Day 9: Spital am Pyhrn to Hrastnik (Slovenia)

I woke to the sound of birds - thousands of birds, all singing their hearts out to welcome the warmth of the rising sun.

I opened the balcony doors and stepped out to breath in the mountain air and look in wonder at the massive vista before me. The mountains, now lit from the side by the low dawn sun,  glow gold and emerald green, yet dark shadows still hide away on the western sides of the slopes.

7:30 am: my mind turns to the  breakfast waiting for me in the parlour downstairs.

I have never seen such optimism as to what one person can eat in one sitting and still be able to function that day. Mountain farmers - they need the energy. Huge amounts of meat and cheese with rolls and lumps of butter. Yoghurt and fruit and a gallon of tea, with a jug of orange just in case. Jams and conserves, cereal bars and croissants... It was truly overwhelming.

All this was served up by the farmer's wife. A pleasant woman who understandably, seemed a bit suspicious of this hairy foreigner on an overloaded Honda 90. She showed the signs of rickets, her legs bowed and she walked in a rolling manner as she laboured under the massive trays of breakfast. These peopke eat kilos of meat but it seems very few vegetables or salads. For a growing child in the forties this wasn't good.

I packed, and went to pay. A form was thrust in front of me. Passport details, address, postcode, age... It went on. Suspicion. Where is the key for the room? She checks the room before I leave the farmhouse. More suspicion. Satisfied that nothing has been looted, she shakes my hand and shuts the big wooden door behind me.

I'm glad to get back on the bike.

Over the next few kilometres of narrow mountain road Satty was struggling. 

"Recalculating".  "Perform a U-turn".

I ignore her. She's lost, or rather, she's lost her satellites. The trees and steep mountains are too much for her. I check the morning sun. It is on my left so I know that I'm in the right direction: South - towards Greece and the warmth.

The bike is struggling. It coughs and splutters and I drop into first even for gentle climbs. I'm struggling too. I can feel the pulse in my fingers; I'm short of breath. I have a mild headache. Altitude, I guess. The little Honda's carburettor was set back at home, by the sea where I live, thousands of metres below where we are now.

We'll be dropping soon, so I decide not to re-adjust. We'll both feel better when we descend a little.

I lean round a left-handed in the inside lane (on the right) and suddenly we've crossed into Slovenia - on the wrong side of the border control barriers. I see the border guards on the other side of their hut look round at this bizarre flash of British idiocy as it slipped past them. I expect problems. Blue lights, sirens: there's nothing. I glide on into yet another new country.

The roads are noticeably rougher - the driving too. Too close, too fast. Life seems cheaper here - mine at least, so it seems.

As I get within twenty kilometres of my destination (a remote barn in the mountains), the road gets narrower then becomes a track. Satty seems confident but is unaware that what she sees in her mind doesn't match what is in front of us.

I see a cluster of red-roofed buildings set on a round hill rising in the distance. It's steep. I change into first gear even though the bike is breathing fine now.

I come to a dead end at a small farm. Two men are sitting at a large table set out in the warm sun, a glass jug of wine is nearly empty on the yellow tablecloth.

Satty wants me to continue another  five kilometres, but there  is no obvious way forward.

"Does the road go on?" I try to ask with pointing glove and a questioning look. They shake their heads.

 "No. Ends here."

I show them the address I have written on my notes. There follows a long discussion between the two. The older man nods and points over the hill behind the tractor shed. 

"Yes, this is Hrastnik. The ranch. I know them. I go there - you come."

"But first - wine!" I point to the bike and raise my shoulders and shake my head by they are not to be denied. I have a glass of the crisp cold wine. They make it themselves and it is wonderful. 

 Eventually we leave, me following their red Citroen van as it hurtles over the bumps and crevasses of the rough track. I struggle to keep up and keep upright, alternating standing on the footpegs with having my feet spread out, close to the ground ready to push myself back onto the track. After a crazy, hair-raising ride of a few km, we arrive at the 'ranch'. 

As soon as the engine is switched off the first of many cans of strong local beer is pressed into my hand.
An informal party starts. I'm the centrepiece. The usual questions.  Maja, the sensible one show me the barn. I can sleep here but there is also a wooden hut with a fire. 

"You might like the hut because it gets very cold in the night, yes?"

 I choose the hut with the fire and the logs, the candle lanterns and the hay-filled mattress.It starts to rain ever so gently. Outside, the goats bleat and the llama... What does a llama do? It chewed the short, spring grass in silence.

I light the fire and light lots of lanterns. I can't help feeling a warm, wintery Christmas atmosphere to the place, with the smell of pine and the soft flickering lights.

"Could you feed the horses in the morning before you leave?"

As the dark deepens, they say their goodbyes and leave me to stare into the embers and think over this extraordinary journey so far.