A Frontier Crossed: Near Krajevo to inside Kosovo.

June 8, 2015

The woman of the house came and knocked on the door at ten to seven. I suppose to make sure I get up and leave. Good thing too, as it means she's about to unlock the garage door and release my bike from her custody so I can get going in the cool of morning.

The road is enclosed in hills once more and there are mountains ahead. Conifers replace the low bushy broadleaves on the slopes and generally, it's a more pleasant road than yesterday.

After twenty-one kilometres I reach Krajevo at half eight and find a bakery where I breakfast on a large croissant-like pastry with a melted cheese and ham filling, a yogurt and cup of turkish coffee for a little over a euro. While eating I fix my eyes on the glass display refrigerator outside the next-door shop: all the shops here have them and my gaze falls on a two litre bottle of coke, which I buy for the road once I've finished breakfast; it's ice cold, but it'll be warm and will have lost it's fizz by the time I'm taking the last swig later on.

On from Krajevo the road is still numbered 22 and as alluded to earlier is going towards the mountains, though without much tough gradient. I'm getting into my stride today pedalling seemingly effortlessly at a nice smooth tempo while looking ahead at the road twist and turn it's way up the valley with a river below on the left, and small hayfields and steep pine covered slopes to the side.

And at the roadside are water-founts every few kilometres, pipes sticking out above stone troughs with crystal clear cold water flowing out where I can replenish drinking water.

I was taking this when a breeze sudden blew a loose bit of sun-turban over my face. I didn't do a second take, because a car had by this time stopped and it's occupants were out to get water, but waited for me to finish. Looking at the picture later, I think it looks natural, so it stays.

The only thing I miss is a place to stop. There are no leas by the roadside with trees to sit under in the shade. The roadside is overgrown and open to the sun.

When it is time to stop for lunch, I've reached a sizeable village called Usce. I take a seat on a bench in the shade of trees on a green triangle in the centre. I still have a whole loaf of poppy-seed crust bread I bought yesterday together with salami. Bread isn't all that appetising when the weather's this warm; and being just one, I can only eat so much of a loaf in a day, usually less than half the average loaf and what is leftover to the next day will be even less appetizing, which leads me to finding bits of loafs in my food bag after a week in there being only fit for the bin. The only country where this isn't the case is France. A baguette is just enough to consume on the day of purchase.

Meanwhile the schoolboys are messing around at the water-fount. That's the way I like it, as when I stop to eat, I like to contemplate the day. I don't like being the centre of attention, answering questions while my mouth is full and I'm trying to relax.

Though thinking I's getting away without local curiosity, a man sits on the bench beside me. Why next me when there are three other free benches in the shade. And every time he raises his arm next me there's a strong smell of body odour from his armpit. Then he speaks. I get the usual questions in broken English. "Ireland good country" he replies to where I'm from. "Tennis. No? Serbia, Djokovic."

He also asks where I'm going. I'm on my way to Kosovo, but when asked this question here, I air on the side of caution as not to offend. I always answer Pristina, as if Pristina is still a Serbian provincial city.

Serbia is in-line to join the European Union, which when the time comes, depending on whether they've money to hand out in subsides to new members, could mean an end to traditional farming scenes like this.

The border check-point come mid-afternoon after a rise, I round a corner revealing a group of porta-cabins just ahead. The guards are unfriendly when I get there. One steps out in the road before I've reached the first cabin and with a vexed look drops an arm in my path prompting me to dismount. Then at the first of two cabin-windows where I've to hand in my passport, the guard looks at me comically, then rises forward and looks out at my bike and returning back in his seat shouts to another within "..Bicycletta...something" and sniggers. At the next window along, the guard is actually a nice guy; speaks fairly good English: he comments empathically "very hot day for cycling" as he scans my passport and finds the first page with the Serbian entry stamp and stamps under.

The next cabin along has the bank Reiffeisan name and logo all over. A place to change money I presume. I've a lot of Dinars I could do with changing and so move along to a window. The window is closed. I try the door as perhaps I need to go inside, but as I try the door-handle I spot a padlock underneath; upon which, come a shout from three guards sat outside the cabin opposite. I walk over and ask simply "Dinar!" meaning can I still use the Dinar beyond here. "Dinar!" the inquiring guard glares.

Entering Kosova, not recognized as a sovereign state by Serbia.

Riding on I'm expecting a Kosova check-point ahead, but I ride many kilometres and come to none. I stop at a petrol station to buy a cold beer and the prices are still in Dinar. And all the cars and trucks still display Serbian number-plates. Also along much of the road, every second telephone pole has a Serbian red, blue and white flag hoist on top: a bit Northern Ireland in the Summer marching season. So it is hard to make out what's going on here.

Coming up on six o'clock I'm cycling by a cutting and see that up on top of the cutting will make a good campsite. The tent is still damp from the last day I packed and a snail got trapped and has now decomposed, creating a horrible gooey mess inside the vent where it'd crawled in, which smells awful, like dead barnacles. I clean it off as best I can with a bone I pick up from the ground and rinse it with water from the water-bottle, then prop it up to dry in the sun and vow to check the tent better in future before packing.

Campsite on top of a roadside cutting with a glimpse of the road below.

Today's ride: 120 km (75 miles)
Total: 5,097 km (3,165 miles)

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