17.5.24

With rain and thunderstorms forecast for our 100km cycle, Max and I were dreading today. We sported our waterproof and sandal combo which was beyond a fashion crime.

The city gave way quickly. The justifiable glares from the young n trendy perched outside coffee shops turned to the watchful stares of fisherman perched beside the Danube.

We peeled off the river into the familiar Hungarian countryside, where we rode right through what can only be a Studio Ghibli living museum. It was a tiny village with a very thin stream lined with thick grasses running through it. Either side of the stream sat solitary cats at the shoreline, pawing at sardines with expert efficiency. We must’ve watched them for about 30 minutes, catching fish, eating them, or just sadistically leaving the fish to flail about on a footpath.

We pulled ourselves away from the fishercats and tried to get some sort of vegetable dish for lunch. Nout on the menu. More deep fried chicken. My poor, poor gut.

Within 30 mins, we were back on the bikes and were met quickly with a grassy verge – something which Max has been dreading. Seriously, grassy verges must’ve done something to him in a past life because he wouldn’t stop talking about them.

I loved it of course, the birds and wildlife were amazing, huge hares sprung out of tall grasses, hoopoes sung their funny songs, and bee-eaters flashed their colours overhead. The weather had gone full circle meaning we’d packed away the waterproofs and enjoyed sunshine and a light breeze. It was glorious.

I’d stopped to watch the birds and noticed Max had cycled out of view. He can be a very direct cyclist, you know the ‘let’s get there kind’, but this was a little concerning as if say my bike had broken down, he has everything to fix the bikes – so when I caught up (about a km ahead) I had to say ‘gotta stay together’ in my classic pass agg way, a bit of a winge from me but better out than in – Max also got the point immediately.

The grassy verge continued for a little longer than I’d of liked, being not very kind to our behinds, I was delighted when we pulled off onto a concrete road which left us 20km from our campsite. A huge bird of prey flew alongside us for about a minute. Amazing. Then in no time we were crossing the Danube into Dunofoldvar where we pulled in to another campsite.

After being shouted at about something by the camps owner on arrival (I think just being English, or cyclists, or both?), we showered, dined nearby where I had catfish and sturgeon fish soup (a specialty for those who live along the Danube), and returned to the campsite to watch Scum beat West Brom in the Championship play off semis.

18.5.24

We managed to position our tent just so the sun wouldn’t wake us at ridiculous o’clock. The birds were singing and the Danube mirrored a cloudy sky. We packed up slowly and left a little later than usual.

After a stop at a Coop and breakfast of kefir, a banana, and some belvita, we were on the move. Cycling through the Hungarian villages you notice an incredible amount of nests atop of what are otherwise bleak freeze block telephone poles. These are homes to the Stork and their long necked babies. It’s wonderful to see this huge bird (with an equally huge nest) thriving here.

Continuing on for another 50km with only a few of Maxs dreaded grass verges to cross, I reflected on what riding is actually like. It’s not really something I look forward to or dread the thought of, I wake up and just know I have to get to X and most likely I’ll see some interesting scenery I’ve not seen before and will never see again. Touring promises nothing. For about 10km riding is easy but turns unpleasant when your bum and hands start hurting.

However, I’ve gotta say there is a distinct cosiness from being on your bike with your home attached to it. As my Mum would point out, this is the Cancerian in me, but I cannot help but love the feeling a loaded bike gives, its as if you are in the cabin of a long haul lorry – you’ve got your music or a podcast on (today was A Muslim & A Jew Go There, highly recommend), then the sheer weight and size of the bike emulate a sort of shell around you. Perhaps the turning circle of my bike being that of an Eddie Stobart lorry also adds to the trucker mentality.

After about 85km of podcasts we pulled into Baja, which we found out was an affordable party town for young people (thanks Chat GPT voice assist) and set up camp on an estuary of the Danube. It was a rowdy campsite, stag doers playing loud 2024 EDM, then bars on the shore opposite with Hungarian tourists.

We cooked dinner and as I was washing up I got speaking to Wolfgang, a German who was motorhoming around Bulgaria with his wife. The weird thing was, he had an almost perfect English accent, with the caveat that it was of a bygone era, like an Ashes to Ashes English accent with a brittle German twang. It was amazing to listen to him talk, and more amazing to find out he worked for NATO his entire life and had learned English from English guys in the forces during the 70/80s. I offered him the remainder of our rocket left over from dinner, in return he gave us two beers and informed us of the fisherman’s procession soon to start on the estuary. It was a celebration of St John of Nepomuk, a 14th century saint who’d been drowned and his body recovered by fishermen – meaning he is a revered saint to those living in the Danubes basin.

We sat by the river and sipped our beers watching the sun fade from orange to pink to purple. Soon the banks of the estuary were alight with flames from burning wooden torches and filled by locals. St John floated down the river with traditional Hungarian music playing, and 20 or so small boats lit by lanterns. It was beautiful to watch the celebration and the smiles of the people of Baja, who share an enviable sense of community intertwined with the waters and history of the Danube.

We followed the procession out of our campsite and to the town square which was rammed. Thousands of people watched beat boxers, ate chimney cakes, did the tango on the street and celebrated.

We grabbed an ice cream and plodded home. I wish we could’ve stayed out longer, but your body battery after a day of cycling means you can only go on until about 10pm. Plus, Wolfgang had warned us of a bad night sleep ahead due to the bars and young people.

I write now listening to Barbie Girl from across the water, for a fairly conservative right wing country with some absolute units donning the old Taxi Driver haircut, I cannot help but smile at the thought of them hopping about to Aqua.

19.5.24

At the 4th time round of Eiffel 65’s Blue, I drifted off and slept well for the most part – I heard the neighbours come back and do shots, then a very loud cuckoo flew over at 6am, taking all of my willpower to not roll out of the tent to see it (I swear I better see one).

I made Max my signature peanut butter porridge (pinch of salt, bit of honey), watched Wolfgang and his Mrs’ drive off, then followed suite by jumping on the bikes.

We were again met by the flat landscape of Hungary, large tramlined fields with hardly anyone about. Around 35km in we stopped at a town 20km from the Serbian border. We were worried places would close early because it was Sunday and a religious festival.

We stopped outside of a bar which had EDM blaring out, we were hesitant to enter as we couldn’t tell if it was a bar or someones house, so Max joined his family call and I mustered the courage to go in.

The woman running the place was kind and smiley, which in truth was the first bit of warm hospitality we’d received. I got a coffee and a hamburger then spoke to her daughter. She was about 13, drunk 0% beer, and could introduce herself and ask my name. She sat with me for a while as I tried explaining our trip to her. Don’t think she got it, but she nodded politely.

Now fed, Max and I took off for the Serbian border. We weren’t necessarily sad to see Hungary go, in truth, we’d kinda been there and done it now. The cities, especially Esztergom, were charming. The twitching was genuinely the best I’ve experienced (I’ve no doubt countries further east will be equally amazing), and the fields of wildflowers and poppy’s were a cinematic dream. But I was buzzing for Serbia. A hard border. No more Mr Nice Europe, now for the land of sausages, Eurobasket, and the giant NBA center Nikola Jokić.

Crossing the border was easy, two firm stamps in passport and we were in. Swiftly I noticed a welcome difference. Cyclists were smiling, waving and evening shouting hello. Can’t tell you how good this felt after giving so many unrequited smiles on the Hungarian Eurovelo 6 route.

This did bits for my morale and in no time we were in Sombor, the green city of Serbia. It’s a pleasant, sizeable city with an incredible fish restaurant called Dalmatinski Podrum. The waiter couldn’t give a shit about customer service to us (probably not helped by me trying to use Chat GPT to talk to him), but the food was the best of the trip so far – impeccably fried non-chewy calamari with a potato salad, accompanied by a glass of white wine.

After dinner, we walked around town, grabbed dessert (a banana split, perks of burning 1700 calories a day) and returned home.