Day 12: Starigrad to Makarska

I climb out of the tent later than usual after spending an uncomfortable night on the mattress. Why?  It's been fine up until now. I make the ritual tea and warm up  a little. The light rain means that my clothes are still damp, hanging on the line slung between trees. I bundle them into a plastic sack and hope there'll be a chance to dry them later. For now, I just wear shorts under the bike trousers.

Autocamp Marko generally attracts young hikers, cyclists and climbers brought here for the stunning rock faces that create the backdrop for the beauty of the coast with its villages and fishing boats. The smiling woman who runs it acts like everyone's second mum. She puts out shampoo and little tubes of toothpaste, even spare toothbrushes and sanitary items. She lends a hammer to get pegs into the thin, stony soil. 

I don't rush as it doesn't look like a  long ride to Makarska (pronounced MAKarska I'm corrected by Smiling Woman). I need breakfast but decide to wait until I find somewhere along the route. 

Still stiff and aching, I swallow a couple of paracetamol and climb on to the bike. Shortly after leaving town, Satty turns me to the left up a narrow, winding and potholed lane. It continues away from yesterday's beautiful coast road and we head inland.

As we rise higher it gets noticeably cooler. The light rain becomes more persistent. The clouds turn grey and eventually I'm forced to struggle into my  yellow waterproofs. 

The rocky landscape is littered with deserted buildings, many showing signs of major damage. What has happened here? Ruined houses, rusting vehicles, factories with gaping holes and glassless windows. Rock and roof tiles are strewn  around between thin shrubs. There are no cars. Nothing passes. I really don't want to break down up here.

 I begin to worry about fuel. There is no chance of finding a petrol station and even if I were lucky enough to flag down a passing vehicle, they wouldn't have spare fuel. It's illegal to carry cans of petrol in Croatia - although I do have a can hidden inside a black bag in the stepthrough. It later turns out that I'm going to be glad of that.

I have been warned not to step off the road because there are many unexploded mines still hidden since the dreadful war in the region. Stark warning signs are posted every few hundred metres.

In places the road surface is scratched and pitted, in a regular grated pattern. I can't see what caused this. Is it deliberate or perhaps it's from snow chains gouging the tarmac. It's a nightmare to ride in. The grooves and ridges puul your tyre off line making steering difficult. I slow down.

I pass through large areas of burnt scrub. Blackened branches surround me on all sides. Fire is common in these scorched uplands.

My mood drops. In contrast to the eye watering beauty of yesterday's coastal ride, today bring tears of despair. How can people do this to their homeland? It seems that they have turned their backs on this upland landscape. Perhaps the memories are too painful.

I wipe the blurring mist from my visor as I ride on in a sombre mood, through an even more sombre landscape.

The tank is getting very low now and I expect to need that hidden can very soon, but wait.. in the distance there's a petrol station. Amazing. Out here in the middle of nowhere. I pull in and peer through the filthy shop window. It's deserted. The pumps are dry and rusted. Of course they are.

I decide to see how far I can get before using up my precious but illicit spare fuel. We go on, and on. 

At last, there's a hint of blue breaking through the sheet-grey skies. I start to descend. The odd house appears occupied with painted walls and glass in the window frames. The thin, rocky scrub changes to green grass and red soil and the strong curry scent of herb fields begins to lift my spirits.

The fuel runs out on a rising stretch of road. The curb is made of loose gravel so I need to hold the bike up while I get the can out and refill - guiltily hiding it from view whenever a car or lorry goes past.

I must work out how to refill this tomorrow.

Eventually I rejoin the coast road and the sun comes out to greet me like an old friend returned.

I struggle to find the address where I've booked tonight. It's a maze of one way streets in Makarska. When I eventually park up at the right place, I'm dismayed to find builder's fencing around it and clear signs that the hostel is closed. I show one of the builders my reservation form. He disappears, phone held to ear.

It takes an hour before I'm eventually let in and sat in a family kitchen with a glass of home made walnut kirsch while someone cleans a room for me. The hostel is closed but by mistake they'd not stopped the booking on AirBnB.

I'm just glad to have a soft bed to lie in at last.