Back to Blighty

By David Ward

The former Yugoslavia, on the brink of war and disintegration, was a scenic but intriguing location in which to undertake a cycling tour on a shoestring. The most formidable challenge proved to be finding a way out and returning home safely once the tour was completed, in a country where the unexpected came to be expected.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jun 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9781665588997

David Ward

David Ward is an established lawyer practicing in Sheffield and specializing in insolvency and dispute resolution. He has been cycling since his teenage years both in the UK and in continental Europe.

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Copyright © 2021 DAVID WARD. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  06/17/2021

ISBN: 978-1-6655-8900-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-8901-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-8899-7 (e)

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CONTENTS

Introduction

Chapter 1   Kardeljevo

Chapter 2   Zagreb

Chapter 3   Munich

Chapter 4   Oostende And Beyond

Epilogue

INTRODUCTION

The former Yugoslavia. This phrase, so familiar to us today, due to its daily prominence in radio and TV bulletins, refers to an area in the Balkans of south eastern Europe. Nowadays associated with political turmoil and military confrontation, it enjoyed a long period of relative calm from the end of the Second World War until the 1980s, under the autocratic control of its wartime resistance leader Tito who, whilst maintaining a communist political and economic system, had been successful in keeping the lid on the religious and ethnic melting pot over which he presided.

During that period of comparative stability, the country’s popularity with foreign tourists steadily increased, with the beautiful Dalmatian coast, and its Jewel of the Adriatic, Dubrovnik, attracting sightseers from far and wide, especially during the summer months.

The vast majority of those arriving from Great Britain would generally have been holidaymakers on an organised package tour with a travel company; but it was the minority venturing there under their own steam who were more likely to experience a taste of everyday life in that totalitarian state. This is the tale of four such individuals on the last stages of a cycling tour spent exploring its celebrated scenic coastline, and how the problems posed by our unfamiliarity with an alien system of administration turned a summer adventure holiday into an unexpected nightmare.

At a time when the region we once visited is in the grip of a bitter and bloody conflict, one cannot help but wonder what became of the assortment of characters encountered along the way.

25 July 1995.

CHAPTER ONE

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KARDELJEVO

F RIDAY, THE SECOND OF SEPTEMBER 1988, dawned rather misty, but on the whole the weather was looking fine, and it was promising to develop into yet another warm, sunny, late summer’s day, such as had been typical of most of the past fortnight in the western Balkans. It was a morning filled with a sense of great anticipation, for it was certain to be an eventful 48 hours, and the beginning of a long and potentially arduous journey home to dear old England. There was also an important decision I had to make before I did much else.

We had intended that Dubrovnik would be the last of our overnight stops at a Yugoslavian Youth Hostel, which had been our chosen mode of accommodation throughout the entire duration of the holiday, except for those times when we were travelling by overnight train. As it turned out, though, we had not been successful in securing such accommodation in Dubrovnik. On our arrival in the city, two days earlier, we had found the Youth Hostel absolutely jam-packed, and we could see through the windows that the dormitories had been equipped to maximise the numbers of visitors they could cater for, such that three, or sometimes even four, bunk beds were stacked on top of one another. On first impressions the Hostel had not struck us as particularly inviting, being as it was a concrete, post-war construction, dusty and seemingly sparsely furnished, apart from the mountains of bunk beds. The prospect of sleeping in those crowded dorms for two nights was hardly an enticing one. In any event, we had been given the proverbial cold shoulder upon enquiring about vacancies at reception, where the officials were anything but helpful or cooperative. This had sadly been characteristic of most of the Hostels we had visited during our two-week cycling tour of the Dalmatian coast.

In the end we had decided not to bother with the Youth Hostel, electing instead to be put up for a couple of days in what was known in the vernacular as a sobe. This was not even the equivalent of bed and breakfast in a conventional guest house. It was merely a spare room in somebody’s private residence, which the occupants were prepared to put at a visitor’s disposal for the purposes of spending the night, obviously in exchange for financial remuneration. In effect, patrons would find themselves in a position akin to that of a lodger, on a very short-term basis. It had been a youngish lady who had approached us as we pulled into Dubrovnik at the end of a long day in the saddle, astute at recognising foreign holidaymakers when she saw them. There we were, four sweaty, thirsty-looking individuals on touring cycles loaded up with luggage. My three companions were John, D.C., and Andy, (who at that time was living in France.) We had all arrived sporting cheap plastic sunglasses, with our shirts peeled off to reveal our sun-frazzled bare torsos, and, more through the necessity of avoiding sunstroke than trying to look cool, had each donned appropriate headgear to cover our greasy, matted hair. Mine, being a tight-fitting, shrunken white cotton beany hat I had acquired during the previous year’s holiday in the Austrian Alps, must have looked a touch comical and had, by this stage, become more than a shade grubby.

The relatively youthful woman was one of many such people standing by the roadside with placards accosting travellers as they entered the town. For most of them it served as a means of earning a living, or maybe a second income, and, in a country where living standards were comparatively low, any extra money, particularly if it were forthcoming from western tourists, would undeniably have been a welcome bonus for the locals.

Our enthusiastic new host had led us up the hillside to a modern residential development, where two single-storey houses enjoyed a panoramic view towards the sea, although they did not directly overlook the historic walled city, on account of their being situated among the northern suburbs of Dubrovnik, closer to the port area. One of these was the landlady’s abode, where D.C. and Andy were to stay, whereas the adjoining property, where her parents resided, was to provide shelter for John and myself. It had soon become clear, however, that we were not going to be allowed to feel very much at home by this elderly couple, neither of whom could speak a word of English, who made us painfully aware they were only doing this reluctantly for their daughter’s benefit, and would far rather not have had us in their private living space. The man of the house expressed his displeasure if either of us happened to be taking a shower just as he decided he needed to use the bathroom, meaning that he had to wait; conveniently forgetting that he was being handsomely remunerated (by Yugoslavian standards, at any rate), for the inconvenience he was supposedly suffering by accommodating guests in his humble abode.

On our second evening there we had found ourselves locked out when we returned from a day out in the town, despite having been assured that the French windows that gave us external access to our room would always be left unfastened. This, it later transpired, was because he had, incredibly, elected to paint the window frames on that day, of all days. Such trials and tribulations may not have been untypical of sobe accommodation, but for all the inconvenience it was inexpensive, and was comfortably furnished and well-maintained, because ultimately it was somebody’s home. Meanwhile D.C. and Andy had not, it transpired, experienced similar hostility. They were, after all, the guests of the much more amenable daughter, so there would doubtless not have been the same sense of imposition on her part, seeing as it was she who had been so keen to entertain us in the first place.

Having found somewhere to sleep, we were faced with trying to resolve another unforeseen major complication that had only come to light since our arrival in Dubrovnik. It had originally been planned that we would take advantage of one of the various passenger services that operated on the Adriatic, as highlighted on the assorted folding paper touring maps we had each brought along. This promised a relaxing sun-drenched sea voyage south-eastward from Dubrovnik to Bar, roughly 100 miles further down the coast. That was not really within a single day’s cycling distance, but it served as a rail terminal for a potentially long-winded train journey back out of Yugoslavia via the capital, Belgrade. A tempting ferry service also linked Bar with Puglia in southern Italy.

The Yugoslavian railway network was not one of the most comprehensive in Europe; and this was illustrated by the fact that there was no railway station in Dubrovnik, nor indeed in the immediate vicinity, despite the city’s relative importance. Indeed, there was no line at all running along the coast, perhaps due to the topography. The nearest railheads were, in the one direction, at the port of Kardeljevo, about 60 or 70 miles back up the Dalmatian seaboard, i.e. northwest, and in the other, the aforementioned one at Bar. Of these two alternatives, the former would entail a pretty hefty day’s cycling, with the scorching sun beating down on the back of one’s neck; whilst the latter was totally unrealistic given the circumstances, all the more so considering that the destination had to be reached by a specific time in order to catch the overnight sleeper train, of which there would only be one, hence this idea of taking a leisurely cruise as a feasible solution.

That, then, had been our plan. We would sail down the coast to Bar during Friday daytime, taking our bikes on board with us, and then catch a train out of Yugoslavia via Belgrade; but it was not to be, because, on our investigating this possibility by making the relevant enquiries on the Thursday, we discovered that these services did not operate every day, as we had presumed, and the next one to Bar was not scheduled to depart until the following Tuesday. There was, however, an alternative that particular Friday which would, instead, travel north-westwards along the Adriatic coastline, calling at various ports along the way, including many of the islands that formed an offshore chain running parallel to the mainland, as well as Split and Zadar, (but not Kardeljevo,) before eventually reaching the northern port of Rijeka, and it would take the best part of a day to do this. It also meant we would arrive home a day later than originally planned.

This last option appealed greatly to my three companions, but for myself it was a far less alluring proposition, not least because my finances were comparatively limited, despite the relatively inexpensive nature of the country we were visiting.

I could scarcely afford to spend longer abroad than I had budgeted for, given that my resources were now almost totally depleted. I had always intended to be back by the following Monday morning, whereas none of the others really needed to do so before Tuesday, so they had the option of extending the holiday by an additional day.

The suggested revised journey plan would have meant that we could not have arrived home until, at the very earliest, that same Monday evening, 5 September. That said, we were not unused to making split-second decisions when faced with such a dilemma, and we could quite amicably agree to go our own separate ways, insofar as practicability would allow. This, then, was the outcome here. The other three had elected to take a cruise up the coast as far as Zadar, departing from Dubrovnik on Friday afternoon, and arriving in Zadar in the small hours of Saturday morning. They would then take the train from Zadar, via Zagreb and Jesenice, into Austria. This left me with the choice of either accompanying them, with the begging bowl, or else making a lonely cycle ride up the coastal road to the nearest railhead at Kardeljevo, and then registering my bicycle back to England from there, before taking the train independently out of Yugoslavia. This looked perfectly feasible, as each of us possessed a valid Inter Rail card, and I was well used to having my bike transported by train on international journeys. I was also aware that Andy, having arrived separately from France, had travelled independently to join the rest of us at the start of the holiday. Still, I had that Thursday night to consider which of these two unattractive alternatives was the lesser evil.

On that fateful Friday morning I woke up, still undecided, but with the matter weighing heavily on my mind. Should I go with the lads and incur further expense, almost certainly having to borrow, which I felt most uncomfortable about, and return home late; or should I take the more adventurous but potentially hazardous lone rider option? It would mean pedalling an appreciable distance up the coast, where the terrain was by no means flat, but I was familiar with most of route, and believed it to be just about achievable in the available time if I could maintain steady progress, although it would unquestionably be the farthest I had cycled in the course of a single day on this tour. I was confident that what I had left in Dinars would just about be sufficient to cover meals at Yugoslav prices for the next couple of days, as well as my cycle registration fee. Besides, there was always my Access card, my flexible friend, accepted worldwide, should the need arise. Furthermore, such a ride would give me another chance to sample and photograph the dramatic Dalmatian coastline, and even if the prospect of a long, solitary journey seemed a trifle daunting, it was really nothing new. I was now in no doubt as to what my course of action for the day ahead was going to be.

Breakfast consisted of bread rolls, purchased the previous day from a nearby supermarket, with slices of salami and/or cheese, and, if anyone was feeling seriously adventurous, some kind of savoury spread out of what closely resembled a toothpaste tube, all washed down by orange juice from a cardboard carton. It had been with similar appetising delights that we had begun most of the days on this two-week tour; and they had usually provided us with enough energy to clock up a few miles before the heat of the day became stifling.

With breakfast over, our bills with the householders settled, and my 1987 model Raleigh Zenith touring bicycle loaded up with its two dark green Karrimor panniers and blue Exmoor saddlebag, adorned with sew-on patches as mementos of previous tours, all by now looking considerably worn, I was more or less ready to depart. These three items of bike luggage together were frequently referred to as paddlebags, a convenient term contrived during our first ever cycling grand tour in Cornwall, and which had remained in use ever since, because it encompassed in one word an idea that could otherwise only be described two or three.

Before setting off, I felt it wise to undertake the customary last check around the room where I had been staying just in case I had accidentally left anything behind. When I was convinced that everything I considered to be of any value to me was securely attached to my two-wheeled steed, I took my leave of the others. I vividly recall John asking me if I wanted him to lend me some money to ensure that I would experience no problems on the journey. However, I was sure that, considering that all I needed to do was to cycle to Kardeljevo, register my bike at the station there, board a train, and, hey presto! I would be home, there would be no need. Besides, as a matter of personal pride, I did not like to borrow from, and thus be indebted to, any of my mates. It was all very straightforward. What could possibly go wrong?

It was around 10:15 when I set off into that hazy Croatian morning. John, having consulted his ever-reliable Thomas Cook European Rail Timetable for summer 1988, which he, being usually the best organised and most meticulous member of the group, had brought along with him on his holiday, reliably informed me that there was a train, the last of the day, from Kardeljevo to Zagreb