I woke to the ping of my phone telling me I had received a message. It was the bus company telling me there was a service from Vlores to Patras but I needed to speak to the local office to find out about the bike. They gave me a mobile number.

I sent this new number a WhatsApp message. Shortly afterwards I got a reply and over the course of half a dozen messages I understood I could take my bike but to buy a ticket I had to go to the bus station. It was 3km away.

I took a lazy start but eventually jumped onto the bike and headed to the bus station. 40€ for me and 20€ for the bike. I wasn't going to kill myself on the mountains. Relief! The bus leaves at 1600 tomorrow. (It didn't!).

When I asked when asked the arrival time at Patras the very helpful lady simply shrugged, laughed and looked at me! Maniana I guess!

She did explain that it was a mini-bus from here to somewhere else where we meet the big bus. I asked where the meeting point was but got nowhere.

I spent the rest of the day moping about. The local beaches were a bit scabby, it was bloody hot (sweat trickling down my back when sitting inside a cafe in the shade).

I did find a nearby restaurant which served some of the best food I had in Albania. Nothing particularly fancy - moussaka, lasagne, pasta and chicken etc.

The following morning I had to check out by 1100 but I was as ready to go by 1000 so went out in search of breakfast.

The rest of the day was spent moping around. I tried to have a posh lunch to use up the excess Albanian Leke in my possession now that I was cutting 3 days of my time in the country. Despite ordering a starter, main and beer I still couldn't off load anyone than £14. That left me with about £50 most of which is making its way to Athens where I hope to try and exchange it.

I headed to the bus station (not really a station just a one way road where buses gather at, allegedly, allocated times) for 1430. My ticket says 1500, the lady told me 1600 and I am in Albania. There is no way I am going to miss this bus.

I popped in to say hello to the lady and mentioned my ticket shows 1500. She shrugged (I'm getting used to this) and reminded me that she said 1600..... I apologised and blamed myself. There was no point in upsetting her I still had to get on the bus and she may be the best ally I have. Buses and bikes are not natural bed fellows in my opinion.

Eventually sometime between 1500 and 1600 a mini-bus with the correct livery appeared. The driver got out, I started to pull my stuff together, and he went for a walk, a pee, a coffee, a chat with all his friends, all his relations, the helpful lady in the office anything but actually get his passengers on his bus. I put my stuff down again.

About an hour later I was whistled at, not that sort of whistle, and the driver made an attempt and signing pedalling with his hands. That was my cue to get the bike on board. At least the bike was being loaded first, yes!!!! We just placed the bike gently, upright behind the last row of seats and then threw everyone's cases and bags on top. Grief!

And off we went. It was a pretty new vehicle with comfortable seats. My hopes were rising, prematurely.

I settled down, headphones on, music playing, curtain closed and eyes closed. Then we stopped and everyone got out, except me. I asked the lady with two young girls if this was where we met the big bus. "No" she said, "coffee". We had been moving for 30 minutes.

Suddenly there was a whistle and I was beckoned to the outside back of the bus. This WAS the meeting place.

The drive started to lift MY bike. I interceded and, gently, pushed him out of the way. Cyclists do not like other people, especially non-cyclists, touching their bikes. It's a bit like him reaching over to touch your genitals. You do NOT do it.

With my bike and panniers safely out I waited for the big bus. Then the driver started to make signs I should turn the handlebars. This involves loosening some bolts and turning the handlebars 90° whilst keeping the front wheel in place. It makes the from of the bike narrower and easier to stall but a nightmare to wheel around. I protested but he persisted. So I took out the appropriate tool and turns the bars. Then he suggested the seat should be lowered. I gave an emphatic "No", he looked at me, shrugged (WTF) and remained silent.

Then he collected our tickets. During this he tried to explain something about my ticket which I did not understand. Another passenger kindly explained in very limited English that I was on big bus number 5. Sure enough my ticket had 050 on it. FIVE big buses, wow!

About half an hour later one big bus appeared. It was a full size coach. The big bus driver and a few others got out. Some disappeared into the cafe for a pee or a drink. We all moved towards the big bus when he saw my bike. He sounded off loudly, gesticulating violently. The mini-bus driver looked at me with a sympathetic, I would have told you so if I spoke English, way. The loud discussion continued until a blind haired lady who got off the big bus said to me, "There is no space for the bike". Fuck, fuck, fuck. This is what I feared. Miles from nowhere I was about to be abandoned at 1730. Rather than give in I put on my angry face and joined the noisy debate. I had a ticket, the lady phoned people to confirm bikes were ok. I'll get my dad into you (maybe not).

All the time I advanced on the big bus with my bike. It was going in even if some cases were coming out.

The big bus driver opened another compartment. It had some space but also had a column which supported the seating area above. I tried to fit the bike in the available space but it wasn't going full in. It was the saddle, it was too high. I whipped the bike out, took out the Allen key and removed the saddle and seat tube. The bike then squeezed in. I threw my panniers etc in before any driver could stop me and stood back. The big bus driver stepped forward and SLAMMED, with all of his might, the compartment door closed. If my bike had been sticking out it would have been smashed.

I clambered on the bus. It was full. I walked from the front towards the back. No seats. Towards the back people were still milling around a bit but it looked like the seats were all taken. The helpful passenger shoute to me that I was in seat 5. NOT bus 5. That made sense except someone was already in seat 5. Then the line haired lady shouted that I was supposed to be in seat 50. 050 is the same no matter which way up you hold the ticket especially when printed with an electronic style font, which the developed world stopped using 20 yearsago! So back to the back of the bus. Seat 50 was occupied by a lady who seemed toignore me when I explained the was in my seat. The helpful guy was in the adject seat and there was an empty one. He invited me to sit there. This guy was very helpful but his English was marginally better than my Italian so we were not going to have any deep and meaningful chats on the way to Patras.

And off we went. It was now about 1800. I still didn't know when we would arrive in Patras. I had a bag of crisps, nuts, fruit and water and some Haribo.

Whilst I didn't have a window seati could see the developing landscape as we headed into the mountains. They were quite spectacular. I had my buds in and music playing. Suddenly we stopped and people got off. My mate explained, food. Some new people got on. I sat tight. There was no way this bus was leaving me behind anywhere.

This continued over the next hour and a bit. Then a wee old man with a small bag got on. He stumbled up to the back of the bus and presented himself at my seat. "That's my bloody seat you Scotch git. Get off it and let me in.". Well he said something I didn't understand.

I simply pointed at the lady in 050 and said that is my seat. She looked very confused until her neighbour explained. She then pointed elsewhere and a rabble started. It was clear that someone, no idea who, had sat in the wrong seat cause a domino effect. I reckon about a dozen people would have to move to sort this out. The bus was already moving. The wee old man sat in the last spare seat immediately behind me.

I reckon that I was the only person using the provided seat belt. This meant that if the bus went off the road on a high pass and we rolled all the way to the bottom they would find me strapped into a seat but covered in the detritus of 60 dead Albanians. However as I was sat in the wrong seat I would have been buried as Danielsk Dushku (or similar) and my funeral would been attended by my six children and fourteen grandchildren. There may have been a wee old lady too but I am not sure.

As we set off again it dawned on me that we would have to stop at Border Control. Hopefully that would be the last stop. Using Google Maps I checked and reckoned the border was an hour away. The light was dropping.

Eventually we arrived at BC just before the sun disappeared. My mate waved his passport and indicated we need to get off. No problem. Then he said "with bags". Fuck, my heart and head dropped.

I got off and wandered round to the compartment with my stuff only to be presented with my bike. Surely not but the driver was emphatic, everything off. I didn't have enough hands for a disabled bike and five bags (4 luggage and my food bag). I grabbed my panniers and started to attach them. A fellow passenger with nothing better to do tried to help by grabbing the other pannier. Now to help understand, I have been doing this twice a day for almost 12 weeks. I can fit and remove a planner one handed very quickly. This guy was blindly pushing and prodding my pannier and had bugger-all chance of fitting it this side of Xmas. He was also touching my bike. I snarked at him in a friendly fashion. By the time he backed off I had them both fitted and the rear rack bag on. He realised the frugality of his trying and smiled. Then I turned to attached the bar bag to find a complete numpty pulling and twisting on my handlebars. He was trying the straighten my bike. I snarled and swore at him. As he stepped back I loosened the bolts and straightened the bars. He looked a bit crestfallen but my fellow passengers supported me and chased him away, chiding him in Albanian.

Funnily enough no-one else touched my bike or luggage after that.

I watched as everyone headed to the BC building and up some stairs. Stairs with a heavy bike are a nightmare. I could see luggage being loaded into a scanner, airport style. When I left Croatia and Montenegro there was none of this. I simply presented y passport attend window of a roadside kiosk. The guy looked at it, stamped it and wished me a good journey. I slipped away from the building and fell into line behind an Audi which was waiting at a kiosk. Eventually his passports were handed back and he drove under the barrier. I calmly presented my passport, said hello and failed to mention a bus. By this time it was dark and we were on a high mountain road with no lighting. Did he really think a mad Scotsman was cycling through the night? I didn't care, he looked at my passport, gave it back to me and wished me a good journey.

We loaded the bus and climbed on board and set off. As I sat down my mate, again, waved his passport and told me we had to do it again on the way into Greece. "With bags" I asked incredulously. He saw the strain on my face, laughed and shook his head. "No bags". Bastard!

By this time I realised that the driver had a support team who helped pushpassemgers in the right direction at the right time. They. Ountednums on seats after each stop and helped with lugagge etc (but they didn't touch my bike). One of the helpers seemed to be a Fixer. He was the one who spoke to officials and navigated us through the process of getting out of Albania. At the Greek border he appeared with the list of passengers. This had names, passport numbers, destination, nationality etc. All the stuff you don't want when dealing with GDPR. He called out names and pushed us into two queues. At least we were being processed by two kiosks. Mr Fixer insisted that westayedin order and that family groups stayed together. If anyone dilly dallyed he was all over them. The only thing he didn't do was ask us all to hold hands!

Following the appointed order I presented my passport. I expected a quick turnaround but he examined it closely than started typing on his computer and his calculator. Suddenly I realised that he was checking my Schengen days. Following Brexit us Brits are only allowed in the EU (Schengen area actually) for 90 days in any 180 days. Having entered Spain on 6 April and with today being 23 June I knew I was tight. My time in Montenegro and Albania doesn't count. I didn't expect this level of scrutiny and, suspect, if I had turned up on a lesser road on my bike I would have been waved through but being on a bus raised my profile. Thankfully I had a flight booked for the 4 July so if he asked I couldshown my intentions to leave Schengen in about 10 days. He paused after his button pushing, sighed and stamped my passport. With my head down I headed back to the bus not wishing to raise my profile any more.

Once in board I, again, settled down and checked the distance to Patras. Assuming no more stopping I calculated that we arrive about 0300 at which point my bike and I would be dumped at the side of the road somewhere outside of Patras, a city I know very little about. I tried to sleep but despite having been awake for 20 hours I couldn't.

Every now and again I checked our progress.

Thankfully the bus provided wi-fi. My UK SIM only worked within the EU so went i entered Montenegro I bought a West Balkans SIM which worked in Montenegro and Albania but not Greece. I wasn't going to try and change my SIM on a bus in the dark so without the wi-fi I was "off grid".

Eventually at about 0215 the bus pulled into a bit of a scrub land near the port of Patras. At least it was on the east side of the city as I was heading out east to Athens. I and a few others got off into the (pitch) darkness. I thanked my mate for all his help. Other than the handshake I am not sure he understood.

Suddenly I was standing in the dark with a disabled bike and more luggage than I could carry. Off in the distance I could see the lights of the port and the boats moored there. There was nothing where I was, no street lighting, nothing. HOWEVER, way back in March I packed a bike light which doubles as a very bright torch. That was quickly retrieved from my bar bag and the area illuminated more than enough to allow me to straighten the bike and load the bags. A quick look at Google Maps (offline) suggested I head back towards Patras in the hope of finding an all night cafe to grab some food and wait until the sun came up and I could cycle safely.

After about 300m I came across a shop which was still lit. Closer inspection showed the cleaner was in and the shop closed however it provided a bench and light where I could swap SIMs and get back online. That done I was then able to search for an open restaurant, keeping in mind it was now 0300. Google Maps suggested two cafes were open and very lose and both to the east,the right direction. The furthest looked the more promising and only 750m away.

https://maps.app.goo.gl/uxqnBpn64CLpmUK49

Within 20 minutes I was sitting with a hot dog and a coke with cafe wi-fi planning the next few days of cycling. Luxury.

It was busy with most tables occupied and over the next few hours a steady stream of well dressed youngsters who had probably been at a club. It was all very civilised. No drunkenness, no shouting, no fighting. They all bought food and drink and sat and chatted with their mates.

With the further purchase of two coffees and a bottle of chilled water I stretched my stay at Kantina until 0600.

Then I headed off into the wilderness of Greece. It was 0600, I had been up since 0800 the previous day, it was heading to 22° and I had 30km to cycle.

The smell of Greece filled my nostrils. The smell brought back memories of many wonderful holidays in Greece and purged the smell of rotten garbage which is likely to be my overriding memory of Albania.