This too shall pass
The past week has seen me cover some serious distance through southern Hungary; a region that feels relatively untouched by time and a melting pot of communities that have crossed Europe over the millennia. Sure there are mobile phones, bars with TVs in them and a Peugeot I’m pretty sure was brand new; but the way of life out here would not seem out of place from 100 years ago. The square block houses of Slovenia and Croatia have been replaced with long rectangular buildings, with their narrowest side facing the road and the furthest end devoted as a barn for the household’s animals; be they goats, cattle (predominantly) or feral dogs. The use of bush for firewood, the communal gardens and the sheer lack of tarmac all makes this place truly unreachable and unforgettable.
Throughout this expedition I have been struck at how each country and its people have changed almost abruptly at each border crossing, and then continued to change within the nation as I have progressed Eastwards; albeit at a slower pace. However, in Hungary this change can literally jump from one village to the next. The storied past of mass migrations as the Hapsburgs claimed land from a retreating Ottoman empire has created wholesale Germanic regions, with town names given in Hungarian and German! Church domes are different here from other Hungarian towns I have passed, and I swear even the way they say ‘Hallo’ instead of hello is different. Follow the same road for another 40minutes and you arrive in a Roma community village, with a totally different vibe and a totally different history. Further still and you pass a Székely Magyar town with Hungarian rune instead of the latin based alphabet to greet you. This represents just a snapshot of my time here following, by sheer chance, EuroVelo route 13, also known ominously as the Iron Curtain Trail.
Decision time in Eastern Europe
This cycling route separates the old cold war spheres of influence and rather conveniently for me hugs the Drava river for several hundred kilometres. This was a river, and part of the world, that I had no expectation of and even less knowledge about. For three days I saw no ‘tourists’ and the only cars I bumped into were in the local towns, built on small hills in this wetland expanse to prevent them from flooding events. The Drava River is, by European standards, a relatively good condition river, with little human modification, low pollution and a high biodiversity (apparently 75% of Hungary’s freshwater and wetland species are found here!) and this was apparent from the very first few KMs. White storks maundered the open areas and nested atop of pylons, snakes bathed on what little tarmac there was and every type of bird of prey circled above. The lack of noise from towns and cars made wildlife far less spooked, occasionally it was a deer scaring me rather than the other way round. Truly, it was a magical place to be cycling through and I can only hope of being in such a wild setting again soon.
However this immersion into the wild has been in sharp contrast to the malaise I have been suffering personally over the past week. I have been struggling with gear giving up on me (crucially my roll matt, my poor brittle back), terrible weather and my first pangs of homesickness. Longing for a pint and chatting absolute nonsense with my mates when you are cooped in a damp tent and cold through as its hammering outside does not do wonders for morale. I always imagined being in such a stunning setting would transport me to another dimension of happiness, which at times it really did; but it turns out binning your job in and being free from social responsibility can be quite a lonely place at times.
It was at probably my lowest point that things began to turn. Cycling to a nondescript town along the route and into a headwind (what else!) I pulled over to the side of the road exhausted, mentally and physically. What was I doing? Should I have taken the busier, tarmac road 5km ago rather than this dust track? Why can’t I load Dua Lipa! It was in this state I sat there, scanning the map, thinking if I can see Romania in my minds eye could I actually teleport there…..I couldn’t. A ‘Hallo’ drifted by, which I grunted ‘Hi’ back to before slouching back over my handlebars. It came from an elderly woman with kind eyes who began speaking Hungarian to me. When it became clear I suffer from the curse of the British, unable to speak a second language, we smiled at each other and she walked on. I continued to picture Romania in my mind, still annoyed at the lack of teleportation when I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder and the woman was back, but his time with a giant dark chocolate and hazelnut bar she insistent on giving to me. ‘Energy, energy’ she kept repeating and with a smile.
It is hard to sum up in words what the smallest action can have on the human spirt when they are at a low. Things that may seem trivial in everyday life can have a huge impact on one’s outlook when the cards have not landed in their favour. In that moment it was as if this unstoppable wave of negativity that had been building like a Spring tide (yes this is a nod to my previous blog, go read it) was now in recession. Suddenly the next town didn’t seem so far away, the dirt track well worth the detour to avoid the lorries and the people as important to this trip as the landscape. I cycled on another 80km that day, which is par for the course but if you had told me I would reach 80km before meeting the kind lady I would have laughed at you.
The last two hours of cycling were through what can only be described as monsoon season. Sheet lightening above, rain drops the size of flies and kit soaked through. I mentally made a decision I was going to camp through it, to test my resolve and in that British way of life smile and sigh ‘how shit is this’. With thunder as the backdrop, I hastily put up my tent behind a bus stop in a small town called Matty. Acutely aware it would be a dinner of raw carrot and crackers I was shifting my stuff into the tent when Czukor, a passerby pulled over, put on a poncho and came out to meet me. Under the bus shelter he asked all about the trip, where I was going and who Nicola Sturgeon was. As the sun began to set he began his journey home in the direction I had come from, but before leaving he rummaged through his bag for the only food he had, a large bag of Maoam chewables…desert and hopefully some calories stored for tomorrow!
Interactions with people, mostly complete strangers, have been foundational to this trip. From being welcomed in by an Italian family on a national holiday, beers on the house to lunch paid for by strangers. However, it has been in this doldrum of morale that I have most appreciated the kindness of people, seeing someone in a place of hardship and actively engaging to change the compass point. What this episode has also taught me is that in time all things change, and that this negativity too would would pass; as the near three thousand KMs of continuous positivity had.
I am two months into the trip and am only just grasping the beauty that is people, our unique personalities and strength we draw from one another. I used to think this trip would be about escapism and stunning scenery but I am quickly finding that it is the people, as much as the places, that makes the experience.
