Not Cycle Touring in India: Part One 

Health warning: This blog does not contain pictures. You will have to use the magic of imagination until we stumble upon Asia's only non-shit internet connection...

With a growing sense of dread, we looked at the blank plaque where a business should have been on the ground floor of the tumbledown apartment block in Cochin. Just a few hours in, it was already clear that doing business in India was going to be a more difficult prospect than in the clockwork predictability of Europe.

"No self-storage here, sir," a short, moustachioed Dravidian of about fifty told me, a large crowd of locals forming behind him. "This is a Hindu building. Your 'Thomas Abraham' is a Christian. We do not know him." I looked round despairingly at our taxi driver for some guidance on the situation, who returned my gaze impassively, adjusting his longyi with the air of a man expecting additional profit in the coming minutes.

We had been in Kerala for a matter of hours, and already we were getting our first taste of the frustrating, exhilarating, and strangely harmonious disorder that characterises life on the subcontinent. We had decided to fly the bikes over with us and put them in storage for a month, reasoning that trying to cycle any great distance through India's stifling heat and crush of humanity on a 30-day visa would put us on a hiding to nothing. Or, to put it another way, I had no interest in being flattened by an amphetamine-fuelled Tata lorry driver on a madcap venture that the majority of cycle tourists do not recommend.

It proved, eventually, to be an astute choice. But that wasn't the opinion as we stood in that obscure side street in Ernakulam, having followed very clear and explicit directions to a meticulously researched self-storage company that simply didn't exist. "How much would they charge you for the bicycles, sir?" our moustachioed ringleader said, gesturing to the enormous plastic-wrapped green mummies that we had stuffed into the taxi with great difficulty.

"1500 rupees for the month," I replied. Some quickfire Malayalam dialogue between the taxi driver, ringleader, and crowd of locals followed.

"Then that is OK sir. I will store them, in my shop, for 30 days," he said, "for 6000 rupees".

Even as a newcomer to India, my mouth fell open at such shameless profiteering. "No!" I blurted out. "Too expensive. We will find somewhere else."

Some exhausted haggling and more machine-gun Malayali later, the price had dropped to 3000 rupees. "Show me where you will store them," I said. This isn't what we need after a 12 hour flight, I thought. Who is this guy? Why didn't the storage place exist? Why is the taxi driver agreeing with everyone? What on earth is going on?

The suspicion must have showed on my face, for one of the locals laid a reassuring hand on my arm and told me that if I were to store my bicycles with this local personality, I would have a "full guarantee". "Full guarantee, sir," he repeated, with what I'm sure he imagined he was an encouraging smile. This did little to assuage my fears, however, instead prompting an unsettling flurry of thoughts on the current - and no doubt parlous - state of Indian consumer-protection law.

The "shop" turned out to be a local house in which two smiling saree-clad ladies assured me they would safely store my bikes just as soon as they had finished their cleaning, and eventually with Sarah's cautious assent we pulled away from the street, having potentially just paid a 2000-rupee advance for the privilege of having our expensive touring bikes and camping gear disappear without trace.

Our driver pulled away into the dripping metropolis of Ernakulam, dodging and weaving within the biblical tidal wave of traffic, and as I settled back into my seat, one thought kept returning to my mind:

Oh God, what have we just done?

KERALA

A prosperous, hot, irrepressably lush state in the south of India, Kerala is often sold as "India-lite"; that is, this is the state to visit if you want a  taste of the flavours and smells of the southern subcontinent but less of the grasping hands, plastic bottles, and rivers of foul-smelling ooze so prevalent elsewhere. This is still India, of course, so it's not as if these bits aren't still there - there's just somewhat less of it. Like Pondicherry, this slightly less scary reputation sees respectable golden oldies flock there in droves, as you can apparently have an entirely "normal" holiday here (that is, one where you never have to go through a hellish "sleeper train squat toilet" experience).

The first thing you notice in Kerala is the humidity, which is palpable; by which I mean that there is so much atmospheric wetness that it has ceased to be a meteorological concept and has become a real, physical thing, tasted on the tongue and observed with the naked eye. The sun shines dimly, obscured by a heavy white haze that never lifts. Your clothing sticks to your skin and walking around gives you a distinct impression of wading. No wonder the colonials spent all their time being fanned by natives and drinking gin and tonic.

Speaking of which, it turns out that Kerala is, sadly, a mostly dry state. Beer and wine can only be purchased from special government shops or five-star hotels, meaning you have a choice of drinking your (extremely pricey) booze in a squalid booth populated by hardcore alcoholics or as the only customer in a surgically lit dining room surrounded by bellboys at a loose end. It's a long way from the Italian dream of a litre of very drinkable red for a euro (more on that in another update).

We started our stay in Fort Cochin, on the Malabar coast. This is an old Dutch colonial settlement of boxy, crumbling 14th century houses being steadily reclaimed by luminous creeping vines, grasses and coconut palms. Goats wander the streets, unherded, serenely nibbling on bits of old poster tacked to walls rife with damp mould as crows flutter overhead. Its rubbish-strewn harbour is a particular draw, presenting a classic Indian juxtaposition; rickety wooden 14th century Chinese fishing nets stand still operational, in contrast to huge modern tankers advancing heavy and stately across the other side of the bay.

A few days' R&R followed, in which we did our best to not mention where our bikes might be, sampled the local posh tourist fare and took in our first taste of India. We witnessed a wrestling match between singlet-clad local children, gravely officiated by a referee and watched over by half the town, and learnt the art of rebuffing the slimy autorickshaw drivers, who will tell you that everything you were planning to do is wrong and only they, the selfless tuk-tuk man, can rescue your shattered itinerary through a very reasonably priced journey that definitely won't dump you outside a tourist shop.

On our second day we took a guided tour of the "backwaters", which ended up being a soporific six hours gliding around empty waterways east of Cochin. My chief memory of this excursion was the overwhelming feeling of being just another overfed Western chump, standing with the other Westerners on the trip and gawping at locals making rope. Recommended if you like feeling the full weight of your developed world privilege and falling asleep in a boat.

We also visited the hyper-modern LuLu Mall, a point of pride for Cochin residents. The mall is basically an air-conditioned Stratford Westfield so I don't have much to say about it apart from generic praise for its cleanliness and selection of fast food. However, the local bus journey we took to get there is definitely worth mentioning. For a mere 36 rupees, we had an hour-long glimpse into the harmonious chaos that is Indian local public transport, and it was definitely one of the most entertaining hours we spent on the trip.

Indian traffic rules appear completely disordered, but you soon work out that there is definitely a system in play; it's basically a Darwinian mini-society where the biggest, baddest vehicle has right of way and the tiddlers get out of the way or get crushed. Even the cacophony of car horns has a definite purpose to it - it's not just one collective howl of rage (as it first appears) but is in fact a complex system of signalling to other drivers the exact nature of the death-defying maneuver you are about to make. Our bus, being basically the largest vehicle on the road, sent autorickshaws and scooters swerving in all directions as it ploughed a glorious path between two lanes, letting out a near-constant stream of honks which defied interpretation but seemed to boil down to "OUT OF THE WAY, MOTHERFUCKERS!" The only vehicles we would alter our course for were lorries and other buses, which the driver would attempt to overtake apparently as a point of principle, even if it meant holding up a huge stream of traffic or becoming stuck behind another large vehicle.

A few nights later, Sarah's mum Julie flew out to spend a week's holiday with us. It was Julie's first time in India, too, and she brought with her an irrepressible optimism about every facet of the country. "I'm really glad we got to spend some time in a typical Indian supermarket," was a particularly memorable spirit-cheering comment, as we navigated through pokey aisles and tried to trace an unaccountable smell of burning plastic.

We headed straight from Cochin Airport to Alleppey, two hours' drive south, to spend a couple of nights in a homestay in Kerala's backwaters. The backwaters around Alleppey are far better than those around Cochin; around here, they are a scarcely believable network of glassy liquid highways where wooden canoes and houseboats ply quietly past islands of palms and rice fields, whilst locals wash, drink, play and swim in the waters. Aside from the combine harvesters, it really is like stepping two millenia back in time.

We were staying with the Thevercad family, Syrian Christian rice farmers who lived in a large river-front house with heavy varnished wood panelling and grounds surrounded by washy coconut palms and banana trees. I find it more difficult to write convincingly when I only have good things to say, so rather than descending into Lonely Planet-style cliche ("a feast for the senses" "serene riverfront tranquillity", "an authentic back-to-basics experience", etc), I'll just put down the bare facts.

- Food good
- Fishing at dusk good
- Backwater cruise good
- Beers on porch watching life go by good
- Rambling chats with the charming Thevercad children good

In summary, it was very good.

Next we headed back to Fort Cochin, this time staying with a Mr Walton in his restored Dutch colonial house in the centre of town. Fastidious and immaculately bearded, Mr Walton received us in his office surrounded by well-organised shelves of second-hand paperbacks donated by previous guests. (As an aside, you can really tell the type of guests a place has by the books they leave behind. Being a more up-market homestay, I counted at least four books on coping with divorce on one shelf alone, suggesting to me that this is a popular place for well-to-do recently single middle aged ladies seeking an Eat, Pray, Love experience). After commanding us to sit down, Mr Walton flipped through his tidy log book and took down an extremely thorough record of our personal details whilst I tried to shake off the distinct impression that we were naughty children called in front of the headmaster. "You are very organised, Mr Walton," said Julie. "Madam, I was a lawyer," came the immediate reply, delivered with a stern look over his reading glasses. "Organisation is the most important thing."

You might be reading this and thinking that Mr Walton was an unfriendly host, but that couldn't be further from the truth. Unlike many hosts in India, who have perfected the art of appearing like a cringing sycophant whilst ripping you off shamelessly, Mr Walton is a genuine bloke who tells it like it is. Whilst at one point he shooed Sarah out of his office for disturbing his work, at the end of our stay he presented us with a huge pile of incense and other gifts and gave us some quality advice on the rest of our trip. Basically, if you're acting like a tit, he won't be shy about telling you, but he will go to great lengths to ensure that you enjoy your stay with him and avoid getting ripped off by touts. Extremely refreshing.

After our second stint in Fort Cochin, during which we visited the surprisingly decent Dutch palace museum and shopped for Malabar spices in the down-at-heel district of Mattancherry, we headed east up into the Western Ghats. Up here, it is cooler, and huge tides of mist roll over steep hills covered in ragged spice farms and terraced tea plantations. The ubiquitous crows, goats and street dogs of the coast are gone, replaced by green parrots and families of grey macaques, who sit and watch you with wrinkled, solemn faces.

The colonials used to come up here for a break from the stifling heat of the coast, and whilst the promise of a mosquito-free environment turned out to be erroneous, it is gloriously cool. Living in Britain, you don't really appreciate the true value of mild weather; yes, it may rain and look miserable, but you never sweat through a shirt seconds after putting it on. It's easy to remedy cold weather with a roaring fire and a warming pint of ale, but you're stuffed if it's too hot, aren't you? You've just got to sit there and take it. Orwell wrote extensively about the phenomenon of the hard-drinking, insufferably boring and depressed colonial Anglo-Indian, and after a few days in the sticky heat you begin to appreciate how maddeningly uncomfortable it must have been here before the advent of fans and AC. It's still a good 20 degrees up in Munnar, but the air tastes like tea and mist, rather than petrol and cow dung. Delightful.

We did all the things you are supposed to do in Munnar. We visited a tea factory  on a tour presented by a well-spoken young gent in a blazer that was a few sizes too small; went on a ramble around a plantation and smelt the pervasive fresh smell of tea; and went to watch a traditional Kathikali dance, which was bizarre. Apparently it takes the performers something like 15 years' worth of training before they can properly play the characters - I presume that most of this is taken up learning how to waggle your eyebrows suggestively.

We had hired a driver for the day, and had agreed with his suggestion of a visit to a local village to see some traditional handicrafts (at least, that's what we thought he was suggesting). Sarah and her mum both inexplicably enjoy shopping, as a discrete activity in itself, rather than a chore to grit your teeth and endure. It's particularly bad in India, where a shop assistant constantly hovers around you, picking up items you're perfectly capable of examining yourself and asserting how well this badly stitched curtain or sandalwood elephant would go with your home in the UK. So a visit to a handicrafts village sounded like the perfect opportunity for that, whilst I could sneak off and play a bit of Pokemon.

However, as we turned into the village, we realised with mounting horror that this was no ordinary town; as the signs made clear, it was in fact some kind of boarding school for disabled orphans. Not that there is anything wrong with that, of course, in fact it's laudable that such places exist, but we all thought we were about to be roped into the worst kind of car-crash tourism. There's a scene in the Netflix film Beasts of No Nation which sums it up perfectly; the African child soldiers are in the middle of a gruelling training exercise when a 4X4 speeds past filled with Western journalists who gawp and take pictures, leaving the kids to their fate. We thought we would have to tour the facility like the overpaid, overfed, privileged chumps that we were, taking pictures of disabled kids in grinding poverty for a few Facebook likes, then get guilt-tripped for a huge donation by the orphanage pimps at the end. Even Julie expressed discomfort at the prospect.

Luckily, it wasn't quite like that. The kids and young adults were working in handicrafts factories making tie-dyed shirts and recycled paper goods, as part of an initiative sponsored by the Indian manufacturing giant Tata. The workers were cheerily bantering with each other as we walked in and were happy to show off their work. Sarah and Julie bought a bunch of stuff, predictably, but it was a hassle- and guilt-free experience. And I got to play some Pokemon. Result.

Next time, tune in for India part 2 - I'll also disrupt the chronology of this blog by recounting our tutto bene time in Italy at some point.




  

Montenegro and Albania: Balking at the Balkans

MONTENEGRO

Reading the Lonely Planet summary, you'd be forgiven for thinking that Montenegro was a romantic, unspoiled earthly paradise, with incredible landscapes and beautiful towns set amidst lushly forested dark hills. Whilst the landscapes are, indeed, pretty spectacular, what Lonely Planet entirely fails to mention is that the towns and cities in the country are covered in piles of trash, seedy as hell, and on the whole, completely and utterly shit. 

Bloody hell, Podgorica

There is so much trash in this country that it has actually become part of the soil, with gaudy bits of plastic mixed in with the pebbles and humus. Only Albania was dirtier, but you know, you kind of expect it in Albania. Poor show, Montenegro.

Scrubby Croatian coastal country, heading towards the border

Border selfie! (We were quite sternly told off by the officer on duty for this)

After the border, towards Herceg Novi

We entered Montenegro via the congested and run-down border town of Herceg Novi, continuing into the Unesco World Heritage-listed - and utterly spectacular - bay of Kotor. The bay, kind of shaped like a jellyfish on the map, is framed by steep, jagged mountains dusted by patches of the thick, dark forest Montenegro is known for. After sitting out some dismal rain behind a cheesy municipal beach blasting out full-volume pop to precisely no-one until 2am, we continued to the town of Kotor itself, listed by every guidebook in existence as Montenegro's top attraction. And guess what, it's another walled medieval old town. Sadly, we arrived just as an enormous cruise ship about three times larger than the town itself dumped its load of American pensioners all over everything, turning the  potentially charming town into a sea of khaki shorts, pale gouty legs, and "oh my gawsh, Wade, it's so quaint!". We left after 20 minutes.

Small beach town, Bay of Kotor

Swimming in the bay

Kotor

"Can I park my enormous, ugly floating hotel right in the middle of your picturesque little bay?" "Sure!" 

The rest of the day was spent climbing one of the oldest roads in Montenegro, an enormous narrow serpentine winding up the sheer side of the bay to the ancient valley of Njegusi way above. The views were incredible, and we climbed so high that even the other mountains framing the bay had receded into a distant blue dimness by the time we completed our ascent.

Looking down over the bay of Kotor

Even higher up

Some well-deserved beer, sausages and chips at the very top

A beer with a view

On our way, we picked up a companion, a friendly, mangy dog that woke up from a nap in the shade and inexplicably decided to follow us all the way up the mountain, despite us refusing to touch or feed it ("Montenegro is HIGH RISK for rabies!" a text from my Dad had warned). We found a good wild camping spot near the town of Njegusi, and the dog promptly lay down between us and fell into a fitful sleep. It was then we realised that the dog was covered in weeping wounds and was panting and foaming at the mouth in a potentially alarming way. In retrospect, I'm sure he was harmless, but it was a muscular pitbull cross sort of a dog, and nightmare scenarios kept running through my head of the pooch turning rabid in the night and ripping our tent - and ourselves - to shreds. We decided we had best be rid of him, and a farcical chase followed as we pedalled furiously across the sun-dappled valley floor, desperately trying to lose the dog, which was sprinting down the road and trying to keep up with us. Some miles later we found a ruined cottage to hide behind and found we had blessedly lost him. I feel sorry for the bugger - he had a collar but was clearly abandoned, and despite his friendly demeanour is more likely to occasion fear rather than sympathy due to his huge jaws and powerful muscles. He's probably doomed to die alone and friendless. It's best not to think about it too much. Moving swiftly on.

"Faster! He's catching up!"

Next, after a cycle amongst spectacular hills and struggling through abandoned roads buried by rubble, was Montenegro's capital, Podgorica.

Woke to find a beetle bathing in my wine

Looking over the valley of Njegusi from our camping spot

Setting off on the road to Podgorica

The upland roads past Njegusi were almost traffic-free, and we enjoyed some magnificent cycling

Magnificent, I say

They've replaced the old road we were cycling on with a new one 100ft above. We soon discovered why

Typical Montenegrin hillside hamlet

A Soviet war memorial near Lake Skadar

Podgorica is optimistically described by Lonely Planet as "relaxed and unpretentious", which I assume are the only two compliments they could find about the place that weren't outright lies. It is perhaps the worst place I have ever been. Spread out over a vast plain like a dun spatter of urban vomit, it manages to be both over- and under-developed, with cramped Soviet-style tower blocks bunched together amidst inexplicably empty fields of rubble and trash. The "old town" is genuine in the same way that a slum is genuine, a cluster of rude dwellings and unpaved roads with more trash and rubble piled up in the streets. The empty foundations of long-unfinished houses act as crude landfills for the residents, as dirty children scrabble in heaps of refuse (presumably Podgorica's answer to play areas). It reminded me of the awful towns I used to make in Sim City on the PC before I had mastered the basics like zoning, running water and law enforcement.

The plus side to all this is that accommodation is cheap as chips, and we managed to get a fully-furnished apartment for 20 euros for the night. As we settled down to sleep at 11pm, the apartment exploded with garish noise - our stay had unfortunately coincided with a classic Wednesday night drug-fuelled party thrown by the residents below, which went on until the wee hours. Just as you imagine you might be somewhere else, Podgorica reasserts itself. That's the charm of the place.

The next day, after picking up supplies, we cycled out of Podgorica just as fast as our little legs could carry us. Unfortunately, that turned out not to be very far. Shortly after passing the 'you are leaving Podgorica' sign - past which we  celebrated madly - I realised I had left Trackimo  (the tiny tracking device I carry to assuage my mother's frantic worry) back at the apartment! We had no choice but to turn and cycle all the way back, where the confused host let us in to grab it. We left the city again, for good this time - or so we thought. The camping spot we had spied in a scrubby forest outside the city turned out to be patrolled by a large pack of wild dogs. Aggressive strays are the scourge of the southern Balkans and they all hate cycle tourists - we have been chased a number of times by livid, snapping little shites, most of whom turn miraculously cowardly the moment you step off the bike and square yourself up to them. We couldn't take the chance of an attack, and it was getting dark, so back we went to bloody Podgorica to sleep in a shabby hostel in the old town, our sleep interrupted again by a man coming in at midnight and sobbing drunkenly down the phone for three hours.

The next day, we finally managed to leave the town, sleep deprived and with our tempers frayed. It was time to cycle through the thorny wilderness, towards lake Skadar, and Albania.

I realise that what I've written about Podgorica is unremittingly negative, so Sarah has suggested putting in a few things we liked about the town too. Here goes:

- The hosts for our accommodation were friendly and helpful; 

- The women in Podgorica are all immaculately groomed; 

- We caught a bit of a Balkan folk festival outside the Mall of Montenegro, which had a jovial atmosphere and lots of people in peasant costume.

And that's about it.

Basically. the very north-western corner of Montenegro - what locals refer to as "old Montenegro" - encompasses the Bay of Kotor and Valley of Njegusi, and is very much worth a visit. Past that, in our view, you may as well turn back. 

ALBANIA

Albania is often described as the "final frontier" of Europe, and indeed you couldn't imagine a more different place from the placid, pristine, Lego-set environs of our starting country, Holland. Let me preface this section with a disclaimer: we only spent 48 hours in the flat far north of Albania, so our impressions are based on a tiny slice of what is a very varied country. Nevertheless, here they are.

The border crossing from Montenegro to Albania gave us a strong impression of what was to come. A herd of wild goats wandered in and out of the half-derelict checkpoint building, in which a solitary worker was stabbing away at a power outlet with a screwdriver. Disheveled men ambled about aimlessly as an unidentified foul-smelling yellow liquid oozed down the road next to us, mixing with the piles of asbestos and rubbish blowing about.  After a long time having our passports scrutinised by the border officer on duty, we were waved through without comment, and the officer checking the trucks gave us a wave and grin as we cycled past a wandering pig and into Albania proper.

Can you spot the goats?

Like Montenegro, Albania is supposed to have incredible natural beauty, but sadly we seemed to have come into the one part of the country that lacks it. Northern Albania around Lake Shkoder is flat as a pancake, with unbelievable amounts of refuse piled up in the roadside ditches. The rural houses, many abandoned and most half-finished, stand apart from each other amidst smallholdings which appear to be growing nothing but weeds, with skinny cows and donkeys miserably tethered and standing alone in fields.

Not a particularly pleasant sight, but Albania has a substantial redeeming factor - Albanians. We had read the Albanians were famously friendly, and found this to be absolutely the case. Everyone we passed turned to smile and wave, crying out greetings, whether they be workers in the fields, old men in three-piece suits riding bicycles (Albania has loads of these) or groups of boisterous schoolchildren. Memorably, one such child was bouncing up and down with a wide grin on his face, waving and yelling a repeated greeting that we could only discern as English as we passed. "Fuck you!!" he was shouting, joyously. "Fuck you, fuck you!!"

After a few hours' cycling a surprisingly well-surfaced road, we arrived at the town of Shkoder to check into a hotel. Accommodation in Albania is cheap indeed - almost Far East levels of cheap - and we had a presidential-style suite on the top floor of a newly-opened hotel on the outskirts of town for a mere 20 euros. We appeared to be the only guests, and Sarah tells me that the morose staff member that handled our check-in appeared to be on the point of topping himself. Hope you're OK, guys. There's more to life than Shkoder.

Shkoder's famous skyline

After an evening spent trip planning and quaffing a surprisingly decent bottle of local wine, we headed out of Shkoder towards the southern Montenegrin border crossing. Cycling through Shkoder was a real experience. The streets were a scene of amiable chaos, with drivers, cyclists and pedestrians weaving around wandering chickens, goats and dogs. Cars would frequently barrel down completely the wrong side of the road for no discernible reason, but there was a sort of general acceptance of this, with everyone maintaining a kind of devil-may-care good cheer towards the whole thing. 

As we headed towards the edge of town, I heard Sarah yell, followed by a loud bang. I turned around to see her laughing and pointing towards a dazed-looking pheasant running around in circles on the pavement, which had apparently jumped out in front of her only to be promptly smacked by a pick-up truck. Said truck continued to amble down the road without even slowing, suggesting that this was a pretty everyday Wednesday morning occurrence. Even the pheasant didn't look particularly chastened. 

It might seem like cycling through an Albanian town is a frightening or unenjoyable experience, but honestly we found it very amusing indeed, and it was one of the highlights of our trip. Highly recommended. 

We were heading back to Montenegro via the southern border crossing to visit the beach resort of Ulcinj. This detour was being taken on the advice of our host in Podgorica, who was effusive on the subject - "I don't recommend you go there, you understand - I recommend SIX BILLION people go there!" he had said. "Ulcinj is like the best of Dubrovnik, but with more nature, and a beautiful forest to the south! Ulcinj very, very beautiful!" We couldn't possibly have disregarded such advice, given as it was with much finger-stabbing of a dog-eared regional map, so off we went to see if Ulcinj was indeed the town that six billion people should have heard of. 

ULCINJ - THE SIX BILLION PEOPLE QUESTION

Did Ulcinj live up to its hype? Well, the accommodation was very, very cheap (we managed to snag an apartment for 13 euros), the food was similarly cheap, and there was indeed an old town and a beach. However, the hyperbolic comparisons to Dubrovnik were sadly unfounded. 

A taste of home!

Garish signs in the old town

River fishing shanties on the way to Velika Plaza

Ulcinj old town itself is like a miniature Dubrovnik, if Dubrovnik was plastered in garish laminated signs advertising cocktail nights and horrible food, and if its streets ended abruptly in piles of rubble and scaffolding. Basically, imagine if Dubrovnik and Zante had an ugly and disappointing child, which inherited Dubrovnik's crumbling walls but Zante's penchant for seedy nightclubs.

Is that hamburger tartare I see? And is there a subliminal message in the lemonade?

This is not to say it was all bad, but it suffered from the curse of a town with potential which is trying too hard to attract tourists and ends up losing all its charm in the process. Nowhere was this more present than along the Velika Plaza ("Long Beach") strip, a 13km stretch of black sandy beach bordered by wild pine forest. The strip behind the forest was lined with advertisements for beach bars, all of which were trying to piggyback off the fame of some more well-known location (e.g. "Cocktails on Copacabana beach", "Come to Miami Beach", or just "CALIFORNIA"). The overall effect was one of a location which is not confident enough to tout its own unique charm but has to don the mask of another in order to fit in. But, come on, Ulcinj! You have a potentially well-preserved old town and some real Eastern European black sand beaches - make that the selling point! And clean up the rubbish, it's everywhere! 

In conclusion, if six billion people came to Ulcinj, about 500 million people would leave mildly disappointed. Not hugely disappointed, you understand, just... slightly let down. The rest would quite enjoy it, I'm sure. Certainly the many Russians and Kosovans we saw were having a jolly good time. 

It was time to head to the final country in our three-month European tour, so we cycled along the coastal road north to reach the ferry port of Bar. We boarded a pretty awful, piss-smelling, rickety overnight ferry, heading towards Bari and the delights of southern Italy.

On the ferry to Italy

Croatia Part 2: Froggy Fun and Cheap Wine

SPLIT

Split is a bit of a conundrum. On the one hand, it has one of the best city parks I've ever seen - an entirely forested peninsula jutting out from the harbour with beaches galore - and Froggyland, which we will come to later. However, in all honesty, the rest of it is a bit crap. The old town is reached through endless blasted industrial suburbs with pothole-ridden roads and some of the most aggressive, selfish driving we've seen yet. The old town itself and the adjacent harbour smells foul and is lined with endless tat stalls, all selling the exact same selection of checkered Croatia beach towels and other assorted shite. The people are rude and unhelpful, the ferry port is confusing, and even the world's largest collection of stuffed frogs in amusing poses doesn't quite salvage it. You might even say that I have a "Split" opinion. Ba-dum tsssh.

I realise all the below pictures make Split look nice, sadly we didn't go with gritty realism as the theme and took the same deceptive selection of old-town photos as every other Split visitor. Apologies.

We arrived in the bay of Split via Kastel Luksic, one of a chain of "Kastel" towns on the coast between Trogir and Split. We were staying in a Warmshowers host's empty apartment, to which he has left the key with an open invitation to cycle tourists. Letting ourselves in around dusk, it was quite clear that the apartment had not been occupied regularly for some time; damp was creeping over the walls and ceiling and there was a pervasive musty smell. The water had been shut off some time ago, meaning the toilet cistern had to be filled manually with water collected from the local beach, although strangely there was still electricity.

Evening in Kastel Luksic

True luxury cooking in a vacant apartment

THE ELECTRIC CHEAP PLONK ACID TEST

That night in Kastel Luksic, over dinner, I quaffed a large bottle of wine from the Croatian island of Korcula, bought for the princely sum of £1.50; naturally, it was foul. However, as with all booze, it gets better with every glass, and I had guzzled it down soon enough. Although the wine was purchased out of necessity, purchased from a local kiosk that sold little else but fly-blown nectarines, it gave me an idea. What if I were to get myself used to progressively cheaper and cheaper wine, so that a bottle costing £1.50 would become the new normal, and the previous £5 staples would become as rare and precious to me as the finest Bordeaux vintages?

The strategy seemed a sound one; I would be able to drink twice the amount of wine as before, and we would still save a hell of a lot of kitty money, which as Sarah is keen on reminding me, seems to drain away when myself and booze have one of our many chance encounters.

The next day, I began the experiment with gusto, purchasing an Italian vino rosso  (no specific denomination of origin) from the local supermarket for £1. It was only slightly worse than the Korculan the night before, which in retrospect seemed much better than it probably really was. So far, so good.

A month and a half later, having sampled the very worst Vranacs, Lambruscos, and Merlots of the southern European region, I can report that the experiment has been a roaring success. I have plumbed the depths of the Continent's cheap plonk and found to my surprise that it's not actually as bad as feared. Indeed, in Italy, where we have been for the last couple of weeks, it seems literally impossible to buy genuinely bad wine. I've had a few Puglian reds that were the wine equivalent of an overexcited five-year-old at a family wedding (lively as hell, no subtlety at all, and a bit annoying after a while), but even those were a fine vintage compared to some of the English wine I've had the misfortune to taste.

But I digress.

DALMATIAN ISLAND HOPPING

After a day exploring Splithole, finished off in true Split fashion by being manhandled and having our bikes thrown down some stairs by a belligerent train conductor, we grabbed a ferry to Vis, the most remote Dalmatian island. This tiny island has an interesting history - its strategic location in the Adriatic has meant it has been in the possession of several masters over the last couple of hundred years, including Britain, Italy and France (I think, I can't be bothered to look it up again, so don't get your knickers in a twist), and the lush pine-forested hills are covered in old bunkers and military installations as a legacy of the Yugoslavian General Tito. Its history as a military base has meant that  Vis was closed off to the world until 1990 or so (again, can't be bothered to look it up) so it has been relatively protected from the over-development of some of the other islands in the Adriatic.

Vis at dusk (or was it dawn? Is there any definitive way of telling?)

The road down to Komica

We arrived in Vis as dusk fell and struggled up the islands only main road, sleeping under the stars beneath the walls of an old church. In the night, I was disturbed by the unmistakable sound of something - or someone - quietly riffling through our bags. In the darkness, it was difficult to see what it was, but the patter of tiny feet assured me it wasn't human, so I threw a rock at the bags and turned over to sleep. However, as soon as I did, the rustling started again. I grabbed a light and shone it at the bags, and caught a glimpse of a wide-eyed fat little rodent, which promptly jumped back into the underbrush. Little bugger had been trying to get at my bag of crisps.

This is one of the blessings and the curses of wild camping; you are sharing your space with wild animals. You get to see so much nature in action that it sometimes feels you are living an Attenborough documentary, but wild animals, with their incessant hooting, squeaking and rustling, can also make for disturbed sleep. Sarah opts for a pair of earplugs to block them out, but (paranoid Londoner that I am) I feel the need to keep an ear out for stealthy forest thieves trying to nick our bags. Ridiculous, I know.

We cycled down to Vis' second town, Komica, the next day, and spent yet another idyllic beach day snorkelling in turquoise waters. Due to some predicted inclement weather, we had decided to get off the island on the 5.30am daily ferry the next day, so we duly rose at 3.30am and packed by starlight under the church, catching the ferry and returning to Split just before 8.

Komica harbour

Before catching our transfer to the island of Korcula at 10am, we managed a smash-and-grab visit to the aforementioned Froggyland. Some strange Hungarian fellow, over a 10-year period in the late 19th century, had caught 507 frogs from his local lake in order to stuff them and pose them in a selection of bizarre dioramas that included mass gymnastics, frogs at school, and frogs at play. It's the strangest museum you will ever see, and 3 euro well spent, although we had taken in the whole thing in 20 minutes. 

Next was the island of Korcula. After an evening spent on the handsome port of Vela Luka, we spent a morning cycling down the island to the town of Korcula itself, wild camping between crumbling walls in an abandoned olive grove.

Vela Luka harbour

Camping in abandoned olive grove

Korcula town is a great example of a walled medieval old town, but you know what? By this time we were sort of done with walled medieval old towns. We had seen them in Koper, Piran, Porec, Cres, Zadar, Split, Trogir,  and the Kastels - to name a few - and there was no joy or surprise left in seeing yet more maze-like streets and stern bearded statues in funny hats. After a while, just as with the well-documented European Catholic church fatigue (little electric candles, Madonna and child, and skinny carved Jesus anyone?) you become immune, and wander through the old towns taking pictures with a grim and joyless sense of duty.

Korcula main gate

It's the birthplace of explorer Marco Polo, as they're keen to remind you

Only Dubrovnik had the power to shake off the creeping malaise. Speaking of which...

DUBROVNIK

The final part of our journey to southern Croatia was done by bus, after we had negotiated our bikes below decks with much smiling and wringing of hands. We had decided to forgo the cycling due to the time pressure involved - we were meeting Sarah's brother Tim and his wife Sarah in Dubrovnik in two days - and the large amount of climbing along narrow roads.

However, sitting on the air-conditioned bus watching the landscape flit past, I sort of regretted not cycling it.  The peninsula below Korcula island looked spectacular, with lush steep hills, salt flats, and fortresses galore, and I could only imagine too clearly what it would have been like. The rich good smell of the coastal pines, the quick green lizards, the dry heat; you miss it all when flying by in an air-conditioned pleasure palace. But it is what it is, and we skipped this part out. 

Dubrovnik's history is quite distinct from the rest of Croatia, having led a charmed life as the prosperous capital of the Republic of Ragusa for many centuries. It was badly caught up in the Yugoslav Wars, however, enduring a seven-month siege in which it was badly scarred by shelling. This does nothing to diminish its charm, though; it truly is a stunner and is duly appreciated by the staggering hordes of cruise-ship tourists who swarm about like ants on a dropped piece of nectarine.

Walls of Dubrovnik

Sarah with her bro

Looking back over the town

The fortress at dusk

Looking over the town

We quickly realised that cycling around greater Dubrovnik was not a good idea. The streets are narrow, steep, and crammed with tourist buses and suicidally speedy taxi drivers. We left our bikes at the guesthouse and took the bus for the three nights that we were there. 

Sarah and I were holed up in a small guesthouse on the edge of town, Tim and Sarah at the swanky Valamar President on the southern tip of the Dubrovnik peninsula. For those of you that aren't familiar, there are now two separate Sarah Bridglands involved in this account. One is my girlfriend and trip companion, the other is Sarah's brother Tim's wife. Keep up!

Anyway, the Valamar President was clearly the superior meeting point, and we spent many an enjoyable hour posing as hotel guests, taking frequent dips in the pool and hoping the staff didn't notice my trainers, which were by now truly appalling.

The three days we spent with Tim and Sarah were a delight. We walked the walls of Dubrovnik and visited the island of Lokrum during the days, and in the evenings we ate some spectacular meals. The highlight was Oi Mari, a restaurant that served truly stunning local fare. Tim and I had drank some robust Long Island Iced Teas, along with a few beers, before arriving, and I can't quite remember what I had, but I have a strong memory of unctuous, melting, meaty deliciousness. 

We took our leave of Tim and Sarah after three days, leaving them to their five-star luxury, and spent a couple of days heading south through mostly empty scrubland towards the Montenegrin border.

On the way down, we had run out of water, so I entered a local house to beg for more - it turned out to be a polling station, and when the staff had got over their initial confusion at a blustering Englishman waving a bottle around shouting "Voda" during one of the most tense election days in recent Croatian history, they were only too happy to oblige.

South we headed, towards the border of the European Union towards the thickly forested and steeply hilly Balkan country of Montenegro. But we'll talk about that next time.