Plan to revisit the slash across South Korea on my bike to the port city of Busan before catching a ferry across the Sea of Japan to Fukuoku then ride on to the hot springs town of Beppu.

              A midnight flight and all I wanted to do was hunker down and get some sleep but my seat neighbour Vo, had other ideas. He is more Aussie than I’ll ever be. He was brought up in the rough and tumble of Melbourne North with his Vietnamese parents sewing jeans together to get their new life going. Vo was in telecommunications and the conversation staled after that announcement. Then out of left field he mumbles “ but my side hustle is making spring rolls.” I didn’t think I heard right but yes he and his brother manufacture spring rolls from a garage in St Albans. So successful they bought themselves a machine to kick it along but cash flow has stymied them hence the Telstra job. Finally I drift off to sleep but can’t help wondering if everyone has a quirky story tucked away. The rest of my flights were incident free which is exactly how you want your air travel to be.

             Monday morning and I’m full of first day enthusiasm. Down for breakfast bang on opening time to find about sixty tour bus passengers queued and keen to smash anything on offer. I join the chatting conga line then watch as they pile plates high with food they could not possibly eat but neither will others. The Germans must have a word for that. 

             Off back to the mouth of one of the rivers I will follow for the next week. I have been there before but that doesn’t mean I don’t have the occasional melt down. The first rivers name is Gyeonggi-do so don’t be hard on me. Remember there is not one word or symbol that I understand in Korean and Google maps does not operate in this country due to security issues with North Korea. So it’s a challenge for a person who wanders the earth but has absolutely no sense of direction.

             Finally into Korea Water’s office to get my cycling passport at 11.45am. Half way through my transaction the receptionist stops and explains it is lunchtime and she will return in one hour. I stand not sure what I heard but nod in approval anyway. I sit and wait and wait.

           Into the foyer wander three guys in their late twenties, full of swagger and oozing confidence. They are quick to sum up the problem and sit down beside me. One speaks very good English. I ask where they are from. Russia he announces and I immediately think because of their age that they’ve defected from the army and are on the run. But no, they have come to cycle they say but on Russian bikes of questionable quality. 

          Arseniy explains that he worked in computer science. Actually I was working for… how do you say it, a contractor to the Russian FBI doing face recognition. I try to read his face, is this a joke ? “When I told my employer I wanted to travel to South Korea they sacked me immediately and escorted me from the building. I was a threat as South Korea is a world leader in this field although I didn’t know” he said with hands raised in a weak surrender.

             The girl returned from lunch and I got my passport. I stayed to help the others fill in the paperwork. The receptionist asked one, is that your name ? Vlad ?  yes he announced loudly to all and sundry, as in Vladimir Putin “ I almost chocked. I wanted to travel with these guys. I know they will have heaps of fun but I also know that there will be days when they don’t reach a town by dark and sleep in a ditch.

           I waved them good luck and headed back to Seoul. Of course I missed one of the all important red letterboxes you must get a stamp at. Of course in South Korea someone helped me, a pilot working for Korean air on his tiny commuter bike went two kms out of his way to get me there. People are what makes travel. It’s what gets me out there to all parts of the world. For the most part those I meet are generous, kind human beings with time for others. Good huh ? 

          Chungju and my hotel receptionist has given me a detailed map on how to find the best Korean BBQ restaurant in the city. That’s all good until me, a white guy who speaks no Korean tries to get a table. It happened regularly last time I was in South Korea also. The tables are set up for pairs, like the twos that walked onto the ark. They want volume put across the sizzling hot plates not single folk. I got the arms crossed like I’d fowled at basketball. I wandered about some more then doubled back. I had passed a small place selling Korea’s next best thing, fried chicken and icy cold Cass brand beer. 

          I plonked myself down amongst a few tables of locals and took out google translate to see what was on offer. Luck played a part but what came out from the kitchen was charred portions of juicy chicken, thick strips of onion, sweet potato and something like a doughy gnocchi that sucked up all the pan juices. It was lip numbing warm which is when the second part of the act steps forward. Drum roll icy cold tankards of beer filled with care by the host. The place gradually filled, the noise built to a low rolling thunder.

              The lady serving everyone and keeping the place under control was impressed that this foreigner was enthusiasticlly tucking into her food. She was eating from a table between orders. She brought across a fork with something charred and sinister from her plate. She threw her head back knowingly like “eat this.“ It was a giant clove of garlic which had been roasted till it burst. It was delicious but I’m sure no vampire will enter my room tonight. So what started off poorly finished with an outsider feeling a bit of local love from the people of Chungju. 

            I ran into the Russian, Arseniy at the passport stamp in Chungju. He had abandoned the other two Russians. They were getting up late, wanting to stay each night in hotels. Arseniy knew he was going to run out of money if he didn’t camp. He was on a mission to travel this country and to his credit was smashing the route towards Busan. I ran into him again late the following day. He had ridden till 11pm climbed the mountain and pressed on looking for somewhere quiet to camp. The reality was he was caught in the zone, pitch black, probably with earbuds pounding some music, he just kept pushing on.

                  We rode together talking of all things Western and Soviet. Our two worlds are a long way apart, now more than for many years. His take on the war in Ukraine was a different take to mine. His denial that Putin had arranged for Prigozhin, the head of Wagner to be assassinated in a plane accident. He told me he is fighting with his troops in central Africa. Actually some research tells me it is actually his son is commanding the Wagner mercenaries in a Central African war. I guess it depends on where you get your information. Anyway it distracted us both from the soreness in our legs and got me close to a town which had a bed. I’m sure I’ll see him again. 

                Well I found a town, ok a small crossroads and a bridge. An opportunity for a street light, a dozen shops and some pokey hotels. I found myself trudging up three levels to a love hotel. Not as flash as some I had stayed in on my first trip but based on the circular bed shape and adjoining lipstick red chaise lounge it was not a family room. Downstairs I was treated to a proper Korean hotpot and body numbing local Cass beers. I walked along the river the huge hunters moon shining down through the clouds and the dam wall  with its own illumination. My room was below average but the night-sky vista was worth the walk after dinner on its own. 

             After many years of touring with my bike I still manage to mess it up far too often. Today’s error was not to show enough interest in the size of the city I booked a room in. This came about because I decided to spoil myself after the cheap as chips love hotel. Trouble is I arrived into Deagu at peak hour on a Friday with clouds rumbling. I hadn’t been wet all week so I shouldn’t complain but the hotel was in the middle of the city. Yes the room had fluffy pillows and a minimalist style but the shine of the day had gone. In fact I had to ride 17 kms or a very wet hour to cross this huge city to get to those fluffy pillows. By the time I arrived I was drenched, stressed and knackered.

              I had entered a remote region with more inhospitable hills between the river. Occasionally a tiny rural village with a store selling tractor tyres and fertiliser definitely no convenience stores and motels. I come across Noah, a local at a stamp box, you can’t miss him with his bike loaded with 40kg of camping gear and an umbrella for protection from sun or storm ? He tells me there is a bike hotel 10 kms away and I take down the particulars…all in Korean ? Why did I do that ? I push off and due to dredging of the river the path gets messy and I get lost. Short story I circle the valley floor for an hour or 20 more kms before I find myself back at the construction area. “I have rung ‘the man’ he will come for us” Noah announces. 

                My mind goes back to nine years when a missed turn caused me to ride 40 kms in the wrong direction. I pushed through 200 kms that day in steady rain punishing myself for the mistake. Here I am again being rescued by a man in a truck ? It’s not the same truck and it’s not the same man but when we reach the hotel it is in fact the same hotel, done up a bit but the same. It is a new owner with a new truck. I stand there with my mouth open ! The driver tells Noah that there is a restaurant next door. “I know” I mutter to Noah. He looks shocked at my local knowledge.

                We get our budget rooms, shower and head next door. The lady who greets us is absolutely the same lady who rang an English speaking friend to get my food order all those years ago. I show her the photo she breaks into a huge smile. It is called injeon in Korea or fate in the Western world but it is held in high regard by the people here. It’s a warm friendly night eating, drinking and telling stories. For much of it the woman owner sits with us as Noah translates her stories and then mine back to her. We embrace at the door as we head out into the dark. Life is amazing. 

                 It’s the same the next night. Out in these rural areas motels are thin on the ground. In closing darkness we circle a small town getting knock backs at each. The only one I had recognised as a hotel had rooms. My new friend, Noah and I get a room each for the night although he is carrying 40kgs of what looks like camping equipment ? Then it’s out for chicken and beer. The real danger is how spicy the chicken will be and whether the beer has the ability to put out the fire. The sign on the wall has flames licking the chicken, is it BBQ or  mouth numbing spicy. It’s a bit of each and the owner takes joy in reaching into the fridge regularly to hose down my mouth. I’m sure she mumbles pussy but I don’t dare ask Noah what she said. 

                 The following morning we are all set to hit the finish at Busan but as we push off Noah has a flat tyre. I not only have to reach the finish but then navigate South Korea’s second biggest city to my hotel near the ferry terminal. We say our goodbyes and I push off. I had become accustomed to Noah calling “we are lost” so it was good not to hear that and with only a few minor detours I was able to stick closely to the official path.

                 That path became increasingly busy as I neared Busan and I was continually braking and weaving through foot traffic on the bike path. Finally to the finish where a group of twelve bike riders on folding Brampton brand from Malaysia were celebrating reaching the end also. To ride over 600 kms on a small folding bike takes some effort and I am in awe of their feat. As I leave I meet another of the international riders I’ve passed or he’s passed along the way. There’s been real camaraderie amongst the riders and far more internationals than last time I rode here. I can’t wait to sleep in a soft bed for two nights straight. 

               Well the two nights in a soft bed didn’t happen. The following day I headed to the port in heavy rain to find that the Beetle ferry, the 3 hour ferry to Fukuoka had stopped running based on safety issues ? So my only chance to keep to my program was to pack and head to the port again with my bike and try to get a ticket on the only other option, the overnight ship. 

               There were a few nervous hours but finally I had myself a ticket and after that just a lot of standing around. I found some travelers from British Colombia to trade stories with and then we went up on deck to see nightime Busan fade away. A young French girl was the only other cyclist, she had ridden from Montpellier through a myriad of countries mostly on her own. 

               I’d been told there were no single rooms available which was part of the reason I stayed up on deck till 11pm. I quietly opened the bunk room door expecting to find someone already snoring or in a state of undress but no-one was there, perfect. Within minutes I was all tucked in and being rocked to sleep by a slight swell. When I next opened my eyes the ship was berthing in Fukuoka, Japan. I was back on track. 

             I am caught out today and for a moment feel like a mouse in a trap. I have stopped near a department store looking for a travel bag for my return. I see hundreds of bikes in stands and follow suit. I drop my front wheel into the bike rest and snap my front wheel is locked tight by springing jaws. I expect I can remove it easily and wander off. On my return I head to the machine and plug in my number and drop in some coins but no the bike refuses to free. I walk back and forwards 3-4 times trying various combinations all to no avail. Finally a taxi driver waiting nearby leaves his taxi and wanders over to free me from the trap. It didn’t need my money after all just the knack of timing. Sigh.

         My first night in a traditional inn. I scrub my body pink then soak in the public bath at the 150 year old hotel. Steam rises off the water, dark timbers with heavy spikes at intervals give your eyes something to focus on. Better that than being caught staring at someone’s swinging parts. After two weeks of riding my body surrenders and slumps into the hot water. Eventually I rise from the water and shower again before drying and bundling myself up in a Japanese print gown. My body bristles with cleanliness. I’m ready for a ten course meal of unknown foods.

       Room service come at 8pm and make my bed in the middle of the room. A small portable wicker light is set near the bed. Thoughtful I think as I watch her turn, bow and shuffle from the room. Soon the bed is too alluring and I kneel down and slip beneath the covers. It is deliciously soft and warm and I am soon asleep. I wake like most around my age at 3am needing the bathroom. I flounder about searching for the light, found it and it casts a weak shadow across the room. I go to get up but my knees feel wonky. I crawl towards the wall searching for some help to stand. I crawl as far as the toilet door before I get enough purchase to rise, oh I am glad no one had to watch that. 

        My next hotel is completely the opposite and I wasn’t expecting it. The hotel was a cafe which had just introduced three rooms for guests. It is owned by a German, a silent partner and it was completely European. Even the meals were all fine French food with the only nod to Japan being the precise, miniature size and presentation of the courses. The manager was an ex Air Force fighter pilot, his nickname was Cajun and he has changed careers late in retirement to cooking and running this small cafe, hotel. Everyone has a story. Yes a fighter pilot, then a test pilot for Mitsubishi (talk about a death wish) and finally a French chef ? 

       From Nakatsu I thought I was hugging the coast towards Kunisaki but my route suddenly takes me inland and through some rather steep mountains. All is good till I I miss a turn but quickly Komoot finds an alternative to get me back on track. However like 18 months ago when I found myself in a ravine I move forward warily. The path starts narrow then there are remnants of flash flooding. Eventually the track is washed away or covered in debris, then a mess of bamboo lays across the path. The deeper I go, the thicker the bamboo. I should go back but I can make out a manmade drain nearby and bits of the path. Two hours later, bloodied by brambles and pushing through at least five years of disuse I pop out next to a large dam and a welcoming paved road. Old blokes can be stubborn things, at least there weren’t any leeches. Knowing I dodged being lost back there I hug the coast the rest of the way to my hotel. It’s another tired, traditional hotel with a very large banquet room with each table adorned with a room number and elaborate dinner-setting and lacquered presentation boxes. The meal was worthy of a standing ovation yet I felt for the staff straining as they carried mountains of plates back to the kitchen.

             Into Beppu, a town I have visited twice before and love. It is a mixture of city narrow lanes full of eating houses and onsens using the thermal waters deep below the earth to revitalise old bodies. So you see why I chose it as my final destination. I returned to a noisy friendly bar I knew but it was closed. I circled the area full of people heads lowered slurping at bowls. I chose one and as it turned out a good one. The waitress suggests the duck soup, a house specialty. I peer along the bench dividing customers from the kitchen. Everyone is bent over a bowl pulling noodles and duck pieces from bowls of murky, steamy broth. It took two large tankards of beer to finish the soup then there were some more bits to finish, I waddled back to my hotel just like the duck I had eaten. 

                  It’s time to head back to Seoul. It was two days of transport logistics. First I needed to buy a lightweight bike cover to get my bike disassemble and on the train back to the Port of Fukuoka, then reassemble to ride to the port. 

                The daytime ferry quickly fills with hundreds of foot passengers. I sat in the lounge watching them get stuck into the local beer dispensed steadily from the coin machine for $2. Soon the noise was almost unbearable as the beer took its toll. Two hours later they were all asleep and four hours later they were all green and stumbling about as the ship started to roll in a heavy swell. 

              Into Busan as darkness falls, put the bike together and peddle a few kms to my hotel. Finally early the next morning I sit with my disassembled bike in the luggage area on a very fast train back to Seoul. There I am reunited with my air travel bicycle bag which I had stored in my original hotel. As I said there are some logistics of moving about by bicycle but the effort is usually worth the fuss. I wouldn’t want to do it any other way.

Things that have caught my attention.

Drifts of mass flowers often simply for their beauty.

The use of every piece of land in the areas around the rivers.

The daily laps of the country by the South Korean fighter jets.

The feeling of prosperity and advancement in manufacturing and technology.

The elderly often having parked their mobility scooter next to a plot of vegetables still getting their hands dirty but evidently as poor as church mice.

The elaborate gym equipment scattered throughout the country and well used at all times of the day. 

All along the rivers I come across not exclusive golf clubs but quaint croquet style clubs. Often full early in the morning before it gets too hot and the sweet thwack of mallet on ball must be very satisfying.