Greece Lightening

Hidden amongst the old quarter cobbles of Thessaloniki

There's more room on my bike these days:  the colder weather means I'm wearing more of my layers, and I no longer need to pack emergency food supplies.  Well, other than my emergency mood-enhancing snack bars, that is.  I dig out my electric, heated waistcoat - an invention Alexander Graham Bell would have phoned home about - and this frees up space, too.  I'm accustomed to living out of my bulging baggage and even small changes in set up feel significant - my current lifestyle is as full of pattens and detail as any one else's. 

It'll be strange to end this journey and reconfigure to life off  the road.

The border crossing out of Turkey throws up a few problems.  I'm drawing on experience and ensure my Carnet is stamped despite the stubborn resistance of the customs official - his love for computers is touching, but won't be enough to keep the RAC happy.  His buddy finds one of the old-fashioned ink stamps in a nearby draw and one problem is solved.  I score a parting shot over the visa guy too, after foolishly getting into a petty quarrel over procedures.  I'm so close to entering Europe - I remind myself - this is not the moment to be a smartypants.  But, once the sticker is in my passport, I tweak his whiskers anyway.

The officials on the other side of the river are much friendlier, and there's no friction at all.  I riding into Greece - still part of the EU, today - and make motorway miles west, to the major city of Thessaloniki.  These hours are thoroughly unremarkable, in the way that motorway journeys often are.  I'm having to guess the route directions, though - the signs are all Greek to me.  Yes, you can groan at that one.

Covering the miles quickly means arriving early afternoon, about 2pm, at Sixdays Service Point, the bike workshop run by my favourite Greek, Stavros.  Stavros runs a pristine outfit from his modest premises, where he specialises in suspension set ups.  He stocks lovely KTM eye-candy here, too, but I try not to stare at the sexy new models when in the presence of my own Bavarian lady.  Quite.

 Stavros is a shortish guy in his forties, and what he lacks in hair he makes up for with an abundance of expertise.  He speaks good English, which makes things easier, and is soon on top of the situation.  He gives honest, practical advice that saves me wasting money.  The bike is on the bench before I leave and sitting ready when I return at noon the next day.  It's very reassuring to know that both my troubled shocks are now expedition-ready - and, to my surprise, even I'm feeling feel the difference the instant I sit on the bike.  It feels grrrrrrrrreat.

Thessaloniki is a busy port city, with tightly packed houses and narrow streets.  It hums with a steady vibration due to the high frequency of mopeds and motorbikes.  A steep gradient overlooking the harbour must burn out a car clutch quickly, so I suppose two wheels became more popular.  Still, it's nowhere near as bad as Vietnam's Hanoi, say, where you can't even walk the pavements without the stress of being bully-beeped every few seconds.

Up above the business end, sits the traditional, quieter old quarter of the city.  I get lost, and lost again, but eventually find my hostel - the Little Big House.  It's charming, and the tabernacle on the corner provides a delicious hearty stew.  There are hazy views from the balconies of grand buildings, and it's shady down in the tightly cobbled streets. 

The streets are kept immaculately clean by a program of government-employed new brooms - with the economy in dire straits, any job is fulfilled diligently I would expect.  I wasn't expecting running riots in Greece - despite the media coverage of Athens coming out of the UK.  However, I'm surprised by the tranquil atmosphere of this city - folks are busy, steadily going about their day.  Even in the commercial and government districts I see no signs of protest or disturbance.  Compared to some recent cities I've seen - Addis Ababa, Cairo, Abana - there's less sitting and more doing.

The countryside is just as active, if not more so.  When I start my ride west, crossing the remainder of the county towards the port of  Igoumenitsa, I'm struck by the fertile appearance of the countryside.  There are tractors everywhere, presumably preparing the dark soil for winter seed.  This doesn't seem like a countryside neglected by tax-dodging, subsidy sucking euro-cheats.  No, these folks seem hard working.  And whilst I've only had a couple of days here, the standards of service and warmth of greeting have been equally generous.

After laying down fast miles across the tough, highway hide of the region, I need something to stir the soul.  I decide the suspension needs, er, 'testing'.

You can see the road top left.  In 'reality' these views were superb.

An old 'A' road weaves under, over and around the main arterial motorway, yapping for attention like a young pup.  It would be mean not to play.  So, with my newly-downloaded GPS maps leading me true, I start to follow what is today the road less travelled.  As usual, the rewards in the mountains are greatest.  I watch the dull motorway plough steadily forward and pity the car-bound drones: if they only knew what they were missing!

I can't properly describe how picturesque this alternative route is.  My photos are failing to capture the beautiful contrast between deep valley greens, rural browns of cultivated slopes, cold granite greys on high and the pastel blues of a Greek sky.  The valleys are lit by a late afternoon autumn sun.  Beautiful scenes to swell your heart.

The sun is a little low for my liking, if we're going to be picky: it gets in my eyes time after time.  Riding west is a new experience for me, you see ;)

The old road has some rock-fall rubble; it's keeping me from taking liberties with the wonderful corners and switchbacks.  With second and third gear doing the hard work I'll get through my petrol quickly, but I'm enjoying this more than many a Roman ruin.  Just as well I chose this as my preferred adventure, rather than archaeology, right?

 

I'm regretting the extra half hour I dawdled over lunch.  It's dusk now and for the last half hour I'm riding over a steep mountainside in the dark.  My enhanced headlights show the way safely enough, but I can see pinprick lights below that suggest the views from up here would have been superb.  Hahaha - once again I'm planning a return route for the future, it seems.

My ferry to Italy doesn't leave until 1am, so I have a few hours to chill in a smokey bar.  Man, I hate smokey bars.  Ah well, it's these contrasts that make the good times so much better.

I wonder if they smoke much in Italy?