There is an unfathomably cheap regular flight from Singapore to Athens, even when adding on the connecting flight from Vietnam, so after 36 hours of loitering at airports and flying, we arrived in Greece in the early hours. Despite airport prices, I am going nowhere and doing nothing without a coffee. The bike boxes had taken a huge battering, but inside them everything seemed in one piece. Apart from Richard’s mudguard and my saddle, which is reaching the point of total destruction. It started to rain as we put the bikes back together outside the airport, but words can’t describe how wonderful it felt to be out of the sweltering heat.

We got a few kilometres before the rain became heavy, but I’m really upbeat anyway – I’m so grateful to be cold, the scenery is lovely, I’m really looking forward to the next couple of months and to eating cheese. We took shelter in a cafe where Richard declared that, because of the weather, we might have done the wrong thing coming here. There wasn’t really anywhere nearby to bury a body, so I let it go.

The traffic was heavy and the roads narrow, but we’re heading in the direction of a major capital city from an airport, so I’m not really worried about the days ahead. We’re not staying in Athens, but on the coast within striking distance so we can complete the chores we couldn’t get done in Vietnam. First up a new saddle for me. My 17 year old leather one is in bits and almost comical. Leather saddles do require some maintenance, and I haven’t done that recently. But that’s partly because they are also not supposed to get wet at all, and between constant sweat and rain that has been impossible. I find a basic gel saddle, and I’m not looking forward to finding out what its different pressure points are in the coming days. Next up is a visit to a camping shop to get another sleeping mat, since one of them has completely de-laminated. Nominally that one is Richard’s, but now we have a new one it might become mine.

The next day we have a hilly ride and an afternoon ferry to catch, so we’re off early. I know it’s the right temperature when Richard just about needs to put a coat on. That means it’s ideal shorts and t-shirt weather for me. The sun wasn’t up yet, but there’s a wide path beside the road, so we’re able to safely make a few kilometres on that. We’re cycling right on the coast as the sun comes up, with no one else around save some fishermen. We’re making good ground, so we stop for coffee and some cheese-filled pastries, the first of many, many, many that I intend to have. As we wound our way around the coast away from Athens the traffic lessened, until there was virtually none. There were a couple of climbs, and it felt really good to attack them without turning into a puddle. This area of Greece was deserted. There were lots of half-finished buildings and abandoned businesses. It’s getting hard to tell a few years on whether this is a holdover from the pandemic or more deep-seated economic problems, but the result’s the same and it’s eerie. We’ve taken a circuitous route around Attica, but we’re not 50km from Athens as the crow flies, and everywhere is a ghost town. We passed by a few kilometres from the ruins of Sounion. We didn’t have enough time to visit, but got to at least see the Temple of Poseidon atop a hill.

We arrived at the port of Lavrio a bit tired from our first real hills for many weeks, but we now had an overnight ferry on which to recover. The enormous car ferry probably holds 1,000 people, but there were only us and about 20 others on it. That meant that the restaurant was closed, which left me reeling.

We decided on a ferry to north eastern Greece because we cycled the coast to the north of Athens last summer, and the limited time we’re allowed in the Schengen zone is precious, so we need to cut out any excess where we can.  We docked to below-freezing temperatures and sleet. I have shorts on because I’m stupid.

There’s been snow overnight, but it hasn’t settled where we are. There’s a climb out of the town of Kavala which warms us both up, and we have a beautiful day of gorgeous winter scenery. The Rhodope Mountains are at our side all day; according to Greek myth they were home to Orpheus, and my feet could do with a journey to Hades. I only have sandals as footwear, but it’s Sunday and everywhere is closed so I have to make do with a double layer of socks for the time being. It’s an amazing ride, and we stop and take more pictures than we have in months because round every corner there is a mountain view, a monastery or a picturesque river that needs recording.

We spend the night in a small village and splash out on a big dinner at a cosy little taverna with a stone floor, a fireplace and wine served in pewter jugs.

It’s got much colder as we’ve gone on, and I’ve earmarked an outdoor shop in a large town where I can get some suitable shoes. It’s not as scenic as we get further east, this part of the country is more industrial, but again much of it is deserted. We pass an enormous closed sugar factory and many other closed businesses.  We’re enjoying the cycling though, and it’s noticeable how much fitter and stronger we both are after doing this for so long. When we find that a collapsed bridge on our route means a detour with a several hundred foot climb, we think nothing of it.

On the way into town I’m flagged down by a man on a bike who seems pretty excited to talk to us, and leads us to a coffee shop where we can sit and chat. Lulzim is an Albanian who was a Sergeant in the Yugoslav wars, and has been living in Greece for the last 20 years. He has a lot to say about the state of the economy and employment in Greece, and strong opinions about issues in the UK, but we know better than to get involved in that. He invited us to his apartment to drink with him, but seemed understanding that cycling and whisky don’t go together.

We make it to the outdoor shop just before it closes, and now I’m armed with actual shoes, and Richard with some thermal gloves, we feel ready for anything.

We travel on a small road that was the main route in the area before a new motorway was built. The motorway itself looks quiet, which means the way we go is completely empty. It starts to rain heavily as we ride through a village, but there is a fortuitous shelter where we can wait it out. We get only a few kilometres on the next stint before it starts to hammer it down. We divert to hide under a bridge and comment that once again we’ve found shelter just in time, because otherwise we’re in the middle of nowhere. It’s another hour before we can move on again. And then the storm really hits. It’s impossible to see through the rain and within minutes I’ve got water squelching in the bottom of my shoes (but at least I have shoes) and we’re being blown all over the road. There’s no shelter at all, and I’m grateful when we start climbing because the effort is the only thing keeping me warm, and the roads are quickly becoming flooded, so getting to higher ground becomes imperative. Finally the rain stops, but the wind is so strong that we have to walk the bikes. I try cycling, but can’t keep on the road and get blown off and into a thorn bush. So now my waterproof coat is ripped in a couple of places.

It’s a big climb, and if not for the low clouds and rain there would probably have been some fantastic views. The downhill is horrible because we’re wet and freezing and have to be really careful in the crosswind. If the road was busy it would have been a dangerous ride, since neither of us can keep straight in the gusts.

We’re surrounded by the effects of the wildfires which swept through Greece in the summer, and in the region where most of the deaths occurred. The area is totally devastated, with whole swathes of the mountainside and olive groves all the way into the distance charred black. It’s sobering to think how frightening it would have been to be on a road like this, completely surrounded and nowhere near help.

We eventually close in on a large town, and the rain comes lashing down again, driving into our faces at end of the day, but eventually it’s over. I can’t remember the last time I was this exhausted. I’ve gone beyond the point of being able to function fully, and neither of us can properly string a sentence together. Richard tells me there’s an onion in the cupboard when he means an iron. The room we rent has a large radiator, so we can dry our clothes out, and it has a gyros place close by, so we can gorge ourselves on cheap food before turning in early.

Tomorrow we should be crossing the border to Turkey. We’ve prepared for that by buying a pack of cat treats in anticipation of the large number of strays we’ll encounter. 

There’s a bike shop in the next town, and we make the baffling decision to set off late and wait for it to open. I can’t even remember what for. The headwind is fierce and we’re barely moving. I am struggling to overtake parked cars, but I physically can’t go any faster. It takes us 5 hours to ride just 35 kilometres, and at this rate we’re not getting to Turkey before dark. Then the road swings north and out of the headwind, and we’re able to make up enough ground for Richard to worry slightly less. This border is supposed to be a nightmare – we were reading stories of 4 hour waits to cross, which is why our slow pace is such a disaster.

We have one final hill and then a straight run to the crossing. When I catch him up at the top, Richard tells me “There is something wrong with your face” which is not a diplomatic way to start a conversation. It looks like I’ve been bitten by a wasp, but it’s so cold I can’t feel anything. I’m more worried I’ll be turned away from Turkey if I look like I’ve got a communicable disease.

The queue of lorries starts several kilometres back from the border, which doesn’t bode well. It’s winter though, so it’s not busy with cars or buses, and we get waved through. In the no man’s land between the two countries, the Greeks have armoured trucks patrolling around and a load of army personnel and guards with machine guns stationed all along the bridge between the border posts. The Turks instead do their posturing with impressive entrance arches and huge modern buildings.

It’s a no-nonsense affair on the Turkish side, and with that we’re now back in what is probably my favourite country in the world.

A playlist for the ride: