italy emphasize research and science, the priority in these former Slovakian states is one of survival. Rather than being attached to the state or a university Trsteno falls under the auspices of the Croatian Academy of Sciences and Arts. They have been given full support to the project. Some exotic species will be maintained but a select section of introduced trees will have to be removed in order to make way for the historical precedent this garden used to be. At the moment there are 510 indigenous species in the western part and 480 in the cultivated area (the older part). With 30,000 yearly visitors this number is destined to rise as tourism again provides the backbone for ailing economies. The salaries at the moment are almost paid by ticket sales but Ivan needs more gardeners since a large section of the staff are required for night duty. The fire threat creates a sense of fear in the staff, especially with the prevailing dryer climate. But since 2005 ticket sales have been the saving grace.

I left feeling like “at last, botanics has a real sustainable future”. These are the models for development I pine for and hope to return to see it re-enacted. We both appreciate the value of history and pre-industrial methods and it was nice to see the arboretum being restored using cupressus obtained from the land. His gift to me was a 250ml bottle of Extra Virgin olive oil obtained from the land which I knew to be a symbol of the future. I am increasingly intrigued by the stories that these historical icons produce, and Ivan has become a collector of old postcards. Many of them highlighted the largest plane tree I have ever seen. The trunk measure 60 feet around the circumference and stands next to the bus stop. He also collects books, finding on Ebay one written by Nikola Vitoz Guceti entitled Dialogo della bellozza/ Dijalog oljepoti, Dialogo d’amore/ Dijalog oljubavi, translated as ‘Dialogue of Beauty, Dialogue of Love’. It was the place where the distinguished philosopher and humanist wrote numerous works and dissertations in the 16^th century; the garden closely was connected to the famous Dubrovnik poet and beauty Cvijeta Zuzoric also. It quotes the willow planted near the fountain, yet there is not a single willow on site. Now the occasion is to provide a ceremonial planting of such. Like a willow then I plunged into the sea and bathed myself under a fresh waterfall. An Aesculapian snake shared my vision on the way back up. I was on good form now even though I didn’t really sleep that well among the downy oak the previous night. But somehow the delicious Croatian coffee relaxed me beyond physical adventure, yet I endeavoured and slowly picked up my momentum. As I passed Dubrovnik from the high road I stopped for one moment and thought, ‘Even though I am flying it must be worth a short visit at least’. I decided to drop down like a falcon, plummeting to its depths. The grandeur of its monuments, the influx of tourist heaving upon the street, the gorgeous masonry (see photos) was welcome enough for me, who yet still had no money. Shall I play? The ice-cream shop beckoned me and I sat down, probably in the most perfect busking spot. I made about 76kn (€11) in 40 minutes, my farewell gift of a most sustainable income. The massive hill back up I caught on a draught, and now I was flying high again. Traversing the night I decided the road works and approaching frontier of Montenegro was ample reason to pull over and sleep it out. I would spend my kuna before I left the country (with a bit left over) and Montenegro would be another blessing.

The Falcon’s Descent

                       

When the world was flat they said, ‘You can’t reach the ends.’

And now the world is round they say, ‘If only we could be friends.’

 

Man knows no limits, he is killing for all the same reasons

Territorial boundaries leave him scrapping around the edges

One stone too many has been tossed over the line

The rivers are filled contemptuously to overflowing

Its muddy waters change the course of history

Leaving the fields plagued with death and disease

And the people are left like salmon to a poacher,

Blinded in the aftermath of their melee

 

From a mountain top and riding on a stream of sunlight

Comes the hunter wielding a scythe in one hand, a net in the other

He returns to reap his glory sifting the wheat from the chaff

The rulers of unkempt lands will buckle under his righteous gaze

There will be no mercy for his sweeping hands will strike them at the heel

He shall recover the balance of nature by flailing the rotten at their core

And the bull, the lion and the scorpion will pay homage,

In the graceful umbrella of his spreading wings

I came into this country having no expectations. Everybody seems to have heard of Zagreb, but as for Croatia’s other towns they may have become infamous for the war with the Serbs. I left Slovenia’s fantastic landscape following a windy road that ran along the autostrada. The border came upon me all of a sudden and for the first time I had to show my passport. I thought the guy was a little condescending but talking about my journey seems to soften people up. At the second checkpoint I pretty much used the same face, making sure I talk my London lingo rather than the ‘foreigner who talks good English to other foreigners’. I’ve learnt to intuit the situation so that if I am telling people where I come from, or even where my parent’s come from, it makes sense to focus upon the right elements. For instance, my mother was brought up a Catholic, but my father was Greek Orthodox. This chatter would serve me in rare moments where it counts, for instance most Catholics know what religion both Spanish and Greek are. But there has been a growing concern centred around my look. The ‘Muslim’ beard is not an outward expression but rather an inward one pertaining to my religiosity, and shows me more concerned with my vocation of going on a spiritual journey as well as a traveller’s adventure. I can’t remember the last time I took much interest in my face other than from the photos people take of me and from when I shave my whiskers from around my mouth – it is just cleaner and more hygienic doing this. In this vein I am not an ascetic. If this journey was any form of repentance I would probably go about it in a different way, but in actuality I am exploring my true potential and living out my genetic heritage. I thought that maybe I would meet my future family on this trip, and that may still happen, but my individuality is so strong that it would take a very special person to anchor me down. As such I keep my options open but let’s be frank, when life is this good why change it? And why pretend to be someone or somebody of any particular heritage? It is better that people know me for what I am, a liberated human being getting older through living life fully, but not getting old. If I cycled into Damascus tomorrow and ended my life it would only be through choice, an understanding of where my genetics is ultimately taking me. I believe I am a predestined human being that other people see hope within because I represent freedom.

The road to Zagreb was a long one. It is quite close to the border but it went on and on. I passed industrial sites that were at most fragmented. The condition of the road deteriorated and the architecture was at best economical. I seemed to enter from the poorer end and a slight twinge of disappointment overcame me; the place looked dirty, the infrastructure under-maintained. As I turned another treacherous corner I decided to get off my bike and avoid the pot holes. And then the gardens appeared, like a polished gem. It was a refreshing change, but before I engaged too much of a tour of them I searched for the offices. Everything was closed; it was Saturday. I thought no-one would turn up and the friendly security kept their eyes peeled for any returning staff. As it goes I got lucky. I couldn’t imagine staying here longer than 12 hours but it so happens that Vanja, the principle keeper of the arboretum, took me in and engaged me with some interesting conversation. The first issue that was raised was my lack of funds; I just didn’t know they had their own currency here, and everything was closed. So he fed me cake, coffee and snacks. It was lovely as we negotiated various seeds between us. He told me something about Croatia, that the decadence was a result of politicians who have now only gone to jail, but that the corruption has not been rooted out, and this has resulted in a delay entering the EU (officially 2013). The transitional period has glaringly exposed the inability of organisations to know how to apply for European funding, and this has meant that as little as 10% of funding targets have been achieved. Hopefully this situation is turning around now that proper training in bureaucratic and application procedures are available.

I will digress here in order that I can hope to understand the history of this country, even if I bore you a little with some research. Vanja mentioned the communist years under Tito when the communist Federal People’s Republic of Yugoslavia was formed (renamed in 1963 the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia) in the wake of its resistance against fascism, and included SR Bosnia and Herzegovina, SR Croatia, SR Macedonia, SR Montenegro, SR Slovenia and SR Serbia. After the Yugoslav wars in the early 1990’s the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia existed until 2003, when it was renamed Serbia and Montenegro. In my travels across the continent I would begin to get an understanding of the peoples and their religion here, for instance the contingency of German-speaking Croatians and Serbians; Yugoslavia had been invaded by German, Italian and Hungarian forces during the war. German troops had occupied parts of Slovenia and Serbia, as well as Bosnia and Herzegovina whilst Croatia was established as a Nazi satellite state. Resistance was forthcoming, but by the end of the war the pro-Serbian Chetniks focused their efforts against Tito’s Partisans rather than the occupying forces, who would supply the collaborationist Serb nationalist militia. The Partisans led a successful campaign and drove out the occupying forces. Post Second-World War popularity favoured Tito who was seen as a national hero, and the old government was abolished. During the ensuing years Tito distanced the Republic of Serbia from the Soviet model and the Eastern Bloc, as well as NATO, to form its own socialist strand. As religious piety dropped and nationalism rose differences between Orthodox Serbs, Catholic Croats, and Muslim Bosniaks contributed to the collapse of Yugoslavia in 1991. The federation of Yugoslavia did not banish the Catholic Church as had been the case in other states fronted by the Tito’s secret police. He was the most powerful man in the country, each republic had its own government and presidency. Tensions amounted between the independent states when it was considered that Serbia had too much power. Tito’s response was to lessen their autonomy but this was to the dislike of Serbian nationalist tendencies. On his death in 1980 ethnic tensions continued to grow, demanding more independence. Just before the Yugoslav wars most states were entering an economic crisis, leading to its ultimate collapse. Serbs had the greatest percentage of the population in Yugoslavia and by the time of Milosevic were applying the old claims for pro-Serbian sovereignty against accusations of hegemony by other member states. The League of Communists sought various solutions to the divisive sentiments of the Federation which led to Slovenia, and then Croatia, withdrawing from the 14^th Congress with the result of the collapse of the Communist party of Yugoslavia. With the subsequent fall of communism in the rest of Eastern Europe the inevitability eventually caught up with all member states of Yugoslavia, the democratisation process beginning with Slovenia and Croatia who voted peacefully in its favour. The unresolved issues that the Serb majority posed would remain the trigger for nationalist tendencies prevalent in the Yugoslav wars to come. I was learning all this because I was engaging a people who’s memory of the recent war was still fresh and indelibly printed in their minds. And there would be more to come, from the people themselves.

Zagreb Botanical Garden was started in 1889 as part of the faculty of science in Zagreb University. Its arboretum is designed on the English garden, the floral parterre on French style symmetry. There are 5,000 species here. I had no time this night to enjoy the wonders of its trees now that it was dark, so I took my leave from Vanje (as well as the cake and bread he offered) after he showed me to the greenhouses where I would stay. How fortunate in this late hour for I was considering finding some trees to hang my hammock upon. The rooftop garden was appropriately out of the way, hanging my hammock between two conveniently situated posts. It rained that night. In the morning I took my ramble and was silently overcome by the beautiful magnolia trees in flower. But that was just the icing on the cake for there was plenty of ornament to get my teeth into. I was captivated by the swamp cypresses, the insectivores plants, the unfurling ferns, and not least the numerous written accounts of botanist triumphs over the centuries. For instance the metasequoia was rediscovered in 1941 in the eastern Schuan Provence of China by a forester that fed the plant to his cattle. It was thought extinct for 5 million years before Dr. Hu of Beijing compared it to fossil records 100 million years old. This is the Chinese redwood now known to have dominated the arctic forests. Its preservation is aided by its distribution in world-wide botanical gardens because its natural habitat is being threatened by rice cultivation. It is now a Critically Endangered Species of the World Conservation Union. Likewise the Ginkgo was rediscovered in 1691 in Japan where it had survived in monasteries and mountainous regions, as well as palace gardens from the Buddhist practice of cultivating the tree for its many properties (including its popular edible nuts that are roasted or baked). It is in fact the sole living link (gymnosperm) between the lower and higher plants of ferns and conifers. And lastly there is the sequoia sempervirens which can live up to 3,000 years plus. The one in Sequoia National Park measures 85m high and weighs 1,700 tons. Its girth is over 31 metres, the bark up to 50cm thick protects it from fire and disease.

It was Sunday now and as the morning drew on I thought to take my opportunity in the city to see what it had to offer. The weather had broken and the garden security informed me the location of the old part of the town. I strolled up some steps, guitar strapped to my back, and ended up on a viewing plateau overlooking the city. It wasn’t particularly distinctive but as I glanced over some English tourists were sticking their fingers in the ears. I wasn’t bothered as to what they were up to but in that moment a canon shot was fire. It was so loud I thought someone had fired a gun behind me. I didn’t budge though, just slowly working out what was going on, like the cartridge paper gently floating down around my head onto the steps. If I hadn’t slept 12 hours I may have been more sensitive to the moment, but it did occur to me that the canon shot was a salute of sorts fired at 12pm every day. So I continued to stroll the upper part of the city realizing that .this was the wealthy area but still lacking slightly in its maintenance. Further along though I came upon its principle buildings and then I was surrounded by untold amounts of museums. I only had time for one because they close early on a Sunday, and headed into the nearest one, the war museum (www.hismus.hr Matoseva 9, 10000 Zagreb). The exhibition was on the Homeland War and everything here caters for the English speaker. It is just so impressive how many people talk English here, Vanja had spoken like a true native. Since I had no money the woman told me it was fine to go around free. As far as I learnt the frontline never reached Zagreb and the rather small exhibition told me enough to understand what the Croatian people might be feeling. I, personally, have never experienced war but my destiny was opening my eyes to maybe something I was subconsciously preparing for in the future. But the Croatian outlook highlighted the increasing unrest of Serbs living outside Serbia that lead to unconstitutional and terrorist activities during the Yugoslav wars. The Serbian revolt in Croatia in 1991 occurred between rebels and Croatian police, but since Croatia and Slovenia had freely voted for democratization and independence the Yugoslav army (including Montenegro) sided with Serbia. Full-scale aggression transpired from the Summer of 1991 and many Croatian cities were destroyed. How much so I would only learn later in my travels. The UN stepped in and many Croatians sought to defend their homeland, key cities being Vukovar and Dubrovnik. As Croatia organized its defence it required to relocate many displaced people. To this day the whereabouts of one thousand people remain unknown. After the UN created protection zones (UNPAs) the conflict moved to Bosnia-Herzegovina and by 1995 the Croatian forces liberated occupied territories leading to a peace treaty. The international world were being asked questions, the disrupted pre-war ethnic structure, the impoverishment, the unresolved war crimes and fate of missing peoples. Years later they remain unanswered. I knew nothing of this war even though I remember the news reports –just another war – but now I seemed to be preparing my mentality for what I could experience in Palestine when I reach my destination. Are we not talking about the same issues here?

I took in a stroll about the town and didn’t feel like playing any music after that, since I had been engrossed by the eerie recordings and images with the sound of Samual Barber’s Adagio for Strings in the background. I passed through the outdoor market but had no money. Then coincidentally, another American called me over and asked me to play. His name was Joe and he told me he was going to Palestine also. He gave me 20 Kn and I wondered how much that was. As he attracted a group of youths with his charm I played a series of songs in the background. Some interesting people dressed like Greeks in tunics fed me grapes and danced in exotic forms. The young guy who made a collection for me was from Palestine. I now had 32 Kn and wondered how much that was. Since I had an appointment back at the garden (late as ever) I took my leave with a big smile on my face – I was in credit. There I met another Vanja who accepted more seeds from me, and allowed me to make coffee. The security came in and fed me. Fantastic! We talked about the journey as I pondered whether to leave the city that night. As it turns out I decided one more night, taking an excursion around its shopping centres and returning just as it started to pour rain. I measly kept most of my money and wondered how long it would last – it was only about £3-4 equivalent. So I stayed ‘til the following morning, met all the gardeners, about 20, saw them busily preparing pots, and as they fed me I knew I was in communion with them. It was enough that I give them my third bottle of Catalonian olive oil as first pizza, then bread and jam was plied onto me. I couldn’t believe these people eat whole chicken for breakfast. I learnt that Croatia has a population of 4 million people but that 300,000 people are unemployed. How could these gardens support themselves? I remember Vanja telling me that they will try to apply for construction funds when officially joining the EU in 2013, especially since practically all the greenhouses are deemed too dangerous to be opened to the general public. But here I saw a realistic pattern for sustainability, I saw a very large queue of people waiting to buy plants propagated from the gardens and sold at substantially lower prices than garden nurseries, from 10 to 30Kn. It went on all morning. I took one final tour of the gardens, saw the herb beds and restored pavilion, and actually was a little reluctant to leave. They still had much work to do here but the arboretum sticks in my mind. I wondered about the links between the religious communities and science, reading up on the single seed of Davidia involucrate sent over by the missionary Father Farges in 1897 and which germinated and flowered in 1906. What an oasis this place was, it warranted one of my fig cuttings which I duly potted up.

I took the road to Petrinja on advice. I saw unmanaged woodland and pasture, arable left fallow. Litter lined the roadside gulleys and many building were abandoned or plainly looked unfinished. There was no infrastructure here – nothing. Surely, every penny that these Croats receive must go into farming; the wealth of the people will be reflected here. As it goes wealth is only indicated by individuals, I saw no regional differences. How poor these people are! The Catholic Churches appear like sanctuaries in a wilderness. The impression I get is one of waiting for some big decision before anybody wants to move. It was only when I reached Kostajnica that something of a regional indicator of wealth became apparent. My first interpretation was that after the war the land remained dangerous from unexploded mines, and this was true to a degree. Many building lay abandoned from bomb and bullet damage and all I could do was keep on the road for safety, occasionally stopping to photograph lovely woodland cabins that reflected a bygone era. Before I reached the border it started to bucket down. I slid into a decrepit bus shelter, smashed and vandalised, and peered over at the house opposite. I was going to request a spot in the back garage just until the rain abated but as it goes the old women told me to get lost. So much for a heart, and then I realised that her bitterness reflected the war; the dead trunk of a tree next to the bus shelter said it all. So I trundled up a little way and found an abandoned bar with a large awning on the front. It was perfect for my hammock and I took an early night. That morning a women came by and invited me to her place. She was lovely and her name was Ljubica and I huddled up to her wood-burning stove. She made me food, gave me stuff for my journey and the least I could do was play her music and plant a couple of fig cuttings in her garden. I told her they were from a church. We struggled to converse using the dictionary but I then understood that these people require healing. I was a sign of hope for her, for her solitary lifestyle.

There was a spring in my cycling again, everybody was waving at me and even stopping to ask to help me to my destination. As it turned out I bumped into the border to the Republic of Serbia. I still hadn’t spent all my kuna and so left the country with an unimaginable credit (it must say something about the economy here). The guards were really nice people, all coming out to greet me. They told me about the war, gave me good advice, and told me that here in particular, Bos Novi, the war hit hard. They think the politicians are stupid to join the EU, making them slaves to an international monetary fund. But this was the opinion of one of them. He told me I was a rare sight, travellers don’t normally come through here and that I was the first. Second checkpoint was fine also but rather than follow the river I decided to take their advice and go to Banja Luka, the capital of the Republic of Serpska. I passed that night in Prijedor. I would say at this stage that since Zagreb the roads have been adequate, but there are no concessions for cyclists. There are no cycle tracks from here to Sarajevo, and the drivers get gradually worse, which I can only accredit towards the lack of awareness for cycling safety. These countries are a long way from Slovenia. The Republic of Serpska or Serbia was a culture shock – their industriousness to work every available piece of land was beautiful to see. It was a stunningly green country reminding me of Gloucestershire in England. Everybody was growing something and they do it with modern equipment and a methodical approach. Horticulture was a skill here; many trees are painted with white latex paint to protect from sunscald and the rapid fluctuations of temperatures. As such indicators of wealth dramatically increases tenfold from Croatia. Prijedor is a small sleek modern town, full of cafeterias and restaurants. The helpful shop owner changed up my Euro and her honesty would make a lasting impression on me of Serbian people. Here they use the mark (DM) and that night I would find me a cafeteria and engage in local conversation. I was like a spectacle; everybody looked at me like I was on exhibition, or maybe the cyclist announced on the radio a week ago travelling from Spain. Maybe they thought I was a Muslim with that beard of mine, a terrorist because, as it turns out, I was entering a police state. I had noticed minaret in the country around Bos Novi and I began to wonder whether the Orthodox religion here reflects the tensions with Croatia as does Protestantism does with Catholicism in Ireland. Nevertheless, people remained neutral to me. Two young guys helped me out, telling me that most of the youth here were into heavy metal; funny how they reminded me of the Spanish. I asked them about the war and why so many police were about. They told me that the war was started first between the Slovenians and Croats but I was reluctant to forward this assertion in my previous blog. Still, I got some good advice from them to try out Cepavi (rolled meat in pitta) when I reached Sarajevo. They bought the coffee for me, informed me that this cafeteria was owned by a police man, and helped me on my way. It was night and I travelled on my way. I kept on going on a relatively clear road making up the distance to Banja Luka. In the misty, moonless night my vision just caught a wooden bus shelter off the side of the road. It would be the last real possible place I could get my head down. Sheltered on nearly all four sides I had a decent night’s sleep. Entering Banja Luka in the morning it was obvious that I wasn’t that welcome. The police stopped me, asked for my British passport, took loads of notes, and asked me to move on. So I did, and then I was stopped again whilst I waited for them to make a few calls. I didn’t want to hang around; the bitterness was stifling the air. One monument said it all, commemorating the death of 13 babies and one permanently damaged for life because oxygen could not be supplied to them during the war. The old men played chess in the street and in general everybody was fine. Most people were helpful though, and taking a few photos I quickly moved on, the disparity here is one of urban living against rural living since cities tend to concentrate problems. The outskirts of Banja Luka was gorgeous, the road followed the very fast, wide river since all the rain had raised its level. I caught a quick dip in a part that was slow since even then I swam to keep still. The valley complex of this part of the country was a joy to ride in, as I say, everything was clean and tidy here, but the car drivers were the worse I have ever known – they are crazy. I looked over the side of the road and could see a veritable meadow of dandelion, verbascum, dock, sorrel, ragwort, bugle, vetch, yarrow, groundsel, euphorbia, hedge garlic, the list goes on. It was like being in Britain. Following the river was good advice since it was generally flat, but on occasion I miss the path and veer off into the hills, sometimes intentionally, and then I came across Krupa with its Orthodox monastery. At the last cafeteria of the sleepy town I gathered a few people around me. We were soon playing music and eating loads of meat that the bar owner brought out (I am sure he was testing me to see if I was a Muslim). One lovely old man sang some songs with me, gave me a load of painted Easter eggs and sent me on my way after buying me a drink. I cycled up the steep incline to the monastery and took a few pictures. It would be good preparation for the long steep incline about to beset me as my body sought to regain the lost oxygen of consuming all that meat, and I really did pig out. As I say, I am here to respect the wishes of my hosts and I do not discriminate against anyone, that is why I am at peace. For the record I wrote this down in memory of the old men:  

Joy Hristos Vaskrese, Joy Vaistinu Vaskrese

Krupa na vrbasu Republica Srpska 18.04.2012

Godpozdrav od prijateya – Drasko, Gagi Marinko, Kafe Bar “Ribamerc”

Frend Miudrag Vidovic, Drasko Petrovic, Marinko Nova kovic

City Krupa na Vrbasu Repbluka Srpska 18.04.2012 Godine 16.40.Casova

As I draw towards the end of this blog and towards the border to Bosnia I would see some very interesting sites, not least the millions of plastic bottles in the River Vrbas contained within a floating baton. I couldn’t understand it, their eerie silence with the occasional expanding ‘pop ‘assuaged’ me for a moment. It was night and I stopped just before Jayce at a service station with a cafeteria. Little did I know then that this was the border. My back rack had snapped the other mounting fixture to the frame and so I endeavoured to fix it with a jubilee clip. It worked but as I took a coffee I engaged the workers who stayed here – it was an all-night cafeteria. I declined the offer of the gay couple but the hospitality of everyone was stupendous. I took good advice not to take the shortcut through the hills because of wolves, boar and bear, and besides, the road becomes dirt track and signs at night are just not happening. So I stayed all night in the cafeteria, met 3 policemen who changed my view of them and who bought me sandwiches, got about 3 hours sleep and had my coffee paid for. That morning a guy I saw earlier helped me out with the bike as he worked in a factory selling component parts (www.zanychew.com) . I was astonished, they gave me completely free of charge a new back rack and about 40 replacement spokes for the wheel (which was running on a broken spoke). These people really wanted to help me, the message had got out that I was on my way to Jerusalem. So I say a fond farewell to Zan Andic and Ivan Dramac, the staff at the cafeterias, the very accommodating Serbian people, and the beautiful landscape. On leaving the town in the pulsating rain I passed through Jayce, the only city I know where the waterfalls are in the heart of it, and what a spectacle! (See photos) My perseverance paid off because the rain would subside. I was now in Bosnia and here the Muslims multiplied. I end by saying something important, that practically all the help I receive are from Christians, the Muslims are just friendly people. Muslims never take you in, they only respect you as a guest if they think you are a Muslim yourself. Saying that, even with a population of some 10,000 Muslims in the region I knew that all this was good preparation the further south I went.

At this stage the route has gone out of the window. I don’t have any maps nor any other languages. Spanish got me through Italy but as soon as they spoke Italian I was lost. The first thing you notice when you enter Slovenia is the multilingual abilities of the people, so English is no problem here. I have had enough exchanges to know that everyone has a subjective viewpoint being used to the idea that people sometimes appear negative towards me. They will, for instance, naturally try to deter me in my drive when I ask for directions up hills. They inflate distances too. I believe the car culture has somewhat distorted their experience of outdoor life. Anyhow, I occasionally meet those who are aware of their own projections and will forestall elaborating on the journey too much, allowing me to find out the consequences myself. It is a philosophical point. It got me out of trouble when during the night I needed redirecting down a motorway to get me back to a cycling road. That night I slept just off the beaten track in a small copse of trees. I was out of sorts, the hammock was at first too high to reach. Then during the night my feet froze and I kept on waking up to rub them. I waited for the late morning before deciding to get out. Then I headed down and no sooner hitting the border (with no-one about) went to the first supermarket. The language distinction from Italian is immediately apparent. I felt good though and headed for my only real destination, Ljubljana the capital. On the way I would pass Postojna the site of some fantastic caves. When I got there they had stuck a building over the entrance in the same manner that the hot water springs at Amélle les Bains-Palalda were covered. It was just daylight robbery, a natural gift of nature denied general access. I admit to having to prevent idiots from vandalising the place and ensuring safety and conservation but at 23 Euros standard adult price I wasn’t game. So I sat down and had a look at the theme park they built in this area with all the tacky gift shops lining the path. It was Disneyland but already there were queues of people waiting to go in at this time of year. I took out my crisp toast, cheese and sausage meat and pondered what to do – surely there are other natural formations around here? That’s when I met Darko and Norma contesting the same issue. So in the end we all went for a lovely walk to another nearby cave and caught some intellectual conversation. When we got there the place was likewise fenced in; had I been alone I would have risked a climb-over. In reality I wasn’t really disappointed, what you don’t see you don’t miss. Ljubljana it would be then. I did then what I do best, arrived just before the city in a place called Brezovici and went to a cafeteria to buy a two-hour coffee with free electricity usage. We talked and they kindly allowed me to sleep in the covered outdoor seating area where I duly overate and fell asleep. As for my music I wasn’t really playing it and anyhow, had a broken string. Concerning my musical abilities I seem to peak with it and then abandon it for a while. I took an easy morning, received their gifts of a cigarette lighter and pen respectfully and carried on. I strolled into the botanical gardens late afternoon. Before I got there I knew I had received a good sign when a local man helped me with directions. He pointed me towards a printery and that is when I struck up an impromptu conversation as if we were old friends or something. It was just amazing as I watched this guy single-handedly serve a multitude of customers all at the same time. It was like poetry in motion. I was getting a deal out of him and had all the time in the world to watch him. He printed up a load of extra laminated flyers for the journey at more or less cost price for me whilst streams of students came in and out. This place is probably the best deal in town. (Reklamni Atelje – Dunajska 18, 1000 Ljubljana) We had a beer together and I wondered if his gratitude would extend to getting me a place to stay. Despite the occasional flirt from interested young girls from the college I just think that the ‘wild man from Borneo’ look is a nut many people try to crack. It doesn’t have to be sexual.

So I continued along my way and soon found the gardens. It was fateful how the first person I met was the curator, Janja, who afterward did that most gracious thing – make me a coffee. We soon exchanged seeds but I was becoming self-conscious of the fact that my shoes stank. Just a minor point, but I couldn’t help ask whether there were any second-shops in the region. I found out that they don’t have them here, but nor do they have ‘Compro oro’ shops so prevalent across Italy. In fact, I would come to understand them as a subdued people in the sense that they don’t appear as consumerists. I would also learn that there was only one Fairtrade shop in the region (http://www.inyourpocket.com/slovenia/ljubljana/Shopping/Fair-Trade/3-Muhe_39612v) (a testament to their relative isolation from the West) but later that night the owner tried to help me out as much as possible. Janja prepared the seeds whilst I went for a tour of the gardens. They were a nice diverse mix and I got in some of the history from her. Apparently half the occupied grounds was a saw mill until between the world wars when the original botanical gardens, the first in Slovenia, were conjoined with it. The relatively small arboretum used to be circled by a wall which was mainly destroyed 100 years ago by a massive earthquake. They rebuilt part of it 15 years ago. The new greenhouse is beautifully designed and was officially opened in 2010 to commemorate 200 years since the founding date of the garden. The Tilia platyphyllos stands as a testament to that time. I wouldn’t see that ‘til the following day, for now I was content with taking in the rockery, pond and substantial groundcover ‘neath the trees. The relevance here is that of snowdrops, they were just everywhere. Before I left that night Janja was eager to show me a few plants. Of special note were the young germinating lime shoots with their distinct first leaves, the Gladiolus illyricus from the Balkan regions, the Allium sphaerrocephalon with its red and purple flowers, and the rosa glauca  who’s leaves are indeterminate and don’t breed true. They also had a substantial Index Semine of 1,250 seeds collected from their gardens and the wild. Unlike Italy they did not have any laboratory equipment here. What pleased me the most was the rockery and undercover. I thought I could bring back some ideas for ground cover to Hanbury gardens including Sedum spurium, Cerastium carinthiacum, Allium ursinum (delicious), Lamium orvala, Melittis melissophylum, Campanula trachelium, Aruncus diocus, Agrimonia procera, Thalictrum aquiligiifolium, and Asperula taurina. (See group photo) All that was left to me to do then was to go into town and create my own ground cover to see if I could catch the night-time architecture.

I had learnt that there are 2 million people in Slovenia and maybe as much as 30,000 Muslims here, but I haven’t really seen them. The population of Ljubljana is 300,000. The sites that caught me on the way through were the size and power of the rivers. At points they were as wide as the Thames obviously taking water from the variable landscape which makes this country very diverse in its habitat. It includes four distinct phytographic regions, the Alps, the Dinaric mountains, the Pannonian plain, and the Mediterranean. The countryside is stunning. Slovenia along with its neighbour, Croatia, were the two countries that resigned from the Socialist Federation Republic of Yugoslavia in the early 90’s and from which point the Serbians (in collaboration with the Yugoslavian army ) increasingly felt threatened to ultimately declare war on their neighbours, but that is another story which I hope to elaborate upon in my next blog. The architectural influence here is Venetian and Austro-Hungarian, and straight away I followed the ornate route through the dusk-lit old town. As night settled upon me I trundled into the main plaza where I consumed the petty remains of my stores. My first objective is always to stay friendly, and already the place had a feel of openness and sociability. There are a couple of quaint streets and I enjoyed the abundance of statutory everywhere I went. I would eventuate to find a funky cafeteria and plug in my laptop. Luckily it was not too far from Tivoli Park in which area I discovered a lovely woodland, the Slovenian word is les. It must have been 3am and upon the wooded slope there were many dells to tuck into. I had a perfect sleep, waking up to masses of snowdrops and various joggers and dog walkers. It was one of those mornings where you find a bench, eat your cereal, and repair any outstanding bike problems, in this case re-sewing the panniers again. As I left I meandered down in the opposite direction and began to see the city in the light. The aura of moonlight had lifted its veil and now I could see the occasional derelict grandiose house that many a people would pay a mini fortune to own. I could see the influence of the youth on the city now, the graffiti art, the burnt out shack, the late-night rowdiness, but it was minor to say the least. Like many of these European towns they are served by trams. There are many young people here but my objective on this sleepy day was to catch the director at the botanical gardens. The sun was out and I would get there late. Joze would turn out to be a renowned botanist and plant collector, especially of snowdrops for which he is called around the continent to give talks on. (See http://www.bf.uni-lj.si/en/biology/o-oddelku/about/ to find out more about the garden’s university links and publications)  He gave me a special tour of the new greenhouse, opened in 2010 to commemorate 200 years of the official opening of the gardens. Joze is a photographer, the publications by the Institute use his crystal-clear photos. He told me that he became one after he got into botany; strangely I feel that this could be my own personal development. He presented me some lovely gifts of a DVD and a few glossy books, telling me that all answers I needed to know are in them. (They read as a thesis or paper and obviously extend the work of the Professor – the gardens have a rich heritage of education from its origins during the period when Napoleon’s France bore a lot of influence in this region, albeit short-term. I took this as a hint to use the opportunity to take more pictures whilst he gave me a personal tour of the new greenhouse, stunning as it is with its treetop walkway. Divided into 5 distinct continents, American, Asian, African, Australia and Oceania; the quality of the plants are absolutely spotless. The design was to incorporate seasonal flowering, overall size and height of the plant, and regional habitat so that the viewer has an all-year interest in them. Even Joze had noticed a few new flowers worth stopping for. It is like a small version of the palm houses in Kew Gardens, a childhood reminiscence invoked by the whiff of chlorophyll in the air. It is not difficult to imagine that exotic gardening is a way of bringing worldly education into an outdoor classroom, where the senses are invoked to take in both space and season. 8,000 students a year come to these gardens and it has an Index Seminum of 1,250 species. I learnt something new, that plants obtained before the signed Rio Convention of 1990 were allowed to be sold. In fact the gardens do a little better than Hanbury in this respect. The nursery at the back housed his collection of snowdrops and a variety of plants available for other gardens. He amused me with his story of the Heliconias, a Madeira market and which was now gloriously flowering. These botanists do get around – it must be a beautiful life. They know much of the country around the world; the acres of glasshouses and polytunnels in Italy I was informed were probably strawberries. So just as the rain clouds threatened he escorted me to the bakery opposite and told me about the school that forms a part of it. I could hardly say no to his offer of bread, and the olive oil I am carrying looks like it may stay the distance all the way to Palestine. Just then I was ushered into the educational side of the gardens as a bunch of kids and their parents were learning to make willow whistles. I remember doing this back in London and it didn’t work. Heck, I had another go and guess what, it still wouldn’t work, and in fact I think it made my hair go grey. I guess Apollo wins the day and Pan is relegated to the wild side of life. 

At this point my bags were loaded again from the trip to the market square where I saw untold amounts of fruit sellers selling all the same products. How can they compete, it just seems the market is flooded. I managed one organic apple (Fairtrade and Organic is a scarcity here) and then spied a stall selling very cheap delicious fruit, so I stocked up. On the way out I encountered a line of flower stalls doing much the same thing. But the women at the end had a special skill for making dried flower arrangements. (See photo) So my plans were to go to the arbo retum but I was advised to wait ‘til the following day. That was good advice and strangely enough, as I took the wrong road for directions to the shopping centre to buy strings for my guitar the heavens opened. No more than 100 metres along I decided to turn back anyway when the front rack snapped with the extra load of fruit. What do you do? It carries three essential bags. I crossed the river and thought to head down the proper road when out of the blue there appeared a rubber components factory. (http://www.klander.si)  I enquired within and lo and behold... a man called Vili came out with a replacement rack. It was a back rack (even stronger) but we adapted it and with the help of two other people who drilled a few holes and made an attachment bracket, voulez! I mean, if that wasn’t a miracle what is? I spent the next two hours chatting with Vili and he kindly printed out Google maps of the whole route to Thessalonica. It was my turn to buy coffee so we went next door and for the first time in my life I experienced a Turkish coffee house. And the rains came even harder, but the factory staff had located a waterproof covering for the bike and this would prove very useful for the the future. Vili managed to suss out a space behind the factory which turned out to be a garden orchard (everyone grows top fruit in these Slovakian states). The dusty old sheds were inadequate so I adapted the waterproof sack and slid it over the hammock – it worked. I took another long morning making minor adjustments to my equipment and admiring the adjacent river with the mating ducks. Planting a fig cutting I took from Italy I went off in the sun to catch the music shop. And just as it began to rain again another spoke popped, in fact two had loosened. I took an easy afternoon fixing them and then reassessed the situation. This is a recurrent problem and I am not getting any lighter. On checking the wheel I realised that one side of the spokes were over-tightened and its opposite side too loose. I get better at understanding problems the more they go on and bless my luck, it seems to be holding up. But I had to give the arboretum a miss and knew that one day I would return to catch up. I also missed out on Lake Bled about 60km further north, as well as the castle and much of the surrounding landscape. I have learnt though, that going backwards is not my style, so forward it is. I headed for the same cafeteria (irony at its best), bought a few puncture patches and waited for the night. Just before I left I decided to play my music but like I say, I could play for hours and make a pittance – I do it for the love of it.

(download)

Click here to download:

dobre-slovenia-edHaAauDaoxayiIqIbCD.zip (11.1 MB)

The road is flat and I flew along but this is where you need a proper map to get by. I lost the main road(!) and went south into the hills. It wound away, up and up, and it got cold in this thick coniferous woodland. I knew I had lost the road but I wasn’t turning back now. Two hours later I discovered some life in these backwoods; I was looking particular wild at this stage. Nevertheless the bouncer at the cabaret club and later the fortunate encounter of a couple told me of a road that cuts through the hills. I was cold but I persevered. I decided that the glowing attraction of a roadside shelter was too enticing to give a miss; its widened bench with the bicycle leaning up against it was ample comfort for this late hour in Ponikve. I slept well and discovered that I had a slow flat on the front. As I enquired to the neighbours they took me in, fed me, allowed me to have my first hot shower in a month, and said adijo to the lovely women, who also received a blessed fig cutting. I also fixed the inner-tube by tightening the internal valve. I was all smiles for I know that my little gift at the end of a hill came true. I made up for my loss in Italy where I changed the route. Here, just like every other hill country, the scenery is spectacular. I was saying hello to everybody and eventually my road took me to Brezice. But before I elaborate I need to say something about life: it isn’t maps you need but a willingness to see where nature leads you. Not all the maps in the world were going to deny me this experience. So even though I now had a map of the hill country given me by Carolina and I still managed to go another route from the intended one. Country folk are just different though. The numerous roadside shrines are for traveller alike, and in this Catholic country carrying a guitar on your back on the way to Jerusalem is a sure way of getting help. The novelty of travellers in cities and towns isn’t strong enough to administer altruistic behaviour, not even at 2am in the morning. But even that hypothesis would prove wrong as the sound of a Kurt Cobane tribute concert drew me to this bar. Without buying a drink all night the lovely people I met there sorted me out. The next thing I knew I was drinking and being looked after in a B & B (Les Franc Rimska cesta 31, Catez ob Savi, 8250 Brezice http://www.gostilna-les.com) by the kindness of Frank, Peter and Ljubisa. They told me that the rooms were empty because the workers from the local nuclear power station go home for the weekend. That morning I had eggs and bacon, bread and coffee whilst admiring the artwork around the walls and the view over the landscape. (I secretly pined for the pizza actually in the wood-fired hearth) It was the same pattern as of France, one of those days when everybody loves you. Frank gave me his CD’s (the name of his band is Shyam - everyone is a musician here) and a quirky little book of local folk songs. (Rompompom se ne gremo domov ­– answers on a postcard please.) I played some music in return after meeting all their family and hit the road. At the border to Croatia I was asked for a passport (the first time since leaving) and my reflection of Slovenia was one of astonishment.

I end this blog then by saying something of the people here. I was told that the further south I go the more heart they have. That the Slav people are variable and distinguishable differences can be seen between Slovakia, Slovenia, and Slavonia. The country is outstandingly beautiful but its language is difficult. I remembered the word for dog very quickly, since they took a fancy for my bike (they ignore tour cyclists). My list of words for budding peregrins is as follows:

Mum/dad – Mama/tata

Woodland – Les

Goodbye – Adijo

Hello – Zdravo

Hi – Ziujo

Please – Prosim

Yes – Ja

No – Ne

Thanks – Hvala

Dog – Pes

Cat – Mucka

Pig – Puig

Chicken – Cura

Cow – Crava

 I noticed when I left Italy that there was increasing agritourism, and this reminds me of my calling. For on this last day approaching Brezice I pulled into a mixed farm and asked to use the toilet. It turned out that they put on working holidays for mainly Slovenians and Italians as well as B & B (€20), Half Board (€25), and Full Board (€30). They come to eat locally grown and butchered meat from the animals kept on site. This included horse (one per year) salami (sorry Michelle, but I had to try it), pigs (25-30), rabbit, chicken, ducks and cows (2). The farmer is a butcher and they will not domesticate the animals enough to feel too attached to them. But the other specialty was the home-made wine derived from both red and white grapes. They have a vineyard with something like 4,000 vines producing 7,000 litres of wine. It was impressive and has won a number of awards. They keep it in a large vat where customers can purchase it for a considerably lower price using refillable bottles. Interestingly, they float oil over the top of the wine to provide a bacteria seal against spoiling, and the wine lasts for one and half years. People come to eat food, this is their biggest selling point, and they will do it in a traditional room made of timber. They huddle up to the ceramic stove, the traditional method of keeping warm in big houses where heat is extracted from the kitchen furnace. From here they also supplement meat with home-grown fruit both soft and top, which mainly includes blackberries, blueberries, apples and pears. All told they have about 40 fruit trees which will supply them for the whole year. There are also opportunities to work in the field, but Ursa tells me that you can’t work them too hard. They put on a variety of services and overall everyone is content to be looked after. They can be contacted and located here: Pr’ Martinov’h Gor. Gradisce 7, 8310 Senternej Tel: 07/3071394 Mob: 041/906426 and here: http://www.slovenia.info/?excursion_farm=470&lng=1 for general information of the group of tourist farms in this outstanding area of interest.

Food then is the critical sustainable edge that drives this industry, and it gives me ideas for the speculative project in Barcelona I have been referring to previously. The one issue that has been consistently raised is the bureaucracy put in place that has made it a costly business to conform to EU regulations. Many prospecting businesses find that planning costs are rocketing (after membership in 2006) whilst the cost of living rises also, and sometimes it can take years to implement a construction project. This is a point in case that maybe my next hosts will bear in mind, Croatia is about to enter the EU.

I was undoubtedly in the richest farmland I have ever seen. It is no wonder empires are built on farming. The Romans knew it, for even though their homeland in the north produces some of the best soil one can imagine Rome in the south was still shipping in grain from Alexandria by the 1,000 tonne load on ships 80 feet long with a capacity of 600 passengers. Their yearly import reached a staggering 135,000 tonnes from Egypt alone. But it makes me wonder where all the food was going to, and in a way reflects the situation today where I can ask the same question: Crisis, what crisis? Truly, the global economics out there looks terribly flawed. I think it needs to be centred and reapplied in a manner that reflects the working landscape.

I missed Brescia and probably some stunning architecture, instead I would arrive into Montichaiari during the night taking in some lovely night shots. I sat down on some medieval steps and plied at my blog text. Like a lot of these towns it was terribly quiet, Still, we were in holy week. And then the first drops of rain came. As it steadily grew my battery pack was running low, and I knew that it was time to head off. I cantered into the desolate lit up streets looking for the long flat road to Desanzano. As usual I forestalled entering the town ‘til the morning and found a useful spot to set up the hammock. It was another great decision, I spotted a derelict house and garden which had a run-down shelter in the plum garden. The place was so decrepit that I found it difficult to attach the hammock to a safe hitching point, but it would suffice in the end without the thing coming down over me during the night. As usual I slowly awoke to the task of the day and headed for the next town, Lonato del Garda. On entering I read up on the rich history of the Venetian wars that gave this town prominence in the Middle Ages. A few centuries later Napoleon marched against the Austrians and then later still Italy fought for its independence here. Hence there has been a long history of the fortification of the town. The sights to see include the Basilica Minore and the Visconteo-Venetian Rocca Fortress. I was absolutely taken aback by it all, heading up to the castle and entering the main gate. There was no-one there, in fact the security was a gardener who happen to be working at the time. After going on a free tour of the walls I headed back down as the gardeners were leaving, and then realised that the place was closed – gardener’s prerogative! Apparently, being the home of Ugo da Como there is a collection of the first printed book ever, the collection of 404 incunabala, as well as a load of stuffed birds (700), but it was still off-season so no luck getting in that way even though I was stuffed. I wound down and played some guitar to no-one in particular and I was brilliant. That is the way it works – people seem to cause psychic interference with me in their company. I needed a wash though and knew my next stop – Lake Garda. On the way I came upon the small town of Lonato with a ruined Roman villa nestled amongst its tightly packed buildings. It was one of those rare occasions when I paid to see the exhibit, because the mosaic floors were stunning. (See Photos) These were rich Romans, and this site has been hinted as being owned by the emperor’s brother. Originally it would have bordered the lake, the luxuriousness of the setting speaks volumes. Every floor was ornate, as well as the walls. I learnt from a video show that the area had been inhabited by prehistoric man for millennia, building houses on stilts. It was originally thought the reason was due to flooding but is now known to be a fishing community and aid to transportation. The Romans themselves built entrance ports to their luxurious villas. So I continued to head down and found a lovely cobbled spot next to a deserted restaurant. The water was superb – fresh water, and in the distance I could see that sailing and wind surfing was on the agenda. I slowly packed my cycle bags and headed along the waterside route, swinging this way and that. Unfortunately I never had time to visit Sirmione and the site of a massive three-tiered complex but continued along my way heading towards Verona in the hope I would draw near to it that night. As it goes I broke another spoke and settled down to repair the bike. A little later on I went into a bike shop and got a discount from them after I had told them of my journey. Thanks to them, Il Ciclista (www.ilciclistadisirmione.com located on Via Brescia, 23/25) I was prepared again for what would be a continuing problem. I just think the extra load of food and drink is just too much for the bike sometimes. I entered Verona that night and the clouds were looming. Again the architecture was stunning, especially along the river route, and then I heard some singing coming from a Church. It turned out to be a rehearsal but enjoyable all the same. Then as the rain came again I spotted another church with candles. The architecture was fabulous but the artwork even more so. Not bad are the pictures for this cheap little camera I have. As I was leaving I met another man who enquired what I was doing. I was outside the Basilica di San Pietro Martíre in Sant Anastasia. He happened to be a pilgrim, as was his wife, who has walked all the way to Rome and Jerusalem. It turns out that he formed a pilgrim’s group for like-minded people. Details can be obtained from his website at www.pellegriniverona.it It is in Italian but English peregrine should check out the photos. As I chatted with his two daughters, first in Spanish and then in English it was obvious that he felt obligated towards me. Nevertheless I gave him a pack of basil seeds and then he offered to buy me coffee. So they all took me to this plush place where I was served two types of coffee and anything I wanted to eat. My better sense told me to go for the apricot tart, sweet and stodgy. Well, what can I say? They offered me to go with them 15km down the road but I refused on the basis that I will make this journey completely on bicycle. I asked Francesca if she would deny me my glory.  In return she offered to give me a night tour of the city since I think it horrified her that I would leave without seeing it. She was obviously very proud of it, it is a stunning city. I was originally going to bypass this place but as I flew in I remember seeing the UNESCO sign and decided to see what the fuss was all about. There are just so many monuments here it makes me wonder. I learnt that the Scaliger family were very prominent here, owning much of the landscape. Dante based his famous works in this region including The Divine Comedy. The picture of Francesca shows her standing in front of the Portoní, the gate where the borsarí collected tolls for use of the road; borsa means bag. One of my final images was the Arco dei Gaví, an arc de triumph for a famous victory, but even as I left that night I continued to notice one historical site after the next, all in the dark. After we departed and feeling all the better for my coffee, what I really needed was a laundry – my clothes stank of sweat. Can you imagine what it is like sitting next to me? I am sure those pilgrims have been there and done it. That night I set off into an empty road and cycled ‘til 3am. I was greeted by an endless stream of commercial outlets and this would ultimately continue all the way to Vicenza and later Padua. But before I got there I decided to pull off the road at a Lidl store and search the surrounding countryside. I found a track leading to a hedgerow but no strong trunks to hang my hammock. Trundling through rough ground I happened across a small village called San Bonifacio and there a copse of trees awaited me. It must have been 4.30am by now, nevertheless, I got up early that morning and headed backwards towards the store, having a coffee in the local gas station where I plugged in and typed away, loaded up and headed for Vicenza about 5km away. At last I had eaten substantially.

In this mire of commercial activity small towns just appear from nowhere. The sr11 is the road for cyclists although I wished that a law would be passed that kept lorries to the major roads, the ones we can’t use. It probably explains the drive towards creating new roads where all the money from Europe has gone into an infrastructure that is leaving many countries bankrupt. The smaller roads have been neglected and are not particularly in good condition. The pattern is one of commercial parcs before and after all cities and, as I say, can go on until one reaches the next town. The signage though is very ambiguous, crap actually. Everywhere in this region there seems to be two sets of signs, I am not referring to the autostrada but two signs for the national or major roads. The kilometrage goes up and down, sometimes as far apart as 10km. These signs can be on opposite sides of the road and be exactly the same type. I must assume that the road system has changed and some signs are older than others. Failing that it’s possible they used a cyclist with a tape measure to check the distance. I mean, he must have gone backwards and some point.

If Verona is anything to go by Vicenza in the light is even more stunning. Just look at the photos. What a youthful town and the question begged me: Why not sit down and busk away? Well actually, these people don’t need me; Jesus will soon be crucified and the holiday will be over. So despite the temptation of a free meal at the institute for the homeless I forsook it and went my way before it got dark again. Padua awaited me and my fourth drop off point of botanical seeds. It was dark as I approached the city, flying as I do at this time of night. I spotted a funky cafeteria and stopped over. It then bucketed down and my choice of place and timing can only be pure instinct. By now I am so finely tuned I consider myself a true indigene. Even as I sat in this bar playing music, paying a ridiculous amount for a beer, I eked out value for money by getting my phone charged up. They told me where the botanical gardens were but before I went there I sussed out the area. Going down some country lane I espied a crematorium or enclosed graveyard by a large church. There was a copse of trees here but it was so dense that I could only penetrate the outer edges. Going further I noticed a derelict farm house. I broke into it and checked it out, then broke back out again. Too dangerous and too dusty; the place was falling apart. I would eventuate back to the small copse and after clearing some vegetation set up my hammock. Here I was completely safe; not even a fallen tree trunk could threaten me. I needed a wash in the morning to clean myself up before visiting the gardens. As it goes I arrived and was told that it would be better to come back the following day. Nevertheless, I toured the gardens and then went about visiting the rest of the town. Padua is surprisingly architecturally barren but when I arrived at the Basilica of San Antonio the artwork was the greatest I had yet seen. Unfortunately no-one was allowed to take pictures, nor take notes (or does that mean ‘no graffiti’?), and NO HOLDING HANDS! Well, how else are they going to make money here if they have a lack of tourist sites? They must rely on merchandise. The central park was lovely too with its numerous statues circling a pond, in fact northern Italy is big on statues. I fixed another spoke on the wheel hoping that the new ones were taking most of the tension by now. In the meanwhile I was yet again plagued by Moroccans who consider me to be a drug dealer. It’s obvious drug dealers own bikes. I trundled through the architecturally bland streets and played my guitar in the porch area of a student’s residence. I was brilliantly magical, but yet again alone for no-one to trouble the purity of my consciousness. Padua had other some nice areas too. I discovered a 63km cycle track that follows its rivers and beyond into Montegrotto Terme, Battaglia Terme, Monselice, Este, Cinto Euganeo, Lozzo Atestino, Valbona, Vo'vechio, and Bastia di Rovolon.  I found this out because I took a lovely walk along the river on advice of a friendly group of people. Eventually I found a section that had been maintained as a garden with ornamental trees and palms. I hung the hammock there and in the morning watched the dragon’s breath encompass everything.

I arrived right on cue. Padua’s botanical garden is the oldest in the world. (Actually another garden was incepted two years earlier in Pizza but it did not survive longer than 1545.) It didn’t compare to Hanbury in Ventimiglia but it serves a different purpose here, or hopes to. Dating from 1545 it is also considered on the UNESCO world heritage list (only Kew Gardens has this UNESCO status too.) They came at the time of the birth of science and were figuratively designed as a perfect square in a circle (of the universe), i.e. the technician Carlo informs me that it should represent the perfection of scientific purpose. (It implies that all things can be reduced to maths.) Its contribution extended to botany, medicine, chemistry, ecology and pharmacy. The square is dissected by two paths creating four quadrants. Primarily these served for medicinal plants only. At a later stage the first exotics were introduced into the country and grown here because it encouraged the exchange of plant material. The gardens were then extended further outwards. The founding of the garden was a result of the impact of the Carrarese Herbarium written by Jacopo Filippo da Padova and is a vulgar version of the 12^th century Medicinus Semplicibus aggregates by the 12^th century Arab doctor il Giovanne; it is based on the direct experience of nature – a precursor to science. I moved around the gardens with Carlos who discussed various points of interest. For instance the Goetre palm was so called because he wrote a book concerning the metamorphosis of the plant taking his experience from travelling all around Italy. Interestingly it has 3 types of leaves, from single leaves at the bottom to full fans at the top. The specimen on show had a greenhouse around it to protect it from the cold. It was in fact huge compared to how they normally grow a couple of metres high. Other plants included one of the oldest magnolia grandiflora in Italy (1786), yet funnily enough the younger specimens in the basilica were larger (massive). I put it to Carlos whether he thought praying had a scientific effect, he didn’t reply. Other specimens include the Gingko (1750) which was grafted in 1880 with a female branch so that it could pollinate itself and produce fruit; flowers are normally born separately on male and female plants (dioceious). There was a Platano orientalis the second oldest plant in the garden (a cross between P. Occidentalis and the London Plane). Lightning struck the plant and caused a fungus to grow in the wound. It consequently had to be cleaned out and made hollow. (Check the photos on all of these specimens) The site does have its problems though, not least in its transitional stage of becoming what it had once been – a universal centre for scientific research into the properties of plants. For this reason they were in the process of building a huge new greenhouse (to be completed by next April). The centre has not had a professor for 10 years, just trained technicians to keep the plants in good shape and the gardens open for ornamental purposes. I asked Carlos the importance of this event and he told me that medicinal knowledge of this sort only happens here but also the emphasis has moved to bioconservation and the protection of wildlife. What used to be classrooms (disused) will now all be transferred to the new building with increased materials and laboratory equipment. The historic parts of the garden are plain to see. There is a row of plants that represent their first introduction into Italy. A couple, like Robinia and Ailanthus have since become national weeds, escaping into the further bounds of Italy. But other examples include the first ever potatoes grown here in 1590 (most of the solanum species). I then found out that there is an artesian spring 30 metres deep that brings up warm water and allows exotic aqua plants to be grown also. So loads of important botanical history and yet the place has only 15 employed people, most of them gardeners. The 23,000 students that visit will be expanded, and I know that there was a sense of excitement at being here for the opening next year.

It did occur to me that one of the gaping holes in the country’s industry is the lack of a volunteer sector. This is definitely something I could begin to work towards and could tie in with any possible outcome in Catalonia. It just doesn’t happen here in Italy, and maybe the student exchange system I anticipate will embolden this idea of work experience and real vocational training methods that take in the greater culture of things. I ended my stay with Pierluigi telling me stuff about seed conservation, expanding on what I had learnt at Hanbury gardens. In fact endangered species are stored at -18^oC but if the moisture content of the seed can be got below 5% then it allows for seed to be stored closer to 0^oC. The interesting examples quoted were Silene stenophylla and Phoenix dactylifera (Date palm) species, the former discovered in frozen conditions 20,000 to 40,000 years old and the latter in dry arid conditions. Scientists claimed to regenerate the plant from frozen fruit 32,000 years old. Hence the seed moisture had reduced significantly to allow the survival of seeds for thousands of years. In the case of the former one notes that the same species living today show slight adaptation in the ensuing period. I don’t think I could ever become a scientist but I wonder if they would allow me to conduct some religious experiments with their plants. It has been done before, just consider Steiner’s whole philosophy.

We made our seed exchanges and I thanked Carlo and Pierluigi for taking the time out for me. But I had to move on now, the nightmare getting out of Padua eventually led to a very nice road to Venice that followed the river. I had to go for a dip although the river was full of fluff (pussy willow I think). The sun streamed behind me and I was gliding towards Venice. After crossing a huge bridge I wondered about the attraction of this city. It is the novelty of water canals that lead to people’s doorsteps that so intrigues me, otherwise the place is pretty average. In a strange mythical way it gives one the sense that they can be free as fish, disappearing off at all hours of the day and night and secretly arriving at some rendezvous. It definitely rings Atlantean to me and I think that is its appeal. It really is unique, but I didn’t stay long. I thought I saw an anti-capitalist campaign going on at the station but it turned out to be nice people complaining why they had lost their jobs when they cut the night service. I mean, not even tourism can bail out these economics. I am sure something is truly aberrant here. I think countries should go back to being independent but globally linked through tourism and independent trade. It doesn’t make sense, the wealth of the country is being drained away, its timber of rich Black popular plantations and arable land, the finest soil one can possess. As I passed onwards towards the border of Slovenia I eventuated to find a perfect spot about 15km outside Venice at some ridiculous hour in the morning. It was another plantation woodland absolutely ideal for my hammock. The following day I smashed out 130km but stopped before I reached Trieste, unusually freezing at this time. A lovely bar tender (www.knulp.it) got me on my way with some bread and a pastry (there’s wifi here too) which ignited me up this massive hill and got me within a few kilometres of the border (somehow I lost the road at night and had to use the motorway for 5km – now that is crazy isn’t it?) You wonder why the Italians keep this part of the country, why not just give it to Slovenia. I have subsequently learnt that former Yugoslavia gave it after the war. But I suppose it is their claim to the Adriatic coast. Even in these border lands one gets the sense that everything is au fait. But it was the experience of the night before on Easter Sunday where I camped in some amazing place in the hills of the Duino region, would you believe it amongst the ugliest industrial factory you can imagine. It just boggles the mind how they could build such a thing here next to lakes and streams. It bucketed down but I remained stone dry during the night as I slept. I used my second hammock suspended in the running water to clean all my underwear. No prose could do this place justice so I end this blog with a poem, and I say ciao la Italia.

 The Ascendency

 

I wake up to a canopy of bay,

A brow to the mottled overcastting sky

Its whiteness is a distant reflection,

Of the rushing stream perpetual in its noisy hiss

It gushes at a point below me

 

Further up a blue lagoon awaits its befalling

Yet tranquil as if divining

The placid pond mirrors its sounding

Echoing as it does the aspiring tree tops

Reaching as they do into the deep unknown

 

They waiver in the wind

Long slender trunks roughened by the call of nature

Ivy bites into their flaky scales

Too far to reach both the pine and the black popular

Who’s heads whisper of torrents further afield

 

Their legacy lies in a forest of dead wood

Broken branches strewn and juxtaposed between leaning trunks

Sunk amid a carpet of dead nettle and elder

Only the leggy fig could look more anxious

Of a once man-made environment returning to nature

 

I spotted a red squirrel in its haven of canopied walkways

The dog halting at intervals waiting for its master to catch up

The chirping of multifarious birds plying the upper branches

The stream of motorised traffic flitting interstitially through a green wall

And I nestled in the cocoon of my hammock

 

The sound and sights of the forest scape

Each to themselves but everyone transient

The death of one leads to the birth of another

Like a dice edge between the roll

Only the eye in the sky will see all of this

 

We are not forsaken in our longing for the sun

Though the cooling, drying air parches our skin

We yearn for the moisture and when it pours we are every one satiated

The seeds of life are sewn here into ascendancy

When once drawn and dormant we are now given impetus

 

Let’s not be fooled by or befall life's apparent randomness

Our record is written in code for generations to come

Our coats, though they run dry, are incubated with free-flowing water

So that we may swell with the abundance of life

We are all green in the centre

                                                                                                             

Liguria is olive country also. Its gardens are decorated in flowers at the moment including Bachelors’ Buttons (Kerria Japonica) and magnolia spp. The cycle track sporadically appeared and disappeared but at one point it became a joy to follow. It ran along the coast and next to the main road, occasionally offering exits to various communes along the way. Remaining at a consistent level I espied the sea between the residential buildings on the other side. My senses were sharp as a knife, for in a glimpse I noticed a lovely sand beach; most of the coastline here is rocky. An elevator took me down to the level of the sea and I gladly took up the late afternoon temptation . Why nobody else was swimming will always remain a puzzle for me. Joyfully leaving the Commune di Santo Stefano al-mare I noted a few observational thoughts. Firstly, this cycle/jogging track has SOS points. Either side of it I saw a cemetery, a crazy golf course, and various small gardens. And then I was taken aback but what appeared to be a specially made 2km tunnel for bicycles. It seems inconceivable that they would make such expense for a cycle track, and I must assume it is a converted one-way road. I trundled on through Commune di Cervo and Finale Ligure just before hitching up with Alassio. Other than Cannes this was one of the longest beaches I have ever crawled along. I looked out for a good sheltered beech spot, and there was plenty of sand here, but in the end I made for the peninsula and settled down next to some craggy rocks. The train line ran right above me, and above that the road to Genova. It is extraordinary how shop fronts and cafeterias lead onto the beach. But after the experience of Ventimiglia the architecture seem to dull. In the morning, traversing the steep road up I was greeted by many a tour cyclist who got me going in the right direction. I was confused at first since it went in the opposite direction of the rising sun. Nevertheless, this road would prove to be a good workout, navigating hilly outcrops and peninsulas. It seemed to be served by lots of bicycle shops called Olmo, and probably reflects the amount of tour cyclists that come through this way. The other thing I took account of, and still get confused about, is the change of signs from blue to green (for autostradas), and green to blue (for major roads). I drifted into Savona, and then it struck me how mundane the world now was. The industrial nature of its surrounding borders uglify what was probably very beautiful country. Still, my sharp eyes spotted the beech signs and I went for another lovely swim. Sticking around for a few hours I recharged my energy levels and I began looking forward to Genova. I had got here in good time actually because of my night riding. It was Thursday and once I saw the entry sign for the city I slowed down and wondered what it had to offer. The quaint outskirts were impressive enough but slowly the road widened into a busy, noisy thoroughfare. A young guy thought to help me out and nearly had a fight with another passer-by. Elena had warned me about this town; there was I thinking it was another Montpellier. My only advice is this: Avoid it at all costs! It is a nightmare, the same road forever looking for el centro, passing though dirty streets and unceasing traffic including a multitude of prostitutes. In the end I was so sick of the noise I just went left in the hope of getting away. It took me up this massive hill where nothing happens. Eventually I found a Kurdish shop selling pizzas. Everyone talked English and the young delivery guys bought me a drink. I decided to play them music. The owner was crazy to say the least. In fact it was a crazy night. I got some advice to get out of there and had to make the unfortunate journey of going down again. I was hoping I would traverse the immediate hills on my journey inland, for from here I said au revoir to the sea. A young girl would tell me that there were some beautiful beaches here, and only after I left did I remember that I was going to go to the university and see their botanical garden. I must have been overcome by the earlier encounter that nearly ended in a fight. And why I didn’t go to the beech to sleep indicates my mind was somewhere else. Taking the road to Pontedécimo I turned off a short while and followed a stream. This was about 12am and it led me to a sharp incline. For once I was exhausted and sought to locate some trees to hang my hammock. I had to stop twice because my heart was palpitating so much that my throat was vibrating. It may have had something to do with the chickpea pancakes the Kurd gave me. Anyhow, my magical instinct located a rambler’s trail on the hilly road. In the end I would find a very sheltered spot amongst sawn logs and storage tunnels beneath the actual road. The owner said hi in the morning and sent me back down the hill. My luck had changed once again and that is when I met Frank Si Nutra (see website www.myspace.com/I Maleducati and You Tube: Mr Frank and the Soul Band). Seeing my guitar he called me over and for two hours we played together. He bought me coffees, gave me clothing including a t-shirt of a Genoan footballer, baby wipes to stop me from getting rashes (which work really well on greasy hands from fixing my bike wheel all the time), and then invited me to a gig that night, just a mere 50 kilometres down the road. He taught me something indelibly warming, a very special phrase to take from Italy. It goes, ‘Complementi la mama’. I haven’t used it yet, but after going away from his market stall with 4 packets of vegetable seeds and some free ice tea I knew I had left that hole behind in Genova. Sorry to say it, but Marseille just pales in significance. Rather, it was joy to see the real Italian countryside stunning as it was in the hills. For once I sweated but when I reached the top I began to feel that the rest of the journey was a foregone conclusion. I cruised into Busalla, managed to eke two hours of electricity and free wifi from a bar owner without buying anything (I had enough stores), gave him my thanks and spent the afternoon sun drifting along the flat winding route to Serraville. There I would find the venue, actually backtracking a little to a place called Vignole Barbera. I couldn’t remember the name of the place at first but looked for the music posters, where I promptly discovered a benefit gig to Bob Marley at Area 51. When I got there the generosity of the Italian people was unceasing. The bar owner next door (Fernanda), on hearing I was going to Palestine, gave me a free pastry, and then I was approached by Gianni and Paula who bought me a ravioli meal, a selection of cheeses (including Gorgonzola, Stracchino and Brie), bread, wine, ice-cream with whisky, and then a Grappa liqueur to top it all. It seems that my journey reveals something of the nature of this religious country. Maybe I am achieving something that these friendly habitants have always wanted to do themselves. But also, that they have identified something holy in me. My guitar is my religious burden, the instrument of salvation. But it is no real burden, I do not notice the weight of it for it is but air, air that sings to the trees. But the weight of the bike is extraordinary, and even other cyclists take notice. I met up with Frank and his band who took over looking after me, listened to a lot of average music, and found myself a copse of trees down the road in a place called Varíano. I left my laptop at the cafeteria and would have to go back the following morning to pick it up, with the promise that I could eat any food I wanted. Well, there was another story before I left that place, but let me just say that I am a religious man, a peregrine, and these people identify with that. They know the power of the wandering pilgrim to release them from what some people understand as guilt, sin or shame or pity. Gianni said something of the sort, that he thanked me for clearing his mind. I wish now that I could have played my music to them for I think then I would have been worthy of the honour. Instead I just let myself go on the breeze. That night then, I set up my hammock. There I passed a small shrine to the Virgin Mary; it was lit up with candles. I awoke and looked up through the trees, what I believe to be elder. As the clock chimed 8am and right on cue 4 men approached me with chain saws cutting everything in their path. What the hell was going on? Who did they think I was – an environmental activist? Was the destruction of the football pitch and this little copse of trees going to be replaced with a supermarket or something? 10 minutes later after they saw that I was packing up, they all disappeared in a car - weird? So that morning I would go back to the cafeteria and pick up my laptop. I had two coffees and a pastry, spoke about environmental politics to the friendly Latvian girl, and decided to play to her a whole selection of my songs – I was on form. I went along the way and no sooner had I got a few kilometres down the road was I welcomed by Paula and her friends at a bar. It was incredible. They were buying me everything I needed and I came away with biscuits, fruit, and sandwiches. I thought they were going to marry me off. They had in fact deterred me from continuing on this route since the hills they said were massive. I took their advice because they were incessant about it, making calls to various family members and friends about its steepness. I give my lovely thanks to Sandra and her daughter Simone for the food and hope that the next time I come here those carob seeds I gave them are germinating nicely. So I decided to go the flatter route, and in a way made a good long-term decision but am not capable of judging fully the missed opportunity. For instance, every time I do big hills my good karma rockets and it may be that I let down Gianni who asked me to go this way. Not only that, there was potentially a very interesting Indian community of a few hundred people in the hills of Candalupo. These could be lost opportunities but nevertheless, I met another wonderful couple who gave me home-made plum jam and more biscuits after I enquired the species of the trees in their area. I hope they all read this blog and understand that for them I completed this journey. I have plenty more mountains and hills to climb.

The rich countryside here has been mainly arable, at the moment sown with tares and clover as green manure, intersected with cherry/plum orchards (pruné). As I passed through Persí, fed by the River Boblera, I could see why this plain (called the Po) has been inhabited by prehistoric man for thousands of years. Other rivers like the Grué also served to bring in fresh water for irrigation. A little further back I read something of the history if this area, especially since this route was the main thoroughfare between the scrivia and the Po. The Romans had made full use of this route creating and expanding existing towns. One of these was Libarna colonised in the second half of the 1^st century. It had become a staging post along the Via Postumia. By the second century AD it had expanded significantly to have its own amphitheatre. The rich plains and its main rivers that extend for kilometres were navigated by boats too. It is easy to see how the Po would become a prosperous area for any developing empire and would subsequently become the scene for major battles in the Middle Ages for control of its agriculture. The one thing I noticed coming out of Busalla was how many transport links congregated along the via Postumia and with it industry. This would be the pattern as I traversed the long flat road. I felt completely safe on the roads; Italian drivers are pretty respectful of cyclists. In all honesty though, it can be a little boring seeing the same vista for kilometres on end and sometimes a hypermarket (and there are more here than in France) is a welcome break. But I made good ground and swept into Tortona to the Palazzo Guidobono. I recommend anyone in the area to go and take a look at the free exhibition called ‘Labyrinths of Wood.’ There were some stunning pieces of sculpture which I hope my photos do justice to. The exhibition finishes on the 9^th April.

Munching through the last of those delicious oranges I blazened on reaching the town of Costello, the road as it does now follows the main River Po. Things were not as easy as all that though. I broke two spokes and took the opportunity to have another meal next to the highway. At least 2 people stopped for me to see how I was doing, that is how friendly the Italians are. With nightfall on me I did another one of those instinctive things – I came off the major road and searched for a place to get my head down. It just so happens that I bumped into a cycle track in the same manner I did when I was approaching Hyéres in France. Bypassing a hedgerow for the ominous sound of dogs barking in the distance I eventuated upon a path and a copse of oak trees in a little dell. It was perfect cover not really knowing where I was. Even as I left, always clearing up behind me, I walked out of the track and passed the farmer and his dog without a sideward glance. As I continued along the bike route it turned out to wind in and out of various little villages, with stopping off points. For those cyclists out there traversing the country near Piacenza it runs hence: Castel San Govianni, to Fontana Pradosa, to Sarmato, to Rottofreno, to Santimento, and then continues to Calendasco along the river, to Piacenza, to Caorso, to Montecelli D’Ongina, to Castel-Vetro Piacentino, to Villnova D’Arda. Sarmato would be a very interesting place. I stayed in this small town half the day playing my music and working on my laptop. As I sat down in a very pleasant area I was approached by one local after another. That is when I was reminded that it was Palm Sunday. An older gentleman came over and gave me a branch of an olive tree, traditionally replacing the palm fronds that greeted Jesus in Jerusalem. After endeavouring to talk about my journey he offered me a drink and something to eat. He then did the most amicable thing, going away and printing up some more flyers since I was running out of them. A little bit later I was approached by younger people who jammed music with me, in between which I was listing my seeds on the blogsite. I was good, wondering what would have happened if I had donated my energies to the bigger city of Piacenza (pop: 100,000). I left Sarmato with a promise to come back and found myself hitting the main road again. I remembered then that another spoke was broken and had decided to wait until the wheel buckled further before going through the rigmarole of taking it all apart again. The wind felt like the Mistral I encountered in the south of France, that poxy wind remember. And as I approached Piacenza the architecture was quite lovely. But I didn’t hang around. Lots of people gave me long stares on this Palm Sunday as I breezed out heading towards Cremona. There I happened across reforested mixed deciduous woodland of birch, cherry  and alder. The peace of this area that not even the distant barking dog could remove was signalled by the company of a hedgehog, who decided to turn back the other way when its vision kicked in. And that reminds me, the endless stream of flattened animals along the roads. The cyclist is always kept aware of the possible dangers facing him or her. But the drivers here, like France, appreciate a well-dressed cyclist who looks the part. Cyclists have greater favour than any old gardener does.

I will end this current blog about my general observations. The architecture here is more concentrated in the larger cities, and subsequently I believe more grandiose than France, but France is more consistent throughout its countryside. Here in Italy though, the rural habitants can be incredibly religious, and will set up shrines along traveller routes. In particular I saw a statue on the road to Brescia of the Virgin Mary. It was at the site of a lock and in some ways represents a sign for the traveller at the crossroads. They also have the most beautiful frescoes everywhere, but the churches and main buildings really bring out the history of Italy. They are gardeners; they have a keenness for plants growing near buildings, probably an inherited Roman villa mentality, and at this time I have seen many a magnolia and kerria in flower. As a cyclist I think religious people pay attention to you. Italy is a cycling nation, producing various champions. I am taking it one stage further and reproducing the whole hero myth – the sacrificial journey that has become a holy-day. And the Virgin symbolizes the purity of the earth; she represents the untainted quality of being. In its purest natural form this means the wilderness, the wilderness of the peregrine who travels ever lighter into the holy world. I would continue to pass through layers of history through iconographic towns like Robecco D’Oglio and its Campaniglie and then I would enter some of the best northern Italian culture of its time. Ahead of me awaited Lake Garda and then Verona, but that will be for my next blog. So I must say a final thanks to all you lovely helpers – you are like the air under my wings. And to Bonova Fiorenze who bought me food at the supermarket in the Commun di Bagnolo, to Jasdeep Indian store (Rupinder, Bhupinder & Navjot) who gave me free internet service, and to Stephanol and the school teacher who brought me there and gave me a drink.

The hum of bees in the almond grove; beneath stare up bear’s breeches, and the yellow oxalis lull in the wind.

The Lord’s Prayer

God, for me you represent the unknown

You will never reveal yourself to me in any form

Other than through the lens of my senses

For you have raised me high amongst the people

And made me a guest of honour amongst them

What befalls me now is always in your hands

I await my great fate

For it seems you bring me to a grand finale

I ask, Is this an end of earthly life?

Or am I to expect this to be the beginning of eternal sustenance

You bring me amongst every kind of flora

My search for the origin shows you in a multitude of forms

To see you in such opulence surely is the end of time

When only the most revered amongst humanity are granted this path

It is a solo quest not lonely in the least

Every walking day is a guiding hand into the deeper unknown

Bringing me in closer union with the singularity of your being

And each new rising sun brings with it greater freedom

As your messenger the lower conscious masses see me as a guiding light

They would touch me only to draw nearer the flame of life

Burning as it does in the deepest recesses of every living being

I am amongst your garden and consistently struck by one beauty after another

Where does it end, where does it start?

It seems nature is in the palms of my hands

I am not alone

The border crossing was interesting enough, there was no-one there other than a group of campervans huddled together. I espied one with the door open as I tried to get one more photo from my rapidly diminishing camera batteries. He offered me some replacement batteries, which didn’t work, and then he filled up my water bottle. It was a good sign. I got some kind advice as to where I could sleep the night, but I mistook his instructions. Nevertheless I carried on and saw the sign for Ventimiglia. Faced with a decision to go either straight (up) or down I decided on the former since I assumed I would not come back here, and took my opportunity to see the heights. It was another one of those excellent decisions. The antiquated city looked stunning in the night, narrow cobbled streets with arching passages and tunnels between the buildings. As I pondered the prospect the old man I passed on the way befriended me as I yet demolished another one of those cheesy bread rolls. At about 12am he took me on a tour of the town. He was English but could speak a number of languages. With his educated accent I thought he was a spy, working the border patrol. He told me the police crawl all over the beech and that being here at the top overlooking the new port they were building would be a perfect spot. He was right. I strung my hammock between two metal railings and perused the stars.

In the morning I read a book and worked on my blog. I looked down at the port and considered Howard’s words, “Why do we need another port, they have got one at Nice.” Well actually, it is the surest way of bringing money into the city; these boat owners will build restaurants and fancy shops. My evaluation would be vindicated. As I trundled down the old cobbled streets in the light everything, apart from the Cathedral, was in a state of dilapidation. But it had a beauty about it. Howard had told me where to find the botanical gardens; I overshot them in the dark the previous night. Before I went there I cleaned myself up by going for a swim. The seashore seems to be a gathering point for depressive people, or more likely people needing healing. I wasn’t feeling too great myself to be honest. I shot back up and found the gardens, named after Sir Thomas Hanbury who created them from his exploits at the beginning of the 20^th century. They were absolutely stunning; the view, the disposition; the entrance portal. Elena Zappa the curator soon accommodated me, and all of a sudden I was feeling very honoured. A fuller report is forthcoming, but for this blog I am going to let the pictures speak for themselves a bit. I was blown away by one scene after another, my eyes wandering between the architecture and the flora. There were stairways running between the different tiers with statues and busts hidden in various niches. There is a wonderful Japanese bell, originally hung by Thomas Hanbury on an olive wood frame to strike away the labour hours. It belonged to a Buddhist shrine in Tokyo destroyed in 1764 by fire. The water fountains were timed to come on sporadically. As she took me into the main house I kept on looking at the murals depicting historical figures. Everyone was interested in my journey, hence the group photo (Tino, Anita, Vanissa, Elena and Anna), and they mentioned a number of activities here to include concerts, conferences, school outings, seed collecting and student participation. From the balcony the view to the sea was stunning. We then wound down to the cafeteria where a much welcomed coffee greeted me. At this stage Elena had already arranged for free accommodation in the old head-gardener’s shack near the site of the orchard and former kitchen garden. I would share this accommodation with a temporary student, and it had everything I needed. For the next 3 days she answered all my questions, being very knowledgeable not just in plants but the history of the place. The 18 hectares would provide ample opportunity to go round and make for myself a botanical portfolio, half of which were woodlands currently closed off to the public. Peering through the gates the sea beckoned me, the steep decline of the Capo Mortalo was an idyllic paradise of exotic and native species. Quite stunning was the variety of trees and cacti making use of a variety of microclimates in this south-facing perspective. I vowed to use the Roman road with the same austerity that Napoleon Bonaparte, Pope John Paul and Pope Innocent IV, and Charles V all did. That would come the following day, for this night I settled in. As it goes, I had a natural emission which for me signified the beginning of a new cycle. Too much protein I think, too much bread.

The following day bought a serendipitous encounter. I met the current descendant of the Hanbury family, Caroline with her mother, who asked me to help with the new IKEA sofa, and then she invited me to have a meal together. They brought out the cheeses and home-made ice-cream, as well as the wine. The buffet of meats and vegetables were a treat. She mentioned the fact that it keeps the tanks filled up so to speak. We were very open together but I did feel mildly honoured. Their lovely home and garden looked out over the whole estate. She even showed me her pride and joy (see photo of plant of Cantua bloxiflora) which is apparently very rare in this country. I would discover in that conversation that Caroline appreciated making the right impression with new people. She loosely referred to the mafia also who were still lurking in the background politics, and it frustrated her that only now can she get a change of use on one of her buildings to make it into much-needed student accommodation. Actually one gets the impression that the authorities around here are a little paranoid. We ended up swapping Extra Virgin olive oil, Catalonian for Italian , giving the bot tle a heritage to look forward to I hope. After saying a fond farewell I took a mass of photos

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that day. I stumbled into the out–of-bonds woodland and even though a few parts need repairing I was secretly whisked away into a mythical world of architecture. I then did something which was totally inexplicable. Whilst I sought to glue my trainers together I walked flip-flop to the coast, taking part of the old Roman Road before hitting the cliffs. This is where illegal immigrants used to try and cross the border to get to France. It really felt like that, small footways going this way and that, some ending nowhere other than a big drop. I managed to find some people lurking around and wondered whether they were doing something illegal. As it goes, some of them were completely nude taking in the sun. The other thing I noticed about this area was the amount of junk hanging around. It seems to be all but forgotten – “the land that time forgot”. Maybe when they moved the border (apparently Italy sold the land to France including Nice) they sold the cleaners as well. Anyhow, the point I wanted to make was this sense of starting a new cycle under physical restraint. My feet were being ripped to pieces. I eventually got to the beech I was looking for feeling like I just jumped border. It was only after I went for a swim that, on relaxing, I began to feel the damage. There is a museum to prehistory here which I never got to see. But the whole area had an intimate contact with the sea because of the narrow walkable coastline. You wonder if First Man walked this road too. It was enough to play a few songs on the beach and return to the hut to put up my feet (for sale!) where another student joined us. We talked botanics and sustainability; it is amazing how much knowledge everyone has. There was the three of us getting to know each other.

So the following day Elena would show me the seed bank and laboratory; how important this work is. What a brilliant advert all the staff were. My parting gift to them was the printed t-shirt of my journey (available by request) and the seed bank had provided a selection of seeds (the Seminum Index is available for scientific purposes only) for me to carry into my ensuing destinations. (See forthcoming report for more information and links under Useful Information.) I couldn’t resist the opportunity to play one song to a bunch of OAPs but my lasting memory is one of being treated special. I hope I have done this place justice and will endeavour to come back on the advice that Caroline gave me: Why not set up a student exchange system between all the botanical gardens? As usual I left on the wind not a day too soon or early.

The memory seems distant already because the scenery here quickly returns to vegetation and rock. I didn’t want to hang around, so I had used my opportunity in Marseille to go to a supermarket and cool off a bit whilst gathering myself; I bought a few stores and sat down in the cafeteria section making baguettes and charging my phone up. But I knew I could make Hyéres tonight, even leaving at such a late afternoon hour. The 5km descent into Marseille told me that the terrain was rapidly changing, and it did. As I traversed the mountain-scape there was a vigour about me. Maybe I was secretly looking forward to a change, and as I approached the mountain I ate it up like one of my baguettes. It went up and down all the way to Pradet, winding a sheltered path through woodland. The pine and the oak had been thinned here, and looked like an excellent piece of forest management. Logs strew the roadside and the smell of freshly cut wood was still prevalent. I passed a strange theme park on the way where cowboys and Indians shoot it out, empty at this time of the year. On reaching the final peak before my destination, and the accumulated climb must have been about 15km, I filled the water bottle, discretely refused to buy any expensive food, and headed down. I entered another supermarket where I had to queue for 15 minutes to buy 2 apples and a banana. I kicked myself for missing the local fruit and vegetable stall around the corner, but I had intended to buy another bottle of ice tea which I forsook. As I continued to fly on my journey I noticed the darkening clouds and a few specks of rain. I also noticed my speed, a cool 42km/ph. Coming into Toulon it was bucketing, but I was all joy. The roadside cafeteria with its awning offered a welcome retreat. I thought I would buy a beer and the joyful owner of the bar reflected my countenance. “Un bierre petit, s’il vous plait?” I asked. He got out the tiniest bottle of Heineken for which I protested. “What’s that?” I harangued. “I want draught beer, blonde beer, not that crap.” He then explained that he had already taken the cap off. “So put it back on”, I said. By now I had an audience. “I don’t want it, it is crap, crap beer, do you understand?” Of course he understood, many talk English here. They buy the stuff in a supermarket for a few cents, hundred at a time, and make a killing on it. I gave up on this one though, took my beer and went next door to a fast food outlet. I think they were very good friends, because he apologetically allowed me to plug in and charge up my laptop whilst I used his iPod internet service to check my mail. I felt better then. After an hour the rain abated and I slowly trundled through the town. The battery power on my camera was running out (re-chargeables are the only option for such a long journey) and all the pictures I took didn’t come out. Never mind, I hit the road at night and scootered down, eventually hitting the motorway. I thought I was stuffed but as I veered off the exit a cycle track magically appeared. It turned out that it was heading straight to my destination, Hyéres, where I would be meeting the botanical institute there. It was getting very late now and I sussed out a few locations to hang up my hammock. Eventually, as fate would have it, I noticed on the side of the track amongst the vegetation a sheltered spot. It turned out to be someone else’s temporary shack now abandoned - last year’s beer guzzlers on the way to the beach by the look of the junk he left hanging around. In the morning I reached the village of Pradet, the extensive network of bicycle tracks, I would subsequently learn, extend along this section of the coast all the way to Italy. This part of the country was garden land; everything had changed dramatically. There were lots of nurseries and fields growing tulips; Pradet was just picturesque.

I wasn’t that far now so I managed to enter Hyéres in the early hours. Getting myself a black coffee on the street where I would rendezvous with my hosts it turned out that the botanical institute had moved address, a few doors down, and that I had to make an emergency mobile call which cost me a mini fortune. Nevertheless, O2 gave me a £4 reward which offset it. It is amazing how God works. The institute was totally surprised at my appearance; they had not received any emails because they changed all their contact details. Still, another coffee wouldn’t have gone amiss. Anyhow, they surprised me with a free return boat trip to the island of Porquerolles which I decided was for tomorrow. Today I would head for the médiathéque, my usual internet station, and spend the whole day writing. As it goes I learnt of the institute here, that they have no garden so to speak, but that they conduct research and field trips into various regions of the country identifying and registering species. They, in fact, collect seeds, so I wondered what they would do after I gave them my second packet donated by the Barcelona botanical gardens. Virgile elaborated on the Argania spinosa saying that they require the acidic action of the gastric juices of goats to break the hard shell (pericarp) that allows them to germinate. Endemic to south Morocco he also tells me that it is one of the last of its kind to represent temperate climates now that it has an affinity towards tropical conditions. It produces an expensive oil and can easily be mistaken for the olive tree with the same shaped leaves. I will look further into its values and study it to see whether it has increased fruit production in dry climates. It turns out that Virgil was very pleasant and helped me as best he could. He introduced me to a website www.flore.silene.eu highlighting the point that by entering a species name the online maps will identify the areas and quantity of any various types in any given region, so that if these species were required in the future more seed could be obtained. All the staff here have probably got to know the continent well enough to be able to monitor the need to continue unmercifully the saving of seed. It would be interesting to observe also how varieties have stood the test of time, especially those that have naturalised in the Mediterranean, from being carried into it by ancient peoples. Doing the best thing then, which was to give me a few possible directions to progress towards, they let me chose my own path. I dropped my bags in the office and set off. That night I went into the old town, saw some wonderful architecture including a 12^th century Templar Tower, and headed upwards; the old cobbled streets led me to small alley ways. I was beginning to think that this hill might have secret underground passages running through it. Eventually I reached the tor and on top was this ruined chateau; these medieval structures speak of dragons and knights. Spying a couple of oak trees I hung the hammock and dreamed away, on top of the world. Come the morning I took a good look around and descended, met a few friendly people and went into a beautiful garden called the jardin remarquable – a must-see. The following morning I headed to the nearby Ile de Porquerolles, sister to another botanical island called Port Cross. An expo in the local church tardied me but I managed to get the boat in time. On the way down I glanced at the life in the drainage streams and was quite fascinated by an evasive white-plumed egret and the ever distant flamingos. I had no time to take a picture though. Leaving the bike behind at the port on advice of the ticket inspector, since it would have cost the same again to bring it back and forth, I was told that I could hire a mountain bike on the island; my bike wasn’t suited to its terrain. As it goes, everything is too expensive; the return trip was €18, cheaper for locals, and the bike hire €9 a day. It obviously deters the tramp and binger alike who overstay their welcome. And the risk of joy riders burning the island down cannot be underestimated. So I arrived and it would be a most enjoyable stay.

I wandered here and there looking at the fantastic Pinus pinea overarching the road side with their crowning canopies. They gave a strange sense that I was in Africa. I learned of an old man who has a large selection of fruit trees including many olive varieties but unfortunately he only comes to the island once a week. Still, I bumped into the other office of the Conservatoire Botanique National in which the workers live on the island. Virgile spent 6 years here, with its wonderful beeches and woodland walks. Meeting with Jean and Celine I was immediately taken care of. They themselves were on a special mission that night, to tag puffins so that they could be monitored. (See short video) Working in the darkest of nights Celine explained that the birds in the video were known as the Puffin de Méditerranée or yelkouan. The other variety common here is Puffin cendré. That night I stayed on the Plage d’Argent, taking in the sound of the wash and managing to avoid any serious rain. The huge pine trees here (P. Pinea) are a picture to the sky. The rocks themselves I found fascinating with its variety of scattered flora, living as it does on seaweed debris. On some parts of the island it is a foot deep, and it makes for good bedding. Meandering my way back to the hut, on an empty stomach and dying for a cup of coffee, I noticed the fire hydrants spaced out at intelligent intervals. It is the solution for those parts of Spain that systematically suffer from forest fires, especially since wells could be dug and water accessed freely. Spain’s infrastructure is severely lacking though in regions left to wildlife. Anyhow, Jean and Celine fed me, and accidentally leaving my tartan shawl behind by accident I hurried to the boat. Once I got back on the mainland I knew I would not hang around. I loaded up my bike and hit the road at night. I was full of energy and managed to do a few hill climbs along the coastal route. It was good advice, the streets are lit up and, as I say, there are cycle tracks most of the way. I found a small beech by the name of Plage l’Ancre d’Or about 25km from St. Tropoz but it was so close to the wash that the sound kept me awake. Nevertheless, the morning brought sunshine and a gorgeous swim. By this time I was feeling starved; my stomach was severely shrinking. I endeavoured to eat some of the carob pods I was carrying whilst sprinkling a few seeds in the vegetation here. In fact, they tasted delicious! Breezing through these touristy towns and taking some amazing pictures I found a place to get my head down just before Nice called Villeneuve L’oubet. Well actually, I had stopped in Cannes first, playing my music. As usual I made nothing (about 10 cents actually) but I was so full of joy (endorphins) and food from the supermarket that I was laughing as I walked all the way through it, wondering where to go next. In fact, I took some advice from a cyclist coming the other way who suggested Antibas, a beautiful historical town. But the beech was too stony, so I carried on and got lucky on one of those man-made beeches where they add sand. I woke up to fishermen, went for another swim, and set off for Nice. Another conflict over coffee (By now I would have cursed the whole coffee culture in France. A better idea would be to give up drinking it!) and checking out the nice architecture, for this is a very pleasant city, I hit the road again in late afternoon. I wanted Italy tonight and no hill would stop me. Doing a huge 25 minute climb I endeavoured to buy a baguette because I knew I would need something tomorrow morning. Intuition works like this: going into a supermarket I changed my mind. As I crossed the road a boulangerie/patisserie presented itself but was closed. Outside they had thrown away about a hundred loaves, some with cheese and chorizo on them. I thought, how lucky can I get? Before the sharks got in I helped myself to about 15 of them, rearranged my now disguised bicycle (you can barely see it anymore for the luggage) and continued on. It was like a gift from God. All I needed now was a following. As I ate myself through the landscape (see the amazing pics), missing Monaco for I was told it is full of police, I headed for Menton. The border loomed a few hundred metres away and I was singing at the top of my voice into empty streets. I think a police car was tagging me but gave up the chase when they saw the beard, or was it the singing? Anyhow, I crossed the border, walked back and forward a few times taking pictures of the sign, and endeavoured to destroy a few more wheaten hills. Inadvertently, I had reached my third stopping off point. I couldn’t believe I got here so quickly.

France was a blessing. I will always come back here. The friends I met, the lessons I learnt, how could this be applied to what Josep Montserrap wants me to think about? How can I apply a tourist slant to growing food and making it come alive in Barcelona? Well, the first thing you learn about tourism is that it changes the landscape. Secondly, people seek pleasure, so unless you stimulate the senses one is wasting their time. Cycling holidays also work, but only if food and culture is variable enough to keep the holiday maker interested. Cycling for fitness only is for purists, but I do meet them also around mountainous and hilly regions. People spend money if there is entertainment. If you gave me a river, 20,000 acres of good soil, and asked me to create a tourist industry, the first thing I would think about is creating diversity and transportation. That means horses, bicycles and boats. I would divide the land up into manageable plots, invite working holidays, lay on the food and wine, and treat it like an educational course. Excursions would be provided, but holiday shacks and in-board entertainment would be laid on. I wouldn’t work the holiday makers too hard, but I would give them a sense of accomplishment and vision. A good example of this could be the Centre of Alternative Technology (CAT) in Wales. There, technology is fascinating enough to generate massive external funding from the outside, and partnerships with educational institutes and other ethical bodies. That then, is a start.

It is interesting how I watched those animals, the monkeys especially looked sad. I was ill actually, having to sit down because I was having a dizzy spell. It happened in Tarragona too, the trees were going round in circles. It certainly wasn’t from exhaustion. In fact, the rationale side of me would say it was a malignant spirit. It is an interesting phenomenon I notice that when I am ill I am more attractive to women. This is a distinct pattern. I have always fought for my health indicated, I believe, by my toilet habits. It was one of the reasons why I left Britain – I was fed up being ill. I believe this to be a climatic response in which the erratic nature of British weather and urban living is linked to my religious vocation. Anyhow, I wonder how the weather and daylight hours are affecting these zooed-up beasts. I watched the feeding program of the South American Loup á criníere whereby they spread the food to various niches in its isolated environment. It obviously was supposed to maintain some sort of sanity within the animal to ensure that it didn’t lose entirely its instinctual need to find food from just having it served on a plate.

On leaving Montpellier I managed to take a wrong turning somewhere, but it led me to a big Lidl supermarket. On the way I stopped in astonishment at a field that endlessly had plastic cloches from one end to another. My only educated guess as to the reason was that the grower needed to get ahead of the market by bringing on the plants more quickly. Not only has it been a dry winter here, it was cold also. But big supermarkets are the one thing that France excels in; they are just everywhere. No doubt they dictate the needs of the farmer. I espied the supermarket straight ahead and stocked up on ice tea and pastries. I got back on the right road and continued on into the small towns. There also the supermarkets abound, as well as pharmacies, and bars. There really is an international disposition about the south of France but no doubt I will find it in most developed countries. The other thing I see a lot of are ambulances. When you consider that France takes 80% of its energy requirements from nuclear one gets the impression that it can afford to seek a higher ideal of life, and thus improve the quality of its networks and general standard of living; it doesn’t fear the looming energy crisis. My intuition tells me the French try to live out their ideals, which is not the same as a country that is struggling with an ailing economy. The fields upon fields of grape vines are unceasing and would suggest that they are a long way from a food crisis also. In fact, in my travels you barely see anything else; olives and almonds only begin to appear nearer to Avignon and then it is no coincidence that the change of crop reflects a general deterioration in the quality of the roads. If the French are sometimes haughty, they can afford to be; they can demand that visitors speak French; their country in the south conveys them a sense of success.

I entered Nimes and headed straight for the Roman ruins. Passing the Eglise Ste. Perpetue et Ste. Felicite I saw the magnificent Coliseum (Place de Arénas) built of local white Barutel limestone. It speaks of grandeur, why when the Romans (Julius Caeser) conquered Gall they were not going to let go of its fertile, flat plains. It is amazing to think what would have ensued if the Roman Empire continued in its unprecedented building program. The Middle Ages only brought superstition and a general declination in living standards although it would be fairer to say that this observation overlays the growing disparity between rich and poor. Coliseums and amphitheatres became protection zones for the later Franks and Goths. So in my awe I trundled to the tourist office and had one of those predestined encounters. There a wonderful little lady asked me to accompany her to the Roman Jardins de la Fontaine where we amused at the Temple to Diana the Huntress. She wanted to learn Spanish and it is surprising how much I know when you talk to another foreigner who has learnt the same words as you. The site was grand, the flowing water entered into a bathing area with submerged pillars. The whole area had a sense of sterility about it though, since large expanses of stony earth did nothing more than act as a thermal blanket. It could have been a massive playing field for pétanque. We went to the supermarket together and she asked me what I wanted to eat as she was inviting me to her house. As I waited for her out the front I met an English teacher who spoke perfect English. He also invited me to stay at his house but I enjoyed the little lady too much and would not rebuff her friendliness. As it turns out she got the bus and we jumped on our bikes and cycled to her home. We had a social as Josyane prepared the food. The Frenchman had to leave but I stayed the night. The meal Josy prepared was fit for a king, I was astonished. And then the following day she did it all again. Since she lived with her daughter Arielle I found them distinctly interesting as I thought that they had recognised something in me. I think they were spiritualists. But I needed to leave and head for the Pont du Gard, some 20km down the road. I will return no doubt one day to give them my thanks for being marvellous people. But there was obviously something about me, for when I arrived at the Roman aqueduct I met Nathalie who was interested in my journey. I would stay the night with them but before I elaborate on the tale let me recount the experience of the aqueduct. I stood there in massive admiration as I looked at the closely fitting stones and wondered how such a 3-tier structure continues to stand the test of time. I mean, it is brilliant. Nathalie happened to be there with Phillip and the amazing dog Doudou. They bought me a drink and invited me to the restaurant after my tourist visit. I passed a large prehistoric cave on my left and scaled the banks either side of the bridge – a few people must have died building this thing. It was ingenious how water could be diverted in various directions depending where it needed to go – one tier could feed into another. But the top tier was closed off, so I did the next best thing, I swam under it. I felt superb in this river, clean and deep. And then off to the restaurant, Nathalie asked me to play to the diners. I wondered what was going on. I was okay, not my best, but I was a little out of sorts, in such a grand place surrounded by wonderful art. Both Phillip, a metal sculpturists and Nathalie, a painter were expressionists. I hope these titles do them justice. They offered me any food I wanted, but I had eaten so much already that I went for the fish, something light. They gave me a hotel room and all the drink I needed. Was I lucky? What does God hold for me? Before I left the following day I saw the dog do tricks, jumping through loops and behaving like a human; it could open various compartments of a box to get the biscuit inside including lids, drawers and doors. They would stick a biscuit on its nose and it would flick the biscuit in the air before gobbling it down. Again, I said a fond farewell and vowed to come back. It rained heavily that morning so I had to wait to get into Avignon. Before that they continued to feed me, this time raw fish called Espadon Thon.

Avignon would be an interesting ride but it paled in significance. In fact, I nearly had another disputatious encounter over coffee. Apparently students pay €2 and the rest €2.50, unless of course you are a local. These were the prices within the medieval walls and so reflect a tourist tariff. I eventually discovered a few antiquated places, found a lovely bar called BAO in which the young bar owner gave me two free cups of coffee, and sent me on my way to Marseille. That would be the current end of my blessed luck, discovering that the day before at the aqueduct was St. Patrick’s Day, and I have always been lucky on that day. As I ventured into the night a beautifully lit chateau stole my attention. I decided it was worth seeing in the morning, so hitching my hammock to a nest of ivy-covered plane trees I waited ‘til the morning. Well actually, I had too much energy and would have been better going for another 20 or 30 kilometres. As it goes I had a natural emission during the night, and for me that depicts the end of a cycle. I knew then that the following day would be critically important towards getting the new cycle right from the beginning. The chateau was closed on Mondays, but it didn’t bother me. What bothered me was the loose pedal arm on my bike. I had a replacement part, I was just waiting for the old one to fall off. I managed to pull into a garage and they kindly lent me a size 15 spanner. The new arm works splendidly. I kept the old one in case I needed a hammer of sorts. From here on the arboriculture changed to almond and olive, and it was nice to feel like I was back in Catalonia. I dipped my feet into an irrigation channel and continued along my way. As I passed Salon the bioregion definitely took on a Mediterranean feel. I should make a few observations at this point.

My silk gloves were deteriorating at the fingers. That is what happens to people with snotty noses at night, they begin to corrode them. I was definitely sweating less and ultimately didn’t smell as bad, although taking regular swims keeps me fresh. I was by now at optimum fitness, continuing to drink lots of fluid to prevent injury. Whilst at Montpellier we weighed the front and back wheels separately. The front came in at 15kg, the back at 30kg. With food stores at an additional 5 kg and I weigh about 76kgs, that means the bike is pulling about 125 kg plus its own weight. It is a great machine. The stresses on it must be huge though. Thanks to Vaidas who built the wheels everything is going right. It was superb advice I got from my local bike store. The pincer breaks can handle it also, especially on the fast downhill runs. I wouldn’t trust disc brakes here. This would keep me in good stead, but the test was still to come. I pulled into a town called Marignane and had a lovely swim. As I washed my underwear in the salt water a couple of swans came by and gave me company, and then two cooing pigeons flew above them. They were heralding spring and in some ways it was nature giving me a sign.  I sat down and read a book whilst I hung the clothing up. I missed my opportunity to get advice to Marseilles as yet another person befriends me, the French people must rate as the most hospitable I have ever met. And leaving for the big smoke I knew things would change. The autovia is chocka with cars and enters a tunnel. I didn’t fancy it so in the end I pulled by someone’s garden and he drew out a map of villages for me. Whilst I waited his son made me a cup of coffee. I gave some gardening advice, said my thanks and followed his plan. And then I heard it ping – a spoke went on the back wheel. I thought about it, on this dark, cold and lonely road whether I should limp into the next town but the tyre was rubbing. I sat down at a roundabout, laid out the blanket and had a meal. In less than an hour I replaced the spoke, dismantling the sprocket and putting it back on again. It worked a treat, and again is a testament to the good advice I got from Vaidas about getting a new 8-speed modern-style fitting sprocket that has a simple fastening action to it; essential stuff for 7,500km.

I was going to give Marseille a miss but the delay changed my mind. My instinct told me to continue following this route and head straight for Hyéres where I would be dropping off my second set of botanical seeds. But on going to Marseille I entered from the old road and the poorest area. Believe me, it went straight down, and down, and down, without veering left or right, both sides peppered with fast-food outlets. By the time I reached the bottom I knew I was in a dump. It was like the butthole of France’s modern culture, which is a good representation of one of the oldest cities in France. It was night but I thought it best to see as little of it as possible. There was no structure or pattern to the place. Construction was going on everywhere and cycle routes were less apparent; it is not cycle friendly. Even when I eventually found the centre ville, as well as the beach, one can understand why it is such a cheap-flight destination. I was beginning to hate the place; too many cars; too many traffic lights; bad quality roads; too wide open spaces. I iterate, it had nothing to do with the people, they have always been friendly in the main. But Marseille had gone beyond its optimum size, and maintenance was severely lacking, itself devoid of any real strategy. The one blessing I had was the ugly beach. I woke up in the morning very late and followed the lead of some OAP swimmers taking a dip. Now all I needed to do was escape, but I couldn’t swim my way out. I seemed to be stuck in the centre wondering how to find my village route. When I did eventuate to discover the road to Aubagne I took a picture of the sign that told me I was leaving Marseille. Never again, but as life has it, I understand urban life to be the contributor to my illness. This was a natural reaction. Quite frankly, the fragmentation of society is all too apparent and my body knew it. There is no time to talk about it here, but it was the point in my new book that I was just so happening to discuss, the edge between nature and urbanity, and optimum growth for healthy lifestyles.