6D cinema and bodged teeth

Links:

6D cinema, where it looks like you got rained on and "jigged around a bit"

Sloppy dentistry

Internal navigation

My internal navigation usually serves me well. Getting from one place to another usually involves convincing myself that whatever distance I have to walk “isn’t too far”, then setting off with whatever I’m using as a map (usually not a map), trying - usually with unvarying success -  to remain cheerful and take things in.

This works at home in dear old Blighty. It usually works when I’m ‘on the continent’ and, even despite the Milton Keynes-esque street and avenue layouts in America, it worked there too.

What I didn’t account for on this journey was, however, that, 1) somewhere on the way out, my internal compass was damaged by a combination of Terravision heat, E Clapton’s lame rock and Stansted rutting, and 2), that while Italy and Belgrade were okay, street and other directional signs were either in Cyrillic (Sofia) or just didn’t exist (Bar). Actually, they weren’t that great in Belgrade either.

Hotel MD

Links:

Hotel MD, Bar

Looking for Kojak

Looking for Kojak

The phantom ducks and stroll through Bar’s tidy town centre (enlivened by dentists’ adverts and a shopping centre made from what looked like concretised, half-sunk War of the Worlds tripods) set me up for the search for the Kojak Apartments. My handwritten transcription from Hostel Bookers was fine until I got to the point where the accommodation should have been. It wasn’t. And no amount of time looking (err, two hours) helped. In this time, I sidestepped dead hedgehogs on Zukotrlica Beach and received a clear indication that the street I was after was only one or two turnings away from a tobacconist set up on a residential side road. It wasn’t*.

It turned out I was in the wrong bloody town. Not only did Hostel Bookers mess me up, but I spent much of my time circling the Susanj tourist booth. Which I assumed was in, err, Susanj. Where Kojak was. The booth was shut, but its presence confirmed I was in the right area. KOJAK. In flippin SUSANJ. Yes, my research was lacking, but even so, Hostel Bookers clearly had that online golf tee pointing where Kojak wasn’t, but I was in the right area. Surely…?

No, as it turned out. The Susanj tourist booth turned out to be in Bar rather than in Susanj. And they - Bar and Susanj - were two distinct places. It all seemed too spiteful and designed to make me fail.

After huffing, puffing and getting overly acquainted with Bar’s northern outskirts - and not Susanj’s - I wandered into the kitschy looking MD Hotel and was told a night’s stay was 30€. I grabbed it. The MD was fine, even if the enthusiastically prepared breakfast cheese omelette next morning was nasty (egg ok; cheese a disaster).

* Note - it appears that Kojic may have been in Bar after all, having looked at the Facebook link. I don't know.....

Bar; harbour and St Jovan Vladimir Church

Links

Bar port
St Jovan Vladimir Church (orthodox)

Bar ducks

We arrived early in Bar. I headed for the port exit, fending off of an indecent number of taxi drivers descending on passengers like weird CGI. I followed my trusty and eminently sensible routine of plotting my route out as soon as I arrive somewhere new and headed for the train station. Bar was upmarket although a little dull. Its setting, however, cradled by mountains, is spectacular. And the sun was up; 23-25ºC, well before 9am, which had me reaching for lotions and long sleeves.

I concentrated on ‘ambling’ and dealing with the hefty weight on my back, before turning away from town and onto the road to the bus and rail stations where I encountered ‘phantom fowl’. Ditches parallel to the footpath were marked both by their vegetation and the noisy cries of angry ducks. Being something of an ornithologist, I was keen to see these beasts, which were proving splendidly adept at making themselves heard but not seen.

I’d been duped, however. The lack of movement, a certain repetition in the calls and the whiff of looping tapes led my nimble brain to suspect I was hearing duck deterrent rather than quacking chat. I felt foolish for having tried to flush one or two of these fake birds from the foliage through well-placed kicks, and the odd stone or two. I put my head down and carried on towards the station.

Link - Muscovy Duck

Artwork on the Sveti Stefan 2

I really, genuinely love this artwork. Yes, it's kitsch and scrappy, but there's also something very profound in it too.

Bari to Bar ferry

Links:

Montenegro Lines
Port of Bar

On board the Sveti Stefan 2

I was saved by an incredibly helpful, somewhat put upon employee in an opulently-fitted-out office sometime in the early 1980s. So, panic over. Except I then made the mistake of trying to find a cash machine in Bari. Which, on reflection, makes me sound world weary and terribly knowledgeable about the nuances of travel, but which, believe me, was a pain in the backside. The fact that a carnival was in full swing made trying to find the hidden atms of Bari a ruddy nightmare, but I found one, eventually.

Sveti Stefan ferry

After all the travel and panic, then an unsatisfactory, hastily bought meal at Bari ferry terminal, I was exhausted. Sveti Stefan’s deserted restaurant, a couple of chilled Sick Nicks and the piped accompaniment of Balkanised renditions of Christmas carols provided temporary respite until the arrival of Emma from Toronto. Poor Emma from Toronto. Emma from Toronto was a lone traveller who, like me, may have been on a ‘get away from it all’ excursion. Unlike me, she attracted the gushing attention of Sveti Stefan’s Restaurant Manager, who took it upon himself to introduce her to every member of staff and anyone else who happened to wander past. The man bellowed, although to be fair, he was quite charming. Eventually, after a little good natured chat, Emma from Toronto grabbed her belongings and fled.

As did I. The Luxury Lounge where I’d booked an unwanted luxury reclining seat was shabby but empty enough to allow me to stretch out for an excellent night’s sleep after twenty hours on two trains, a plane and a coach. I woke up next morning with the beautiful Montenegrin coastline to starboard side. Or it might have been port. Left hand side, anyway.

Panic in Bari

I realised, with a jolt, that I should have checked into the Montenegrin Lines ferry whilst looking at a partial print out of the booking confirmation in the terminal. You didn’t have to check in for trains; why would you for ferries? Well, there it was, in black and white, accusing and suggesting I was in for some sweaty diplomacy.

There followed a dramatic half hour in which I anticipated the cost of saving my holiday without taking the ferry. (My plan, which I ended up not needing, was a train north, then flying back to the UK from Pescara or somewhere equally as cheap and provincial, or getting as far as I could on non-discount train tickets, then hoping for the best).

Stazione Marittima Bari

More text soon, for people who like things to read.

Links in the meantime:
Stazione Marittima Bari
Tomato Ketchup - example

Trenitalia, Pescara to Bari 19 euros

Intercity 605. This is a crazy link, as it contains sound files for announcements made, presumably in the train, for each station.

Italian loco. Probably the sort used on this service.

Peroni and Italian stamp sheet

Links

Where you can't buy Peroni (the answer is Skegness)
SAICAF coffee at the office
Italian post service

Pescara station; commerce

Links - Star Wars, Tights, Segafredo

Advert and receipt in Pescara

No links from this page.

Pescara - Bari

So, yes, two hours. Time enough to scout Centrale’s car park and forecourt, have a few more coffees and a gander round the station’s discount bookshop, and its tiny English section of inevitable dog eared copies of budget print classics. Two hours wasn’t enough to take in the Adriatic or Apennines, although it was plenty of time for me to think about the rest of the journey - which I hadn’t even properly started - would soon be over. I wrote postcards and pondered the proliferation of tiny shopping malls and car showrooms I’d seen on my walk down Via Amendola, before getting ready for the train.

My Bari train was InterCity; and, as such, a notch down from whatever long nose Pendolino does the same trip minutes faster. I shared a comfortable apartment as far as somewhere near Foggia with a bloke who intermittently dozed as we dived in and emerged out of tunnels after leaving Pescara and running along the Adriatic shoreline. This fellow woke up a little later and enhanced his ‘very good travelling companion’ credentials by chatting to a mother carrying a baby with a huge surgical scar running lengthways from its forehead to crown and round the back of its head to the nape of its neck. The mother was chatty, the scarred baby perfectly happy, and my travelling companion convivial.

Other link:

Piaggio P.166 DL3, Italian Coast Guard

Arriving in Pescara

A doddle. Nice small airport. I made a half hearted attempt to locate the bus, but a ‘to scale’ map indicated town as being only a couple of runways’ length away. I decided to take my chances with the sun, lizards and swifts. In the event, and despite the considerable weight of my very solidly built army surplus rucksack, I enjoyed strolling past samey, well-stocked bars equipped with garden furniture, unattended packets of cigarettes and Bic lighters pushed up to the front of the premises.

Soon, however, I realised that while Pescara has one airport it has two railway stations. Maybe more. And while I needed Centrale station, the wonderfully direct route straight down Via Amendola turned out to be a wonderfully direct route somewhere else. Porta Nuova station, where I ended up, was only one stop from Centrale and there was, accordingly, little inconvenience, but this navigational mishap was only one of a number of logistic faux pas (or passes) which came to characterise my journey.

At Centrale, I put my bag down in one of the coffee concessions tucked among the shops built into the station’s concourse under the platforms. I queued behind a far-too timid English lady who took an age to get served, before I swept up to the counter and confidently ordered “uno cappuccino”. This, and a sneaky look after the cash register was rung enabled me to cruise through my first Italian encounter. I immediately texted Anj to tell her. And then realised I had about two hours before the train.

So, yes, two hours. Time enough to scout Centrale’s car park and forecourt, have a few more coffees and a gander round the station’s discount bookshop, and its tiny English section of inevitable dog eared copies of budget print classics. Two hours wasn’t enough to take in the Adriatic or Apennines, although it was plenty of time for me to think about the rest of the journey - which I hadn’t even properly started - would soon be over. I wrote postcards and pondered the proliferation of tiny shopping malls and car showrooms I’d seen on my walk down Via Amendola, before getting ready for the train.

Flight FR982

Flight FR982

Stansted "Ruddy" Airport

I entered the airport with nothing resembling a spring in my step or happy tune in my head. The half bracing, half whiffing-of-kerosene walk from the bus station to Stansted’s trampoline-shape passenger terminal provided nowhere near enough respite from the horror of the bus. ‘Plane-side’ was a Dante-esque RING OF HELL, with 6am stag parties in full swing, pushing soggy brains in big head swollen faces into every available sit-down place. The recycled air was saturated with foot odour, coffee breath and unrequited weariness. Happily, Pescara wasn’t high on the list of idiot destinations and although Ryanair had already blotted their copy book by pulling the flight forward from 7.30 to 7am (necessitating doubling back from London rather than scooting through north and east Hertfordshire on the National Express), the flight was fine, with concessions made to otherwise nervy flyers in the form of a special deal on 14 (FOURTEEN) scratch cards.

(I looked to try and verify this ridiculous offer online, but couldn’t get past the various websites dedicated to disliking and besmirching Ryanair’s err, “good” name).

Other links - Eurospin, 740351

Planes, trains and automobiles

Usually, I spend time and care planning these trips. And usually, they are train trips, looking - to some extent - for scenery over the quickest or most direct routes, and making sure I have a decent amount of time for ‘ambling about’.

On this occasion, cost, time and logistics pushed me to compromise this aesthetic, which I like to think has some echo of romance and the fleeting feel of “heading off” to new horizons. This was a shame, as flying between regional airports and suffering crappy coach transfers is about as spiritual and glamorous as a slipped disc.

So, to the beginning. The real and proper beginning, once everything is weighed and packed. I’m up and it’s the middle of night. At two in the morning, High Town is quiet but lit by the bright junk shop and its wooden artefacts shining through plate glass. Despite the hour, the run from Luton into Blackfriars feels bog standard apart from the pitch black, raw outside, and even though I’m sharing the carriage with a smartly attired man in a naval outfit - too few stripes for an admiral? - and about eight other people, none of whom seem to have much sense of time or place (is this a train service, or merely a pointless exercise in moving carriages?)

After strolling from Blackfriars in the ‘will-it-won’t-it-rain’ past half full, perfectly still early morning city bars, past a man with a scarf pulled over the lower part of his face who apologised as he passed (for what?), the Terravison bus from Liverpool Street to Stansted was barely endured. I would challenge anyone not to suffer in an overheated, oxygen-free tin can piped with the putrid soft rock strains of E Clapton and other late night/early morning easy listening aberrations.

As the coach picked through a few unnecessary narrow east London streets then struck out on shiny new Olympic carriageways and flyovers, I looked forward to my tomato sandwiches, even while accepting that Terravision’s heat and the shifting weight in my army surplus rucksack will have folded, mulched and fossilised them.

What I bought for the trip

It’s advisable not to think too much about what to pack for such a caper. Not, at least, until you’ve selected and purchased a load of stuff which, in either one tremendous swoop or several expeditions, you’ve picked up because you have a vague hope that, at some point, it “might come in handy,” while realising it actually won’t. The first thing I dusted down was my combined knife, saw, tweezers, toothpick and bottle opener Swiss Army app. I put it away again, on remembering it’s on the list of gizmos not allowed - NO WAY - to take onto the plane (or ANY plane) as hand luggage.

A shame.

Still, I was able to pack my convertible trousers which I bought from a swank arcade after being drenched in Llandudno a couple of summers back. They’re a garment precisely invented for my demographic - unzipping legs and light fabric give the illusion of adventure, and conceivably a head start in the necessity, should it arise - and you just never know - of off-road wading through Balkan swamps. The detachable legs could also serve as emergency tourniquets. All in all, these Welsh strides are excellent, and not only on account of their swamp wading and tourniquet applications; they don’t chafe, have a wonderful and generously expandable waistline and don’t show the dirt.

Otherwise? Well, a check of my Ordnance Survey maps found me short on ‘that sort of thing,’ (my collection being confined to Luton & Stevenage, one or two of the adjoining maps and one or two from UK holidays), so I bought guides for Belgrade (Vladimir Dulovic, Komshe) and Sofia (Thomas Cook mini guide). Dulović was excellent; T Cook dreadful. More of which later.

Punk City, politics and other concerns

The second area of concern was political. The apparent return of the Cold War shouldn’t have concerned me - not really - as a fair distance from Eastern Ukraine. Countries like Moldova and Romania and breakaway states like Transnistria were closer however, and talk of US military exercises in Poland rattled my over-sensitised ‘worry’ radar.

In hindsight, I should have been more concerned with meteorological matters, as the frequent, often heavy downpours in Belgrade and Sofia weren’t only unwelcome, but also heralded serious flooding which, thankfully, I managed to avoid.

My other concerns were a mixed bag. Things like:

• “Can a trip to Montenegro, Belgrade and Sofia legitimately be referred to as ‘Balkan’?”
• “How will I deal with not knowing how to say “hello”, “thank you” and “goodbye” in the various languages I should have equipped myself with?”
• “Beer or pivo?”
• “Desert boots or deck shoes?”
  
  
  
  

Other links - Punk City, Sofia

What on earth am I doing?

Good question. I thought about this very question in Belgrade and then in Sofia, dodging storms, scouring tourist guides and feeling stuck, isolated and - rather uncharacteristically - a long way from home. Not understanding a word anyone said for days on end exacerbated this situation. There must - I thought - be a nice, easy description of what I was up to. As it happens, there is - “past sell-by/post InterRail” city-hopping. Running round trying to “find” myself when, even though, to some extent, I’m already lost. (Either lost, or so expertly, thoroughly found, that the whole venture is a self-absorbed nonsense). A pre-midlife midlife-crisis, and not my first either. Was I traveling? Or merely moving from one city to the next?

Age and traveling solo aside, there are a number of key differences between ‘proper’ InterRailing, and my mildewed ‘Generations’ version:

I did not tear up with the natives
Most of what I got up to in Montenegro, Belgrade and Sofia could comfortably have been accomplished with a one day travelcard and an iPod. But then again, I enjoyed much better scenery and a markedly different atmosphere. Most of the natives I encountered were ‘impatient’, though you can hardly blame them. And, it’s important to add, they didn’t tend towards rudeness. And there were plenty of mitigating factors too; some of them, after all, may have seen cockerney bovver boys on telly, or have flown into or out of Stansted, or come across Little Englishers hamming up ‘harmless’ quasi political racism, much of which is directed towards Eastern Europe.

I did not jabber with a crazed shyster poetic Buddhist travelling companion
Rather, I occasionally smiled at witty snippets from pre-recorded radio shows. This, and loudly ‘la-la-la’-ing along to jazz or jazzy tunes has always been my best defence against attack, and are activities which, I’m happy to say, come quite naturally to me.

Booze?
Yes. Though often as not, a small amount guiltily and confusedly consumed in hotel rooms. And more often than not, this booze was ‘dubious’, although Montenegrin “Sick Nick” was far more palatable than some purportedly Belgian tin-fizz I bought in Sofia which had the undeniable tang of rubber.


After deciding to visit the Balkans, I wondered about sleeping. ‘How’ was easy. In a bed? Yes. Eyes? Closed. Naturally. Booking a trans-American journey the year before had been a doddle. The choice was more limited in Belgrade and Sofia, and especially more so in Bar. That said, booking rooms wasn’t a problem and on paper (or at least online) and the Sofia hotel looked appealingly, kitschy Communist. Belgrade looked happily perfunctory; Bar vaguely interesting.

Signs of the Balkans

There will be some meaningful text soon. In the meantime, relax and enjoy these graphic things.

The route

Route. Pronounced "root" as in 'root vegetable'. NOT flipping "rout" as in 'Well, well; I hope the Mighty Hatters rout the flippin' 'Ornets at the weekend'.

Too much flying, but you can't have everything.

Introduction...?

Less an introduction; more the cover page. This is my second "On the Rails" blog after my American jaunt a little while back.

This is an account of my trip to Montenegro, Belgrade and Sofia.