Week 3: Farmers, Philosophers and the Gods.

The journey through the Balkans was exhausting, as exhilarating and wild as it was, it was a sigh of relief to re-enter Europe on somewhat more familiar ground. The Balkans are harsh, the people incredible and kind, but there's an underlying tension in the region that is palpable; as a foreigner, one can’t help but be impacted by it—there’s an edge. The scars of violence and hatred haven't completely healed yet. Nor have mine. The wilderness of the place appealed to my sense of freedom and savagery, but the Officer in me still can’t quite let go of the past; it was a bit much, a rest dearly needed.

The hospitality displayed by my new Bosnian family, Nadira and Svedad, was second to none, and my heart was heavy leaving them and the wilderness of it all. But this is just the beginning, and the need for familiarity and rest was calling.

It was such a relief to meet Alex again; we hadn’t seen each other for over 12 years, probably more, since I joined up. We grew up together in Brussels in the late '90s, early 2000s. Our youth was a mix of European technocracy and dabbling even fingering with criminality. Brussels in those days was wild, hash from Morocco, ecstasy from Holland, and a booming underground techno scene was too hard to resist for our young and curious souls. We were lucky to have been part of a good school, the European School of Brussels. This school was a socially engineered project launched by the European Commission, with 5000 kids from 15 nationalities being bred to be the future of Europe. An idealistic project, yet the reality was not quite what was expected. From a very early age, national clichés and differences were felt, especially on the football pitch. The Brits would always fight the Spanish, the Germans were liked but were boring, we loved the Italian girls but the men were posers. No one really understood the Greeks and they didn’t care. The French were assholes; the Brits would all become alcoholics, everyone wanted to hook up with the Swedes. It was a mess, but a fun one. Alex and I were part of a strange gang, the druggies, the anarchists, the weirdos. We were the most plurinational and mixed group of the school, our appreciation of hard techno and soft Moroccan hash melted our nationalistic differences. We considered ourselves anarchists, different, and didn’t subscribe to the nationalistic clichés that were so embedded into the fabric of all the others. This inevitably led to problems—drugs, money, and an appetite for risk meant that we often took it too far. I was an anomaly at the school. Having just left France where I lived in a one-bedroom flat in a rough tower block after my parents' divorce, I gained access to the school through my new stepmother. My friends were all part of sons and daughters of members of the European Commission, well-to-do intellectual families with money and facility. It was a strange transition from my previous life, but it opened my eyes to a different world. I was an angry kid at school and drugs and violence soon became my means of soothing my adolescent angst.

Alex was part of our gang; he entered the school at the same time as me. He came from a Greek intellectual family. A good-looking kid with tons of charisma and personality, he quickly fitted into our mad group. When we finished school, he and I lost touch. I discovered this week that he had started going down a very dark path—guns, drugs, fast money. He was unhappy. Luckily, he had a supportive family that accepted to help him when he asked for it. They took him away from the seedy world he was falling into and tried to get him into a new life. Business in the city, not even a year in, it almost broke him. So, he decided to take a chance, get a loan, return to his family’s village on the foothills of Mount Olympus and start an organic farm. And that’s where we met again after 15 years, him a farmer and me, a wanderer. Seeing him, I was immediately relieved and impressed; not only does he look the part, but he is the part. He has been working the land for 12 years now and is bloody good at it. So much so that the old farmers in his village call him the Mayor and want him to run for it. He doesn’t care. He’s remained an anarchist at heart, but he also has three kids to feed and a wonderful wife to look after. So his priorities are clear. He’s come such a long way from the fast cars, fast money wanker he had become when we were younger. There’s no judgment here. As he was descending down that path, mine was worse. Violence, crime, and drug abuse were all part of my staple diet until I almost ended up in jail for 5 years for GBH and drug possession. And lets be honest I was a pretty dad drug dealer, good at sales and PR but stock management. As Notorious BIG once rapped in his ten crack commandments  ‘never get high on your own supply” was hard to get apply. I was disorganised in turbulent, would I turn to that today with my sadhurst traiing I would not doubt be able to up my game to escobat levels.

The deal with Alex was simple: he works from 6 am until whenever it needs to be done. He didn’t ask for help, but I was glad to lend a hand. Manual labor, simple tasks, working the land, and not being sat on Tara with a still very bruised bum was a relief. Not only that, it gave us time to reconnect and strengthen our friendship.

We planted apple trees, tomatoes, plowed fields, dug holes, smoked countless rollies, and hung out every night in the local pub drinking beer and remolding the world with the local communist leaders. Life was simple, as Alex put it, no time to be sad when there is work to do. He’s right.

We took a break from the farm and headed to Athens, where Alex commutes on the weekends to see his wife, Katiana, and their three small children. They live in the suburbs of town, on Marathon Road, the actual road named after the battle of Marathon. It was a good reminder for me that this trip isn’t a sprint, the point is to enjoy the journey and not focus on getting anywhere fast, just live and enjoy.

I thought I was tough being a solo motorcycle adventurer, but it pales in comparison to being a young father of three boisterous kids aged 1, 3, and 6! The house is a volcano of activity—screams, baby cries, laughter, and life! It must be exhausting for Katiana with Alex away all week on the farm, and equally hard on him being away from his loving family all week. But he wouldn’t have it any other way; he’s a headstrong, proud farmer who has made his choice in life and is committed to his land. I have nothing but respect for him and how far he has come. It must be said that running a mini crime network in our youths has its advantages, in the end, business is business. Managing stock, demand, distribution, sales, security, and human relations are the same no matter what product you push. Thankfully, organic vegetables are somewhat more ethical than what we used to peddle…

Seeing Alex transported me back to being a teenager, memories of my turbulent youth keep coming up, not only in thought but in conversation. We talk about friends we've lost, to drugs, to violence, to mental health. We count ourselves lucky. I think about Tom, seeing him getting his throat slit and his sad passing years later. About Yan, Eric, and I fighting racist Belgian police officers and being tortured in the basement of Brussels Main Station for two days, not without taking a bit of them with us. Yan was nicknamed Tyson in the jail for biting an officer's hand off, fuck them. The beating and strangulations we suffered at their hands deserved far more than losing a bit of flesh.

The turbulence of the vibrant house is a bit much for me, and the wonders of Athens were calling, so I escaped Marathon Road in a bit of a sprint to go and discover the city for a day.

Athens is truly a megalopolis, where antiquity meets modernity. The Acropolis still dominates the horizon wherever you go, and is a must-see for a first-timer like me, but be warned, it’s a complete tourist attraction. First, you queue to buy a ticket, then you queue to get in the queue to get on an international conveyor belt of digital vultures all there to feed off the carcass of what was the intellectual heart of Western Europe. Walking up the stairs of the Acropolis, I overhear three young American tourists naively and overbearingly loudly say, “Oh my gosh, this looks just like Caesar's Palace in Vegas.” It's time to leave before I say something I’ll regret. The heat, the queues, the idiocy contribute to agoraphobia. Socrates must be turning in his grave…

Downtown Athens is where it’s at, a foyer of anarchists, free thinkers, and revolt. As is apparent by the graffiti on the walls and the constant presence of heavily armored police robocops. Greece has still not recovered from the 2008 financial crisis, the cost of living is exorbitantly high in comparison to the average wage. Political corruption, inflation, stagnant wages, and a growing divide between the rich and the poor is a recipe for revolution. I spend the afternoon getting drunk in an anarcho-communist bar talking to a young lawyer who had to quit humanitarian law due to the below-average pay. I make the bar laugh when I return to Jenny, the owner, with a bag full of tomatoes after she asked me to buy some ingredients to make Bloody Marys.

One day in Athens is enough; time to go back to the farm. On the way back North, we pass Thermopylae, the site of the 300. Where the brave Leonidas and his loyal warriors held off Xerxes and his imperial hordes long enough for the Greeks to unite and push the Persians back. The site is somewhat underwhelming to see, but there is power there. Sadly, the modern monument has been taken over by far-right nationalist groups that have tagged it with Neo-Nazi signs. It has become a symbol of white resistance against immigration. Yet again, division and ethno-nationalism go hand in hand to stoke the flames of hatred and divide. A recurrent theme that has followed me from the Balkans. When will we ever learn to live united in our differences, supporting one another and not falling prey to power-mad politicians set on greed, power, and nationalism?

Before leaving Greece for the Orient on a reverse Odysee, I have to change Tara’s tires; my near miss that almost landed me in a twenty-meter ditch on a track in Bosnia required that I get better adapted tires for off-roading. By chance, Alex makes a few phone calls and finds a garage in the nearby town of Larissa. Arriving there, I knew I had found the right place. A young Greek riding an old custom R90 pulls up as I park. We strike up a conversation about bikes, philosophy, the art of living, and motorcycling. He tells me that Gabriel, the owner, is known as the tire philosopher all over Greece, and that he had specifically ridden up from Athens, four hours away, to have the tires he bought there fitted by Gabriel.

A modern-day Hephaestus' forge, tucked away in the shadow of Mount Olympus, stands Gabriel, a philosopher and craftsman of the modern era. His workshop, much like the famed forge of the gods, is a place where art and utility blend seamlessly. Gabriel, a staunch Epicurean with anarchist tendencies, imbues each task with deliberation and artistry. His reputation is legendary, drawing bikers from across Greece, all seeking the precision that characterizes his work.

As I enter his domain, the ambiance resonates with a amalgam of myth and machine. Swallows dart in and out of the garage, their movements as rhythmic as the turning wheels they mimic, creating a living symphony that underscores the pulse of this unique workshop.

During our encounter, I share with Gabriel my global odyssey—a journey to ride across the landscapes that have birthed legends. His eyes light up with the spark of shared wanderlust as he wraps me in a hearty embrace, exclaiming "Brava!" in encouragement. In return, I vow to dedicate a segment of my journey—a hundred kilometers across the Pamir—to him, as a tribute to his artistry and spirit.

Feeling an innate connection to this place, where the hum of the modern meets the whispers of the ancient, I realize the privilege of having my bike tended to in this sanctum. The swallows' dance above captures the essence of freedom and movement, echoing the very essence of my own travels. Here, in Gabriel's garage, the bond between rider, road, and craftsman becomes a modern myth, each motorcycle a steed worthy of the gods themselves.

Pumped with fresh confidence in my bike’s tyres adding some new brake pads and a wash that had it sparkling like a diamond in a goat's nose, I zipped south hoping to catch up with a mate who pledged to meet me in Meteora, a UNESCO site in northern Greece. But alas, my friend got tangled up in Corfu. Swapped chasing enlightenment for chasing skirts and synthetic highs. When he tried scootering 400 km to Meteora through a sprinkle of rain, he beats a retreat to the safety of the coast, wouldn’t expect less from an ex para, they don’t do well in the wet…. My sympathy for him is as scant as his chances of making it—hope the storm really kicks his comedown into epicly shit proportions.

The name "Meteora" translates to "suspended in the air," which aptly describes the extraordinary rock formations that dominate the region. These immense, naturally sculpted pillars of rock soar up to 400 meters high, creating a surreal and majestic backdrop that seems to defy gravity.

Atop these formidable stone pillars are six Eastern Orthodox monasteries, built between the 14th and 16th centuries by monks seeking solitude and spiritual elevation. These monasteries were constructed under incredibly challenging conditions, with materials and daily provisions being painstakingly hoisted up the cliffs using ladders and ropes. The isolation provided by the height of the rocks offered the monks both protection from political upheavals and the ability to pursue their religious practices in peace.

A once place reserved for monks and meditation has now been turned into a tourist attraction where busloads are offloaded at each viewpoint for 5 minutes to feed their digital addictions and move on. I try to climb a few rocks to find a secluded spot to meditate but keep being interrupted by incessant chatter of "Stand there," "Great pictures," "OMG, this will look great on Instagram." The temptation to knock on one of the monastery doors and ask for asylum is real. Instead, I beat a hasty retreat back to the farm, I don’t think I’m ready for a chastity vow just yet.

A few more days on the farm are joined by Simon, a young French kid on an adventure across the region. We drink beer, plant potatoes, reshape the world and have a great time just laughing and working the fields. Life is simple, life is good.

The farm is on the foothills of Mount Olympus, home of the gods. Birthplace of Greek mythology and, in a sense, the birthplace of Western spirituality and psychology.

It dominates the landscape surrounding the farm and has been calling me from the moment I arrived. It's time for me to leave; my body has healed from the Mostar bridge jump, my soul is full of the love, kindness, and generosity shown by Alex, and my mind is quiet from the hard work on the farm. If I don’t leave soon, I might ditch the bike and pick up a tractor. The East is calling, but not without hiking to the Pantheon to seek the gods' blessing for my journey.

A powerful and deeply sad goodbye to Alex in a field, we salute each other, fists raised in the anarchist fashion, and I'm off on Tara, riding up to Prionia, the base camp of Mount Olympus.

The trek from Prionia to the first refuge is meant to take 5 hours, but due to leaving late from Alex's and taking the scenic route, I arrive at 6 pm with little light left to spare. I park Tara outside the one restaurant there, and the curious and skeptical owner tells me he'll look out for her. I sense he's concerned for me, but I wave him away and set off on the trail at yomping  speed (Royal Marine parlance for walking with kit on your back). The constant smoking and drinking don't help with the steep incline, but it feels good to be in my body again, to fight myself up the mountain, to have a clear tactical mission to achieve, and some time pressure to make it happen. Arriving at the refuge a sweaty, tired mess with 10 minutes of daylight left was a bit tight, thankfully there's a spare bed. A big dish of spaghetti Bolognese served by the incredulous and witty owner Marta, followed by a hot chocolate and a smoke, and I’m off into Morpheus's arms, dreams of the gods and Olympus keeping me up, or maybe it’s the snoring. Up at 6 am and on the trail by 7 to get ahead of the crowds and be the first one up there. Marta tells me it takes 5 hours to scramble up and back to the refuge; cool, I didn’t suffer P Company and the All Arms Commando Course to yomp like a hat (term refered to none specialists), the objective is to do it in 3.

At yomping pace, I scramble up the hill, overtaking a few groups, my ego getting the better of me. There is no joy in doing things just to beat others; I hate myself for it. But it's too late, now that I have overtaken them, there’s no way I'm letting them get past me again and give them the satisfaction of beating me. I'm in the hurt locker, legs burning, lungs in overdrive, and I taste metal in my mouth. Getting to the first ridge line, there is a group ahead of me roping up to get to the summit, they all have helmets and climbing gear. I’m wearing a baseball cap, a T-shirt, and shorts. Something is wrong, but I’m here, they are in front of me, and I’m going to get to the summit first. The scramble part of the climb is rather vertiginous and steep, three points of contact at all times, and best not to look down too much, just like parachuting. As an officer, when you pass your qualification, you are the first one out of the door, lead by example and all that. So you have the honor of standing by the door of a C-130 aircraft flying at 300 km per hour and be the first one out. I remember the jump master telling me, “Don’t look down, sir!” through the wind and bustling noise of the engines. The first thing I do is look down... A lesson I will not forget, when you're doing silly dangerous things, just focus on the here and now, yourself, your gear, and where you want to go, not where you don’t want to, or sure as hell you're going to end up there.

Finally, I reach the top, overtaking the ropers (screamers) and am the first one to reach the top of Greece on that day, what a sight, what a relief, adrenaline, exhaustion, and exhilaration all kick in, it's good to be alive and even better still to have beaten everyone else to it!

The group of ropers reach me, we exchange pleasantries, internally all I think is you’re fat and lazy and should ask the gods for forgiveness. One of them is a tour guide, at least hes not in shit state, we strike up  a conversation. He explains that Mount Olympus was only officially climbed in 1913 by a Greek climber after the liberation from the Ottoman Empire. In antiquity, it was forbidden to climb to the summit as it was feared that it would provoke the gods. Probably a good way to prevent any foolhardy warriors trying to impress their athenans crushes from doing something stupid, no search and rescue teams on stanby in those days…I shake the guides hand and nod at the screamers.

 On my way down, I ponder about the meaning of the gods—Zeus, Poseidon, Hera, Demeter, Aphrodite, Athena, Artemis, Apollo, Ares, Hephaestus, Hermes, and either Hestia or Dionysus. Freud understood that they are merely archetypes of what we call modern psychology. It's such a shame that our monotheistic, narcissistic Christian god has killed off the gods of old. I wish Nietzsche was right; God is dead, and all the better for it. He’s not though he has developed schizophrenia and a weird obsession with control and guilt shaming. It's time to bring back the gods of old, the bold, the wicked, the vain and cruel ones. The ones that look more like us, the honest and imperfect ones, those that reflect our real psyches, warts and all. It’s time to bring back some magic and wonderment to our uniformed and stale modern life. Bring back Pan, the cyclops, the titans, the fairies, the trolls—let us wonder at the world and let our imaginations be our true guides.

Conversation with the gods over, it's time to find a place to rest. The Aegean Sea is calling. A mad dash down from the Pantheon with Tara, we find a secluded beach by Thessaloniki to pitch the tent. Disaster strikes as my inflatable mattress bursts, mosquitoes make it into the tent, a sleepless night in the most idyllic of spots. 4 am can’t sleep, legs heavy and mind tired, I jump on Tara and head as far east in Greece to the Turkish border. Whispers of the east fill my mind; it’s the end of the west as I know it. After this, it’s all uncharted territory for me, a step into the unknown, a step closer to living my dream. Next stop, Byzantium, modern-day Istanbul. I savour a last pork steak and a few beers on a quaint terrace in eastern Greece and look forward to a night of Persian dreams. Tomorrow the Orient, tomorrow Istanbul , tomorrow I ride East!

The anticipation of new lands, new experiences, and possibly new challenges fills me with both excitement and a deep sense of purpose. This journey isn't just about covering distances or ticking off famous sites; it's about understanding different cultures, engaging with history firsthand, and testing my limits both physically and mentally. As I set off each morning, the sunrise isn't just a start to another day; it's a symbol of the fresh opportunities that await, of roads not yet taken, and of stories not yet told.

As I cross into Turkey, the literal and figurative bridge between Europe and Asia, I reflect on all I've learned and all I've yet to discover. Tara, my constant companion, carries me forward, not just across landscapes, but through the layers of history and human experience layered deep in these ancient lands. Here, in the cradle of civilization, every mile travelled is a step back in time, each turn of the wheel a rotation through centuries of human endeavor.

It's more than a journey; it's a pilgrimage of sorts—a quest not just for sights and sounds but for wisdom and growth. As the roads stretch out before me, leading to horizons yet unseen, I know that this adventure is about much more than the destination. It's about the transformation that comes with the journey, the shedding of old skins, and the discovery of new strengths. Its also about peeling the layers off, about figuring out who I am, it’s about giving myself the permission to live, to laugh and to feel. It’s about letting go of guilt, it’s about finding my truth. And so, with the gods of old whispering in the wind, I ride on, ready for whatever lies beyond the next bend.

But that's nonsense. The reality is that I've spent twenty one days mainlining coffee, kilometers, cigarettes, and beer. I've been lonely, tired, and elated. I've been told to write more positively about my experience, to portray this as the trip of a lifetime, one that people will envy and that I should cast in a better light. Well, screw that. If people really want to live their dreams, they should stop whining and escape their lousy situations and just do it. Choose life, not someone's second-hand dreams. Get off your ass, pick something challenging and daunting, and just do it. But be warned, life on the road isn't all dreamy sceneries and idyllic, manicured Instagram shots; it's dead animals, it's fatigue, it's doubt, kamikaze drivers and uncertainty. It's finding a song that brings me comfort and listening to it on repeat just to pass the long boring stretches that force you to face your inner most thoughts. It's incessant checks on my Instagram and TikTok and each wifi watering hole to see if there are any new followers or likes. It's missing having intimate moments and resorting to cranking  in my tent alone at night, all while wondering if some drunken Greek kids are going to find it amusing to set it on fire. Life on the road is hard, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m living my best fucking life, it's messy, it's chaotic, and the people I meet are wild, funny, caring, and free. I’m exactly where I need to be.