Ken's Blog

The previous night I’d noticed a small cafe bar in the centre of Dunafoldvar. Up at first light, I returned for an early morning coffee. 6.30am. About 60 pence, and it came with warm surroundings and a toilet. A chance to assess the plan for the day. I’d push hard for the Serbian border, stopping a few kilometres short of the crossing point. Fresh pizza bread from the bakery and then back to the cycle way. 7.30am.

After a few hours of fairly rapid progress south the cycle way signs melted away and I found myself on the busy route 51. At least it was going in the right direction, across a vast, flat emptiness, the headwind just bearable. There were other compensations. A roadside cafe. I was the only customer. A warming coffee. And cinnamon pancakes. I chose them partly because they sounded nice, but mostly because they were about the only item on the menu I could decode with the phrase book. There were other flavours, but I’d no idea what they were.

Soon back on the familiar Danube earthworks, frequent deep patches of fine grit and an increasingly chill headwind made for slow progress. Just keeping the bike upright was a challenge. I reached the sizeable town of Baja just after 3pm, too late now to push on to Mohacs as I’d hoped.

A few expensive looking hotels in the centre, and an information board. Someone had attached details of a guest house in Mohacs, in English. There was a phone number. No use tonight, but quickly noted for the following day. Then, a little further on, a sign for a motel on the edge of town. Worth a look while still light. If it came to nothing I could at least return and continue looking around the centre in the dark.

I quickly found the place. The owner spoke excellent German. Hardly surprising, he’d worked there for fifteen years. An en-suite room for less than the price of a dormitory bed in a German or Austrian youth hostel. I wasn’t the first long haul cyclist to stop there, a Japanese chap riding from Tokyo to Paris had come through a few months earlier.

Ich komme aus England mit fahrad – I come from England with my bike – I explained. He was insistent that I should have tea – Earl Grey – with honey and citrus. Very insistent about the vitamin C. And a pizza, ordered in for just a few pounds. I explained I had only Euros left until I went to the bank in the morning. No problem. It was. Until my new found friend explained to the delivery boy about my venture.

Sunday morning. Early. The streets of Budapest were relatively quiet. I’d decided to use one of the main arterial routes to make a quick exit south out of the city and pick up the Danube cycle way – the EuroVelo 6 – later. Lane discipline, clear hand signals and speed – I can manage about 25 miles an hour on the flat, for a few kilometres at least – that’s all I’d need, I’d be fine. I’d ridden in London for years. The cycle way was a welcome sight.

South of the capital lies is the Danube island of Csepel-sziget, tip-to-tip about thirty-five kilometres in length, about eight kilometres across at the widest point. Flat. Quite dull. Along the banks, endless rows of weekend river retreats, some substantive houses, others just wooden cabins. Mostly muddy tracks, and like the river, the cycle route seemed to meander, tedious, slowing progress considerably.

I eventually crossed to the east bank, riding along the top of the huge earth bank that protects the surrounding farmland from flooding. The town of Dunaujvaros, a few kilometres over on the other bank, appeared, silhouetted by the setting sun. Looked industrial. A couple of hours of daylight left. I decided to make for the small town of Dunafoldvar, about an hour’s ride further south. Bound to have some cheap accommodation.

Reaching Dunafoldvar as the light began to fail, I searched fruitlessly for shelter. A few Zimmer frei – room available – signs but no one around. Nothing. The motel had closed down and the floating hotel on the river had shut up shop until next year. Temperature is beginning to drop rapidly. Too dark now to safely return to the cycle route and find a spot for wild camping.

I needed to get under cover fast. An idea. The camp ground by the river had, it seemed, already closed. Deserted, the facilities locked. But the gates had been left open. Fair game. Picking a discrete spot, the tent was soon up, kit stowed, head torch extinguished. Barely 6.30pm, some chocolate, then straight into my sleeping bag to keep warm. Alarm set for sunrise.