Route
Wilhering – Walsee via Offenheim,
Abwinden, Langestein and Mauthausen 58km
Walsee – Melk 66km
Melk – Krems 39km
Krems – Vienna 71km
Vienna – Bratislava 82km
Bratislava – Komano 124km
Estergom – Budapest 64km
Budapest – Dunaharaszti 48km
Dunaharaszti – Szabadszallas 95km
(only 74 of them productive)
Szabadszallas – Tompa 109km
Austria: 1361km cycled so far
Our memories of Austria are drenched by rain, rain and more rain. This was the country in which the hot, sunny days of July came to an end and a wet, cold August began. It all began in a tiny, remote campsite run by a 90-year-old woman who charged two euro a night, with an extra one euro for a shower. Right next door was a lively and friendly restaurant, which she used to own but had recently sold. It was here that we ate dinner and watched a wild thunderstorm break overhead and all over our little tent. Would it be washed away? Could it withstand such a torrential downpour? These questions exercised our minds as we discovered the delights of Austrian hot chocolate, followed by a supplementary question: might we be able to sleep in the restaurant? Eventually, though, we summoned up the strength of purpose to investigate the tent and found that, miraculously, it was still dry inside and so we did our best to sleep.
We both slept well, but woke to yet more rain and a very wet morning. We decided to hang around in the summer kitchen with a few more damp cyclists and chatted with them, hoping that the skies would eventually clear. By early afternoon, things were dry enough for us to set off and we managed 58km before the rain came again. Eventually, we were sufficiently soaked to abandon the idea of camping for the night and found a guesthouse in the small town of Wallsee. The friendly retired-policeman owner allowed us to dry bikes, tent and equipment in his garage and we had a well-deserved meal in a local hotel – lovely herb loaves and yoghurt dressing, with tuna salad and French-fried potatoes, tea and chocolate, and of course beer and wine. I remember reading in Anne Mustoe’s book that dinner is the most important meal to a cyclist – she’s not wrong!
The abbey by the river
Our next stop along the Danube was the small town of Melk, which is dominated by an enormous baroque monastery. We didn’t think that we had time for a tour of the monastery, as we wanted to move on to Vienna where we intended to do some sightseeing. Therefore, we had a quick look around the town and then set off in rain that was increasing in intensity every hour we cycled.
We reached Spitz by lunchtime and met a Swiss family, parents (Swiss, but the father spoke English with an American accent) and three children, the youngest about 11, who had been cycling 120km a day – admirable! We were totally soaked so put our coats in a dry room at the cafe and had a tasty lunch of cream of chicken soup and dumpling and bread followed by a shared Marillenknodel (apricot dumpling). Apricots are a speciality of the Wachau region.
Back on the road, the rain eventually reached the point where we had to (literally) bale out in a guesthouse near Krems.
The next day we eventually reached Vienna, while the rain stopped for a while but returned just as we pitched our tent. We spent the following day sightseeing, as planned, but really we were too tired to appreciate the Hapsburg wealth and treasures, so ended the day in a cafe drinking coffee and reading English newspapers before we returned to the campsite where (guess what) it started to rain again. We felt slightly guilty that we hadn’t really done the full tourist bit in Vienna nor in many of the towns we went through, but once we were in a rhythm of cycling it was often difficult to break it and if we did so, getting going again was always more effort.
Slovakia: 1676km cycled so far
After another rain-soaked night in Austria, we discovered that it’s possible to dry a tent in a tumble dryer – not a technique I recall from Scouting for Boys but very effective nevertheless. We cycled the 82km from Vienna to Bratislava with relative ease and only the occasional shower. The border crossing with Slovakia was the real thing this time, with guards, custom posts and queues of cars and lorries. We simply cycled to the front of the queue, presented our passports and were waved straight through – the joys of cycling! It was then a short ride to the centre of Bratislava where we were just beginning to look for a room for the night when we bumped into Glen and Emma (from the beer-garden campsite in Germany) who took us to the guesthouse, the Pension Domenika, where they’d booked in earlier that day. We were offered the penthouse at what felt like an inflated price but it was too late to do anything about it and the room was dry and comfortable with, strangely enough, a three-piece suite occupying most of the floor space – handy for draping clothes over!
Bratislava beside the Danube
During the evening meal with Glen and Emma we decided to spend the next day seeing some of Bratislava. This turned out to be a very good decision for two reasons: Bratislava is a lovely, small capital city full of interesting places and it absolutely poured down all day. We would strongly recommend Bratislava as a place to visit and you really should try the different varieties of chocolate fondue available in a cafe on the main square.
Unsurprisingly, the following day dawned wet and windy but we were all determined to press on. Fortunately, when we reached the Danube cycling path the wind was behind us – a strong tailwind for a cyclist is like a dream come true! Perfectly smooth tracks, interesting scenery and the motivational company of Glen and Emma (as well as the lack of any accommodation en route!) meant that we achieved our highest-ever mileage that day of 124km. Perhaps not Olympian standards, but pretty good for a couple of old codgers who’d already done more than 1610km by then. It was 10pm before we found a hotel in Komarno but the restaurant was still open and so we were able to eat, drink and be sleepily merry. Unfortunately, the hotel was just above a karaoke bar that sprang into life at about 3am so sleep was postponed by enthusiastically tuneless Slovakians. I had thoughts of getting up and offering them my rendition of: “What the hell’s this racket…haven’t you got any homes to go to”, but thought it might lose something in translation.
Hungary: 1800km cycled to date
By this stage, we were racking up the countries at an impressive rate, which felt like real progress especially after so many weeks in Germany. The rain had finally stopped and we reached the Hungarian border in bright sunshine. The entry point was fairly low-key although there were a couple of border guards, but they showed no interest in us as we crossed the bridge that divided (or united, depending on how you look at it) the two countries. We camped just over the border at Esztergom where there was a lovely basilica on the hill in view of the Danube (our still faithful companion) and shared food with Glen and Emma. It’s surprising how delicious a meal can be made from powdered mash, noodles, tinned tuna and packet soup.
Progress down the Danube was slower the next day because the cycle path was flooded in parts. We had to push our bikes across fields to get to the road, where we continued until we needed to cross by ferry to an island in the Danube.
The island was lovely if a little strange. Someone had set up an Indian and Cowboy museum with a ranch complete with tipis and horses and an Indian brave at the side of the road “skinning sticks” – fascinating. The ferry back to the mainland was also interesting – a normal boat attached to a flat vehicle carrier by a piece of rope!
We love Hungary (maybe)
Getting closer to Budapest the traffic got a bit manic and the roads were worrying, but we reached the outskirts with time to spare. We’d arranged for our daughters and one of our granddaughters to come out and meet us in Budapest so we spent four lovely days touring the city with them, staying in a chalet in a quirky holiday camp that had more security guards than guests. All good things come to an end, though, and it was eventually time to get back on our bikes. This was a painful experience for legs and bottoms that had become used to the gentler arts of strolling and reclining. We were also at the end of the excellent guidebooks and were now reliant on maps and our own navigational skills, which had proven a bit sketchy so far. To make matters worse, there are very few road signs in Hungary and those there are only indicate the existence of a place when you actually arrive there.
The following days were something of a challenge: we missed our family; wondered what on earth we were doing and whether we’d ever make it; Glen and Emma had headed off on their own route; we kept getting lost and on one day went 21km out of our way, which is a very long way on a bike! Another difficulty was that everyone in Hungary appeared to have passed their HGV licence and seemed to use their lorry for going to the shops, picking up the kids from school, etc, so we were constantly buffeted by these huge vehicles on narrow, potholed roads. We were travelling south towards Serbia across the Great Hungarian Plain, which you would expect to be flat, wouldn’t you? But this plain wasn’t and we were climbing a slight but never-ending incline into a strong headwind – the cyclists’ nightmare. As you might gather from this paragraph, all was not well at this stage of the trip. Our countenances were not smiling and we were not whistling merry tunes as we bowled along! The only positive thing was that our packs were a bit lighter, as one of our daughters had taken our camping equipment back with her, since there seemed to be no evidence of camping sites for the rest of the trip and we anticipated that hotels should hitherto be much more affordable.
Arrived in the multi-consonant town of Szabadszallas, where there’s a huge derelict barracks, which must have been a base for the Hungarian army at some point. Nice town though. After a difficult day we were pleased to book into a room at the Hotel Pelican and eat pizza and chips and drink beer.
Serbia: 2116km cycled so far
As if to match our mood, the Serbian border was sullen and unwelcoming, apparently intent on keeping visitors out rather than welcoming them in. So it was with heavy hearts that we set off for our next destination: Subotica, where, magically, our spirits were lifted and our energies restored by this unexpectedly beautiful art nouveau town. A friendly local guided us to the tourist information centre, where a helpful woman advised us to stay the night at the Studentski Dom that had recently been restored. At first sight, the building looked as unprepossessing as any other tower block, but the top floor had been transformed into very comfortable en-suite bedrooms, with kitchen and dining room – which we had entirely to ourselves for only 20 euro a night. The next day started perfectly with us eating chocolate croissants and yoghurt in bed. We explored the town’s history and architecture thoroughly, decided to stay another night, ate in the lovely restaurants, visited the cinema and watched Italian stilt-walkers perform in the street.
It had been our intention to go to Bulgaria via Belgrade, but others’ experiences put us off, as did some notes from a Dutch cyclist who had travelled all over the world and found the road between Novi Sad and Belgrade among the worst he’d ever encountered.
Three-quarters point
By this stage, we’d been travelling for 47 days, completed 2116km and estimated that we had between 12 or 15 days to go until we reached Hotnitsa, depending on progress and the number of stops we decided to have on the way. Our first morning out of Subotica was not a huge success. We decided to try following some minor yellow roads on a newly acquired map but got hopelessly lost. This meant we had to retrace our tracks and called in at a campsite beside a lovely lake in Palic where we were advised to follow the main red road to Hajdukovo. We cycled there and took a right turn to Male Pijace, where we rode through the village, turned left, and carried on for 6.5km to Male Pesak, then joined the main road between Horgas and Kanjiza. By doing this we’d managed to cut off the corner. Our navigating skills were getting better. To celebrate we stopped at a cafe attached to a garage just outside Kanjiza. The cafe had very good air conditioning and really cold drinks – bliss. After another 35.5 slightly uphill km in the blistering heat (38 degrees), with no shade and a headwind, we arrived at Senta.
The town was dominated by a huge factory and railway intersection. There was quite a pretty park in the centre where we drank Jelen beer at a cafe followed by another pizza – just for a change! There was only one horrible hotel, the misnamed Royal Hotel. Everything brown and broken but there was a lockable corridor around the back to put the bikes in. It was the worst hotel of the entire trip – the receptionist was friendly and spoke good English but the room was filthy and noisy and the breakfast was inedible. However, such horrible conditions did ensure that we made an early start and a friendly optician fixed my specs!
After lunch in Becej, we rode onto Melenci, where we’d heard there was a health spa with accommodation (Rusanda Spa). The prospect of steam baths and deep massage was alluring enough to keep our pedals turning but when we arrived, there were no rooms. By this time, it was almost dark and the nearest hotel was 10km away so we hot-footed it as best we could, arriving at Zrenjanin with time to book in at Hotel Posh which had hot- and cold-running everything and the extra delights of cold beer and peanuts in the mini bar, with cable TV showing Newcastle United beating Wigan 2:1. We ventured around the corner to eat spaghetti, sandwiches and chocolate crepes (yet another strange combination of foods), otherwise we didn’t go far that night!
Who said that age matters?
Leaving the next day proved to be difficult, as always with a lovely, comfortable hotel to stay in, but finally we made a move and just as we were about to ask directions out of the town, help came in the form of Ivan, a 22-year-old informatics student, on a bike. He offered to lead us out to the main road. Before we parted company, Ivan gained the status of being the only person on the whole trip who asked us our ages. “But, you’re the same age as my parents!” he exclaimed with awe in his voice.
Our new-found strength and fitness continued to be of enormous benefit, as we tackled Serbian hills as though they weren’t there, still averaging 80km a day. Following the roads through Pancevo and Pozarevec, we reached Golubac on the Danube after a couple of reasonably easy days. The ride to Golubac was a gem. We found a route through quiet countryside and although it was hilly at times, the weather was perfect for cycling. It was lovely to meet the steadfast, silent and flowing Danube again – this was the fifth country in which we’d travelled beside it (Bulgaria would be the sixth). Our hotel was perfectly positioned with views over the river, which was so wide and calm that it seemed more like a lake. In contrast to the bubbling, festive youngster we met at Ulm, this stately and mature lady seemed to welcome us back alongside her.
Lurking in the darkness
Thank goodness that she was there to protect us, as the next day would prove to be the most dangerous we encountered. Neither of us felt particularly well when we woke up, but knew that we had to keep going. So we set off about 10am into a blustery headwind, which we tried to avoid by keeping as close to the sides of the gorge as possible. We made reasonably good progress until lunchtime; it was after lunch that the trouble started. Back in the 1960s, the Serbians had blasted a series of tunnels through the gorge in order to build a road. We had to ride through about 20 tunnels – some were less than 50 metres but others were more than 200 metres long and completely dark once inside. At the same time, we were gradually climbing so we were becoming more and more tired. Once inside the tunnels, the roaring noise from the traffic was so disorienting that we couldn’t even work out from which direction it was coming. We tried pushing our bikes through but that was just as difficult as there was no pavement and we stumbled over broken rocks.
The final long tunnel was the worst yet, when a huge lorry came towards us sounding its horn in warning. Eileen was so exhausted and confused that she steered towards it and almost fell under the wheels. I shouted to her above the roar of engines and she managed to pull her bike back to the side and made it unscathed to the other end. Had another lorry or car been coming behind us, then I dread to think of the consequences.
She burst into tears as we emerged and as I held her I wondered why on earth we’d put ourselves in such danger and was fearful of how we’d get through any more tunnels. Luckily, the remaining couple of tunnels were only short so they weren’t dark and we were able to wait until there was no traffic before attempting them.
But the difficulties weren’t over because when we emerged from the tunnel, we had a short downhill only to find ourselves at the bottom of the biggest hill we’d encountered thus far. The surroundings were vertiginous and as we slowly wound our way up the hairpin bends, thunder and lightning cracked and boomed above our heads and heavy rain began to fall. The whole scene was like something out of a Gothic painting but with two tiny cyclists inadvertently stranded in the mountains.
For every climb, there’s a downhill and long climbs provide long downhills and so we had a pleasant, if wet, final few miles into Donje Milanovic (which we’d nicknamed Dougie Milano, envisaging a wee Scotsman of Italian descent ready to greet us on arrival). No sign of him but there was a comfortable hotel full of sailing Serbians eager to enjoy a weekend of competitive racing. We collapsed there, staying for two days more than intended, as I’d picked up some kind of stomach bug, which rendered me incapable of doing much more than sleeping and watching the hotel telly. Eileen amused herself as best she could and her spirits were restored by a few days of rest. When we went to pay the bill by credit card, the hotel system couldn’t connect with the bank. After two hours of re-trying, consternation and discussion, it was agreed that the hotel’s security man would drive us to the next town (with bikes in the back of his car) where we’d get money from an ATM and pay him. This saved us a few miles of hill climbing but provided us with half an hour of booming europop and driving at breakneck pace through Serbian hills to Negotin, which was only about 30km from the Bulgarian border – amazingly, we were almost there!
To be continued...
