AUTHOR’S NOTE
THE EVENTS IN THIS SECTION ALL TOOK PLACE IN 1986
THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW ALL THE COUNTRIES VISITED (EXCEPT TURKEY) ARE IN THE EU NOW (2024) – NO VISAS ARE REQUIRED
THE BULK OF THE TEXT IS AS I WROTE IT THEN – SLIGHT ADJUSTMENTS HAVE BEEN MADE IN THE AID OF CLARITY NOW

Saturday, July 26th, 1986

Distance travelled 536 kilometres

All good things, as they say, come to an end and the next morning I got up when the Muezzin did his thing, ate a quick breakfast and packed the BMW.

Although, in theory, I needed to start heading north, there was something I wanted to do first. I headed south again, back into Asia over the mania of the Bosphorous Bridge and sought out a piece of high ground. I wanted to take the iconic snap of my BMW with the famous skyline as a backdrop. I found a place, positioned the bike and took the picture. Then it was back on the bike, over the bridge into Europe again and onto the motorway heading for Bulgaria. Chokingly, when the picture I had ridden over 4,000 kilometres to take was developed, the two great mosques were lost in the combination of haze and poor optics. Still, I have seen it with my own eyes.

The volume of traffic on the motorway carriageways was simply mind blowing. Solid lines of seemingly stationary traffic sat in every lane and it was over fifty kilometres before I could begin to move with any semblance of speed. I never thought I might actually long to be back on the M25 !

When I finally covered the two hundred or so kilometres north-west to Babaeski, I turned to the real north. The Bulgarian cities of Burgas and Varna were clearly signposted when, as a general rule of thumb, signposts were scarce. The road, despite this, was poorly surfaced, twisty and narrow. Quite soon it began to wind its way through some of the loneliest countryside I had ever seen.

Traffic was absolutely non-existent and as time and distance passed and my usual fill-up point passed with them, this became a little disquieting. Luckily, before I had to start pushing, I did come to a garage, where the arrival of my BMW caused considerable interest. Despite the fact that in the whole 360 degree panorama, there were no more that two distant houses to be seen, a crowd of twenty to thirty people more or less materialised out of the thin air in the time that it took me to put an alarming twenty-three litres of petrol (into a nominally twenty-two litre) tank. I must have been running on air ……

Three kilometres later, the already bad road surface degenerated totally into a collection of loosely ordered rocks and pebbles. Driving was treacherous indeed and had to ride with my feet down. Any speed exceeding walking pace was more than a bit nerve racking. This continued all the way to the border. Although that was only eight kilometres it felt much further. Nobody was likely to come along if I fell off.

The actual escape from Turkish sovereignty was fairly easy. Apart from the inordinate amount of stamps that seemed to be required into my Passport and onto other pieces of paper, the only thing they bothered to do was to check the chassis number of the bike against its log-book counterpart. I am glad they knew where to look, I would not have. Then I was through and, by that, I mean through to the tender mercies of their Bulgarian counterparts.

Apart from me, there were no other vehicles at the Bulgarian border post, so I half hoped for a smooth and easy crossing. No such luck. I handed over my Passport and that was it for over two hours. I half felt they had all simply gone to lunch. In the waiting room was a television and, while I was sitting there counting my legs for the fiftieth time (you can get that bored in Bulgaria) a younger guard came in and turned it on. To my surprise, it was a program featuring various rock bands belting out some good old, Bulgarian, heavy metal (and believe me, Bulgarian metal IS heavy !) in truth, some of the tunes were not bad, but the lyrics were not up to much ! I felt it might be a trap to lure me into displaying Western “decadence”, but then I noticed that the young guard was surreptitiously tapping his foot. I resolved that if he went to “air guitar” with his AK-47 machine pistol, I would jump out of the window.

Finally, the superior officer reappeared, the television was switched off and it was back to normality. Of course, in Bulgaria, “normality” meant unpack all of your luggage. It was no different at this border. Every single item was meticulously recorded on a Customs Declaration form that would be rechecked on the way out. I presumed this was in case I decided to sell something on the black market and get some more of their useless Lev – not a thought that had crossed my mind, obviously. Not one word was understandable, however (except the heading which was in English) because it was written in the Bulgarian “version” of Cyrillic script.

I even had to remove the panniers and, when I did, I was more than a little disturbed to note that oil was leaking from both of my rear shock absorbers. It appeared that my “off-roading” in rural Turkey had, in fact, done them some damage. There was nothing I could do about it, of course – but I would have to bear it in mind. The oil, after all, only moderates the effect of the springs, so if I did not go too crazy, I would be OK.

Finally, the officer allowed me to buy some more ten litre fuel coupons and buy far more Lev than I would need for an entire year’s stay – and I was off again.

I had not even bothered to lock the panniers and that was just as well because hardly had I gone two kilometres when I came to the first checkpoint and everything had to come out of them again to be checked against the customs declaration. They must have been bored, because it took ages.

Burgas, my destination, was signposted so I set off in that direction. The next hour was possibly the most enjoyable time, biking wise, that I had so far enjoyed on the whole trip. Considering the state of the Turkish “track” that had led me to the border, this road was billiard-table smooth. It was also wide and gently curving as it wound its way up and down some forested hills. The Bulgarians may have still had something to learn about the word “camber” (or it might have been my slightly iffy suspension) but it was quite exhilarating fun and worthy of an entry in anybody’s list of “Great Biking Roads”. If you care, it was between Valko Tarnavo and Balgari on Route 99.

Author’s note: I know now that this area is the Strandzha National Park.

I usually drive pretty carefully when I am a long way away from home but in such a lovely and scenic area, I got completely into the proverbial “groove”. Not speeding (as far as I knew), but taking full advantage of the wide, smoothly surfaced road to make some pleasurable progress. So into the joy of riding was I that I ended up missing, until it was almost too late, a check-point. These were designated by a broad white line across the road, with a little hut beside it where the Police or the army would be sitting. You HAD to stop, when you came to one, even if there was nobody in the hut.

I confess that I was enjoying myself so much that I only noticed it at all because two, wildly gesticulating, soldiers suddenly burst into my field of vision. I hit the brakes hard and came to a somewhat less than dignified stop about ten metres beyond the line. I looked sheepishly over my shoulder, hoping I was not about to get shot and saw, to my relief, that they were both quite young. They even walked over to me, instead of making me go back to them. It is fair to say that they were both greatly intrigued by the motorcycle and they examined it closely. Obviously, the BMW name meant something, even in a socialist workers’ paradise. After a scrutiny of my Passport (that was about 1% of the interest they had shown in the bike) and a smiling indication that I should cool it a bit, speed-wise, they waved me on my merry way.

I rolled out of the hills and soon came to the coastal plain beyond which the Black Sea shimmered.

As I came to the actual coast, I was confronted by miles and miles of golden sands, stretching as far as I could see. There were many buildings that were obviously hotels and all the other obvious signs of a tourist industry. The only thing not in evidence were the tourists, I hardly saw any as I rode northwards up the coast. Quite who thought up the name “Black” Sea, I cannot imagine, it was as blue as any sea I had ever seen.

I soon came to Burgas, where there were many signs of Naval activity. This had obviously prompted the need for even greater security and I was hassled and thoroughly searched by the Police on at least half a dozen occasions in the time it took me to traverse the city. I did, at least, find a place to get a passable beer and some good chips, so it was not all bad.

Once north of Burgas, the road wound through mile after mile of vineyards, all growing what would probably be that year’s wine. I also felt the need to relieve myself of my recent beer amongst the vines. Do not, under any circumstance, drink Bulgarian Riesling 1986 !

As I came into Varna, I decided to try and fill the bike at a busy garage. Problem. Ten litres was not really enough – and two coupon’s worth, twenty litres, would be way too much. Fortunately, the young girl manning the till was pragmatic, which you may read as able to be bribed. By adding a couple of dollar bills to my ten litre coupon, I was “allowed” to fill the tank to the brim and pay for the excess from my wad of Lev – just like everyone else was doing !

Evening was coming and, because I had so many Lev, I made an earnest attempt to camp “officially”. A shower and an on-site restaurant would have been nice. However, I was peremptorily turned away from three, apparently half empty sites for no discernible reason.

Moving on, I found myself in some sort of border zone where there were no signs at all of any form of civilization or amenity. There was nothing for it but to lurk in the trees and get out the good old poly-bag.