Road to Tokyo

3 days and 1,020km (Total: 54 days and 11,800km)

After a week in Iraq, our plan was to get back into Türkiye via a different border crossing further East. However, some Kurds advised us against it as the North East of Iraq is somewhat controlled by the PKK (“Kurdistan Workers’ Party”), which many countries identify as a terrorist organisation.

So we travelled back into Türkiye via the same border from which we left and turned right. We wanted to explore the East — more rugged and mountainous in geography, more Kurd in ethnicity. We were excited for an uneventful and quiet first night back in the country, after a week of riding chaotic roads, staying up five hours past our bed time, and eating more deserts than I have in the last decade. But, like the landscape, our journey wasn't the smoothest.

On the first day, there was one hotel along the only road we had in front of us, but it was outside our budget (we even did the tourist-price check by asking a local Turk to phone them, but they got the same quote we did). So we WhatsApp'd a restaurant and asked if we could pitch our tent on their premises. Their reply was short and included one of the few Turkish words we know — “yok”, meaning “no” — so we sighed briefly before Google told us they had actually said “no problem” and turned our sighs into smiles.

We arrived about 3pm and the restaurant manager had reserved a table for us. He asked if we’d like anything to eat or drink and, despite saying no with all the accompanying body gestures to indicate that we really didn’t, to the extent it looked like we were doing some weird dance, he brought out Turkish coffee, bottles of Coca Cola, and ice creams. We then had to play the subtle trick of showing the host that we were enjoying the food and drink but not so much such that they keep bringing more. “That coffee was great” led to me becoming seriously over-caffeinated at 5pm. Lucky they don’t serve alcohol in restaurants over here (although he did offer to drive to the closest town and buy me gin, convinced all English people love it).

The manager sat down with us and we chatted for ages. I'm not sure how much time passed but he had at least five cigarettes, so it must have been a while. We eventually got on to talking about Kurdistan; he was clearly very passionate about their nationalism. So much so that he soon started talking about his love and support for the PKK...

I had a small “oh fuck” moment before, whilst he went to make me another coffee, I did a quick check on my phone to learn that the PKK don't have any material prejudice against the British. I breathed a sigh of relief. As the conversation went on, his constant praising of Winston Churchill and Britain's defence of its independence in WW2 reassured me that he really did like us and there wasn’t an ulterior motive behind the free refreshments.

Putting aside his affiliations, he was the nicest guy. Of course he offered us to come stay at his house and even got us on video call with his wife and one-year old son. At 1am, with the caffeine still keeping me going and the restaurant guests depleted, all the staff were sitting with us chatting via the manager as a translator. It was a wonderful evening with plenty of laughs grounded not on humour (we couldn’t understand each other), but just happiness manifesting.

By 2am they had to get back to their families and told us not to worry about pitching the tent — we can just sleep in the restaurant and use all its facilities. They then pointed to a man in the corner, who looked like he was in his 80s, and told us he’s the security guard who keeps the restaurant safe overnight. We were pretty quick to take them up on the offer, partially because we didn’t want to have to pitch a tent in the dark and partially because we have learnt that saying no to the Kurds isn’t easy.

When all the staff had gone, it was just us and the security guard. No less than five minutes later and a random guy just appears in the restaurant and sits down next to us. He looked like he hadn't showered in weeks and stank of cigarette smoke. We asked him over Google translate what he's doing here and his reply was “I'm digging a hole from here to Syria.” Before we were able to verify the seriousness of his response, he quickly went on to tell us we should sleep outside — like he does — because it will get too warm in the restaurant. He finished his cigarette and left, no idea to where. Despite not in his physical prime, I was pleased there was a security guard with us, although that reassurance soon vanished after he changed into pyjamas and tucked himself into bed for the night on the sofa next to us!

After a few hours of intermittent sleep, we woke up and made a coffee in the restaurant's kitchen before hitting the road. We aimed for a town called Van where we had booked a private Airbnb to guarantee an uneventful night. And that it was, with an incredibly scenic ride along the Iraq border to get there.

Three weeks after arriving into the incredible country, we spent our last night in Türkiye at the bottom of Mount Ararat. Back in our tent, back in the rain, and back on our route to Japan.

Next stop: Georgia.

6 days and 808km (Total: 51 days and 10,780km)

Crossing the border into Iraqi Kurdistan was long but easy. On the Türkiye side we exchanged a lot of different papers with a lot of different people. On the Iraqi Kurdistan side we waited for an hour whilst they cleaned the passport office and then paid $35 to temporarily import the bike. After about three hours we finally passed into Iraq and merged straight onto the highway towards the capital of the Kurdistan region, Erbil.

The roads are total madness. People driving the wrong direction on motorways at 60kmph, cars slipping over oil spillages, and roads suddenly switching between asphalt, gravel, and sand, randomly interspersed with speed bumps that have no markings. I was lucky to learn early on that putting on your hazard lights doesn't mean something’s wrong, or saying thank you to the car behind you; instead, quite ironically, it invites them to a race. It's chaos. I suppose the police, understandably, care more about who is on the roads rather than what they're doing on them.

For the next two days we stayed in Erbil and fell in love with the city. It has no red tape, just a free-for-all that seems to self-regulate itself through basic commerce and trust, with no ego and even less tourism.

The city runs entirely on cash and it's the cheapest country we've been to so far — a substantial meal for two easily costing €5. But the reason we fell in love with the place isn’t the price but the fact that everyone was so kind and genuine. Someone selling falafel on the street corner didn’t seem like they were doing it to make money; they were doing it to feed a friend.

It was on our second night that we felt this natural force first hand. We wandered into a restaurant and asked for a rice dish we saw on the menu. The owner said something in Kurdish and a man sitting at a table stood up and translated “they don't have any rice left” before adding “but don't worry I know a great restaurant, I'll take you there.”

We got into Anand‘s car and drove across Erbil as he told us about his previous life in Portsmouth before returning to Kurdistan twelve years ago. When we arrived at the restaurant he ordered loads of food, paid for it, and left saying “enjoy your meal, you are our guests here.” For the next ten minutes we were speechless — mostly due to Anand’s generosity but also the enjoyment of the food. But we soon had to get used to both as this wasn’t a freak event.

The next day we left Erbil and rode somewhat aimlessly in forty degree heat. A decision we regretted two hours in as the wind hardened and the sun started to fade in the hazy air. We stopped outside a tiny grocery store with empty shelves and asked a local where we could buy food and pitch our tent. He spoke good English and told us we should go to Ranya — a bigger town thirty minutes away. Hunger didn’t allow us to wait around so we said “spas” (thank you), waved goodbye, and were off.

Within two minutes of arriving into Ranya we had a crowd of twenty locals around our bike. Within five minutes two local women had given us their phone numbers in case we needed anything. And within ten minutes we had a young man phoning his mum to ask if their family could host us for the night. It was overwhelming but comforting. I've never felt so welcomed and safe in a place where you're a total stranger.

We took Halo up on his offer. An hour after arriving into Ranya with no plans, and we were showered and sitting on the floor with a Kurdish family eating bread, beef, chicken, olives, tomatoes, cheese, okra soup, and four glasses of different drinks (non alcoholic of course). The family were eating with us but kept putting all the food in front of us before touching anything themselves. It was such a special moment. Starting the morning riding aimlessly had worked out.

After dinner we were expecting to learn the word “goodnight” in Kurdish, but actually the evening had just begun. Halo took us and his seventeen year old niece named Sara (who had learnt English from youtube but had never met a foreigner before) into town where I got a haircut, we ate ice cream, did some shopping, and joined a game of “Okey” (like Rummikub) with his friends. Halo refused to let us pay for literally anything... including my haircut. “Please, you are our guests here in Kurdistan, you do not pay.”

When we got home at 2am, his mum had washed our riding gear (despite us warning her gravely of the smell) and had laid out two mats for us to sleep on. We could hear the dad (a police officer on the Iraq/Iran border) snoring in the room next door where we had eaten dinner, also on a mat next to the mum, Fatm. Sleep did not trouble us that night, as we let our minds digest the day’s events and reconfigure their understanding of kindness.

The next day we made bread with the neighbours.

We went for a drive through the mountains with Halo and Sara.

We ate bbq'd fish at a local restaurant.

And we finished the day drinking more tea and pistachio coffee on the street with random locals that treated each other, including us, like friends even though they had never met before.

The mum had asked us to stay for lunch the next day so she could make us a traditional Kurd Kofte (like meatballs). Our instinct was to say “thank you but we need to get going” but then we realised that, actually, we didn’t. We had just had the most happy and memorable forty eight hours of our lives — why the rush?

Little did we know that after we had said yes, Fatm had invited round two more of her children and their entire families to stay the night, ready for Kofte preparations early the next morning! So that night there were ten of us sleeping on mats. The next morning we met more of the family, hung out with the kids who enjoyed practising their English, and helped pack different meat mixtures into hundreds of flour balls before they were boiled in a tomato-based sauce. The food was incredible. The mum asked one more time if we’d stay another night but it was time to leave.

We had only been with the family for two nights but saying goodbye was tough. Really tough. Halo and his mum drove with us to the first petrol station (I finally managed to not let him pay for something), with lunch and tea packed by his mum, and waved us goodbye by touching their eyes and heart. The wind through my helmet always makes my eyes water but there was certainly more than usual this time.

It was a short ride that afternoon as we headed back on route to Japan. We were stopped at military checkpoints several times but they would only check our passports, asked if we were carrying drones, and then take selfies with us (and their machine guns around their necks). We also stopped for tea in a small town which a local paid for whilst offering us to come stay with his family for the night. Something we were getting used to, for better or for worse.

The sun started to dim and we needed a place to stay. At the beginning of the trip, not having a place to stay the next night was a bit scary. By this point we were comfortable asking ourselves “where should we stay tonight?” about an hour before it gets dark. At the next military checkpoint we asked a Peshmerga (Kurdistan Region military officer, which translates as “Those Who Face Death”) if we could pitch our tent on the grass next to them. They wrote something back which Google translated as “no problem, take it easy” and we settled in for the night, despite Halo calling me to tell me his dad’s friend would like to host us in a village nearby. However, by that point, we were ready for bed.

The following day we were on the road early and heading back towards Türkiye. During the short ride we had two Kurds buy us tea, another buy us ice cream, and another offer us to come stay with his family. Instead, we chose to stay in a hotel that night so we could be on the road early the next morning without being rude.

And that's what we did to finish our trip in Kurdistan Region of Iraq. Crossing into the region was long but easy. Crossing out of it was short but hard.

Riding through the Kurdistan region of Iraq has been a deeply special experience. The food and landscapes deserve their own applaud, but it's the people that stood out. On the outer layer, Kurds care about their reputation and want it to be shaped accurately by themselves and not by western media. A layer deeper and you find a community infused with a religion and history that makes them authentically put other people first. And on the deepest level you realise this is a community that has been at conflict with its direct neighbours for so many years that they welcome outsiders. It's the first country we've travelled through that I’m already excited to see again.

Next stop: back on route, East.

5 days and 1,770km (Total: 45 days and 9,972km)

After our blissful day off in Antalya, we clicked on a random town in Google Maps, ensured the road there was windy, and got on the bike. It was a stunning ride up into the mountains again and through towns that were low on the tourist guage (a measure of how peculiar the looks you get are).

We were riding to a town called Mut and we passed some fantastic scenery along the way.

But as we got closer, the lakes faded and the greenery turned to rock, gravel and, well, trash. We threw our plan to wild camp into the trash too and did a quick scout for hotels. We found one on the outskirts of Mut so put our sweaty gloves back on and continued. Our eagerness to finish the long day’s riding and take off our boots clouded any expectations we might have had.

We arrived to the hotel and, to be honest, I think we would have preferred to keep our boots on. It wasn't the prettiest or comforting of hotels. The door to our room didn’t lock but the owner soon fixed that with a bit of WD40. The toilet didn't flush either but WD40 wasn't going to solve that. That evening we sat outside for our end-of-day tea and biscuit ritual. After a few women, dressed provocatively to say the least, walked out the hotel and got into the back of men's cars, we quickly realised that we were staying in a brothel. The owner realised that we had realised and kept bringing us coffee, biscuits, and fruit as if to say “yeh sorry guys I think you've stumbled into the wrong place.”

Mut was definitely rock bottom on the tourist guage. So the next day we dialled it up and headed to Cappadocia after countless locals told us it's a must. After 4 hours of riding we knocked on the door of the first guest house we saw, offered the host half what he quoted, and he welcomed us in. Local beers and snacks on the terrace before an early night. The call to prayer woke us the next morning at 4.30am so we rode K a few kilometers and perched ourselves on a small rock overlooking the open landscape. Soon, flickers of light emerged in the distance before hundreds of balloons started to rise in harmony with the sun. Time slowed down and we had a moment to really appreciate where we were and what we were doing.

Before long we were back on the road to our next destination directly East. We stayed in a campgarden that evening and met the only other camper, a German guy cycling from Germany to India. We ended up having dinner together and it was a lovely evening (although a bit awkward that we were eating the same as him after he had just ridden 150km and we had sat on a motorbike all day). All the overlanders we have met so far are so friendly and humble. Overlanding seems to train your patience, teach you the difference between a “problem” and an actual problem, and appreciate that everyone lives their lives in different ways — none of them right or wrong.

The next day was more humbling as we rode South East through more arid mountains. Along the way we kept passing huge development sites that had hundreds of empty houses identical to each other. 10km later we were riding through equally large towns but they were inhabited and everyone living in identical white tents. They were such strangely similar but contrasting sites so close to each other that we asked the guy at the next petrol stop. He illuminated our ignorance by telling us that we were in the region that was obliterated by the 2023 Turkey-Syria earthquakes. The new houses were being built by the Turkish government for the thousands that had lost their homes. The tents were the temporary accommodation they have been living in for the last two years.

After “we are strong and resilient” his next Google translation was “you are our guests, please have lunch with us.” We said we have to get back on the road but then realised he wasn't asking us. We sat down and they (yes, the entire staff of the petrol station) brought out a huge platter of roast vegetables — potatoes, tomatoes, peppers, jalapeños — with piles of bread. And, of course, unlimited Ayran. Some locals stopping off for fuel sat down and joined too.

For the next hour they asked about our trip and recommended we go see Göbeklitepe, which was a coincidental oversight in our planning as we had recently listened to a podcast about it (it's the site of the oldest known megaliths, pre-dating the pyramids). That night we stayed in Şanlıurfa and met an English and German couple that had been travelling from Hong Kong back to Germany semi-overland. They also recommended Göbeklitepe, so it was decided... we'd go in the morning.

Afterwards we followed a long road directly East, not fully aware that the road skirted within 1km of the Syrian border. The landscape was changing quickly and police cars transitioned to military tanks. We got stopped a couple of times (they stop 90% of the vehicles passing through) but when they realised we don’t speak Turkish they would always say “ok go!” with a big smile on their face. That night we pitched our tent in the garden of a hotel, feeling pretty safe with a military checkpoint right behind us.

Next stop: 👉

8 days and 1,783km (Total: 40 days and 8,202km)

I always considered crossing into Türkiye and through Istanbul a big milestone for this trip. Probably a similar feeling literally millions of other humans have had travelling through this special place on some journey of their own.

Despite visiting the country before, we weren’t sure what to expect this time round. And within a few kilometers after the border the uncertainty clarified itself as a van started beeping next to us on the highway. He seemed pissed off at something I was doing. But there were no blinking lights on my dash and I could still see Becs so she hadn’t fallen off. At 100kmph the van pulled up next to us, the guy wound down his window and stuck out two bars of chocolate. Becs grabbed them and the van sped off giving us a quick beep to say goodbye (over here beeping also seems to mean hello and thank you — very confusing). At our next petrol stop, the conservative British in us checked to see what was wrong with this free chocolate, but they were delicious and gave us enough energy to see through the rest of the ride into Istanbul.

We stayed in the suburbs — a high rise flat with postcard-quality views of the sun setting over the city. That evening we had my favourite meal of the trip so far as we stopped by a woman serving a dish which Google translated as “rice with plenty of chicken” on the side of the road. As we ate literally those two ingredients (perfect), for the first time it felt like we were genuinely a long way away from where we had started. It wasn’t the beginning of our trip anymore.

The next day we whittled our way through chaotic Istanbul and into Asia, settling for the night in a small town near Bursa. The little blue hotel had advertised private parking (actually the side of the street next to the bin) and we splashed out €20 on dinner that night using our “Mum Fund” (a little bit of money our mums had given us before we set off). The next morning I woke early to go for a run, passed the hotel receptionist (also acting as security guard, chef, and waiter) fast asleep on the coach downstairs, and ran up and down a 500m hill a few times scared of the stray dogs aggressively barking at me whenever I got close to the top. People always told me motorbikes are dangerous, but I now calculate that the biggest dangers on this trip are 1) stray dogs attacking me when I’m off the bike, 2) animals running into the road whilst riding, or 3) a fly blinding me whilst I lift my visor to itch my face.

We headed West for a change towards a town called Edremit, where we had found a campsite that had pictures of motorbikes on its website. The hosts told us not to follow the Google Maps directions because it led to a 4km off-road route. I asked them how difficult it was and they had replied “it’s not too bad”. Well, maybe that’s true if you’re riding a trials bike or… walking. But riding 4km fully-loaded two-up on an Africa Twin weighing nearly 400kg all-in was a different story.

Within 1km, we were down in the dirt. It wasn’t a sudden fall — it’s more like a ship sinking. The bike loses its balance and there’s nothing you can do to prevent it. You even have enough time for a quick dialogue — “Becs we’re going down” — “OK I’m ready” — and prepare to jump off. We’re getting quite good at it (picking up the bike on an incline afterwards is the difficult part). The remaining 3km took us about 30 minutes but we eventually got there covered in dust, with a leaking 5 litre water bottle, and Ayran (yoghurt) exploded inside our top box. The hosts laughed a bit and showed us their Honda CRF300 which is basically an off-road bike. There was enough of a language barrier for me to smile and think out loud “well yes, doing the off-road on that would indeed be ‘not too bad’.”

But Mikail and Su were awesome. A Turkish couple I guessed in their 30s that had ridden motorcycles through 35 countries over the last 6 years and had returned to Türkiye to start a campsite. We were, again, the only campers that day and at about 5pm both couples emerged to the outside table with beers and snacks in hand. They spoke enough English for us to have a good chat about motorcycle travel, their favourite countries they travelled through (Slovenia and Iran), and tips on our route through Türkiye. They asked If we wanted to stay another night but we had places to be so left the next morning heading south and east a bit.

We found a small village called Birgi, which I later discovered was listed in “32 most beautiful villages in the world”, and indeed it was beautiful. We went to the door of a Pansiyon (guest house) and asked the woman if she had any rooms available. She did but they were outside of our budget so when we asked if there was anything cheaper she showed us a much smaller room on the ground floor made for single travellers with a small bed and a tiny bathroom. Everything we needed. We said yes and she welcomed us and K inside the gates. It’s a glorious feeling finishing a long day’s riding with you and the bike safe for the night. That evening the host, Dilek, made it even more glorious when she brought us some Turkish tea and freshly-made biscuits whilst we chatted about the cats she had adopted, her divorce, and other places we should see in Türkiye.

We nearly stayed there another night too, but were on the road the next day by 9.45am. We continued our path south east and further into the mountains — riding next to stunning lakes whilst dodging pot holes, stray dogs and tortoises like you’re playing Mario cart.

On our sixth night we had nowhere to stay so at about 4pm pulled down a dirt road and found a spot to pitch our tent and camp for the night. We boiled some vegetables in the single pot we’re carrying with us and enjoyed them with Turkish bread. Of course afterwards we sat in our camping chairs, made tea, and tried the next variety of biscuits we had bought, freely letting time pass with nothing to do and no worries except where to go the next day. A very serene moment in stark contrast to our previous lives.

After a few nights in the more mountainous regions, we had an urge to be close to the sea so booked a cheap Airbnb for a night on the south coast in a place called Kargicak. It was so perfect that within an hour of arriving we asked the host if it was available the next night too. She said yes and that’s the end of this part of the story because the next 48 hours were blissfully uneventful. Washing clothes, hanging out with cats, making our own burgers, and doing a bit of bike maintenance. Happy and content, to new levels.

We’re loving this country. I think we’ll be here for a while.

Next stop: the right direction.

7 days and 1,434km (Total: 32 days and 6,419km)

When it starts raining, riding a motorcycle on the road instantly pivots from fun to shit. You can’t see through your helmet and the bike’s tires are on the edge of sliding around every corner. Despite the powers of Gore-Tex, you eventually get wet… and cold… somewhere… somehow.

After Sarajevo we decided to head further East into the Balkans. But the forecast was showing rain — everywhere — so we did a short ride over the border into Serbia and found a small apartment (most importantly with a garage) on booking.com. We contacted the host on WhatsApp and he gave us the codes to get in and asked for us to leave €20 on the table before we left. We never met him. Perhaps spending too long in cities like London has made me, rightly or wrongly, overly skeptical of humans. But, especially in the more eastern parts of Europe, I can’t believe the levels of trust, warmth, and generosity we’ve been experiencing.

We arrived early afternoon and within minutes the storm raged. One of those downpours with flashes of lightening that you can just sit and watch for hours. So that's exactly what we did, with food, local beers (60p each…), and music. Loved every minute.

The next day the clouds parted for a few hours and we rode into Belgrade. It was like the exact opposite of Venice… no tourists, brutalist architecture, and fittingly dark weather. I instantly loved the vibe. That evening we ate Cevapi (bread with sausages and clotted cream) before watching Red Star Belgrade play football. I’ve only seen two professional football games before, but this was something I wasn’t expecting. It was 300-ish men (the rest of the stadium empty) chanting to one fan acting as a conductor and another banging a drum. They weren’t even watching the game. Seriously, when their own team scored they didn’t stop to celebrate. Ironically, we were more interested in the fans than the game! We felt a bit unsafe (we were told not to sit in the North stand; advice I decided to ignore) so left at half time. It was a great night.

The rain was still going the next day but we decided to leave the city and keep venturing East. A small break in the clouds mid-morning and we headed out, only for the rain to start laughing in our face within fifteen minutes. It was a brutal hour but we got it done, arriving to a hostel on the edge of the Danube river. We were lucky again to have the place to ourselves, so cooked some dinner and watched the rain bounce off the river with more 60p beers, whilst deciding which country to visit next.

We decided on Romania because the motorcycle community raved about two roads: the Transalpina and the Transfăgărășan. Against our luck, we got there after two day’s riding and learnt that both roads were shut because it was snowing (perhaps not luck but instead naivety considering we knew about the “rain — everywhere” situation). So we spent our second and final night in Romania in a hostel in a tiny town wearing every piece of clothing we had with us. But it was worth it just for the ride back down the mountain and further South the next day.

That night we camped about 20km across the border into Bulgaria. It was our favourite campsite yet. An open field on a hill with little huts dotted around for the kitchen, toilets, and areas to hang out. You could sense the owner’s kindness and peacefulness despite us not be able to speak the same language (where we are now a lot of people seem to speak Russian or Turkish as their second language). The sun was back and it felt good to be sweating again. We initiated our camping setup assembly line (secure bike –> make tent –> blow up sleeping mats –> unpack sleeping bags –> …), which we’re getting pretty good at, and were asleep by 9pm.

The next day we drove all through Bulgaria — probably missing dozens of “Must See Places in Bulgaria” along the way — and arrived at our next campsite (another campgarden) at about 5pm. We were shattered but luck was on our side this time. Just as we were about to initiate the aforementioned assembly line, the owner said he had a spare room in his house if we wanted to use it, for no extra charge. We immediately said yes as “rain — everywhere” hadn’t finished yet. We woke at 5.30am the next day, I went to do some pull-ups in a children’s play area I found in the local village (the locals looked very confused), and we were on the road towards the next border before 8am.

One month and one day and Europe is now done.

Next stop: Where the sun rises.

5 days and 886km (Total: 25 days and 4,985km)

We left Italy and passed into the Balkans, travelling East along the southern border of Slovenia. We’ve been graced with full sun for a week now, keeping us warm and the scenery magnificent. The riding is addictive — I find myself asking the question “are we there yet?” but for the opposite reason a child would: I don’t want it to end.

When we set off each morning, we usually know where we plan to finish the day, having found accommodation the night before. Often cheating booking.com by finding a B&B, campsite or hostel and getting in touch directly on WhatsApp and negotiating a good price for the next day.

This is how we found Frankovič B&B and the exceptionally kind owner, Andrej. He greeted us on Google Translate and gave us a shot of homemade plum brandy before reversing his BMW out of his own garage and telling us to park our bike there instead. As it was Labour Day, most restaurants and supermarkets were closed, so he gave us a couple of beers and an hour later drove us to a restaurant 6km away. We filled up on omelettes, bread, and some local bean dish before walking back to Frankovič and our single beds (my favourite) happy and content.

The next day we rode the horizontal length of Croatia. After a 5-6 hour journey we treated ourselves to a cute Airbnb owned by a Croat who had visited Jersey, as well as dozens of other places in the UK which he detailed one-by-one, clearly not too aware of the fact we were sweating in our riding gear and ready to rest (I couldn’t understand his accent so was nodding my head as if I knew all the small towns he was talking about). Nonetheless plenty of relaxation came the next day, whilst also planning our rough path through the Balkans. Serbia? Romania? Hungary? Bulgaria?

After making the decision the night before leaving, we pulled out of Stara Kapela the next day and headed South (and East just a little) into Bosnia & Herzegovina.

Crossing the border was relatively smooth. Just bike registrations documents and our passports. No questions about where we were going and when we’d be leaving the country. Within minutes of leaving the border we knew we were in a country with fresh remnants or even live political divisions, with different flags being flown outside the houses as we rode south towards the capital, Sarajevo.

Sarajevo instantly blew us away. Riding down into the valley and it feels like you’re entering a small city oasis with snow-capped mountains in the background. The houses are relatively small but beautifully simple in design. You get the sense that no one is trying to make a statement of wealth or status — they’re just living. You also have churches and mosques within 100m of each other, which is why it’s known as the Jerusalem of Europe.

The next day we woke to the call to prayer and had coffee on our tiny balcony as the sun came up.

We did a two-hour free walking tour which was brilliant. Sarajevo’s involvement in both world wars and the more recent Bosnian War was so fascinating to learn about. Our guide was clearly trained in how to talk about it all as there are still opposing beliefs and opinions throughout the region part of the previous Yugoslavia.

That evening we walked past a small cafe with the woman cleaning dishes and finishing for the day. Serendipitously she had two plates of chicken and potatoes left, which we bought along with two pieces of burek (like a pastry/pie with a variety of fillings) for €10.

The final morning we left Sarajevo over-caffeinated after my attempt to make Turkish coffee but happier than ever. The trip keeps getting better.

Next stop: 3 o’clock.

6 days and 1,247km (Total: 20 days and 4,099km)

We’re almost three weeks into our trip from Jersey to Japan and we’re starting to find our groove. The motorbike is our vehicle to see the world and the “seeing” mostly comes from when we’re off the bike in the evenings, mornings, and stops throughout the day. When we’re on the bike it’s either a sensory overdose from beautiful sights, the lovely sound of birds (or the Africa Twin in 6th gear), and the feeling of twisty roads, or relatively uninteresting towns with the constant stop-and-start of traffic lights and roundabouts.

Our days start with coffee and breakfast, before packing up the bike, and hitting the road between 9am and 10am. We have been riding 200-300km per day (4-5 hours) and stop every hour or so for a break as the scenery or our bladders dictate. Previously our bums had a say but they are slowly making friends with the saddle. The evenings usually involve a local beer and some cheap but satisfying food.

We have now finished 13 days in Italy. Since Rome we have done another 6 days including day trips to Naples and Venice (I’m not sure why we don’t just call by their actual names, Napoli and Venezia?). Naples was not what I was expecting. Instead of a chic Mediterranean city like Monaco, we arrived to a sprawling chaos throughout unclean streets. Basically, it was more of a big city than I was expecting. The highlight was going to Museo e Real Bosco di Capodimonte and finding a random pianist playing Beethoven in an almost empty room the size of a school gym. (Maybe he wasn’t random…)

Venice, on the contrary, was just as surreal as it is in the post cards. I really think it might be the most beautiful city I’ve ever seen. We walked around all day, probably crossing 30 of the 438 bridges, and finished the day with an aperol spritz next to a guy lighting Candles and dripping the red wax over uncooked pasta which he claimed to represent Trump Tower. I would spend another €4 on the spritz but not his artwork. We finished the day with our third and final pizza in Italy, sitting next to a small river in Treviso and watching the world go by. Perfection.

However the most potent memories came from outside the cities.

On our first night between Naples and Venice we stayed in the countryside home of a Kyrgyz woman called Tatiana who had been living in Italy for 23 years. We had a room in her house with no other guests so basically had the place to ourselves. We cooked our own pasta ragu (tasted great to me; locals might say otherwise) and went for a walk with Tatiana and her two pugs to see the neighbour’s horses. When we arrived we couldn’t see the horses because “they are having sex”, but we lucked out because he gave us a tour of his olive farm instead! We returned happy and content.

Nutella biscuits enter the story the next evening when we found a small winery that let you pitch your tent in their vineyard for €20. We went out for dinner and found an amazing pizzeria (which we later discovered was in San Marino – another country ticked off!) and stuffed ourselves for €14. The owner kindly filled up our flask with boiling water so we could make tea in our tent when we got back. The question was: what do we have with our tea?

The title gives it away so I’ll cut to the chase. We got back to the tent and enjoyed a truly stunning moment with our tea and Nutella biscuits whilst the sun set over the winery.

The next day we woke to the sun and warmth of proper summer. We were excited to get back on the bike.

Next stop: East

7 days and 1,108km (Total: 14 days and 2,852km)

Riding through Italy is like being in the landscape of the Teletubbies. Except when you get into the cities and people are wearing leather jackets, smoking rollies, and drinking aperol spritz at 11am.

On our first night in this sleeping beauty of a country we stayed in a luxury campsite on the beachside, just past the French border. €28 for a pitch! But, fair enough, the toilets were cleaner than my own. Local folks of older generations were there in their massive camper vans having a good crack on their yearly vacations. We setup our tiny pitch in the corner and headed out for a beer and pizza before returning happy and content.

The next morning we woke to drizzle so decided to pack up and get going. Twenty minutes later – halfway through packing the tent – and it was fucking torrential rain. We didn’t know what to prioritise packing away and keeping dry… The half-deconstructed tent? Helmets? Jackets? Shoes? Gloves? Ourselves?? Nothing could be saved so we sucked it up and hit the road in the down-pour, increasingly thankful to Gore-Tex along the way.

Much planning for this trip was last-minute, so we decided to take a day off the bike and get our shit together (sim cards, tax returns,… all that fun stuff). We found a guy renting a room just north of Genoa, about four hours away. The listing said there were a lot of cats and that’s enough to convince us. We arrived to a little home in the middle of nowhere with a fireplace, a tiny kitchen, and a stunning view over endless hills in their peak spring flourishings. I even did a bit of bike maintenance whist there – tightening the odd bolt, cleaning the mirrors, even lubing the chain. Bear Grills might now have a morsel of respect.

After a beautiful day’s rest we rode into Bologna and stopped for a coffee before walking around sweating in our riding gear (my new workout routine). Our “campsite” that night was a guy called Pietro renting out his garden for €20 per night. He cooked us pasta and gave us a glass of wine. Met a German couple who looked madly in love and pitched our tent next to the unmaintained pool now full of frogs.

The next day was a very long one. Too long. We rode two hours into Florence and explored the city, fitting squarely in with the droves of tourists with our riding gear and my camera dangling from my wrist. Our campsite/garden that night was three hours away. As K was humming along, on our right was infinite blue skies (“life is great” feelings) and on our left was ungodly deep grey clouds about to burst (“holy fuck” feelings). The next direction on Google Maps? 90 degrees left…

Soon, rain drops the size of acorns were hammering down on our helmets and, to add to the scene, the road had smoke coming off it as the rain evaporated from the tarmac. We pushed through and got to our next campgarden. The grass was drenched and the woman came down to greet us in a full umbrella poncho — she looked like the fucking grim reaper. We looked at each other and we both knew this wasn’t what the trip was about so decided we’d go somewhere else.

A quick Booking.com search and there was a place fifteen minutes away that had a rating better than “passable” (we know from prior experience that those ones are total shit). The phone number wasn’t answering so we got back on K and nailed it there. We arrived to two Italian ladies who looked very surprised to see anyone, let alone two people on a motorcycle as big as the tractor the old guy was driving in the field behind them. They couldn’t speak a word of English so tried ann embarrassing mix of English, Spanish, Portuguese, and French. When I put into Google translate “is there a room available tonight?”, and they still looked confused, I realised they might just not like us. Anyway, we finally got through to the owner and managed to negotiate €50 for the night. Worth it just for this dinner setting.

They also had shelter for the bike, which I’m quickly realising the value of. €50 very well spent.

The next stop was Rome. Getting there was a five hour ride. Ninety five perfect of which through beautiful Tuscany landscape, and five percent through a strangely gothic town during an intense hail shower that I’m not even sure I believe the memory of myself. It was like watching the Teletubbies and then suddenly Sin City interrupts for ten seconds before Teletubbies continues. “Did that really happen?”. Another gold star for Gore-Tex though.

Rome the next day was a great day out. We had a coffee, I bought a new pair of running shoes, and we saw close-up Pope Francis in his coffin ready to be buried in Vatican City. That night we went to a Roman Trattoria for dinner in the suburbs and ordered a ragu and a carbonara. Massive portions. I learnt that evening that pasta dishes are typically served as “primo piatto” (first course) followed by “secondo piatto” (second course) which usually has fish or meat. It explained why the table next to us was sharing one pasta dish between five whilst we had one each to ourselves. Zero regrets.

We’re having an incredible time. Every day is a different adventure and life is being simplified to “where are we going tomorrow?”

7 days | 1,744km

Japan here we come!

The 9am ferry to St Malo was packed with young families, presumably going on their Easter holidays, whilst we’re sitting there in our full riding gear and the entire contents of our lives downstairs in the cargo.

It was the perfect ride to start the trip. About four hours down through the country lanes of France. Mostly endless fields of different shades of green with the occasional yellow rapeseed fields and other colours from the splattering of flies on our windshield (honestly, I’ve already had at least 20 flies fly straight into my eye). Intermittently you pass through beautiful little French towns that look exactly as they do in the movies except no one seems to be in there and most houses have the shutters closed. Very interested to know what’s propping up the real estate market in these areas.

The first night we stayed at a “campsite” which was actually a small farm run by a husband and wife – Florence and Jean-Luc – who let you pitch your tent, use their personal kitchen, and shit into a hole in the field. It was perfect. Setting up the tent for the first time was an experience. My last ten years of writing emails and taking zoom calls hasn’t exactly trained me like Bear Grills. We slept for over 9 hours straight. And I dreamed. I can’t remember the last time either of those things happened.

In the morning Jean-Luc was shaving his sheep. He let me into his barn to watch — I couldn’t work out if the sheep were loving it or hating it. Either way, they must have been fucking freezing afterwards. Like going from a 4-season one-piece ski outfit to naked. Whilst the sheep layered-down, we layered-up and rode six hours south towards Bergerac, where we’d be staying with our friends Marcus and Laura. It was a bloody long ride but we had the warmest and kindest welcome you could imagine. Sun, smiles, and wine. The happiness of turning our lives upside down and setting off on this trip was really kicking in.

The first day was sunny and warm.

The next day a storm was heading into the South of France, so we stayed an extra night. The concepts of hours, days and weeks are starting to take different shapes in my mind — we literally have no place to be at any specific time. This might be the only way to truly “live in the present”? It’s a new feeling I’m getting used to, but it’s a beautiful one.

After two days of delicious food, great conversation, and loads of Rummikub (<– great game, I lost many rounds), we left and travelled south east to a hostel in Ceilhes-et-Rocozels. The hostel was empty (wasn’t surprised, it was freezing) so we had the place to ourselves. Cooked some food and figured out the fastest way to get to warmth tomorrow. Montpellier.

On our final day in France we rode down through Montpellier, Nice and Monaco. It was my favourite day riding so far. Weather was stunning and it was cool riding through architecture mixes of art deco, art nouveau, neoclassic, and I’m sure many others. Monaco had a very special vibe which is probably heavily pretentious behind its layers, but who cares when the sun is out is and you’re riding past beautiful men and women on scooters in the middle of a Friday afternoon.

We got stuck in tonnes of traffic so the ride took ages. And unfortunately you can’t skip traffic when your bike is as wide as card. On that note, to finish this first post, here’s a picture of our Honda Africa Twin which we’ve named K because “Kuro” is black in Japanese and K is the name of the main character in Blade Runner 2049. And yes, the license plate is a prime number.

Next stop: Italy.