Hungary don the odd one too. And frankly, older gentlemen wearing only a Speedo whilst cycling is a memory I’ d like to delete. No. I take that back. It makes me smile to even write it.
Riding on quiet roads lined with shimmering poplars we hear the birds and distant dogs. The end of August feels like the perfect time for this ride. We’ re getting the last blast of summer’ s heat, with temperatures ranging from 29 to 35 C, while also enjoying the first turning of the leaves. There’ s time to stop and take photos of the endless fields of corn, the yards ringed with hollyhocks, oleander, roses and black-eyed susans and the endless pots of geraniums. Not to mention that the wide, smooth cycling path is dedicated to- wait for it- cyclists. Considering it’ s been only twenty years since the end of the communist regime, things have progressed very quickly.
Still, it’ s not all wine and roses. There is no doubt that we have officially left the rolling countryside behind us. These are not extreme hills by any stretch, but the heat adds a new dimension. I amuse myself up
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Rows of grapevines plunge down from our feet towards the vista of the shimmering expanse of Lake Balaton far, far below. There is a giant’ s outdoor oven redolent with smoky smells. Courtyard tables sit next to a small sloping area in deep shade from old apple trees. I want to throw myself under the dappled light of the orchard. But first? Wines await.
The sweat chills on my back as we head into the dusty cool smell of rock and the yeasty aroma of fermenting grapes. The tastings are an elixir.
Back in the dazzle of the day, we
Lake Balaton gather around the outdoor oven as the lid comes off the huge trough-like roasting dish. It reveals whacks of wild pig, gargantuan ham hocks, potatoes, red peppers, carrots, onions and peas basting and mingling to create a savory blend of pork fat heaven.
With greasy chins and rounded bellies, some of us step around the old dog snoozing between the tables. Blankets are handed out. I can’ t quite believe it... a bike trip with a naptime.
The breeze rustles through the apple leaves. The air is a bouquet. There is the suggestion of apple, a hint of porky smoke, a redolent bottom note of earth; like a wine the gods would make of their finest August day. ■
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