Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
I cycled until even the grey faded and I knew it was well beyond sunset. 'Chris,
where the hell are you?'
Finally, I gave up and rolled the bike off the road to set up the shelter.
We had not anticipated splitting up; and as I went through my bags I grinned. I
had all the cookable food, but Chris had the pots. I had a torch but he had the bat-
teries. It was pure luck that I had an unopened bag of
pryaniki
.
Comfortably, I wriggled into bed with the sweet taste in my mouth. When I
stopped eating or moving, there was just the sound of snow peppering the shelter.
No munching, brushing and breathing. And yet there was no one to talk to, either.
Next morning, I was on the roadside at first light. The snow had transformed
the landscape. Gone was the mud, the stark skeletons of trees and the mushy greys.
Everything shone a glaring white. The trees looked as if they were in full bloom
with puffy white flowers. The road looked like a frozen river winding through the
trees.
For three hours I waved down traffic. 'Have you seen a foreigner on a strange
bicycle like this?' I asked, only to be met with negatives.
Eventually, a black speck appeared in the distance. At first I grimaced, but as
Chris came closer, I couldn't help smiling. 'Good morning mate!'
'Morning,' Chris replied. 'I guess you'll be wanting breakfast then! I don't sup-
pose there are many
pryaniki
left?' He wiped the snow from his brow and giggled.
'So what happened?'
'Well, I went to make camp and left the flag out on the roadside. I thought it
strange that you didn't arrive and when I went back to check, the flag was covered
by snow. Sorry, I slept in a bit this morning.'
We told our stories over a double serving of glorious porridge and even did some
re-enactments for the video camera. Something about the break had cleared the air.
What's more, my toes were feeling better and the novelty of riding in the snow
beckoned us back to the road.
Less than three kilometres further on the forest widened and we entered the
large village of Babushkina. I chuckled at the name - it was so similar to babushka.
Was it a village of bubbly, rotund old women?
The greying homes didn't look quite so drab in the snow. Smoke puffed away in
every chimney and vanished into the clear air above. A lack of
pryaniki
and fresh
bread was a good enough excuse for stopping.
While Chris wandered into the shop, I minded the bikes. A trickle of pedestrians
shuffled through the snow in long fur coats. Two women took a long sideward
