The Africa Bar

Above: Steve on Golden Beach on Thassos Island.

Friday 30th September 1983

We were replacing George’s battery and fuse (from my “spares kit”) when our neighbour came out and saw us. In a few minutes we had our bikes in his front garden and he had opened the back of his van to reveal an arsenal of tools and repair gear. Chris, the owner of the “Greek Village” team had owned a Honda 90 in Blighty (U.K.) and in the twinkling of an eye he had George’s bike tuned to perfection. A tub of plastic sealer padding soon put paid to the leak in my cam chain adjuster and we were both roadworthy again.

We left him with thanks and returned to “Gregory’s” where the old chap, Val, had said he would make some enquiries regarding the sale of our motorcycles. He, himself, was interested and we bickered a bit before breaking off for lunch (the usual + cheese). My bike was still leaking oil slightly, but a short run showed that it was in otherwise good order. We arranged to continue our transactions later and hit the “Africa” beach for the afternoon rest and relaxation session.

We went on to the next cove to the “Africa” bar (and saw a new “Greek Village” outpost) and found the solitude we enjoyed and discovered the best area for snorkelling yet. An elderly British couple joined us as the sun started to sink, and as his wife blundered about the bay with snorkel and flippers, the old lawyer (recovering from a coronary) chatted amicably with us. His palid pudgy form darted hither and thither as he recounted his weight problems and an itinerary of exotic package tours. His parting shot was to, again, recommend swordfish cutlets as a gastronomic delight. Adventurous elderly people always took a shine to us and we always enjoyed sharing experiences with them.

Back at base we polished off our cold meat and bread plus a bottle and a half of vino before settling in for our evening siesta. On the town later we visited the “old colonel”, who agreed to pay us £70 for both of the Honda 90 motorcycles, and gave us instructions for a clandestine meeting tomorrow to close the deal. We also got a free glass of wine and an opportunity to letch at John’s (the other lucky Honda 90 buyer) wife.

We moved on to a café and whilst sipping coffee and “ear wigging” (eavesdropping) on the conversation of the departing “Young World” holidaymakers I ascertained that there was free food on offer at the “Kendri” pub. We hot-footed to this establishment (where we had ended up last night!) and a veritable feast met our gaze. The ferry was about to depart and the pub emptied with floods of tears and sad farewells as we got down to business. With the permission of the barman, the burden of the buffet table was transferred to our bellies. Vast slices of pizza and apple cake were pushed down our greedy maws, washed down with discount Heineken (as the barman had no change). We chatted with the barman until fatigue overcame us and we rode our bikes from the promenade to our bed chambers.

Greek Village

Above: George doing an Ursula Andress on Golden Beach. Ursula Andress (born 19 March 1936) is a Swiss film and television actress, former model and sex symbol, who has appeared in American, British and Italian films. She is best known for her breakthrough role as Bond girl Honey Ryder in the first James Bond film, Dr. No, when she emerged from the sea in a bikini.

Thursday 29th September 1983

After a coffee and an exploratory amble up the coast we visited “Gregory’s” so that George could cash a travellers cheque. The old British chap in the shop was of the “old school” and we had an agreeable chat before returning to our chores – washing clothes and sending cold weather gear home. This consumed the morning (especially sorting out my kit and wrapping up my motorcycle panier bags with stuff to send home).

I headed for the Post Office with some degree of trepidation as George’s tiny parcel (gloves and training shoes) cost 1,000 Drachma and my Swagman Panier bundle was far larger and heavier. I gained the counter and was appalled when the first instruction I received was to unwrap the bundle I had so lovingly and securely bound up, with the best part of a reel of Sellotape, so that the contents could be inspected.

I sat down inwardly raging as I filled in the customs documents, but my temper abated as the Post Office guy bound up the load tightly and professionally with string. The cost was 1,650 Drachma, about £11, but the value of the package far exceeded this, so it wasn’t a bad deal. We gorged on our usual fare, with the addition of green peppers, and wandered down to the rocks we had discovered on our mornings amble.

A few others had found our excluded spot but we settled down to swim and basked on the hot stone “steps” ignoring them. As the sun slid behind the hills and we tired of plying between undersea vistas we moved round to the main beach and engaged in a bit of mild exercise before returning to our room to polish off our remaining supplies and a bottle of Domestica. We pored over guidebooks and maps of the road ahead but we had insufficient data to base firm plans on, and this was frustrating.

George lays crooning on his bed as the dusk deepens over this most relaxing little town. Another disappointing night on the town was to follow. Initially we spent an enjoyable hour drinking sweet red wine from the bottle at the tables of a deserted café. From here we watched the “Greek Village” no-hopers join the ferry in a welter of squealing and jabbering at the termination of their package holiday. We moved on to a pub which played “fringe bland rock” until we got bored and decided that sleep was a more appealing prospect. The Village Idiot sauntered in to appal us more and tarrying only to put George’s battery on charge, we passed peacefully into oblivion.

Young World

Above: Our Honda 90 bikes on Thasos, mine leaking oil after bumping over a steep kerb.

Wednesday 28th September 1983

I awoke to a breakfast of bread and cheese spread (double ration as George declined to indulge) and we checked out and awaited the ferry to Thassos. Fishermen mended their nets and a local hooked a large fish which floundered on the quayside. The crossing was slow and calm (unlike 1979 when the the sea was rough and the decks were awash with passengers vomit) and Thasos Island emerged from the haze.

We put in at an obscure God-forsaken hell ten miles from Thasos and after kicking George’s reluctant bike into life we roared along familiar roads and into Thassos Town. Young World’s “Greek Village” had moved out wholesale to Golden Beach, but the town was the same as ever, and four years fell away like a discarded shroud. The sun beamed from an azure sky and we decided to park up and continue our investigations on foot. As we bumped our bikes over a high curb fate dealt it’s joker and my trusty charger was dealt a mortal blow. The oil bleeder nut on the bottom of the engine cracked against the unforgiving granite and split the engine casing, so as I wheeled onwards oil dripped from the ghastly wound to the undercarriage.

We went to the nearest café for a Coke where my baby spilled her life blood in a spreading black pool on the seafront promenade. We sat and made profound statements about fate. We had always said that we would be happy to get this far on the motorcycles and we had been reluctant to give up the bikes while they were still in good running order. Now our minds were made up for us in a quick, no nonsense Act of God!

Life must go on, however, so we found a nice 3 bed room in a guest house-type affair for 700 Drachma per night. We then togged up in our beach finery and trotted down to the old Young World “Greek Village” beach. Rows of sunbathing carcasses stretched away from the “Africa” Beach Bar where music blared. We settled on a quiet patch and gave our new snorkelling gear a test run. “A veritable treat”, was the verdict given by both of us as we burrowed amongst the waving weed fronds pursuing plain, but interesting fish going about their business.

When we tired of lazing about we returned via the supermarket for our traditional fare – yes, salami, and raw onion sarnies garnished with tomato and washed down with wine. As the majority of holidaymakers here seemed to be female we thought we might hit a disco tonight in the hope of satiating a hither-too unsatiated lust. Now we sit on our balcony and watch the world go by as the sun, and the level of the wine in our bottle, goes inexorably down. My pen, also reliable to this day, has now thrown it’s hand in along with the bike!

After a brief reading session we went along to “Gregory’s” purveyor of souvenirs and knick-knacks, where we used to change our traveller cheques when we were here in 1979. On George’s recommendation I borrowed “The Fall of the Towers” by Samuel R. Delany from the shop library (100 Drachma deposit). We then had a depressing beer at “Joes” which was deserted save for our old “chum” the village idiot of 4 years ago, still employed as a sweeper-upper and emptier of ashtrays.

On to an open air disco where we got bored listening to poor cover versions of bland British records and watching lairy Greeks “pulling the British holiday girls”. On this visit to Thasos we experienced the package holiday change-over days, where the Greek waiters waved a tearful farewell to their loved ones of the past fortnight as they left on the ferry. They then tarted themselves up to greet the incoming lovelies who would be the new “love of their lives” for the next 2 weeks.

Bike reading 16,032 miles.

Thasos

Tuesday 27th September 1983

We were away early at 07:15hrs. and into the insane, hooting, weaving traffic of the morning rush hour. George’s bike was a bugger to start and kept stalling at the many traffic lights we encountered. After following the wrong road out of town we had to about-turn and pitch back into the fray. My wrath grew as buses sought to crush us and cars honked their horns incessantly as we crept from red light to red light. We were almost out of town when George’s “old faithful” gave up the ghost and stubbornly resisted all attempts to restart her.

We wheeled the bikes into a side street and tinkered with the points, to no avail, before seeking aid at a motorbike service shop. In a quarter of an hour the bloke from the shop had replaced the knackered points and had the bike purring like a kitten with a few deft adjustments. Our spirits rose again as we soared out of Thessaloniki on the Kavala road. Kavala is a city in northern Greece, the principal seaport of eastern Macedonia and the capital of Kavala regional unit. It is situated on the Bay of Kavala, across from the island of Thasos and on the Egnatia motorway, a one-and-a-half-hour drive to Thessaloniki, 160 kilometres (99 miles) west. Lady Luck had smiled upon us again.

We stopped for a coffee (Greek tar job) 36 miles after leaving the hostel and raided the adjacent store for brunch. I purchased a tin of squid from Thailand (mainly out of curiosity) and tucked in heartily to the horrid looking fare. We lit out again with George’s bike showing a reluctance to start already and we rode non-stop to Kavala.

As we came into the harbour the memories came flooding back of those eventful days four years ago – nothing appeared to have changed. We had been here on a Young World (low budget 18-30's holiday company based in Brighton) lads holiday to Thassos (Θάσος) the northern most Island of Greece in 1979. We escaped to Istanbul after an ouzo-fuelled fracas at the welcome disco on the first night. We had a coffee in George’s Café next to the fishing shop where our friend Roy Smith had bought a rod in 1979 and sat by the harbour in the sun awaiting the 16:00 hrs. Thassos ferry.

We wandered about and were drinking Coca Cola in a café when I noticed that it was 16:05 hrs. by another customers watch. We leapt over to the ferry stand but we had missed it by a few minutes. We had talked of staying in Kavala overnight, so this decided us. After a fruitless tour looking for a guest house we booked into a classy hotel (Room 206 at the Nefeli Hotel) for 1,000 Drachma (plus tax – not immediately apparent as usual!) and for the second time on this trip we basked in luxurious sterilised surroundings.

We scoured the town again and settled down on the sea front to a Swagman special of inch thick salami and onion sandwiches washed down with wine. Continuing in our mood of extravagant exuberance we purchased a snorkel and mask to enhance our future off shore exploration sorties. Pausing only to buy a bottle of Retsina (nasty Greek white or rosé wine flavoured with resin) we returned to our hotel engaging in bouts of light-hearted silly banter.

Bike reading 16,021 miles.

The White Tower

Monday 26th September 1983

It was cloudy when we awoke and after breakfast (and I had changed some money) we bid farewell to our little Japanese friend after photos and autographing his waterproof suit. We then set of into the city of Thessaloniki on a mammoth fool's errand. George bought a replacement washing kit (with some usable toothpaste!), and, armed with a map supplied by the British Consul, we set off on a trek to the Greek equivalent of the Automobile Association (AA).

After a long route march, we discovered that the soppy bitch in the Information Office knew less than we already knew, and when she referred us to the British AA, we left in disgust. We trudged back to town browsing in all the motorcycle shops, which all seemed to stock mega trail bikes like the Yamaha XL550 that every man and his dog seemed to be haring around town on.

Weary, we regained the “White Tower” near the hostel (The White Tower of Thessaloniki is a monument and museum on the waterfront of the city of Thessaloniki, capital of the region of Macedonia in northern Greece) after a light-hearted postcard writing session in the Volcano Restaurant, where we were again taken for a ride with the coffee prices. Now we were on the look-out for a supermarket so we could tuck into a well-deserved feast.

But to no avail, every bastard food shop was shut, except for sweet shops and lairy, overpriced restaurants. We wandered around for a while and our anger increased as shop after shop selling food was closed, while every other vendor was in full swing. We gave up in despair and sat down at a restaurant next door to the Youth Hostel to watch today’s rucksack bearing menagerie file through the hostel portals. At last George has bought a pen that works!

We wandered off again and eventually got together the ingredients of a meal after a mini-tour of the city. We gorged on dry ham and tomato doorstep sandwiches and set off to cap a dull day with a morale-boosting trip to the cinema. Could we find a half decent English film – could we fuck! We decided to put the lid on a day of tail chasing with a few beers at the hostel bar.

The thought of leaving this pissing city (which we now know like the back of our hands) is most agreeable and we retrieve our International YHA Membership Cards for an early departure. After a couple of beers at the hostel bar the gabble was getting too much – “where are you from?” “have you seen…”, “I’ve here, there and every fuckin’ where”. – so we fled over the road to a café where we polished off another beer before hitting the sack.

Thessaloniki

Picture above shows Steve trying to enjoy tinned squid in Greece.

Sunday 25th September 1983

We awoke to the sound of my alarm clock at 07:00 hrs. and discovered that the time had gone back an hour (end of Summer Time in the Europe/Belgrade Time Zone) and thus it was only 06:00 hrs. and an hour before breakfast was served. We chatted with the Japanese lad and two Dutch cyclists who had been touring Romania, Hungary and Jugoslavia, starting from Milan in Italy. These two blond jokers had done quite a bit of travelling and one who had been to Afghanistan said that we would be able to get an Iranian visa at Ankara in Turkey.

We shared our extra jam and bread with the Japanese boy to supplement the meagre hostel breakfast of dry bread, meat and local cheese washed down with tea and Coca Cola. We packed our bikes to the good-hearted joking of the Dutch “Sting” (lead singer of rock band The Police) look-alike and set off for Greece.

The sun was warm and the road was good and our spirits soared above us. I dreamed of future trips by motorbike and the world was our oyster. I also feel we’d had our fill of Jugoslavia and were pleased to be moving on to fresh pastures. A GB lorry hooted us and we waved and cheered merrily. It is always a morale boosting sight to see a British vehicle.

An ominous pool of black oil lay under George’s machine this morning but both bikes started first kick. After 50 miles we stopped for a cuppa at a deserted motel, basking in the privacy and the sun. We moved on and hit the border after 100 miles (from Skopje) where we were waved across in a trice, stopping only for a couple of coffees and a money change.

We continued on our road of our own which ran parallel to the autobahn with it’s toll booths. Hardly a soul was on the road and we roared along ecstatically across a vast arid plain, so dry that it was on fire in places! It seemed to be hotter on this side of the border, and the people friendlier – the old boys waved instead of scowling. We followed the line of telegraph poles which stretched into the distance, interrupted only by wide town streets through squat square buildings with alien script signs on the commercial buildings. We gained Thessaloniki through a hail of flying insects and looked with horror on it’s vast extent – we had to find the Youth Hostel in that! Luckily a taxi driver took us under his wing and said “follow me”, and we gained the place without much further ado.

The reception was closed so we waited in the restaurant next door. Feasting on an extravagant meal we watched the procession of text book rucksack bearing Eurorail “travellers” trooping into the hostel. We were stitched up for 750 Drachma and again we vowed to avoid restaurants in the future. Earlier as we left Jugoslavia we almost came a cropper in a 900 metre pitch dark tunnel. I couldn’t see a dicky bird and slewed to a halt against the wall as two massive juggernauts whistled passed in the opposite direction.

As we left Jugoslavia we had a final encounter with “the people” in the form of several jeering kids lobbing stones at us from a bridge across the road. Other people at the hostel related similar tales of how Jugoslavian people had pissed them off. We now tarry in the Youth Hostel reception, a black mood upon us. Good to see the Jap’s motorbike parked outside.

We queued with the wretches and booked in before fleeing into the night for some peace. We walked along the sea front, after passing a cinema without about 40 posters up, but nothing to indicate what was actually showing. We returned to the hostel but the bar was shut so we went out for a take-away beer in the square by the Thessaloniki International Fair where lights blazed and a metallic voice beckoned to the sound of the German national anthem. We had a philosophical chat and turned in for the night.

Bike reading 15,912 miles.

Skopje

Saturday 24th September 1983

We started the day with the hotel breakfast of boiled egg, bread, jam and tea, in small proportions, and headed out on the Skopje road. The road twisted and turned in every direction as we climbed into the hills. The scenery was as magnificent as yesterday with the road clinging precariously to the wall of a colossal valley. I was a bit worried that we had missed the turn off for Skopje and were heading hell for leather for Beograd (Belgrade is the capital city of Serbia) but we came to it in due course. Sure enough, as soon as we stopped to consult the map, little bastards appeared from every nook and cranny to peer at and fiddle with our bikes.

We climbed to 1,339 metres and entered a different world. An expansive Alpine-like valley with ski resorts and hotels; the style of houses was even different, with a more European look. The sun shone but it was fucking cold at this height. We stopped at a café and supped a delightful brew of flavoured tea. Along the way we had had to stop once due to goats on the road and we had a few uneasy moments hurtling blind through long curving unlit tunnels. We still had a long way to go so we set off after a short break and before long we emerged into yet another world.

A massive wide open plain stretched away on either side of the road, upon which a runaway circus was spilling it’s load as it careered towards Skopje. We weaved in and out of horse and carts, pedestrians, tractors pulling cows, women carrying sheep and old boys with felt “half-football” hats on their heads. To add a modern flavour speeding coaches, juggernauts carrying timber and car crashes served to scare us and delay our progress. The lack of petrol stations also played on our minds. After 95 miles we stopped at a garage to find a broken petrol pump with about 100 people clucking about it like old hens and a queue of traffic steadily growing for petrol. As we were not yet on reserve we decided to piss off and trust our luck.

Suddenly we rode into the river valley landscape again, as if the last stretch of road had been a nightmare from which we had suddenly awoken. We made the outskirts of Skopje, the capital and largest city of North Macedonia, without going on reserve, after 120 miles since our last fuel stop, and filled up using our last petrol coupon. By now we were tired and bum sore after an almost non-stop journey of about 200 miles and after a bit of pissing around we found the Youth Hostel.

We were again given the “fairground freak” treatment every time we stopped. We checked into the hostel and raided the local supermarket for our usual fare of cold meat, jam, bread and red wine. We met a Japanese fellow in our dormitory that had been touring Europe on a Kawasaki 250cc Custom motorbike since June and had covered 11,000 mile. He started in London where he bought the bike. After a hearty supper we were too exhausted to do anything but fall into a deep, undisturbed sleep.

Bike reading 15,761 miles.

Mateševo

Friday 23rd September 1983

We left our landlord sanding down more louvred doors and headed inland (east) to Trebinje, a city located in Republika Srpska, now an entity of Bosnia and Herzegovina. The road wound a torturous route over the high mountains, and lakes mirrored the wonderful landscape. We had a coke in the square at Trebinje, where we were stopped by militia and told us to put our helmet back on, and moved on to Nikšić where we filled up with petrol.

Nikšić is, alongside Podgorica, one of the biggest industrial centres of Montenegro. A Steel mill (Nikšićka Željezara), bauxite mine, Trebjesa brewery (Nikšićka Pivara), and many more are concentrated in this city. We had intended to stop here for a coffee, but scarcely had we entered the town when we were surrounded by people, gormless and gawping. We got out of town rapidly with Titograd our next port of call. Podgorica is the capital and largest city of Montenegro. Between 1946 and 1992—in the period that Montenegro formed, as the Socialist Republic of Montenegro, part of the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia (SFRY)—the city was known as Titograd (Montenegrin Cyrillic: Титоград [tîtoɡraːd]) in honour of Josip Broz Tito.

I nearly ran over a lizard (there are loads of them about) and the road was often blocked by roaming cows. Women here have certainly got their work cut out for them. We see them, miles from anywhere, carrying huge loads on their backs or heads, or leading huge bulls many times their own weight. Today we passed a woman wielding a heavy axe to chop up huge logs. We hit Titograd with it’s nasty Moscow-like tower blocks and immediately the local mongs took note. Gaping and gesticulating they question and jeer as if we had just landed riding Pegasus the winged horse. In future we will try to avoid these wretched people.

We stopped for a coke in a quiet place just out of town and looked up at the distant mountains as the morning sun beat down. Inland we began to se a more natural Jugoslavia, away from the commercial dross of the coastal road, with it’s autocamp and hotel advertisements every few yards. We left Titograd behind us and entered a beautiful rift valley that snaked between the mountains. White fragments of rock showed between the heavily afforested slopes and the walls dropped away steeply to our right to the turquoise waters of the river below. Every now and then we plunged into a tunnel through the bare rock and our sense of sight was cut off as if a plug had been pulled out. We giggled nervously and hoped that we didn’t collide with anything solid before emerging again into the daylight.

We continued for an age over bridges, through tunnels and round precarious bends until we thought that we must have missed our turn off. We pulled off the road for a tête-à-tête and when we pulled away again I had occasion to drop my bike for the second time on this trip. As I roared away my back wheel slewed across some loose gravel and I ploughed across the road into the cliff opposite. Some nearby teenagers ran over to offer their advice in an excited gibberish and flourish of arms. I could have killed the little fuckers but instead I picked up the machine and restarted it.

We stopped for petrol and found that our target, Kolašin, was only 3km away. Kolašin is a town in northern Montenegro, a fortress-settlement which was raised by the Turks in the middle of the 17th century in the namesake village in Nikšić district. Kolašin is located on the foot of Bjelasica and Sinjajevina mountains, which offer great conditions for skiing. Because of Kolašin's altitude (954 m), the town is considered an air spa.

We gained the town and took the road to Mateševo, which rapidly deteriorate into a track which made us fondly recall the rough and ready drive to Pete Willis’s “farm” in England. We were about to back track when a bus whistled passed us down this barely improved pig track. We asked some farm workers and they confirmed that this was indeed the road to Mateševo.

After subjecting our bikes to a gruelling moto-cross test, which they passed with flying colours, we arrived at Mateševo, a 2-bit dive comprising 2 cafés, a Post Office, a General Store and a bus load of Neanderthals. Two fizzy drinks and a rendezvous with a no-hoper French 250cc trail bike rider later we headed back towards Kolašin, having decided that we’d never cover the 60 miles of dirt track to Peć Youth Hostel before midnight, let alone dusk.

We continued along this farcical game trail with it’s text book road signs! – Road Narrows, Bends, Weight Limit Bridges, etc. and drove around Kolašin seeking food and lodging. The young pests were on us like flies, jabbering and pointing every time we paused. We bought some bread, meat, onions and wine and booked into our only choice, a B-class hotel called the Hotel Bjelasica, which was comfort undreamed of. This fantastic new building loomed out of the dross of the seedy town, offering spacious rooms with sealed, disinfected toilets, white towels, lifts/elevators, free soap, hot water and a glut of luxury. We washed down an orgy of meat sandwiches with red wine and loafed in unaccustomed sterilised paradise. We basked in a luke warm shower and hit the sack.

Bike reading 15,566

Dubrovnic Wine

Thursday 22nd September 1983

On the way to look for a more secluded (and free of charge) beach we paused for a mammoth breakfast of bread and jam on a park bench amongst a copse of trees. We trudged quite a way out of town, passed the old city and, further south, after a steep downward climb on concrete steps, we descended the cliffs. Here we discovered a lovely rocky cove and setup camp on a rocky ledge near the foot of the stairs.

The sun was beaming in a cloudless blue sky and we plunged into the clear deep sea. I avoided using George’s goggles as the deep black clefts in the submerged cliff face hinted at hidden menace: hidden sea monsters and lurking devil fish. The swimming was very enjoyable none-the-less, especially as we were joined by a lovely topless female. We were as “happy as Larry” and settled down to sunbathe with me reading and George still performing open surgery on his foot. This hazard of the sea also gave me scant peace of mind as I scrambled over slimy submarine rocks to get out of the sea.

I showed George how to dive off a rocky platform without fear of disrupting the spherical nature of his skull by diving too deep. He managed a passable belly-flop and we swam about like water babies. A woman’s voice loudly moaned and belaboured from the cliffs above and we surmised that it was due to people getting on to this beach before she could set up a table and charge a toll!

The walled city of Dubrovnic presents an agreeable picture to our right. A couple of lovely girls with us now would complete the picture and make our lot idyllic. We went for another long, refreshing swim from the rocky clefts on our right to the shingly cove on our left. The gorgeous damsel, clad in a skimpy bikini bottom, donned a white T-shirt and shorts and left the beach followed by our amorous thoughts. She was replaced by a soapy (slang: naïve, servile, obsequious, cringing, fawning, suave; unctuous; oily persons) looking cringe couple, the female of the two, porcelain white skinned as they come, has shed her top in a vain attempt to duplicate the proud feminine form of the previous occupant of the concrete stage.

The sun shines down harshly as we sit and ponder on our stony perches. When we tired of loafing about we wandered back for tea, tarrying at a café for cold orange drinks. Tomatoes, raw onion and apples washed down with local wine (and crisps) was our fare. We sat in peaceful tranquillity (even our landlady had quit yapping) and agreed that today had been the best yet. We dozed for an hour and then wandered again into the old quarter. We had a couple of coffees while a band played “The Blue Danube” and other tunes in that vein, and then sauntered around the floodlit alleys of the city.

Beautiful girls were everywhere, scantily clad in the balmy evening air and we returned to sleep and dream of “entertaining” such lovelies. We returned to our candle-lit cluttered abode via the stench that lurked on the corner of the harbour, gagging as it’s tangible tendrils clawed at our throats.

Dubrovnic Beach

Wednesday 21st September 1983

We were up at 08:00 hrs. And tucked into a hearty breakfast of our cherry jam and the Dutch boys bread and tea. We packed our gear and I bid a sad farewell to our chums. They were heading back north now and we would not see them again. We had only known them for a couple of days but I felt great sorrow in our parting. They gave me their addresses for a postcard from Australia. We then rode to our new “hotel” where we found a comfortable room for our purposes and unloaded all of our kit. It was 1,000 Dinar (~£6:50 Sterling) for both of us for 2 nights.

Then we set off hot-foot for the beach, walking through the old city. We got caught for 10 Dinar to use the beach where we settled in the sun on a concrete platform amongst the rocks. I became happily engaged in playing Jaques Cousteau in the crystal clear sea (we must get a snorkel). George has discovered that a certain coral growth here has spikes that pierce your skin and snap off like splinters. He sacrificed his foot, unwittingly, to one of these wonders of nature and now sits digging at the sole of his foot with a safety pin.

The sun is scorching and scantily-clad harlots attract our attention and arouse our desires! I sit on the rocks and perch, lost in thought (of what I cannot remember). On the bikes and on our walkabouts our minds roam but little is recalled later.

A few hours of lounging in the sun was enough to bore us so we upped and headed into the old city. For 30 Dinar you can walk around on top of the walls around the old sector and we clambered along the ancient walkways in the blistering heat. We traversed walkways, worn stone steps and old fortified towers, looking down on the close packed old houses. Here one can imagine you are living in a bygone age and dream of romantic adventures involving warriors and pirates. The clash of steel, the roar of the cannons and the grunts and shouts of defenders are easily imagined.

Following a drink break in the shade of some vines with a tedious old American couple, we returned to our room via the supermarket. We duplicated yesterdays superb supper and got pleasantly drowsy on a bottle of Dubrovnic red wine (70 Dinar), retiring then for a snooze. A torrent of Jugoslavic chatter roared to and fro between our landlady and her chums, keeping us awake as they continued without even pausing for breath. We were living the Life of Riley – eating, sleeping and basking in the sun.

At 20:30 hrs. we awoke and ventured out for a coffee. Faced with the prospect of Turkish coffee we opted for Coca Cola instead. At the corner of the harbour we were exposed (not for the first time) to the most nauseating smell that I have ever encountered. (In the future the leather factory in Marrakesh, Morocco came close). We hurried passed, trying not to breathe, and trying not to vomit. We went back to read and sleep peacefully and deeply.

Dubrovnic

Tuesday 20th September 1983

Dawn broke and as we walked off the beach we were bid “Good Morning” by a militia man. He was a merry soul and we chatted for a while using my limited schoolboy German. He seemed intrigued by our trip plans but after a while it got difficult to understand each other and we parted. We walked into town for a breakfast by the old city wall, and a doze in the sun. Breakfast was our old standby the tinned sardine cocktail with bread and orange juice. A couple of cokes and a few written postcards later, we walked back to where our bikes were parked and basked in the heat on the beach. The water was a clear as a bell and we were soon splashing about in it, washing away our nausea and our weariness. No sooner did you step into the sea than exotic fish began “pecking” at your feet. The water plummeted into unfathomable depths a few feet offshore and enormous fish made us wary.

We dried off in the sun and read for a while before starting our steeds and returning to Dubrovnic. We had come to the decision that this city was not to be missed and was worth back-tracking for. In fine spirits we cruised back along the road northwards. By now we knew the ropes regarding the ferry and in a trice we had paid and were on board. We waited for departure and sneered at the 3 Belgian mega-bikes; the leather-clad, sealed-full-face-helmeted, riders of which scampered about unsure of whether they were coming or going.

We completed our run of 60 miles and found the Youth Hostel fairly quickly. Because of a sodding school party we could only book one night in this marvellous clean and well-run establishment. We wandered down to the supermarket and launched into our greatest meal yet. We made up salami sandwiches with hunks of fresh raw onion, washed down with coke and followed by a juicy orange. We licked our lips with relish having enjoyed every precious morsel.

We walked into the new part of town and were accosted by predatory landladies touting their accommodation in a line along the wayside benches. We got the best bargain for a double room and there ensued our most trying hunt for a place ever. We proffered our scrap of paper bearing the address to a thousand people (must stop writing for a while – no electricity – no fucking light – too dark to see!) who directed us about to everywhere but our goal. We were told to look out for two green doors, but there were at least a hundred green doors in this small area. We abandoned our search for a coke break and set off again with little hope of success.

Near despair, we were on the verge of giving up when a woman led us to the door we sought, up a narrow alley by the fruit market. We returned to the hostel and were delighted to find that our room mates in the 4 berth dormitory were our Dutch biking chums. We chatted in the gloom and shared an army mess tin of hot tea as well as some succulent mauve grapes. We then set off into town together to see the old city which was lit up at night. It was thronging with people, but no wonder, as this ancient citadel is a well-preserved chunk of history standing as if transported by time machine into the present day. We tried in vain to get a coffee but all the cafes were chock a block. We wandered back to the hostel, chatting about military service, motorbikes and the learning of other languages. We got a couple of cokes at a seedy dive near the hostel and retired to our room, rejoicing when the power came on at 23:00 hrs.

A party mood filled the room as George and I wrote postcards composed of slices of Robert E. Howard prose to our friends Richard “Dick Davis” (Sir Furry Pork Ball) and Richard “Wilf” Willis (eldest son of our mentor Pete Willis). The NL boys entertained another Dutch fellow they’d met. George and I were chuckling merrily as we wrote and the Dutch contingent seemed bemused, interrupted by our giggling, as they pored over their maps. George offered them a free copy of our future book if they would swap bikes so that we could continue on their 500cc machines. They laughed! At midnight we hit the sack for an excellent night’s sleep in comfortable beds, unmolested by insects, winged or otherwise.

Bike reading 15,409 miles.

Budva in Montenegro

Monday 19th September 1983

The weather was undecided when we awoke – the wind had died down a bit and the sun and cloud were engaged in a battle for supremacy. We had breakfast which was more palatable than yesterday, probably because we were hungrier. We avoided the eggs today and managed to get some butter and jam. The toffee drink was also served up and I managed to stomach a few mouthfuls without chundering (Australian Informal. Verb to vomit.). We handed in the key and hit the road, pausing briefly for petrol and some fresh oil. After a hint of rain the sun had burst through and now it is beaming.

We cruised along as usual along the coast but at one stage we moved inland passed lakes and irrigated plains hidden amongst the rugged hills and mountains. We covered over 50 miles before stopping for a coke. George was daydreaming, probably mulling over his mornings dysentery, and nearly hit an old woman and a parked taxi. Goats and laden donkeys are becoming a common sight on the road. We pulled our bikes in on the verge just down the road for an oil change and then went off again.

The road became even more interesting as the mountains become more rugged and tall coniferous spikes protruded from their slopes. We wound about bays and headlands until our bums began to ache and we pulled in for a break at a lone café. We steamed into a lovely mixed grill with mixed salad and chips. A veritable feast washed down with coke and coffee. We moved on, bloated, and headed for the Youth Hostel at Herceg Novi, a coastal town in Montenegro located at the entrance to the Bay of Kotor and at the foot of Mount Orjen.

The road wound above Dubrovnic and we saw that far from being the vast built-up hell that we had envisaged, it was as picturesque a town as I’ve ever seen. Dubrovnik is one of the world’s most magnificent walled cities, overlooking the calm blue Adriatic. Once the capital of the mighty sea-faring Republic of Ragusa (1358-1808), it's now Croatia’s most upmarket destination. Historically, this diminutive republic was sophisticated, refined and cultured. Today, the pedestrian-only Old Town – packed with aristocratic palazzi and elegant Baroque churches, contained within sturdy medieval fortifications – draws hundreds of thousands of visitors annually. A large sheltered bay harboured a wealth of yachts and ships, and buildings were subtly indispersed with trees on the slopes. South of the town old forts and fortifications guarded the approaches from the sea.

We got to Herceg Novi and after a merry dance we found the Youth Hostel which was closed (end of season despite what the YHA Handbook said – the bastards!). We decided to move on to the mythical paradise of Budva that featured so prominently in Pete Willis (our mentor for this trip) travel tales. The weather was cloudy but warm and dry as the bikes purred along with effortless ease and reliability that we had begun to take for granted.

A ferry across the vast inlet cost us a pittance (40 Dinar for both of us) and cut 20km off of our journey as well as being a pleasant change from riding. We continued across Western movie scenery to Budva and discovered a commercialised hell. With its medieval Old Town, sun-soaked beaches, and lively nightlife, Budva, Montenegro, is the stand-out attraction along the Montenegrin coastline. Its cobbled streets, geared up for tourism, harbour hotels, museums, souvenir shops, cafés, boutiques and discotheques in abundance. Gone was Pete’s beautiful seclusion and unmolested beach. We decided that a room here would be too expensive and prepared to sleep out under the stars after a few coffees and a peek at the town. We bought a bottle of wine each to help us sleep and demolished 2 packets of Jaffa Cakes.

N.B. Regarding Baška Voda, during our stay some bastards nicked George’s only wing mirror and one of mine. Also I finished “The Hobbit” and started on a Robert E. Howard Omnibus – a veritable treat and an inspiration, as well as helping to increase our vocabulary. I read aloud selected paragraphs and we roared with laughter at Howard’s magic with words.

We discovered what was left of the old walled city of Budva and learned that earthquakes in 1979 had decimated the old town and the new tourist trap was built on the ashes of the old place.

After a couple of unprompted shits I was feeling pretty miserable as we headed back to where the motorbikes were chained up in a hotel car park. We retrieved our bottles of wine and sat on a wall looking out at the hulking black shape of the island in the cove. The wine was potent and I was soon “well under the influence” as we chatted happily. Then, inebriated, we set off towards an abandoned caravan site with many caravans left with open doors. We selected one in the middle and moved in wholesale, deciding that our luck was in.

We slept peacefully for a while before we were awoken by scuffling noises outside. Crouching like thieves in the dark we waited in guilty silence as someone checked through the caravans. Luckily for us the caravan that we had chosen appeared to be locked from the outside and all the curtains were drawn. The noises died away and after a while we stole into the night to await dawn dozing fitfully on the beach. It was cold but the wine had a long-lasting numbing effect.

Bike reading 15,350 miles.

Dutch Bikers

Sunday 18th September 1983

We awoke refreshed at 07:00 hrs. and went for breakfast. We sat down to a liquid toffee drink, several great hunks of dry bread, some sausage meat and a bad egg. A bloke who was working there chatted to us and told us that it had not rained her for five months – how lucky we were! We saw identical twins to the two Dutch bikers and George tapped one of them on the shoulder to find that it wasn’t them! We then had fun re-booking our room for tonight with a bint who couldn’t speak any English.

We then wandered into town and right along the beach until we found a concrete pier to sit on. The wind roared about us, harrying dark clouds to the south. The gusts whipped up the sea in dancing gouts of spray. We sat for a while being entertained by 5 foreign holiday-makers performing on a rock clad only in skimpy swim suits. The 2 men and 3 women struck up classic poses as the wind howled around them. A lovey-dovey couple in the “spring of romance” joined them on the rock clad in dressing gowns. When we got bored of the antics we returned to the town.

The shops were shut so we sat outside a café sipping lovely expresso coffee with cream. The gale hurled spray over the tourists around us and they squealed and squawked with horror. We got chatting to a great old couple who were intrigued by our trusty Honda steeds chained up outside the hostel. They gave us great encouragement and expressed their envy.

We returned to the hostel and had a read and a Pepsi Cola. The two Dutch bikers appeared (just out of bed at noon!) and our English-speaking waiter friend. Misfortune had struck the Dutch – The Honda CX500 had been blown over in the wind and the tent and karrimat had been stolen from their Honda XL500 trail bike. George then washed his clothes in the shower and I pissed about for a while, killing time. We then had a good long chat with the NL riders out in front of the hostel. The pair, a bus driver and a frame maker in his family business, were on a three-week touring holiday. We talked of motorbikes and home affairs, and with borrowed tools, George changed his spark plug.

Later we walked into town again and had another coffee, deciding to give the kino (cinema) a try tonight. When we returned (devoid of the wine we’d hoped to buy as all of the shops were shut tight as a drum) the Dutch had accrued quite an audience for their bike maintenance session. We returned to our room for some sewing and sleep. We dozed and read until 18:00 hrs. when we walked back into town. We returned to the hostel to get some breakfast tickets and walked back into town again!

The sunset was vivid red but the wind was still very strong. We had coffee and some nasty sweet cakes before going to the flicks. It only cost 45 Dinar (30p Sterling) and luckily it was in English with Jugoslav subtitles. The kino was open air and the wind howled above us as we watched John Wayne in “The Shootist”. It was an excellent film and put us both in a good mood. The tempestuous wind is still roaring on our return to the hostel – Lord knows what tomorrow’s weather will be! And so to bed .

We slept well, interrupted occasionally by the tin door of our block banging in the wind. We had a treat of a room to ourselves with 8 bunk beds and a lockable door. The toilets however, were a different kettle of fish! Both were sit down affairs, but one lay uprooted on it’s side and the other looked as if it had been filled to the brim and flushed with a hand grenade. Shit and toilet paper littered the seat, the walls and the floor.

Baška Voda

Saturday 17th September 1983

When we “awoke” at about 07:30 hrs. we were greeted by dark thunderous clouds and torrential rain. We got up, scratching and itching and delayed our departure for as long as possible. We set out during a lull and splashed out of Zadar, fittingly shrouded in rain and murk. We drove through the pissing rain for ages before stopping for a nasty strong sweet black coffee and a Pepsi Cola just passed Šibenik (which is a historic city in Croatia, located in central Dalmatia where the river Krka flows into the Adriatic Sea).

The rain had stopped but just restarted as we left the café and went from strength to strength. We were soon soaked through and squinted to see the road ahead through misty glasses. The scenery disappeared in the deluge but our spirits were high and we sang as we went. Just after Split, the second-largest city of Croatia, we pulled of the road to a Tourist Buro to try and get some more petrol coupons. It was closed but we bought a few chocolate bars in the supermarket and decided to go all out for the Youth Hostel at Baška (pronounced Bashka) Voda on the “Makarska Rivijera”.

Stopping only for a quick coffee when George’s bike packed up at some traffic lights, we made good time through the torrents of river and large rocks pouring down across the winding coastal road. We were forced to slow down behind a convoy of cars crawling along in the treacherous flood. Cloud obscured our vision and we were saturated, but our merry mood continued. We got into town and spent about half an hour find the best hidden Youth Hostel yet. It looks quite good though and we have a dormitory to ourselves. Again there is no electricity due to government restriction whereby it has to remain off from 14:00 to 23:00 hrs.

After a palaver at the Tourist Buro we got more petrol coupons. George then discovered that he had lost his towel and washing kit, including his anti-malaria tablets and water purifiers. We walked into town but he could only replace a toothbrush. I had a shower in the dark and put on some welcome clean clothes before joining George at the hostel bar. We had a couple of Pepsi Colas and chatted with the Dutch pair that had been dogging our heels through Punat and Zadar. They were touring on 500cc motorbikes but only seemed to cover the same ground as us each day.

We walked into the town of Baška Voda which is a small village and port only 9km north of Makarska and just south of Brela in former Yugoslavia. It's an easy day trip from Split, but it's also a wonderful holiday destination in its own right. Once a humble fishing village, Baška Voda’s beaches, pine woods and lovely setting have made it a favourite for seaside tourism. We got caught in the pissing rain again and ran back to the hostel to find the lights were on in our dorm. We read for a while and settled down to a great night’s sleep with no insects! The wind crashed about outside as I tucked into a horrid supper of cold fat and beans from a tin.

Bike reads 15,174 miles

El Borak Country

Friday 16th September 1983

We dozed through the usual morning bell ringing at 06:00 hrs and lay in until about 08:30 hrs. I finished reading “The Hobbit” which was most enthralling. We then packed up our gear and in a glum mood trudged down to the Tourist Buro to pay for our lodging. Stitched up as usual, we had to pay hidden extras, but in all we were only caught for about £5 each for the room for two nights. Then we hit the road, back north and over the fantastic bridge to the mainland (another 20 Dinar toll). Isolated on a bike one can only think, and when the road is not exceptional to distract you, thoughts turn to home.

We got back on the coast road and headed south. The bikes were going as well as ever and the sun burst though the clouds to brighten the scenic winding road. Mountains rose away to our left and steep slopes fell away to the bright blue sea on our right. Some of the bends were very sharp and the dead hulks of old cars rusting on the slopes testified to those that had taken them too fast. Only a few concrete blocks at random intervals served as barriers between staying on the road or pitching into oblivion below.

The scenery was just out of Robert E. Howard’s “El Borak” stories (El Borak, otherwise known as Francis Xavier Gordon, is a fictional character created by Robert E. Howard. Gordon was a Texan gunfighter from El Paso who had travelled the world and settled in Afghanistan. He is known in Asia for his exploits in that continent. He is likely to have been inspired by real people such as Richard Francis Burton, John Nicholson, "Chinese" Gordon and Lawrence of Arabia as well as the fiction of Talbot Mundy.) with precipitous viaducts and rough-hewn channels through the bare rock. Wonderful little bays and fields and harbours were visible on our right.

We stopped for a coffee and Coca Cola in Senj beneath a statue of three Herculean figures at the prow of a ship (Honneur aux Combattants de la Patrie). The Jugoslavian island were visible off-shore and looked quite forbidding with their steep cliffs rising abruptly out of the sea. We stopped again about 40 miles further on up the road where the ferry left for the Island of Pag. Here at Karlobag we stopped for another coffee break. At an earlier stop a stall owner guessed that we were Czechs! Now the heat of the day is beginning to blaze through. We loitered at Karlobag for a while and took a few photos before continuing on the magnificent coast road with more bays, gullies and scented stunted trees. As it started to become darker we turned right (west) over a dull bit of land and lost sight of the sea. And so we came to Zadar. With its Roman ruins, art installations, and white-sand beach, Zadar is one of the most unique resorts along Croatia’s Dalmatian coast, where in-the-know travellers come to feast on seafood, watch dreamy sunsets, and sip cocktails at oceanside bars.

However, our first impressions were that it was a nasty place and as we came into town youngsters sneered and jeered. We eventually found the well-camouflaged Youth Hostel, despite the pitiful address given in the International YHA handbook and the lack of any sign-posting, after asking for directions in the foyer of a lairy hotel. We booked a night with the miserable wretch on reception and went off in search of a supermarket. The drab apartment blocks and the smell of rotting fish confirmed our initial fears of this dismal place. We bought some nasty tinned beans and bacon (pure fat as it turned out) as well as our usual bread, cheese spread and a bottle of the cheapest vino. We found a deserted summerhouse out of sight of the town and tucked in heartily. The wind was picking up now and clouds were closing in to make this drab hell even gloomier. We walked along the “sea front” to the Jugoplastics Factory where we miserably spent about half an hour chatting by some moored yachts and then we decided to call it a night. We returned to the hostel which was now in darkness. The receptionist was crouching in the gloom doing something by the light of a candle when we called in for the key.

The dormitory was in complete darkness and the electricity was off as we scrobbled about in the blackness. Luckily we had made up our beds earlier and leapt into them with some relief. “What a thoroughly disagreeable place”, remarked George as we lay down to sleep. However, we were not to remain unmolested. At first I thought that I was imagining the itching and crawling on my body but after a few minutes George squealed with anguish. Bed bugs of some description were running riot and we were the victims. We leapt out of bed and stood moaning in the dark. George was all for leaving the hostel and sleeping rough outside, but it was too cold and windy for my liking. We put on our rough clothes and lay on top of our sheets dozing fitfully until morning. We were aroused at one point when the other occupants of the dormitory returned and the lights came on. The night was punctuated by slapping noises and cursing as mosquitoes joined the fray. Bike reading 15,039 miles

Lazy Day in Krk

Thursday 15th September 1983

Another lazy day! We got up at about 08:30 hrs. and the woman who runs this place was nowhere to be seen, and neither was breakfast, which we didn’t know whether to expect or not. We walked down to the sea front and bought a couple of yoghurts each and had a couple of coffees each (klein) at the bow-tied waiters café. We then attempted some bike maintenance. This was limited to oiling a few bits and pieces as we had less tools than we thought. Then, armed with some fruit juice we hit the “beach”.

Today we went left (when facing the sea front) and found a concrete platform on a quiet bit of the coast (which is very stony). Here we read, basked in the sun and swam as topless women appeared on either side of us. With the aid of George’s goggles swimming in the clear sea was a treat. We watched shoals of fish grazing on the rocks in the shallow waters. It was if you were flying above valleys and hills looking down upon guppies and angel fish darting about.

When we got bored we walked back into town and gorged on bread, cheese spread, tomatoes, biscuits, chocolate spread and the sardine cocktails that had become our staple diet. Just before our lunch we had written postcards in a café while drinking Coke surrounded by people feasting on chips and kebabs. We then went right, along the sea front to our favoured concrete pier of yesterday. Here we swam, read our books, and dozed again. Walking back into town we were given a lift in a rickety trailer pulled by a little tractor driven by a local. We returned to our room via the Tourist Buro to ask about ferries. After a short while we made our usual pilgrimage to the sea front to watch the sun set with a bottle of wine.

The wine put us in a merry mood and we talked of a marvellous re-union party with our friends on our return. The wine also weakened our resolve to stick to a strict budget and we went to a restaurant for a slap-up mixed grill, mixed salad and chips. It was hungrily devoured and we came back to our bedroom full and content. The religious hymn singing club was again in full swing outside our window.

Krk

Wednesday 14th September 1983

We got up at about 8 o’clock and booked out of the wretched hostel which was apparently closed now that the summer season was over. We had a couple of coffees and an extremely nasty sweet chocolate bar. Then we enquired at the Tourist Information office and booked a cheap double room. We parked the bikes outside and armed with our beachwear and a bottle of vino, we headed out of town. On a concrete pier we basked in the sun and swam in the sea. Time sped by as we read, exercised and relaxed in this wonderful place. Later we returned to town and bought sardines with beans and peppers, bread, salami, pear juice and margarine for another feast.

We then returned to our room for a siesta at 4 o’clock. After a welcome slumber we wandered around the backstreets of the town and had a few Cokes. We asked about the cinema in the Tourist Information Office (for there appeared to be a Kung Fu film on) and were informed that the movie started at 20:30 hrs. We bought 2 bottles of beer each and sat by the sea front. A fishing boat moored up and folk gathered to buy fresh fish. The beer was pretty nasty and after one we returned to our room.

A continuous chirruping can be heard, like the soundtrack of all good Westerns at campfire scenes, and bats flitter about. German couples wander about and we ogle the females. George is very weary – I hope the wretch is not ill. At the “hotel” I crack open the other beer and write my log. Religious hymns sound nearby. The town is amazing. It is like a film set for a middle-eastern film with white walled alleys, churches with tall white towers and women walk about and chat in their traditional black garb. There is also a pleasant scent in the air.

Croatia Pictures

The Island of Krk in Croatia

Tuesday 13th September 1983

Breakfast was pitiful – 3 small slices of toast and marmalade. We supplemented this with the remainder of the bread and cheese from yesterday, although George was loathe to eat the cheese. It was sunny for a change and only a few woolly clouds were visible in a blue sky. We headed uphill back to Jugoslavia, worried as the route was ill-defined and we were low on petrol and had no Italian currency left. We gained the border just in time and filled up using a Jugoslavian coupon. We got through with a smile (of mirth at our bikes) from the Passport Inspector and stopped at the border café for coffee and Coca Cola. The weather was a treat and we idled in the sun.

We then embarked on the most joyous stretch yet, to Rijeka. This is the principal seaport and the third-largest city in Croatia (after Zagreb and Split), but was in Jugoslavia in 1983. The sun beamed on the rolling wooded hills (reminiscent of Greek countryside) and we cruised along, often downhill at 30-40 miles per hour. Some awful noises are coming from both bikes and they are both reluctant to start. George has stalled several times. They both may be at the end of their tethers but they have done remarkably well and I will always have a fond regard for the Honda 90. Today we did our first run without wearing helmets. Now we sit in the square at Rijeka in the glaring sun, writing postcards by a fountain. Another similarity to Greece is the roadside shrines we pass every now and then.

We were approached suspiciously by the militia but they left us in peace. When we had finished writing we found the Post Office and hurled the cards into a wooden box filled with postcards – I hope they get to their destinations.

We pulled out of the massive city with it’s huge shipyards and headed south along the coast road. Our destination was the island of Krk. The views were magnificent. The road weaved around picturesque bays amongst “Spaghetti Western” scenery and we looked down to the crystal blue sea on our right. The towns seemed to climb out of the sea, up steep wooded slopes into the hills, again reminding me of Greece (where we had been to in 1979 visiting Thassos Island on an 18-30’s-style holiday with Young World).

We came to the bridge linking Krk Island with the mainland and had to pay a 20 Dinar toll to cross. The bridge was fantastic and we swept on across the undulating terrain of the island, past the airport and on to Punat. Punat is a small town, now in Croatia, located on the southern coast of the island of Krk. The view of the town, whether it is approached from the sea or land, is unusual: the town is hedged in by the coast with an extremely deep bay called Puntarska Draga. The town was a dream and just like the Greek islands we visited in the past. Colourful fishing vessels and yachts filled the harbour and German tourists frequ.ented the discrete shops and cafés. The sun blazed and we treated ourselves to a meal of veal and tomatoes in a restaurant. We were as happy as Larry and decided to stay put for at least a day. We booked into a hostel where we were grudgingly received and went for a walk along the sea front.

We settled on a future Youth Hostel address (Thessaloniki, Greece) and sent another card home so the folks could write to us at this address. In those days there were no electronic communications and international telephone calls were expensive, so we had to rely on traditional mail (now dubbed Snail Mail). We used Poste Restante, an incredibly useful way of getting post and mail sent to you when you are travelling, allowing you to have your post delivered to a post office of your choice anywhere in the world. In most countries the costs will be limited to a small fee for each piece of mail collected.

Now we sip Coke (Lero Cola) in a Punat café and write up our logs, feeling well contented. English music came from a nearby vinyl record stall. We went on to the supermarket and bought bread, sardines, butter and a bottle of wine which cost less than 40 pence. We sat on the edge of the harbour (Sitting on the dock of the bay!) and tucked in heartily as the sun sank behind the hills in front of us across the bay. The sunset was marvellous and we chatted as we polished off the wine in a tranquil mood. When it was completely dark we returned to the hostel and turned in.

Bike reads 14,882

Later Note written 26/09/1983 At Punat we began to relax and mentally adjust to the attitude required for the trip. Time and new sights began to dull memories of home and we began to enjoy ourselves more. George said later that he did not experience the same sense of homesickness as I did.

Italy

Monday 12th September 1983

We got up at 07:30 hrs. and sat down to the meagreness breakfast yet – 2 bread rolls, marmalade and butter with a mug of coffee. The storm had died to a dismal steady rain and, as it showed no signs of stopping, we dressed in all our foul weather paraphernalia and pitched into the mire. We were soaked but happy when we reached the Jugoslav border, if not a trifle winded. The extreme gradient (18%) of the Wurzen Pass, 1,073 metres (3,520 ft), was such that after crawling up in first gear we had to stop and let the engines cool down. The Wurzen Pass (German: Wurzenpass, Slovene: Korensko sedlo) is a mountain pass in a col of the Karawanks mountain range in the Southern Limestone Alps, on the border between Radendorf in the Austrian state of Carinthia and Kranjska Gora in Yugoslavia (now Slovenia).

A nasty burning smell issued from George’s machine. We walked up the hill in the drizzle to ascertain the extent of the slope. It levelled out about a quarter of a mile further up so we returned to the bikes and walked alongside them, running them in first gear until we reached a downward slope. We leapt on, relieved, but before long were walking again. We reached the top and rolled down to the border where we changed up some money (me a £100 Travellers Cheque) into Jugoslavian Dinars. We learned that we had to buy coupons for petrol (400 Dinars for an 8 litre coupon) but we would get cash change. We were also told that petrol was scarce, but today this didn’t seem to be the case. The downward run along a deep valley into Jesenice was full of beautiful scenery – cascading rivers, green meadows, fairy tale villages and pine forests.

Today Jesenice is a Slovenian town and the seat of the Municipality of Jesenice on the southern side of the Karawanks, bordering Austria to the north. Jesenice is known as the Slovenian home of mining and iron making industries, its largest steel company Acroni, and its ice-hockey club, Acroni Jesenice. Historically, Jesenice's ironworks and metallurgy industries were the driving force of the town's development. Here we stopped for our promised feast. We entered a stark “no frills” supermarket and bought bread, cheese, butter, and as there was no milk, some natural yoghurt. The bread turned out to be a cake and George was appalled by the Cheshire-style cheese, but gorged anyway and bought a proper loaf for the evening. The rain had stopped at last and we sat on some steps by the shop.

We hit the road again and just before Bled I heard a hoot alongside me. I turned to see a display of beaming teeth from the slit of a full-face helmet and was delighted to recognise “Scatty Jack”, the German from Prien Youth Hostel on his “Sachsen Harley”. We pulled into a bus stop for a chat and more photos. He told us of roads washed away and rivers of mud caused by the storm, which had rendered most of the other routes over the Alps impassable. He too was pissed off by the incessant rain but he seemed to laugh at everything. He sat on George’s bike and remarked “there is a large emptiness in front of me”, meaning a lack of a petrol tank on our little step-through machines. We shook hands and left him as he was going to Bled Youth Hostel.

We sped on to Postojna, a town in the traditional region of Inner Carniola, 35 kilometres (22 miles) from Trieste in Italy, in southwestern Slovenia, formerly Jugoslavia. Cold and rain and a desire to rest the bikes drove us into a stark café. With still about 80 miles to go to Pula (our intended night’s stopover) and rain still pissing down we decided to divert to the nearest Youth Hostel at Trieste.

Trieste is a city and a seaport in north-eastern Italy. It is situated towards the end of a narrow strip of Italian territory lying between the Adriatic Sea and Slovenia (former Jugoslavia), which lies approximately 10–15 km south and east of the city. Croatia is some 30 km to the south. The sun burst through and we had a happy run of about 20 miles to Italy. The view of Trieste, looking down on the bay was tremendous. The sun shone off the sea as we sped down hairpin bends descending to sea level. The hostel was a treat, in what appears to be an old villa right on the sea front, north of the city. We tucked into another few nauseous Jugoslavian sandwiches and finished the last of our six apples. Jugoslavia seems to be a no-nonsense industrious country with plenty of rural activity. Workers walked about in their blue overalls and caps and others worked manually in the fields.

Today had been a good run of 167 miles and an eventful and interesting day. After “tea” we walked along the Italian sea front towards the city. Lightning lit up the sky every few minutes off to our right – over Jugoslavia. We got back to the Youth Hostel after passing millions of joggers and used up the last of our wop money on a can of Coca Cola each. We then retired to the sound of lairy Yank travelling tales from fellow hostellers and fell into a deep sleep.

Bike reading 14,787 miles.