Author: brian.sheasby@outlook.com

But what time is it exactly? For sure there’s not much of it left – on all levels! Fortunately, we are both experts at operating in “lastminute.com” mode. Keeping our good friend Justin Time forever proud. Current preparations no exception.

Two full days to go and we’re feeling the effects of that Silent Assasin – Mr Time. He gets us all in the end – in one way or another. Like a giant anaconda he slithers in unnoticed. Squeezes the living daylights out from between our ears. Leaves us in a mental state.

And our mental “to-do” list is as long as an elephant’s trunk. We need Nellie to lend a hand before we slip our chains and say goodbye. Join our own traveling circus. Try to remember everything we need to pack. And where everything’s perfect place is. It’s like re-doing a jig-saw. Almost. The overall dimensions unchanged, but some pieces are missing and others are new. Don’t quite fit the same way. Creating a different déjà vu.

Anyway time beckons. Tunnel crossing calls. 10.20am Monday morning. Time for Beastie to leave one jungle in search of another.

Trump, trump, trump . . . .

We surprise ourselves. Leave on time. Exactly when we said we would. No need to reconsider any more options. Do we want to remain? Or leave? It’s a no brainer.

Being the man about the house (and garden), has its pros and its cons. Everyday tasks and chores shared – not necessarily equally – and that doesn’t imply unfairly. Mrs S prefers to be in charge of all “homely” stuff and the rest becomes part of “My domain”. i.e. the loft and garage.

On the rare occasions Mrs S needs to go up into the loft, she frequently comes back down in a state of anxious giddiness. Her eyes rolling around her head. Resembling a cartoon character, whose just been thwacked on the head with a mallet. There’s just something about “what’s up there” and how it’s all stored, that freaks her out. I have difficulty imagining why that causes such a response. She lives in hope that one day I’ll get it sorted.

It’s the same with the garage. There’s no real order. Everything is in there. A rough idea where seems good enough. It might take me a little longer to find a certain item, but eventually I do – even if it is after I’ve bought a replacement from Homebase!

Of course, inside our home I do have a couple of other “sacred” storage spaces too. One being my own wardrobe. Beastie reflects this home set-up. I’m in charge of the garage, my small wardrobe and my sock/underpant store.

My task of loading up Beastie with those items that fall into my domain is relatively straight forward. Sixty minutes of cramming for the garage. A little under a couple to fill Beastie’s sock store and wardrobe. Easy peasy. No decision making required. No angst. No problem to solve. No long term weather googling to indulge in. Home wardrobe and sock draw virtually emptied of their contents and squashed into their new abode for the next twelve weeks.

Of course, for Mrs S, this same conundrum takes on a different set of logistical and hypothetical problems of almost enormous magnitude. If only that kind Mr Google’s weatherman could forecast 12 weeks in advance . . . But it’s not only down to the weather. It’s also down to choice. There’s so much to choose from. I do sympathise – with your very own M&S, White Stuff and Fat Face in-house store to choose from, well, I mean, life can be difficult . . .

Or in our case gear change. Not that I do many. Beastie’s primarily an automatic, just needs the occasional reminder of who’s in charge.

I was never very good at revising for exams. Optimism always my best friend. Confident that I’d be certain to know some answers. That everything would turn out for the best. And now, and perhaps as a consequence, route planning is not my strong point. A sort of mental vagueness takes over – like a mist covered path, winding its way through a dense forest. A notion only of which foot to put forward and in which direction. I know where the start and end points are, but not necessarily that elusive bit in between. So, it’s one step at a time for us. Commonly referred to as winging it.

. . . on closer inspection you can clearly see how far advanced our planning had got in the five months we’d been at home . . .

Sometimes a good turn just isn’t appreciated in the way you want or expect. Sometimes it doesn’t even turn out the way you imagined it would. But that shouldn’t stop you from doing it anyway, or reduce your willingness to do another in the future.

Our first day back on the road again is always a long one. We fool ourselves into thinking many miles makes for happy miles. We’ve a long way to go. Better get on with it. Six o’clock sees us pitch up at Parc La Closure – in the heart of the Ardennes. We’re surprised. This part of Belgium is French speaking! Walloon country to you and me. At reception we’re handed a cleverly constructed guide of Grupont. It becomes our means to walk off the day’s frustrations. Allows us a better feel of the village in a more intimate way than usual.

We take a narrow track alongside a cottage. Brings us to a fenced-in bit of scrub. We’re greeted by this friendly face. He’s eyeing up the long luscious grass our side. All out of reach.  Mouth not quite drooling. Mrs S takes the hint. He’s ravenous. Can’t get enough of it.

Our greeter has a dishevelled friend that looks in some distress. Caught up and tangled in a huge bramble and thorn bush. Twists and turns one way, then the other. Seems there’s no way out. Only further in. He does just that. Gets more tangled. He seems trapped. Not quite a lost sheep. I decide to help him out. My good turn for the day. Find a suitable place to climb over. Ready my-self. My hands are going to get ripped and bloody. Still, it will be worth it. As I get closer, he mistakes me for a Welshman. Nostrils flare. Panics. Within half a nano-second and with terrifying brute force he pulls free. Leaves just one straggly piece of bramble hanging limply down from under his chin.

We head diagonally down. Autobahning along the hypotenuse. Presents us with a new angle on our previously held beliefs. Cracks open a new vista. Eggspectations break.

Day 2 saw us in Otterberg at Camping Gänsedell. Day 3 at Camping
Frankenhöhe, Schillingshurst and now we’re currently pitched up at Bavaria Camping Park – Eging am See. Evening four is bright, but cold. As per the previous evenings we’re in walking distance of the local town. We step out.

It’s plain to see Easter is fast approaching. A Bavarian Bunnyland in abundance.

We’re making good time. By Good Friday we should be exiting Bulgaria and entering Greece. Not that the German Autobahns have helped much. We choose speed over scenic. Not convinced it’s the better choice. But now it’s too late. We did it and now we’re here. All gone Autobahns. Contrary to our expectations they are not as smooth as silk. Certainly not free-flowing. And our chosen route mainly two lane, not three. Inside lane literally a huge convoy. Non stop nose to tail lorries – like a straightened daisy chain. Makes for slow progress. Interestingly, in four days we have not seen one GB number plate. Just where are we delivering all our GB goods to?

To a certain extent, Austria, like many ‘other’ world countries, remains a mystery for most of us. The opposite can be said for the UK and US. Their cultures and lifestyles advertised worldwide. Both views distorted of course. One, by too little knowledge – the other, by too much of the inaccurate kind.

We gather we must be passing through the flat industrial heartland of Austria. The city of Linz typical. Monstrous mountains of smoke spew skyward from ginormous factories below. Man-made cumulus clouds billow and blot out the blue. Out in the sticks we figure they must do the same. But on a smaller scale. Is the end result any different? Every house of every village we pass through surrounds itself with a barricade. Stored logs are not in short supply. All householders on standby. Ready to do battle against the winter elements. Many less wooded areas we pass give witness. Are these burners carbon neutral?

Five hours out on the road finds us finally parked up at Camping Am Fluss, a thirty minute riverside hike away from the historic ‘zentrum’ of Steyr. The passing landscape to Steyr reveals no sign of lake, mountain or thigh-slapping lederhosen-clad yodeler. No sheep, no wonder. Just an enclosed pen of grass-eating baby bambis. Unknowingly fattening themselves up for local cuisine. A bit like veal. Cute, but tasty.

On our way into town we stop off at St Michael’s Church. A Mozart Requiem is going through its final rehearsal. A 7pm performance looms.

Nature has its own way today. A reminder that keeps us in our place. We ride parallel. Together yet apart. In opposite directions. We up. Our winding partner down. Our journey, with an end. Its, seemingly endless.

Steyr shares a similarity with our hometown of Christchurch. It’s the point where ‘2 Riversmeet’. Home, the Stour and Avon. Here, the Steyr and Enns. Today Beastie joins hips with the Enns. Like locked Siamese twins. Wherever it goes, Beastie must go. One compromised by the other.

81K along the B115 sees us slowly meander up, yet quickly down. From a tepid 10C to 4C. A cool calm clamber. Virtually traffic free. Leave the tropical lowlands. Wiggle up into the snowline. By the time we pass through our highest point at the ski resort of Präbichl we say goodbye. Our tie cut by nature’s own surgeon. At Steyr the river Enns a wide rushing, gushing flow. Here, high up, its tributary almost a trickle. In places you could almost step across. Even so, it restricts. As much as the snow capped mountains either side. Becomes a ‘route barrée’. Offering no points to short circuit. Then suddenly it disappears. Is no more. As is the time spent together. We blink.

Our tumble down the other side a pre-amble. Until, Missy goes quiet. Like a sulking spoilt kid. Lips tightly shut. Wants her own way. It’s not our way. Always a bad sign. Discombobulation now the order of her day. She becomes disco-ordinated. Starts to develop an early version of Saturday Night Fever. Not quite frothing at the mouth. Leaves that to us. Now there’s three Beasties. Spins us around one way, then the other. There is something goin’ down We don’t panic – yet. We have a reliable back up – we think – Posh Pat-Nav. Seems she has other ideas too . . . must be on drugs, or something. Thinks she’s the Messiah. She’s certainly doing us no favours . . .

To top it all, when we do eventually arrive at our site, it’s closed. I didn’t read the small print. Opens Monday. Ooooooooops! Mrs S takes this surprise surprisingly calmly. Phew . . . .

A short time later Beastie can be seen relaxing. We join him.

“How long are we on this stretch for?” – “About 24K” – “Oh, OK, should be fun”.

We thought we’d seen off the last of the snow. Turned our backs on it for at least another seven or eight months. Forward looking thoughts of warmer climes cloud our minds as we leave today’s site. We pass by a red circular warning circle. Beastie shouldn’t go this way. He’s too big and heavy. We’ve learned that signs like this one tend to err on the cautious. We reckon we’ve got at least half a ton to spare. Beastie’s been, and been seen, on many a worse road than this. Why – it’s even got tarmac on it. Should be a cinch. (providing it stays tarmac)

5K into the climb and we’re averaging 14.76mph and 9.84mpg (to be precise). It’s steep. It’s so steep I can feel the blood rushing to my brain. Realisation kicks in. Ah, so that’s why Beastie shouldn’t be here. Nothing to do with the road per se.

A little further on we’re going about as fast as a roller coaster when it’s being tugged mind-numbingly slowly upwards. Aims and labours to reach its very highest point. Deliberately so. To rack the tension a little higher, and, just before it kicks off at an almost unbelievable vertical angle downwards, it comes to the minutest of halts. A spec of time – suspended by it’s own minuteness. Nothing to prevent it staying exactly where it is – except for the distance that stands between it and the gravitational pull of the earth several hundred feet below. Then the law of Quantum Time takes over. The most minuscule becomes massive. Offers breathing space to consider “Was this the right decision?”or “Can I have my money back – please?” Its occupants with time to spare, even after saying ten Hail Mary’s and five Our Fathers. Then just as they’re trying to remember where they put their Will & Testam – WHOOSH . . . . . . !

Beastie stays in second gear. He knows what’s good for him. He’s got serious bends to contend with too. His speed drops down to less than walking pace. The outside temperature to -1C. Inside it’s warming up and gone unusually quiet. Not much conversation passes across the divide. No Beastie Bravado beckons forth. I’m gripping the steering wheel like Iron Man. Mrs S is being a good Catholic. A severe hairpin looms. One of those that comes right back on itself, not quite making a figure of eight. About twenty feet higher than the approach. Beastie does well. Swings wide. Gets around the twist as easy as a Gay Gordon. Thinks he’s going to make it, then throws a wobbly. That other law takes hold. The one Newton told us about. Beastie is 3.8+ ton of stuff (plus us). He starts to bottle it. I have serious choices to make. Do I leave him to sort it? Do I slam my foot to the floor and threaten a stall. Or do I change down into 1st? Pick the third option. Go into Nike mode and ‘Just Do It’.

Unexpectedly, Beastie decides to perform his own version of a double de-clutch. Creates a complete moment of madness. Goes bonkers. Can’t he feel what sort of an incline we’re on? The transition from 2nd to 1st passes through neutral. For that split second there is no power being transmitted to the wheels. Our life lines severed. He comes to a halt. Not what we wanted. I ready myself to slam on the hand and foot brakes. The unfathomable property of Quantum Time rears its ugly head. For what seems like an eternity we simultaneously share visions of slipping back in time, literally, not virtually. Everything is out of our hands. The whole world around is still and quiet. We all hold our breath.

Just as suddenly, Beastie splutters. Like a resuscitated drowned person he coughs life back into his-self – and us. He counters the backwards pull. Tentatively at first. Then with more confidence. Drags us back from the brink. Carries us into the future . . .

We all have at least one Hobby Horse, don’t we? That thing that switches that internal switch. That thing that makes you say “Now don’t you dare get me going!” You become a rider on a runaway. Accelerate to a gallop in a little under two seconds. Feel the wind in your hair and the adrenaline rush. Find it virtually impossible to rein in the reins. Sometimes at huge cost.

We’ve done well. Feeling pretty pleased with ourselves. Almost God-Like. Eight days away. Feels like forever. Well, eight thousand years anyway. Just over 1000 miles to the good. By and large it has been good. Now, it’s time to rest up. (Even if it is a day later than The Standard). Take a day off. So, we do just that. Order a two-nighter. Pitch up at Camping Kekec near the base of Pohorje Mountain. Serious MTB and skiing territory. A short bus ride from Maribor centre.

The men’s shower facilities here are not quite pukka. Open to the elements is how best to describe them. No roof. Door, short top and bottom. Not what you want when the night-time and early morning temperature is zero and threatening to turn you into a look-alike Eunoch. The other thing you don’t want is cigarette smoke wafting through your cubicle just when you’re trying to freshen up. That’s exactly what I got this morning. Can’t stand it. If a car in front on a motorway has a smoker at its wheel, then I can smell it. I can taste it even. So, when it’s close up it really does my head in. The best law passed in recent times has been the banning of smoking inside public places. Now they need to pass another. Create ‘Fag-Free’ zones around every entrance to every public place. Should we really have to pass through a tunnel of dirty smoke every time we exit Tesco? or a cinema, theatre, restaurant, blah, blah blah . . .? And what about Al Fresco dining? Just because there’s an abundance of air it’s assumed that it’s OK. It’s not. Yuk! All outside dining should be Fag-Free too. Period.

As I was saying before I so rudely interrupted myself. We take the bus into Maribor. There are one or two things we want to take a look at. The first is the oldest living vine in the world. Certified in the Guinness Book of Records as being at least 375 years old.

About one hundred litres of red wine are produced from this one vine each year. None of it for sale. All packaged as special 100ml gifts. Resemble small flattened chemistry lab bottles. The type you expect to contain formaldehyde. The Mayor presents them to VIPs. Some from around the world. They include our Queen. We weren’t considered special enough. Maybe just not old enough. Maybe it’s time to increase consumption . . .

Second on our list is Maribor Castle. It’s closed. It’s Monday. It’s not a castle. Just a large building in the centre of town. Not even high up. Around the corner this impressive war memorial. [‘The Castle’ is behind this monument – see what I mean?]

Around the corner we come across a fifty metre display of then and now photographs. Then being early sixties. Each pair twinned at the same Maribor location. These two amongst our favourites.

We finish our day with a riverside walk and a coffee and cake. (no image of the cake available – it didn’t last that long)

From Calais we’ve only seen one other GB MOHO. By chance we parked up alongside at an Austrian services. Since then zilch. Does that mean we’ve gone AWAL?

This trip we travel away from Dalmatia. Give the Adriatic the cold shoulder. Maybe give it a second chance – when we eventually head north. Give it time to warm up a little. So, we head east. Belgrade calling us. Should be there on Good Friday. My birthday. Unfortunately that’s not a moveable feast day. Strike one. No, strike sixty-eight!

With Belgrade a long way off we decide not to rush. What’s the rush anyway? Book another two-nighter. Zagreb Kamp just shy of 11K outside of the city. Surprisingly, our immediate neighbours on site are not German.

On this occasion we speak the same language . .

Scoot is staying tucked up and cosy. No chance of his first run out until the temperature creeps over 20C. Two return train tickets cost us less than a couple of Costa cappuccinos

When you’ve done one city, you’ve done them all. Right? And when you’ve done a load more than one, well? What’s the point? Wrong! Zagreb is a treat we weren’t expecting. No prep prep’d as usual. So it’s a big bonus. Upper and lower old town sewn seamlessly together. Masses of huge elegant buildings on one hand; charming ancient houses and back streets on the other; acres of flowered green spaces keep the balance perfectly.

Not the prettiest of botanical Gardens . . .

It’s a long shot. But one we can make. Belgrade gets locked in on our cross-sight. Pinned down by a red laser beam. A dead cert. No escape. We can’t miss.

This eastern side of Croatia a mystery to us. We’re following Macca’s long and winding road, that leads to  . . . well an almost deserted MOHO stop over. Halfway between Zagreb and Belgrade. Zlatini Lug, just short of Pozega. We seem to be the only Brits in this neck of the woods. In fact, feels like the only MOHOmers too. Not one other MOHO seen out on the road today. So it’s a big surprise to find another, already parked up. He’s German, with a Croat mother. He was born 40K away, but lives in Germany. He looks a bit of a loner. All beard and whiskers. Somebody you wouldn’t be surprised to come across panning for gold in the Klondike. Drinks his coffee from an ancient red metal mug with an extended handle. His three local grandchildren with him – his golden nuggets – for company.

Earlier, we steer clear of the A3 motorway. Our route maintains a healthy gap. We catch sight of it from time to time. Laden to the brink with lorries. Ours predominantly free wheeling with no such hindrances. The slightly slower B-road performs a more profound task. Its invisible adhesive properties keep the thousands of houses running either side of it permanently fixed. Stuck along its twisty, but relatively flat path. Mile after mile of houses, one deep either side. Linked only by what divides them. No visible sign of when one village ends and the next starts. A real mix. Some up together. Some, like many in Croatia, seem as if the owners are happy just to let them stay as they are. Unfinished, un-rendered and unpainted. Proudly flaunting their terracotta red basic building blocks.

We pass a church. It’s different. Half of its roof caved in. One wall barely standing. All its windows blown out. The remains of the front door hanging lopsidedly on its one hinge. Parts of the perimeter walls lie in sad solemn heaps. Mourning the passing of better times.

We wonder if we’re seeing a remnant of the recent past. Our suspicions soon confirmed. Now, many of the houses, some occupied others clearly deserted, exhibit their tell tale scars. Bullet pot marks left exposed. Open to nature’s elements and time’s healing balm. Cruel reminders of a cruel time.

• Solve & Explain the following :
• (19042019 ÷ 24) – (60 – 59.5) = D+D+D+D+I+CH+CH+D+D+D+CH+D+D+A+A+SLO+D+D+D+D+F+D+E+D+D+CH+CH+CH+A+A+A+D+D+D+SLO+D+D . . . . . . . . .

Sixty-eight years can seem like a lifetime. At sixty-eight you’re aware that that once comical city message proclaiming “The End Is Nigh” is starting to ring true. Not quite so funny anymore. The days seem to stack up quicker than ever. They fly by. Quicker than you prefer. However, occasionally, you have a day, like today, when you’d prefer to just blink and get it over with.

We arrive at Belgrade Camp Avala, much much later than planned. Or hoped. With no phone service for us to tag on to we can’t let the site know. It didn’t matter. We’re very warmly greeted by the proud owner. Probably because we’re the only ones here. We’re much further away from Belgrade than planned. Site’s name a misleading misnomer. We’re way out in the sticks. Far from a train station. No regular buses. It’s a new site. Opened before it’s ready. Incomplete. But lovingly being worked on. Even if parts look like a building site – see what I mean?

We’re (Mrs S) feeling too tired for cooking. Get let off the hook. Traditional Serbian BBQ is on offer. We order. The owner takes me over to his newly built terrace. Below ground he has a secret. It’s an immaculate cellar. He makes his own organic wines. Grows the grapes too. Recommends a white which would go well with dinner. Pours it straight from a huge storage cask. He makes the perfect choice.

Earlier, the day had started well. It’s Good Friday. How were we to know it would turn into Bad Friday?

We’re hopping along nicely. Like a couple of happy bunnies. Decide to take the A3 toll road. Unaware that it would later take its toll on us. We have many miles to cover today. We cover them. But not as quickly as the answer to today’s puzzle. The answer whizzes by in the outside lane. Ist der Vaterland in Flammen?

A considerable distance from the Serbian Border we merge into two. One really. Thousands upon thousands of lorries line up on the inside lane. It seems they could lovingly reach to the moon and back. Each one waiting patiently before being subjected to the Serb Security Customs control.

With a nod and a wink we pass through the Croatian exit control booth. Then, Beastie gets pulled over by the Serbian Fat Controller. Beastie’s vehicle registration documents need to get checked against the Europol database. While that’s in progress, a couple of gynecologists approach. Disguised as Serb Security. They don’t fool us. The longer look yellow Marigolds a sure give away. They insist on giving Beastie an ‘internal’. Want his private and previously unseen parts (apart from moi [I am family after all] ) to open wide. He’s uncomfortable with this. I can understand why. He’s a boy. He doesn’t fancy two complete strangers rummaging around his nether regions. He’s certainly not in the mood for a ménage à trois. I can detect a headache coming on. They spot Scoot tucked inside and he’s given the same treatment. Twenty minutes later and Europol can find no black marks. Frowns turn to smiles. Leave the Fat Controller to do what he does best. We head on.

But not for long. We discover there’s pro and anti protest marches in Belgrade today and tomorrow. (We decide to give Belgrade a miss). The traffic quickly builds up. More and more coaches over-spill into the mass. We gradually come to a crawl. A very unconventional, (that’s putting it politely) roadworks filter system, leaves us gasping. Gasping to get to the site. We’re on our hands and knees now. In fact we’d go faster if we were. Ninety minutes for 1.2 kilometers. Adds up. Brings our total traffic delay time to 210 minutes – a record for us.

Then all too soon (I lie) we arrive. Time to blink.

In this part of the world English seems of little use. Road signs incorporate series of letters that make no sense. Include unfamiliar letters too. Impossible to read a map. We need Cyril back. Come, explain.

No need to fret about the warm Easter back home. It’s spread. We’re basking in the heady high teens. Almost shorty time. That can wait another few days. In the meantime we’re heading south. Jagodina our next over-nighter. Ruza Vetrova Camp is perched at the very top of a hill edging Gradski Parc. We take the nearest and highest pitch. Lends us extensive views.

On arrival, we take the owner and his wife by surprise. He immediately issues an order. She scampers away. Rushes back with a flymo. Frantically skims the tops off the dandelion covered pitch. We (I) register over a shared glass of local rosé. He speaks no English. His ten years working for Cosmos as a coach driver to-ing and fro-ing between Calais and Santander leave him with an unusual French tongue. Obviously learnt by ear. My schoolboy French ear takes time to accustom itself to his Serbian Creole. His dinner-time “Bon a-pe-ta-pete” just misses the mark – but we get the gist and warm senti-ti-ment.

We had thought that he was a one off. However, this side of the border we stop off to stretch our legs – at a town with an unpronounceable name. And one I couldn’t spell with this keyboard anyway. Tucked away in a line of backstreet houses is a small church. A pristine seventy-seater at most. It’s open. We enter. Followed by the curator. He’s happy to see us. Seems not many are interested in “church” around here. We chat for five minutes. Not in English. Certainly not in Serbian. But in French!

Day 14 and we cross into Bulgaria. It’s signing even more confusing. Brings on a new meaning to “we have absolutely no idea where we are”. We have come to the conclusion that customs control is all about being nosey. The uniformed female Thin Controller looks as if she has just stepped down from a Bond movie set back in the sixties. Brisk and to the point. We don’t get too close. She just may click her heel. A random rummage in a couple of cupboards and one clothes case suffices. On exiting Beastie her only comment is “Very interesting” .

Looks like Inn Madonna, at Falkovets, are surprised to receive unexpected guests too. It’s all locked up when we arrive. The main MOHO area being given a busy number one by one man and his strimmer. Finishing touches applied, he swings open the huge wooden gates. It’s like a mini menagerie. A cacophony fills the air. Peacocks ‘ow-ow-owing’, a cockerel struts and hassles his hareem, cockadoodling them into place; a putty cat purr, purr, purr-ing . . .

We imagine this little fellow just wants to chase everything in sight Probably has done in the past. Hence the chain.

We’re the only campers on site – hoping for a quiet night . . .

Going walkabout is one of my favourite past-times. I’m an expert. Occupying space off piste either physically or mentally – I’m a born natural. My physical body in any one particular place no guarantee. Does not always translate into me actually being where I seem to be. Time and space of no consequence. Drives Mrs S bonkers.

11 K south of Sofia, the approach to Camper Stop Vrana sells us a dummy. Gives the impression of an almost full site. Turns out we’re today’s first customers. All other vehicles in winter storage. The term Camperstop does exactly what it says on the tin. Provides a place to park up for a night or two, max. No facilities except for a one man (or woman) integrated portable loo, sink and shower cabin.

We do our usual. Pitch up. Plug in. Check toilet/shower block (that doesn’t take long). We’re over the way from Parc Museum Vrana. Go stretch our legs for thirty minutes – or so. It’s about 5.15pm. Our secure ‘pen’ gets locked up at 7pm. Owner goes home then. Ample time. No chance of turning into a couple of pumpkins.

We’re surprised. Maps shows a ‘white way”. In fact, the dusty dirt track leads us dawdling through a real mix. 1950s look-alike industrial units. Type-cast images shout out on either side. Reflect a previous Soviet occupation. All lined up. Await the call for a different kind of revolution. All desperate for some serious TLC. Squeezed in between, there’s some sort of (we guess) milking facility. A herd of penned in cows. A couple moo at us pleadingly. The sodden thick muddy ground more suited for wallowing beasts. We feel sorry on their behalf. Not far away a wide expanse of unused greenbelt. A second dilapidated farm appears – we turn left. Cross the farm’s fields. Maps shows some blue stuff opposite. Could be a small lake. Let’s take a look. [that’s me thinking].

“What time is it?” – “Just coming up to ten past six” – “We should turn back” – “Well, we’re almost two sides around this park. I reckon we can just do a full lap, It’ll be the same difference. We still have fifty minutes to get back. Should be back by 7pm – easily.”

We are separated from the blue stuff by a small stream and another “white way”. We can’t get onto the white way. Too overgrown. The stream is no more. All dried up. Creates a perfect pathway. We take it.

By the time we’re almost at the end of the stream I realise it doesn’t take us to the big white way. Zoom in. Veers to our left. Peters out – as fast as Mrs S’s energy levels and my optimism. It’s now 6.53pm. Mrs S now full of regrets for listening to me. Doesn’t quite bite her tongue. I am full of regrets for listening to me. I bite mine. We negotiate the overgrown bramble. Only a four foot deep pipeline trench now separates us from our way out. Secretly, I’m in my element. Not so secretely, Mrs S is making plans that may threaten her future freedom.

The problem with Maps is that you don’t see the real picture. We make it to the big white way just as we’re turning into a couple of pumpkins. The big white way is in fact a three lane highway. Luckily a thin stretch of grass gives us (me) an escape route.

We arrive at camp just as the owner is locking up. “Sorry we’re late. Hope you haven’t been waiting on us?” “No, not at all. I was just curious to where you’ve been.”

Over the centuries Bulgaria has struggled against foreign occupying forces. And on occasions fiercely fired its own claims over neighbouring territories. Hopefully, now as an official member of the EU, those inglorious times are long gone. Nowadays they welcome a different type of invasion.

We join forces with an international exploratory group. It’s 6C. A grey day. Everyone wrapped up in layers. No camo in sight. No blue on show either. United nations all intent on accomplishing a peace keeping mission. A small platoon of 32. Representations from Israel, Italy, U.S., UK, Bulgaria, France, Germany, Switzerland, Japan. All armed with phone or camera at the ready. Together for a two hour guided march. Ably lead by homegrown Nikola.

Nikola keeps us very well entertained. Info with humour. Almost a performance. One that’s repeated 365 days of the year. Regardless of whether it’s -20C or +40C.

We finish our cold stay in Sofia as started – with a hot Costa.

Beastie becomes our blinkered racehorse. Quickens his stride as the prize of Greece comes into view. 100% focused. He’s been bred and trained just for this moment. Trainer and jockey execute the perfect race plan.

But, and it’s a big but. It’s so easy to lose sight of the bigger picture.

That’s just what we did a couple of stops ago. Pitched up within 10K of a ‘must see’ natural phenomenon. Galloped on by. Over the sticks and out into the sticks. Our trusty steed let rein. Encouraged to get there sooner rather than later. Not for the first time we steel ourselves not to do that again. No excuses. We have that nice Mr Google on board.

So, today becomes a race of two halves. A four hour trot down to Kromidovo, broken with an extended lunchtime stop at Rila Monastery. It adds 80K. But it’s well worth it. Our eastern dog leg delays.

Photography is not permitted (or, a high fee is charged) in most of the religious buildings over here. We settle for the exterior again. No bad thing when the setting is as stunning as this.

The narrow and winding short cut back to the A3 take us past a small chapel. Seven feet square at a push. Seems it’s dedicated to Ivan of Rila. No charge applies here. We snap.

At the final part of any journey, it’s the ‘getting onto’ site that can sometimes prove testing. Even for a thoroughbred like Beastie. Today’s end, no exception. [No prizes for guessing who the sensible one is . . . ]

We end up coming in the back way. Nothing new there. We turn into a back garden. Two Brits decided on a life style change. Sarah and John bought this place six years ago. Three years later started Camping Kromidovo.

Greece – 2,143 miles – Average age n + 17.6 days – Average mpg 26.7 – Average speed 29.4mph – not quite Greased Lightnin . . .

Kromidovo may well have been a substantial village some years ago. Many signs of grander residencies forsaken. Remaining homeowners, like many in this southern region of Bulgaria, make their own wines. Utilise as much space as possible. Vine growing a common art. Majority of gardens given over to the grape. Veggies hardly get a look in. We leave via the front door. Or rather High Street. A sad indication of current times. We jokingly refer to it as CrummyDovo. Not very kind.

Fifteen minutes later a passing nod allows entry into Greece. We take time out for a stretch and coffee. First opportunity to get a handle on things over a new border. A roadside cafe with a large parking area ideal. However, it appears we’re a couple of captured clients. Our way in is no way out. Our way out is no way out. Our minds boggle briefly.

40K south of Thessaloniki and 5K south of Epanomi we pitch up on a beach side hotel and camping facility – Atki Retzika. Our options few. This is one of the few sites open in April. Again, Beastie’s the only MOHO on camp. Suits us. We like having facilities all to ourselves.

Like a couple of spent pennies, we decide to take time out from the journey. Forecast set fine for the next few days. Time to catch up with some necessary chores. Time to relax. Recharge batteries. Now we’re actually here, time to make some Grecian plans.

Many stray dogs in this neck of the woods. We go walkabout with a friendly canine. It’s like having a grandchild (we imagine) stay for the day. We reap the benefit. No downside.

Since man’s first slip [or was it woman’s?], the earth lost its heart. [but not its ‘h’] Lost its grip. Fell out of love with its inhabitants. Decided to get its own back. Make them work for a life worth living. Chores becoming the disorder of the days. Nothing cosher any more.

We go in search of a washing machine. Almost three weeks of socks and pants piling up – and the rest. Hot and sunny our order of the day. We (Mrs S) need to make the most of it. Load up and let technology do what it does. Lighten our load. I ready the lines. Then we let them hang.

It’s not what we want to do though. Hang about. So we edge out. Cross the boundary from camp and onto Potamos beach. A cricket ball’s throw away. Come June it’s going to be busy here. Thousands of loungers shipped in by the lorry load. Patient piles pepper the line of bars and eateries. Soon to get peppered themselves.

Competition for the best return is evident. Each establishment’s team of young men busy. They hammer, dig, re-arrange, push, create, paint, plant, water. A perfect holiday ambiance their goal. All create a slightly different twist on the same.

We take time out. Become a couple of loungers on loungers. Beach towels, cozzies & sun-cream given their first airing. Nothing to do but be. It’s heaven. We’re alone. Feel like that first couple. Before the first bite.

Not being able to see something that is literally right in front of your nose is frustrating. Especially if you know you had it seconds before. Your brain decides to close up that massive picture library, just when you need it most. Locks covers. Snaps shut a synapse here and there, just to make sure. Prevents you from double checking time and place last seen. If it’s a tiny item, you forgive yourself. However, if it’s large, you start questioning your sanity. Just what Zeus would want.

Our previous day’s walk and bike ride sees us keep our eyes firmly fixed on more earthy terrain. Noses straining downwards. Like a couple of bloodhounds with bunged up noses. We fail to sniff out what’s staring us in the face.

It’s not often you get to see where you’ll be pitched up a day from now. In fact never. But today’s the exception. Our 150K condensed down to less than fifty across the Thermaic Gulf. If only we’d packed Beastie’s rubber ring.

Irresistibly, we head out west, towards the far end of Patamos Beach. The new view our compass. Unveils another surprise.

Clockwise we’re one hour ahead of the UK – yet yesterday found us one week behind! The reason? Ide blame Julius Caesar. Seems the Eastern Orthodox Church over here still uses his Julian calendar. As a consequence Easter Saturday was yesterday.

We’ve heard the Greek Orthodox Church celebrates the Resurrection of Jesus big-time. We’re interested to see for ourselves. Wake Beastie from his slumbers. It’s coming up to 11pm. By the time we’re parked up in Epanomi, it’s 11.15pm. The church is chocobloc. Virtually impossible to fit another Mars bar in. Outside more than a hundred gather. Candles at the ready. We squeeze past. Imitate chocolate sticks. Not prepared to miss what we’ve come here for. Melt in with the mass. Stand behind the back row . On the men’s side. Can’t really see. Interior walls and ceiling compensate. Gloriously ornate. Biblical scenes look down as we look up. A couple of booming baritones continuously echo a series of Responsorial Psalms across the divide. A few minutes before mid-night the priest makes an appearance. Performs a perfunctory lap with his bells and incence. Then we all move out. Down to the bottom of the entrance steps. The priest reads solemnly from a lectern. Everyone filled with expectation. Very suddenly an explosion of fireworks briefly interrupts proceedings. Did someone miss their cue? No. The ‘other’ orthodox church in town, set their clock a little earlier. Sneaky ones. The priest and elders quickly gather composure. Draw proceedings to a speedier close than rehearsed. Seems they’ve been out-maneuvered. But now it’s ‘our’ turn. It’s like Bonfire Night and New Year rolled into one. Ably abbeted by the tower’s bells. We leave at 12.45am. We can’t stay. Way past our bedtime. The service continues inside. Now broadcast outside too. The baritones’ dulcet tones bounce around the local houses. It’s due to finish at 2am. No peace for the wicked then.

Not the best image or video – missed the best bits + it was dark!

For us, daily routine comes naturally. The little things we do first thing. The little things we do last thing. And, I’m not talking about ‘you know what’. Nothing to do with numbers.

We all have different ways of getting into the day, don’t we? Some, immediately immerse, like fizzy Alka-Seltzer – quickly and noisily. Not always in harmony with another’s version of the perfect start to a day. In close quarters, ‘one’ quickly learns new habits. Allows the other to melt into the day gradually. Allows them time to dissolve at their pace. No prizes for guessing who’s who!

On the road our evening routine a miniature mirrored image of back home. Dinner + wash-up + free-time + coffee with TV time + shower-time + read (blog) time + bed time.

Morning and evening slices get filled with an endless variety. We’re spoilt for choice. We pick and choose. Sometimes don’t always make the best choice. Even after carefully reading the ingredients. Strangely, they all seem to come with cheese.

Very occasionally, like today, only two types of cheese are on offer.

Yesterday’s site at Poseidon Camping not our cup of tea. No sign of Earl Grey anywhere. With Beastie a five second walk onto the huge sandy beach it still didn’t cut it. Despite carrying out a pre-park foot patrol. Should have turned our noses up at it. Like the couple of upper crusts we’re turning into.

On entry into the shady shanty town, the statics shouted ‘Turn around’. We didn’t listen. Did a Maggie. A skaffolding of gun metal frameworks leaden our hopes. Covered with mould ridden green and blue tarpaulins. All hemmed in. Just like us. Picket fences designate borders. Imploring ‘Cross at your peril’. Many owners busy with high power hoses. Watering away the worst of winter.

Cold showers and poor toilet facilities convince us to move on after just one night. We’re not willing to ‘make do’. It’s beneath us – don’t you know. Zeus and his other gods will just have to do without our company up on Mount Olympus.

With Missy’s co-ordinates set to guide us inland to Meteora’s Monasteries we make an early exit. Intend to make a couple of AM stops on the way. Platamon Castle is well within range – just around the corner in fact.

Much of the huge site subject to archeological digs over the years. One of those places that sets your mind running as you imagine life as it was.

Our second stop of the morning? Lidl! They’re everywhere – thankfully. Not seen a ‘proper supermarket’ yet. Not that Lidl is. Need to re-stock though. We never shop at Lidl back home. Not sure what the till protocol is there. Here, Sur le Continent, it seems speed rules – OK? Checkout girls hired based on being the best clock watcher. A novel idea. A German T&M initiative no doubt. Their bulldozer hands flailing. Think they’re playing shove-h’penny. Impossible to keep up. Matters made worse because ‘the packing area’ is no wider than a radiator shelf. Our trolley load quickly piles up into a jumbled mess. Resembles a train wreck. Carriages spewn everywhere. We need the Fat Controller to come blow his whistle.

We can’t imagine we’ll ever pitch up alongside such an amazing backdrop as this Meteora rock-scape. It’s quite frankly jaw-dropping.

With thirty-eight films downloaded plus the first two series of the Marvelous Mrs Maisel already under our belts, you’d be forgiven for thinking that we’ve more than enough entertainment primed at the ready. But you can’t beat the real thing.

Camping Kastraki is perfectly positioned for tomorrow’s itinerary. Scoot’s getting excited too. His first run out. The town of Kalambaka features one of the world’s most incredible skylines. What makes these columns all the more crazy? Six monasteries (from a previous 24) sit perched atop. Over the centuries nuns and monks have sought a Godly existence. Peered down from their godly height.

There’s enough good light and blue sky around. Encourages us to break a leg and walk off our drive. We try hard to stop catching flies. Keep our jaws closed. It’s not easy. This ancient rock formation the culprit. Our uphill trek provides unexpected drama. Binoculars clearly pick out a couple of climbers half way up this edge. A young man leads the way. Fifty feet or so of rope separate him from his female climber. He’s dug in. Waits patiently for her to catch up. She digs her heels in. A shouted conversation exchanged. Our ears pick up the tone. She’s clearly in distress. Having doubts. Unwilling to move an inch. Feels too young to die. If she goes, he goes. He’s all encouragement. Does she trust his words? No! She smacks the rock face and cries out. Then silence. She regains inner strength and composure. Slowly edges up. No real alternative. Twenty minutes later they’re side by side. He comforts her. We move on. Frustrated that we can’t tune in to next week’s episode. Prayers go up.

It’s not long before another drama unfolds. A patient puss has outsmarted a local lizard. Sees us. Gets found out. Stops dead in her tracks. Reverts to playing the typecast guilty one. Am I allowed to do what comes naturally or not? It’s not fair. A second ago I had the upper hand. All was clear. I was in the clear. And now look.

A split second it’s all change again. She miscalculates. Attempts to readjust her grip. Fatal. But not for the green one. He takes his chance. Becomes a mini green version of Clark Kent. Flies through the air. With one almighty leap bounds back into the undergrowth. Closely followed by the frantic puss. [if only I’d been in video mode]. We miss the repeat. Time to head back to camp.

Views are quite often best left to themselves. Seen from afar they stir the soul. Create wonder. Strike a romantic light. Once immersed within however, the reality can tell a different story.

Each perching monastery linked by narrow up and down grey slalem-like runs. But no–one’s in the green today. No-one able to challenge the race leader. Apart from Scoot. He’s in his element. Leaves the queues queueing. No parking worries either. Gets us up close. Squeezes in. It’s May Day. It’s as busy as a disturbed ant’s nest. Armies swarm in from near and far. Topped up with coachloads who’ve bought into the tourist propaganda. “You haven’t done Greece, if you haven’t done the Meteora Monasteries”. That’s why we’re here too. Of course.

Our before visit briefing implies these ancient holy places deserve the utmost respect. No shorts on men. No long pants on women – dresses or skirts only. Skirts supplied on entry for skirt-less females. Mrs S has no skirt. Takes a wide scarf to act as a sarong. Isn’t necessary. Impossible for the religious to supply every entering ‘modern’ female. First stop, St Stephans, has thirty skirts available. Only two are off the peg. A blind eye turned – the order of the day. Goes against the Order. Too many visitors. Too many euros. We wonder what the original founders would make of all this.

No photos too. But who’s looking? The [mis]-guided throngs fed tid-bits of forgettable info. Occasional signs of reverence by those in the know. Venerations and candles lit. Gentle reminders on show.

14th century onwards saw twenty five years of rope and pulley lifting of materials the norm. A further twenty five years to build. Awesome doesn’t come close. Good things come to those who wait. And more so if they “Wait on the Lord”? Perhaps they do deserve these 21stC just deserts.

We aim to visit three of the six. Entrance to Varlaam blocked by a massive static line. We stick on two. Move on. Finish with a 360.

Mrs S is given the evening off. The local Taverna’s moussaka and home grown wine a perfect end to our day.

Like a couple of hunting eagles we take to the skies – above our map – or tablet. Scour the landscape below. Hunger sees us soar. Need to fill those empty grey cells. Satisfy our souls. Only the best pickings suffice.

Day 25 sees us touchdown a wingspan or so from the town of Delphi. The once Greek centre of the world. Camping Appolon now the centre of our world for the next two nights. Perfectly positioned. In comfortable walking distance from the museum and famous archeological site. Tomorrow’s excursion.

Unusually, we don’t walk off today’s drive. Instead, indulge ourselves. An hour’s table-tennis obliges nicely. Our rallies longer than usual. Then we realise the table is longer too!

The small village of current day Delphi an equal mix of shops, cafes and high street hotels. The season hasn’t really got going. Lots of preparations in progress in all quarters. Opening night looms and all props and players have to be ready and word perfect.

The museum and what’s left of the ancient sanctuary don’t disappoint. Although our entrance price does. We become bitter and twisted like a couple of gnarled wooden-tops. Miss out on half price tickets. No ID with us. Can’t prove we’re as old as the hills we’re standing in. Mrs Jobs-worth rules OK? Grrrrrr-eece!

The museum’s immaculate display of fascinating artifacts leads us through the ancients’ timeline. English translations appreciated. Their craftsmanship at its best. From miniature . . .

. . . to lifesize . . .

Through delicately painted earthenware . . .

to stunning use of goldleaf

We round the day off going our separate ways. Mrs S to lap up the remaining day’s rays, poolside. Mr S has had his eyes set on a top-side cave since arrival. He wants to go feral.

The sixty-five minute climb not straight forward. Underfoot mainly loose scree. Creates a roller-skate effect. The spiky gorse and kin don’t help. From the knees downwards I’m being severely exfoliated. They’re starting to look like they’ve been open fire roasted. Sections split like a baked potato. Wisely (for a change) I’m wearing tough gloves.

The climb is worth it. Spectacular view the reward. Take five to cool off. Call Mrs S with a hopeful question. “Can you see me?” . . . silly question!

The down is tricky. Decide to utilise my knowledge of sailing skills. Tac this way then the other. Try to lessen the slope and it’s pull. Zig and zag. Think I’ve mastered it. Become over confident. Don’t take care. In an instant I’ve switched disciplines. Become an unwitting competitor in a World Cup downhill. Seriously lose control. Didn’t anticipate entering the ski-jump competition too. As a last gasp adopt the snow plough technique. Guaranteed to slow. Learned and used only once before – when I was thirteen. Almost does the trick. Feet fly. Luckily I don’t. Come back to earth. Backside takes the brunt. Should be painful. It isn’t. Check my back pocket. Ouch! That’s gonna hurt my other pocket soon enough.

Nearing base camp I’m greeted by my next of kin.

Noise irritations rear their heads in many guises. Some easier to live with than others. The trick is to try and focus on anything else, other than that which is sending you barking. Typically they occur last thing at night and first thing. Sleep time gets reduced. Gets squeezed at both ends. Turns you into a psycho. All you can think about is squeezing the living daylights. On a multitude of sites we suffer from rooster insomniacs, church bells, coo-cooing pigeons, noisy neighbours, party goers, early football matches, hedge strimmers, calls to prayer, car alarms, sirens, barking dogs – did I mention the dogs?

Surprisingly, our two-nighter at Tsoli’s Camping near Lampiri, is bark-less. A first for this trip. Come midnight all is quiet.

Our journey over wasn’t quite without its own irritation however. Beastie decided to get in on the act. For mile after mile he decided to allow some invisible guest to ride with us. Some moronic morse code operator. Suffering from a combination of acute dyslexia and dyspraxia. Unable to string one intelligible word together. Intent on doing his own impression of a drunken Woody the Woodpecker. We search high and low. Investigate every possible cause. All without success.

Our end of drive 2K walk into Lampiri is not without event either. It takes us past this roadside tipping area . . .

Across the road from this tip, a couple of dogs clock us. We’re passing through their territory. They let us know. Aggressively track our every move.

We have to return this way of course. And do so. I decide to do a bit of my own barking. (see how it gets you?) Throw in a few snarls and growls. Show my teeth. Mr Big is not impressed. Thinks he can take me. (He’s probably right). Does his own version of Lenny the Lion. Hmmn? – not surprisingly he’s better at it than me. Thinks I’ll back down. He partly ignores the passing traffic and edges into the middle of the road to cut us off. He’s now giving it some serious welly. Mrs S is not happy with the way I’m handling proceedings. Would prefer some sort of arbitration. We’re way past that stage. I take my camera from my shoulder and wrap the strap around my fist. Allow it to hang ready, just in case. He sees me prepare and has second thoughts. Moves back to his side. His bravado not yet fully diminished. Mrs S suggests throwing a stone at him. The second I bend down, he backs completely off. He’s seen this film before. Knows what comes next. Doesn’t fancy a repeat. We walk on.

Humans are all different. In many ways. That’s equally true of MOHOs and MOHOmers. But sometimes we wish we could occasionally be the same.

On site, Beastie proudly stands out from the crowd. He’s by no means the longest, or the highest. Certainly not the shortest. Definitely not the brightest. And that’s it really. He’s a bit of a mucky pup. Unlike his peers, he attracts dirt and grime ten fold. He takes delight in treading through the deepest, muckiest puddles. Bouncing along the dustiest of dirt tracks. Wants to be considered a real adventurer. Wants the looks to go with it too. I mean, if we’d have known what he was going to be like we’d have probably named him . . .well, er . . . simply, just William – I spose.

Camping Ionion is right on the beach. Today’s short hop sees us land at 1pm. It’s a superb camping resort. Like a small upmarket village. Facilities are spot on. At only 20 euros per night, a snip.

Two problems face us. Nothing going on locally. Nothing in the way of decent weather. The cold wind torpedoes in off the sea. Rips through the site like a cannonball. An après lunch stroll leaves us kicking our heels. Other MOHOmers, even during periods of inclement weather, simply wrap up and continue to partake of their meals or drinks outside of their warm MOHO. It seems they find it easy to spend day after day, just doing this. We can’t. For us, sitting down time is in the evening. Sometimes we wish we could. We find it difficult. When we’re away we’re ‘doers’.

So with nothing much to do we get bucket and sponge out. While away the rest of the afternoon. Come over all eastern European. Give Beastie the wash of his life. Dry him off nicely. All white and sparkly. He’s not happy though. Feels too posh. As if ready for church. Cheers up twenty minutes later. It’s raining!

Global marketing is a universal art. Digital communication key. Countries conjure clever constructions. Sow seeds. Must visit places get planted and paid for.

Camping Diana, a short two minute twist and uphill turn from Olympia’s high street, is our over-nighter. The town is geared for visitors. Merchandise spills out from the shop fronts like sumo wrestlers’ pot-bellies. International flags flutter. Send out sublimal semaphore signals. “Welcome”. Come eat. Come buy.

The Archeological Museum our first leg. A fabulous presentation of artifacts unfolds as we round the first bend.

With no audio guide available we feel the displays are lifeless. It’s like looking over someone’s huge private collection. All clearly indentified and labelled in four languages. We muse and wonder over the owners’ lifetimes, long past. Can only guess. Need an expert. Come confirm. They dropped the baton.

Following morning. 10.15am and we’re on the actual site. Like huge sleeping caterpillars, eleven empty coaches, lie aligned. A few with snoring exhausts foul the air with their early morning bad breath. Doors gaping. Wait for their returning hordes. Early birds long out. Already catching worms.

The original Olympic Village is a massive site. Dedicated to Zeus and his cronies. A place of worship to the gods of the time. The original springboard that provided the inspiration behind the Games resurrection at the end of the nineteenth century. The mainly French and German coach-comers spread out in bunches. More than enough room for us all. It’s still early in the season, if not day.

Finish our visit to Olympia with a look around the free to enter Archimedes Museum. Working models and videos demonstrate his sheer genius. No sphere of science and technology that he failed to get a handle on. The ability to fully focus on a problem until solved ultimately cost him his life. Obliviously pondering over a circle while a Roman soldier ran him through. What a way to go.

At times, the road through the forest-like olive groves entering Kalamata-land are more pitted than the hanging fruit. Beachside Camping Erodios, 10K short of Pylos. Home for the next few nights.

Earlier, a surprise detour around the Paris Boulevard Périphérique came as quite a shock.

Too much of a good thing is bad for you, so they say. More is not always better. But sometimes it can be.

The ancient world of Greece has been long gone. Yet whether we like it or not, its timeless presence and influence is everywhere. Impossible to ignore. So we don’t. We decide to indulge again. Help ourselves to thirds. We Scoot over to Pylos and its Niokastro Fortress – we can almost see it from camp – a short 10K around the bay.

We now carry our DOBs with us. It pays off. Three euros each and we’re in. As good as a Tesco BOGOF. With the help of EU funding the castle and museum put on a great show. Unlike Olympia, we’re treated. Nuggets of golden information pass our way. Rich pickings plucked from the earth. Lovingly panned and polished. Bring the items to life. Bring meaning to their owners’ past. Bring meaning to our visit.

We can’t quite free ourselves from jeans just yet. Un-seasonal winds and below average temperatures keep us semi-decent. A late lunch, port-side, is followed by a quick 8K skip to visit Methoni castle. Interested to see if it lives up to its post card’s reputation. We arrive 3.59pm – it closes 4pm!

Like a couple of 18th century Gin-aholics we’re on the road to ruin. With glasses full and heads numbed we decide to stagger uphill to Pylos’s twin guardian, sitting on top of a two hundred metre high rock. Our opiate for today – the Old Navarino Castle.

The weather’s on the up. So are we. A mini triathlon on the agenda. 2K on road; 2K off road; plus a forty-five minute uphill hike.

We time our approach perfectly. A batch of thirty or so young German tourists politely pass us on the windy narrow trail. Practise their “Hello”. Shipped here in four large people carriers. Not all dressed for the occasion. Did they get their money’s worth?

Our slow downhill reverse trek allows time to observe. An abundance of wild flowers and grasses hem us in on both sides. Like a wooly blanket sewn together with a multitude of coloured threads.

It’s difficult to contemplate moving on. A sliver of summer has engulfed us. We feel cosy and comfortable. Can’t beat lazing in your favourite chair. But we don’t put our feet up.

Cup shaped Navarino Bay has its own handle in the shape of Voidokilia Cove – its beach gets rave ratings. We need to find out what all the fuss is about. A good excuse to bike out. Go for another picnic. The off road route takes us around and through an ornitholgist’s dream landscape. Courtesy of Lake Dimni Divari and it’s surrounding waterways. A perfectly picturesque paradise.

Scientists have yet to fathom out why waders tend to stand on one leg. After watching these early morning feeders for ten minutes it comes to us. One leg is lifted up and out. It dangles and swings. Then gets dipped back into the water. Sometimes this gets repeated a couple of times. Sometimes with the other leg. Then it’s tucked away out of sight. We strain our ears. A familiar lyric skims across the water. “You put your left leg in, your left leg out . . . ” Ah, so that’s what it’s all about!

Fifty minutes in and we edge the bikes close to the beach. Park them against a rocky outcrop. Our picnic spot. Two mouth-fulls later we have company. Unfortunately he’s upwind. He can see we’re eating. What does he do? Perches three feet away and lights up a ciggy!!! Hasn’t he been following the blog?

It’s the week-end. We’re surprised how few have made their way over to this pretty spot.

Once back at camp we don cozzies. Traverse ten yards to the camp-side beach. Almost as comfy as our favourite chair, its supplied loungers soon find us toasting nicely.

We’re doing what we do best. Immersing ourselves in nature. Giving ourselves time out from the old ancients. We need a breather.

Our last full day on this site. Five nights in one spot long enough. Forecast tells us “All gone sun by sundown” – rain’s coming. We’ve one local ‘must visit’ visit left. Polylimnia Waterfalls. A series of interconnected ‘lakes’. A 25K Scoot up into the hills.

If there’s just the slightest of chances of choosing the wrong direction to go, then you can guarantee we’ll take it. Exactly what we do after parking Scoot. Surprised to be the only ones making our way down a very steep dirt track. Start to doubt. The growing rush of water below eggs us on. Get rewarded with a pretty little waterfall and . . . lake? Er, large pond.

Our return uphill hike takes a little longer. We should have packed our grappling irons. Greet three Greek women coming down. They’re searching for the Black Lake. “Is it this way”. We exchange slightly confusing info. They go down. We go up. Like a couple of passing cable cars. Our navigational error reveals itself when back at Scoot. The official parking a further 1K. How do we know? A large blue sign ten feet to the right tells us so!

We Scoot on. Go visit the real waterfall and lakes. A lot of effort for small reward. Not the most spectacular. All gush and no rush. No barrels for hire either!

Earlier in the day I burn off excess energy. Go off-road. Just inland. Kick myself for forgetting my camera. Keen to snap a snake napping. They like to warm up in broad daylight. I’m not long into my climb before a smooth chocolate coloured curly wurly crosses my path. Or rather me his. He feels my approach. Long before he can see or taste me. Uncurls his three feet of glossy scales. Shyly and slyly shifts to one side. Allows me through. Obviously already had breakfast.

This family friendly site has some pros and cons. On the plus side its wind free table tennis area comes supplied with free ball boys. We play adjacent to the toddlers’ soft play area. Mary-Ann’s end. A couple of boys, on separate occasions, become more fascinated with our game than theirs. Delight in scrambling after and retrieving every stray ball. Their other favourite past-time is playing lumberjacks. “Nyam-nyam-nyam-nyam”. The chain saw sound effect particularly effective. They decide this fir tree is for the chop. It has other ideas. One hour later it’s doing an Elton – it’s still standing.

The down side? No need for an alarm clock. Come sunrise and our immediate neighbours’ two boys like to wake and wail. Feel we could do the same.

Birthdays usually last just one day. This year, mine has lasted from the time we crossed into Greece, until today.

Over fifty-five years have blinked by since my first and only other reading of My Family and Other Animals. My so apt birthday prezzie. Courtesy of Sue and Dave. Beautifully bound. Gold-leaf edged pages. A Biblical look and feel to it. A Testament no less. A timeless story of family, farce and fauna. Exquisitely related. There are some birthdays you just don’t want to end.

The map indicates today’s relatively short journey of 110K will take just over two hours. Camping Mystras near Sparti (aka Sparta) our host for a couple of nights. Five days in one spot runs down onboard stores. We take time out to restock. Give Lidl a miss. Go fill the coffers over the road. Seek a Greek chain we prefer. Name totally unpronounceable and unfathomable – Σκλαβενιτης

Red roads are usually good. Can be a little boring. Free of tolls though. With no places for a Beastie sleep-over, the red National 82 takes us past Kalamata. Home of Mary-Ann’s favourite pitted olives. And mine. The 82 turns out to be anything but boring. 20K of slow gradual twists & turns sees Beastie gasping at every hairpin, like a fell runner short on training. Latent lactic lapping and sapping limbs. Lungs and legs on fire.

Forty-five minutes to peak. At over 1300 metres, this Taygetus mountain pass just about fits beneath the grizzly grey clouds above.

Downhill we quicken. Not without some interest . . .

It’s fair to say Mrs S is not comfortable when I’m multi-tasking. i.e. steering and filming simultaneously. Hairpins a definite no-no. I get away with this lot though. We need to invest in a hands-free system for next time.

With no knowledge between us of the Byzantine Empire, we set off for a half-day history lesson. Learn something new. Uncover the mystery of the Mystras.

History was never my strong point at school. Gave it up at the end of the third year. A final year exam mark of 14%. A rather flattering result – from zero revision. I remember making up the most absurd answers. Inventing my own version of history. Just to be funny and annoying. Thought I’d go down in the school’s history books. Not good enough however. Got pipped. 7% from another classmate did!

Camping Castle View Mystras lives up to its name. We can see it from our pitch. Even if it’s a twenty minute uphill to the entrance.

We stop half way. Mrs S needs to make a point.

We walk what’s left of the old town. It’s a fascinating labyrinth of streets and alleyways. Interconnecting the three heirarchal levels. Plebs left outside the bottom layer. Our guise safe for now.

Our return to site takes us back through the small town. Past garden gates. Each with a dog or two on full alert. Senses in full scan mode. Ready to vocalise their presence. Snarling, snapping, slobbering jaws. Eager to show us who’s king of their castle. Further on, another set of eyes – or rather just the one – clock us. Let’s hope he can’t tell the time.

The sun returns. So we round the day off nicely. An hour warming by the pool. Until it becomes too irresistible. I go ruffle it’s surface.

If you want to get to know how something works. Or want to build something. Or dismantle something. Then, the likely-hood is you’re going to get mucky. For us, it’s time to get some greece under our finger nails.

The ancient sites entice. Bring in the hordes. From far-flung. Driven droves. Like the returning diaspora. Crossing over into the promised land.

We discover there’s no real hiding places. No real way to escape. No matter how remote a site. How narrow the road leading to it is. How steep. Mile after mile on seemingly empty roads. No guarantee. Only the guarantee of a coach beating us to it. Until today.

We go down to our most southern planned point. Mani Peninsular. Visit Vatheia and its tower-houses. Not quite off the beaten track. That comes later in the day. We go soul searching. Not many left. We wander the mainly deserted towers. Get to get a good look inside and out. Sections look unloved. Others on the up. New owners or tenants making good out of bad. The local area abandoned after WWII. Eight warring clans the previous occupiers.

We decide to take the scenic coastal road up to Camping Meltemi. Turns out to be one of the best decisions. Even if at one point we bear right, when we should have gone left. Need to U-turn 2K later. Easier said than done. But we do. The rugged route for most parts all to ourselves. Just as well. Any MOHO or oncoming lorry would have created consternation.

We make one brief stop. A photo opportunity too good to miss. Miss Piggy and her dozen little piggies. Foraging roadside. She gives me a sniff or two. Then a snouts up as she doesn’t possess an opposable.

We’re just about to move on. A small white van deliberately blocks us in. Driver’s suddenly door side. Holding a large jar of honey. Removes the lid to prove it. Requests twelve euros. We suspect his name is Jimmy Popounscroopulous. Suggest he gets back on his bike. He does so reluctantly.

Here’s a tiny flavour of our fab scenic and rugged route up to Gytheio.

We have no guarantee warmth will come. Unlike Hale-Bopp. Its more direct route guaranteed that. But now it’s going to have to wait another 2,500 years to get warm again. We however, can’t wait that long.

With no sign of Korinth or Athens on the horizon we lie low. Our tails not yet to be seen hurtling their way back from the far side of the sun. We forget about the ancient ones. Their time will come. With eyes cast heavenwards we become unpredictable. Just like the weather. It becomes our master. We, its slave.

By the time we’ve walked to and from Gytheio, Mary-Ann’s fit-bit has clocked twenty thousand steps.

A pretty port. Caters for those who like to eat, drink and take photos. Nothing else. Emulates many that lie scattered around these Peleponnese Peninsulars. Locals rely on the likes of us. Just as well we likes. We rest our shortening legs over lunch. Do an about turn. Cut a corner or two off. Hope it will stave off the first signs of dwarfism.

Friday’s rain drives us further west and north. But not too far. A 60K jaunt. Could have walked – almost. The resort of Stoupa the only MOHO stop on the western side of this middle finger. Again it’s pretty. Dry and sunny surprising.

More organised than most. Really geared up for the tourist. Overflowing with empty hotels and apartments. A few cars parked along the short narrow section of sea front draw attention. Two police officers are blowing whistles. Causing a din. Owners within earshot summoned. Move their cars or face an immediate fine. It’s heart warming. We can sleep easy tonight.

Different modes of transport bring with them different types of benefit. Two completely different days see us benefit from two of the many at our disposal.

There is nothing better than sharing. Especially when sharing with a loved one. Sharing places and experiences together takes on a different perspective. A different meaning. Yet, there is also something special about being out and ‘doing’ alone.

Not for the first time, I get the best of both worlds. Disprove the old proverb implying that you can’t have your cake and eat it. Bike out early, before it heats up. Go check out the route. Leg it, so to speak. Sneak a quick and quiet preview. Before too many get the same idea. It’s not a loop. More of a touch n turn.

Our shared route a perfect mix of interest. Takes us through olive groves, along collapsed coastal rocks, below cliff caves, past pretty ports – all with a glorious view to the right. Then to the left. A bit of up. A bit of down.

Today we leave glorious Stoupa. Need to double back. Go where we’ve been. See where we were. No sign of us anywhere. No easy option. No other sensible way open. Too many mountains in this neck of the woods. (is that a proverb?) We’re used to it. Heading east. Head south first.

Today’s road’s like many. Takes us up, over, through. None particularly jaw droppingly beautiful. Dramatic scenery above and below, none the less. Hairpins-R-Us, becomes today’s catchphrase. The Peloponnese gives Beastie a braver heart. Almost blasé on occasion. Skinny tight corners and seemingly impossible gaps no longer quicken his heart rate. Like an old timer. He’s been there done that. A short distance from Camping Semeli, he gets to add a notch. Tiny village of Kosmas ratchets things up. Totally out of the blue we find ourselves crammed in on both sides. Church immediately to the right. A lunchtime of gawping onlookers a few feet to the left. Are we the surprise entertainment? Or foolishly lost gatecrashers? Or if Beastie’s not careful, chair-crashers. This doesn’t feel right. Or good. A rush of the red stuff powers and pounds. Almost to the point of embarrassment. Mrs S intent on taking a photo adds to the feeling of portent. More blasé than me.

Before leaving Stoupa we exchange info with a German couple. Seems they’re going clockwise. We anticlockwise. Recommend a stop off at Monastery Elonis, just short of Leonidio. We do just that. It’s another crazy location. Perched high up below a seriously rocky overhang. Way out in the mountains and overlooking a canyon.

This 360 shows the monastery’s position from the valley below.

Six down, six to go. At this point we’re unsure if we’ve had six of the best. Or whether six of the best are still to come.

The nature of the landscape down here, gives the impression of subsistence, or just above. With mountains virtually lapping the shoreline, there’s not much land to farm. Most arable area given over to the olive. The Ancient Sites do their best to help. Or is it worst? That German couple commented that you often pay to see “Three large stones and a notice board”. Will the crowds keep on coming? When will the penny drop? We have already given a few the heave ho. Today we pass alongside Akropolis Tyryns. Stop. Decide to give it a try. If only to stretch our legs. Two euros seems fair. We’re treated. There’s more than three stones. More than three notice boards too. Pity all information describes the restoration works only. Perfect for Bob the Builder.

We finish today’s 110K journey with a dip (well, I do). Lefka Beach Camping our home for a few days. The terraced pitches not pretty. Resemble a multi storey. Almost feels like it too. Its own cove and fine-gravel beach with calm warm water compensates.

Our Tuesday Scoot into Nafplio, the once capital city of Greece, turns out not to be a one off.

The abundant Peloponnese flora and fauna seems bigger and brighter than home. Despite much drier conditions. Sometimes more interesting too. An early morning walk highlighted by this delightful fluttering mayfly. Eager to please the eyes. Will he still be around this time tomorrow?

Scoot parks us a tyre’s width or three from the entrance to the 18thC Venetian built Palamidi Fortress. At a lowly 216 metres it towers over the town and outlying valley. Walls interconnected by eight huge bastions. Lowest wall named Achilles Heel! Bit of a give away that. No prizes for guessing first line of attack.

Like a couple of rolling dice, we tumble down into old Nafplio. A visit to the National Gallery gets thwarted. It’s Tuesday. Yesterday we could have entered for free. Today it’s closed. Obviously. Go in search of the Folklore Museum. Can’t find it. A passing fairy godmother is very happy to lead the way. She has great English. Turns out one of her daughters now works in Edinburgh. She visited her daughter while living in Newcastle. Soon discovered Geordie-land made her excellent knowledge of English totally obsolete – like, an’ all .

The Folklore Museum closes at three. We arrive just a little before. That’s novel. Do a Roxanne instead. Walk the streets. All paved with marble. All very powsh. All a delight. The centre of Constitution Square gets treated to a new slice of culture.

Bump in to Helene. Our fairy godmother. Seems she and her husband Stavros have their own jewelry shop. Mary-Ann takes a fancy to a bracelet. A little on the large size. Does Stavros adjust it? No. We chat to Helene. Ten minutes later he’s made a perfectly sized replica!

Oddly, we get the feeling we may bump into them again tomorrow . . .

If the soul of any nation is created from its past and its spirit from the present, then it follows that its character is fashioned from essential elements of both. Interwoven genetic strands of the then and now. Brought together. Embedded within the lives of its people.

We do a re-run. Start earlier in the day. Begin with the National Gallery. Well, it’s baby brother. Big brother resides in Athens. Baby has two floors only. Three rooms on each. Just enough to hold our attention for an hour tops. Top floor fills us in with the Greek 19thC struggle against the Turks. Downstairs a striking watercolour collection of Greek towns by Paris Prekas. Seems he did a slightly longer tour than us. All the more interesting since it includes some we’ve already visited. Plus some still yet to.

Lunchtime out can create conumdrums. We prefer a light lunch. A snack. No less – no more. Prefer to stock up in the evening. Sandwiches can be scarce. Not always on the order for today. The ‘Salty pancake with bacon and cheese’ takes our fancy. Something light yet filling.

They arrive. Two skyscrapers full. Four thick ones. Cemented together with masses of ham and cheese. The grand-daddy of big whoppers. Not quite the small savoury crepe we anticipate. Not quite the flavour either. In fact none. A bland concoction. Tiered same old-same old. Neither of us find enough room. We give them our best shot.

All main attractions done with. Time to tuck in tums. Walk off lunch. Resemble a couple of weaving wobbling Weebles. Do our best to get lost within the small backstreets of this charming old town.

By chance, come across Helene again. Sitting on her shop step. On the look-out for potential customers perhaps. Convince her we haven’t been walking the streets for twenty-four hours.

Some people you instantly click with. Helene is one of those people. Thirty minutes whiz by. She epitomises Greek character. Easy going, friendly, pragmatic, resilient, realist. We get to learn lots in a short time. Including our ABC. Or rather theirs. Don’t get very far. Five combinations all make the ‘eee’ sound. EEE-K! All very Greek . . .

As kids we used it all the time. Brought our games and times together to life. Made them fun and interesting. Satisfying even. Pretending was good for us.

Like a couple of Olympic marathon runners, we’re closing in on the end of our lap of the Peleponnes. Energy levels not quite depleted. We’ve cut a few corners here and there. No one’s noticed. Today’s relatively short sunny journey to Corinth, broken with a stage stop – another archeological ancient site – Epidaurus. No need to administer an epidural – just yet.

It’s a huge and well organised ancient site. Focal point the 12,000 seater theatre. The best to be seen. And heard. Acoustics its claim to fame. Every seat in the house capable of hearing every murmur on stage. Dynamically sound proof. Practising perfect physical physics. We assume the stage took centre stage, so to speak. It doesn’t. The ruined rectangular pile of stones was the stage. So why does every guide position themselves in the middle of the circle. Call everybody to complete silence. And clap their hands?

Our way out passes another stage. A furry high jumper perfectly posed. Waiting for a tap turn. Does a different type of lap.

We’ve read his letters. Many times. His shadow long gone from this place. But not his testament. Nearly two thousand years on. That remains. As solid as the rock we stand on.

The remains of Ancient Corinth draw us into their shadows. A short uphill bike ride from Blue Dolphin Camping. We’re fortunate. Invited to briefly join a guided archeological group. The leader re-sets the ancient scene we’re standing in. Rebuilds walls and streets. Animates the traders and shopkeepers of the time. All gather. Leave their arcade. Interested to hear what Saul of Tarsus has to say. Just as we are. She reads a long passage from ACTS. Her act brings these old stones to life. Adds meaning to our visit.

That’s the advantage of having Scoot on board. We can blow this way, or that. Like the wind. After lunch we change direction. Head down to the famous isthmus. Go take a look at the canal. It’s spectacular.

We become fascinated by a herd of goats. They edge in onto the ledge below. 100 feet above the water. Wander right underneath us. Seemingly oblivious to the drop. Push and jostle for the tastiest bite of scrub. They don’t realise it’s a dead end. Turn back before it is.

Another couple of boats enter via top end. Allowed entry over a submersible bridge. We’ve just Scooted over the other one. Head back for it. Aim to catch it in action. We do.

Times change. The world changes. Attitudes change. Perceptions become influenced. The difference or distance between what is good or bad shrinks or widens. Depending on the current social trends. What is good today, maybe unacceptable tomorrow. Or vice versa. Acceptable to one, not the other. No change there then.

Gone is the time you could sit on the blocks at Stonehenge. Gone is the time you could get so close that you could look directly down into the gaping hole at Geysir. Gone is the time you could stand and touch the ancient Acropolis. Cords now cordon. Keep the curious mobs at arms length. Protectionists blow their whistles if you do more than look. Protect their interest. And its dollar value. A worldwide phenomenon. Tourism rules – OK?

In 1960 a visit to the Acropolis was different. Mary-Ann has a photo at home to prove it. She was last here then. Journeying. On her way to a planned meeting – with you know who!

It seems on Greek railway stations time never changes though. Stands still. Clocks on every station we pass through set to mid-day. Or midnight. Ironically frozen in time. Was our train early or late?

We refuse to heed the advice of the camp owner. Save ourselves twenty euros. A special taxi deal. We Scoot the 4K return journey to Corinth station. The sixty-five minute train return to Athens a bargain 14.40 euros.

Athens City surrounds the Acropolis doughnut-like. Sprinkled with hundreds and thousands. Twinkling dwellings. Flashing solar panels and dishes. Dish up a romantic fantasy. Wish we were there.

It’s iconic place and raised position is awesome. Guaranteed to impress. Despite the crowds. The ultimate Ancient Greece site to visit. Thankfully we turned right and not left. Left Athens to last.

So. We went to Athens. But then again we didn’t. We looked up to it. And down to it. From all sides. Come away with no idea of what it was really like. Then or now.

We do our best. Try to ascertain. Make the best decision. But in the end, it’s often down to pot luck.

We’re edging slowly north. Eating a few miles here and there. Leaving less portions to chew on when the main course home follows in a couple of weeks time.

Our intended two or three nighter at Blue Bay Camping gets cut short. We wake to grey rain. Decide to move on. We don’t really want to. There’s nothing to do in this area. Unless you’re a mountain goat.

Arrived early yesterday. Made the most of one our top five pitches. Perfect view. Perfect water temperature. Calm. Bliss. At 15 euros a night our cheapest stop too.

We extend our day for as long as possible. Eat out. Then take in a movie. Or rather, take out a movie. All time first. No neighbours. Not quite a drive in. More of a beach in.

It’s BIG Sunday. EU Election Day. The Mayor over the bay gets elected. The lights in view blaze into the early hours. As does the music. They’re celebrating. A live band performs until 1.30am. The bay picks up every note. Amplifies them. Throws them over. Beastie catches them as adept as any outfielder. They’re too hot to handle. He won’t let go though. His inners reverberate. As do ours.

Blue Bay Camping low down on the reviews ratings. Our next stop Camping Sikia is an award winning site. Max ratings by all. Anticipation runs high.

Camping Sikia is full – almost. They find us this last remaining spot. We make do. Pretend it’s just like being on a home patio. It takes a long beach-side walk before we’re no longer glum-chums.

Fear is a strange phenomenon. A concoction of the mind? An anticipation of the worse. For some a preventer. Others an enabler. Sometimes justified. Sometimes not. Explainable and unexplainable. There are many types of fear. With many manifestations. Some we deal with. Some we don’t.

In the days of no central heating or fitted carpets I did a silly thing. I adjusted a loose fitting element of a 3KW bar fire – while it was still plugged in! It had unexpectedly stopped working. The current surged into my body. Looking for an earthly escape. My mind numbed. Unable to make sense of this new sensation. My fingers magically magnetised. Unable to resist. Like iron filings under an invisible force. I held on. The mini explosion that resulted blasted me across the room. Turned me into a confused raging hulk. Mary-Ann came running. Took one look at my tortured and demented face and slammed the door tight on me. Terrified of what she’d seen.

For many weeks after that incident I held a sense of intense anxiety whenever I was in the same room as that fire. Fearful to go anywhere near it. An invisible power of a different kind still had a hold over me. I wouldn’t touch it – not even with a barge-pole. Delighted and relieved when we changed it for an oil filled radiator.

At some point on each trip our on-board LPG bottle needs refilling. I always delay doing this. Almost until it’s empty. Even though it’s our source of energy for cooking and heating. Ever hopeful that by some magic it might just see us through. It never does. And why delay? On our first trip I had an embarrassing encounter. Couldn’t fathom out which adapter to use. Caused extreme consternation at a very busy petrol station. The French forecourt lady almost blew a gasket. Had to do it for me. Un visage rouge the result. Along with a fear that that may happen again.

Yesterday, Greece comes to my rescue. All petrol stations manned. (or ladied) We follow a sign. LPG this way. It leads to a dedicated stockist. The lady recognises immediately which adapter to use. Three minutes later we’re full and on our way. Sorted – until the next time.

We make the most of 30C. The beach and swimming near perfect. Even if our pitch isn’t. Plenty of reading. Plenty of dozing. Plenty of cooling off.

We never spend a full day on the beach. So today we go for a change of scenery. Go Scoot into Volos. 20K up the coast. Interested to visit the Butterfly and Insect Museum. Web site shows it’s open today. It doesn’t show that it’s housed in a downstairs apartment. By a private collector. The lady on the other end of the buzzer tells us to buzz off. Visits by appointment only! If only Mr Google had translated the web page.

Returning to camp we notice a road sign. Martyred Village. With interests piqued we detour. Scoot up towards Drakeia. It nestles within a luxurious deciduous hillscape within the Mount Pelion region.

Transpires that on 18th December 1943 a mass execution took place. 118 men brutally killed by SS soldiers. One of many reprisals against the Greek Resistance. 58 of the 350 houses completely destroyed.

A wake in memory of the victims is held in the area every year. Members of Parliament, including the President attend.

We are all idiosyncratic in some way. All susceptible to react in different ways to certain unwanted stimuli. Some, more able to handle an intruding irritation.

After an uneventful journey, we’re currently pitched up at Ouranoupoli Camping. Just north of Nowomansland. Better known as the Athos Peninsula. A male-only territory with special status. Home to twenty Monasteries. Our rainy arrival not on the expected agenda.

Greece must be home (‘home’ not quite the right word) to millions of stray dogs and cats. A mix of dog and jackal calls – our bedtime serenade. Curiously it’s become our cure. Like an antibody-packed serum. We no longer react quite so adversely. No longer gnash teeth. Like mosquito bitten junglies we’ve become immune. Able to fall asleep. Oblivious to the moonlight marauders. Almost as good as a cup of Horlicks.

On most camp sites at least two cats do the rounds. Searching out the soft-hearted ones – like us. Yesterday, Camping Agiannis supplies more than the usual quota. They cannily creep under Beastie. Bide their time. Suddenly appear with perfect timing. Put on a show of cupboard love. Irresistible. It’s as if they know Mrs S has bought a box of cat biscuits!!

Weirdly, there is no barking as we prepare for bed. It’s just after midnight. All is quiet and peaceful. But not for long. A nocturnal creature sits perched in the tall pine trees above Beastie. Has a sadistic nature. Taught water torture techniques at Guantanamo Bay School. Came top of his class. Decides to put his learning into practise. Teach us what he’s learnt. Non-stop until dawn. Mrs S can vouch for that.

Directing your energy towards being lazy is not an easy thing to do. Relaxing takes effort. It’s a mind over body thing. Or maybe a mind over mind thing. Like a menu where everything comes with spam (or chips) it can leave you teetering on the edge of boredom.

A late evening hilly bike hike to the left, followed by a mid-morning one to the right helps to distract. Frees the mind. Gives it time to concentrate on nothing. Just the task in hand. Snaps it out of its ‘wotnexdo’ mode.

Our mid-day walk into Ouranoupoli for lunch part of our day’s menu. A short 2K roadside trek. It’s a small village. Built on a traditional grid system. Probably used by the ancients for playing noughts and crosses. A big outlet for day trippers. Caught and coached in from far and wide. Hooked up with a boat to catch. Fed a line or two. Being the last village this side of the Mount Athos Monastic State it’s perfectly placed. Reels them in. Then tosses them out on the waves. Gets them close to the twenty monasteries. A three hour return. We resist. Three minutes floating time all my weak landlubber stomach can take.

Our ‘Don’t You Wish You Were Here?’ view from our lunchtime lookout helps us linger longer. Seems everyone’s gone to lunch.

The grid system means we won’t get lost. We knows our lefts from our rights. Walk off lunch. Many houses and apartments overflow with flowers. Bringing brightness. Seems to be a Greek way. Oodles of little nurseries in and around most towns and villages. Doing a roaring trade. Our favourite display worth dix points.

We stop and admire a local brickie’s craftwork. He beckons. Allows us to watch. Each stone picked, placed and patted. Each an apparent random selection to the uninitiated.

Back at camp we end the afternoon with a large plate of spam and chips. Lie back, relax, read, swim. Evening sees us help ourselves to seconds. Watch a Netflix Original. In The Shadow of Iris. Much more entertaining than the Champions League Final – so I hear . . .

With a forecast change in the weather we decide to head further east and north. 200K up the road. Bulgaria almost in view. We’re now pitched up near Mandra – Camping Natura. It’s just past midnight and a big storm’s brewing. Thunder rolls around the hills like a fairground walzer. Spins the wind into a frenzy. A whirling dervish of the wet stuff is on its way.

We’re all culpable. Some more than others. Ready with our tongue. Or thought. Quick to pass judgement. When none is required.

This morning’s sooner than planned departure brought on by a complete change in the weather. The rolling thunder rolled on through the night and out to sea. Got sea sick. Decided to head back inland. By mid morning it let rip.

Time for us to move on. Head further inland. Cross into Bulgaria. Bye bye Greece. Camping Alexandrovo here we come.

We never know what to expect when we enter onto a new site. Our hopes either rise or fall. Based on that immediate unjustified gut reaction. Today is no exception. Except it is – exceptional.

On entering through the gates we’re agog. A mini paradise in front. Immaculately created by Matt and Keiko. An English-Japanese partnership with Skye, their pretty eleven year old daughter. Oh, mustn’t forget Tweetie the Rooster and his gang too. They moved to Bulgaria ten years ago. Matt’s never been back to the UK since. Can’t say we blame him.

A landscape beats a seascape. Hands down. IMHO!

You cross a line. Nothing seems to change. Why should it? Sky’s the same blue. Grass the same green. Air still breathable. Language the same – indistinguishable and unpronouncable.

We’re ahead of schedule. No need to race home. Just yet. Decide to stick around. See a bit more of Bulgaria. And its people. Matt and Keiko’s place far too good for just a one nighter. Start with Plovdiv. Its second city. A 20K Scoot plus seventy-five minute train trip away. 8.40 leva return. Just over four quid!

Its Roman past lies just metres beneath the surface. Like a near distant ghost town. It stretches the length of the pedestrianised high street. A 240 metre long stadium. Built around the time of Hadrian. Before he became a Geordie. Sections on show. Some clearly seen from inside a few of the shops. Intention is to bring the whole stadium back to life – figuratively. Provide a visitor underground view-way. Meld ancient and modernity.

Our paper map leads us a merry dance. It’s in cahoots. Lack of signs and visible street names frustrates. We go in search of the Fine Arts Museum. Ah, a sign reads ‘This Way 100m’ Points us to the wrong street. Feel like we’ve completed a couple of laps of the underground stadium. Come in last. A couple of chariot-less charioteers. We ask a local shopkeeper. He has difficulty with the map too. All street names translated into English. He can’t tie them up. By chance it stares us in the face.

It’s not fine art as we understand it. More like fun art.

We decide to pretend we’re on vacation. Order a couple of Raffy ice-creams. Cost us more than lunch. They’re worth it. Do what the Plovdiv people are renowned for. Chill out. Take our time.

The amble back to the station brings on a not unusual sight. A group of woman busy tidying up. Even though there’s not a pair of socks or underpants to be seen.

A good day ends with frustration. An all time first – we’re very early. 4.40pm for the 5.10pm. It’s rush hour. Hundred or so on the platform. Even though the Tannoy-lady speaks their language, no-one fully understands. Us included. They wait until she repeats an announcement. Start to shuffle away. We do what good little sheep do. Follow. Seems it got pulled over. No reason. Thomas sent on an urgent errand. Henry not due until 6.10pm.

Out of sight out of mind? We all have secrets. Tucked away. Hidden. Some stored in the shame box. Others in miscellaneous. Locked. Hopefully forever. Key disposed surreptitiously. No-one else’s business. Let sleeping dogs lie.

Thracia? Never heard of it until we entered Greece. Historically part of Turkey and this part of Bulgaria. Seems this local region has had lots of its secrets exposed. Gold diggers in search of treasure. Ahead of the game. Beat the experts. Rob and decimate. Underground treasure troves spoiled. The dead no longer left for dead.

Within a fifteen minute morning walk from the back gate of Camping Aleksandrovo we climb the steps up into a remarkable museum. Houses an exact replica of a 4th century BC Thracian Tomb. Discovered metres away in 2,000. Robbers unable to steal the unique wall paintings. A skilled artist has left his unique mark. Depicts the life and times of the local ruler.

The museum came to be with the financial help of Japan. Officially opened on May 15 2009, by Prince Akishino of Japan.

Our afternoon 18K Scoot lands us in the municipality’s centre – Haskovo. Have a nose around. Just for something to do. Blend in with the locals. Do what they do. Not much. Have a coffee. Chat. People watch. Then visit the town’s claim to fame. A single monument. Certified by the Guinness Book of World Records. The world’s tallest statue of the Virgin Mary with the Infant Jesus.

Here’s the rub. We can never truly taste the full flavour. Anywhere. Like wine. We can roll it around our mouth. Swill it across and under our tongue. Let it linger on our pallet. But then we have to spit it out. Left wondering. What’s it like really?

All good things come to an end. So after three nights it’s time to move on. The downside of living as nomads.

Matt and Keiko are fantastic hosts. With an easy knack. Take and make time. You feel welcome. Special. Nothing too much trouble. Our final evening with campers from Romania, Italy, Holland, New Zealand and UK has a party feel to it.

We switch from randonners. Become random-ers. Go this way. Then that. Know where we should go. Don’t. Needing to go up. But unwilling to spit out. Tempted to swallow. Top up our glasses.

Our route to Camping Batak includes a two hour lunchtime stop off. We usually shy away from taking Beastie anywhere near a town centre. That’s Scoot’s job. We’re in luck. A Beastie size space materialises right in front of a church. It’s his lucky day. And mine. Centre a ten minute walk.

Larger Bulgarian towns and cities have more of a central/western European feel to them. Unlike Greece. Pedestrianised squares and all that. Pazardzhik no exception.

We finish our street walking inspection. Gets a green Thumb’s Up. The delights on display in this Gingerbread-man store do too. Too, too tempting. Evening puds gathered.

Not quite lost, we walk the backstreets. Search for Beastie. Maps leads the way. Our daytime torchlight. Arm held out in front. As if offering Mary-Ann’s phone as a gift to an invisible person. It guides us. Its blind masters. Like the good doggy it is.

Unlike its southern neighbour we find fewer stray dogs walking the neighbourhood. Maybe they’re all cooped up. Like this one. Bright and alert.

Think negatively. Negative things happen. Right? Think positively. Positive things happen. Right? Or is it all just down to chance?

We often find the best pitches on sites already taken. Leave us to make do. We’re used to it. Generally roll up with no great expectation. Hot water and cleanliness fundamental. Minimum requirements we hold true to. Maybe we should start thinking more positively.

Beastie rolls up and down onto Eco Camping Batak. It’s grey and miserable. Bunches of dark clouds loiter low over the lake. Like a gang of youths. With nothing better to do. Itching for a fight with anyone who dares look their way. Beastie needs a water top up. But not me. I’m minding my own business. Filling him up. It’s then I get spotted. “Quick love. Hand me my waterproof”.

Not the perfect way to get pitched up. By far. But come our first morning, Beastie’s basking in the early heat. Gaping in the glorious view. He’s in the Royal Circle. Not bad for seventeen euros per night.

There is a small group of seven ‘ECO’ campsites in Bulgaria. ECO being the operative word. An abbreviation for ECOnomical with the facilities we offer you.

We notice the lake is dammed. Decide to walk the waterline. Go, be nosy. See what’s on the other side.

Bulgarian building dilapidation is common in many towns and villages. Especially, but not limited to, those in rural areas. Two main reasons. Older generation dies. Leaves a house. Younger generation not interested to take it on. The house and land left to die of natural causes.

Or. New build runs out of finance – extremely common too. Our afternoon bike ride to the far side brings one into view. A massive monstrosity. A huge hotel complex. Bank pulled the rug. Fifteen years ago. Everything walked away from in the blink of an eye. Two cranes left in the lurch. Tower above. Nothing to do. Jobless. Redundant. Left on the dole.

It’s on the tip of your tongue. You can’t spit it out. Not quite tongue tied. Lacking in focus – maybe? Concentration key. But not always. Sometimes it pays to just put it on the back-burner. Leave it to the Numbskulls.

I’m at that time of life (or maybe always have been), when memories don’t get queued in quite the same way they used to. I can remember plenty. But not on cue. I can get them so far. But once tee’d up at that T-Junction they don’t play ball. I give them a green light. A thumbs up. A flashing filter. Allow clear passage. Do they take it? No. Decide to go mount the kerb. Go off road. Plenty of room where they reside to do that. Lots of unexplored space.

With one of our longest days ahead we leave dead on ten. Expect to be dead on our bottoms by the time we reach Camping Dragijevo – just east of Bulgaria’s first capital, Veliko Tarnovo.

Now I remember. A day or so too late. Or is it? Blog’s not in real time. It can be whatever it is. Real or make believe? Who’s to tell? Not me!!

Pazardzhik! That’s it! We pass through again. Double back. Previous visit treated ourselves. Only because it was novel. The end process and the result. As Rolf would often say “Can you tell what it is yet?”

We make good time – for a while. Last leg looms. But not a normal road surface. Pass through a town. Its high street brick blocked. Extends for several miles. Now if only I could remember the name of the town . . .

Well. That’s the ‘A’ movie; followed by the ‘B’ movie; now here’s the ‘Trailer’ – sort of . . .

It’s been in the thirties today. 5.30pm. We arrive. The last time we stayed on a site with a pool as good as this was in Marrakech. All we want to do is pitch up and plonk-out – poolside. Beastie has other ideas. He becomes a prize plonker. Our pitch is very grassy. Quite damp. Soft underneath. Too soft. Its slight slope means we need to raise Beastie on chocks. Can’t. They sink in. Beastie’s front wheel’s spin and spin. He can’t move forwards or backwards. Traction control no help. He tears up the lush grass trying. Gets stuck. Fortunately it’s a perfect training scenario for the English site owners – Nick and Nicky Kinson. Nick shows Nicky exactly how and what to do. Bad Boy Beastie becomes a guinea pig.

Sometimes easy to make. Sometimes not. Forecast shows rain due later. The weather girl and boy get discombobulated. Shall we Scoot? Call a taxi? Chicken out. Wrong call. Remains dry.

11am and we’re up and running. Well, walking actually. On another Free Walking Tour. This time around, around the original capital – Veliko Tarnovo. The amazing old city built in, on and around three hills. They seem locked in on all sides. As if sitting within an old collapsed volcano. A high natural rocky wall skirts its perimeter.

Plami passionately fills that space between our ears. Her speed talking skill, second to none. In English too. We have to concentrate to keep up. How the Non-English cope a mystery. She bombards us with info. Fingers and hands dance along. Her carefully chosen stops and chosen topics flood light into those dark areas all things Bulgarian. From the Romans to the Soviets. From religious to current day secular.

Two hours becomes three. The group cling on to the end as if wanting to get their money’s worth. Did they remember it’s free? Finish with a group photo for Facebook.

Our journey. It’s like a really, really long and exhausting bike ride. The longer you stop for. The more difficult it becomes to think about getting back on. Especially if you’re on a great site and you’ve still some distance to go.

Not that we’re thinking of getting on our bikes today. With direct access to some real Bulgarian countryside it’s walking boots’ time. Though a short way in to our six mile circular Mrs S was fearing the worst.

We make it to our lunch-time stop just as the heavens open. Time to dry off and re-fuel. The portly owner shows us to an undercover table. His English stretches to very few words. “Fish?” Our “No thank you” accompanied with a shake of our heads confuses him for a brief second. Head shake means yes. Nod means no. “Salad? Our “Yes please” plus smile ticks the box. With fish off our menu, it’s unclear what else he has to offer. We share some shoulder shrugging exercises before Mary-Ann goes with him to inspect Le Menu. Returns with absolutely no idea what she’s ordered. Other than it’s the one with the most ingredients.

The large burgers resemble barnacle covered cow pats. Not long made. Sun-dried. Crispy outers. Warm soft inners. They are surprisingly mouth-wateringly good!

The roadside return leg through the outskirts demonstrates clearly the crumbling chaos blighting many of the villages over here. The decline in the Bulgarian population since the nineties not helping.

Mary-Ann doesn’t quite overdose on anti-histamine when we get back to camp. Although it’s clear she’s been under attack. From more than one quarter. On investigation, she learns there’s an army of minute mosquitoes in this area. They obviously took a liking to Mary-Ann’s legs!

As seasoned MOHOmers we think we’ve see it all. Experienced it all. Done it all. What else could we possibly add to our already lengthy portfolio?

We’re budging up the Black Sea coast. One last stop in Bulgaria to go. Then we’ll be chasing vampires. Registering at Camping Laguna, just north of Varna, we’re asked to pay in advance. A dictum from above, the young lad informs us. It’s not the norm. Normal practice throughout is to pay on departure. With the option to leave early or extend.

Once pitched up, we discover, perhaps, why the money up front. The sanitary block is in no way sanitary. Not really fit for purpose. I’ll leave it at that. Further elaboration may cause alarm for those readers of a weak constitution.

To compensate we have a lovely large pitch. Two minutes from the beach. Although getting and stepping onto the sand could be considered to be a work of art.

It’s gone seven. Table and chairs set ready in the last of the evening sun. Dinner’s on it’s way. A calm and pleasant end to the day beckons. Not for long. A petrol strimmer strikes up on the overgrown adjacent pitch. Just what Mary-Ann could do with – NOT. Dust and grass bits fly in all directions. He’s intent on scouring every last inch. Like a wanton detectorist. He notices me laying up. Pretends he hasn’t. Wants to get the job finished. He doesn’t . . . say no more.

As our dining window draws to a close we spot smoke rising up through the trees. White billowing cumulus curls head our way. Accompanied by the familiar sound of what we think is a leaf blower. Someone burning damp leaves perhaps? Typical. Suddenly, a Dan Aykroyd impersonator appears. Must be his birthday. He’s wearing his brand new Ghostbuster outfit. He’s garbed head to toe. The real deal. Gas mask – and some. Acts as if he’s a post apocalyptic survivor. Pumps his lethal potion into the undergrowth. Making sure he gets them before they get him.

He backs onto our pitch. About to turn. We’re too young to become toxic waste. I jump up. Waving arms and shouting. He backs down. Backs off. Circles around to the other side. It’s no good. It drifts over. We head indoors. Away from the noxious odour. Shut up Beastie. Bide our time. Hope we don’t have to wait 5,000 years.

Day 66 is much calmer. Maybe we’re still under sedation. We Scoot out a short distance. Visit Aladzha Monastery. Another one of those perched high up. No more than a series of narrow cave-like openings along a rock face. Perfectly positioned for Monks suffering from Medieval madness.

After today’s journey, we now fully understand why a busman needs one.

With today’s temperature soaring to 34C, the last thing we anticipate is a one and three-quarter hour crawl through the madness of the Bucharest inner city roads. But that’s exactly what we get.

Yesterday’s seemingly sedate cross over into Romania finds us in the heart of its Black Sea Riviera-land. A lunchtime break and leg stretch at Constanta takes us past this unusual looking structure. A giant 285ft tall inland lighthouse.

We pitch up a little further north at Camping S Navodari. The threatening storm leaves us barely enough time for a beach stroll and a quick dip.

Fortunately we book for one night only. At 12.30am – i.e.past bedtime, a luney couple decide to move their caravan – right behind Beastie. It’s 1am by the time their clatterings are done. Come 7.30am they move again! Come 7.45am they’re replaced by two sets of ‘tenters’. The three young lads to our side look as if they’re here for the long haul. Apart from the fully loaded kitchen fridge they also unload a three foot tall rib tickler. Point it in our direction. Time to leave!

Casa Alba proves to be a surprisingly leafy green oasis within the outer Bucharest suburbs.

Jeremy Vine’s Radio 2 show is a favourite of Mary-Ann’s. Her daily dose delivered via catch-up as she prepares dinner – though not when we’re traveling. From time to time invited guests are asked to give their thoughts on “What makes us human?”.

Of the many solely human traits, kindness, must surely come near the top of the list. Our journey into the city centre gets a five out of five as we get handed some free Bucharest currency.

Every country has its own unique ways of running its transport infrastructure. It takes time to fathom. Today’s planned bus trips no exception. No clues displayed at any bus stops. We guess. Once on-board a young teenager removes ear phones. Spots our confusion. Points us in the right direction. 1/5

Our first stop. The massive open air Dimitrie Gusti National Village Museum. A fascinating chronological insight into village house construction over the last few centuries. A multitude of properties moved and rebuilt. Beautifully laid out on its fourteen hectares. A mix of churches, houses and windmills.

My favourite interior. Previously occupied by Villa fans . . .

We exit the village not quite at the top end of the Champs-Élysées. Their very own ‘Arcul de Triumf’. We can catch a city bus nearby. Providing we can find the stop.

A lady is waiting. Our generation. We ask her for help. She speaks not one word of English. Without hesitation, or prompting from Chris Tarrant, she phones a friend. I briefly speak with her friend. She tries to help, but can’t. 2/5 + 3/5. The lady at the bus stop isn’t finished. She calls over a young boy of seventeen, Victor. Explains our plight. He has good English. Accompanies us on the bus. Shows us where we catch the Metro into the Old Town. 4/5

We make it into old town with the help of another teenager. He’s heading in our general direction too. Takes us to the platform. Gets on with us. And off with us. Points us to our exit. Goes on his way. 5/5 – Gold Star for Bucharest.

Curiously, each teenager asks the same question. “How do you like Romania?”

Although convenient, we’ll be pleased to leave this site. Its mosquito population have been having a feast. We’ve got lumps on our lumps.

Sadism springs to mind. Interviewees for the role of Highways Maintenance Manager, worldwide, must surely possess this characteristic. Along with a preponderance for the inane – that’s a gimme.

These Eastern Orthodox countries celebrate Easter a week later than us. As a consequence, the whole of Romania is on the move. Three motoring madness days. AKA Bank Holiday week-end.

The last 5K of our journey from Bucharest takes 105 minutes. We’re just about ready to blow our brains out. Or those of whoever authorised a series of unfinished roadworks on the final approach into Bran.

We’re currently pitched up a blood curdling scream away from Count Dracula’s supposed hideaway in Bran, at the aptly named Vampire Camping. A very pretty Dutch-run set up.

Plans for a one-nighter get doubled. Decide not to move on, on Bank Holiday Monday. Hope to make a clean getaway on Tuesday.

The late Bank Holiday opening time of mid-day enables foreigners and homegrowns alike to swell the hordes. We bite the bullet. Don’t let the busy-ness bother. Accept it for what it is. Romania’s biggest tourist attraction.

Give the new owners their due. They don’t make a huge play of the Dracula theme. It’s serious stuff. Focus on its real history and Royal Connections. Romania’s last Queen being the grand-daughter of Queen Victoria. This and other interesting tid-bits help us ignore the International throng.

The house tour is followed by a short interlude. But not before yours truly had nipped back to Beastie to close up all roof windows. And take in the washing!

On the walk back to camp we pass an old gent. Standing kerbside. He’s waving. Mouthing at the on-coming traffic. Looks very doddery. Unsure. We decide he must need help crossing. I nip back. Gesticulate. Hold my arm out. He hooks onto me. Very tentatively we cross the road. I’m feeling chuffed. Good deed done. Scout’s Honour and all that. He cups my face with his large hand. His way of saying thanks – I presume. I skip the fifty yards back down to Mary-Ann, like a satisfied six year old whose just been given a gold star. She’s cracking up. I turn around. He’s back on our side!

Time’s up. Well, not quite. Like a couple of kids we’re out playing. Having lots of fun. It’s past dusk. We’re making the most of it. Yet dreading that call. “Time to come in”.

Romania – what a surprise. We love everything about it. One week of passing through definitely not enough. Think we’ll do an Arnie.

Only one more planned two-nighter on the agenda – Budapest. So we stay on the alert. On the lookout for anything that remotely grabs our attention. Time to start milking it. Go deaf. Ignore that call.

Our approach into Fagaras obliges. St John the Baptist Cathedral proudly pouts. Its golden domes of dominion reflect over all who pass by. We bounce Beastie unceremoniously up a steep gutter. Find him an unlikely dozing space between a couple of kerbside trees. Leave him to his own devices. We go and gander.

We get a double helping. Its fabulous Fagaras fortress. Its defending days long gone. Now houses the County Museum. One section dedicated to the resistance fighters. WWII we presume. But no. The resistance struggle against the communist regime. Personal stories and tragedies shared. Unfortunately non in English. Romanian people refer to these times as the ‘sad days’.

We’re warmly welcomed onto Camping Poarta Oilor, Gârbova Village by Fritz. One half of a Dutch Christian couple. A number of years ago they retired. Sold their old people’s home in Holland. Wondered what do do with their money. Decided to help their now out of a job Romanian au-pair. She wanted to go back to Gârbova, a very depressed village. There was no work. Fritz and his wife had a house built for her. A B&B guest house!

The Word quickly got around the village. Many came looking for work. So Fritz expanded the original property. Put more and more into employ. Put his money where his heart is. Re-ignited the Gospel in the locals’ hearts. Reinvigorated the dying village community. Gave them a new reason ‘to be’.

The mainstay of their current operation is based around facilitating World Youth summer camps. Around 800 arrive each summer.

Fritz proudly tells me that a barn he bought that was once owned by communist leader Nicolae Ceaușescu, is used as their Christian outreach during inclement weather.

With a short journey of seventy miles planned, we need to find something to do. Create our very own collage. Paint some pretty memories.

Mrs S does a quick search. Taps up Google Maps. Comes up with Râpa Roșie. A protected area of national interest in Alba County. It’s on our way. Just like us.

We catch sight of it. In the far distance as we drop down off the motorway. A short loop back and we’re facing a dirt track. An old red Corsa pulls up alongside. Looks as if it’s just been through a dry Dakar Rally stage. It’s rusty dusty covering a giveaway. The young driver warns us not to proceed. Army firing range up ahead. Route restricted. He drives on. We ponder. For about ten seconds. “What’s the worse that could happen?” . . .

5K further on and Beastie’s done well. But then we take him no further. It looks like a bridge too far . . . gone. He has to sit this one out. As we step down we can see and hear the practice rounds. White targets against the green. The rat-a-tat-a-tat of automatic fire echoes off the rosy cliffs. Like chattering teeth on a frosty morning. Fortunately that’s all that bounces our way.

The troopers stop and clear up just as we reach the end of the track. Perfect timing. They ignore us. It’s now a question of negotiating the steep up and down tree covered gorge. Mrs S is left on look out. Not her bag. Happy to let me go play.

I slope back down. A little more tricky than the up. Mrs S kept in radio contact as I approach. Ready to shoot.

Romania’s cities impress with their westernism. Audi, Merc, BMW and VW’s gang up on any motorist unwilling to get a move on. Hustle and hassle. It’s their time. Yet out in the rural, time stand still. Herders in plenty. Take their time. They’ve lots of it. Happy with their lot. It’s all they know. All they want?

Our getaway gets delayed. We don’t mind one iota. Try to stay awake . . .

Our day’s picture is completed with an afternoon stop at Alba Iulia. The place of Romania’s Unification in 1918. The star shaped citadel quite a star.

There are not many days out on the road that are just about the journey. Very few end up being boring. Inevitably, one or two interesting sights usually pass our way. Give us something to think about. Something to talk about. Our last full day in Romania offers just that.

As diagonals go, this is a long one. Longer than any Pythagoras hypotenuse. Doesn’t stop until Calais. Two thousand kilometres from here. Today not a particularly straight line. More freehand. Calculus driven. Getting us to wherever. Tiny bit by tiny bit. Today it takes us up, over and around the stunning Apuseni Natural Park.

An interesting route. We pass through many typical villages. See many typical sights.

Our lunchtime super hot spot. One of the best. Get sarnie serenaded. Harmonising belled grazers. Chewing and chomping. A pestering pooch comes by. Playfully teases until he’s given short shrift. He works up a sweat.

We end the day at a lovely one man run camp site in Remetea village – Camping Turul. István informs us the village is Hungarian. He was born here. His family have lived here for generations. From past times. When it was actually in Hungary. Sort of implies the area still should belong to Hungary. Hmmm – well that’s the price you pay for siding with the Evil One mate!

By the time we’re pitched up, any thoughts we have of a leg stretch by venturing further then three inches from Beastie are very severely cut short.

Each day now reveals the same performance. Like a Torvill and Dean Bolero. Timed and executed to perfection. Slow warm start. Extremely warm mid-day section. Build up of huge dark clouds. Thirty minutes of massive crackling thunder. Sixty minute deluge.

Following day we cross another border. Queue Hungary. The commi-look-alike border patrol officials do their best to antagonise. Perform all duties in slow motion. It’s as if the air around them is somehow thicker. Tasks undertaken about as fast as a Jacques Cousteau mime artist, treading treacle. We conclude their first task is to suck on a lemon before exiting their tiny cabins.

By the time we’re entering through the gates of the aptly entitled Shady Thermal Camping and Holiday Park in Püspökladány I check my imaginary watch. Torvill and Dean time again. The heavens open up. Didn’t want to go for a walk anyway. On leaving we get ripped off with the price. Now we understand the interesting choice of name . . .

Unlike Kevin Costner in Waterworld there are no tell tale signs of additional skin growth between finger or toe. No shark-like slits in our neck. Not yet.

With no sign of half decent weather we by-pass our intended Budapest. A good call. It rains for sixteen hours solid. Of course, it starts at 3pm, just as we plug in at Aqua Thermal Camp, Esztergom. Someone else pulls a different type of plug. It gushes. We don’t. Puts a damper, so to speak, on proceedings. There are none.

We’re positioned a canoe’s length from the Danube and no more than an oar’s width from the nearest mosquito. These protein sucking pests are depleting our supplies of repellent fast. It’s like playing an endless game of Space Invaders. The more you kill, the more appear.

The wet morning forecast gets itself in a twist. By the time we rise it’s dry. We can leave the site anytime up to 1pm. Decide to go down town. A short ten minute stroll along the Danube.

Our journey to Mosonmagyarovar, our last stop in Hungary, gets interrupted – by an old friend. We can’t resist popping in. Reminds us of how Tesco started back home. Basic, but with all the right essentials. Serves us up with a ready meal for this evening.

Aqua Camp & Resort is today’s stop over on the Great British Swimathon. Again we’re thrown into the deep end.

Maybe we need to stop choosing camp sites with the word Aqua in the title. In any event, the camp’s facilities are rubbish, but the hotel pools’ complex is fantastic. Despite the weather it’s very busy. An army of Terry Towelled guests settle in for the long haul with their drinkie-poos. All but three of the untowelled (me included) are playing in the hot tubs, jacuzzis, water fountains and saunas. Under cover. The huge outdoor pool is getting wet. Swimming in the rain is fun. I have fun.

At 11.30pm two women and a toddler park up on the pitch next to Beastie. They’ve just driven down direct from Prague. Ask me to help them push their caravan into position. I oblige. The favour gets returned. But not as hoped. Their ‘getting settled in’ rackets on until 1.50am. That is until Mrs S has a word.

They say that a change is as good as a rest. But when that change is simply moving on from one site to another, it doesn’t always feel like it.

With play being interrupted by rain every day, since Bran in Romania, we’re feeling like a couple of sitting ducks. Today’s 220 mile journey doesn’t help. Our longest ever. Maddingly made worse. Mile after mile of roadwork lane restrictions. Slovakia taking up the old concrete sections. Not for the first time we feel for the static lorry drivers. Like a line of lured lemmings, waiting their turn to commit hara-kiri, they tail back way beyond the distant horizon. Their raw reward on the two lane motorways over here. We admire their staying power. Wonder what the suicide rate might be.

Just maybe, we’ve reached the rainbow’s end. The sun’s out. That’s a change. A hot and dry end to our marathon. Five-ish. We make it onto Camping Oase Praha. Just south of Prague. A little pot of gold of a site. Table tennis, swim and sun. The perfect tonic. Refreshingly good.

This morning’s drive continues in the dream theme. Quiet country roads wind us through Central Bohemian Region and some lovely Czech villages. We’re waxing lyrical of how everything reminds us of home. But neater. Not paying attention to any road signs. We don’t know what they mean anyway. Missy rules OK? She knows best . . .

A little further on and we suddenly get shaken out from dreamland. Get thrown head first into a nightmare. Brains unable to quite fathom exactly which reality it’s functioning in. Auto-pilot mode powers down. The road runs out. We pull up directly in front of a huge motorway bridge construction site. We can’t quite believe how or what we’re doing here. We’re familiar with the French Route Baree and the German Umleitung. No idea what the equivalent Czech is. Did we miss it?

We’re reluctant to do an about turn. I step down. Go take a closer look. Get a handle on our predicament. To the right a new road leads from nowhere to nowhere. We’re about a year too early.

To the left a parked white van. Three men inside. All fluent in Czech. Notice my camera. Think I’m asking for permission to take photos. Exercise their full English vocab. “OK”, plus a nod and a thumbs up. I adopt a pro-active approach. Do my best Marcel Marceau, minus the pane of glass. Try to make my message apparent rather than transparent. Hope they don’t think I’m playing charades and expect a turn. A hat-trick of heads nod in unison, like marionette triplets with loose strings. Harmonising Captain Scarlets issue the order – “S.I.G.”

200 yards further on and the road is clearly cordoned off. Fortunately, they’ve very kindly left us an exit.

We make it in good time to Waldcamp Pirna, south of Dresden. We’re melting. Mid-thirties. Pitch-up and head for the ‘Nature’ lake. In need of a quick cool off. Surprised to find a high number of bare bottoms and bosoms on display. Along with their attached genitalia – men only, I presume. I have nothing against the naked body per se. It’s just that in 99.999 per cent of the over 50s population it’s not what it was in the first place. And none of these ‘seniors’ ever came close to first place. None a sight for sore eyes. All a sorry sight. All maybe with no sight – or a mirror. Sad blots on the landscape. Or should that be bots?

Germany and 2020 seem a long way off. This central Deutschland route home presents lots of opportunities to dig a little deeper. Do some groundwork. Lay some firm foundations for our return. Whets our appetites in the process.

Unusually, on arrival at Campingplatz Seeburg we join a queue. A yearly event is in progress. Six tractor-pulled caravans are registering. (That’s not the event) Each year this site is one of many they stop at. With a maximum speed of 25kph we’re glad this is the one and only time we’re caught in their none existent slipstream.

With our current site selections, Burt Lancaster would have been in his element. Though on a much grander ‘country crossing’ scale than he tackled in his 1968 ‘The Swimmer’. Pools with lakes thrown in for good measure offer the perfect foil to the mid to high thirties. We do our best to emulate.

Our last Thursday on the road leads us into the cherry centre of Germany – Witzenhausen and onto Campingplatz Werratal.

Alas, our swimming run ends . . .

The so appropriate metal ‘net’ for our apres-dinner game of table-tennis has us in fits (or maybe it’s the wine). Every-time the ball hits it, it pings! Resonates like the bell atop a fairground “Test Your Strength” attraction. Between us we win a stadium full of Teds.

Today we’re sent packing, before we even unpack. Our planned lakeside one-nighter at Baldeneysee cut short. It’s Friday. A sunny week-end due. They’re full. We feel caught short. But not for too long. 6K down river we grab one of the last four places at Knaus Camping Park in Essen-Werden. Walk off the journey. Another beautiful spot we take note of.

As an understatement, this twelve week trip has turned out to be a bit of a misnoma – like the word itself? Naming this blog Greece most probably contravened all guidelines laid down by The Advertising Standards Authority. Like us, they’d give it a five out of twelve. Tell us not to broadcast before the watershed (or even behind it) and slap a fine on us of 0.01% of our yearly income.

With just two sleeps left in Beastie before La Manche, we get to add another credit into our account. Camping Hof van Eeden south west of Antwerp boosts the balance. Paradoxically nudging us towards the red.

As part of our site fee we’re issued with a chitty. Allows double entry into its man-made beach resort area. A welcome bonus when it’s tottering in the thirties. Even though we’re tottering in the sixties! We check the sand. It’s so soft. Fred the Homepride Chief Flour Grader and his team have been at work. We can truly testify that Graded Grains do make finer flour sand. It’s also very hot underfoot. Baking in fact.

The evening shadow across our pitch, perfect for our last al fresco. Mrs S never fails to magically conjure up something tasty that I’d willingly pay good money for. This evening is no exception.

For the last week we’ve been balancing our time on the road. Making sure all the numbers add up. Ensuring we don’t go overdue. Today, our last, finds us back at Sangatte, counting down the hours. Tunnel crossing due 10.20am Monday 1st July.

The temperature drop has brought us down with a bump. Our blustery prom walk warmed a little. Many wind and para surfers take advantage.

This trip has been a huge surprise. Like unwrapping a ‘pass the parcel’ only to discover every layer hides a prize. Greece was our intention. We didn’t realise we’d be on salary, plus commission, plus expenses.

By this time tomorrow we’ll have made 13 border crossings; camped in 11 different countries – on 52 different sites; covered 6,484 miles, at an average speed of around 27mph i.e. 240 hours of driving; equating to 10 Le Mans (felt like we were driving in the dark too at times)

And, according to Mary-Ann’s fit-bit, we’ll have walked – give or take the odd footprint, 1,801,326 feet or about 341 miles; about the same distance we’ve covered on Scoot and about 8 times the distance we’ve biked.

And now it’s time to stop the music. Stave off a repeat. Stop unwrapping. Time for musical chairs . . .

Thanks for reading & for being with us. Hope you’ve enjoyed our travels, just a tiny bit as much as we have.

p.s. if you’re wondering why there’s been no mention of any Beastie mishaps this time, then that’s because there hasn’t been any . . .

p.p.s. and if you believe that . . .