Thomas the cyclist had been right. Nevergal does have a road and I’m buggered if I know how I missed it yesterday. What’s even more mystifying is the fact that we can’t even find it on the map today. It’s definitely here, because we’re riding on it. We’ve dropped down from the heights of Nevergal to the shores of a mirror flat lake with magnificent views of the snow capped Dolomites in the distance. Officially this road heading towards Vittorio Veneto is called Route 51, but it’s known locally, and even signposted, as the ‘Death Road‘. It’s quite an emotive name and the small shrines placed periodically at each beautiful curve attest to the accuracy of it’s name. We pass a small bike dealership appropriately named ‘Death Road Motorcycles’ and stop for fuel a little further along. Above us, towering 100 meters in the air, is a flyover, a ribbon of aerial carriageway the likes of which I’ve never before seen. It seems to exit from the side of a towering mountain and runs winding and slim for as far as the eye can see. About it’s tiny footprints on the valley floor, there’s no graffiti, no smell of stale urine and no abandoned furniture or shopping carts. This is an Italian flyover and bears absolutely no resemblance to any of it’s British counterparts. It’s a beautiful sight but I have absolutely no idea how to get onto it or even where it would take us. It’s a supermodel of a road, a curving body held high above the valley on legs of pipe cleaner slenderness. I’d love to ride on that magnificent elevated road but the garage owners English is worse than our combined Italian and no matter what questions we ask, the response is never anything more than a toothless smile. Unable to find a way onto it, I content myself with the view and the hope that one day, all flyovers will be built like this.
As we continue to head east, Italy is becoming visibly poorer and the roads more congested. It’s not that there’s any more traffic, it’s just that there seems to be far less tarmac. The landscape has become flatter and less involving and everything that has been built, has been located at the side of the road. Nothing exists behind those buildings and there are no areas of countryside between them. It feels as if we’ve riding through the longest town that has ever been built. I’m already missing Germany, Switzerland, Austira and the Alps, but at least I’m enjoying the warmer air down here at sea level. Everything seems to be slightly more East than West, and even the toilets have changed. Gone are the thrones that we English favour and in their place, foot printed basins that employ little in the way of posterior support and have plumbing that favours function over form. We’re still in Italy, but it’s clear that we’re closing in on the Balkans.
We’re approaching our last port of call in Italy, the coastal resort of Triest. As we drop down towards the Adriatic Sea, the aerial view of Triest is really quite beautiful. A crescent of white buildings nestling on the small plateau between the hills and the deep blue of the sea. It’s the first time that we’ve seen the sea since leaving the ferry back in Calais and I’m getting a distinct ‘Summer Holiday’ sort of feeling. I have a sudden urge to knot a handkerchief, roll up my trousers and start complaining about foreign food. But, before I can come over all British, I‘ve got to survive the journey down to the promenade.
The traffic is London-like and in the interests of personal safety, we revert to courier mode. As I refuse to jump a clearly red traffic light ahead of me, an Alfa Romeo mounts the rear of my bike. I turn around and stare at him and he responds by nudging me again. I've no alternative but to offer him an internationally recognised gesture, to which he immediately offers a suitable response. The lights change and I’m off down the road and safely away from the dangers of Alfa aggression. A second car then decides to aid his own progress by violently nudging me to the side of the road. I’m already travelling at well above the legal speed limit but I‘m too busy trying to keep the bike out of the gutter to offer the driver an immediate response. He's visibly laughing at my distress and seems to think that it's the funniest thing ever. At the next set of lights I pull alongside the offending car, select neutral and with one swift kick, remove his wing mirror with the sole of my boot. He’s not at all happy but that just makes it a level playing field. He’s just tried to kill me and being cordial isn‘t uppermost in my mind. Intent on replicating the wing mirrors damage on his Dolce & Gabanna sunglasses, I reach in through his open window and try to grab his face. With a screech of tyres, he pulls away across the red light and escapes the Tiger’s wrath. I’m ready to give chase but in the melee of traffic and violence, I’ve lost sight of Alan in my mirrors.
Aside from the traffic chaos Trieste is a beautiful place. Sandwiched on a narrow sliver of land between Slovenia to the east and the Adriatic Sea to the west, it reminds me of a budget French Riviera and even the wild traffic has it’s visible attractions. Everybody who isn’t driving an expensive car in a murderous fashion seems to ride a scooter wearing what I can only assume to be the very height of Italian fashion. Girls with long flowing hair and sunglasses the size of small television screens pull up to the traffic lights and place their delicate Jimmy Choo’s onto the hot and dusty tarmac for stability. Everybody here has style, mountains of style, and having clearly spent so much of their time on presentation, it‘s amazing that they have enought time left to ever venture outside. It just makes me feel so bloody English. A weekend spent on New Bond Street with an unlimited line of credit and a personal shopper and I’d still look pretty much the same as I do now. I’m just not Italian and never will be.
This morning I had one of life’s personal comedy moments but sadly, or thankfully, there were no witnesses. In the shower house of our latest campsite, I inserted my fifty cents only to find that in the absence of any taps, the shower was programmed to start instantly. Unfortunately, the coin mechanism was inside the small shower cubicle and I was still wearing my clothes. The door was too small to open without standing directly beneath the stream of water and I enjoyed my first unintentional fully clothed soaking of the week. My washed clothes from yesterday evening were still laid out on the Tiger to dry. I had no dry clothes to wear, but thankfully it was a wonderfully warm morning. In an attempt to hasten the drying process, I walked into the local village. I’ve found a great little pastry shop there where I buy delicious marmalade croissants and the elderly girls giggle and refer to me as the crazy English biker. It seems that height is attractive in these parts and they ask where my tall friend is today? I tell them that he’s still sleeping and with more giggles and furtive winks, they ask me where? I’m tempted to tell them. It’s an interesting village and across the road from where we’re camped, is a well stocked supermarket where the display of produce owes little to convention. Everything in there is arranged in the most chaotic manner making it almost impossible to find anything that might actually be on your shopping list. On the first visit I mistakenly bought pizza yeast thinking that it was butter. But, I still enjoy going there and the printing on top of their till receipts always makes me smile. ’’Gonad Supermarket,… Happy Shopping’’ .
As we continue to head east, Italy is becoming visibly poorer and the roads more congested. It’s not that there’s any more traffic, it’s just that there seems to be far less tarmac. The landscape has become flatter and less involving and everything that has been built, has been located at the side of the road. Nothing exists behind those buildings and there are no areas of countryside between them. It feels as if we’ve riding through the longest town that has ever been built. I’m already missing Germany, Switzerland, Austira and the Alps, but at least I’m enjoying the warmer air down here at sea level. Everything seems to be slightly more East than West, and even the toilets have changed. Gone are the thrones that we English favour and in their place, foot printed basins that employ little in the way of posterior support and have plumbing that favours function over form. We’re still in Italy, but it’s clear that we’re closing in on the Balkans.
We’re approaching our last port of call in Italy, the coastal resort of Triest. As we drop down towards the Adriatic Sea, the aerial view of Triest is really quite beautiful. A crescent of white buildings nestling on the small plateau between the hills and the deep blue of the sea. It’s the first time that we’ve seen the sea since leaving the ferry back in Calais and I’m getting a distinct ‘Summer Holiday’ sort of feeling. I have a sudden urge to knot a handkerchief, roll up my trousers and start complaining about foreign food. But, before I can come over all British, I‘ve got to survive the journey down to the promenade.
The traffic is London-like and in the interests of personal safety, we revert to courier mode. As I refuse to jump a clearly red traffic light ahead of me, an Alfa Romeo mounts the rear of my bike. I turn around and stare at him and he responds by nudging me again. I've no alternative but to offer him an internationally recognised gesture, to which he immediately offers a suitable response. The lights change and I’m off down the road and safely away from the dangers of Alfa aggression. A second car then decides to aid his own progress by violently nudging me to the side of the road. I’m already travelling at well above the legal speed limit but I‘m too busy trying to keep the bike out of the gutter to offer the driver an immediate response. He's visibly laughing at my distress and seems to think that it's the funniest thing ever. At the next set of lights I pull alongside the offending car, select neutral and with one swift kick, remove his wing mirror with the sole of my boot. He’s not at all happy but that just makes it a level playing field. He’s just tried to kill me and being cordial isn‘t uppermost in my mind. Intent on replicating the wing mirrors damage on his Dolce & Gabanna sunglasses, I reach in through his open window and try to grab his face. With a screech of tyres, he pulls away across the red light and escapes the Tiger’s wrath. I’m ready to give chase but in the melee of traffic and violence, I’ve lost sight of Alan in my mirrors.
Aside from the traffic chaos Trieste is a beautiful place. Sandwiched on a narrow sliver of land between Slovenia to the east and the Adriatic Sea to the west, it reminds me of a budget French Riviera and even the wild traffic has it’s visible attractions. Everybody who isn’t driving an expensive car in a murderous fashion seems to ride a scooter wearing what I can only assume to be the very height of Italian fashion. Girls with long flowing hair and sunglasses the size of small television screens pull up to the traffic lights and place their delicate Jimmy Choo’s onto the hot and dusty tarmac for stability. Everybody here has style, mountains of style, and having clearly spent so much of their time on presentation, it‘s amazing that they have enought time left to ever venture outside. It just makes me feel so bloody English. A weekend spent on New Bond Street with an unlimited line of credit and a personal shopper and I’d still look pretty much the same as I do now. I’m just not Italian and never will be.
This morning I had one of life’s personal comedy moments but sadly, or thankfully, there were no witnesses. In the shower house of our latest campsite, I inserted my fifty cents only to find that in the absence of any taps, the shower was programmed to start instantly. Unfortunately, the coin mechanism was inside the small shower cubicle and I was still wearing my clothes. The door was too small to open without standing directly beneath the stream of water and I enjoyed my first unintentional fully clothed soaking of the week. My washed clothes from yesterday evening were still laid out on the Tiger to dry. I had no dry clothes to wear, but thankfully it was a wonderfully warm morning. In an attempt to hasten the drying process, I walked into the local village. I’ve found a great little pastry shop there where I buy delicious marmalade croissants and the elderly girls giggle and refer to me as the crazy English biker. It seems that height is attractive in these parts and they ask where my tall friend is today? I tell them that he’s still sleeping and with more giggles and furtive winks, they ask me where? I’m tempted to tell them. It’s an interesting village and across the road from where we’re camped, is a well stocked supermarket where the display of produce owes little to convention. Everything in there is arranged in the most chaotic manner making it almost impossible to find anything that might actually be on your shopping list. On the first visit I mistakenly bought pizza yeast thinking that it was butter. But, I still enjoy going there and the printing on top of their till receipts always makes me smile. ’’Gonad Supermarket,… Happy Shopping’’ .
In many ways I’ll be sorry to leave Italy, but the £20 per day budget can survive no longer in these stylish and expensive parts. While in Italy it would have been great to visit Rome, Florence, Venice and Vicenza, and had this been ‘Rich’ and not ‘Poor Circulation‘ then I’m sure that I would have done the full grand-tour. But it’s not and I haven’t, so I’ll try not to whine about it too much. We need to move onwards into more reasonably priced areas and this means that we’re about to leave Western Europe behind us. So far, the only challenges that we‘ve faced have been wholly of our own making and the journey itself has been easy. The Balkans is uncharted territory for both of us, but then apart from France and Germany, every other region has been too. But, I suspect that this is where the real ‘travelling‘ is about to begin.
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