A happy smile, a biscuit from a bag on the seat. I'm invited to spend the night with his family. No common language, but we're doing alright.
We turn off the road and begin an upward journey, upstream up a narrow tarmac road. OK, so the Tara Canyon is to our left. We're going north up the mountain overshadowing the town, now behind us. We climb in first and second gears, slowing for hairpins as the road climbs the steep, forested mountainside the only way a road can, snaking. Up and up, round super tight hairpins that reverse the direction of climb. The chasm now on the left, next on the right.
There's rain, sheets of it. The road's running with it. He's a good driver. Up and up. The tarmac gives out. Now it's hard packed dirt, running with rain, and still the hairpins. That clutch is working overtime. Now we're pretty high up the mountain. I guess in the foggy rain, maybe 200 metres. Onwards and upwards. The stretches to east longer now than to west. We're beginning to round the shoulder of the mountain. The track deteriorates.

Less trees now and we're in the cloud, actually above the rain. Wipers to intermittent, we pass a couple of forks in the tracl. Only an old Land Rover should be up here-not a new van!
We're a couple of hundred metres above the vast, white cloud blanket that obscures the town and fills the canyon. It's much colder up here too.
Finally we park up. It's surreal to step out of a van above the cloud as if from an aeroplane. Red light! Green light! Go! It is silent and still up here.
Two small dogs rush out, barking their threat at me: Go on try it. Just one false move fella. Just one false move. The farmhouse door opens and the two men embrace and kiss. Oh, I see. No I don't see. Her men greet each other this way. These are brothers.
Combat boots off, I step in with my woollen ski stockings. A simple hall to an inner door.
The opened door reveals three generations of the family, who smile and laugh in appreciation of my arrival. I take in with one glance the cosy, lived-in kitchen. Three sofas along one wall, a huge wood burning stove and the family. Simple decoration. An odd musical instrument on the wall, a posed for family portrait from long ago. No books, no distractions from socializing.
Embraces and kisses on both cheeks for father and two brothers. Hand shakes for granny, wife and two sisters. Little hand shakes for the grandson terror. It soon becomes obvious that here in the farming communities the women work constantly. I just have to accept it but my heart bleeds as I watch the wife's body language.
My thoughts are interrupted. Pivo! I take the opened bottle, followed by a glass. Rakji! Jeeze! No. That's home-made hooch!

I hardly ever drink and the second Pivo has me affected. No wonder all are happy and smiling. But no. These are really welcoming folk, close to the earth. A huge pan offers up a soup or stew placed before me, along with two thick slabs of home made bread set on the oak table by my plate. Eat! I am instructed as all watch happily. The driver breaks chunks of bread into his soup til it looks as thich as muesli. Another offer of Rakji. No. No.
The food is excellent, obviously from very fresh ingredients.

The door opens and another visitor comes in, clearly known to the others. I rise and embrace him Montenegran style. I'm told he's another brother, one who can't talk. He has a paralyzed and contorted left arm and an odd uneven look in his bright eyes. A sroke? Ignoring his disabilities I greet him and he takes his place with a pivo in his hand.

Later I get out some After Eight mints as a thank you. They seem to be appreciated. The two daughters can speak some English, one of them quite well. They are all happy for translations. Michael Jackson preferring an under eight after dinner seems to amuse.
There is absolutely no pretension about these people. I love it. Sophisticated they're not but I care not. Sincerity beats sophistication any day.
Many pivo are consumed as I get out the camera and shoot off a roll of film of the falmily members who pose seriously whenever I aim at them. But I'm as much a beginner as they. I only hope these indoor shots come out. I'll take them to the capital, Podgorica to have them processed.

Later the father takes the odd musical instrument down from the wall. It has a gourd-like body and long, ornately carved neck, ending in a huge carved eagle. Montenegro's emblem. With only one string, this is the country's oldest instrument. The bridge in place, the single, thick gut string is tensioned with a crude, wooden peg. A short bow is drawn back and forth and it is then that I realize the notes are produced by skillful use of the fingerss of left hand on the bridge.
This gives five raw notes with a rough beat due to the short stroke of the bow. The rough, shall we say, singing, is folk music at its most basic. I am priveledged to experienc it but I'll not be asking about CD's or T shirts.
My new friends are genuinely warm. I've not met this for many, many years. I'm to meet it every day of my stay in Montenegro.

This is a tiny, mountainous country, with amazing roads, more of which later. But its greatest asset is its people. Years ago, a young American said to me that a stranger is a friend I've not yet met. Rather naiive I thought. But actually it really does apply here.
When it's time for bed, I'm shown to the unheated room nextdoor, in which are three large beds piled high with blankets. Three men sleep here tonight, like three little bears in a fairy tale. I am tucked in with assurances made that I have enough blankets. Little do I appreciate how cold it gets up here at night.

So a hearty breakfast of three eggs, five thick rashers of bacon, home made fetta cheese and slabs of bread. Turkish; coffee with the cups upturned in their saucers afterwards to let nthe grand mother read the grounds. These are supersticious folk.
Then pivo and Rakji! Though not for me thanks.
Midday now, Saturday, the van takes me with much waving goodbye. I memorize the new way down as I'll have to return on my own with the photos later.
I note the landmarks at the valley floor when we turn onto the road: Powerlines and three distinctive barns. Again when we join a road signed Mojkovac: a VW bus carcass.

Rade is storing the bike. An old sand yellow Range Rover stops by our parked van at the triangular Mojkovac bridge visible on google earth. Two muscled Montenegran men beam a welcome. These must be the brothers of Rade who rescued Damien-and had a flooded basement! My bag stowed, off we go up Tara Canyon to Rade's farm and the bike. The gearknob from the transfer box is missing. Only the driver's wiper is present for duty. The steering wheel is missing the centre boss and the complete casing. It's been hot-wired!

I try not to be the gawking tourist but it would be stupid not to look up and around at the towering canyon walls.

Towering limestone walls rise to past the snow line and disappear into the cloud. We're on the flank of one, with the other glowering at us from across the chasm. The cloud cover is higher than yesterday. The mountains here much higher and steeper than just 2km away above Mojkovac. The weather must change very quickly here.
All the trees are dead sticks, laying the slopes bare. Magnificent in its scale and grandeur, the canyon is also threatening in its winter state- threatening rain or snow at any moment.

Turning my attention downwards to the river snaking below us, I see clear, turqouise water rushing foamless, all rocks covered. Snow melt has swelled the river to a torrent. I see the drive glance at the state of the river. A white water rafter assessing out of habit I guess as they only run the river in summer.

The road now. Soon I must ride it on an unfamiliar bike-someone else's bike. Normally I ride a Moto Guzzi Le Mans 850 with clip-ons, linked brakes and 120 rear tyre. Just how different is the BMW F6650GS going to be?
Just look at the road too! Corner after corner with gaping drops on one side. Mostly but not all good tarmac. But the thing I notice is how the corners follow the contour and therefor have varying radii! Sometimes they tighten madly. This will be a challenging ride needing care and attention.

The whole scale of this canyon is impressive and Rade's family live right in the middle. I invite you to check google earth, " Dobrilovina, Montenegro". At 5 o'clock from Dobrilovina is a google blue spot. At 8 o'clock from the blue spot is Rade's house. The same distance to the south now there is a distinct elbow bend in the river. The " Old man's white beard" feature is a VERY steep slope. At the left, from the road side it is damn near vertical then it's scree slope to the water. Our dear Damien fell down the steep bit to come to rest on the lower scree slope! I am shocked to imagine how he ever survived.

At the farmhouse I am met by Rade and his eleven year old daughter, Sanja, who after only one year studying speaks very good English. She began her school days as one of only two pupils in the school! She's a very bright girl.
I'm ushered in for a very welcome coffee finished with the ritual upturning of cups. Rade is a big, intelligent and capable, quietly ambitious man. He and his family resist pressure to move to a town, carrying on the farm of their ancestors in the remote canyon. Life is tough and poor here.
Rade, his brother and their father live on different floors of the farmhouse. He tends a few cattle, has some other job and runs raft trips in the summer. In winter he farms and clears fallen rocks three times a day from the section of road near the farm. He thinks nothing of hiking up to the summer pasture. A big man quite at home in and suited to the large scale environment. He's recieved a grant and built four lovely holiday chalets which are rented out in summer and each can house a family in cosy comfort.
This must be simply wonderful in summer sunshine with the slopes green with lush foliage. The situation is spectacular, 80 metres above the river, on a flat expanse in a bend in the torrent.

I am too reserved to recieve hospitality easily. I feel awkward staying for free when Rade has done so much in helping Damien and storing the bike, resisting offers from locals to sell the bike and pocket the cash. I say one day and feeling the year is getting on I then hit the road. One way and another this trip has got underway late. The family were the perfect hosts and it was a pleasure meeting them.

The bike is wheeled out from the barn where it has lain since early October. The first thing I check is if it is an F650 GS with forks which have broken on several examples. Oh. Yes it is. I decide to ride it anyway. How's that for intelligence? All electrics are OK, no friction material visible on the front brakes. Oil level good and condition too, no change due yet. Front tyre is a bit soft, chain very loose indeed. Both brake light switches are sticky at first but soon loosen up. Back light assembly is missing one bolt.
It starts on first stab of starter and it ticks over at 1500rpm. I neglected to check what the tickover should be. My bike, a twin, ticksover at 800rpm. Later I put on the fabulous Metal Mule panniers and set off carefully to negotiate the cattle trodden wet slope up to the house. The bike takes it in style.
Loaded up, goodbyes said, I set off for Podgorica, promising to return in a day or two with the photos I've taken.


The bike is instantly impressive. Easy to ride, a pleasure to ride and really well handling. I use engine braking and a bit of trailing back brake to save the front pads. The bike's really controllable, flowing easily through the bends. But two corners catch me out and I run wide. Yikes. Those road engineers.
At Mojkovac I estimate two hours to the capital, Podgorica. I can see these are slow roads but I still underestimate the time needed by quite a bit.

That's two more times it's struck.

Let me liken this ride to a computer game. Tony's made up a disc for me called Bike Tour, based on Montenegran roads, so different hazards from the usual ones. He wrote it for a BMW F650GS and I opted for a winter setting out of curiosity. He has done a brilliant job of providing a challenging and rewarding experience. It is totally involving with constantly changing surfaces and amazing bends. I'm left wondering what he's provided for game over but no intention of finding out.
Every corner is unique and impossible to read ahead. Tony's idea of a corner's vanishing point is where a car has disappeared over an abyss. A pot of flowers marks the spot. Cruel joke.
Forget the apex. To survive, keep your options open. Each bend must be entered slowly, read through and powered out, but they can tighten or have hazards. He's put in damp, wet or even running water. Shiny tarmac in places. Rock falls, usually where the road cuts into a cliff. Then there are the mud slides, slithering from inside to outside edge of bend. Often camouflaged by running water. Add in reflections from the road and shadows in the gorge and it's very testing.

But best of all are the tunnels. Unlit and unlined, water cascading from the roofs. One even, develishly, has a tight turn immediately after the entry. Now THAT could be a game over. Too much confidence, run wide, need to lean and brake on grease and it only takes one of the, admittedly rare, oncoming cars. But they all cut the corners! Fiendish. From the title I expected it to be a holiday but Tony's cunning.
My only criticesm is his signage. I took corners at 50kph or even 60kph when he signed them max speed 30kph. Maybe he got confused with mph, I don't know but it's only a small error. He also put in skid warning signs, which is odd as the whole road is a skid risk for a bike. Apart from this it's surely good enough for publication. I'd like to see other gamers have the chance to get the buzz I got.

Early afternoon sunshine greets me as I approach Podgorica and I've had a fabulous time. I don't notice the drop in altitude or clearing sky as I approach the coast. I also haven't noticed the vibrations and that's a sign of a great game. The little Beemer has been pefect for the low speeds, tight bends and uneven surfaces.
I slow on a closed throttle to a bit over the town speed limit on the long straight towards town centre, past shabby ads and small businesses. One last, grim Aussie joke near game's end-if you make it. A wired-in yard of destroyed cars. All half overlap head-ons! Hm That's to add to the one's at the bottom of the gorge.

I take an hour without any GPS to find anything significant in this small, simple town. I suppose my head's still paced to the game I just finished! A bit of food wouldn't go amiss so I park by a cabin-like food stall. Remembering the wide, alloy panniers, I put my left foot far out from the bike, lean forward and down and draw my right leg over the seat till the knee clears it. I turn face down, bend my knee and scrape my foot over the seat. Phew! The leather-clad gymnast has landed.
I get some fruit and juice and a young American hails me. We chat and he invites me over the road for a . Nice! ( Little do I know the poor guy's an alcoholic and this is the start of his day shift). We go to a bar restaurant, inside like a dungeon. Wow! I like this. What an ace home this would make--especially if the blonde and btunette dishes in the corner were included.
The Calabria turns out to be Podgorica's best pizza place. A Harley riding designer owns it and another-The Long Road Cafe. He is commissioned by ohters to design cafes etc for them. He has a definite knack. As we sip Montenegran black wine ( red in other countries), I begin to relax as I haven't for a long time. The Beemer's locked up outside next to the owner's Vespa and as I learn Montenegro is very safe. I begin scared for the bike's safety but have no problems at all.

I ask for a typically Montenegran dish and recieve a delicious meat rolled in bacon menu. Past and simple side salad plus bread. Lovely. The ingredients are really fresh and that makes it so, so tasty. I am happy. A bloody brilliant ride, good food and pleasant company. I am chatting to Serje who is off duty but normally cooks the pizzas, the drunk American and the barman and waiter as it's quiet. The price is very reasonable and I'm not permitted to pay for any of the drinks.

Late in the evening I set off on the bike, back up the gorge to look for a discrete place to sleep undisturbed. I take a side road up a mountain slope to near the tree line, and sleep under a clear sky in the southern Balkans.
The sky is unpolluted by light and about 10C. My bag is rated to -20C, so no problems with cold--yet.
I doze off counting potholes and dream of counter steering, leaning and engine barks on down-changes. Grinning in my sleep.

I think the Beemer, resting on its side stand, is wondering what's hit it.
Linzi.

He clasps the crag with crooked hands, close to the sun in lonely lands, ringed with the azure world he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls, he watches from his mountain walls, and like a thunderball he falls. (Alfred Lord Tennyson). I view an eagle soaring the valley winds. This is the emblem from the musical instrument. The twin headed eagle found only here! I guess its observation skills had become legendary. I've read that there are also bear, wolves and other wild wonders still roaming up here. I descend to the road and return to Podgrica. Leaving two rolls of film for development I cross the road and fuel up. The Beemer takes less than I expect. Then the run wasn't so much distance as time. The man tells me he has the same model of bike and I tell him of the odd characteristic I've noticed. I took my hands off the bars once to adjust my gloves. The handle bars shook violently. This is displayed at 50 kph or 60 kph but not faster. He then tells me that his friend beside him will drive, I should follow and we'll go to a workshop and have it looked at. Alarm bells ring! But I've not yet fully got used to Montenegro yet, I needn't have worried.

We arrive at a yard packed to bursting with bikes. Mostly late model Japanese and scooters. But there are also an MV Agusta Brutale 910R, a Ducati 1098 and the owner's Aprilia Mille RSV-R. Seeing these models surprises me and just confirms my fears that this fly is in a spider's web. I'd rather back out. The jovial round rolly, polly owner comes over smiling ( I imagine him rubbing his hands). I explain quickly the facts and he caresses the knobbles on the front tyre. I hadn't noticed how they're unevenly worn. He presses his weight down on the seat a few times and announces that the shock's got no damping action. djusting the remote confirms this. I mention the chain slackness and his opinion is the o-ring chain can't be fully lubed by the Scottoiler. Yes the chain is very slack but it's also damaged. I say that while he works on tyre pressure and chain--both quick and simple of curse, I'll nip to a cash machine to make sure I've got some spare cash to pay. He stands up next to me, dwarfing me somewhat and says, " We have a strict rule here". I felt a bit concerned and confused. "Foreign visitors are forbidden from paying". That's true, piped up his brother.
My eyes smiled as I just looked from one cheery face to the other, shaking my head slowly. I looked round at the Wurth machinery that equipped this workshop. After adjusting the chain, setting the correct pressure and checking the bike over we chatted about bikes and suchlike-as you do! I expressed my glory at the road down from Mojkovac, They expressed envy at us having Donnington race track! I realized there are no race tracks anywhere near here! They're stuck with their private IOM TT then! The Aprilia had been crashed twice I am told. By the owner and by him- a finger stabs at the newly arrived visitor. Several more come in the next twenty minutes. Quuite a social event. The Aprilia looks immaculate. Repaired with all new parts. The old fairing is leaning against a wall. I see the score marks along the bottom edges! Done on the road I am told. Between here and Mojkovac! Wow! Mad! But he tells me he doesn't ride really fast, rather he doesn't slow down for the corners. I envy him his intinmate knowledge of the road but still think I'll leave that and the TT to others thanks! He's a big guy for the bike but still to ground it and wear the tyres to the absolute edges as he has done on that road impresses me. But you simply can't afford to slide out there--game over!

Back at the Long Road Cafe I check the photos I've just collected from the lab. I've met Serje and the drunk for a chat and drinks. Sorry to describe him that way but I don't want to identify the poor guy. The test shots of Beograd are lovely and clear but the indoor shots show up my inexperience. then I realize I had three rolls! Blast. I forgot the roll including Rade's family. I'm assured however that there will most certainly be a photo lab in Mojkovac. I will have to ride that road again anyway and I think about it with glee and anticipation. Once again I notice that all the customers in this cafe are men. I keep getting glances. I ask if it's a gay bar but am told no Podgorica girls only go with really rich guys! Ah Ha. An oddity about this place then.
We nip round to the Calabria, as Serje has to begin work and I ask for another, different Montenegran dish. This meal is again tasty and hearty. Fresh ingredients making it a taste fest! After I chatted at the bar on a high stool. Somehow the whole afternoon drifted away in pleasant conversation. I am all questions about this new country to me. I enjoy the company of Serje, the barman and waiter and they appreciate the distraction on this otherwise quiet day. It also transpires that they do 12 hour days and only Serje has had any time off in the last 6 weeks! No labour laws. The Calabria is to close in about a week to be changed completely better to earn big bucks. We are all in agreement that it will be a real shame to lose such a place. I wonder what the owner's revamp will look like. The Calabria was created 10 years ago--looks like 800years ago!
The waiter, they giggle, is the richest man in the coastal village from which he comes-on a waiter's pay! There's much for me to learn here.
Only when they close do I say goodbye and set off once more up the gorge a bit and head for the tree line to camp. this night the sky's again clear but the temperature a bit lower. There'll be a slight frost. Last night I was nearly too hot. Tonight Goldylock's porridge is just right. Very much more reaxed than in a long time I drift easily off to sleep. The little Beemer, content too, no longer shaking its head, rests silently on its side stand. Linzi.