Over the Kkatari pass in thick fog. Good job I can’t see down those drops.
Oh no. Greece also has a fuel strike. Stuck for seven days in Metsovo. A tourist trap town. The restaurants won’t serve us. Don’t know why. We go in, get ignored, hear some derisive comments and leave sheepishly after a few minutes perplexed. So I cook pasta on my camping stove on the balcony in the driving rain. I thought people liked travellers. Throw away some useless knick knacks.
Eventually get out over the Kkatari pass in thick fog. Five metres visibility. This is a new experience. When is this going to be fun again? Good job I can’t see down those drops.

Why am I doing this again? Maybe a thirtysomething crisis, who knows? Why do anything? A librarian had pointed me to Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance when I was 14. So maybe that was the seed that sprouted one April morning cycling to work in the rain. I remember pulling off the road and smiling yeah, why not, why not? Maybe my teaching was better that day. A few months later, here I am, having a thoroughly miserable time on the other side of Europe. Hurumph, hurumph.