TRAVERSE 38
raw technical challenge.
The next morning, I headed toward the Romanian border at Calafat, planning a detour to visit the Belogradchik rock formations. The Kaleto fortress, built into towering spires of weathered sandstone, was a marvel. Stairways and gateways carved into the natural rock created a defensible citadel that felt both ancient and fantastical, like a set piece from Lord of the Rings. Climbing in full riding gear under the hot sun was exhausting, but at the summit a breeze swept across the plateau, and the scale of the landscape made every discomfort worthwhile.
Back on the road, hundreds of TIR lorries lined the highway to the border. Despite the congestion, the checkpoint passed smoothly. The shift in architecture was immediately apparent: Romania’ s single-story houses with Romanesque features felt brighter and more refined than Bulgaria’ s. The north bank of the Danube offered winding vistas, occasional castles perched above the trees, and the unexpected sight of Decebalus, the last warrior king of Dacia, carved into a cliff— a colossal image that stopped me mid-ride, an unanticipated reward of exploration.
Serbia brought a mix of challenges: wrong turns, river crossings, and villages that seemed to appear and disappear. In one Gypsy village, broken machinery and pastureland stretched where the road should have been. I approached the locals strategically, gauging the authority of those who would let me through. Their nods and gestures became my passage, a lesson in observation and respect— negotiation not with maps, but with human geography. Darkness fell before I reached the border, and a small town offered“ Sobe”— a safe room to rest. After a twelve-hour ride from Sofia, the body protested, but the mind was sharp, alive with the constant recalibration that travel on two wheels demands.
Northern Serbia opened into flat, cultivated plains. The contrast with Romania’ s rolling grasslands was immediate. From Belgrade, toll-road motorways sped me toward Zagreb, the journey punctuated by neat villages, each painted in a different shade, each home a subtle character in the narrative of landscape. By the time I reached Lake Bled, evening light gilded the water and surrounding Alps, but exhaustion dictated a quick stop. The pension I found was modest but perfect: private parking, a warm meal, and a moment of stillness at the end of a long day.
The final leg of the journey— through Austria, Germany, and France— became a test of endurance against the elements. A milky-blue alpine river ran alongside the valleys, meadows brimming with flowers, only for clouds to darken and rain to drench me for hours. My cabletied boot protected what it could; otherwise, the rain was absolute. North of Munich, the weather eased, and I pushed on, taking scenic connecting roads, but fatigue was relentless. Each fuel stop, each map check, became a reminder of how far I had come and how far I still had to go.
Night fell as I crossed into France, cold air condensing in every breath. Danger and exhaustion blurred, yet the signs for Calais kept the mind fixed. At 03:15, I reached the tunnel, boarding the train at 04:25. Nineteen hours on the road with only one meal and one coffee— 1,376 kilometres
TRAVERSE 38