Starting in April 2009, I will be travelling round Europe on a 650 Transalp for around 4 months. The first month will be spent in France researching and writing for Rough Guides, then I head east towards Ukraine and the Balkans. During this time, my other half Tim will be seeking work clearing landmines, so it's all change for both of us! Hopefully this trip will be the first of many!

After a wonderful couple of days at my friends Chris and Natalie's wedding, I've ridden hundreds of miles of motorway to my parents' house near Paris. It's only a brief stop though, and today I carry on down to the Lot, where I start my Rough Guide work. More motorways...
Oh, and for anyone who was at the wedding, it takes just over 3 hours to get from Bristol to Dover on a Sunday. So all my worrying about whether allowing 4 hours would be enough was in vain - I came off the M25 with 1hr45 to go thinking, if Dover is over a hundred miles away it could be tight. "Dover - 62" said the sign. Oh well that's alright then! And I made the earlier ferry. And remembered to ride on the right.

I wasn't going to add another entry this quickly, so don't get used to it. But I thought you might be amused to hear about my first 24 hours of actual independent motorbike travel. Plus my hotel is being renovated and the building down the road is being sandblasted, so the library is infinitely more peaceful!

I left my parents' at about 11 on Monday morning, only about half an hour behind schedule so not doing too badly. France is a big country as we all know, and even with fast empty motorways it was a long ride down. As I headed south I even started to feel hot, whilst riding, on the motorway!! Which had to be a good sign.

At what I hoped would be my last fuel stop I decided to check the directions to the campsite, with the aim of not having to stop again. Check the book. No directions. OK, I thought, I'll have got it out of the guide, so what do they say? Nothing. Clearly I didn't get it out of the guides, this was one of my cunning finding-new-places moments. I didn't seem to have a phone number either. Oops. All I could remember was that it was west of Agen. A couple of the village names on the maps sounded familiar, so I headed that way. And guess what - I found it first time with no stops, confusion or U-turns!!!

Three things I like about riding in France: there aren't too many people on the roads; they signpost campsites and hotels clearly and from miles away; and you can park motorbikes anywhere they're not in the way. French bikers ride like nutcases though - I'll filter at 10-20mph through stationary traffic; they filter at 70 through traffic doing 70!!!

Anyway, back to the story. You're probably wondering about the title by now. So here goes.

After pitching my tent I cast off some layers and rode into Agen for some food. Just as I left, the rain started. First time in the entire journey that I haven't had full waterproofs and it's pissing it down. By the time I got back to the tent I was drenched. Still, I draped everything out to dry (yeah right) and went to sleep to the sound of happy frogs.

The plan was to cover 3 towns on my first day, and get an idea of how realistic my schedule was for the rest of the trip. Up early, shower, rearrange things, put on wet jacket, tankbag on bike, check time - 1am according to the bike's clock. Uh-oh. The only other time the clock died was when the battery died. Sure enough, any attempt to fire the bike up was met with complete silence. There goes the schedule...

So, on my first proper day, I called Carole Nash, and after a hugely long, expensive (for Mum's mobile!!) conversation including details of my bike, establishing that the registration they have is not mine, giving them the right one, telling them all my hugely vague plans and no, I don't have a ferry ticket booked for in 4 months time, they sent out a very nice dépanneur, who turned out to be a biker. He duly took me to Honda who sold me an insanely expensive battery (I knew I avoided dealers for a reason - that's two rip-off prices in a month!!) and saw me on my way.

And I still managed to get everything done, and am now in sunny Agen in a hotel no less. Next post will hopefully have some photos!

I'm afraid I can't figure out how to get photos small enough for the blog on the eee, so they're on facebook for the time being: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=89744&id=646461975&l=68d01cdff2

That's all for tonight, I'm on slow stolen internet, waiting for things to dry out, and feeling a wee bit guilty at having taken the indoor option rather than going to my campsite, especially since when I phoned to cancel the campsite people said they had no intention of letting me sleep in a tent and had prepared a caravan for me. Oh dear. At least they'll still be going in the guidebook for being really friendly!!!

PS sorry sean, the photo of your house didn't arrive with the email, get it to 300pixels wide and 50kb and it can have the honour of being the only photo actually on the blog!!!

Rather a lot has happened after the last post, which is part of why I haven't written anything in a while (the other part being that rural France doesn't have much wifi kicking around, and I've been a bit busy to go looking for internet cafés, which are also few and far between).

I woke up on the morning of Easter Sunday to find myself mostly still surrounded by wet things. The chambre d'hote was very swish, but didn't have much in the way of heating! Mind you, given that it was still pissing it down, starting off dry would have been a nice luxury but not something that was going to last. So I packed up, and carted the first load down (bumping into the owner on the way – I think he thought I was trying to do a runner!). Came back, paid up, carted the second load down, unlocked the disc lock, kitted myself up, put the key in the ignition...and only then did I notice that the clock display wasn't telling any time at all. The new, expensive battery Honda had sold me was completely and utterly flat. In the rain. On Easter Sunday.

So it was back on the phone to Carole Nash, who this time were convinced I own a Harley and live in Taunton. Amazingly they still decided to provide me with breakdown cover (thank goodness!), so I settled down on the bench outside Bruniquel's tourist office. Bruniquel is quite resolutely closed at lunchtimes and in fact for most of the afternoon, but I was amazed at their lack of dedication to bank holidays, as both the tourist office and the shop were open on Easter Sunday, the latter manned by a friendly football fan who is desperate to visit Ukraine (apparently because of football, some of you may understand the connection, I don't!).

A couple of hours later my recovery man turned up in a bright green van. After informing me that it was impossible to kill a Transalp, he concluded that there wasn't much he could do and loaded it into the back, while I tried to figure out where I wanted to go – luckily he was used to dealing with breakdown people and informed me that Axa would pay for a taxi to take me anywhere I needed to be! Which was helpful, as the only place he could take me was Montauban, which I'd already done, and I was going to be stranded for at least 2 days.

So the bike headed off to Montauban, to another Honda dealer, while I waited for a taxi to Cahors, the only place I could usefully fill two days. The taxi driver was another biker, who had recently swapped his bike for a jetski, which he showed me pictures of on his phone as we raced at insane speeds through pouring rain. He also informed me that it was impossible to kill a Honda of any description.

Cahors may be a large town, and presumably something of a tourist attraction as all its hotels were full or nearly, but its tourist office is resolutely closed on anything resembling a Sunday, bank holiday, or in fact any time when people might actually want to visit the place. So I checked out a few restaurants (a lot of which were also closed at varyious mealtimes, so scheduling became of utmost importance), some hotels and the cathedral. Eventually Tuesday, day of revelations, dawned.

I rang the garage, and was relieved to hear that they did in fact have my bike, though not so reassured to hear that they couldn't do anything at all until the battery was fully charged (it seems Honda dealers don't do cross-plugging). But they would call me later. Eventually I called them back, and was told it still wasn't charged, and it might need parts. On to Carole Nash again. No, my registration does not start with a W. Can I have a hire car? I have work to do. Yes of course. Matters were slightly complicated by the fact that, as we found out in Bruniquel, Carole Nash can't reach me on Mum's mobile. Everyone else can, though, and they can call any other number, so from here on in every message had to go via Mum, who then called me to relay it. After 45 minutes I'd heard absolutely nothing, so I called back, only to be told that they couldn't do anything because Europcar close at 12 and it's now quarter past. Idly I wondered what happened between 11.30 and twelve, then went for lunch.

The girl at Carole Nash had said to make my way to Europcar for when they opened, so I did. Europcar in Cahors is a good half hour walk along a main shopping road. I arrived hot and sweaty, only to be told that they didn't have a car, because the woman had been told I needed it indefinitely for a one-way hire, and had visions of me returning her car to Paris in a month's time. Once I'd reassured her that 3 days would do, and I could return it to Cahors if necessary, she found one. Which, in a bizarre coincidence, was then to be rented to the owner of a hotel I'd visited the previous day. (As she was on her own she asked me to return it straight to the hotel, which I did, a day early. She then called the owner to say she'd be round the next day with the paperwork. I was a little confused!)

So for two days my research continued with the aid of a horrible little Opel thing you couldn't see round corners in, and I missed being able to just park anywhere, though it was nice to be dry!!

Eventually on the Wednesday I received a call saying the bike was fixed, so I headed back to Cahors, dropped off the car, and proceeded to wait an hour and a half for a taxi (Cahors-Montauban is about half an hour on the train, and I'd dropped the car off next to the station. Sometimes having someone else paying doesn't make it easier!) It turned out to be the same taxi driver, who also knew the owner of the Honda garage in Montauban, which was handy as there was no way we were going to make it before they closed, so we called ahead for them to stay open.

When I arrived, the mechanic presented me with a beautiful, clean machine, that bore little resemblance to the muddy lump of metal I'd last seen in Bruniquel. Apparently there had been two problems: firstly the heated grips stayed on when you turn off the ignition, so he'd disconnected them. I decided not to point out that as they were wired straight to the battery that was normal, and I still haven't worked out where he disconnected them! He also found some corrosion on the alternator, which was preventing the battery from charging, so he'd cleaned that and checked all my electrical connections – though somehow in doing so he'd missed the fact that one of the indicators was disconnected! So I wasn't hugely confident as I left, and felt that maybe next time I'd use a jet wash rather than a Honda garage to clean the bike, as it would be cheaper. Though so far my misgivings have proved unfounded, as the bike is still running, so maybe he was a better mechanic than he seemed. And I didn't have the heart to tell him that cleaning a touring bike headed for a campsite in the rain was a waste of time.

I made it to my campsite and pitched my tent just before the thunderstorm struck. Twenty minutes later, when it was finally safe to emerge, the whole world shone with orange light, and the cliffs above the campsite glowed gold in the setting sun. It was almost a sight worth getting soaked for.

Since then it has mostly been about lots of hard work, desperately trying to keep track of what I'd covered and where I'd been – the breakdown meant quite a lot of rearranging for the precise scheduling! But the hard work has paid off, and bar an insane number of “fermeture exceptionnelle” of tourist offices (to the extent that if they're normally open 7 days a week, but someone is ill one morning, that's the morning I'll turn up – I had to go to Luzech 3 times before I found them open!), I've managed to get everything done fairly painlessly. I've met some lovely people, and visited some beautiful hotels and chambres d'hote (including one set in a park full of 200-year-old trees from around the world), and eaten some very nice food.

All I have to do now is lots and lots of sorting through notes and brochures, and plenty of writing!

There's a stage in packing when you know you've forgotten something. You know, because everything fits, and you're really tempted to throw your hands in the air and shout “Yes!” I packed. It all fitted. I looked around, and couldn't see anything else. I took my topbox downstairs, and stashed the random bits of toolage under the seat.
“You know you've got a whole load of maps through in the living room, don't you?” said Mum.
Bugger.

I've spent the last two weeks at my parents', just outside Paris. It's been less relaxing than I would have liked, as the first six days or so were spent at the computer, eight hours a day, typing up my chapters for Rough Guide to Dordogne & Lot, then dealing with the (sometimes rather bizarre) queries the editors had about the Northern England and Scotland stuff I researched & wrote a couple of months ago. I dealt with that just in time for Tim (my boyfriend) to make it over for 48 hours, and now suddenly it's time to go again.

Staying here has been lovely but odd, especially as I don't have a home of my own at the moment. It almost feels like I've stepped back in time: days of work interspersed with time spent roaming the countryside, dinner with the parents, familiar shops and places and faces. But at the same time plenty has changed, and I can't forget that it's been nearly ten years since I last spent any time here. Checking out details of a hostel near Fort William, I saw photos of Glen Nevis, and was reminded of how much I love the Scottish scenery, the wildness that you just don't get here. With no idea where I'll eventually end up being based, I think there'll always be something I miss about wherever I'm not; it's just a matter of finding the best balance.

So tomorrow morning I head east towards Germany. I'm not expecting to make it to the border in one day: not only am I taking the scenic route, but the chances of me leaving at a sensible time are slim to none, and I don't want to rush. Besides, there is definite appeal to spending my first proper night travelling somewhere I at least speak the language! Although I'm not expecting any real likelihood of difficulty until at least Slovakia (which I still know very little about, incidentally, it seems to be generally ignored!). The hardest thing for me will be to take it easy – I'm not very good at going slowly, not in terms of riding but in terms of covering ground. My intention is never to ride beyond dinner-time, and I think sticking to that will be an excellent move towards enforced relaxation! Walking around Paris with Tim I realised it had been months since we enjoyed a day off together, even before I left for France – what is it that always takes up the time? Who knows, but whatever it is, it's definitely time to take a step back from it.

I promised my friend Sean that if he sent me a photo of his house, I would put it in my blog. So, here is the house I stayed in in London:

It's a very nice house, and I'm very grateful to Sean and Lisa for letting me stay there!

It's been a few days since I set off. My plan is to write blog entries in my own time, and then simply type them up when I find an internet cafe. So this is being written on a campsite in the German Alps, near Berchtesgarden. It's not the best campsite I've ever stayed on, seeing as it's right next to a main road, and basically sited on rock - great for campervans, not so good for tents!

Last night however, was much better. There I pitched my tent on soft earth, overlooking a lake on one side, and with the beginnings of the Alps soaring overhead on the other. The lake was half dried up, leaving expanses of earthy beach, perfect for a wander after a long day's ride.

And they have been long days. Partly because France, Germany and Austria were always going to be about just riding through, via scenic routes but without much stopping. And partly because it keeps raining - I haven't had a dry day yet, and relaxing lunch stops keep getting cut short by the need to swathe myself in waterproofs as the drops start falling. The first day was the worst: four and a half hours of solid rain! I nearly decided to return to the dry parental home and try again the next day - only the (well-founded!) suspicion that the next day might not be any better made me ignore that option. My boots are only just dry now, after four days and twenty minutes under a campsite hairdryer - and that's with a night in a youth hostel to dry out! Still, it has got slightly better, and at least I haven't yet had to pitch a tent in the rain!

Weather nonsense aside, I have so far ridden through some stunning scenery on very twisty roads. Germans seem to close some of their roads to bikers, with little warning, no alternative directions, and nowhere else to go. So far I´ve ridden two of them, as the first one was signed at the start of a series of hairpins, and the second one at the entrance to a tunnel, neither of which makes stopping or turning round an option! But the only consequence was to be shouted at by a cyclist, and followed by a securitas car, which may have had nothing to do with me, but if it did probably decided that a foreigner was likely to be actually going somewhere, not just out for a jolly, and they soon turned off again.

I´m now in Austria, in Melk. I´ve visited the abbey, which is very impressive but a little baroquely excessive for my tastes. I tried to visit Hitler´s retreat in Berchtesgarten, but annoyingly it didn´t open for another two days - though the ride up to it on a 24% hill was quite exciting for first thing in the morning! Today I carry on through Austria to Neusiedlersee, then it´s off into the great unknown of Slovakia tomorrow!

After leaving Melk, I rode along the Danube, which is predictably wide and impressive, though very definitely not blue! I was surprised to see occasional rocky outcrops and hills between the vineyards, for some reason I expected the landscape to be completely flat.

My sightseeing record did not improve, however. The road to the runied castle at Aggstein was being dug up, and had been reduced to muddy bulldozed ruts. So I carried on to Krems, site of another monastery where I proceeded to get determinedly lost. When I eventually found the monastery, I could barely see it. Perched as it is a couple of hundred meters abover the river, it sat swathed in mist, its candy-cane ink and whiet towers looming eerily through the clouds. I did visit, in spite of the fact that the reception staff seemed quite put out to be asked for a ticket. The interior in itself is more interesting than at Melk, as all the walls are onately painted with birds, landscapes and hunting scenes, but as a museum they have done less with it. I was however amused to find myself surrounded by truss and staging as they set up for a conference!

After that stop the weather worsened constantly. For the second time in six days I rode through hours of rain - I even had to put on my extra fleece for warmth: a digital sign in one of the villages read 10 degrees! Only the fact that I was nowhere near anything of interest, coupled with eternal hope that it might get better, kept me going. Eventually, after taking three and a half hours to cover just over 100km due to poor visibility, I made it to Rust, on the Neuseidlersee. I'd decided long before that to stay in a hotel, and I'd been staving off visions of warmth and luxury, knowing that the higher my expectations the more likely I was to be disappointed.

I managed to miss Rust town centre first time round, but on the second attempt I spotted a small hotel. Dripping wet and shivering, I squelched to the door. It would have been only natural for the owner to recoil in horror at this soaked apparition, but instead she hustled me in, gave me a room, and held my hands in hers to warm them! And you know what? It was perfect, a lovely little attic room with a hairdryer for wet boots and a phone so Tim and parents could call me.

Tim checked the weather forecast for me. Bratislava: rain, Vienna: sun, so I decided to make an exception to my "no cities" rule and hole up in Vienna for a day or so.

Friday dawned dry if not bright. I headed for the Neusiedlersee, an area of marshland known for its wildlife, and wandered for a few hours, spotting egrets, lapwings, hares, a deer, and lots of geese with their goslings. Just after lunch I headed Vienna-wards. I stoppped off in one of the villages to make a phone call, and as I got off the bike a tall skinny man with too few long yellow teeth examined my licence plate.
"From where you come?"
"Scotland."
"Ah!" He broke into a wide grin and gave me an appreciative thumbs-up. "I from Hungary." He pointed. "You just one?"
I said yes, and showed him on the map where I planned to go. Another big grin and thumbs up, and off he went.
Thirty seconds later, as I took off the tank bag, he was back.
"You have money for me? One euro?"
I'm sure when I started travelling ten years ago you weren't expected to pay for every conversation, now it seems to be the standard parting word.

I called Dad's colleague in Vienna and gave her the hostel address I'd written down.
"Oh that's easy, it's right next to the West Bahnhof, one of the major train stations. Just follow signs for the centre then ask someone."
Which I duly did - and spent two and a half hours riding round Vienna. Every time I asked, I was told it was too complicated to explain, but that I wanted to be going in the opposite direction - not easy when you're on a four-lane one-way express road! Eventually I spotted a petrol station, and begged tearfully for assistance. Whereupon a very nice manplucked a map off one of the shelves and showed me - it was so easy! Clearly the Viennese, like Londoners, simply don't drive in the city. Any one of the people I'd asked could have sent me a long but easy-to-explain route to where I needed to be!

After a pleasant evening at the hostel bar with some much-needed beer, I walked into town today. Vienna is elegant, expensive, full of tourists and interesting museums. I watched the Spanish Riding School exercising their horses and went to an exhibition of old maps, including some from Roman times of where I'm going. Mine are definitely more accurate, but lack pretty little pictures of villages and wildlife! I also ate ice-cream and walked, walked, walked. But the one thing Vienna didn't have was sunshine: it's been cold, and grey, and occasionally wet. Although I did manage 36 hours without rain, which is an achievement in itself, so I should be grateful for small mercies!

Tomorrow I head for Slovakia, and hope for sunchine. If none appears, I may just head south, and make this a Mediterranean trip instead! Although apparently only Spain and Portugal have sun at the moment, and that's a long way to go! Or I could go home - I'm told Scotland has been beautiful...

I left Vienna under blue skies and brilliant sunshine. Hallelujah! The night before had involved much late-night drinking and talking, so I left late after a leisurely breakfast. I'd also found a Guide du Routard for Slovakia in the hostel, so marked the highlights on my map, and talked bikes with a Mexican guy who's planning a trip through South America on his V-Strom.

Leaving Vienna was relatively straightforward, and I followed the Danube east, though it was hidden for most of the way. I wanted to avoid Bratislava, so had picked what my map terms a `local border crossing` to enter Slovakia. It had occurred to me that this might be a waste of time on a Sunday, but sunshine makes you easy going so I tried anyway.

No doubt it would have been closed not long ago, but EU entry has removed the need for border guards. The border itself is a river, and you cross via a tiny ferry - basically a raft with an outboard motor. My brain has finally accepted that the more daunting a situation the more confidently I have to ride, and I made my way on board with no hesitation or deviation.

Slovakian roads are somewhat hit and miss: most are perfectly accesptable, but you'll occasionally find very good and very bad sections. The countryside in the western half has been largely uninspiring: roads follow the broad flat valleys, taking you tantslisingly close to the hills but rarely actually in them, instead feeding you through endless small towns with huge trucks.

The first thing I noticed in Slovakia was bikes. Lots of cruisers, but also hundreds and hundreds of sportsbikes. As I rounded the crest of a hill after a particularly twisty section I realised why: this was clearly a Sunday run, not only for locals but also for Czech and Austrian bikers.

I found my first port of call, a castle in Casta, with no real difficulty, and spent a pleasant hour wandering. They also have falconry displays, so I sat in the sun and watched eagles, hawks and owls swoop around.

Then the difficulties began. My map has hundreds of campsites marked on it, but it would seem most, especially the more remote and appealing ones, no longer exist. At the first place I triued I was directed to one not far away, and even found a signpost. Only one though, and I rode round for a long time, asked some locals, and had to take my panniers off to squeeze round some barriers before finally finding some tents and a small bar. A happy drunk local dragged me in, and would have kept me there indefinitely, but luckily the barmaid spoke excellent English, and explained that the tents belonged to fishermen. She directed me to yet another place, but I decided to give up, head for the nearest town and find a hotel.

Halfway there I noticed three BMWs in my wing mirrors. They stayed with me all the way to Trnava, where we all stopped and decided to join forces in finding a hotel. The three were Germans heading for Azerbaijan, where one of their fathers is an ambassador. After riding round town we established there was only one hotel open, so we went for it.

The next morning we headed our seperate ways. I wandered round Trnava, which is very pretty, then failed to find a UNESCO World Heritage castle. I succeeded on my second castle, which was closed but picturesque, and also made it to Cismany, a small village where they paint their houses with abstract designs in white.

I was fully prepared to have to find a hotel, but amazingly passed an open, operational campsite! After four days packed and wet, the tent was damp and musty, and the thermarest had started to go molday. Everything dried and aired, but a huge storm overnight meant I had to wait while the sun warmed up and dried everything again. The birds liked it though, and kept perching on the tent to sing!

Eastern Slovakia is infinitely more picturesque than western slovakia. Almost immediately after leaving my campsite I was riding through a beautiful valley on the edge of the Mala Fatra national park. I finally managed to visit a castle, at Oravsky Podzamok. It was first built in the fifteenth century, teetering on a rock above the village, and it's everything a medival fortress should be, with a drawbridge, turrets, and rooms full of swords.

The guided tour was greatly enlivened by the presence of lots of people to talk to. Chris is an American, also a biker, with a Slovakian wife, and he loved the idea of having a life where you can take three months off to travel! I think American get a lot less holiday than we do, so even three weeks would be a long trip. The other couple was also mixed: Duncan is English and his girlfirend Lunu (I think!) is Slovakian. I clicked with them straight away, and whe we parted got a hug from Duncan and a kiss from Lunu, which I found very touching.

After that the rain set in - thunder and lightning and a downpour so heavy I had to shelter in a bus stop for a while. Eventually the storm and I parted ways, though I did later encounter a road flooded not with water but with very thin, slippery mud, meaning the bike and I are now rather reddish-brown in colour! There was enough blue sky to make me decided to stick to my plan of riding through the Tatras, which was definitely the right decision as it's a stunning place. The sun was warming wet roads and trees, so mist hung in the valleys while the snowy peaks rose to sharp points above me.

Duncan and Lunu had warned me that more storms were forecast that night, so I found a small pension in the village of Dedinsky, on the edge of a reservoir in the beautiful Slovak Paradise national park. The pension was run by Jozef, a wonderfully eccentric old man, who danced around and used me as translator for the two Australians who later joined me in the restaurant.

The original plan for today was to make it over to Ukraine, however at the Dominca cave, one of the biggest in the world, I met a group of Slovak students, who had spotted me and my bike elswhere the day before. They invited me to join their tour, so I did, and Martin, Mayo and Lucas, as well as their teacher, made my visit far more memorable than it would otherwise have been!

The tour took longer than expected, so I will spend the rest of today riding round scenic roads, and spend the night near the border, ready to attack Ukraine tomorrow!

So here I am in Ukraine - the biggest, most daunting and most foreign of all the countries on my route, the one everyone warned me against, where I can't even read anything.

I woke early on my last day in Slovakia, and set off after a half-eaten breakfast (scrambled eggs with tomatoes, peppers and onions may sound great, but when the tomato is ketchup and the whole thing is made in the microwave it bears an uncanny resemblance to vomit)/ I was fully prepared for a long wait at the border, and stocked up on food and cash. I couldn't find fuel, but including the jerry-can I had half a tank, so decided to go ahead.

I rode round and through the long lines of motionless trucks, and pulled up behind the cars. On first approaching I'd thought I could see bikes, but no sign of them on arrival. A guy in a tracksuit was walking the line of cars collecting passports and car papers. No-one else was questioning him, so I handed mine over. One car at a time we moved forwards. Then it was my turn. The guard wanted to see the engine number. I have to confess I had no idea where it was. Amusingly the only person who did know was the one femals border guard! After wiping off layers of dirt, the first guard held up his dirty finger mock-accusingly, then laughed as I offered to give him a baby-wipe.

Off I went into no-man's-land. I hadn't imagined it: ahead of me was a group of Austrian bikers, who wandered over to introduce themselves. They also warned me they'd been told to give the official 5 euros if they wanted to get through quickly.

Before that stage I still had paperwork to complete and forms to fill in. There was no sense of urgency, and I didn't even get the impression that much accuracy was required - when I said I had no accommodation booked and so couldn't put a receiving address, the guard thought for a while as if this had never happened before, and said 'just put Ukraine'. Fair enough! Customs was even easier, a short queue, two stamps, and away! I managed to get a smile out of most of the officials, a wave out of one, no-one asked me for any money, and the whole process took well under an hour!

If Slovakian roads are hit and miss, Ukrainian roads are all about missing - missing holes, cows, horses, people, police, all of whom populate roads that are frequently missing tarmac. Potholes is one thing, but an 11-km stretch that is mostly gravel, ruts and dirt is something else. Many grateful thoughts went out to Dazzer, Basil, Neil & co for their patience in Yorkshire, without that experience I would never have been able to do what I did and just ride through it! Although thank goodness it was dry...

I managed to ride through my intended overnight stop without even realising it, so ended up in a motel on the main road, in a room decorated with more leopard-print than one person should be exposed to in a lifetime! The place was seemingly run byt three young girls with no English whatsoever, and we all got very exctied when I managed to order dinner with a combination of pictures and lucky guesses.

Ukraine is an hour ahead of the rest of Europe, but I had no difficulty in wiping out the time difference, as by 9pm local time I was more than ready for bed! Which of course meant I woke up absurdly early. The plan for day 2 was to head for Kamyanets-Podilsky, a city ringed by a river. 250km may not sound much, but it made for a long day's riding. The roads were mostly better than on day 1, though riding through freshly-poured tarmac that hasn't even been properly flattened yet made for an interesting experience. The Carpathians aren't as scenic as I expected, though I love the Ukrainian churches, with their silver and gold onion-domes. I also bumped into the Austrians again, who all took photos of me to prove I exist, and expressed great awe at what I was doing. Although it seems that the police at least were more lenient with me than with them!

The police are the major annoyance on the roads here. Cows are picturesque, ruts are challenging, coppers are neither. I have been stopped three times in two days, which isn't too bad. Times one and three they accused me of speeding; you have no way of knowing if you were or not, as the speed limits are seemingly arbitrary and completely undisplayed. The first one was blatantly a lie as he accused me of doing 100kph, which is a speed I only dream of here!! One thing I have found though is that Ukrainian coppers lack patience. None of them so far have been able to speak English, and clearly expect me to panic and get my wallet out. When I didn't, but instead looked baffled, apologised lots, and said 'I don't understand', they very quickly ran out of means to explain what they wanted, got bored, and sent me on my way. The last lot even made sure I knew where I was going and which roads to take first!

The second pair to stop me were just checking my documents, and thought I was absolutely hilarious - a clear case of mad foreigner, providing excellent-value entertainment.

Apart from the cops, I love riding here. It's hard work, but for the first time I feel like I'm on an adventure, travelling by bike because it's the best way to go. Up until now the bike hadn't seemed any better or worse than a car or train, just different. But here, where there is so much to see, where every detail is new and interesting, it truly makes a difference not being enclosed. It's precisely the point where you stop being able to speed round corners that motorbike travel comes into its own.

Today is my last day in Ukraine, I am much happier taking my time, so won't be going to Crimea. I would like to spend more time here, but on balance would have to sacrifice too much else, so this is it for now. Tomorrow I head to Moldova for a whistle-stop tour, then it's on to Romania.

After typing up my last blog entry, I returned to the old part of Kamyanets-Podilsky and attempted a walk round the "island" it sits on between two rivers. As I climbed back up after failing to find a routs, I noticed a thick pall of smoke over the town. No-one seemed unduly concerned, but closer to I could see flames leaping out of an old building. A quick bit of local geography and I realised the building in question was round the back of my hotel! I hurried back, and spent a couple of hours with all my valuables in a bag ready to go, watching the Ukrainian fire service at work through the window. Luckily the fire never crossed the hotel car park, but the next morning the bike coughed out several clouds of black smoke before starting properly!

Crossing into Moldova was even quicker and more straightforward than Ukraine, and initially I made good progress on fast roads. I even found a money changer open on a Sunday to change my Ukrainian cash! In Balti, however, I took a wrong turn, and ended up on the wrong road out of town.Foolishly I decided to take a shortcut. The road turned to gravel quite quickly, but remained fairly solid Then it turned to dirt, and got smaller and smaller. The compass said I was going in the right direction, but by now I was on a track leading into fields. At the first wider section I decided to turn round - and promptly ended up fighting acorss deep ruts, with the bike going over and complete luggage removal required! Eventually I got going again. I gave up on the shortcut idea, returned to the gravel and kept on that, making for the main road into the nearest town. At one point I had to ask directions - and was sent down a tiny dirt track through fields for miles! Next time I'll trust the compass - I reckon if I'd kept going on the first track I would have ended up right where I wanted to be!

The aim for the day was to head to Orheiul Vechi, where there is a monastery on a ridge. It closed at five, but Lonely Planet said I could stay there, in rooms with stunning views. I made it at 4.45. There was a hotel, but it had no views, took cash only, and wanted the equivalent of €3 more than I had! But I was there, so I walked up the ridge anyway.

I may have missed something. People in Moldova don't come across as friendly, and asking if they speak any other language is met with a flat, conversation-ending "no", so I didn't try too hard to get information. But what I saw was a small yellow church, on a ridge, surrounded by a building site. Quite cool, but certainly not worth crossing into an entire new country for!

So I headed off to Orhei, a town about 15km away, in search of accommodation and/or a cash machine. Orhei is a reasonable sized town. But it does not have cash machines, hotels, usable roads, or indeed anything much except a very dodgy-looking bus station. On the way there I had passed a sign for a campsite, and a glance through the gate suggested wooden huts, and a generally presentable ambiance, so I decided to try that. Camping after all should be well within the range of cash I had, and I was keen not to carry on the 30km to Chisinau if I didn't have to.

It turned out not be a campsite, but a sort of complex with a kids' playpark, a restaurant, a sign banning guns, and a ludicrously expensive thatched cottage thing with no real sheets and a strong smell of damp. But they took cards, and it was getting late, so I had little choice but to settle into the most expensive accommodation so far in the poorest country so far.

The next day I got up early and left. I found more smiles as I neared Romania, but it's safe to say that Moldova is the only country so far that I have disliked. I never felt unsafe, but I did feel ill-at-ease and unwelcome. In Ukraine the looks people gave me said "Who are you? Where have you come from? Where are you going?" In Moldova they simply said "What are you doing here?"

At the border with Romania I met Nico & Leon, two French cousins who are cycling round Europe for six months on a tandem complete with trailer. They were halfway through their trip and had already been to Istanbul, before heading up towards Scandinavia. Once in Romania we shared a picnic by the river and compared the relative merits of our respective modes of transport.

All of which took time, so I didn't get as far as planned on my first day in Romania. I had a campsite marked on my map, so stopped for directions to that. In Romania however "camping" seems to refer to wooden huts, so I was sent to a restaurant with a few of those out the back. I managed to explain what I really wanted, at which point they found me a patch of grass and offered me full use of it!

The next day I headed off to Bucovina, an are of Romania full of painted monasteries. The paintings are inside and outside, hundreds of individual scenes, many of which feature bored-looking saints being martyred in a variety of ways. In one I met a tiny old nun, well into her eighties, who asked me with gestures and a mixture of languages where I was from. I managed to explain what I was doing, at which point her face lit up with excitement and she offered me her blessing. I'm sure if I'd offered she would have perched herself on the back and come with me!

That night I was again greeted with fantastic Romanian hospitality. I'd found a sign for what looked like a huge campsite, but missed the last turn-off. In the process of turning round, I spotted a small sign advertising hotel rooms and camping. It looked far friendlier than the other, so I followed it up a small gravel back street, and ended up at a pensuinnea. The owner came out and greeted me. The common language this time was French, and she chatted to me a little as I pitched the tent in the garden. I asked if they did food and was told no, so prepared to get the stove out, when she came over again and asked if I would like some soup! She took me inside and placed huge vat of excellent home-made chicken soup in front of me, and plied me with afinata, a liqueur made from berries, also home-made. Her husband arrived not long after, and I ended up there till bedtime, chatting, eating and drinking. I was even given a signed copy of her poetry book! Next morning was the same, with a huge breakfast, and I had to insist to pay any money at all! I left with suggestions of where to go, and headed off to find some wooden churches.

The roads in Maramures are scenic but slow, and it took a while for me to reach my final destination, the Merry Cemetery in Sepanta. It's right on the Ukrainian border, and although it was frustrating to have to effectively retrace my steps, there was something quite exciting about being able to look at the line of trees to my right and think "I know what's on the other side of that"! The Merry Cemetery is a small graveyard where the headstones feature scenes from the dead person's life. It paints a picture of a community as well as individuals; most of the women are spinning or weaving, while the men work the fields. The original sculptor died in 2005, and the work was taken up by one of his students, and I felt quite pleased to find what was obviously his grave: a picture on a headstone of a man carving a headstone.

The plan after that was to head as far south as possible towards Deva, where I would be able to stay with a friend of my father's. I set off optimistically, and in spite of rain was making good progress towards a town called Dej, which I thought would make a reasonable stopping point. There were plenty of signs for hotels, many of which also offered camping, so I wasn't worried. Then a sign announced that the road ahead was being rebuilt, and suggested an alternative route. A quick glance at the map showed that to be a better way for me, so I took it - and didn't see a single accommodation sign for two and a half hours! I ended up on the main road into a city I wanted to avoid, in the rain, as it got dark. Eventually I stopped at a fuel station, and was directed to a small hotel right next door.

Again, I was greeted like royalty. Mihaela was simply staying there with her husband and young son, but she called the owner, sorted out a room for me, and then invited me to join them for a barbecue! So we sat outside, at 10.30 at night, eating excellent Romanian sausage-like things and discussing the state of our lives. Excellent end to a very hard evening!

My plan for the next day was simple: visit a couple of caves in the Apuseni mountains, then ride to Deva. From the outset the road was bad, and combined with foul weather it was 12.30 by the time I saw the first sign to the first cave. I was slightly surprised when the road turned to a gravel track, as I had the impression that this was one of Romania's major sights, and supposedly I still had 10km to go. I was even more surprised to find another sign about a kilometre down the track pointing straight up side of the mountain! I pulled over to figure out what to do, and in the process slipped in the mud and ended up on the ground.

A couple of minutes later, as I was slipping around trying to get the bike upright again, a car pulled up, and two young guys got out. They helped me pick the bike up, and introduced themselves as Vlad and Nico. Vlad had recently graduated from art school, and Nico was in the final stages of a master's degree. They offered me a lift up the mountain in their car, so I secured the bike, removed the valuables and the muddy waterproofs, and off we went.

I was very glad I hadn't attempted it on the bike! The road was rocky and muddy, twisting up very steep hairpins. We passed a car coming the other way, and the driver told us we were only a couple of kilometres away from the cave. The car was a fairly low BMW, so we decided to turn it round and park it up as soon as possible, and walk the rest of the way. We'd been going for about 15 minutes, when we passed a farmer, who told us we were still a good 4 km away from the cave! We pressed on, but were soon passed by a yellow 4x4 school bus, and managed to hitch a lift up to the top - which was indeed a very long way!

To reach the cave you have to walk down a set of very rickety metal steps set into the side of the limestone sinkhole, and the only part you can access is the very entrance. You walk along a wooden walkway, with only one handrail, to a small cavern. The ice formations are not hugely impressive I have to say, other than in their complete alienness. They were formed without people, and exist without us. I found it impossible to ignore the fact that this environment was not mine, and that here I could not survive.

Just as we left the cave, the rain started. Luckily there was a sheltered picnic table, so we sat and waited for it to stop. And waited some more. And some more. Eventually we were forced to conclude that we were going to get very wet, and headed back down. No lucky lifts this time, only a small caravan-shop that sold us some plastic bags to use as ponchos! It was a long, wet walk, but when the rain finally stopped not far from the car, we were rewarded with views out over the valley, wreaths of mist rising from the trees and moving like living things with the breeze.

Following the unplanned adventure I decided not to bother with the second cave, and headed straight to Deva - a very cold and wet 2 hours' riding! But I was greeted with a washing machine, a bed, hot food and a bath. After a good night's sleep Kevin took me on another adventure, this time sneaking round the back of Deva castle, which is officially closed for renovations. We also visited Hunedora castle, just in time to run into a freemasons' convention - they're not very discreet about the secret handshake it has to be said!

Today the bike has received a bath, and with clean clothes, fresh food supplies and a couple of days' rest I'm ready to head off again for my last couple of days in Romania, before heading into Serbia and the unknown once again.

Apologies for constantly forgetting to add these!

Austria and Germany are here: Austria and Germany

Slovakia, Ukraine and Moldova are here: Slovakia, Ukraine and Moldova

Romania is here: Romania

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I ended up staying in Romania longer than intended because of - you've guessed it! - rain. After leaving Deva I headed to Sibiu, which is a very pleasant town, more Austrian than Romanian in style. Their art museum also houses some real masterpieces, so I felt very cultured as I wandered round. Just outside the town is an open-air museum with examples of all the traditional styles of Romanian house. Most are wooden, and some of the mills are very elaborate, but as all the explanations are in Romanian I couldn't help feel that I'd gained more from actually riding round the countryside and seeing the real thing!

It was only 5.30 when I left the museum, so I ignored the nearby campsite and headed for one further south, which turned out not to exist. So an hour later I was back at the first one. There I met my companions for the next few days, as we all sat through the bad weather. Felix and Nina are a young German couple on a similar trip to mine, though, like everyone it would seem, in the opposite direction. They were however able to provide some very useful information about Albania. One road was so bad it took them a day and a half to cover 60km! Needless to say I will be avoiding that one!Also at the campsite were Esther and Markus, a Swiss couple riding to Australia on a pair of XTs. They had already ridden the length of the Americas, and we spent many hours swapping travel stories about various parts of the world.

After the weather improved I visited some fortified Saxon churches, then headed south towards Serbia.

Leaving Romania was as slow as entering it, as all the customs officials seemed to have disappeared. When one finally showed up she just waved me through, and over the Danube I went. The Serbian side were more interested in my trip than my papers or the contents of my panniers, and soon I was riding along the shores of the Danube again - this time blue blue indeed! The road rises along the hillside and through gorges, tunnels (all unlit - not nice in bright sunshine) and at one point, a ruined castle.

Serbian roads are on the whole infinitely superior to Romanian ones, , and the drivers actually give you space when they overtake! I made much faster progress than expected, and by mid-afternoon was riding through the Deliblato Sands. The sands are an area of dunes covered win woodland, very picturesque and completely unlike anything I have seen elsewhere. Unfortunately there is nowhere to stay withing walking distance and no paths through the area. There is one small road though, so I took that - only to find that as it doesn't really go anywhere it's in a state of advanced disrepair! There were some really rather deep puddles, and the bike is now once again covered in mud. I did see (and nearly run over) a very large bright green lizard, but no other wildlife. Coming out of the dunes area I was overwhelmed to see absolutely nothing - the land is flat and unbroken in every direction, making you feel very small indeed.

The next day I headed for the wonderfully named Despotovac, where I had my first encounter with the arbitrary nature of Serbian signposting. Expecting to drive straight through and out the other side, I was somewhat perturbed to arrive at a T-junction with all town names in Cyrillic only! Freytag & Bernt have so far proved invaluable, but their Serbian map is not quite up to scratch - the Ukrainian one was dual-language but this is not and really should be. After several failed attempts to find the right road I asked for directions, and was told to keep going straight, but this did not lead to the monastery I was looking for and I still have no idea where I actually went! Eventually I ended up at a large town from where I was able to get my bearing and head out on the right road.

For a few days I had been on the lookout for a garage that might know something about bikes, as my chain had got very slack, and without a centre stand it's a pain in the backside to sort. I struck gold just outside Paracin. There are a lot of bikes in Serbia, and here was a guy who builds his own trikes! He and his assistant/relative/friend stopped all work to help me, his daughters plied me with bitter lemon and fruit salad, and everyone asked their share of questions, all via the poor friend who spoke some English.Before leaving I posed for multiple photos, and was presented with a T-shirt from their local bike club. There was no question of payment, and I noticed an instant difference in the bike!

The guys at the garage had also warned me of major roadworks on the road I wanted, so I was not too dismayed to be sent on a 40+km detour right before my destination. I found a campsite not too far north of where I wanted to be, which was unfortunately only a minor improvement on the previous night's one. The owners both times were friendly, but the sites are full of dingy, permanently anchored caravans, and the facilities leave a LOT to be desired. The first one had no hot water or showers, and only one tap, in the middle of the site. I won't mention the state of the toilets, or the wildlife I found in the showers at the second one...

I seem to have finally found summer in Serbia, and by the timeI reached the Roman ruins at Gamzigrad it was already getting hot.The ruins cover and extensive area, and make an interesting change from castles and monasteries.I was welcomed as a guest of honour by Sasa and his boss Bora, the guides, both of whom spoke excellent English. Sasa gave me and a pair of Latvian handball referees a very detailed explanation of the site's history, after which I wandered round and found an enormous grass snake. The site's mosaics are housed in a museum in nearby Zajecar. It's normally closed on Sundays, but Bora drove into town and opened it up for me. The mosaics are truly spectacular, rivalling any I've seen elsewhere.

After that, later than planned but after a much more interesting visit than expected, I set off. The sun was well and truly baking, and for most of the journey, along main roads and through towns on flat open plains, I slowly melted. The last stretch of road made up for it though. It runs along a river valley, with forested hills and rocky outcrops either side. Sasa and Bora ahd warned me it's an accident blackspot, and although I could see why (it's hard to overtake, so people get impatient) at 4.30 on a Sunday it was nearly empty. The tarmac is new and smooth, and a couple of sportsbikes passed me at speeds far greater than my leisurely pootling!

Halfway down the road, on a hairpin-filled side-road, is Studenica Monastery, where I stayed the night. I arrived too late to visit the monastery that night, so instead enjoyed the luxury of a real bathroom (en-suite is double the price of non, but at 11 euros I thought I'd splash out!) and an excellent meal on the terrace. A group of four paragliders swooped over us as I was eating, then again later - no wonder, as even just riding I could feel the air currents over the mountains.

This morning I visited the monastery. There was obviously some sort of religious occasion yesterday, as I passed quite a few people walking along holding handfuls of grass, and the church floor was strewn with it when I went in today. The guesthouse where I stayed is officially for people wanting to "enhance their spiritual life" in the sanctity of the monastery. The setting is beautiful, as is the monastery itself, but I observed people crawling under a table in the church as some sort of ritual, so decided that I will stick to spirituality and enjoying the beauty of these places rather than go for any particular religious observance!

The big decision was whether or not to go to Kosovo from here, but as far as I can tell I have no insurance there, so reluctantly will pass - annoying from a practical point of view too, as the best border crossing for me is in Kosovo, and I really wanted to see Pec. So tomorrow I will head east for some more scenery, then south into Macedonia, where the plan is to base myself at Lake Ohrid for a few days and enjoy the area.

I've left the relevant cables in my topbox, so no photos this time I'm afraid!

After writing my last entry I headed for yet another monastery. This one also had accommodation in the form of a run-down hotel with great views and, most importantly, a balcony where I could hang my washing! In the morning as I left I was given a thumbs-up and "bravo!" from a tiny old cleaning lady - the best reactions I've had throughout the trip have been from women, who display none of the incredulity the men show.

Having decided to avoid Kosovo I neede to head east for my border crossing into Macedonia, so I cut through a national park. I was a little worried about the state of the road, but as it turned out I found brand new tarmac that allowed me to fully appreciate the views instead of concentrating on the potholes! The area is a ski resort in winter, and in summer the mountains are covered in pine forests, occasionally opening out into alpine meadows.

The road down on the other side is very steep, an endless succession of hairpins that on the inside turn come very close to vertical. So I was rather alarmed to suddenly find a complete lack of response from my back brake! I wasn't exactly going fast, so I shifted down to first gear from second, put on my hazard lights and crawled down until I could find somewhere to stop. With my limited mechanical knowledge I could see nothing wrong, and resigned myself to a long slow ride to Blace - a good 40km away - or possibly even Nis, in order to find someone to fix things.

I must be the luckiest traveller in the world. In the next village, barely a kilometre further on, was a sales and servicing place for ski-doos and ATVs! Not exactly bikes, but close enough. To make things even better, the mechanic's sister-in-law Ines speaks nearly fluent English. After a thorough check, they came to the conclusion that my bad riding had simply overheated the brake - oops. The mechanic's father, who speaks some French, desperately wanted to clean the bike for me, but a power cut meant he couldn't use the pressure washer, so they reluctantly sent me on my way with an open invitation to come back in winter and learn to ski.

The rest of the ride was uneventful, and I even managed to successfully negociate Nis without getting lost. The day ended in my worst campsite yet: no running water, rubbish everywhere, vicious mosquitos and toilets I decided against using in favour of the trees. I would have turned back to the accommodation I'd seen at the other end of the lake, but by then it was a good half-hour's ride away so I made do. At least the lack of organisation included no-one being charge, so I left without paying in the morning.

The crossing into Macedonia was quick, as none of the guards showed the least interest in me. For once I remember to ask useful questions, and changed money at the border instead of finding an ATM in Skopje as originally planned, so that I was armed with enough small change for the endless succession of tolls on Macedonian main roads. Skopje itself is full of trucks which loom all around you, digging the tarmac into ruts so deep you can't get out of them, and hiding the signs which, in true Balkans fashion, are excellent as long as you're staying straight on the main road, then don't bother to tell you when you need to turn!

But I made it eventually, with only one mistake, and headed for my first stop, the mainly Muslim town of Tetovo. There I met a French-speaking local who now lives in Switzerland, and another one who delightedly informed me that he was from Kosovo. I saw a painted mosque and a dervish monastery, though the latter didn't have much to offer.

After that I continued my way south and west into Mavrovo National Park. Macedonia has without a doubt provided the best scenery so far. The road through Mavrovo runs along a river in a deep gorge. Every turn reveals new cliffs, new peaks, new vistas, and with decent tarmac and little traffic it's possible to admire it all as you ride.

I spent the night, yet again, at a monastery, Sveti Bigorsky. It's built halfway up a mountain, and looks out across the valley to villages seemingly suspended in the forest, inaccessible to anyone without wings. As well as the monks, there were about 20 young people staying there. I spoke to one of them, Vangil, who explained that many of them see it as their spiritual home, and come when they can to stay, work, and generally participate in the life of the monastery, away from the hustle and bustle of the cities.

Next morning I left feeling refreshed and relaxed. The southern half of the road is not as scenic or as good, but it still follows the river, which periodically widens into deep green lakes where it has been dammed. Nina and Felix, who I'd met in Romania, had told me of a nice campsite on the shores of Lake Ohrid, where I planned to base myself for a few days. Unfortunately I had marked it wrong on my map, so rode all the way to the Albanian border before turning back and trying again!

I found it eventually though, and have spent the last few days relaxing and swimming in the lake. When I arrived there were also two French couples in campervans and a Dutch couple in a car, and we all appreciated finding somewhere pleasant to stay - the place is basically a patch of grass behind a cafe, with toilet and shower and all sorts of things you can't take for granted in this part of the world! The campsite owners, Rino and his wife Gami, are incredibly welcoming, and the atmosphere is more like that of a small youth hostel or family guesthouse than a campsite, with conversations taking place in a multitude of languages.

I have been welcomed here with open arms, taken to visit the sights, introduced to local people, and last night I even went out to see a famous Albanian singer perform - although someone should tell him mullets and synthesisers are a little outdated these days! Tomorrow I head into Albania, and in a few days I will hit the southernmost point of my journey, effectively starting to head home albeit in a roundabout sort of way. I have better information on Albania and its roads, and unfortunately won't be able to see everything I wanted to, but never mind!

No photos again I'm afraid as the computer is steadfastly refusing to upload them!

I deliberatly told Rino & Gime that I would be leaving earlier than I actually planned to, in order to allow for the predictably lenghty goodbyes. The hospitality I'd enjoyed there was wonderful, but after four days in the same place it did feel good to be on the road again, heading to pastures new.

The crossing into Albania was slow but painless. I was very pleased with myself for remembering to change money at the border, but almost immediately concluded that my previous haphazard attitude was better, as I was charged 6 euros commission on a 20 euro exchange, and literally right round the corner was a restaurant proudly advertising its 24 hour cash machine!

My original plan was to head through Elbasan then on to Berat, and stay the night there. I couldn't find the castle in Elbasan, so got lost in its one-way system instead - which to be honest is every bit as viable a way of getting a feel for somewhere! I'd been making better progress than expected, so decided to push on to Gjirokaster, and visit Berat on the way back north.

I had heard very mixed reports about Albanian roads, and although it's a major route the road to Gjirokaster is far from decent. Subsiding tarmac, potholes, roadworks, gravel, it's all there until Tepelene, where you're treated to a brand new, fast, wide road, empty apart from the occasional cow.

I hadn't realised Albania has oil. I don't know how much of it, and petrol definitely isn't cheap, but I'm guessing there isn't enough to interest investors as the only means of exploitation I saw were isolated, solitary derricks nodding their heads as they pumped. Many weren't operational at all, and the pipes running from them were old and rusting.

I had a note scribbled down from a guidebook that read simply Gjirokaster, stay Kotonii, Lagja Palorto. With no idea what it was or why I'd decide to tell myself to go there, I found a policeman who spoke no English and asked him. I'm not sure it actually meant anything to him, but he pointed vaguely further on, so I headed in that direction.

I found myself in what was clearly the old part of town, with a steep road winding up to a wide square. It's election time in Albania, and loud music blared from cars brandishing enormous pink flags. I stopped again and asked in a cafe. Up the hill, and left. So up the hill I went - and promptly found myself riding on Gjirokaster's steep, slippery, three-hundred-year-old cobbles. Stopping didn't seem like a very good idea, so I powered my way up until I found somewhere vaguely flat! More directions, and I finally found my little B&B, whose owners were leaning out of the window and waving as if they'd expected me all along. I parked on a small flat patch and settled in.

I showered, then wandered up to Gjirokaster castle, which includes a fairly impressive collection of old cannon, all lined up in the castle archways. There are no explanations, but you can poke around anywhere you like, and the views over the wide flat valley are superb.

Back in town and looking for food, I met Hajri, a cafe owner who loves bikes and was overjoyed to hear about my trip. I also chatted to Blerina, a young girl just about the head off to university, whose father is a local archeaologist. Everyone in Albania has been friendly, welcoming, willing to help - people will actually stop on the street or come out of their houses to make sure you don't need anything!

The next morning I wandered around Gjirokaster a little more, then headed to Saranda. The road runs across a set of mountains, rising very quickly and steeply above the plain. The earth there is red, and in places has eroded into sharp ridges and escarpments that stand out vividly against the surrounding green trees.

Saranda itself is the ugliest town I have ever seen. Most of it, including the main roads in and out, is only half-built. Everything is tall and square, hastily erected and unappealing. So I carried straight through, heading for Butrint and the Roman ruins there, and hoping to find somewhere more attractive to stay on the way.

The road runs alongside a blue lagoon, seperated from the sea by a thin strip of land. Along with my first sea-views, I found my first olive groves, and the powerful smell of wild thyme. The ruins are extensive, but the mosaics, really the star attraction, are covered with sand to protect them, and not visible. Frequently in the Balkans I have found tourism to be a work in progress, often put on hold, as the need to preserve things is recognised but the means to do so and still display them are not there. Churches too are often locked while they undergo restoration work.

At Butrint I met an Albanian family living in Canada. They were staying at a hotel owned by a friend of theirs, and in the absence of any other suggestions I joined them, swimming in the Ionian sea for the first time!

I left Saranda fairly early and set off along the coast road, the start of which is cunningly hidden behind a fuel station. Even by mid-morning the heat-haze blurred the views, making Korfu and the other small Greek islands seem to float above the water. Most of the road is shiny and new, but the bits that aren't are under construction, and I had a few hairy moments going through deep gravel!

I had planned to stop at Orikum and go walking on the Karaburum peninsula, but a man with a machine-gun politely informed me (via a pair of local children summoned from the sea) that it is now entirely military and inaccessible. So I picnicked by the sea, and carried on. A few miles down the road, I spotted two French campervans parked outside a restaurant. I had passed Bernadette, Christian, Antoine and Michelle, who I'd met in Ohrid, the day before, but had assumed they were heading for a ferry. But here they were, so I joined them and we caught up on the last few days' travel. They had taken a road I wasn't sure about, south of Korce, and said it was good and stunning - sometimes the caution brought on by travelling alone means I do miss things.

Their plan for the evening was to camp by a lake, so I decided to follow on and join them. About two hours later we stopped to ask directions, only to be told we were in completely the wrong place, the road we wanted didn't exist, and the lake was dry anyway! So at that point I left them to it, and rode to Berat, another old city with stone-roofed houses, slippery cobbles and a castle - though this one has houses and inhabitants within its walls!

The bike had been making some rather unpleasant clunking noises since Ohrid, and although I was fairly sure it was just because I'd had to top her up with the wrong viscosity oil, I wanted to make sure. Anastas, the hotel receptionist who also led this morning's tour to the castle for me and a group of German tourists, said he knew someone who could check it out. For the first time since Romania we had heavy rain, and eventually it transpired the guy wouldn't be there till 5, so I have ended up spending an extra night in Berat. But at least the mechanic concurred with me, so all I need to do now is find some decent oil (he reckons nowhere outside Tirana will have it in Albania) and change it when I can - at least it shouldn't cause any real problems (I hope!).

I've used the day to gather information, and it seems the ride to Komani for the ferry through a gorge that I really wanted to take is likely to be too hard for me to feel happy about on my own, so unless I find information to the contrary I will be heading to Montenegro the day after tomorrow, and spending more time there.

Photos are now uploaded, and you can find some more of Serbia and Macedonia and some of Posted by Laura Bennitt at 06:55 PM GMT