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.