It's only two kilometres more to the border. The modern steel and glass Montenegro customs lean-to overhanging the road. The way on closed by a pole-barrier. The affable guard in the booth scrutinizes the photo page in my passport and says "Ireland! Ireland very good". And squints at the name asks "What's your name?" I tell him. He repeats "Kan-ne. Kan-ne is good name" He hand me out the passport and the pole rises so I can continue.

A kilometre further at an identical customs building, the young cropped haired Serbian guard is impersonal. With a lit half smoked cigarette in his fingers he vigorously leafs through the empty pages of my new passport, as if going through a book, looking for something that he'd previously seen, but had forgotten the page; then getting to the last page and seeing nothing, return to the first page, reaches and picks up a stamp. He squares the stamp up and presses it neatly upon the top of the page, closes the passport and hands the passport back out to me.

There's a chill in the air. The road on empty now through pine forest under dull sky for a kilometre or so to a signboard with something in Cyrillic and 1230 mnm, meaning the altitude, so no wonder the cold, shortly followed by a wedge-down gradient sign with eight per cent thereon. The road then plummeting for about a dozen kilometres with a bumpy uneven surface, where once I unwisely take a hand off the handlebars to push my glasses, which had slide down my nose, back up in place again and straightaway wobble on an uneven area of heaved tarmac almost to the point of losing control. Alarmed, I grab a firm hold of the handlebars again.

I follow a left sign for Belgrade onto a main highway along a narrow wooded valley towards an urban area and a few kilometres farther turn off into the town of Prijepolje, with it's main street along the riverbank.

The first thing I do is find a bank. There are three within a short distance with modern glass fronts. I withdraw 2000 at the ATM. I'm not clear what the exchange rate is. Dino who I cycled with for a day in Turkey, said he looks at the price of petrol to roughly calculate the value of the currency when first entering a strange country with unfamiliar money. Taking his lead, I saw 147 a litre displayed at a petrol station on the way into town, so assume one euro is worth a hundred. I haven't a clue what the currency is called yet.

I find a stationary shop, which is good as I'm down to the final page in my notebook. A new one cost me 290, roughly three euros. Now that I think about it two-thousand isn't much. Next I buy a hamburger for breakfast, cost 100. The man in the shop speaking English assures me his hamburger isn't like McDonalds. "Good meat. Cooked on charcoal" he lifts the grill and pokes glowing coals with tongs. "I have a chateau in hills" he points at the wooded hillside across the river "you need somewhere to stay, you stay at my chateau" It is morning and I'm anxious to cycle as far as possible today, so explain I'm not stopping and I'm cycling to Belgrade, I ask how far it is. "Three hundred kilometres. Five hours in car. Take you three days". I'm a little shocked at how far he says. Is thinking a hundred and fifty and I'd be there tomorrow afternoon. My Montenegro map ends a little north of here and I assumed Belgrade is not much more than a good day's ride further north.

The distance to Belgrade could've been an exaggeration, I think as I eat the burger sat on a wall along the river, which as he said is a real burger: a meal; it has crisp salad and is in a fresh bread bap

Once finished I go to a café and order a cappuccino. A young man having seen the bike and asked the usual questions, tells me it is indeed three-hundred to Belgrade. He even draws me a map on a piece of paper: a line with circles for towns and their names and distance between them en-route, explaining it verbally. When I'm leaving he calls after me "Friend!" and explains it again; and, the way out of town, back to the highway.

The highway on is steadily downhill through a tight wooded valley until a sharp right turn and what becomes a long laborious incline just as the cloud clears and I climb in stifling heat. Before reaching what seems the final uphill part toward a pass, I reach the town of Novy Vares. The way into town is communist era high-rise apartment-blocks with steep pitched roofs to shed snow. A reminder of the thousand metre altitude here.

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I am still getting to grips with prices in the small supermarket below the abovementioned blocks. I'm assuming there could be as much as one-hundred and twenty to the euro. I ponder at the price of wine. The shop-woman with a blue apron folding down a cardboard box says something to me about the wine. I think she is asking which one do I want. I hunch my shoulders in confused reply, dunno. There's a Macedonian red for 209. And litre cartons for 159. The carton has on the side in English "A Dry Red Wine". Having chosen the latter, when later drinking it I discover it has a strange sweet taste: a caramel-like taste, meaning I won't buy this one again. I also buy salami, cream cheese, bread, packet soup, veg and a couple cans of beer.

I lunch down from the supermarket, sat at a picnic table with a shading roof in the playground in front of the blocks.

The way onward climbs for a kilometre more with the centre of Novy Vares coming into view as I round the bend, filling the valley down from the road on the left.

I descent down and the way opens up to a lake on the right and follows alongside for a few kilometres until a dam wall; beyond which, the road swings sharp right and drops abruptly down, over a bridge and climbs again. The whole afternoon thereafter is a series of short descents followed by lengthy ascents; pasting up-wedge gradient signs with 7% - 3.5km. The man back in the café mentioned this road is scenic, it is pine wooded hillside, nothing much to write home about. The road itself is of a pretty good standard; smooth and well engineered; seven per cent being about the steepest gradient: the road builders have sank deep cuttings in hillsides and there are new viaducts across mouths of tinny side valleys, where the old road is seen to turn in and takes the long detour in to where the valley meets, turning tight, to return back out to regain the modern road.

About quarter to six the computer shows 100.00km and I've stopped below a cutting with woodland on top, but decide to push on for a bit yet. There follows a long abrupt descend to and pass the town of Ucize; beyond which, the road has become busy with rail-lines alongside to the right and houses and steep wooded valley-side on the left. The chances of finding somewhere to camp here are slim, but there's still at least an hour until dark. When the opportunity presents itself, I turn off right, underneath the rail-lines and follow a narrow byroad parallel. The countryside is small cultivated fields and farmhouses along the flat of the valley and steep wooded slope to the side. The road then swings off at a right angle to the rail-lines and passes through a little village wherein, it turn parallel again with steep woodland on the right and a house around just about every bend. Things could've been getting desperate when shortly, I come to a single-track, a walking tail into the woodland. It is steep as I heave the bike up across the hillside until I stop and lean the bike against a tree and go on walking up to where I see it level out, which when I get there and look around, elect a spot plenty big and level for the tent. The trees are old and have ivy vines climbing up their trunks, as is the ground, covered with ivy, something which I have a hunch attracts mosquitoes: there are a few flying around.

I return down and heave the bike up the remainder of the trail, put up the tent and take all into the tent and sit down with the sweat pouring off me. The mosquitoes now have found me. There's only a few as I reach out and swat them as I wait for the soup to simmer. But I suspect their bite by the sock-line on my ankles will have me itching in tomorrow's heat.