September 21, 2012
Welcome to Serbia, my cyclist friend: Svinita - Bela Crkva (Serbia)
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THERE'S A WONDERFUL surprise the moment you cross into Serbia near Bela Crkva. (You'll notice at this point how sparing Serbians are with vowels.) Because there on the right are two big blue panels, one in English and the other in Serbian, wishing you the wind at your back.
There are two Eurovelo routes along the Danube here, one on the Serbian side and the other in Romania. Romania, unfortunately, hasn't cottoned on and there are no signs. But Serbia has gone for it enthusiastically and hence the welcome immediately after the border check. Serbia makes you glad to be alive and on a bicycle.
Not that I felt that way first thing this morning. The wind howled so hard through the night that it pulled a securely planted tent peg out of the ground, making the tent flap even more. I convinced myself it had changed direction and would push me up the valley. But I am an optimistic fool and within moments of setting off with a Buna diminiata and a Drum bun and Noroc ("Cheers!") from my farmer friend, I realised my meteorological skills were pitiful. It not only blew against me but it blew with such violence that twice I came close to falling off.
Well, sing ho for the open road... The valley turned and the cliffs protected me. I didn't make fast progress but progress I did, one moment sheltered, the next bent double over the handlebars.
I crossed with Pete and Jill Seamen from the English Midlands, heading for Istanbul. They not only had the wind behind them but the valley dropping beneath their wheels.
"We're staying in bed-and-breakfast places," Pete said. "We used camp sites earlier but there aren't any now and we don't like camping wild." I told them that in a couple of hours they would see nothing but bed-and-breakfasts. It is the local industry.
For a long time I thought I'd have to stop short of my target, the Serbian border. And then the wind eased and I got over my afternoon blues and I spent 30 minutes climbing a hill that then descended to the border. Things were quiet. On the Romanian side the guard made a long and fascinated exploration of my passport, for his amusement and to pass the time, asked in French where I was born, where I lived, what I thought of it there, where I had ridden from and where I was riding to. And then he wished me Drum bun and waved me on my way.
On the Serbian side they spoke English. The young guy in his blue uniform knew why I was there. In Serbia they are aware of Eurovelo 6, remember, and this man spent every day within a hundred metres of the welcoming sign.
He asked where I had been and where I was going, for conversation rather than the records.
"It's a long way," he said.
"It is a long way," I agreed. "But if you stopped work and got out your bike, you could join me for the rest of it."
He grinned.
"I wish I could," he said.
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