Barcelona to Breg Slovenia; Roadtrip from Hell: Part 2

Following the ordeal of the Barcelona police and multi-storey car park puzzles, the next two days of driving had gone well.


The route

We drove up through north Spain, in to France, past Perpignan and hugged the south coast of France. Good conversation, good music. Past Marseilles, past Nice and in to Monaco, then Italy where we stopped shortly after Genoa in the small town of Cremona for the night.


En France

The next day we did a five-hour burst into the north east of the country, spiked peaks in the distance, as we moved into Austria, skirting its southern border, before dropping down into Slovenia.


Climbing higher:  Italy

But we were to be repelled from Slovenia’s border at the very last moment. Approximately one minute from the Bleiberg (Austria) /Mezica (Slovenia) crossing, the steep road, which had just a couple of centimeters of snow, defeated our Citroen Jumpy van. With our wheels spinning, there was no way we were getting the fully loaded van up that road.


North-east Italy

You Shall Not Pass! (to Breg)

There then followed some awkward manoeuvring as I tried to turn the van around on the tight road, with Andy directing, without it tipping over or getting stuck. Thankfully there’s another border crossing on a less vertically challenged road, so we turned back and took the alternate route, although even that drive was hairy enough, our van not being equipped with winter tyres.

We made it though and after stocking up on supplies at Mežica’s Tuš supermarket, all that was left of the 1574km journey, was the final 3.5km. But this last 0.2% of our route, would end up taking us two days.

Reaching the turn off for Breg we were met with a snow covered road. With dark already fallen, nerves frazzled and limited experience of fitting snow chains, we decided our best option was to tackle that job in the light of tomorrow.

In normal conditions we were just ten minutes’ drive from the house, but now there was no other choice but to abandon the van for the night and walk the rest of the way. So we grabbed the essentials from the van, slung on our backpacks, and began the hour-long hike up the dark, snow covered -9C mountain, to Breg House.


Mežica from the frozen road up on high

Brokeback Breg

After being stuck in the van for hours, the walk was actually quite welcome. Though the air was sharp, it felt good to be winding up through the frozen forest. Reaching Breg House, where no plough had been, the snow was above the knee, and we blazed a trail to the door, relived to be finally in the relative warmth of -1c inside. We quickly set to work warming the house, turning on the heaters and getting the water running.


-1c in the unheated corridor. That’s #BregLife

I am always nervous when I arrive at Breg; there has often been a problem lying in wait. And with it so very cold, the likelihood of problems increase. Indeed, some of the pipes were frozen, meaning the waterworks were not fully functional, but thankfully one toilet, one shower and one basin remained operational. It would do. As long as we had hot showers we could cope. We celebrated with a beer as the fire crackled, toasting to the fact that we’d arrived (even though none of my possessions yet had).


Deep snow surrounds Breg House

But just as we were begining to get settled, the lamp in the lounge suddenly went out. The trip must have gone, I thought. But no – all trips were operational. Then we noticed that half the sockets in the house weren’t working any more either, including the circuit that powers the electric water heater for the shower.


Deep snow @ Breg House

Our elation of getting here shrivelled up like a winky in the cold. The van was still stuck at the bottom of the mountain with all my things, and now we had the prospect of cold rooms, and no hot water. The Breg House black magic had struck again.

General Electrics

I needed some electrical assisstance. So I gave my friend Paul a call, the electrical-arm of the original ‘Construction Dream Team’ who had helped transform Breg from a basic cabin to something much more liveable.

Paul listened to the symptoms then gave his diagnosis: one the ‘phases’ of the electrical supply had been knocked out, and that would require the local electric company to fix. It looked like we weren’t getting the lost power back online any time soon.

But Paul saved the day by talking me through how to open up the electric water heater and re-wire it with another cable and then plug that in to a still-working socket from another part of the house via an extension lead. The jerry-rig worked; we at least had hot water, a massive morale boost at a time of darkness. And with that done, we retired to bed for the night.

Snow Chain, No Gain

The following day we set the primary objective: get van containing all my worldly possessions to Breg House. Boyed by blue skies and sun, we set off, walking back down the mountain. Just 10 minutes down the road we spotted a gams (chamois).



A Slovenian gams (chamois) just minutes from Breg House

Normally they bolt as soon as they spy you but this one stayed put. As we approached, it stood up and hissed at us. This is something I have never seen before. It strutted back and forth, allowing us to get quite close, before leaping over a snowy bank and disappearing down the mountain.


Views from Breg House

About 40 minutes later we were at the bottom. The van was still there, none of my things had been stolen and we were ready for action. First job: fit the chains. My memories of fitting snow chains on past snow adventures were of long, fiddly operations, resulting in cold fingers and frustrations. But we followed the instructions and had them on within a few minutes. So far so good.


Chain up: the road to snowwhere

And so we began the very final leg of our 1574km journey. The chains were doing their job, biting into the ice and snow, and despite a few spins and swerves, we kept climbing steadily. Spirits were high, we were sure we would make it. Just the final quarter to go. But also the steepest section; foot down, get the speed up.

The road got steeper and steeper, yet we were still moving.  But then we were slowing. Slowing, slowing, slowing, and then we stopped. Our wheels were spinning and we knew we weren’t getting any further on that attempt.

So, we rolled backwards to a flatter section then walked back up to examine the terrain. It was a short section of the road where the wind had blown extra snow over the track, just covering the stone chippings that had been spread by the plough earlier. So we spent 20 minutes spreading handfuls of stone chips and tree branches on the road to aid traction, then went at it again, this time with more speed.


Close but no cigar; this is a far as our Citroen Jumpy would go

We passed the point where we got stuck last time but little more than 10 meters beyond that, the wheels spun and we were halted again. This time we’d broken the snow chains and any hope of getting the van up the last 1km of road was over.

Fellowship of The Breg

This trip had been dogged with mini-disasters. But, as with so many other times in Slovenia, help would come from the locals. I phoned my friend Vanja, my go-to girl, translator and fixer extraordinaire, who relayed a message to my kindly neighbour Štefka. Štefka arrived just 20 minutes later along with her friend Jože, each in a 4×4 vehicle.

They came equipped with cable ties and a spare set of chains. Jože immediately got to work, trying to bind the chains back together, and then got into the drivers’ seat to give it a shot himself. But the damaged chains were now so ragged, that even with him gunning it, he was not able to reach the point we originally had.

Kaput: snow chains to no chains

Jože exited the van and re-examined the chains.

“Kaput!” he exclaimed.

His evaluation confirmed that the working life of the chains, which had been approximately 30 minutes, was now over. Next Štefka and Jože tried to fit the spare chains they had brought, but they were too small for the van.

It was now obvious that the van was going no futher today. But Štefka and Jože pulled up their SUVs and together we unloaded the van and with multiple trips up to the house, finally got my things to a snow covered Breg.


Unload; the van was going no futher

I was so grateful to these people. They had dropped everything on their Sunday afternoon to leave their cosy homes and come and help a stranded Brit on the side of a freezing mountain. I asked Jože to wait a minute while I located the box that contained my whisky, and presented him a bottle of 10 year old Laphroaig. He seemed pleased.

Yet again, the Slovenians had come to my aid at a time of need, and it made me yet again realise how lucky I was to be surrounded by such kind, generous and helpful people.

The 20 Year Storm

For the next two days and nights we were trapped in Breg house. Without snow chains, getting the van down the track and remaining alive was a scenario with too low a probability to try. So we holed-up in Breg and lived the simple life. All that mattered was fire and food.


Andy during happier times

Then the weather warmed, and rain arrived. The once powdery snow turned heavy and water-logged. The road became sheet ice. It was so treacherous, that even Štefka, who must be the most experienced driver of that road in the world, deemed it too dangerous to descend, even in her 4×4, and called off from work for the day. There was no choice but to wait out another day in Breg House.

After the rain came the wind storm. The vicious tempest raged all night and at one point awoke me with such a bang, I thought one of the windows had blown in. The following morning we rose to a complete power outage; the whole of Mežica was now without electricity.


No power? No problem. The trusty stove warms, dries and boils the kettle all at the same time

However, the 24 hours of wind and rain had also done us a favour. It had completely melted the ice on the road. With more snow forecast for the following day, this would be our only window of escape for some time.

Escape from Breg House

And so we packed our things, and said our farewells to Breg House. We re-traced our steps back to Barcelona, spending a night near Piacenza in Italy, Arles en France, and then Girona in Spain, escaping any incidents. Almost.


Back on the road

Plane Sailing?

Andy and I parted at Barcelona airport. The Fellowship of The Breg was over. My flight back to Ljubljana was via Brussels. At Brussels I boarded the Adria flight (Slovenia’s national airline) and we took off. Finally, I was almost ‘home’. But 15 minutes in to the flight, the pilot announced a mechanical fault and we had to turn back to Brussels. I would spend the night there.

The following morning, we again took off from Brussels, this time landing successfully in Ljubljana. I was now back in familiar territory.  As I had booked a Slovenian lesson and was in a rush to get into town, I opted to take a taxi.

The Deceitful Taxi Driver

Of course, I couldn’t expect to go unscathed on this very final leg of my very long journey, which had been more than 3500km. I should have trusted my spidey senses when an insistent taxi driver offered his services, and when I got in, had no meter visible. The dishonest driver charged me €67 – more than double the real fare from Ljubljana airport to Ljubljana city centre (never, ever use Savic Vaskrsija Taksi – he’ll rip you off).

I was annoyed at myself for falling into such a silly trap, but it did round off the Road Trip of Nightmares quite nicely, so perhaps it was worth the €37 I paid in extra fare.

A huge hvala lepa to my co-driver, fellow road tripper, and cryptocurrency teacher Andy for agreeing to help me move house. We faced adversity from snow, ice, wind, rain, powercuts and police, but we overcame all obstacles, and we made it there and back again. And we definitely had ourselves an adventure on the way.

UPDATE: this road trip journey was immortalised by getting a shout out on The Bad Crypto Podcast @6m20s

Barcelona to Breg Slovenia; Road Trip of Nightmares: Part 1

Within thirty seconds of parking the van outside my apartment, some Barcelonan bell-end had called the police.

I had been dreading this day for weeks. I knew it would be sad, stressful and painful, but I did not expect the ordeal that followed.

I had returned to Barcelona, the city I had moved to with my girlfriend during the summer, to collect all my worldly possessions. Sadly, what we had hoped would be a new, exciting chapter for us, had not turned out that way. After three years together, we had fallen apart and the relationship had come to an end.

So collecting my belongings from the apartment we had lived in was never going to be an enjoyable task. But on top of the emotional sting, the practicalities of the move turned out to be a logistical nightmare.


I had wandered the city during the Catalan independence protests of Summer ’17

The apartment was located on a very narrow, one-way street in central Barcelona. Things had started out well. With everything boxed up and ready to go, me and my road-tripping companion Andy, who had kindly come out from the UK to help, picked up the rental van, and drove it back to the apartment.


I had spent a lot of time of exploring Barca by bike

There could be no hanging around. With no parking space whatsoever, we had to pull right up on the pavement to allow cars to pass, but in doing so had to block one of the pavements. I had to move some 15 boxes worth of my life out and drive them all the way to my new home, Slovenia. But within half a minute of starting the operation, some Barcelonan took task with us being pulled up on the pavement and threatened to call the police.


My time in Barcelona was short, but I did love the Catalan castells

I was on high-stress mode. Knowing we were loading on borrowed time, I sprinted up the stairs of the apartment, madly ferried box by box to Andy, who then loaded them in to the van. But I was not fast enough. The irate Barcelonan had made good on his threat and actually had called the police. After just six minutes of loading, the Spanish Five-O arrived. I tried to explain I was moving house. This was a one-off deal. Yes – I was blocking the pavement but come on – give me a break! How are you supposed to move house in a street like this without parking on the pavement for a few minutes?


One of my favourite cycling routes in Barcelona, along the coast and over the river

We only needed another five or six minutes and we’d be driving out of Barcelona, never to return (until the following week when we had to return the van as no rental company will rent you a van for one-way hire to another country).

I was feeling sad, I was stressed and I just wanted to get out of Barcelona with my things and put the tough times behind me. I pleaded with the police. But the Catalan coppers weren’t cutting me any slack. As the police woman pulled out her pad and started writing me a ticket we were forced to abandon the loading operation, dash back to the apartment, lock the front door, and move the van. Muchas gracias Barcelona.

With another eight or so boxes to come, we didn’t know what to do. Driving on to the busy La Rambla, stress levels had been turned up to eleven. We spotted signs for a car park and followed them, ending up at an underground multi-storey. It was three blocks away from the apartment, but at least we could park in peace. Or so we thought. But Lady Luck was against us this day.


My final night in Bacelona

There was only one space left in the whole car park, and it was the tiniest slot imageable. I was not convinced we’d even be able to fit the van in at all and I felt like crying, in disbelief of how my moving operation had gone from smooth and calm, to calamitous, in the space of three minutes or less.

Thankfully, with the expert tuition of Andy, who had once worked as a delivery van driver, I managed to edge the van in, with only centimetres to spare each side. Indeed, it was so tight, I was unable to open either door, and had to get out of the window. Still, at least we could take our time now, rather than being slagged off by annoyed passers-by for blocking the pavement and hassled by the police.

Lock Out

We had to make five journeys from my apartment to the car park, running the gauntlet of the La Boqueria market each time, clogged with crowds. It was only after the forth leg that I suddenly had a terrible thought. How were we going to get back into the van? I had closed the window, thereby cutting off our only method of entry.

We were now faced with the situation of having a fully loaded van, but not actually being able to get into the driver’s seat. Fate really was not on our side today. We went through our options; if we opened the door enough to get an arm in, perhaps we could get the key in the ignition and be able to roll the window back down? Andy tried, but there was no way he could reach.

Was there a way to enter the cockpit via the back of the van? No – the pack panel was a solid sheet of metal.

Could we wait until the car next to us moved? Well yes we could but that might be hours, or the next day even.

Back to basics. Could we squeeze in via the doors? The driver’s side – absolutely not. But the passenger side had just a little more space. I squeezed myself between the van and the car next to it and opened the door as far as it would go – about 15cm. Stepping up from ground  level– there was no way I could do it. But I noticed that the opening was wider at the top of the door. If I could change the angle of entry, perhaps I could just fit?

Opening the sliding rear door gave me the step up I needed to give it go, but I still couldn’t quite fit; my belt was catching on the door frame. So off came my belt. Exhale. Contort. I edged myself in, centimetre by centimetre, worried I might get stuck, but kept going and just managed to slide myself in to the passenger seat. I breathed out, opened the window again and exited, and made sure not to close it this time.


Exhaling and contorting to get into the van. Note: belt had to be removed. I would have taken my jeans off too, had it come to that.

It was such a massive relief that I didn’t even care about the lady who hurried her two kids past us as I stood next to Andy in the dark multi-storey car park, putting my belt back on.

Exit Planet Barcelona

We could now just get out of the city and begin the 16 hour drive up to the French border, east across south France, through Monaco, into Italy, up to Austria, and dropping down into my final destination: Slovenia.


It was a brutal farewell from Barcelona. Driving out of the city, I felt sad but I was glad that I had retrieved my possessions, avoided a ticket and upskilled myself in contortion.

Little did we know that our road trippin’ troubles were far from over. Read Part 2 of Barcelona To Breg Slovenia here.