On the eve of departure, there is a tension worthy of an archer. The bowstring has been taut for months, ever since the day the entry was confirmed, and this morning, at last, the arrow is released. Gubbio is still just a name on a map of Umbria, a distant point towards which everything converges. The rally beckons, and that call resonates with the deep, persistent sound of a war drum.

Two stages are planned to reach Gubbio. Not out of a love of slowness, but out of a refusal to do one specific thing: subject oneself to two days on the motorway that crush your spirit and leave you utterly drained by the time you reach your destination. So I’ve mapped out the route to minimise motorway driving and sneak in a few bends along the way. The journey itself is already the adventure!

The morning ritual takes place in contemplative silence: strapping on the gear, checking, lubricating, adjusting and inspecting the motorbike one last time. Toni (that’s my motorbike’s nickname), fully loaded and with a full tank of petrol, waits patiently. In the middle of the afternoon, a quick detour to pick up Vincent and bring him along on our ride, then Luxembourg slowly fades away behind me.

All the way to Saarbrücken, I have to put up with the monotony. That long, anthracite-coloured ribbon unfurls its endless refrain and serves up its soporific sermon. I listen with half an ear, my mind already wandering far away. Once past Saarbrücken, I leave the motorway behind.

From then on, everything changes. The Saar stretches out, and the undulating Alsace unfolds its rounded hills in the distance. The road undulates unhurriedly like a long swell on the sea. The plain is swept by a stormy breeze. The thermometer remains stuck at 31 °C, the last burst of late-summer heat.

Dabo looms before me. The rock stands there, defiant, with its Saint-Léon Chapel perched precariously above the treetops, like a sentinel who has chosen his post with a keen eye for the dramatic. The road finally begins to wind properly. Hairpin bends, braking points, acceleration: the driver comes to life, the car responds, and the kilometres cease to matter. A handful of sharp bends carved out of a day’s drive may seem like little, but that is precisely the point of this little detour.

The descent towards the plain is a slow exhalation. The mountains give way, the forest thins out, and, suddenly, Alsace reveals itself. Alsace is a string of half-timbered houses, wrought-iron signs, geraniums spilling from balconies – a scene straight out of a model railway, but life-size! Not to mention the foothills fringed with vineyards and their rows, laid out as straight as a string, climbing up the slopes. Like the gesture of a sower, the late-afternoon light glides over the vines and bathes the landscape in a russet gold.

I arrive in Kientzheim, nestled within its ramparts, at the foot of the Schlossberg. The village is like a miniature: its low gate, its mischievous Lalli statue that has been sticking its tongue out at besiegers for centuries, its castle home to the Brotherhood of Saint Stephen. Three hundred metres of narrow streets and eight centuries of patience gaze back at you.

The evening follows its usual routine: checking the motorbike, a shower, rest, and a writing session. A good meal rounds off the day’s journey. A fitting reward for a day that, though it bore only the modest title of ‘transition’, has nevertheless celebrated the start of the holidays in fine style. Tomorrow, the second stage, and Gubbio will be one step closer.

Six mountain passes are on the day’s itinerary: Susten (2,224 m), Grimsel (2,164 m), Furka (2,431 m), Gotthard (2,107 m), San Bernardino (2,066 m) and the ‘Splügen Pass’ (2,113 m). Some stages are to be savoured; this one is to be devoured.

This day is, above all, a time for sharing, and for me, it brings a touch of nostalgia.

Back in 2003, on my first proper road trip far from home, my first major mountain pass in the Alps on a motorbike was the ‘Splügen Pass’. Three years later, in July 2006 (twenty years ago already!), I wanted to share the thrill of the region’s mountain passes with my friend Jacques. We set off from Locarno and ended up in Levico; over 500 kilometres of mountain roads. We tackled nine major mountain passes in the region: the San Bernardino, the Passo dello Spluga (Splügen Pass), the Passo del Maloja, the Passo del Bernina, the Passo del Livigno, the Passo del Fuorn, the Passo dello Stelvio, the Passo del Gavia and the Passo del Tonale. Let’s face it, it was a different era when we were as sharp as katana blades.

That epic day was etched deeply into our memories, as much for its sheer grandeur as for the incredible weather and the level of riding we’d displayed. In the middle of the motorcycling season, whenever we had to recount an epic motorcycling moment to our friends, it was this one that came up time and time again, year after year. But Jacques would recount this adventure tirelessly; it had clearly enchanted and left a lasting impression on him. Naturally, in his account, I always played the role of the ‘madman’ who’d lured him into this trap. Jacques also knew how to capitalise on this story to recount one of his own exploits. At the start of the Gavia Pass, taking advantage of a traffic light, we’d overtaken a horde of Germans. Clearly, this show of bravado had thoroughly annoyed them and they were out for a fight. Jacques, a quick-triggered driver and a top-class driver, pulled out all the stops – in true form – with a display of driving of rare elegance that brought those arrogant scoundrels back down to earth.

So, having conquered every Swiss road pass above 2,000 metres one by one, I mapped out the day’s route specifically for Vincent. I want to pass on to him what I’ve spent years gathering, pass after pass, and to offer him the very essence of the region. It is the simple pleasure of presenting majestic landscapes, of navigating beautiful routes with delight and of remaining silent in the face of such happiness; savouring it without expecting anything in return, without seeking out emotion or begging for approval, simply letting things sink in so that the memories can take root. As the wise man says: ‘Better to have memories than dreams!’ Sharing in this way is like sowing a seed in another person without knowing what will grow from it, and simply offering something genuine – perhaps a little reflection of oneself.

Before savouring the moments of ecstasy that await us, we must tear ourselves away from our cosy hotel. Alsace gradually flattens out and blends into a functional plain; a necessary passage on the way to Switzerland.

Our arrival in Switzerland is immediately marked by the meticulousness of the landscape: hedges trimmed to perfection, tidy woods, spotless façades; everything is orderly, immaculate and pleasing to the eye. Even the grazing cows exude a professional seriousness. I pass Lucerne, nestled on the lake. The road follows the lake’s banks pleasantly. The cliffs that plunge steeply into the water are impressive and lend a sense of solemnity to the surroundings.

Once past Lucerne, I climb into the Meiental. The landscape changes in character. Granite appears, in its bluish-grey hue, polished and immense. The larch trees thin out, short grass takes over, and the Susten takes me up to 2,224 metres. The road is elegant, no doubt designed by engineers who must have been something of a poet or artist. At the summit, the Stein Glacier gazes down with a cold stare. The air is crisp, sharp and invigorating.

The descent towards Innertkirchen unfolds in endless hairpin bends. No sooner have I reached the valley floor than I must already climb back up towards the Grimsel. Here, everything becomes mineral. The mountain strips itself bare, shedding its colour; the soft green of the meadows fades away. All that remains is bare rock, polished by ancient glaciers, and turquoise, milky water, held back by a few dams. It is an austere, uncompromising landscape, yet a strange alchemy oscillates between the sublime and the hostile. Here, nature politely reminds us of our mortal nature.

Next comes the climb up the Furka, the highest point of the stage at 2,431 metres. The bends follow one after another, seemingly endlessly. A must-see is the Belvédère bend, home to the legendary hotel that still seems to vibrate with the memory of James Bond’s visit in *Goldfinger*. Every stone seems to hold the echo of his Aston Martin. At the top of the pass, the view opens up 360° onto a world of stone and snow. Here, we no longer simply drive; we savour the moment, we admire the scenery, we are humbled.

The descent towards Bellinzona allows me to tackle the Gotthard and the San Bernardino in quick succession, via the old road, and enables me to give Chur a wide berth. I love Switzerland, my bank and my bank manager, but I steer clear of Chur as a precaution. Ever since my return from Albania in 2024, the place has left me with a bitter memory. The story of a ‘cop’ in an unmarked car who allegedly caught me red-handed crossing a ‘zebra’ (road marking). This offence, which apparently constitutes a serious crime here, cost me – brace yourselves – a mere €1,000 fine! Let’s put aside the culture of snitching that lurks here and press on cautiously.

The ‘Splügen Pass’ skilfully winds its way up through a rugged, dry and barren landscape to 2,113 metres. As we crest the pass, everything changes in an instant: the Italian ‘tornanti’ cascade downwards, the chestnut trees rise to meet the road, the air warms and fills with fragrance, and la dolce vita invites us to dance. A brief stop at the foot of the ‘Splügen Pass’. I look at Vincent without saying a word and see his blue eyes sparkling with childlike joy. At last, Lake Como comes into view, stretching out between its steep slopes, then comes Colico, where I stop for the night.

Six major mountain passes, nearly 600 kilometres covered. The landscapes jostle for space in my mind, refusing to settle. There remains this feeling of a confused exhilaration, the slight dizziness of someone who’s drunk straight from the barrel rather than from a glass. Tomorrow, Gubbio!

This day has offered me just about everything a motorcyclist can endure and savour in a single day. The morning is a gift. After yesterday’s feast, it’s like rediscovering a little treat. A playful chocolate truffle that had slipped away and returned to wish me a good day. This little treat is called the Passo San Marco. The pass rises to 1,992 metres. The hairpin bends follow one after the other in perfect succession; the air is still crisp – everything to wake the rider up. The descent into the Val Brembana and its famous San Pellegrino springs unfolds like a ribbon. The oncoming traffic is staggering; waves of motorcyclists file past without interruption.

Then comes the Po Valley, which engulfs me, body and soul. This is where the ordeal begins, that long purgatory where, all day long, you find yourself faced with an impossible choice: find the back road that avoids the endless roundabouts and winds its way through the fields, or endure the motorway, which is stifling in this 32 °C heat. Futile musings in search of a saving alternative: it doesn’t exist! In the end, one must bow to boredom and press on come what may. The names of the towns roll by: Cremona, Parma, Modena… I plod along like a robot in the stifling air, which burns my cheekbones and dries out my lips.

To reach Gubbio, I decide to turn off at Bologna and head down towards Florence. The reward comes on the descent towards Florence, when the city suddenly reveals itself, nestled in its magnificent basin with its dome at the centre. Two seconds of bliss stolen from a day’s toil. Crossing Florence, however, is an ordeal: the air is stifling, the tarmac radiates heat like an oven, and my helmet becomes a sauna. And then, at last, Chianti, the Valdarno, Arezzo, Umbria. The Tuscan light softens the day’s rigours; it gilds the hills, stretches the cypress trees, caresses the meadows. A visual reward, full of grace, which soothes the soul. After three days on the road and 1,452 kilometres, we reach Gubbio: the adventure can begin!

Gubbio, clinging to the hillside, immediately casts its spell. The Umbrians were here before Rome. The Eugubine Tables – seven bronze plaques inscribed in a dead language – bear witness to this. Rome has also left its mark, including the theatre that still stands at the foot of the town. Once you’ve crossed the vast square at the bottom of the town, a maze of narrow, steep alleyways welcomes you. The stones bear centuries of history. Within these limestone walls, one can sense all the stories they have absorbed: the lives of the people who have passed through here, the seasons that have slipped by tirelessly. Souls probably linger within these soothing stones. A sense of serenity comes naturally, without you really having to seek it out. Gubbio is beautiful.

The rally formalities are sorted with ease. Toni is given a lovely pair of brand-new tyres. Above all, it’s a time to catch up with old campaign mates. We exchange smiles, and a string of heartfelt hugs follows. There’s a real sense of camaraderie and brotherhood; everyone gets on easily with one another. The stars, ambassadors and KTM riders are all present and approachable. A knowing wink from Chris Birch is a nice touch. I had the privilege of riding with him for a whole morning in Portugal. It feels like being reunited with a big family. The afternoon will be spent resting, and things will really get underway with the group photo at 6 pm.

Wake-up at 6.00 am! Yes, I know, I’m on holiday! The festivities are due to start at 7.30 am. Breakfast is quickly tucked away. Wearing my number 96, full of enthusiasm but a touch nervous, I join my team. The usual briefing, and off we go. As usual, I settle in at the back of the group to watch and ride at my own pace. The start is a gentle warm-up, then some descents require careful handling to avoid any unwanted somersaults. Everything goes well during these first two hours.

Then comes a faster section. The riders kick up a cloud of dust. The motorbike in front of me engulfs me in this opaque haze. It’s getting tricky to stay on course. Looking into the distance is of little use: I can’t see a thing. No matter how much I tell myself to leave some space between me and the rider in front, I end up right on his tail. Of course, the inevitable happened: as I rounded a hidden rutted section, my front wheel veered off to the right, the rear wheel decided to go its own way, and the inevitable tumble ensued. Nothing too serious. I’m blocking the only narrow passage and causing a bit of a hold-up whilst I pick up my motorbike. A mate gives me a quick hand and everything’s back to normal. Still, I feel a twinge in my left hip – nothing to worry about.

As the morning progresses, the challenges keep coming. I’m in my stride, both technically and physically. The track leads onto a fast, gravelly track. It’s an environment where I feel confident, where I can make the most of my build. The pace is good. I’m sandwiched between two competitors and the way is clear ahead of me. On a lovely left-hand bend that narrows, through a moment of carelessness, I don’t put enough weight on my front wheel and do a magnificent 180°. It had been years since I’d taken a proper tumble like that. The most frustrating thing is that if I’d been doing somersaults in technical sections, I could have blamed it on my lack of experience, but in this case, everything was fine. My left hip acted as a shock absorber, despite the padding in my trousers. My body immediately reminded me that it doesn’t appreciate my antics. Naturally, the motorbike was coming out of the bend, and other riders were approaching at speed, narrowly avoiding me. After securing the track, my Irish colleague helps me back onto the motorbike. As I do so, I can tell it’s not looking good. I catch up with the group. Nina, our leader, gives me a fruit purée to quickly top up my blood sugar and recover. A few quick minutes pass and we set off again. Fortunately, I make the most of a stretch of road to get my thoughts in order. I check the route and tell Nina that I’m heading to the chemist’s in the nearest village.

The chemist is incredibly helpful. I quickly explain my ordeal to her. She probably recognises my state from my dejected expression. Without a prescription, she gives me the ‘magic box’ to relieve my aches and pains. After taking the medicine and giving myself a thorough self-massage of my hip with anti-inflammatory gel in the village car park, I rejoin the group at 1 pm at the refreshment stop. It’s a cruel dilemma: carry on with the adventure at the risk of a relapse and bringing my holiday to a definitive end, or call it a day and see how I feel tomorrow. Common sense tells me to head straight back to the hotel via the back roads.

I’m not in too much pain; the medication seems to be working. I notice that my hip mobility is restricted and that the small bumps on the road are causing me some discomfort. Nevertheless, I’m enjoying the beauty of the countryside, which reminds me so much of my native Ariège. This brings me some unexpected comfort.

On arriving in Gubbio, I hand in my transponder at the paddock and pop into the medical centre. Nothing’s broken or dislocated, but a huge, rather painful bruise is forming on my hip. I’m walking more and more like a duck. I make the most of my hotel’s facilities to have a hydro-massage, stretch out in the pool and get some sleep to recover. The evening spent with the ‘orange colony’ and Vincent quickly makes me forget the day’s ups and downs.

On the 9th, when I wake up, the verdict is clear: there’s no point in even thinking about completing the planned route. I pull out of the race. I hop on the motorbike to pop round to the midday refreshment stop and do some sightseeing between Umbria and the Marche. The scenery is absolutely stunning. In the evening, I stay at the hotel and give the usual festivities a miss.

The next day, even though I’m feeling better and might be ready to have a go at riding, it’s pouring with rain and thunder is rumbling. There’s no point in trying out any new stunts in the mud. Given the conditions, the organiser informs us that certain sections of the track are closed, muddy, slippery and dangerous: a detour is mandatory. I have no regrets and make the most of the day to visit Gubbio and recharge my batteries ahead of my trip to Croatia and Bosnia.

The morning passes peacefully: final goodbyes, last words, final smiles as we look forward to next year and Albania, from 4 to 8 October 2027. I’m in no hurry; I let time slip by and enjoy the tranquillity of the hotel. I choose the most winding roads between Gubbio and Ancona, where I’m due to board the ferry at around 5.30 pm for a scheduled departure at 7.30 pm.

Between the rugged hills of Umbria and the gentle slopes of the Marche, the road winds its way through varied and marvellous hills. The villages, with their honey-coloured façades clinging to the hillside, seem to watch over the valleys where the light settles delicately, as if upon velvety felt. As I drive on, the colours grow bolder: the ochre flares up, the brown becomes vivid, and every bend improvises a new symphony of colour. Then suddenly, round a bend in the road, the sea appears—slender, straight, almost defiant—a streak of indigo drawn far off on the horizon.

A few final, little-known roads and here I am in Ancona. I’m familiar with the place. Nevertheless, finding the ‘check-in’ takes me a couple of attempts. The rest is a smooth process: waiting, loading the motorbike into the ship’s hold and settling into my cabin.

I love ferries, because there are no more decisions to make, no more maps to consult, no more routes to navigate. You just have to go with the flow. Around me, the motley mix of passengers paints a picture that is always a delight: lorry drivers; families who have taken over three rows of seats with military precision; the regulars with their set routines; the silent elderly couples; the motorcyclists, recognisable by their stiff gait and sweat-slicked hair. So many parallel stories that wash up here and collide. The ferry’s gift is to take you out of time and away from the norm. The hours no longer matter, the journey is no longer a journey; there is only the water and time passing by, and the approaching evening. I lean on the railing, my skin finally cool, watching the ballet of lorries in the harbour, the bustle of the town, and marvelling at the sky ablaze before a new dawn.

Having travelled by ferry frequently, I know that disembarkations often have an electric atmosphere. The passengers’ eagerness to get back onto dry land is palpable, and the crew are busy cleaning everything ready for the next crossing. Today, no one is banging on my door at an ungodly hour, nor are there any thunderous announcements over the cabin loudspeaker: everything seems peaceful, or perhaps I simply didn’t hear anything, which I cannot rule out. I emerge from a deep sleep, lulled all night by the rocking motion and the purr of the engines. I wake up peacefully and notice that the boat is already docked in Split. I get dressed quickly, head over to the motorbike, wait no more than five minutes to meet up with my Toni, load up, and by 7.30 am I’m already on the coastal road. An incredible pace, devoid of any hustle and bustle.

I decide to drop my luggage off at the hotel, which is in Medići, just under forty kilometres south of Split. The coastal road, which I’d already travelled along, is marvellous. Travelling north to south seems to me the best way to make the most of it, as the sea is on my right. I’m enjoying the shades of turquoise, the range of greens and blues that the Adriatic offers me. This Croatian coastline makes me feel as though I’ve been on holiday for weeks. There’s a late-summer feel to the air on this mid-September weekend, which adds a touch of gentleness and nonchalance.

I drop off my luggage and make the most of the friendly atmosphere at my hotel to have breakfast overlooking the sea. The transition is abrupt. I’ve only just left the land of rallying—the authentic regions of Umbria and the Marche—and now the road suddenly smells of sun cream. I leave behind the land of calloused hands and dusty boots that fear no mud, to enter a place where the sea is greeted with selfies, good manners and a touch of coquetry.

I am amused by the cloying spectacle unfolding before me on this stretch of cove. The mass selfie—that little private ritual to present the world with a perfectly framed, clean, filtered face, stripped of anything that might resemble a thought. A farce in which one becomes the tormentor of one’s own face, torturing it until it conforms, becomes smooth and presentable to the dogmas. An altar of self-idolatry, a temple of studied poses, frozen smiles and poorly lit grimaces; a cult where the individual is both the officiant and the congregation. A grand vanity fair, a display of pixels where everyone strides forward with outstretched arms, a grotesque penitent brandishing their own effigy! What matters is to appear, to show oneself, even before having truly experienced the moment.

There, this stretch of sea, cradled by the shade of an umbrella pine, has no time for this farce. It calls out, it humbly begs us to soak up the moment. I hope that the poetry of the place will eventually awaken within them.

Whilst I wait for my accommodation to be ready, I’m off to Omiš to give Toni a wash and have a drink on a terrace. I take the road that winds through the hills, and I find myself overtaken by a double sense of desolation. The first comes from the thick plume of smoke rising from the fire raging on the island of Brač, on the other side of the strait. All day long and into the night, the fire devoured the hillside like a ravenous beast, scorching the scrubland, swallowing the pine trees, leaving nothing but ashes. As night fell, the glow of the flames continued to colour the sky a sinister purple. I feel like a Roman foot soldier, desperate, watching Rome burn.

The second source of desolation is the tragedy that unfolded here four weeks ago. From the village where I live all the way to Omiš, the fire has scarred the mountain. Fire destroys, of course, but above all it brings grief: it strips away colour, it takes away the sounds of life—the rustling of leaves on the ground—and it tarnishes the charm of the place. The scents of pine and scrubland have vanished along with the soot, leaving an acrid, pungent odour that lingers in the air. What a sad sight these charred, piled-up car wrecks make, these severed pine trees, this blackened earth, stripped bare down to the rock. The hill is now draped in a black that no widow would dare to wear.

I mentioned in the introduction that these three days in Croatia would wash away the accumulated fatigue. I could not have been more right. The programme is so demanding that it commands respect: a deliberate sedentary lifestyle, compulsory siestas, a focus on fine dining, sampling local beverages, splashing about in the sea and rest. I shall have to impose upon myself impeccable discipline; no concessions, deviations or digressions shall be made from this regime, which already promises to be gruelling!

I quickly leave the coastal road – as beautiful as ever – and head up the Cetina Gorge. Within a few kilometres, Dalmatia’s picture-postcard landscapes give way to a dry, stony, almost desert-like hinterland. There are no tourists here, villages are few and far between, the vegetation is stunted, and dry stone walls criss-cross the moorland.

I pass through the Kamensko border post. The formalities are dealt with quickly and Bosnia suddenly opens up into a vast expanse that nothing had foreshadowed: the great Livno plateau, its endless polje, its flat horizon, ringed by blue mountains. Lake Buško lies there, enormous, resting on this steppe as if by mistake. It spreads out its blue waters; they ripple beneath a wind that seems never to stop. Not a tree, not a shadow: I am surrounded by a light that overwhelms everything. It is a landscape at the end of the world, austere and magnificent, where I feel both tiny and perfectly at home.

I head south. Limestone is everywhere – grey, pitted, gouged out – typical of a karst landscape; the hills are nothing more than rocky skeletons that the scrub struggles to cover. Between Posušje and Grude, I pass through cultivated valleys: tobacco, vines and a few fig trees. The altitude drops gradually, the earth turns red, and the temperature soars above 30 °C.

I’d been hoping to see the Kravica Falls, which plunge some thirty metres in a wide, generous curtain of water. The place is cordoned off: car park, compulsory ticket, souvenir sellers – it’s all very touristy. I turn back, thoroughly put off!

Počitelj looms before me, clinging to the hillside for five centuries: the fortress at the top, the white minaret in the middle, and its Ottoman houses cascading down to the riverbank. Further on, Stolac offers a green respite, with mills, gardens and the stećci of Radimlja – those massive medieval tombs set in the grass, with their engraved silhouettes that greet you with a raised arm. The façades of some houses still bear the scars of war, and even thirty years on, names like Srebrenica come back to me with a sense of sadness.

I arrive in Blagaj, at the foot of a vertical cliff two hundred metres high. Here, the Buna literally gushes from the rock. The entire river bursts from the mountain in a powerful, turquoise jet. Nestled against this cliff face is the tekija, a dervish monastery (a Sufi Muslim religious establishment), which has stood there since the 16th century.

As well as its sumptuous landscapes and change of scenery, the Bosnian road sometimes holds some striking surprises. We’re all familiar with grooving – those longitudinal grooves cut into the road before it’s ‘resurfaced’. The Bosnians take it a step further! They carve out a groove that’s part rut, part tram track. The effect on bends is spectacular: the motorbike dives into it, gets sucked in, bounces and carves its own path. Fortunately, Toni, with his knobbly tyres and superb suspension, swallows these obstacles without batting an eyelid. I can easily imagine the beads of sweat and fear trickling down the face of a young biker left to tackle this. Add rain and darkness to the mix, and it must be a thoroughly thrilling experience!

A few more kilometres and I arrive in Mostar, dotted with minarets and church spires, where I’ll be staying for two days. The most unsettling thing is this feeling that has been with me from the Kamensko border right up to the outskirts of the city: along this strip of land, Bosnian identity seems confused, almost in the background. The influence of Christianity is more pronounced here, and Croatian flags are flying everywhere. This day has not only been a superb carousel of landscapes; it has also been a kaleidoscope where geology and culture intermingle. The faiths that intertwine here like the threads of a tapestry always bring to mind the same image: that of the tightrope walker who, however highly trained, is never safe from a sudden jolt. This country knows the price it pays.

This morning, I had just one simple desire: to go for a leisurely ride around Durmitor, on the border with Montenegro. Nothing could have foreshadowed the mind-blowing 367-kilometre ride along mountain roads and bends offering exquisite views.

The day begins with the climb up to Nevesinje, a place I’m now familiar with: limestone everywhere, and that plateau opening out onto the horizon. Then the road races on towards Gacko and its enormous power station, which devours the lignite from the surrounding mountains and leaves nothing but huge, gaping holes in its wake. I take the opportunity to stop off in the town and sip a coffee on a terrace. What strikes me here is the stature of the women: they walk upright, tall, and exude a generous beauty. It’s said that the Dinaric people are among the tallest in Europe. Sitting at this terrace, I’m quite willing to believe it!

Once past Gacko, the landscape changes completely. I’m cycling at an altitude of a thousand metres across grassy plateaus unbroken by anything: no hedges, no fences, no trees – just short grass and herds of livestock. Villages are few and far between, traffic is sparse, and there’s this ceaseless wind that sweeps across everything.

On the descent towards Sutjeska, the forest reasserts itself: a true primary forest, dense and deep green. Then Brod, and the Drina with its flowing green waters. The climb up the Bistrica, with its succession of narrow gorges, bridges and hairpin bends, is in itself worthy of praise for the day.

Then comes the moment I wasn’t expecting. After this whole journey, after the Alpine passes – the Grimsel with its polished rock, the Furka at 2,431 m, the Susten with its masterful architecture, and the Splügen Pass with its technical challenges – I thought my treasure chest of wonders was already full. The stretch between Gračanica and Odžaci has turned everything on its head. The road climbs up onto the Bjelašnica plateau and deposits me in an unsuspected world: a vast, pastoral expanse, silent and unadorned, where the Rakitnica canyon suddenly opens up at my feet. At the pass, at 1,623 metres, I stop. I switch off the engine. There is nothing to say, nothing to photograph that would do it justice, nothing else to do but stay there. A raw emotion, the sort I hadn’t felt in ages – the kind that grips you in the gut, and which neither the Alps nor anything else on this trip had ever given me with such intensity. Over those few kilometres, I found myself exclaiming “wow” and “it’s incredibly beautiful” dozens of times.

Filled with wonder, I stopped on a whim at a grocery shop that must have been there back in the days of Yugoslavia, just like its owner. The shop was simplicity taken to the extreme: a table to the left of the door where two women were chatting, an awning to provide shelter from the scorching sun, a display fridge outside for chilled drinks, and inside, goods laid out directly on the floor or arranged on wooden shelves. Just the bare essentials, nothing more. I opt for a banana, a Coke and a bottle of water. The lot will set me back €2.50, five convertible marks (Bosnian currency)!

The descent towards Glavatičevo completes the journey. The Neretva flows through a strikingly beautiful emerald green landscape. Then Konjic, Jablanica, the lake, and the canyon winding its way down towards Mostar between its limestone walls. This road is objectively beautiful, I’ll grant you, but this evening it struck me as bland. Almost mundane. Such is the formidable effect of being immersed in beauty and extreme emotion: it spoils the ordinary beauty that comes afterwards. I return to Mostar with the feeling of having experienced a rare emotion – that of being overwhelmed by beauty and swept away, without knowing how to put the moment into words.

The start of my ‘remontada’; I leave Mostar via the west, heading towards Široki Brijeg. At Rakitno, everything changes: the road becomes secluded, one of those routes that nobody uses – narrow, winding, and the sort I’m so fond of. This road, like a poetic arabesque, leads me towards Blidinje Nature Park.

Lake Blidinje, at an altitude of some 900 metres, lies nestled at the heart of its high plateau. A touch of emerald, surrounded by peaks rising to over 2,000 metres. The beauty here is raw, simple and sumptuous. My gaze turns to the ridge: a plume of smoke rises vertically, enormous, white and grey, with the ponderous slowness of a volcano awakening. The mountain is burning somewhere out there. The contrast is striking between the tranquil water in the foreground and this disaster in the background of the panorama, rising into the blue sky.

My journey continues towards Drvar. The world shifts in scale once more. The poljes follow one after another, immense, flat, stretching to the horizon. A succession of plains perched at an altitude of 800–900 metres, surrounded by hills. Before Bosansko Grahovo, the expanse is so vast that it becomes almost unreal. On this plateau, this fallow land is just waiting to be cultivated. I find myself dreaming: of mechanising the cultivation of wheat or buckwheat across such a vast expanse. A magnificent project, at once technically thrilling, socially beneficial and certainly lucrative. The country has everything it needs for this: space, water, soil and sunshine. What it probably lacks are visionary investors.

The kilometres fly by and I am stunned by the number of abandoned, burnt-out, gutted houses, their roofs collapsed onto blackened walls, their façades riddled with impact marks that thirty years have failed to erase. Entire hamlets, empty. Some are now nothing more than rows of ruins. The war emptied this land, and it has never been repopulated.

The descent towards Martin Brod brings the landscape back to life. I cross an old bridge with a wooden deck, one I wouldn’t dare drive a lorry across. The Una reveals itself in tiered cascades, like so many tiers of water. It glides along its bed through a luminous green landscape of stunning purity.

The day is drawing to a close. The weather is looking threatening. I hope to avoid an early downpour. A few minutes after I arrive at my hotel not far from Bihać, a heavy downpour breaks out. I take satisfaction in having won my race against the weather by a narrow margin!

The journey out of Bosnia, via Bihać and Velika Kladuša, is unlike anything I’ve experienced so far. Gone are the jagged karst landscapes, the vast polje plains and the wind-swept plateaus at a thousand metres. In this northern part of Bosnia, the houses are clustered together, the gardens are well-tended, people are farming and harvesting, and life takes on a familiar richness. Then comes the Croatian border; the formalities are dealt with quickly. The landscape sometimes reminds me of that of Romania or Central Europe. Then, at last, Slovenia. There, the green takes on a different quality: denser, deeper, more vivid. Everything is clean and orderly without being stiff. The country has an immediate calming effect, as it always has: Switzerland, but less stuffy!

This leg of the journey was by no means improvised. It was a deliberate transition, carried out efficiently and without detours, to give me three days in Slovenia. A country I consider to be the most unfairly overlooked gem in the European Union, whether in terms of tourism, wine or gastronomy. Those who have read my previous instalments will already be familiar with my enthusiasm for this country. To get things off to a good start, the itinerary was set in stone: Laško, and Pavus’s restaurant, which had left me with wonderful memories last year and was crying out for a second visit!

Last year, Hiša Franko left me at a loss. The culinary journey was extraordinary, I readily admit, but I remained impervious to Ana Roš’s vision, unable to grasp the art or the concept behind it. It was simply too much for me.

Tonight, Pavus has once again left me in awe. The restaurant is housed in Tabor Castle, built in the 13th century, on the hills above the town. Chef Marko Pavčnik has taken his craft to the next level once again, offering a perfect balance between haute cuisine and culinary genius. The chef, who rides a Ducati Multistrada, saw me arrive on my motorbike. The welcome was immediately warm. Belonging to the same brotherhood broke the ice in a matter of seconds. I told him about my visit last year and the deliberate detour I’d taken to come and treat myself once more. I had the privilege of being served his first three creations by him personally, accompanied by his own personalised explanations.

Marko champions a cuisine rooted in the local terroir and local produce, most often sourced from an organic farm or foraged in the wild. At Pavus, regional character and haute cuisine blend beautifully, held in high regard without ever becoming inaccessible to the uninitiated and, fortunately, less intellectualised than at Ana Roš’s restaurant.

This morning, the drive from Laško to Ljubljana is a gentle, smooth journey. I’m returning to Slovenia as one returns to dear friends. I wrote last year that this country knows how to charm without ever trying too hard: without excess, without grandiloquence, without ostentation. It is the mark of the artist – simple and refined, in the spirit of Le Corbusier – something that touches you in silence, penetrates you with delicacy and soothes you. Nothing has changed. The hills roll out their gentle contours towards the horizon, the shades of green echo from one hillside to the next, and the rivers flow with a purity that seems almost unreal. I cycle without tension, without haste, with the feeling that nothing can go wrong.

A gourmet stop in Velika Loka: coffee, pastries, ice cream – and everything is delicious. I stay for over an hour, savouring the food and reflecting on the morning’s scenery. Along the way, the sat-nav led me to a few unexpected ‘gravel roads’ which, like the meal the night before, added a delightful touch to my journey.

I used to say that Slovenia was a bit like Austria and Switzerland; it adds an extra touch of charm that makes it a little gem. This land is exquisite. The villages are well-kept, the meadows neatly mown, the church spires rise without pretension, the air is pure and smells of hay, the forest and mushrooms – a delight for both the eyes and the nose. That is what Slovenia is all about: cleanliness, serenity and gentleness, which intoxicate like a beloved perfume. After the dust, the gouged-out karst and the scorching mountains, Slovenia acts as a soothing balm. It calms me. I no longer push on; I let myself be carried along. Ljubljana, a capital on a human scale nestled on the banks of its river, promises me rest and the necessary transition to Luxembourg.

The weather forecast for the next three days looks favourable. To get back to Luxembourg, I’m planning to cross the Alps via the Dolomites, then let myself be carried along by the gentle Swiss countryside.

The aim for the day is to reach Cortina d’Ampezzo by late afternoon. Right from the start, I treat myself to the beautiful, leisurely Slovenian country lanes. The hours fly by and, at this pace, I begin to suspect my itinerary of being a touch over-optimistic. But as a kilometre has never been more than a thousand metres, I decide to press on. The descent along the Soča remains a delight: its water, by turns crystal-clear and turquoise, is constantly changing mood and forces you to look away from the road ahead. I finally leave Slovenia via the Passo del Predil (1,156 m) and cross into Italy.

Heading for the Dolomites. I tackle two small passes to warm up: Sella Nevea (1,190 m) and the Passo della Mauria (1,298 m). In Cortina d’Ampezzo, the temptation is too great: I throw myself into the Passo Giau (2,236 m). At the summit, the air is crystal-clear and the view is almost surreal. These dolomite cliffs soaring towards the sky are always a sensational sight. I carry on to the Passo Fedaia (2,057 m). On the descent, the driver of a 911 GT3 RS ahead of me makes his flat-six roar; the metallic sound echoes from wall to wall in this stone cathedral. A sonic spectacle of rare power. I revel in it without the slightest shame.

I push on a little further towards Bolzano and end up in Pozza di Fassa, at the foot of the cable car leading to a ski resort that is still a long way from being blanketed in snow.

As I was loading Toni up, the morning greeted me with a glorious 5 °C. What a pick-me-up! It had been a long time since I’d been treated to such a bite in the air. The sky was a uniform azure, without a single wisp of cloud. The sun climbs above the ridge and casts its coppery glow across the entire horizon. The forecast for the day is a godsend. I seize this opportunity: I’m going to climb the Stelvio (2,757 m).

The first few kilometres treat me to the Passo di Costalunga (1,759 m) as a little appetiser. The heated grips – that luxury we tend to scoff at in July – become a blessing here, one to which I surrender without a second thought.

On the stretch of motorway between Bolzano and Merano, a motorist waves to me, signalling that something is wrong at the back of the motorbike. Nothing to worry about in the rear-view mirror. Nevertheless, I pull over onto a hard shoulder. White smoke is billowing from the exhaust, and I fear the worst mechanically speaking. After the fires in Croatia and Bosnia, it’s my turn to catch fire! The cause is far more mundane: my rucksack, containing my essentials and strapped behind the panniers, had caught fire. A strap had snapped, the rucksack had slid onto the exhaust pipe, and the exhaust fumes had done their destructive work with formidable efficiency. I quickly unhooked the smouldering bundle, and my bladder did what was needed to put out the incipient fire. Luckily, the pump and the tools survived. With that minor incident over, I set off again towards Merano.

The Merano Valley is renowned for its orchards and, above all, its apple trees. The trees are bending under the weight of the ripe fruit. The harvest is in full swing. The constant stream of tractors and their trailers laden with crates is never-ending. Traffic suffers as a result: we wait patiently, we weave our way through, we accept that work takes precedence over leisure.

Then I set off up the Stelvio. For the uninitiated: the Stelvio is the Taj Mahal of motorcycling. A landmark, on a par with the North Cape, the Bardenas, the Transfăgărășan or the Route Napoléon – all trophies to display on one’s fairing. That said, one must put the feat into perspective, as there are several ways to ascend or descend the Stelvio. Having done it several times, I can say that the climb from Merano is by far the most technical; the other sides are akin to a green run, whilst this one is more like a red. That said, let’s remain humble: the difficulty is nothing like that of the Splügen from Chiavenna or the Gavia from Ponte di Legno, which are genuine challenges. Be that as it may, I get the job done, though I do notice that my technique on the right-hand side when climbing is less precise than on the left. An excellent excuse to turn the rest of the day into a skills workshop.

I then tackle them one after the other, like beads on a rosary: the Umbrail Pass (2,501 m), which takes me into the Swiss National Park, then the Ofen Pass (2,149 m), the Flüela Pass (2,383 m) and the Wolfgang Pass (1,631 m). The last one, the Oberalppass (2,044 m), drops me off at Andermatt. There, the only real question of the day arises: just how greedy am I? Should I take the Furka-Grimsel loop again, or head straight for Lake Lucerne? Reason prevails – which doesn’t happen every day. I’ll go for a ‘cruise’ along the lake and run aground there.

At Brunnen, the mountain faces plunge vertically into still, green water, with no beach and no mercy; Norway has clearly lost a fjord along the way, and Switzerland has quietly adopted it. Under the same sun that hasn’t left my side for a moment, I round off the day facing the lake, on my hotel’s terrace, where I’m sipping a martini shaken, not stirred. You don’t compromise on things like that! 21 °C in the evening, at the end of September: it’s like a dream! The sun slowly dips behind the mountain, tracing an orange line across the ridge opposite. I do nothing but gaze, letting myself be swept away by the serenity of the place.

The final leg of the journey. I treat myself to a little more of this delightful stretch of fjord, just as one savours the last sip. In years gone by, I used to love walking along the great Austrian lakes, such as the Attersee, east of Salzburg. I love this elegant transition between the mountains and the water, the graceful way the landscape seems to fade into its reflection. Here, in this corner of Switzerland, I find the same grace, the same splendour, the same majesty.

Without rushing, I follow the lakes and continue on my way to Zug. Beauty blends with the blue. In the distance, the high mountains trace a white line across the horizon, a final bold stroke across this air of crystalline purity. These eternal snows stand in stark contrast to the parched valleys and this sweltering summer.

Then, inexorably, I set my course northwards. On the outskirts of Triberg, with its astonishing clocks hanging from the façades, I sense that the interlude is drawing to a close. In Hausach, the heart of the Black Forest, it’s the final curtain: the route will now take me straight to Luxembourg.

These final kilometres, usually marked by boredom, turn into a grand retrospective. Twenty days flash by in fast-forward behind my helmet visor: the Swiss mountain passes, Gubbio, the Croatian sea, the Bosnian karst, the gentle beauty of Slovenia. A touch of nostalgia creeps in, of course – it always does at this stage – but it is softened by the simple joy of returning home and by this incredible collection of vistas and memories that I’m bringing back in my luggage. The journey is coming to an end; it is only just beginning its second life – that of the story.