AUTHOR’S NOTE
THE EVENTS IN THIS SECTION ALL TOOK PLACE IN 1986
THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW ALL THE COUNTRIES VISITED 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

Monday, July 21st, 1986

Distance travelled 556 kilometres

Morning broke and the sun had returned, so I paid my bill at the Hotel Pirot (with my ACCESS (Master) Card, would you believe) and set off again. The grand total for the room and the breakfast was less than nine British Pounds – not bad, eh ?

In no time at all, I came to the Bulgarian border and my first proper encounter with a REAL Communist State. Despite the fact that all my papers and visas were in order, it took over three hours to get through – and there was not exactly a queue. The border guards seemed to take great delight in going through my luggage with a fine-tooth comb and listed each item with a laborious thoroughness that had to be seen to be believed. They gave me a copy of the list they made and stuck it in my Passport.

Once through Passport Control, I had my first taste of “compulsory” exchange and received a pocketful of their strange currency, the Lev.

Then, I had to pay even more of my dollars for petrol coupons. These were only available in amounts of ten litres which meant it would be difficult to fill my tank and would end up causing me a few problems later on ….

Having finally made it through the border, I heaved a sigh of relief and pointed my bike in the direction of the Bulgarian capital, Sofia. I really felt things were going well as I passed my first sign that was lettered in both Roman and Cyrillic script. However, hardly had I got my bike into top gear than I came to a road block.

Three soldiers were manning it, all armed to the teeth and I spent the next twenty minutes unpacking and then repacking my “ticked” luggage, which they also searched thoroughly. What they were looking for, I have no idea.

Eventually, they waved me away and I set off once again. Before long, I arrived on the outskirts of Sofia.

I decided to go into the centre for a quick look around. This was my first mistake. As soon as the road got inside the ring-road, it became little more than a haphazard collection of stone blocks with a liberal sprinkling of tram-tracks that were not flush to the surface. The motorised population was also extremely curious of me. The next hour was hairy to say the least and it turned out there was very little to photograph anyway.

Finally, I did spot a rather imposing set of statues and stopped for a quick snap.

That was mistake number two ! Two policemen appeared, as if out of the ground, and demanded my Passport. They kept me waiting for ages while they talked to someone on the radio. Eventually, they gave me back my Passport without comment and waved me away.

Leaving Sofia, I quickly found another motorway and headed east again. I had wanted to travel on a few back roads, but the attentions of the police had made my progress painfully slow. Eventually, I came to the town of Plovdiv and stopped for a meal in a roadside restaurant.

By pointing at what others were eating, I was able to get a good feast of steak, chips and salad, accompanied by a beer. This cost so little that I received change, in coins called Stotinki, from the smallest denomination of Lev note. I also managed to sell an Adidas T-Shirt I was wearing under another T-shirt so it was not on my “list”, to the waiter (apparently they were VERY trendy there).

In the car park, the bike was attracting a LOT of attention but, as soon as I appeared, the crowd all just slunk away. This might just have be due to the presence of a couple of policemen, sitting in their car a few yards away. I got onto the bike and rode off, expecting to get my collar felt again any second but, on this occasion at least, it did not happen.

Bulgaria proved to be completely boring and unremarkable. It could almost have been completely anywhere. Eventually, Istanbul appeared on the road signs. At least I knew I was still heading in the right direction.

Only the occasional concrete obelisk, commemorating some great Party triumph, no doubt, broke the monotony. On one of these, a pair of storks had built there nest. I wondered if they were Party members too.

Late in the afternoon, as I approached the Turkish border, I passed a police car concealed behind bushes by the roadside. Needless to say, it was on my tail in a flash. No lights, no siren, just following while I frantically tried to remember if I had seen any speed-limit signs. We travelled like that for some miles until, bearing in mind I was theoretically prohibited from exporting my remaining Lev, I decided to spend them all in a roadside bar/restaurant, one of the very few I had seen.

I pulled in and went to buy a drink – a soft one of course as I had been warned that drink-driving of any description was a good way to see the salt mines from the inside. I dithered over my drink but, when I came out the police car was parked right behind me and one of the officers was carefully scrutinising the bike. The demand for my papers was expected – and quickly forthcoming, as was total search of my pockets and my luggage. I was actually secretly pleased at just how adept I was already becoming at unpacking and repacking my things – but more than a little cheesed-off at having to do it yet again.

Finally, they tired of their little games and I was off again. I soon came to the Bulgarian/Turkish border.

This was an extremely imposing structure, spread out over a large area and totally out of scale with the traffic flow I had seen on my way there. One final search of my luggage and ticking of my list and I passed into the jurisdiction of the Turkish authorities.

This was initially a little dismaying as it was a process of many stages and, as I somehow missed a stamp somewhere, I was peremptorily sent back to get it done.

At last, I came to their customs, where my 200 Duty Free cigarettes (for “currency” not for smoking !) and, almost unbelievably, my coffee were both confiscated !

My protests were simply waved dismissively aside.

Then it was one final check of all my papers (about the fifteenth), coupled with a warning gesture not to exceed 200 KPH (that WAS where he put his finger …) and I entered Turkey proper.

The contrasts were both obvious and immediate. Every village, no matter how tiny, seemed to have its own mosque and tall minaret and the streets were not only thronged with people, but there were things for sale. All of these had been noticeably lacking in Bulgaria.

It was starting to get dark when I pulled into a garage for petrol. I had no Turkish currency, but the attendant readily accepted dollars in payment – taking the exchange rate from a paper that he pointedly indicated was published that day. He even gave me a few crumpled, grubby Turkish notes as change.

The BMW was surrounded by a crowd of small boys when I returned. They gazed at me and one, obviously bolder than the rest, said the words that I was to hear many times in the next few days, “Gary Lineker, OK” ! Amazing !

A few miles later, I turned off of the main road upon which Istanbul was now invitingly signposted and headed towards Cannakale. This was because I intended to visit the site of ancient Troy, which lays on the coast. The road surface degenerated instantly and, as it was growing quite dark, I took the first dusty side-road I came to and pulled up for the night. I could hardly see them, but I was in a field of Sunflowers. I put everything that could be stolen – such was the reputation of the Turks (and in my subsequent experience an unfounded one) into the bottom of my poly-bag and gratefully wriggled in after it.