The bodge on the tent has not aided the morning wakeup. The inside of the tent is dripping and the pole is protruding through the canvas, or whatever crazy hitech stuff they use on tents these days. Apart from the gentle sound of the Serbian orthodox top 100 Iv'e hardly heard another sound all night which is a first. My relative seclusion on the edge of town makes for a peaceful, slow packing and then I venture into the delights of Pirot in the daylight. I spend the remainder of my Serbian dinars on a coffee but the owner refuses to take the coins, but insists I have a large one anyway. I sit here a while genereally taking in the scene agog at the damage the falling conkers are doing to a car parked underneath a tree. One coffee is not enough and like a junkie I go looking for a cashpoint to get just one more hit. Fate decrees I leave town cold turkey as the ATM spits out my card, it not likee. Pirot is interesting,but not enough to contain me. I have a squizz at the fort on the way out and had there not been a large gathering of yute I would have liked to camp in it. Dimitrovgrad or some close spelling is the last Serbian town mentioned in the book and the last before heading into what the Turks like to call Bulgaristan. It's hard work on the autoput and the head wind and lorries battle against me to see who will be first to make me give up. I seek shelter from both and the sun in a small square shelter with a tiled roof, open sides and three benches set inside it. A traveller's rest if ever I saw one. There is a hole in the ground finished square with cement and a plastic bottle tied to one of the supports with a pice of shrink wrap doubling as a rope. The hole is a well. The bottle has been cut through at the top but left attatched by about an inch of plastic to give the rope something to tie on to. I deliver the bottle into the watery depths and pull up sparkling clear cold water. I have a well deserved wash and sit down for some lunch. Whilst getting out my tuck various thoughts go through my head about leaving heavy things here for others to collect when they come by. As if Derren Brown has worked his magic on me, I look into one corner and find a pile of money. I check it aginst the coins left in my purse and come to the conclusion it's not Serbian or Hungarian, therefore it must be Bulgarian. I consider this for a while. Has someone left it here? If so when and would they come back? Has it been left on purpose after crossing from Bulgaristan and the owner has thought exactly the same as me and just lightened the load? In amongst the cash is a Bulgarian Mcdonalds receipt. I decide the money was meant for one such as I and in return at this good fortune I leave a small bottle of homemade whiskey I have aquired on the way and have no need to drink as I keep getting supplied at every available opportunity. I leave a note explaining what it is and the date I left it just in case it is discarded as water or night time tent juice.
Just off the road at Dimtrovgrad I stop at a small shop to spend my last 17 dinars hoping it will be enough for a small pot of yoghurt. I'm one dinar short but the woman waves this away as a matter of course. Outside the shop two burly women are chopping wood. Autumn has sprung and with it all through Serbia I have seen a frenzied need to chop as much wood as possible by all and sundry, age and sex make no difference for this job. Small children with axes bigger than them and old ladies with axes heavier than them, all chopping away getting in the supplies before winter. The outsides of peoples plots are brimming with woodpiles, either cut to shape or big piles of logs freshly delivered or brought down from the forest. I wave at the burly woman and take a few snaps for which they are more than happy to pose. When I walk back to the bike a voice shouts out from behind a fence, come in here. Naturally I go. Two lads are sat round a table drinking beer. It's about 3.30pm. One of the lads; Sasha, has cut his leg open recently with a chainsaw. His mate Dian is sitting round with him, shooting the breeze. They ask me if I want a beer, they both speak good English. Naturlich I say. Three more beers arrive out of the shop I've just bought the Yoghurt from. The lads reel off complete sketches from Only Fools and Horses, it's hilarious. I've seen them all Dian says. The complete box set, I love it. An old man walks in, apparently its his yard we are sitting in. The boys and the man have a conversation and although I'm hardly fluent in Serbian, it sounds a bit odd. The lads see me straining to listen and laugh. They are talking Shopski, Shopski is a mix of Serbain, Bulgarian Macedonian and bit of whatever takes your fancy. This being a border town it's the norm. Apparently someone from Belgrade wouldn't be able to understand them. Another beer is suggested and I say no thanks as I have to be on my way and negotiate the border. I'm not quite sure what happened next but I've invented a word for it none the less. I was beernapped. Without a seconds loss of memory I now have a second beer in my hand. We chat about all sorts and have a good laugh. Dian has applied to work on the cruise ships and is off to Sofia tomorrow to try and get a permanent Bulgarian passport. The benefits of belonging to an EU country are enormous. When you see guys like this you can see that coming to work in another country is a big deal, its not a free ride they are looking for, just some work that actually pays them something to do something different to just sitting here drinking beer. Another guy turns up, Bobin. Another round of beers are produced without them even asking if I'd like one. How rude! I realise the way this is going and give in for the time being but have to explain I have no Serbian money but I do have a pile of what I think is Bulgarian cash. We count it out and they discard some of the coins explaining they are no longer valid. It's worth about 4 euros. Dian who is definitely the ring leader in this beernapping says I can get a room up the road for 6 euros. I mull this over and then offer to get the next round if they take Bulgarian levs. They do but they won't hear of it. By about the 10th beer we all head off to Bobin's house and have a bbq and another case of beer is bought. I'm truly treated as one of them. Big long sausages, bread and homemade iver and pepper sauce are the order of the day. Earlier the lads had shown me “the machine” the place they distill the homemade whiskey. A bottle of this apppears and fortunately I'm not the only one to refuse but a small one goes down just to be polite. Again Dian is the supplier. Bobin's girlfriend arrives and speaks fantastic English as if she has lived there for years. Amazingly I am the first English person she has ever spoken to. Brass Band music comes on and I show my appreciation for the art. Night has well and truly descended and it's freezing, everyone is wearing big coats and I'm running out of clothes and worrying about what the night has in store for me. I had already put the tent up in Bobins garden but when it's time to go to bed around midnight I'm ushered into the potato shed being told it will be much warmer. It is indeed warmer than outside and I gratefully accept the offer. Bobin is most apologetic he doesn't have room in the house but he is renting out to a few lads. I tell him that I've been treated like a prince and am very happy with the spud garage. At somepoint in the night I go take a leak and this time I'm positive I see the bull constellation in all its glory.
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