Veloroute 6 took me out of Austria, into Slovakia for two hours (the bridge over the river to the pretty stuff was cut in half) and dumped me in Hungary. If there’s one thing I like it’s cycling into different countries on cycle paths.

Hungary then. Mostly flat. Pretty hot. Daft currency (so daft people don’t want to change it). If a currency regularly hits the thousands then you’d may as we’ll knock some zeros off in my eyes.

My first look at Slovakia.

A bridge too far.

There also didn’t really seem to be much happening in Hungary. Granted I hit Veszprem, one of the bigger cities, on a Sunday, and by all accounts the Hungarians have recently pulled the religious card and opted to close everything imaginable in the name of god. Except stuff around Lake Balaton. Now I imagine this place is quite nice if you turn up any other day than a sweat-your-bollocks-off Sunday, but that’s when I turned up and what I got was a slightly more posh and organised Butlins. I didn’t even get to see the lake for half an hour because of all the privately owned beaches hawking space to all the half-naked Hungarians.

The Balaton Lake

Bikes on boats

I’m a big fan of bikes on boats, and these Hungarians had a slick operation going on — two of your hard earned Euros and your across (but not before pouring a couple of beers down my neck on the beach). Over the water, Hungary decided to throw in some hills, which would’ve been easily dispatched had it not been for the 40+ degree heat it was packing, leaving me looking like I’d just stepped out of the shower. At this point I decided to look into getting some accomodation once I got to Kaposvar, the choices being — the bleakest hostel I have ever seen (we’re talking on an industrial estate, knackered concrete walls and bars on the windows), or, a cheap hotel that looked like the set of an 80s sitcom. 80s sitcom it was.

I have entered, and survived, a real life time warp. Maybe I’m Michael J. Fox. After all this cycling, my hands will probably shake like his.

I know I’ve mentioned this a few times, but forty degree heat. Forty. Degrees. Every day. I think the accumulative effect of this had left me with about a litre of fluid for my body to operate (and that’s derived from beer). Time for an upgrade. A trip to a hardware store and LIDL later and I’d strapped three more litres to the sides of The Tangerine Dream, upping my water capacity to 5.5 litres, enough hot water to keep me going for at least a day, including dodgy, hand-poured showers in a field.

Five point five litres of lovely, refreshing hot water, ladies and gentlemen.

Route 66

The plums have turned.

At this point, I’d like to take a moment to thank McDonalds… again. I’ve spent a large amount of time knelt outside their establishments, stealing their wifi, and it’s not without recognition. Cheers Ronald. In Pecs, this lead to good news, Adrijan, from WarmShowers had got back to me offering a place to stay, so I veered a bit more south east towards the Croatian border.

They seemed a bit surprised when I rolled up on The Tangerine Dream. One lassie asked for my passport — the first time since Dover — and hollered over another lassie who took a look at it, glanced at me and said “It’s valid”, before handing it back and raising the barber’s pole to Croatia. I suppose it’s handy to get a second opinion now and then.

So Eastern Croatia then, it seems all the money gets sucked to the east coast. There’s not a lot really; flat, tiny villages, lots of fields. I even saw my first horse and cart in action, the precious cargo; three watermelons. I felt like telling him to give the poor horse the day off.

The long, flat, forty degree ride to Vinkovci was a bit of a grueller, a race against time to meet Adrijan. Fortunately, as I rolled into town another cyclist pulled up beside me whilst I was squinting at my GPS and iPhone trying to figure out where Adrijan’s place was. As soon as I mentioned Adrijan’s name he laughed “He’s my buddy!” before calling him up and telling me we’d ride into town and meet him.

Now, once we’d met up and started cycling it became apparent that Adrijan and Ivica own this town, pretty much every other person got a hello, even a copper told us to get off our bikes, before realising it was Adrijan and waved us on. We got some food, some beer, and talked bikes for a while, a perfect evening in my eyes, before heading back to his, meeting his awesome family and getting my head down in a real bed. The next morning he even showed me the way out of town, before saying our goodbyes as I pedalled towards Bosnia, armed with my napkin map and no idea what to expect.

Adrijan. Ivica. Adrijan’s family. You are bonafide heroes.

Adrijan and his Dad. Heroes.

Bosnia-bound