I woke to find that the thunderstorm has washed most of the sticky stuff off of the tent, to be replaced by birdshit. Camping under trees is good for shade but not so good in other ways.
I enjoy the luxury of using the outside kitchen to make my tea and sit at a table to drink it. A quick shower, pack the bike and out onto the streets of Budapest and then on to Austria.
Somehow, during the night, I've been bitten on the end of my toe by a mosquito, and in the warmth of my boot it's itching like crazy. There's nothing I can do. I try, and fail, to shut it out of my mind.
I head out of Budapest with its massive, brightly coloured buildings and gilded roofs and head out on the highway Northwest. In the commercial suburbs, familiar names stand out: Ikea, MacDonalds, Lidl, Spar - all great British companies...
Already, there are massive queues heading the other way. Some drivers, impatient in the heat are pulling out onto this side of the road. Some try turning around, performing ten point turns in front of me. I slow down and hover over the brakes. Inevitably, there's an accident ahead. Queues on my side of the road now. I squeeze the Honda along the inside of the cars and lorries. At the front, police have closed the road to one lane. There's a large van in the ditch. Two men are shouting at each other, but keeping a parked car between them. It's just noise. I'm waved through and ride on past the mess.
As I drive along a smaller road in the quiet of the countryside, I become aware of a rattle from the bike. Something is loose. I pull in in the shade of a row of trees and investigate. It's the exhaust heat shield. The screws holding it on are very short and one's worked loose. I take it off and jam it in my tool bag. It's not doing much and it'll only come undone again. I'll weld it on when I get home. As I tilt my head back to drink from my flask I notice movement in the shimmering sea of long grass on the other side of the road.
Deer, running and skipping. I watch them as they play. The field stretches to the horizon and I watch until they are just small dots moving in the distance.
The young Austrian border guard waves me through with a smile. No checks, I don't even stop. Once in Austria, I begin to see storm clouds forming over the flat land ahead. It starts to rain. I zip up my jacket. There are a few flashes in the sky. I seem to be skirting the worst of it, the deep grey clouds to my left enhance the electric green of the fields. I'm hit by a strong smell of garlic, or maybe onions then I pass a field full of workers,bent picking or carrying large sacks towards wooden crates. Cars have stopped to watch. I take a photo. A few stand and briefly wave at us onlookers.
I ride through the outskirts of Vienna and look for a supermarket to stock up my supplies. Everything is shut. I read the opening times on a shop door. It should be open. I try another. The same - it's shut. I check the day on my watch. It's not Sunday; it's Thursday. I approach the site at Camping Donau and see a Spar shop open. There's a queue out of the shop. Most people have crates of beer or bottles of wine. There's a holiday atmosphere. I ask a young woman what is going on. It seems that today is Ascension Day - a national holiday in Austria.
I'm in no hurry. I pick up bread, a few tins and a tub of margarine. Will it melt in the heat? I remind myself to pack it in a ziplock bag.
There are family barbecues everywhere along the side of road which follows the river Danube. I pitch up. The campsite is jam packed with campervans, some as big as a bus. It's mostly Germans and Austrians, with a mix from all over Europe.
Twenty metres from my tent is another, blue tarpaulin-covered tent. The owner is standing with bare chest and shorts seemingly talking to a large brown dog. I say hello and ask what the dog is. It's an American bull terrier. Its like a double-sized Staffie. Its head is covered in scars.
I carry on unpacking my things then notice the dog owner walking off to the shower block. The dog remains by the tent. I'm kneeling in the entrance to my tent when I hear a low growl very close behind me. The dog is a metre away with teeth bared. I stand and grab my large black stuff sack. It's still got my sleeping bag, bedroll and folding stool in it. I hold it in front of me as a shield as the dog jumps up. It bites. I start shouting at the dog then shout for the owner. He's out of sight. I move back, away from the dog's tent as I think it might be protecting what it sees as its owner's territory. Suddenly, it seems to lose interest in me and walks away; looking for its owner I guess. A few minutes later, I hear shouting and growling. It's gone amongst the campervans. An angry man starts shouting at me in German and points behind a van where I presume there is a large bull terrier. He obviously thinks it's my dog. It's growling at his children. I hold my arms out. "Es is nicht mein Hundt!" I point towards the shower block. I don't have the words to explain that the owner is taking a shower. The dog moves on, looking for its owner, who eventually returns.
I complain, in English, but he understands my anger.
"I'm here now. He's OK with me."
"It's not OK." I reply. I've had enough; I move my tent as far away from theirs as possible.
A Polish guy comes over to ask about my bike. He then invites me to a party in the city. I really don't want to. He's insistent. I head off to the restaurant to get away from him and the dog. I talk with a guy from Slovakia. He lived in London for ten years and his English is very good. He's cycling back to Slovakia.
Over schnitzel and chips, we watch as a woman lovingly rubs her husband's leg with a bag of chips. I've no idea why. I try to concentrate on the schnitzel. It seems like it's all anyone eats here. Schnitzel and chips. No salad, no veg. Nothing vaguely green.
I think about my journey. It's not very long until I'll be home, with the rain and cold, but also Sian and Floss the sheepdog and my little garage and the pub opposite and...
There's still a few more countries and miles to go. I head back to the tent and sleep ready for whatever tomorrow brings.
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