hostel | The LifeCycle

January crossed into February. The snows were joined by ice and fog and a coldness clung to the city, to my heart and the hostel cleared out, at times completely. Lifeless for days on end. Mostly, in these quiet days, I just sat in the dark reception, huddled next to an electric heater for hours, running the hostel single handedly whilst the owner, Ali, covered errands. The excitement that came with travelers faded for a while, as I churned away on my photography and convinced myself that I was progressing, writing and creating. But, I was just delaying, looking into a glowing screen for hours or out of the windows onto a grey and damp world. Reflecting on what had been. Imagining a future yet lived.

When February crossed into March, when the first pink petals burst from the trees and into the world, I knew that, after three months, I had stumbled into a routine, that I was locked, that, when presented with the opportunity to withdraw from life, I still took it. The arrival of spring was something I should have experienced by bicycle and I was growing irritable because of it. Some days, during the snows of February, I would never leave the hostel, moving from reception to my room, restless when too many arrivals came at once, disrupting the balance of the world I was now in charge of, frustrated by the lack of privacy. This had happened before, in a place that seemed so long ago, a small office at the top of cramped london building.

It was still an incredible time. Required, simply, to be friends with everyone, to talk to guests, make them feel welcome, learn about them, from them, make them happy whether they were escaping their ordinary lives for just a week or an entire gap year. This was my job. In fact, it was perhaps the most relaxed job I’d ever had, at least the most instantly rewarding and more so for knowing that my journey could continue again at any time, that there was so much more to come, that there was a beautiful future for me beyond Turkey whatever road I chose. With this in my mind, I was happy. The large scale advertising campaigns I had worked on months earlier in London seemed insignificant and unimportant in comparison. I saw joy on the faces of travellers and holiday-goers, excited to be in such an exciting city. We laughed. Listened. Shared. Inspired and I became a part of their own beautiful journey.

More time in the Guesthouse should have meant only new travellers and more connectivity. But, it was an addictive, easy and unchallenging lifestyle, a static one, which made me grow more restless by the day. To go from four months of absolute momentum to total immobility is not good for anyones mind. In time, the question I was always asked by new guests, ‘what are you doing here?’ felt awkward in the answering. There was no bike to be seen, I was putting on weight and the journey across Europe I had taken was slipping into memory the longer I sat in reception. The answer, ‘I am cycling around the world,’ felt like a strange reply.

Grey roads. Grey skies. The Snow, thick on the ground, on the domes of the mosques and the rooftop bars, was now dark and slushy and, during the height of this winter, towards the end of January, I had two visits. An old friend, bringing stories from London, from a life I no longer knew, from four months I had missed and wanted to miss. And parents, fearful that they would never have another chance to see my face, before I rode off into more complicated, more unusual parts of the world.

It’s been hard to write this chapter. Hard trying to not sound ungrateful or to offend those that came to visit. But the truth is, I was reluctant towards the idea of visitors. I was cycling away from a stale life and into a new one, full of unknown roads and incredible possibilities and my life in Istanbul was a creation of four months hard work, hard cycling. For who I had become, was not who I had been in England. And, when both parties flew across Europe to see me, passing all I had ridden in a matter of hours, however happy they were to see the joy in me, see the life in me, it reset everything and bought with them all I had left behind. To set off on an adventure, with a vision of returning home, years later, having ridden the world, is what I had dreamt of. That vision faded with the arrival of visitors from another life.

But, what could I tell them of where I had been and what I had seen. The snow-clad forests of Austria. Kayaking the Mediterranean to find secret island coves. Pushing my bike through a white world of alpine stormclouds. Every hill I’d passed, every river I’d crossed, all of the wild camping spots I’d slept in, been peaceful in, been lonely in. Every cramped muscle. Every headwind. Every butterfly that fluttered within me when the land dropped away and the road fell downwards. It was impossible. Instead, for two weeks, I sat back and just listened to all they had to say, just smiled a real smile, no longer having to lie to them about my life or pretend that I was fine.

On a more simple level, I was happy to see them too, happy that they’d travel all this way, just for me. Happier still that an idea that had seemed so alien to my dad nine months earlier ( Chapter 1// Six Months to Go ) now made him proud, made him want to fly across the world to bring me spare tyres, a bar of English chocolate and the biggest hug he’d ever given me. Important was their acceptance and the chance to say goodbye again, this time with strength and esteem in my heart. It was a rare opportunity and one I was grateful for. I could go on cycling knowing that they were following me and were there for me should I need the support.

But, my friend was becoming part of another life, a prologue to everything that was now taking place. Though how was he to know this and, so, we just enjoyed the sheesha bars together, climbed Galata tower at sunset and ate fish sandwiches from the Bosphorous river. My Dad particularly enjoyed the endless rounds of sweet Baklava and Turkish coffee, sheltering from the snowstorms inside streetside cafes.

But, there was no escaping the feeling. An unsettling, resetting reminder of the past life I had lived. When all visits came to an end and all had returned to England, there was a sense that whatever happened next would be the real beginning. I was now left alone to face this uncertain future, but thoughts of home were left strong in my mind and leaving the safety of Istanbul suddenly seemed something to be afraid of. I sank further into the safety of the hostel.

I spent a week in Dubrovnik. The most magnificent of all Mediterranean citadels. The old town was giant fortress, a great market road running through it’s centre, with alleys and steps rising up from each side. Washing hung between the streets. Shuttered windows were home to balcony gardens. The city was a a vast, brown stoned slab, staggered and winding. Fresh Sheets Hostel was up near the southern ramparts, at the very top of the street steps. Getting a 50kg bike up there had not bee been easy!

There were walkways, cafe’s, rampart jumps from the walls into the sea below. Candle lit restaurants filled up at night and the stars always shone. Down on the market street the tourists spent there money on fine cuisine. High up in the hostel the backpackers ate together, bean curry and salad and pitta breads. When I’d arrived at the hostel, having met, apart from the two guys riding in the opposite direction in Slovenia, not a single other cycle tourer, there were three waiting for me. The lovely couple Dave & Abbey and the Australian Mike.

It was a small place, homely and light and airy. There were a handful of rooms but each morning we came together for a shared breakfast and each night we discussed what we would cook for each other, crouched around the little dining table. I was instantly at home and, for the first time, I didn’t feel so unique. The conversation always drifted onto cycling and the rest of the hostel would jokingly sigh when it did. We all talked of where we had been in Croatia, with some headed west and some headed east. It was a city where travellers to places like Bosnia, Montenegro and Albania could be found. The lesser travelled countries in Europe and the more interesting backpackers.

It was also a relief to finally be able to ask questions to other cycle tourers. How far did they cycle a day? Where did they camp? What did they eat? How much were they spending? How did they feel? After two months, and especially recently with the stalker in the forest and the dog chase and police bribes and snow storms, I just needed to tell people who understood what this lifestyle was like. I was not alone. They had had their highs, their lows. They had struggled too. But their faces shone. Literally as well, they were fit, tanned, healthy, but more than this they were so happy. They were me. They were my reflection and it moved me to see them like this. My time in the hostel moved me. I grew attached to it. To the city. To the people I was with.

Ironically, the four cyclists spent a day on the water, kayaking from the mainland to an offshore island. We looked back from the sea, from the ocean surface, bobbing up and down in our tiny plastic boats. Dubrovnik stood strong. It’s great stone walls protruding from the Mediterranean. Hundreds of years old. It was breathtaking to see it this way. I imagined how the ancient sailors must have felt when they’d first seen it from the water as we were. When we reached the island, like something out of Life of Pi or The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, we found it empty, almost abandoned, except for a garden full of beautiful peacocks. Beyond the garden a deep lagoon was found with swing ropes and rock pools. We swam there before heading back to the mainland.

We visited an old abandoned hotel, The Belvedere, which was built in Yugoslavian times, before it was ransacked by Serbian Forces. A group of us went in the day, climbing through the stairwells and crumbling rooms. There were refrigeration larders and great dining halls and rumours of a reclusive artists, Quasimodo-like, living in the penthouse alone. Me and Dane, a keen astrologer, had convinced ourselves that we’d return for our last night in Dubrovnik with our sleeping bags and do some star photography. This was going to happen until the hostel owner caught on to the idea and told us she’d rather we stayed for free for a night than sleep in the hotel. She was muttering something about the artist being dangerous!

Anyway, that’s when the fourth cyclist arrived who, for the purposes of this story, I will just call the Swede! Me and Dane went back to the abandoned hotel that night, just to show the Swede around. In the darkness, we discovered the entrance to a sort of underground car park. There was a flickering light in the far corner. We began to move towards it, but then a shuffling noise echoed out from the light, followed by a grunting sound, so we ran away like children! It was probably just a tramp. But the reason the hostel owner had not wanted us to return to sleep at the hotel at not been reclusive artists or residing tramps, it had been for other reasons… when we discovered the Neo Nazi symbols with arrows leading to a rundown room full of disturbing graffiti, full of death and hate, we decided to leave.

Leaving Dubrovnik

None of the first cyclists were headed east. They were flying off to India or heading up into Croatia. But, on the final morning in the city the Swede told me he was also headed to Istanbul and, if I liked, we could go together. He was the only one journeying in the same direction, but the one I had spent the least time with. Though, after everything I had been through with recent camping places, I agreed. I had always wandered what it would be like to cycle in a group. I had heard of cycle tourers joining up in Central Asia, crossing paths along the Himalayan highways and camping together at night. It seemed safer. Sociable. More interesting. But, little did I know at the time, that this pairing was not going to last long…

It was raining on the med coast. I didn’t stay long in the hostel. After a day of recovery from The NightCycle, I woke to find that it wasn’t a particularly nice place. Smokey. Damp. Cramp. I was annoyed by the police fine, wishing I had never bought myself that jumper or the trousers in Zagreb! This was the start of money problems. I had money on my mind all the way down to Albania and it had begun with that police bribe. I cycled away from Zadar, through the rain and ended up in an empty, unused Otopark. It was safe. Beneath ivy vines on railings. Sheltered from the rain. But I realised in the night that I had left my laptop charger back in Zadar. That was another sixty pounds. I made a note of the mounting costs!

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The grey skies continued. It was much warmer by the coast. But it was still wet, still windy. The landscape had changed, become bristly, shrubby, less fertile. White stony crags everywhere. I rode to Split, east of zadar, pulling off another long ride to reach a new hostel late on the third evening. The skies had cleared during the sunset and I finally got a glimpse of the true Med landscape as I’d cycled.

All the while I thought about money. Such big lumps had dropped about of my budget in quick succession, I had not planned for them, had not factored them in. I started to panic about the future, my old concerns were returning. I was letting money, the idea that money was everything, take control of the trip. It was all about hostels now, all about things to do and see and that meant costs. When I had camped through the alps I had eaten simply, slept in my tent, lived cheaply. Now it was all so different and, whilst I wanted to be a part of the backpacking system for a week or two, I was freaking out each time I made a trip to a cash machine. I bought a new charger in Split. Spent a few days there. A beautiful city. Modern and spacious on the outskirts with an old town, winding and white and marble. There were churches and hilltop parks and cafes along the harbour front. Silver Central was a nice hostel too, overlooking the city square. The sun finally came out for a few days and I began to relax. Travellers that I’d met in Zadar and Zagreb appeared in Split and we went out in the evenings, but it was all coming to a shutdown, the season was ending. I spent three days in the hostel before, literally, being thrown out. I left an hour before they closed up for the winter.

But, again, all the while I was concentrated on finances. I hated that I was so aware of money. I was frustrated at myself for letting these first financial setbacks get into my brain. But it was as if the last three months had been for nothing, as if I hadn’t changed; still stressed about the future, problems that hadn’t happened yet. Money was a part of this trip. It was something I would have to be careful with, keep an eye on, but I couldn’t let it be a deciding factor. I had to deal with this new aspect. I had grown good at interacting again and I was enjoying myself, but I wanted to reach Asia as quickly as possible, not just so it would become cheaper, but so that I could really travel. Not just be a tourist, spending money here and there on hostels and museums.

Apart from this, I was happy. The sea air was warm. The landscape along the coast was incredible. Wild and mountainess and just like I had always imagined in the Greek myths and legends. In split there were palm trees, clubs by the sea, courtyards to sit in. I did washing in the launderette by the harbour, as if at home. I ate street pizza. Walked the alleyways at sunset. Went running. I was happy, but I was focused on the journey and getting out of Europe always.

The morning after leaving Celica, waking by the roadside, in the dampness of the wild, slovenian countryside, I realised that I was only a days ride from reaching a new country, a new city and a new hostel. The sadness I had felt seemed totally unreasonable, almost laughable. But this trip was unlike any other. I had surprised myself with how emotional I had become, but realising that perhaps this was going to be one of the unpredicted problems with cycling the world; having to adjust from extreme loneliness to extreme sociableness. Either way, it was going to be a roller coaster, and therefore an interesting experience. All I had to was keep going. I knew that if I’d been happy in Celica, there was more of it to be found by pushing on down the next road.

This I did. I arrived at Hobo Bear hostel in Zagreb later on in the afternoon. The rains came in for a week and I ended up staying for five nights. I had always told myself that I’d stop in Zagreb, that it would be a milestone city for me. I had no idea what to expect from the place, but it was surprisingly spacious, london-esque in architecture, less gothic than Ljubljana, even in the rain. Grey stoned and grand, with low but vast buildings from museums to government houses. The place seemed to filled with cathedrals and churches and cobbles and winding market streets. I loved it.

I took the new hostel in my stride this time, I tried not to compare it to the last and, in many ways, it was even better than Celica. It reminded me of a New York apartment, with its below street level lounge and dark brick walling. It was cosy and warm and the manager was an ex-cycle shop owner. He discounted prices for me, provided me with some kit for my bike and, more importantly, would give out Croatian Honey Whisky to all the guests, all the time, for no reason other than he liked to. Even though I had been the only one there when I’d first arrived, which was worrying, I met some great people in that hostel once it began to fill up and I quickly learnt, now that I was back on the Lonely Planet circuit for a short while, that Croatia was massively geared for travellers. There were so many things to do, so many cities to see, from national parks to coastal fortresses and hostels were everywhere. I knew, in the back of my mind, that I couldn’t really be a part of this, financially, but it was so hard not to get excited by all the classic backpacker chatter of ‘where have you just come from? Where are you headed next? I’m thinking of going here…’

I relaxed in Hobo and in Zagreb. It was a few days before my birthday and I decided to go shopping, to do something normal, or at least reminiscent of my old life. There was something about malls and shops, especially on a rainy day, that made me feel safe, warm. Something universal about them. I bought myself a jumper and some trousers. That was it, but it felt nice to just buy something, to wear it out to a club later in the evening and to show off the fact that I was a size smaller!! I partied, went running, visited the cathedrals, the museums. I especially enjoyed the Museum of Broken Relationships, where people would donate an object along with a short story or poem about a past love. It was original and more personal, more digestible than learning about the entire Croatian history in one go.

I was waiting for the rains to clear before leaving. My plan was to turn south into the heart of Croatia and visit the famous Plitvice National Park, high up in the Karst mountainside. I wanted to be there on my birthday. But the rains didn’t stop and the day came when I had to leave, regardless of the weather. I cycled away, again, into a rainstorm. This time, however, I had learnt my lesson. The relaxed nature of Hobo hostel had made realise that I wasn’t losing anything by leaving, I wasn’t missing out. With each extra leg of the trip I was taking with me all enjoyment from before, more to tell, more to celebrate and be happy for with each new destination. Most of all, I could see in the eyes of others, how much they would love to be doing what I was doing.

I had downloaded an audiobook, Game of Thrones, back in Switzerland. I plugged this in on the road to Plitvice and, come nighttime, I ended up once again in a wet, damp lay by, wild camping. But I was not sad. The characters in the audio story were like my own private hostel and I could go there and visit them whenever I wanted. It was a great idea for bad weather or long rides, it got me through and I was learning that not everyday would be visually mind-blowing or full of astonishing experiences, some days I would just have to cycle through rain. I learnt of ways to deal with it. I was not sad and never again would I be. This trip was going to get tougher and tougher, the emotional and phycological spectrum was going to widen, I knew this and I had to be ready for it, else I was never going to make it.

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Leaving Dubrovnik