Turning West to Trieste
Instead of Croatia I'm heading to Italy
Your Next Adventure Awaits!
Thanks for joining me on the serialized journey of North to Norway! If you enjoyed the extracts from my 2022 ride to Tarifa, the full book is available now on Amazon (paperback and e-book) and in select bookshops. Want a signed copy? Just drop me a comment!
This summer, Ralph and I are off to Spain and Portugal – tackling the Picos mountains, exploring Galicia, then heading to Portugal's coast, aiming for Cabo da Roca and eventually Malaga, where the bikes ship home. As you know from the blog, plans can always change!
Look out for posts on our Iberian adventures soon. But first, get ready for a taste of Italy! I'll be sharing a hopefully entertaining series about my 2024 trip to the land of opera, gelato, and pizza over the coming months.
In last week’s episode ‘South to Sicily’ I have a last minute change of plan as Ralph can’t join me on our planned trip to Croatia. Instead I decide to head to Italy. But first I’ve got to retrieve my bike from a depot deep in Slovenia.
With a cheerful wave from Tony – who I suspected was rather pleased to see the back of me and return to his sweeping duties – I swung the big Honda onto the pristine estate roads. My preconceived notions of a post-communist drab Slovenia were instantly shattered. This felt ultra-modern, buzzing with investment, brand new vehicles gliding by sleek office buildings. My bike, having been transported with only the faintest wisp of fuel, necessitated an immediate sortie to the nearest petrol station, which looked as if it had just opened its doors. The pumps gleamed under the bright sunlight, and the fresh concrete bore barely a mark. Slovenia was already full of surprises, and the cheap petrol was a welcome bonus.
Tanked up and ready to roll, I merged onto the highway. Soon, a spomenik caught my eye, its once vibrant five-pointed red star now faded by the relentless sun. These memorials, scattered across the landscapes of the former Yugoslavia, of which Slovenia was a part, are silent witnesses to history. Crafted from stone or concrete, they commemorate the victims of World War II and were commissioned by Tito in the 1960s. Some are colossal, abstract geometric forms; Ralph and I had even planned a detour to see several of these imposing structures. This particular one was relatively small, but I still felt a thrill at spotting one so early in my journey.
The road north unfolded, fast and remarkably flat, flanked by fertile fields of deep, vibrant green. Charming Alpine-style timber houses dotted the landscape, adding to the picturesque scene. Churches with distinctive scallop-shaped roofs perched atop stark white square towers stood proudly on small hillocks, visible for miles across the rolling terrain. I was now heading in the direction of Kranj and Bled, a deliberate detour before I crossed into Italy. As I approached Bled, the traffic began to thicken, confirming its reputation as a tourist honeypot, evident in the long queue snaking towards roadworks on its outskirts and the numerous hotels lining the streets. I smoothly filtered past the stationary cars, eager to reach my next destination.
I gently guided the bike up the narrow, winding street that climbed towards the castle courtyard. There, a queue of tourists snaked patiently, awaiting their turn to enter the imposing, Colditz-like fortress. Its stark, high walls, punctuated by small lookout openings, were crowned by the ruddy tiles of its conical towers, a warm contrast to the magnificent building's dominant grey stone.
A dilemma tugged at me: the allure of exploring the castle was strong, yet a long journey lay ahead, and the motionless queue hinted at a significant delay. Lingering would mean a much later arrival in Trieste. Bled Castle now joined a growing list of captivating places I vowed to revisit with Judith, though perhaps not on the motorbike this time. With a touch of regret, I swung the Honda around in the steeply cambered car park and descended the hill, my sights now set on Bled's other, arguably even more iconic and Instagrammed vista: the Church of the Mother of God on the Lake (Blejski otok). Perched serenely on a small island, against an impossibly picturesque backdrop of verdant, wooded hills, the church, with its slender bell tower accessible only by a small boat, possessed an undeniable fairy-tale charm. Its roofs peeked invitingly from beneath a lush green canopy of trees. I found a safe spot to pull over amidst the swarming sightseeing traffic and quickly captured some photos. Moments like these filled me with a profound sense of privilege, being back on the open road once more. The liberating absence of rigid plans allowed me to yield to my spontaneous desires. The next couple of weeks stretched before me, an unpainted canvas brimming with the promise of adventure.
Bled, a picturesque detour from my intended route, now lay behind me as I turned the Honda back towards the airport's general direction. I paused for a quick bite near a bustling campsite, where a line of camper vans patiently awaited entry, their occupants having already set up makeshift patios on the roadside for a morning brew. It struck me how significant tourism was to this small nation of around two million people. Having gained independence from Yugoslavia in 1991, they had clearly flourished. Interestingly, the Slovenian economy even surpassed that of Wales, a country of comparable size.
Trieste, my closest gateway into Italy, was about an hour and a half away, accessible via a fast motorway. As soon as I merged onto the busy carriageway, the heavens opened. The light drizzle quickly escalated into a torrential downpour. I pulled into a service station, reluctantly donning my bright yellow waterproofs. Resembling a rather damp, motorcycling bumble bee, with water streaming down my neck, I had no choice but to grin and bear the discomfort. Approaching the port city, the weather finally relented, rewarding me with a magnificent vista of the sprawling metropolis from the winding road that descended into its heart. By now, my backside was thoroughly soaked, and the prospect of a warm shower and dry clothes fueled an even greater urgency to locate my accommodation for the night. The Filoksenia B&B was the sole booking I hadn't cancelled when my trip took its unexpected turn. Situated somewhere in the city centre, my satnav decided to lead me on a rather frustrating circular tour. Eventually, amidst what appeared to be a district of towering office blocks, I spotted a narrow entrance wedged between a travel agent and a recruitment firm. A discreet brass plaque announced the B&B on the fifth floor. I parked outside, a nagging unease about leaving my bike on the street despite assurances of its safety. Back in England, such a visible spot would have been unthinkable for parking a motorbike.
You can find my book North to Norway in paperback and Kindle format on Amazon.