...around the Adriatic Sea [mosty and very many photographs]

[Daniel Kalal]

How about a ride around the Adriatic Sea?
 
Earlier this summer I rode to Scotland; so, the opposite route would be  to to ride towards  the Balkans and then complete the loop around the Adriatic Sea by crossing  back to Italy and returning north.
 
I would allow the route to decide itself each morning, but I had  some general plan to ride as far south as Patras, Greece before crossing  over to Italy.  It didn't happen that way; things sometimes work out  differently.
 
New Jersey
 
It was once a Continental flight, and now it's a United flight, but for all  the times I've done this, only one route has ever made sense: the evening flight  from Newark to Milan, which arrives at a comfortable time in Italy to make the  train connections to Lake Como.
 

 
Italy (Repubblica  Italiana)
 
Aeroporto di Malpensa is a joy to arrive at (if not to leave).   It isn't terribly far to walk to baggage claim, and the lines at passport  control have always been short.  I only check one bag, my bright yellow  duffle-bag (which contains a smaller bright yellow duffle-bag that I'll strap to  the motorcycle seat).
 
 
Sometimes I take the bus, but this time I took the train from the airport to  the Central train station in Milan.  Which method I use just depends on what time  it is when I leave the baggage claim area.
 
 
For the last several trips, including this one, I've spent the first two nights in Lecco, which  isn't far from Mandello.  It's a nice town with easy access to the trains  as well as the Lake Como ferry system.
 
It happened that Moto Guzzi was having their open house on this same  weekend--I've been lucky with these things, and have been to several large  Guzzi events in Mandello del Lario.  I'd be stopping in on Saturday  (the same day as my arrival).
 
This is the only place in the world where you'll see so many Moto Guzzi  motorcycles of all types and years.
 

 
The crowd on the right (below) is heading into the museum (and coming  back).  I'd been through it several times already, so didn't go through  it this time.
 
 
Parts of the factory are open.  I'm not sure what this space is normally  used for, but for these events, it's turned into a showroom for the newest  models.
 

 
The assembly line is spotless--no doubt the workers spent their last half  working day of the week making it so.
   
 
The museum has by far the best collection of Moto Guzzis in the world,  but the ones in the hands of private enthusiasts are pretty impressive, too.   These were assembled in the town plaza (note the statue of Carlo Guzzi).
 

   
   
   
 
The Mandello park had vendors selling vintage parts and hard-to-find  things and food and folks camping in their tents and more and more  motorcycles parked everywhere.  That's an assembly line of crepes of  all types.  Remember that Lake Como is just a few miles from  Switzerland, France and Austria, so you'd expect the food (and the languages  you hear) to reflect that.
 
 
And, back to Lecco for the evening.  It's been a long day that began  early Friday in Kansas and is ending late Saturday (allowing also seven hours of  clock shifting).
 
 
Two foods I'll always have when I'm at the lake.  Caprese Salad (which is  little more than tomatoes and buffalo mozzarella) and Risotto con Persico  (which is a rice and perch dish that has been traditional to Lake Como for  centuries).
 
 

 
Sunday is my free day, and I'm going to visit the Villa Balbianello, which is  just outside the village of Lenno, across the lake from Bellagio.  I'll be  taking a couple of ferries to get there.
 
 
Stopping briefly at Bellagio while waiting for the next ferry.
 

   
 
Villa Balbianello was built in 1787 for the local Cardinal (who evidently  lived quite well).  It was purchased in the early 1900s by Butler Ames  (an American engineer and manufacturer) who thoroughly  restored the  house and the gardens.  Italian Guido Monzino bought it in 1974 and  after his death the estate was left to the National Trust of Italy.   Monzino was born into lots of money, and seems to have spent his life  enjoying himself by mountaineering and exploring.
 

 
The grounds are open to stroll around, but you must be part of a guided  tour to see the interior.  Incidentally, one of the Daniel Craig “James  Bond” movies was filmed on the lawn.
 
 
 
The house is just as Monzino left it.  Frankly, I would have liked  to see how Ames restored it as I'm afraid Monzino put a little more “1970”  into it than it needed.  No matter, it's quite a remarkable place.   It has multiple stories, but is built on a sloping rocky hillside so that  each story is also mostly built on solid rock and the house is built with  something of a stair-step arrangement.
   
   
   
 
Two more ferries, and back to Lecco.
 
As is usual for a weekend, there are many outdoor food vendors in Lecco.   At this cheese tent, I was introduced to real Mozzarella (the owner scoffed  at what is called Mozzarella in the United States).  He offered my a  thin slice of local mountain cheese, which really was wonderful.  I'll  finish the evening with yet another meal taken from the lake.
   
 
It's time to go  riding.
 

 
I keep a helmet and pair of boots at Agostini's so I don't need to haul  those on the airplane.  I'll unload the larger duffle-bag and repack  things into the smaller bag, which is then strapped to the back half of the  seat. Of course, I'll be wearing my riding suit, so I won't need the space  of the larger bag.
 
Coccaglio, Italy.  I'm heading east to Slovenia, keeping off the  Autostrada.
 

 
As much as I dislike the Autostrada, I wasn't making much progress  staying on the side roads.  At Lake Garda, I eventually gave it up,  took the paper ticket that the machine spit out, and got on the tollway.
 
Funny.  While droning along at 80 mph (staying with traffic), I got  to wondering what would happen if you didn't have your ticket when you got  off the Autostrada (if you do that in Kansas you'll be charged as if  you got on at the beginning of the turnpike).  You guessed it.   When I pulled to the booth, my ticket was gone, evidently it fell out of my  pocket when I got fuel at the last stop.
 
I told the man I got on at Lake Garda (and he believed me), so I didn't  have to pay any extra penalty.
 
Slovenia isn't far from here.  I've turned north on smaller roads to  avoid any congestion near Trieste.
 

 
Slovenia  (Republika Slovenija)
 
 
Smartno, Slovenia.  I'm running some pretty narrow little roads that  seemingly run up and around the steep hills without any reason or direction.
 

 
Kanal ob Soči, Slovenia.  I've just ridden across that bridge.   The river is very high and running fast.  Evidently, the nearby mountains  have recently seen tremendous rains.
 

 
Slovenia roads are terrific.
 

 
KozarÅ¡če, Slovenia.
 

 
By this time, I'm looking for hotels in each little town I run through.   Nothing is looking promising, but there is a sign pointing north to the town  of Cerkno and winter skiing.  I'll try that.  There may not be  skiing this time of year, but there are probably hotels--are they open?
 

 
Cerkno, Slovenia.  Yes; there's at least one nice hotel (with lots and  lots of vacancies).
 
 
   
   
 
Soup, then something unknown with mashed potatoes followed by a crepe for desert.   It's a good ending to the first day's ride.
   
 
On the road again and climbing over several rugged mountains.  A few of  the hairpins are sharp, but most have full radii like this one.
 

 

 
I'm back in the land of the elevated tree in each town (something also seen  in Slovakia and several other places).  Frequently, there's a sign below  (as with that white horse) and a number on the sign.  What does the number  mean?  I've no idea.
 

 
These narrow open sheds are common.  Sometimes you'll see wood stacked  (as in this instance), and other times you'll see corn drying on racks.
 

 
When the barn looks better than the house, you know the farm is  prosperous.
 

 
I'll be on that bit of road in five minutes.  I'm riding in rain off and on,  but nothing that's too objectionable.
 

 

 
Each “bud” on the monument has the name of a local patriot who died  during the second world war.  I've never seen such a design.
 
 
Narrow roads with the grass fields coming right to the pavement.  When  stopping to take a photograph, I need to be careful that the side-stand doesn't  sink into the moist ground.  There's so little traffic, that sometimes I'll  just stop in my lane and not worry about it.
 

 
Sts. Hermagoras and Fortunatus Church in Gornji Grad.  This is the largest  church in Slovenia.  This town is along the escape route taken by  eighty-seven British prisoners-of-war from Stalg XVIII in Manibor and there's a  plaque commemorating the event and the local partisans who helped them on their  way.
 
 

 
War memorials are in nearly every town.
 
 
There are larger (and much busier) roads in Slovenia, but I'm not  interested in them.
 

 
In all the countries south of Slovenia, it always seemed that Slovenian beer  was the more common.  I'd imagine that's where these hops are going.
 

 
It's hard to tell in the photograph, but there were miles of steel scrap  piled along these tracks.  I passed several steel mills, and I'm guessing  that they work more with scrap steel than anything out of the ground.
 

 
It's an all-paper “can.”  What isn't that more common?
 
 
Croatia  (Republika Hrvatska)
 
From here on, I won't be sailing across the borders.  There are  lines and passport checks and long looks from unsmiling officials.  Also,  it seems everybody wants to see the papers for the motorcycle.  “This is a  copy!  I need the original!”  Sorry, it's all I've got (while trying  to not look like a smuggler or desperate person).
 
Marija Bistrica, Croatia.  A Madonna statue, now called “our lady  queen of Croatia” is in this town.  It dates from hundreds of years and  continues to be the destination of pilgrims in Croatia.
 
 
 
 

 
A peaceful statue of a child reading near the church, and another  memorial to the people who suffered during the war (near the town square).
 
 

 
Near Planina Gornja on the Kasina River.  That old water mill is missing  parts, but it doesn't look like it'd take much to put it to running again.
 

 
This promising road is not on the paper map, so I didn't  explore it further.  It was also heading 90 degrees from where I wanted to  go, so that was another against continuing--you cannot explore every  interesting road you come across.
 

 
Lupoglav, Croatia.
 

 
KloÅ¡tar Ivanić, Croatia.
 

 
Kutina, Croatia.  The sun is setting; let's see if I can find a place to  stay.
 

 
Yes;  the Hotel Kutina will work fine.  Why is this hotel even  here?  I'm not sure; it seems larger than necessary (perhaps the  Olympics is the reason).
 
 
It's evident in many towns I've been through that the historic buildings of the  town core have been destroyed.  What replaced them is often pretty ugly.   Sometimes the outer sections of a town still have the old buildings, which is a  real advantage.
 
 
Punjeni ćevapi for dinner.  I'm not sure what that is.  Anyway, it was good.
 
 
On the road.  Such basic “factory” installations are fairly common.   Many are clearly not doing anything, and haven't for years.  This  particular place seemed to be burning wood chips (for power?).
 

 
Banova Jaruga, Croatia.
 

 
I took this shot for a reason.  This road (which parallels the main  highway) might run for fifty miles looking just like this--houses and a few  businesses lining every bit of the road.  If you look between the  houses you can see open farm fields, but at no point can you really see the  fields from the road.  It's just miles and miles and miles of an  endless town with no side streets and no relief.
 

 
The monument at the site of the Jasenovac concentration camp (established and run by  the NDH -  Croatia government of the time) at the meeting of the Sava and Una rivers.
 
Some one hundred thousand people--mostly Serbs and then Jews--were killed here.   It is noteworthy that this is a camp run by Croatia, not Germany.  it was  an extermination camp where the killing was on an individual basis not  unlike a cattle slaughter-house.
 

An aside (and it seems a good place to put this):  During this trip,  I would hear some people say things about other people that were  unfathomable and irreconcilable.  Croatia did this thing to Serbs  (true), Serbs did this thing to Bosnians (also true), and so forth.   Deciding who is righteous and who is evil only works if you can freeze  history and cut a narrow slice through it, and only holds true if you  believe the same thoughts run through every generation.
This area has such a mix of shifting borders, centuries of conflicts,  different religions and invasions on a vast scale.  Without knowing but  a fraction of the issues and the history, I am especially impressed by the  people that assembled the Dayton Peace Agreement of 1995.  Well done  Warren Christopher, Richard Holbrooke, General Wesley Clark and all the  rest.

Bosnia and  Herzegovina
 
I think this was my longest wait to get across the border.
 

 
Of course, this was all once Yugoslavia, so many of the war memorials are  dedicated to the patriots of that country.
   
 

 
Following the Sava River.
 

 
Sanski Most, Bosnia.
 

 

 
These are all Muslim markers and they all show deaths within a span of  three years.  Cemeteries just like this one are common.
 
Velagići, Bosnia. I filled up with fuel and pushed the  starter button.  The engine fired, but then died.  Repeat.   Repeat.  The engine would start just fine, but would not continue to run.
 

[Daniel Kalal]

Fuel?  Possibly.  Nobody has good things to say about the  quality of fuel in Bosnia.  But, first I checked all the fuses (and  Guzzi being Guzzi, you'll find the fuses in three different locations).   They all looked fine.
 
By now, I had plenty of help. That's young Osman (above) next to the bike; he was  a big help with translating.  The internal fuel screen looked fine; the  fuel was confirmed to be not diesel.  Just in case, we drained the tank  and replaced it with fresh (probably identical) fuel.
 
I called back to Italy, and after a fair amount of back-and-forth was  connected to the road service out of Slovenia who would be contacting  somebody near me in Bosnia.
 
Meanwhile, a couple of Osman's friends drove me to a hotel in Ključ that  I never would have found on my own.  I left the bike pushed up next to  the service station.
 

 
Peaceful is the right word.  Those hay stacks?  These were  quite common throughout the trip.  You'd see them even in highway  medians where somebody had cut and stacked the hay.  It's all manual  work.
 
 

 
The Granja Dobr flows near the hotel.  That wheel is a low-energy  way to pump water from the river.  At the top of the hill, you'll see  the dates 1941 - 1945 with the red star of Yugoslavia.
 
In the evening a few more calls were made to schedule the trailer that  would be coming down from Banja Luka the next morning.
 
 
The next morning I was picked up at the hotel, and we drove back to Velagići  to load the bike.  Unexpectedly (fortune shines), there is a Guzzi shop in  Tuzla, so that's where we're going.  North to Banja Luka, and then east to  Tuzla across some really beautiful mountains--pity I wasn't riding.
 

 
Driving...
 
 
More driving...
   
 
More driving...
 
 
Late afternoon, we arrived at Libero Sport in Tuzla.  Mirel (the  owner) said that his mechanic (Almir) would was out today working a  maintenance contract for the post office, but might be in for a short time  on Friday, and Saturday.  Clearly, I wasn't going to be going anywhere  in the next couple of days, so I asked Mirel for the name of a good hotel in  the center of town where I'd check in for two nights (at least).
 

 
Tuzla, Bosnia.  That orange building on the left (below) is my  hotel.  That distinctive column turns out to be the stairwell.  I  used it just once, but found it more ornamental than useful (and very dark  at the bottom).
   
 
Tuzla is a mix of old and new and quite a few of the grey, bare concrete  boxes that are prevalent in the larger cities.
  
 
You had to look for signs of what Tuzla might once have looked like.
 
 
The old town still exists.  It's been damaged and re-built over the  years, but it's still here.
 
 
Take notice of that marker inset in the green wall (below).  That's  the memorial for what has become known as the Tuzla Massacre.  On the  evening of May 25, 1995 (the birthday of Marshal Tito) the Army of Republika  Srpska (a self-proclaimed Serbian state within Bosnia and Herzegovina)  shelled the old town.  Seventy-one people were killed and two hundred  and forty were wounded.  All were civilians and many were under twenty  years old (celebrating the last day of school).
 

 
 
A Mosque, and an Orthodox Catholic church and others, all within sight of  each other and a wide range of people sharing the same town square.  You'd  like to take comfort that it can all work well (and it would seem now that it  does), but history says these things are not guaranteed.
 

 
 
 
 
This is an city of unexpected things.  Why is this very old barn (below,  left) here?
 
 
Caprese salad is not just found in Italy (and this seems to be made with  proper mozzarella).  On the right?  It's pasta, but then there are  all sorts of vegetables added--I'm not sure really what it was, but it was  good.
 
 
Lots of food vendors on Friday.  Lots of vendors for all sorts of  things: particularly honey, cheese and smoked meets.
   
   
 
Want fresh fruit and vegetables?  This is where you need to be.  I  don't know that the prices marked were firm as there seemed to be quite a bit of  spirited talking between customers and sellers.
 

 
Many doors had a small wreath (such as this one) hanging from the lintel.   What's it made from?  I've no idea.  This door happens to be the  entrance to the Orthodox church.  That gleaming building on the right  is the Porsche dealership.
 
 
The Slana Banja Memorial.  The victims of the Tuzla Massacre are buried  here.  Unconventionally, they have been buried side-by-side regardless of  religion.
Despite fierce opposition from religious  conservatives and radical nationalists the massacred youth, Muslim and  non-Muslim alike, were buried together in a single location in the Slana  Banja memorial complex. The killed youngsters are united in symbolism. All  graves are similar with only one identity symbol engraved under each photo  and name. Parents were given the choice of the symbol, whether religious or  secular. Many parents chose non-religious symbols, such as flowers or books.  The burial site is overlooking the city centre where the youngsters found  their tragic death.
--
   
 
Nearby are memorials and monuments from other eras and other wars.
 
 
  Friday  afternoon I got a note from Mirel (at Libero Sport) asking me to drop by the  shop.  It seems Almir had made time to come in and plug my bike into the  computer to see if they couldn't get me back on the road.  He had made good  progress.
 
The engine rpm sensor wasn't giving information to the ECU, so that was  causing the engine to shut-down immediately after starting.  Almir  opened up the connector, cleaned things, bent a bit of metal to make a  better connection, and put things back together.  Success.
 
However, there was another error code that indicated something was still  amiss with the left side HT coil during idle (even swapping the coils didn't  change the error message).  This wouldn't be a show-stopper, but might  be annoying.  Anyway, I made plans to leave Saturday morning after  their shop opened up at 10:00.
 
Meanwhile, Mirel took me nearby to his other business, Libero Cafe, where  I had the best espresso in Bosnia and a cake (made right there) that would  tide me over for the rest of the day.
  
 
The next day, Almir was buttoning things up.  He had thought about the  HT problem overnight and realized it could only be yet another poor connection.   He took care of that, and the error code was gone for good (and the bike was  flawless for the rest of the trip).
 
All I needed now was to find a station that sold good gas for my nearly  dry tank (that wasn't the cause of the problem, but let's at least start  with clean fuel) and I could be on my way.
 
Mirel wouldn't take my money, and even thought the bike was under  warrantee, he said it wasn't worth the effort to get reimbursed.  So,  if any Guzzi (or Aprilia) rider is ever in Tuzla, be sure to look up Libero  Sport; they're good folks.
 
I'm back on the back roads of Bosnia.
 

 

 
I looked for a typical farm house, and this is it.
 

 

 

 
At the top of one of the mountain passes was this excellent little  restaurant.
 
 
Spending two nights in Tuzla meant my schedule was off, so I needed to  sort things out and this was a good place to do it.
 
Not having a planned route each day doesn't mean I didn't do any  planning.  I had earlier put together a list of all the ferries that  crossed the Adriatic over the three days that I would most likely be  crossing.  The list is ranked from north to south.
 
My nominal plan had been to cross from Patras, Monday on the 5:00pm ferry  (the yellow highlight).
 

 
Patras was still possible, but that would mean pushing along on the major  highways--what would be the point?  Some of the other ferries had truly  awful departure times (12:30am!) so it fell out that leaving from Vlora made  the most sense.
 
There was a ferry leaving both Monday and Tuesday at 2:00pm.   Perhaps arriving in Vlora late Monday and then taking the Tuesday ferry  would work just fine.
 
Let's continue...
 
Riding on some very back roads, now.  There is no traffic.
 

 

 
My only concern was that the road might not stay paved even if some of  that pavement was very poor at times.
 

 
It turned out that my little paved road stayed that way until I reached  the next numbered highway (itself just a two-lane bit of blacktop).
 
 
Živaljević, Bosnia.
 

 
The area I'm riding through is virtually empty and is as quiet and  peaceful a place as you could imagine.  But, that wouldn't have been the  case just twenty years ago.
 

 
I'm only about fifteen miles from Srebrenica; it's over that hill in the  photograph (below), but there aren't any direct roads that would take me  there.  In July, 1995 Muslim Bosnians were collected and some 8,000 men  and boys were then killed by the Army of Republika Srpska.  A memorial  was opened in Srebrenica in 2003 by President Clinton (who presided over the  Dayton Peace Agreement).
 

 
Rogatica, Bosnia.
 

 
I'm finding that roads that go where I want to be are not to be found. It's  clear that the political boundaries of the last century have had a profound  influence on road building.  You might think by looking at the topography  of the area that you could guess where the roads might be, but you'd probably be  wrong.
 
By the way, that's Schweppes Bitter Lemon in that glass.  It's not  all that common in the U.S., but you'll find it everywhere in Europe.
 

 

 
Goražde, Bosnia.   I'd been heading for a town south of here for an eventual crossing into  Montenegro, but decided to stop here, instead.  The small road east to the  border looks interesting on the map, but I doubt there will be any hotels along  the way.  It's best to stop here for the night and take that road tomorrow  morning.
 

 
I often heard calls to prayer (particularly in the evenings), but was  never certain if I was hearing a broadcast recording, or if somebody was  actually standing on these minarets and sending out the call.
 

 
Patched bullet holes in many buildings isn't normal in most areas.   It is, here.
 
   
Perspective is needed.
Goražde was occupied by German troops during world war 2, then liberated  by the NLA (under Marshall Tito), then again by the Germans, then liberated  again. And, then yet again.  Aerial bombing, tanks and artillery--all  of it.  Half of the city was destroyed.
In 1992 Goražde was repeatedly under siege by the Army of Republika  Srpska (VRS).  In 1994 it was attacked by the VRS, which brought a NATO  response of air strikes.  In 1995 it was again attacked by the VRS but  repulsed by British troops (preventing a duplication of what happened at  Srebrenica).
I may talk of ugly gray concrete buildings, but I think I'm also being  unfair.
 

[Daniel Kalal]

I'm so used to routinely using engineering formulae using Greek symbols,  that I've found I can read these words without much trouble.  Sometimes  both alphabets are used (as is the case, here), but other times, you'll need  to work harder to know where you are.
 
 
The Drina River.  If you remember the news accounts of the Bosnian  War, you'll have also heard of this river.  If you look closely, you'll see  a fisherman standing in a shallow part of the water.
 

 
A little bit of old, and more dismal concrete blocks.
 
 
On the road the next morning; the road that looked so interesting on the  map.  It was!
 

 

 
Montenegro  (Црна Гора)
 
This worked out well.  I dislike having to wait in long lines at a  border crossing.  I still had to wait a bit, but it wasn't all that bad.   Incidentally, while I knew that taking this photograph might be problematic, the  official never asked me to delete the shot when he told me to put my camera  away.
 

 
In the above photograph, you'll notice that my yellow bag is on the  ground.  The papers for the motorcycle are kept under the seat, so  every time I was asked to “show me your papers” I had to unstrap the  duffle-bag so I could lift the seat.
 

 
Rain, and more rain.  At times it was very heavy.  This shot is  taken from under the protecting awning at the Montenegro border checkpoint (just  down the road from the Bosnia border checkpoint)
 

 
But, the clouds would lift and it would be perfect riding weather, again.
 

 

 
I'll soon be on that stretch of road.  I'm heading down deep into the  valley so that I can cross the river.
 

 
Over the Tara River on a nice curving multiple-arched bridge.
 

 
And, the rains come down even harder (you'll notice the water on my  helmet).  Let's have another Schweppes  Bitter Lemon and a cheese with sliced meat sandwich of some sort while I look  at the Montenegro map some more.
 
 
Following the Tara River on a long and winding road that must be one of the  more scenic roads in the world.  The size of the canyon is immense.   Some of the signs (back at the outdoor cafe, above) made comparisons to  Arizona's Grand Canyon in size.  That's a stretch, but it's still quite  amazing.
 

 

 
Where are the cars?  I don't know.  There were quite a few people  back at the bridge, but most of them came in tour busses.
 

 

 
That's a rail bridge.  I won't be on it.
 

 
Any sign that I cannot read, I just assume says “be careful of stuff up  ahead.”  I'm back on the thin little road that I'm not sure will be paved  all the way.  It was.
 

 
MateÅ¡evo, Montenegro.  Trucks around here are rugged to the extreme.   They're not fast, but I think they're unstoppable.
 
 

 
Lucky for me, while I was often riding on wet roads, I wasn't often riding in  anything more than misty rain.
 

 
I turned off the engine and got off the bike, waiting for the shepherd to  notice me and make some clearance for me.  When he did, I'd putt my way  through the sheep trying not to start a stampede.
 

 
Another classic hay stack.
 

 
This was a road to wear you out.  Miles and miles of the tightest,  twistiest curves I've ever seen.  And, if you go off the road here, you'll  wait a very long time for the next car.
 

 

 

 
The road I'm on (looking out over the valley) is climbing up on a ledge of a  steep-sided mountain.
 

 

 

 
Podgorica, Montenegro.  It's not all that late, but I don't need to make  quite so many miles.  Besides, I want to spend a night in Montenegro.   I rode to the center of the city, got off the bike, and looked around for a  hotel.
 

 
Not many choices, but what's here is very nice.  The manager dropped  by my room to give me my complimentary Koka-Kora and a Mars bar (which ought  to be enough sugar for this evening).
 
 
A memorial park.
 

 
The view from my hotel.  If there is any part of this city that has  buildings that date before the 1950s, I didn't see it.
 

 
 
Riding south towards the border.
 

 
Albania  (Republika e Shqipërisë)
 
Lake Shkodër.
 

 
Shkodër, Albania.  This city dates from at least 300BC.  Reading  its history is a history of pretty much every empire in Europe that also would  at some point control Shkodër--continuing through the 20th century when it was  occupied by Austria during the first world war.
 
I was simply trying to get through this large city cleanly.  I was  reminded of riding in India with all manner of bicycles and cars crossing  the road any place they wanted--and sometimes going against the flow of  traffic.  There are very few stop lights; the idea is to just keep  moving with the flow and hope the cross traffic doesn't do the same.
 
I believe all Mercedes Benz cars come to Albania to live out their final  useful (and smoky) lives.
 

 
Who knows when a castle on this strategic hill was first built?  It  predates the Romans.  The current Rozafa Castle was built by the  Venetians.  The last siege was as recent as 1912 (by the combined  forces of Montenegro and Serbia against the Ottomans).
 

 

 
I had some idea of riding to Vlorë, checking the ferry situation and then  running east into the mountains for the rest of the day and perhaps  spending the night there.  All foolish.
 
There is a primary north-south highway through Albania, but regardless of  the intent when it was built, it is not a freeway.  There are other  roads that run crosswise to this main highway, but connections across these  are very few and in any case, these are not roads to make any time on.
 
The mountains to the east looked inviting, but I would not be enjoying  them.
 
Incidentally, cash was the only thing accepted--even for the ferry  ticket.  It didn't matter what sort of credit card you might carry.   Euros work if that's what you have, but you'll get Leks in return and you  may not like the exchange rate.
 
 
When I reached Vlorë, the ferry that should have left a couple hours ago  was still there.  So, I checked with the man in the ticket office, and  he said that there was still time to board.
 
I had already dismissed my plans to head into the mountains--I wasn't  going to retrace the road that brought me here under any circumstance.   And, as there seemed little point in hanging around Vlorë for the rest of  the day and half the next, I bought my ticket and rode onto the ferry--the  last one to board.
 
I was skeptical of the rope being used to lash the bike down (I do carry  my own straps), but these guys assured my they'd never lost a bike yet,  “Don't worry.”  It worked fine; they did a good job.
 

 
So long, Vlorë, Albania.  If there are any regrets for this trip, it's  that I didn't have more time to ride the Alps of Albania.  I still had  an extra day to work with, but didn't want to use my last bit of pad against  getting back to Mandello del Lario by Friday.
 

 
I never did hear why the ferry was so late leaving port, but while it was  the reason I was on this sailing in the first place, it also meant that I'd  be arriving in Italy late into the night--something I don't like doing  (without any hotel reservations or knowledge of where the hotels even might  be).
   
 
The crossing took about five hours and was surprisingly rougher than I  expected it to be.  It was a bit difficult to walk in a straight line  without crashing into a wall (all the while, thinking of the bike tied down  with rope).
 

 
Italy (Repubblica  Italiana)
 
Brindisi, Italy.
 
On top of the late arrival, the wait for customs and immigration added  another hour (at least).  Two ferries had arrived at the same time.
 

 
My plan was to follow the signs to the center of town, locate the piazza,  park the bike and look around (my little GPS is not backlit, so it would be  no help in the dark).
 
Success. 
 
Hotel Torino is a good one (with original artworks in the rooms and  hallways and a nice breakfast in the morning).  You can just see the  bike parked under the window, to the right of the entrance door.
 
 
Running along the Adriatic I saw dozens of these things.  I'm  certain they are kilns, and I'd even guess that they are lime kilns (but I  really don't know).
 

 
You'll find olive trees most everywhere in Italy, but this region is extra  thick with them.
 

 
Italy is shaped like a boot.  Just above the heel is what might be seen  as the spur of the boot.  That's Promontorio del Gargano.  My plan is  to ride around the coastline.
 

 
What a spectacular road it is.  And, the color of the Adriatic  Sea--wow!
 

 

 

 

 
Vieste, Italy is at the easterly most point of the promontorio.  It's a  fashionable looking place, and appears to have played that role for a very long  time.
 

 

 
You'll find both dense forests and wide olive groves.
 

 
Peschici, Italy. Another town along the promontorio coastline.
 
 
Caprese salat and gnocchi.
 
 
looking back at Peschici's old town.
 

 
Rounding out from the promontorio and back to the straight line of Italy's  Adriatic coastline.
 

 
Termoli, Italy retains its ancient walls on all sides.
 

 
I used the “stop, park and walk around” technique to find a hotel,  and this as a good one--just outside the old walled town and on the beach.
 
 
That's a Trabucco (below).  I saw a number of these rickety looking things along  the coast.  Evidently, they're used to drop a net into the water for easy  fishing.  I  would guess that while they were once useful and productive things, they're now  retained for being historic and scenic.
 

 
 

 
Walking through the old town.
   
 
 
While there, the organ was being played by a student and his teacher.   The pipes sounded terrific.
 
 

 
The view north from the town wall.  My hotel is just to the left.   Those are empty lounge chairs on the beach.
 

 
 
The “new” part of town is inland from the walled town.  Being Italy,  things don't even open and the people don't come out until the sun goes down.
 

 
This is the smaller planning map that I kept in my riding suit (in  addition to whichever detailed map I needed at the time).  Each night I  mark each spot I've been to give me a better idea of my overall pace and  where I should expect to be by the next night if I want to make it back to  Mandello in time.  There are six crossings of the Adriatic Sea that I  had marked ahead of time.  I eventually used the fourth one down (the  point where the crossing is the most narrow).
 
The next morning, the staff of the Hotel Santa Lucia is cleaning the  entrance.
 
 
Riding up the coastline.  Sometimes the beach is sand, and sometimes  it's small rocks.
   
 
That coastal road isn't changing much, so let's turn inland and try to make  my way north by picking any small road that's going my way.
 

 

 
I had the good idea to stop in Penne and have Penne for lunch.   It was a good idea (still is), but I missed the turn through the gate and  into the ancient walled hilltop town, and nothing else looked promising, so  I missed my chance.
 

 
Some of these roads seemed as if they were about to slide down the hill.   Often there'd me a warning sign, but I learned to just be careful to avoid  the sharp drops where the road was subsiding.  At times barely the  width of one lane remained.
 

 
I'm standing in the field to take this shot (below), when the owner (I'm  guessing) from the farm-house across the road walks out, pulling his  suspenders over his shoulders (wearing only an undershirt) while looking  narrowly at me.  I waved my left hand across the panorama in front of  me while holding up my camera in my right hand and said “Bella!”   That's when he brightened and broke into a big smile and nodded at me.   Bella, indeed.
 

 
Comunanza, Italy.
 

 

[Daniel Kalal]

Amandola, Italy is another walled town.  I rode through the gate (a  phrase; the gate is usually not even there) and into the piazza following  signs for the Hotel Paradiso, but not knowing what to expect.
 
The road was quite steep and narrow and seemed to be climbing to the very  top of the old castle hill.  One more gate (and this time it really is  a gate) and I reach the 1950s vintage Hotel Paradiso.  What a terrific  place.
   
 
Walking the steep streets of Amandola.
   
 

   
 
Within the abbey walls, and painted in the alcoves above the isles are  paintings...
 

 
...remarkable scenes of times from long ago (yes; there has been much  restoration work done).

 
Yes; this is a public street.  At least it's one-way.
 
 
I heard birds singing, and at first didn't know where they were.
 
 
 
Back down in the piazza.  Incidentally, there are some remains of the  old castle next to the hotel, but I suspect it's been in ruins for several  centuries.
 

 
 

 
Stopping for gelato.  This little shop sells gelato, pastry, coffee  and drinks.
 
 
Dinner is included in the price of the room (as is breakfast and that small  pitcher of wine, which is now empty).  The owner explains the choices  (usually just two for each course) and is happy to discuss each one with you.   Most of the guests were at tables along the same wall I'm next to and it wasn't  long before everybody knew everybody else.  I was surrounded by several  very well-travelled people.  All of them knew this hotel well, and made a  point to come here every year.  They were a bit surprised when I said I  just happened to it and otherwise knew nothing about it.
 

 
 
It's a colder morning than I'd seen the entire trip.
 

 
It's a trick travelling north (that is, parallel to the Italian  peninsula) when most of the primary roads want to run crosswise.
 

 

 

 
I'm heading higher into the mountains.  At some point along this route,  I plugged in my electric vest.  It's nice that I didn't carry that thing  around in my duffle-bag while never needing to use it.  I needed it here.
 

 

 
Cafe Colorado Route 66.  Sigh...
 
While Colorado does border Kansas, Oklahoma, and New Mexico (and Arizona,  sort of)--three states that Route 66 does pass through--Route 66 does not go  through Colorado.  It's not so obvious, but the theme of this  restaurant is meant to be “Mid-America Diner.”  No doubt when an  Italian is in some supposed Italian Cafe in Kansas they'll take photographs,  too.
 

 
Bagno di Romagna.  It's raining (sometimes hard), it's quite cold and  windy, and there's absolutely no reason to keep going.  This looks like a  good place to stop.
 

 
 
I'm at the Grand Hotel Terme Roseo, which is nice, but certainly still  not the best hotel in town.  This old spa town has attracted visitors  for many years.
 
 
 

 
Evidently, some years ago a resident said he saw a gnome in these woods.   Not to let this opportunity be wasted, there are now quite a few gnome-based  gifts you can buy.  I didn't.
 
 
 
This was my last day on the road.  I had some thought to stay in the  hills to Parma, but in the end (considering it was still raining and cold  this morning), I just shot down to the Po River valley and ran back to Milan  on the Autostrada.
 
Arriving back at Agostini.  That's Stefano, the new man behind the  parts counter (working with Lucca).  He and Lucca were of great help  when I was back in Bosnia trying to sort through the arrangements to have  the bike towed.
 
 
There's a member on the sport touring Internet forum (alias of Orson) who  also has been solo riding a Moto Guzzi across Italy and Europe for a number of  years.  His home base is Parma, while mine is Mandello.  We've crossed  paths several times, and a few years back were even in the same town at the same  time, but had never met.  Arrangements (of a sort) were made to meet in  Bellagio, so that's where I'm heading.
 
The ferry and I both reached the dock at the same time.  I've walked  down from Agostini having unloaded the bike and left it there.
 

 
 
And so, we finally meet.  Anyway, at least long enough for a beer before I  need to return on the last ferry out of Bellagio that's going my direction.
 
 
As always, I spent that last night in Mandello at Mamma Ciccia's B&B  before catching the train back to Milan.
 
 
The old Palace next to the Duomo (now a gallery) does a good job of rotating several new  exhibits each year (it's large enough to have at least two different exhibits at  any given time).
 
I went through an exhibit of ancient Roman and Greek art as seen through  the connection of nature and mythology (perhaps a little too academic).   Some of the very old works showed the elaborate houses that were built on  the shores of the Italian Lakes.  Some things haven't changed.
 
 
And this?  It's the largest gathering of alphorns outside Switzerland.   Five hundred years ago, Swiss soldiers came over the high pass to Milano to  support Duke Sforza.  To commemorate that event, a record-setting 420  alphorns played in the piazza Duoma.
 

 
For such a large horn, it makes a surprisingly sweet sound.
 
 
The trick to tossing flags is to do it with an easy grace and to never look as  if you're trying to catch a javelin that might kill you.
 

 
Walking about Milan.
 
 
Respect.
 
 
Two iconic buildings of Milan: the Milano Centrale Railway Station and  the Pirelli Building.
 
 
I think I had these same two dishes just a few days ago.  But,  Gnocchi changes across regions, so it's never really the same.
 
 
The (seemingly) endless flight(s) back.
   
 
When in Chicago, you should always have a Chicago Dog--you can't buy one in Italy.

 
An excellent trip.  I didn't make it to Greece (nor to Serbia), but  that's of no real consequence; what I saw was amazing.  And the  electrical problem in Bosnia that took two days out of the trip?  I  don't know that I could meet so many people willing and happy to help me any  place else.  I wouldn't have known that if the bike had started in the  first place.

[Chuck in Indiana]

Wow.

[Bill Hagan]

Wow.

Exactly. 

Thanks, Daniel ... yet again.

Bill

[Bonafide Bob]

Great reading and pictures.

[Demar]

Absolutely Awesome Daniel. Thank you very much for posting the pictures and ride reports. I'm rushing out now to buy a Mega Millions ticket so I can attempt a similar trip.

[lucian]

Those are some beautiful images , thank you for that. May I ask how you posted so many images, I am still struggling to load one at a time through photo bucket. It would take me two weeks to do that!

[Daniel Kalal]

May I ask how you posted so many images, I am still struggling to load one at a time through photo bucket. It would take me two weeks to do that!

the quick answer: you only need put the link (pointer) to your photograph in the comments box on wildguzzi.com  For my photographs, I have my own domain where I keep them, but it hardly matters where you keep them.  I assemble these monstrous posts first in Word, and then copy it over.

By the way--some of the town names have strange numbers after them.  Those numbers are the remnants of the extended ASCII character set that didn't transfer too well; you can ignore them.

[Peter from Sch'dy]

Bravo!

[johnr]

 Your trip posts are a 'must open' Daniel. Once again, excellent.

[LowRyter]

thanks 

[rboe]

Ufdah!


 

[mwrenn]

Grazie Mille! 
Traveling vicariously through your posts is always wonderful!

[coastdude]

Excellent, very inspiring. Thanks!

[Dogwalker]

Great report, thanks! :)

[HarveyMushman]

Fantastic. 

[Chuck in Indiana]

I was speechless last night.. your best yet, Daniel.  Thanks especially for the pix of Bosnia. My best friend in grade school commanded a MASH unit during the war. We met for the first time since then at our 30th high school reunion. He said it was a truly beautiful country, and was right, apparently.

[lucydad]

Fantastic trip!  Thank you!

[jcctx]

Thanks for sharing!!!

[Guzzistajohn]

Nice work Daniel, glad you could get some cows in there!

[MGrego]

Spectacular !  Thank you for sharing !

[cmgies]

Wow!

[Aaron D.]

Thank you so very much!

[charlie b]

Nice.

FWIW, the Serb/Croat/Albanian thing goes back as far as their religions.  None really had countries as that area has been 'conquered' so many times it will make your head spin.  Claims and counter claims.  Huge numbers killed over the years.

My grandfather and great-grandfather came over to the US in 1903.  Both ended up in AZ and the copper mines.  Many slavs did the same, and, they brought with them their biases.  Separate cemetaries for Croat and Serb.  They lived in separate areas, had separate bars, restaurants, etc.  My grandfather had a diner in Globe, AZ.  He would comment that he'd rather serve a black/indian/mexican than a Croat.  His hero was Gen Pershing since Pershing helped defeat the old line (remember that WWI was started due to a Serb taking out his frustration on the archduke).  My mother will still not speak to a Croat.  And my uncle was the black sheep of the family when he married a catholic (even tho she was not a Croat).  When at West Point one of my fellow cadets was a Croat (his grandparents immigrated to the US) and he still hated the Serbs.

[bpreynolds]

As usual, inspiring and ridiculously gorgeous photos. 

[Nick]

Great job Daniel!
I see that you were very close to my native village in Abruzzo. 

[rdbandkab]

Great pictures! 

[jackson]

Once again, you've done an outstanding job of letting the rest of us go with you on your journey.   
Absolutely, outstanding!