Trouble in Albania and Greece

Leaving you on the edges of your seat in Greece, we headed west towards Thessonaliki the following day with the aim of having a mechanic replace Flick's sprockets and chain for her. Stumbling across Xanthi first, we amazingly found a mechanic within minutes and he set about replacing the parts as Sarah headed out to buy breakfast in town.

A few turns of a spanner later and we were back en route in the now swealtering heat as the sun rose swiftly to its perch high overhead. The sea glistened to our right as the bikes snaked smoothly across long, empty winding dual carriageways, eating up the miles with ease. Managing to avoid Thessonaliki's city centre by way of a sneaky bypass, we decided that mount Olympus would be today's target and that, once the sight had been seen and snapped onto our whirring cameras, we would head for the sea to set up another camp.

Olympus was slighty shrouded in the cloud of its own grey micro-climate but a determined ride around the corner to a village that nestles in its foothills provided a decent photograph and suitably stunning peek of the peak.

Pulling off the main road just 15 minutes south of the mountain found us a campsite and a beach (albeit part cordoned off for military use) and we took a dip in the shadow of the Olympus cloud.

If you get the impression that I'm rattling through the days a little, then you're spot on - I am. There is a reason behind this apparent laziness, as will become clear in a short while...

The next day we aimed for a spot of coastline on which we could relax in sunshine and take the next day as a rest day. The road forked off right away from Athens towards the south west area just north of Patra. The mountain roads that traversed the spectacular peaks and cliffs made for some exhilarating riding in the dry conditions and I decided that today was the day to enjoy some quicker riding. Using mostly my old front brake pads for any slowing down requirements meant that I could just enjoy the bends and hairpins and simply change the pads for my new spares that night. So that is what I did and it was an awesome ride!

The destination turned out to be rather grim and our tiny Greek cove appeared to be used mainly for fly tipping rather than relaxed swimming and sunbathing. Deciding on one night there followed by a short ride north to Mytikas for a day off, we pitched up to the warnings of a nearby German with a campervan: 'Leave naathing outsiide becawwse der ahh big pork'.

Assuming he meant 'beware of the big pigs', we assumed (naturally) that he was crazy.

Sure enough, midnight arrived with a flourish of bright stars, a waning moon, and a huge herd of pigs. Snuffling and snorting about outside, one managed to pull a couple of pegs from our tent and dragged our rubbish across the beach area (not that it stood out alongside the abandoned matresses, tv boxes and car radios...).

After a night filled with pig dreams, we left early(ish) in search of nicer beaches. Around the corner, a huge island floated just a mile or so off the coastline and the tree covered mainland peeled back to reveal a while (though pebbly) beach. Pulling into the next village (Mytikas), we parked up beside a small harbour to walk in search of (you guessed it again) postcards, stamps and, this time, snorkells. Whilst loading the bikes once more to ride to the nearby campsite, a rather large, lycra clad bald man rode over slowly on his bike. On closer inspection, his lycra top was actually a map of London: 'Hello, I'm cycling around Greece a bit coz I'm half Greek and it's funny when people see a Brit in a London lycra that speaks Greek.' Amazing how many nutters this ride is uncovering...

The campsite was fine, although we opted for sleeping on roll mats under the starlit sky once more, and our new snorkels only revealed sand with some grass...although I did see a rock. Well, it may have been a tyre. Or a ray. No, probably not a ray - but it did have a tail. Ok, it was a rock...

Treating ourselves to dinner in a local eatery, we were treated to a feast of three different types of small fish with bread and some Greek wine (not sure of the fish names - and they definitely were fish and absolutely not tyres...or rocks) Leaving the next morning (early), we rode north in search of Albania. The ride may, or may not have been interesting - in all honesty I can't remember as I spent the entire ride out of Greece anticipating the excitement that I would feel on reaching Albania.

The rode wound slightly inland and rose ever more steeply in the high, beige mountains of the borlerlands and, to our complete surprise, the temperature rose. Previously opening vents on our helmets or visors to cool off on the road, we now opted for keeping everything shut as the dry winds scorched lips and eyes.

The border finally became visable across the rolling, empty mountains ahead of us and we were pulling on our brakes to stop at stage one of the checkpoint within minutes.

With my insurance company being the only one to cover any of us in Albania, I walked around the perimeter fence as the girls bought their green cards from a small office on the border. Looking west into the mountains, an abandoned, rusting ice-cream truck sat half buried under a huge pile of discarded rubbish. A few hundred metres below us a family, who had built its home from tin, wood and cardboard amongst the piles of filth and plastic water bottles, went about whatever passed for a normal day's activities.

Once sorted, we rode north once more towards the old village of Gjirokaster, also known as the City of Stairs. The city is built high on the western side of a vast valley and and stairs are used in many of the small streets that wind their way up the hills in the direction of a huge citadel which sits authoritatively above the village.

With a jacket now pouring with sweat every time I lowered my arms, we hurried out of the village northwards once more for Tepelene. The fields of dusty grass that lined the long pot-holed main road were packed with hundreds of smalls pillar boxes and bunkers. At first racking our brains to think of wars between Albania and neighbours, Greece, we found later that one particularly power crazed president had 700,000 of these bunkers erected across the country's borders to act as a deterent to would-be invaders. They still remained, some of which were painted in bright colours to disguise their original use.

Tepelene saw the bumpy, but rideable, road worsen. It was from here that we intended to head west for the coastal city of Vlore. Just 60 miles stood between the two and so we expected to reach the sea that evening and perhaps rest on the beach the next morning.

Rising westwards from Tepelene, the road became potholed tarmac, which in turn became a narrow track. Soon the right hand side of the track fell away to reveal a wide valley floor around 800m below and we soon found ourselves winding our way up steep gravel tracks that perched clumsily between a cliff face to our left and a sheer drop to our right.

A few minutes into our new challenge and Flick dropped her bike. At the time this upset her (as it would anyone) and may cause some worry to rise up in a few of the readers of this blog. However, as you will see, this was to be the tip of a very large iceberg.

The long ride and first five miles of this new track had taken its toll and so, as soon as Flick was uprighted, we pulled onto a small clearing for the night. The sun set on the most spectacular view of the trip so far and we slept well in the open air, with just a few beeping cars waving to us through the night to disturb our sleep.

The next morning, we awoke in the dark with just a faint blue glow around the nearest mountain signifying the fact that the sun was rising across Albania. Cue Kalashnikovs..!

The distant crackling and pops that reached out to us from over in the next gully sounded like, and later turned out to be, the shooting of pistols and Kalashnikovs. Too bleary-eyed to dwell on the fact, we pulled on our kit and mounted the bikes with the aim of reaching the coast (55 miles away). The first series of hairpins swung us up to around 1500m before spitting us out at an un-signposted crossroads beside a small gathering of dwellings and cattle. A passing old man pointed sternly left 'Vlore!'

Having only his word, we set off right. Soon confronted by our first van, the owner pointed us back in the opposite direction as he helped a woman, who appeared to have been well over 200 years old, into the passenger seat. This man seemed even more convinced than the first and pointed in the direction that had seemed most likely to tie in with my GPS (that was trying very hard to work out what we were doing in the Albanian mountains and not on a Croydon ringroad).

Our new direction appeared to be working as the tightly wound, soon to be named road of death, road vaguely took us towards Vlore.

An hour later, the temperature was reading 45.3 degrees C and there wasn't a breath of wind in the air. Sarah's bike began to overheat and so we rolled down a worsening track into a small gathering of mismatched buildings. Empty aside from a horse, we allowed the bike to cool down as we took on water.

A call came out from across the muddy patch that sat between a derelit, fallen-down hospital and some dilapidated out buildings. Turning around, I noticed a face peering out from a doorway and an arm beckoning. Wandering over, a couple offered us free drinks in what appeared to be a tiny bar (with just two chairs) that had miraculously opened during our two minute stop.

Using the village (consisting of two houses, the collapsed hospital, the bar and a tiny school) tap -seriously, a communal tap - I took apart the cooling system again and refilled it with the desired effect.

Leaving the village, some passing words that the owner of the bar had left us with rung in my ears: 'First two kilometres ok, after that the road is really bad...'

From experience, if a road is described as bad by an Albanian, expect there to be no road at all.

Sure enough, as we slowly bumbled over the 2km mark, the gravel became large gravel. The large gravel became rocks and soon the road was only distinguishable as a road because it appeared to lead from one place to another.

Rounding a corner, I found Sarah sat on the thing that leads from one place to another alongside a bike that didn't look quite right. Eventually realising that this oddness was due to the fact that the bike was a little more horizontal than normal.

Getting the bike upright, we carried on and I soon found Sarah AND her bike more horizontal than both should be. All three of us were shattered from our difficult 2 to 5mph progress over the boulder road and from lifting the heavy bikes upright. I pulled all three bikes into the shade so we could rest and re-hydrate. The next village was just across the next stretch of road and soon we headed for it with the aim of finding a cafe similar to the last and perhaps stopping for the night.

Rounding a tight bend, I noticed a distinct lack of Flick behind me so parked up (easier said than done on the rocks) and waited. She finally waved across at me from a section of road that sat high above me. Running the steep route up to her and her bike was my biggest mistake. Reaching her, I was dripping with yet more sweat and ready to collapse.

Righting her bike, I held the back of it as she tried to edge forwards on the most difficult section of road so far. Jogging behind to steady, we reached my bike after a few minutes as Sarah returned from the village to see what had happened to us.

Pulling into the village, I dropped my bike and realised with some concern that neither girl could hear me calling for assistance in lifting the bike again. Heaving it up on my own (these things happen when you have no option) I rolled down to Sarah in the village and collapsed in a heap beside the bike. All three of us were dehydrated and had sun stroke but luckily found a small bar (again consisting of one table and a few chairs) run by a wrinkly man named Gjiv.

Emptying their fridge of cans of drink, we chattered in broken Italian with a man named Ernesto who was resting here on his way home to Vlore having delivered beans to surrounding villages in a battered old Mercedes van.

We were fed by Gjiv's friendly family as Ernesto talked about life in Albania, his dislike of the 'peasants' of the mountain and the Albanian mafia.

After watching a local man of 60 climb a tree for figs and having been bought drinks by a few strangers, we headed for bed at Gjiv's home. His wife welcomed us with huge toothless smiles and his daughter introduced her triplets to us (each of which were extremely destructive!) The home was on one storey and was made up of three small bedrooms, a living room and outside stone toilet. Two beds outside were used by Gjiv's wife and his son-in-law and also for us to sit on while we tried in vain to communicate.

After some more food (in the form of goat and chips) we slept on the sofas in the living room with absolutely no noise whatsoever (except the odd chicken sqwark).

The next morning, Gjiv offered me coffee as I watched the sunrise over the mountains. Saying yes, I watched in horror as he sauntered over to his sleeping wife and gave her a big nudge: 'Hey,KAFFE!' and off she trotted with a tired grin!

Before leaving, we parted with a few odds and ends such as unused silk liners, a waterproof jacket and a knife in way of a thankyou and headed onto a road that soon returned, thankfully, to gravel. We soon hit tarmac and descended the mountain road into Vlore.

Sarah's bike had been playing up a little but had been badly affected by the mountains. Now on tarmac, the issue was highlighted by a top speed of 30mph and black smoke.

Stopping at a hotel south of Vlore, we swam in the Adriatic and slept in readiness to fix the problem the next day - and my god did we sleep well!

The next day, I got the carb out to clean it and changed the spark plg but with no joy - the problem prevailed. Calling ADAC (our breakdown service), they promised a man would come from the capital, Tirane, and pick her up.

Trying to enjoy the day, Flick mentioned the fact that she was having a few money troubles and that she wasn't sure about how far she could carry on before heading for home. This was of some shock although she had seemed quite down for some time. As is the nature of travelling like this without a support crew and Hollywood funded bank account, this is obviously a bigger problem than a broken bike.

Heading for Tirane in the night with Sarah's bike loaded onto the truck (along with a German couple who had to sleep in their broken Golf to allow room for Sarah to sit in the cab), we experienced some of the most insane driving that the world has to offer. At one point I had to beep frantically at a police car that, whilst waving to a colleague on the pavement, had swerved out into the road and was headed straight at me!

In Tirane, the ADAC rep assured us things would be sorted and put us up in a lovely hotel in town courtesy of the company. Relaxed in the knowledge that we were in good hands, we slept well and headed for the garage the next day.

The mechanic assured us it would take around two hours to fix which meant Flick would decide her fate based on the time taken to finish the work.

Two hours passed and the bike was passed as ready by the mechanic. Claiming it to have been a seal on the carb (which I knew not to be the case having seen the carb just the day before), Sarah rode off in plumes of smoke and a max speed of 30mph. Hmm, something not quite right..:!

Back we went and complained of the price we'd paid for something we knew didn't need doing. Promising to fix it free of charge as a gesture of goodwill, a very apologetic mechanic waved goodbye and we returned to the hotel for another night's sleep. This extra delay had tipped the scales for Flick and so she had decided to take the ferry from nearby Durres into Ancona on the mid-Italian coastline the next day before riding north through Switzerland and France to Calais. Knowing that her mind was made up, there was nothing to do but console her and discuss the amazing three-fifths of the trip that we had already experienced together. The next day, Sarah's bike was fixed for real and so we packed with Flick and headed with her to Durres to wave her off. The port was chaotic and dusty but she eventually got her hands on the ticket required and headed onto the ferry that in turn headed west for Ancona.

We wish her well and hope she has a safe trip into Calais and the UK. On that note, I will sign off once more before continuing with how our new team of two made it to an amazing Montenegro and Bosnia...

Mike.