We left Bucharest, capital of Romania, on Day 38 of our Travels. It has rained constantly, forcing us to give up on camping and stay in hotels. We’re on our way to Belgrade, capital of Serbia, dodging raindrops and thunderous black clouds. We get to Vidin, a town on the border where a slither of Bulgaria juts into Romania and Serbia. We’ve crossed the Danube 3 times to get here in this windswept, forgotten corner. Romania and Bulgaria are both countries of so many contrasts. There are beautiful mountains, delicious pastries and grills, friendly people, cosmopolitan vibrant cities and stunning roads, mixed in with desolation, poverty and pre-mechanisation farm labour practices. We travelled through 100 years in as many kilometres. And we’ll go back again someday because both countries are fascinating and enchanting.

We find a guest house that is willing to let us park the bike in their locked and gated driveway, giving us a chance to clean up, dry out and wander into town for a bite to eat. 6 euros gets us a delicious dinner and again in the morning 10euros buys us a delicious breakfast. We are 100kms away from the Serbian border, southwest of the Danube at Negotin, where we stop for coffee and croissants and a Sunday morning gathering of the locals, after a wet morning’s ride. It was so warm and cosy, that it was only a glimpse of a blue hole in the clouds that enticed us back onto the bike. The blue sky was just an illusion as the weather closed down even more into a misty blanket of gloom. The twisting deep valley road got more and more oppressive and by 4pm we weren’t happy bunnies, anymore. Our Navigator directs us to a no longer functioning guesthouse where the nice man over the garden wall directs us back 8kms to the small town of Kucevo, where we find a rather large expensive looking hotel, with blokes lounging around smoking, relaxing, drinking beer. A holiday mood abounds. Decidedly bedraggled and weary we trudge up the grand steps to be greeted by a cheerful chappie. “Do you have a room for the night and how much, please? ” we ask. “ Affirmative and 60 euros” he replies in perfect English.  “Oh dear” we lament, “that’s too expensive for us, we are on a camping trip but the rain is a bit hard, too bad”. We hang around a bit keeping dry on their undercover patio, thinking about Plan B when Cheery Chap bounds up again. “We have a room for 20 euros in the old part of the hotel. Would that be alright? There is no bathroom, but you can use the facilities at the swimming pool.” “Perfect, thank you” while B is unloading and I am doing the paperwork , the cheerful guy notices my first name and bursts into song from the musical Hair*. He is so funny and fresh and enthusiastic it lifts our mood immediately, plus the mention of a pool. And what a pool! Olympic size! Heated! And all to ourselves! We park the bike in the secure area at the back of the hotel, find our way in again through the non-functioning kitchen, go for a swim and a splash and have a lovely time. Our friend recommends a grill in the best bar in town, underground in a cellar where there is more of the holiday and festive spirit and a delicious meal for 11euros. We’re beginning to like this place and this gem of a town in a deep gloomy valley.

We awake to blazing sunshine and it stays that way for the next 20 days. What a relief. This deep dark wet valley is now gorgeous. The greens are greener, the blues are bluer and all is well. Doom and gloom gives way to sunshine and smiles. What a turn around after 5 damp days. We thoroughly enjoy the next 140kms to Belgrade, stopping there for a delicious brunch as recommended by a chatty Austrian girl and her Serbian boyfriend. We watch busloads of silver-surfers emerge and play follow-my-leader as they scurry after the flag bearing guide. I leave B to go in search of a sticker, no luck, but am overwhelmed by the cosmopolitan air in this very modern European city. With leftovers from the Serbian grill the night before and some more padkos from the huge Belgrade breakfast (these platefuls are massive) we complete the 300 kms from Belgrade into Hungary to a campsite site in Kiskoros in no time at all. We presume we are in Hungary, because that’s what it says on the map and the border posts, but our confusion is justified by all the Lidls, Aldis and Tescos at every crossroad. To make room for our shopping I hand our two oversize enamel tea/soup cups to a familiar looking beggar (just like the one outside Lidl here in our village in France) The campsite is not far away and a particularly buxom, blonde lady bounced over and poured us a welcome glass of home made red wine, exclaiming its virtues in mix of Italian, German and Spanish. We understood her perfectly and enjoyed the wine.

We start the next day with the rest of the German and Hungarian Campers by entering at ‘our own risk’ the muddy waters of the Thermal pool. We are allowed in for 20 minutes, on condition we are not pregnant and are over 14years of age. It is 38 degrees and every now and then farty-sulphur bubbles blow up from the murky depths. We feel like hippos wallowing at the waterhole and drift around slowly for about 12 minutes, and that’s enough. We put our bike gear on over our wet costumes which now act as cooling radiators as the air rushes past. Hungary seems to be full of trucks and highways and we come to an 8-leaf clover intersection where all the vehicles converge, drive around in convoluted loops and then disappear to all 4 points of the compass. I frantically tap B’s left/right shoulder and we make it through the turmoil and head off to Budapest, now just 140kms away.

Budapest is stunning. Wide avenues. Decorative roofs. A very modern city jostling with its historical and cultural roots. We stop under a tree to park, rest and regroup ourselves. Water is freely available from a spout in the pavement and icecream is sold by the weight. We ride through the  tunnel up to the Old Town and the nice guard lets us into the ‘buses only’ area. He must be a biker. It’s a magical fairytale world at the top with turrets and castles and everything Walt Disney could dream of, fit for a Princess. We park up and I wander around taking photos and looking for a sticker. An American couple have introduced themselves and are chatting about the bike they hired for their tour around the capital cities.  Us girls swop tips on how to pack and what to wear while the men share bike stories. My one pair of shoes and two t-shirts/shorts don’t quite match up to her ball gowns that are being flown from hotel to hotel. “Are you listening? B”. Actually we love what we do and they love what they do, so we have a laugh and say farewell.

We find a campsite at Lake Balaton after two failed attempts. The first one was too expensive, the second one occupied by dozy teenager-receptionists with faces in their phones and and the third one just perfect. Full of the glories of nature and a herb garden at the entrance for the campers’ consumption to enjoy and sprinkle on their BBQ’s. Our Czech neighbours wandered over with some home made ‘Apple Palinka’ (50% proof), which we enjoyed before going for an evening stroll along the lake’s edge. A swan with beady black eyes watched us and we watched a very dramatic bird swoop and scoop on the lake, repeatedly taking off and landing. At sunset its headlights came on and the sea plane/bird was piloted to roost by a man in a deck chair.

With the lake on our right we ride through Hungary, past pretty, pristine and pleasant villages and countryside. The lawns are mowed, not a blade out of place. No rubbish. Have the Stepford wives been here?. The sun is still shining so its next stop Zagreb, capital of Croatia. Blue trams and shiny metaltracks criss-cross the road and we play dodgems with the taxis, cop cars and pedestrians. We are in and out of Zagreb in a flash. We find a shopping complex to replenish the foodstore pannier and there’s also a Decathlon. Ever since we left home we have struggled without a rubber mallet. Tent ropes need pegs. Pegs need to go in the ground. All sorts of gound. Soft. Hard. Rocky. Sandy. Muddy. Ropes stretch and pegs bend. There hasn’t always been a rock or brick to use and the boots are usually still on our feet. We’ve tried to get on without one, but realise it is an essential piece of kit. We just need to find a lightweight one that still does the job. Decathlon has it. And also some triangular hardened aluminium pegs that don’t fold over and bend after a few whacks. All sorted, we find a suitable campsite on the edge of Zagreb to test our new purchases. Its out of Croatia and into Slovenia as still riding with the sunshine we decide to go to Ljublana, capital of Slovenia, for lunch.

Slovenia has historically been the crossroads of West Slavic, South Slavic, Germanic, Romance, and Hungarian languages and culture. It is part of the European Union and its currency is the euro. We didn’t know this at the time which was rather fortunate when we got to the Highway toll booth. The nice lady let us through without paying as it is cash only. We explained we hadn’t been to the ATM yet and didn’t have any Slovenian money. “Never mind”, she said as the barrier lifted to let us through. Slovenia continued the theme of fairyland, with 85 kms of stunning scenery and pointy red roofed castles high up on the peaks. The whole point of going into the capital city was to find an ATM to withdraw Slovenian money. There was nowhere to park and all zones are allocated for pedestrians and bicycles. We pretended we were both. I dismounted and waked in front of B, still on the bike, as we tried to be invisible down the high street. It didn’t work. The Police Patrol in their Playmobile look-alike dinky cars waved an index finger at us and basically said “scoot, now”. We find a Lidl out of the city centre, go to the cash machine and to our surprise it spews out Euros. This is when we realize we could have paid the cash only toll fee as we always have a few of those. Oops.

Different currencies and differing time zones have made this trip both interesting and bizarre. There is no time difference between Romania and Bulgaria, but one hour less in Serbia. There is plus one hour between Bulgaria and Turkey. Slovenia, Serbia  and Hungary are on the same time zone. Greece is the same time as Turkey, but not Italy, Croatia or Bulgaria.

We cross from Slovenia back into Croatia, where we find an expensive tourist lumpy, bumpy campsite right on the sea, full of Italians. Apart from not knowing the time, we are confused again about the country. Nobody is where they should be and everybody is everywhere else!

It’s Day 45, Camp 41; we stop for an evening swim in the Adriatic Sea before bed and dream about spotty dogs and tomorrow’s adventure ride down the Dalmation Coast.

*Hair tells the story of the "tribe", a group of politically active, long-haired hippies of the "Age of Aquarius" living a bohemian life in New York City and fighting against conscription into the Vietnam War. Claude, his good friend Berger, their roommate Sheila and their friends struggle to balance their young lives, loves, and the sexual revolution with their rebellion against the war and their conservative parents and society.