I spent a little over six months in Edinburgh, and after five months of continuous travel, it was comforting to have a place to call home. For my last four months there, I worked hard but also enjoyed myself. After I’d finished at the restaurant, I travelled around Britain, but Edinburgh called me back after less than two weeks. I found love and did not want to be apart from it.

I have made wonderful new friends. I’ve experienced a range of new cultures, Asian and European. I’ve eaten (and cooked) adventurously, from insects in Thailand to lye-pickled herring in Norway. I’ve ridden on and in planes, trains, motorbikes, mopeds, tuk-tuks, rafts, ocean liners, minibuses, elephants and the occasional funicular carriage. I’ve learned not to doubt my own endurance, having climbed mountains in the Arctic Circle (making friends for life in the process). Months in a professional kitchen honed my skills, and certainly increased my cooking speed. I’ve travelled thousands of kilometres and criss-crossed a continent by land and sea. I let the world and its travellers change me, and I feel the better for it.

I’m in Brisbane. I am determined to get a degree in nursing, and ever thereafter lead the life nomadic. However, this is a travelogue, and as I am no longer travelling, it does not seem right to continue here.

I’ve been here a week. I’ve seen some live comedy. I’ve done a night tour of Scotland’s most haunted graveyard (no ghostly attacks, but I’ll probably go again).

A few nights ago my housemates threw a surprise birthday party for me. They’ve been threatening it for some months now, ever since they learned that I spent my real birthday alone. Lori was in town, and Barney had arrived a day earlier, so we had almost our full Bulgarian and Romanian troupe. It was a great night, from what I remember. I couldn’t move the next day, so it must have been pretty good.

Today I bought a £50 bicycle and spent about five hours removing every ounce of old grease, aligning brakes, replacing tubes and figuring out how to put it all back together. English gears, French frame. Rides quite nicely but still makes some noises that I have to fix. Another day’s work and it will be perfect.

That’s about it. I will do something productive soon – getting a passport and a job are high on the list.

The luxuries of having a semi-permanent home are countless. The same bed, every night for the next month. Clean clothes when I want them. A decent kitchen. Sharp knives. A circle of friends that stays the same for more than two nights. My housemates are just fantastic – Paul, Tash and Kate.

I took a bus from San Sebastian to Bilbao, a flight from there to London Stansted, and a bus from there right into Westminster, where I spent two nights with my friend Annie at The Cardinal, the pub where she works. During the day I wandered the streets of Victoria and Westminster, and in the evening we went to a show – Monty Python’s Spamalot – and then for curry. A quintessential London experience, I think.

I get airport euphoria. Normally when I’ve flown it’s a large distance, which equals culture shock, which I love. Arriving in London wasn’t quite culture shock, although the only anglophone I encountered between the plane and the bus was my immigration official, who was Romanian anyway. Nevertheless, I was a little giddy, finally arriving in London. It’s an exciting city, with enough differences from home to make it interesting. It’s my first time in an English-speaking nation for five months, and it’s quite a novelty being able to ask for directions. People seem to ask me for directions quite frequently, which seems to be a rather stupid thing to do, especially when I’m wearing a backpack, quite the giveaway that I’m probably not a local.

The morning after the show, I took a bus from the Victoria coach station to Edinburgh – covering most of the length of England in about seven hours. It feels strange to drive for that long and not really pass any uninhabited areas. About an hour before Edinburgh, we passed Dunbar, the town where my last Scottish ancestor ran away from home and to Australia, about two hundred years ago. Sometime soon I’d like to make a trip back.

Edinburgh itself is a beautiful city. I’m here for the duration of the Fringe, and while I haven’t yet been to any gigs, the street atmosphere is fantastic. I think this will be a good month.

I think I’ve discovered the friendliest people in Europe, if not the world. I’ve spent three nights in Azkoitia, the heartland of Euskadi, the Basque country. I came to visit Dafne, a friend I made in Chiang Mai, and her family and friends have taken me in. She works in a bar so filled with smoke that you could probably get high by smoking the ceiling joists (and she’s the only Basque person I’ve met who doesn’t smoke). Her boss, the barman, fed me, gave me a bottle of wine, and entertained me while Dafne was working.

The countryside is very different from the rest of Spain – green, steep hills clad in pines, rich valleys filled with maize, tomatoes, cattle and sheep, and rocky mountains surrounding us in every direction. The people, too, are most definitely not Spanish. Although almost everybody is able to speak castillano, the language of the region is Euskara, a language isolate that is unrelated to any other known language. Azkoitia and the other nearby towns have the highest concentraion of Euskara speakers. I’ve leaned a little. Although it sounds pleasant, it’s hard to read – lots of k’s and x’s. Along with please and thank you (mesedez and eskerrikasko) I can count to ten, and know useful words like ‘parranda’ for party and ‘kafe utsa’ for espresso.

Basque political statements are everywhere throughout the region. Almost every building sports an “Euskal presoak, Euskal herria” poster – a campaign to have imprisoned members of ETA jailed in Basque prisons instead of French and Spanish ones. Nationalist graffiti is also common. It’s strange to be in a place that seems so remote and innocent, and yet has the writings of a group that most of the world considers a terrorist organization scrawled proudly on city walls. It’s a tough issue. Obviously, violence does not improve the situation. ETA was formed partially in response to Franco’s attempt to eradicate Basque identity, and while Spain’s current government is obviously more liberal than Franco’s fascist dictatorship, many still feel the threat of being overwhelmed by Spanish culture and language.

I arrived at the start of a two-day party which seems to use the feast day of St. Ignatius of Loiola (the nearest town) as an excuse to drink an awful lot of kalimotxo (the only Basque word I actually knew before I left Australia). I went out to party in Ezpeitia with about ten of Dafne’s friends, who are all female, beautiful, and can drink a lot more than me. I switched to water about two hours before anyone else, although in my defence, I bet I felt a lot better than anyone else this morning. Most of them wouldn’t speak any English until they had a few drinks under the belt.

I’ve never felt quite as embarrased to be monolingual. One of the most common comments (in Euskara) was “It’s a shame he doesn’t even speak castillano“. I think I’m going to make sure I have at least basic Spanish before I return to this country.

Yesterday, we drove up to the Gurrutxaga family house in the nearby mountains, where Dafne’s grandmother prepared a Basque feast of seafood and traditional nibbles. It felt a lot like Christmas at home – the combination of seafood, champagne and hot weather. Afterwards, we watched a concert on the steps of the Basilica of St. Ignatius of Loiola.

The last few days have been simply fantastic. Good food, beautiful people, a dramatic landscape and pleasant weather. Dafne’s parents, Mailu and Jexux, and her grandmother, Maritxu, treated me like family. On my last day in the country, Maritxu gave me a tour of San Sabastian, and took me to her brother’s restaurant where I enjoyed a three course meal (on the house).

Tomorrow, London.

Having slept the last few months in hostels, it was fantastic to have my own bed in a room without anyone snoring, and a hot, clean shower. A German breakfast in the morning left me almost completely recharged and ready to take on the rest of Europe.

I had a fantastic time in Dresden. I’m loving Germans and their food. German classics are OK, but I particularly like things that Germans have taken and made their own – currywurst and doner, in particular.

Consideration for cyclists is a (so far, unique) bonus, too.

Anyway, after a ridiculously short train journey, I’m now in Berlin. I emerged from the subterranean platform into the glittering glass edifice that is Berlin Hauptbahnhof, complete with (German) signs proudly proclaiming it the most modern train station in the world. I can believe that.

Luggage checked into storage, I set about exploring the city by foot before picking a hostel. My planned rendezvous didn’t work out so well due to some communication issues on my part, but I should be meeting up with a friend soon.

The Dresden gang:

I thought we were all Yugoslavian. One day, I woke up and my friends were in the hills, shooting at me. I realized they were Serbs.
–Bata

I’ve spent almost two weeks in former Yugoslav territory (from Slovenia to here), and twice as long in Bosnia and Herzegovina as I initially intended. I’ve been learning a lot about this country and it’s recent history. The contrasts across the region are quite amazing – from Slovenia, an efficient, tiny Balkan Switzerland, which seems to have survived the fall of Yugoslavia relatively unscathed, to Bosnia and Herzegovina, which arguably has the deepest wounds, many of which are yet to heal.

On Saturday, there was a reunion of sorts as Barney, Paul, Tash and I booked into the same hostel in Mostar, Herzegovina. A few days later there was another reunion as Steph and Sarah joined us. The hostel in question was Majda’s Rooms, an amazingly friendly place run by a Bosniak family in their apartment. It’s the kind of place where you are served cake as part of the check-in procedure, where Majda’s mother makes countless pots of tea and coffee for everyone as they wake up each morning, where Majda cooked us all rice pudding as a surprise dessert one evening, and where Bata, Majda’s brother, drove us all to the train station at a quarter to seven in the morning. Truly fantastic – I don’t think a hostel proprietor has ever gone so far to make me feel like family.

On the advice of fellow guests, we took Bata’s tour around the countryside of Herzegovina, taking in ancient Bosnian and Ottoman fortresses and mosques, the site of a recent apparition of the Virgin Mary, a fantastic (if freezing) set of waterfalls, a decent local restaurant and finally a Dervish house – one of the holiest sites in Bosnia and Herzegovina, and a symbol of the nation. Over the course of the twelve hour tour, Bata also explained about the ancient and recent history of the region and of the former Yugoslavia in general.

Mostar itself is in worse condition than Sarajevo. Whilst the Stari Grad (old town) and iconic Stari Most (old bridge) have been faithfully repaired and reconstructed respectively, just outside the Stari Grad are countless ruins, the roofless shells of apartment blocks that are absolutely riddled with bullet-holes and remain unoccupied. The former front line runs a block from the river, a few hundred metres from where we slept. Many of the buildings on either side seem to be in the same condition as when the war finished and Bosnia was divided, twelve years ago. The only real additions have been small signs reading “Dangerous ruins: Keep out.”

Yesterday, Paul, Tash, Barney and myself were joined by Sarah and Steph (whom I last saw in Veliko Tarnovo, Bulgaria, but have been keeping in contact with) and Blake and Joe (both Victorians) for a white-water rafting trip down the Neretva River, starting around thirty kilometres from Konjic. Whilst large portions of the three-hour downstream trip were spent floating along rather leisurely, gawking at the absolutely breathtaking scenery all around, there were enough rapids and splashes to justify the ‘white-water’ portion of the rafting. Despite water cold enough to necessitate our wetsuits, we entered the water voluntarily a few times for (very brief) swims. It almost seems a miracle we all survived without hypothermia, actually. Paul was heard muttering “It’s Ireland cold!” at least twice. Sarah uttered an expletive I’d never heard her use before, the first time she entered the water. We certainly appreciated the sunshine – on a cold day, it probably would have been unbearable. After each set of rapids, our skipper passed around a bottle of moonshine brandy, which was almost as foul as Lao-Lao rice whiskey. There were also a few plastic bottles of beer floating around in the frigid water at the bottom of the raft, which Barney and Paul managed to get through over the course of the trip.
“We’ve only had two pints each,” was how Paul put it. There was a bit of a pause before Sarah added, “On a raft.”

Probably wouldn’t happen in Australia.

One of the main attractions of Mostar is the Stari Most or Old Bridge, after which the town is named (I think Mostar means ‘Bridge-keeper’, but I’m not sure). The Ottoman-built bridge spans the narrow Neretva, which flows 21 metres below the bridge’s apex. Whilst I saw a few members of the Stari Most Diving Club posing as if to prepare for the leap, none of them actually did – they usually wait for a pot of at least €30 before jumping, or €100 for diving. Standing at the highest point of the bridge and looking down, I understand why.

Today I’m taking a Giant Leap myself – a twenty-nine hour journey from Mostar to Dresden, with connecting trains at Zagreb, Munich and Leipzig. Assuming I make all of my connections, I’ll arrive in Dresden sometime on Thursday afternoon. Anja (with whom I travelled through parts of Thailand) invited me to a street party which starts sometime on the weekend. I’m crossing quite a few countries to get there, so I hope it’s fun. All the way across the Federation, then through the Republika Srpska, where signs read things like ‘Сарајево’ instead of Sarajevo (for a moment I thought I’d accidentally got on a train back to Bulgaria), then across the border to Croatia, and then back through Slovenia and Austria before finally reaching Germany and another half-day’s travel to get to Dresden. This probably counts as abuse of my rail pass. It’s only about a thousand kilometres as the crow flies, but the Bosnian portion of the journey is anything but a straight line. Balkan trains in general are horribly slow, but the scenery makes up for it.

Mostar photoset is here.

I spent three nights in Varna with my new companions (and some old ones): Paul (Ireland), Kate, Tash, Barney and Ben (various parts of southern Australia). Hayley and Bridget were also there, but they’ve moved on to Braşov now.

Last night we made the rather tiring journey from Varna to Bucharest. The journey comes a close second to the Hue-to-Hoi An piggy-back ride (160km in nine slow hours) for fatigue/distance ratio. First, a four-hour train from Варна to Русе, then a six-hour, early-morning stopover in Русе station (we broke this up by going out to a restaurant for a late dinner), then a three hour train to Bucharest, an hour of which consisted of sitting on tracks just on the Romanian side of the Danube, waiting to get our passports back. The wait in the Русе station would have been tolerable were it not for the Bulgarian police who woke us up every time we looked like we were dozing (“Not hotel!”).

Oh well. Another day, another stamp. The Danube is pretty impressive, even at 4am. Apparently I kept saying “That’s a really big river,” every twenty seconds or so for the four minutes it took to cross it.

I’ve been sick, so cooking duties have landed on somebody else tonight. I’m way, way under budget at the moment – something I love about Eastern Europe. Cooking for a group makes things super cheap, as well. Most days are under $30AUD for food, accommodation and transport.

The plan is to travel to Braşov on Tuesday morning, and spend a few days exploring Transylvania from there. From all reports, Braşov is a much nicer place than Bucharest, which hasn’t been very impressive so far (although the taxi from the train station to the hostel was one of the best thrill-rides I’ve had in quite while). After Braşov, I’m going to start my dash west to the Prague Spring Festival, starting with Sighişoara, then Budapest. I think I have a little over a thousand kilometres to cover in the next two weeks. Awesome.

Finished Life of Pi this morning. In my two-and-a-bit months away, I’ve read (in chronological order): From a Buick 8 by Stephen King, Cryptonomicon by Neil Stephenson, The Beach by Alex Garland, The Green Mile by Stephen King, Ivanhoe by Sir Walter Scott, On Beauty by Zadie Smith and Life of Pi by Yann Martel. There are one or two more that I can’t remember at the moment. It’s nice to have time to read, but I wish my choices were a little more literate! Must pick something hard soon. This hostel has a book exchange.

I’ve got a destination for the beginning of the end of this trip: Edinburgh in summer. Looks like I’ve signed myself up for a bed in a share-house for August, the festival season. I really can’t wait. I’ll be sharing with Paul, Tash, Kate and probably Barney. I think I’ll have some cash reserves left by then, but the plan is to find work as soon as I can, and really enjoy the festivals – the Edinburgh Fringe, Comedy Festival, and Tattoo.

Travelling in a group is fantastic, but I think I’m going to break away after Braşov. I get along with everyone, and conversation makes the hours fly, but I travel a little faster and more spontaneously when I’m alone. Still, I’m having a great time – I just have a lot of ground to cover.

Veliko Tarnovo is an ancient town built on the slopes of a steep gorge. The centrepiece is Tsaravets, an impenetrable fortress that dominates the town’s skyline.

I spent my first few days here just wandering aimlessly, which seems to be a fairly good way of getting to know a place. We cooked a few good meals, to supplement the rather light dinner than the hostel provides. I spent an afternoon exploring Tsaravets, including a rather dark path around the back of the fortress which I’m sure would have felt just right for any wolf in waiting for Little Red Riding Hood. I’ve gotten through a roll of film, but haven’t developed it yet.

Yesterday the five of us hired bicycles and set ourselves a few challenges. The first was to reach Preobruzhenie Monastery, about five kilometres from Veliko Tarnovo. This was quite a good ride – the first three kilometres were downhill on a smooth, wide highway, making for fun riding. We then had to climb for the next 1800m to reach the ridge upon which the monastery sat, which was hard but doable. We spent a few hours on the monastery grounds and ate a picnic lunch at the top.

Of course, getting back up the hill to Veliko Tarnovo was a bit of challenge, but after an afternoon tea of an icecream each, and bouyed by our successful morning, we set out to reach the village of Arbanasi, a few kilometres northeast of Veliko Tarnovo. We may have been slighly over-ambitious here, and there were a few moments during the rather gruelling climb up the main road between Veliko Tarnovo and Ruse that we came close to giving up. After 90 minutes of climbing we were rewarded with the view from Arbanasi, looking down over Veliko Tarnovo, and we realized how far we had actually come. It only took us a few minutes to get back down the mountain, in a hair-raising but ultimately fun, barely-controlled freefall down the highway into town.

My bike was much too large for me, and had far narrower handlebars that I’m used to, so most of the time I was feeling fairly unsteady. Despite that, I only fell off twice. If I keep accumulating scars at this rate, my body will be my best souvenir of this trip.

The complete Veliko Tarnovo photoset is available here.

Overall, a fantastic few days spent with lovely people. I’m hoping to meet up with most of them again in Croatia or Montenegro.

I’m sick of travelling alone, so I’ve teamed up with a bunch of Australians and their Irishman for the next few days. We’re heading to Varna in the morning, and Romania sometime shortly afterwards.

People at the top seemed to take as many photos of us as they did of the scenery, as we sat sipping Greek wine from plastic tumblers and constructing elaborate olive-oil-drenched sandwiches. Afterwards, we walked home for a final few beers on the roof of the hostel. This morning finds us flung across Greece – most people to the islands and the sun, and me to the north, Thessaloniki.

Athens photoset is here.

I took an early morning train, and it was a pleasant change from my usual nocturnal travels. It was also my first high-speed rail travel in Europe, and I was very impressed: smooth, quiet, and really, really fast. I arrived at midday and found accommodation – the penthouse of an amazingly cheap and run-down budget hotel, which is not nearly as nice as it sounds, but has some bizarre, taped-up-window and crumbling walls kind of charm.

My next stop was the photography museum, hosting the Photography Biennale. I particularly enjoyed the Duane Michaels exhibition.

Currently seeking a ticket to Sofia. Train leaves at 0630ish.