Journey to Istanbul, via peace and and healing When Helen Moat decided to cycle her way across Europe, it was a life-changing challenge. In this extract from A Time of Birds, Helen and her son are struggling in Bulgaria
Helen Moat sets out to cycle across Europe, with her teenage son, on her sit-up-and-beg bike, aka ‘The Tank’, not sure whether she’s running away from her past or pedalling towards it. As she cycles the Rhine and Duanbe, the sky filled with birdsong, she senses her bird-loving father by her side. Gradually, the natural beauty of Europe’s great waterways bring healing as does the kindness of friends and strangers along the way. Helen embarks on two journeys: an inner journey of love, loss, acceptance and forgiveness – and a physical journey to Istanbul – as a very inadequate cyclist.
Stranded in the Balkan Mountains
The two sisters at the reservoir hotel filled our palms with fruit from the garden – plums, peaches and pears. ‘For you and your son,’ the older sister said. ‘For the journey through the mountains,’ the younger sister said, tipping more fruit into our hands.
Beyond the garden, splashed with blood-red oleander, the early-morning milk of the Tsonevo Reservoir glowed pale in the hills. And, on the skyline, a buttery dawn spread across the Stara Planina, the Old Mountain – the first of the Bulgarian Balkans, where we were heading.
With the panniers secured, the sisters took it in turn to have their photograph taken with us, then clutched our hands like a pair of fussing grandmothers. They were still shouting their good wishes for the journey as we wheeled our bikes up the stony lane and out of sight.
On the main road, Jamie nursed his bike around the potholes that pocked the Tarmac, the wheel delicate and slightly wobbly from his broken spoke. To make matters worse, my brake had started to rub against the front wheel. I unclipped it: somehow, I’d manage with just the back brake. I’d have to go easy on the downhills – unfortunate, as there was the long, steep descent into Aytos. To compound all this, I discovered my lowest gear wasn’t working, not great either for the biggest climb of our journey since leaving Rotterdam. A defective wheel, brake and gear: it wasn’t the best time to be heading into the Luda Kamchia Gorge and over the Aytos Pass, a wilderness broken only by a handful of scruffy mountain villages.
Our mechanical problems, however, were quickly forgotten as we crossed the causeway that sliced above the Tsonevo Reservoir. The sun had just broken the crest of the mountain ridge, flood-lighting the limestone that flanked the reservoir. Beneath us, the banks of the Tsonevo cut a line of symmetry, inverting the sunwarmed limestone in a glassy film of water. The shadows lay deep, the light sharp. We cycled on, the loftier railway bridge on the right drew a parallel line with our road, while on the left, chalk-white columns of limestone rose from the far bank of the Tsonevo like giant stalagmites. The ascent was still easy, the air holding onto the moisture from last night’s rainstorm. Thick vegetation dripped dewdrops. I felt the mountains drawing me on, even as I feared the ascent with the Tank.
Then it happened again: another ping – a second spoke. I looked ahead at the road as it headed up into the mountains. How would Jamie’s bicycle bear up with two broken spokes and the stress on the back wheel as we climbed? We cycled on in troubled silence, no longer appreciating the song of the river or the cooling balm of mountain air. And the ping came again: a third spoke. I sighed. To cycle on three broken spokes would put too much stress on the wheel. Jamie and I dismounted from our bikes and contemplated the long walk to Aytos, still 20 miles on the other side of the pass.
I opened my pannier, to get the map and figure out our options, and found the hoteliers’ fruit. Biting into a peach, the sweet juice hit my tastebuds in a burst of flavour. Above us, the hillside bounced with the call of a shepherd. I lay down on the grass verge and closed my eyes, forgetting the broken spokes for a moment, just savouring the soft flesh of the fruit, our gift from the Bulgarian sisters. ‘What shall we do?’ Jamie was asking.
“Then it happened again: another ping – a second spoke. How would Jamie’s bicycle bear up with two broken spokes and the stress on the back wheel as we climbed?”
‘Let’s walk up to the next village and see if we can get help.’
We continued on, my eye on the buildings tumbling off the hillside, the village appearing and disappearing with the twists and turns of the road until, at last, we reached Daskotna. We found a typical Balkan village store and I started to tell the shopkeeper about our problem, but then noticed his eyes were uncomprehending. He didn’t speak English.i made circular movements with my fists to indicate pedalling. The shopkeeper frowned. I touched the wire of a vegetable rack then drew the shape of a wheel in the air, spokes radiating from the centre, saying ‘ping, ping, ping’ as I pushed finger and thumb apart. The shopkeeper looked from me to the door as if hoping someone would come and rescue him from the mad foreigner. Then a look of comprehension, followed by, ‘Ah, ah, ah. Da.’ Somehow, he’d understood my desperate sign language and he followed me outside to see the ‘air wheel’ in reality. He held up his finger in a ‘wait’ motion and waved a mobile with his other hand. He spoke at length into the phone then handed it over. ‘You are with my uncle. You have a broken bicycle?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Please, don’t worry. My uncle has organised someone to take you to Aytos. You pay him 30 lev. Okay?’
I imagined one of the white transit vans that were so plentiful on the road, but when our skinny rescuer in frayed shirt and ripped trousers arrived, he had a clapped-out estate covered in boils of rust. He grabbed the bikes and slung them into the boot, indicating that I should squeeze into the small space beside the bikes and panniers. I refused and climbed into the front with Jamie. The driver shrugged, running dirt-ingrained fingertips through a tangle of woolly hair. He jumped into the driver’s seat and turned the key in the ignition. The car shuddered to life and the stench of exhaust fumes filled the vehicle. He offered us cigarettes, then chewing gun, before shooting off at speed, dust flying up from the unmade road. The estate ate up the miles at a ridiculous pace after the months of leisurely cycling – buildings and landmarks shooting by in a fuzzy blur. Then our driver slammed on the brakes. ‘Politsai! ’ He did a quick U-turn on the road and drove into a petrol station, indicating again that I should go into the boot. There was no arguing this time. I squeezed under the bikes, and we set off once more, past the policemen who, seemingly concerned about three in the front, were less troubled by the lack of seatbelts or the exhaust smoke that would have had the car impounded in most other places. From now on, my view was of sky, ridge and treetop. I could sense gravity pulling the car down to Aytos – until we came to a sudden halt outside a small bike shop in a side street.
● A Time of Birds: Reflections on cycling across Europe by Helen Moat is published by Saraband at £9.99. Out now. Helen is appearing at the Aye Write festival at the Mitchell Library from 1:15pm-2:15pm on 14 March. See www. ayewrite. com for more on Rachel Ann Cullen and Helen Moat, The Mid-life
Cyclists