Is this new Balkans cycling trail one solution to overtourism in Europe?

I roll to a stop as several hundred sheep burst onto the road in front of me. Running behind them are two sheepdog puppies doing their best herding. I watch their chaotic, yapping efforts until I can cycle past and continue across the mountain plateau, surrounded by grazing livestock, rolling grass, and rocky peaks.

I’m on the Trans Dinarica, a 5,500-kilometer bike route that opened in July this year. Winding its way through eight countries of the Western Balkans—Slovenia, Croatia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Montenegro, Albania, Kosovo, North Macedonia, and Serbia—it crosses some of the most remote regions of Europe, and is the only trail to connect these nations.

When I first heard about the trail, I knew I had to do it. Overtourism is a growing concern across much of Europe, and this summer saw locals from Barcelona, the Canary Islands and Athens protesting against visitor numbers that they believe have made their environments more expensive, crowded, and polluted. These incidents have also led me to seek out itineraries in remote areas—areas that hopefully benefit, rather than suffer, from having guests, and the Trans-Dinarica seemed to do just that.

But even as I started planning my route, I had no idea I’d end up eating strudel in the home of a Slovenian painter, exploring WWI trenches, and getting a tattoo in an Albanian bunker.

I start my journey in Tolmin, a small town on the Soča River in western Slovenia. Above me is Kolovrat Mountain, the menacing, forest-covered peak I must pedal up. I crawl up this first stage, ascending 1,000 meters (3,280 feet) on the serpentine road towards the summit. Thankfully, 360-degree mountain views into Italy on one side and Slovenia on the other make me forget my saddlesore bum.

The border is marked by Kolovrat Ridge, which, a little over a century ago, was a battlefield. Lying on the Italian front of WWI, it was here the Italian army, together with the Allies (Britain, France and Russia), confronted the Austro-Hungarian empire, of which Slovenia was a part. Italian soldiers built a network of fortified trenches through the top section of the hill to form a long warren of tunnels, with artillery gaps peering out onto the cliffs beyond. They remain intact, and I enter a small corridor near the peak, then burrow my way through the narrow passageways, the setting sun filling them with an eerie atmosphere.

I have only been on the Trans Dinarica for 24 hours, and I’ve already seen parts of Europe I knew nothing about … The trail is certainly delivering on its promise to take me to the ‘lost corners of Europe’.

Today, the border is little more than a line on a map, one the Trans Dinarica crosses the following day, taking me through Slovenian and Italian hamlets in the vineyards of the Goriška Brda region—the churches and terracotta-roofed houses among these rolling green hills remind me of Tuscany.

I soon cross the turquoise Soča river and arrive in the cross-border towns of Nova Gorica in Slovenia and Gorizia in Italy. Merged into one, they’ve been governed by a joint administration since 2011, with the aim of tackling common challenges and serving as a model for cross-border initiatives in the EU. I pedal through, stopping only for a four-scoop gelato. The architecture is the only indication of which country I am in: Cobblestoned piazzas in Italy and modernist tower blocks in Slovenia.

I have only been on the Trans Dinarica for 24 hours, and I’ve already seen parts of Europe I knew nothing about: Kolovrat Ridge and its trenches, the rolling vineyards of Goriška Brda, the dual-nation city of Nova Gorica. The trail is certainly delivering on its promise to take me to the ‘lost corners of Europe’.

“We had this idea of a cycling route through the Balkans, to take people to parts of Europe that aren’t very well-known,” says Matija Klanjšček, chief cartographer of Good Trail, the Slovenian company behind the Trans Dinarica.

Speaking to Klanjšček on a video call, I learned that the team of eight passionate cyclists spent two years designing the trail, saving the location of their favorite, and locally recommended, family-run hotels, restaurants, bike shops, and water sources to map out the 5,500-kilometer route. For a fee, cyclists can buy these listings via digital navigation packages and load them onto a dedicated app, making self-guided cycling a breeze.

Bringing tourists to more remote, lesser-visited natural areas has always been at the heart of the project, and the app also contains responsible travel tips such as sticking to the trail, respecting livestock, and not picking fruit without permission. “Remember, the fruit may be used to make delicious rakija (fruit spirits), so don’t waste it,” the app tells you.

The Trans Dinarica trail hopes to encourage a slower form of travel; It isn’t just about opening up a less-explored region, but also helping travelers to have a positive impact by supporting local businesses, family-run hotels, and restaurants. “For us, it was about giving cyclists an opportunity to find some wild places and beautiful nature and bring business to the generous people who live there,” says Klanjšček.

The trail is also another way of supporting rural communities. Here, as in many regions, local people feel forced to leave their homes in the countryside to find work in the cities or on the coast. But initiatives like this might just be the secret to reviving the countryside—while also offering a type of travel experience that travelers are seeking.

I’m on the receiving end of this generosity a few days later. I’m a few kilometers from the town of Illrska Bistrica in southern Slovenia when thunder starts to crack open the sky. I pedal as fast as I can to the nearest guesthouse I can find on the app where I’m greeted by Marta Kranjec and her daughter Andreja, a painter and video artist. They usher me into their living room and feed me apple strudel; their cat stares with disdain at my drowned-rat appearance.

Marta has run this guesthouse, known as Marta’s House, for 11 years, and has hosted overlanders, bike tourists, and hikers from around the world. “So many tourists in Slovenia go straight to Bled Lake,” she says. “We are glad that more people are starting to come to this region because there is so much beautiful nature—cliffs and caves and forests.”

“These bunkers are all the result of one man’s paranoia. Hoxha was preparing for a war that never came.”

- Keq Marku, artist and tattooist

The house is filled with Andreja’s paintings; pink and orange stick figures dancing across canvases, expressive pieces that evoke nature, love and emotion. As the storm rages outside, we spend a cozy afternoon discussing her work. “I moved back from Ljubljana, and there isn’t so much art in the countryside, so I organized an exhibition,” Andreja says. She hung her paintings throughout the house and invited her neighbors for drinks and snacks for a viewing. The canvases have remained there ever since.

I wake to a bright, sunny morning and set off early for my last day in Slovenia. After a climb up a forested hill, I cross the border into Croatia, where the trail descends for several gloriously easy kilometers, taking me from mountain to sea.

I arrive at the busy town of Rijeka, filled with pastel-painted Venetian-style villas and more restaurants than I can count. I sit at a terrace and order a plate of crni rižot, or black risotto, with seafood, the squid ink giving it a rich fishy flavor and a black color that stains my teeth—adding to my generally disheveled appearance after seven days of cycling.

I’m cycling the trail in sections and when I return to it a few weeks later, it’s to the northwestern corner of Montenegro. I roll through Durmitor National Park, part of the Dinaric Alps, where peaks of stripy, stratified rock loom above rolling green valley floors. After passing through the ski town of Zablak, the trail joins a dirt road, climbing up to a quiet mountain plateau.

A stone church sits amongst peaks of matching lilac-gray, and sheep graze outside shepherds’ huts. Known as katuns, these small houses, traditionally run by shepherds, offer a place to eat and sleep. They can be booked online, and quickly fill up at the height of summer, as residents of Montenegro’s lowlands come to the hills to escape the heat.

The katuns are nearly empty in these chilly September weeks though. Over the next few days, they become my refuge, dishing up steaming plates of corn flour porridge (kačamak), milky lamb stew (brav u mlijeku), fresh bread, and farmer’s cheese.

I eventually reach the lakeside town of Plav in eastern Montenegro, where the road zigzags its way into Albania. The stark beauty of the mountains remains the same, but there is one difference across the border: Military bunkers are scattered across the fields; some the size of small houses, others with room just for one person.

These fortified structures were designed to defend the country against invaders, and there are an estimated 750 000 of them across Albania. The Cold War dictator Enver Hoxha ordered them to be built, as he feared invasions from both Western powers and the Soviet Union.

On the trail, shortly before I reach the town of Koplic, I spot a large bunker with the words ‘Tattoo Studio’ painted on it. I’d heard about this place from friends and had been hoping to find time to get body art to commemorate my adventure. I cycle over and find Keq Marku, a salt-and-pepper-haired man with tattoos covering his arms. He sits inside his bunker, sketching, and stands up to show me around.

“These bunkers are all the result of one man’s paranoia,” Marku tells me. “Hoxha was preparing for a war that never came.” Marku acquired the bunker 25 years ago when he bought the neighboring house and surrounding land, before converting it into a workshop—and he’s more than happy for visitors to drop by. “These bunkers are quite unique for people that don’t come from here, so I understand they are interested,” he says.

What the Trans Dinarica has shown me is that there is real and tangible space for travel to have a positive impact. We know residents of Venice, Dubrovnik, Barcelona, and many other places are suffering from overcrowded cities, rising housing prices, and overstretched infrastructure, but meanwhile, small towns and national parks like these lay ‘forgotten’ all across Europe.

Marku’s eclectic paintings cover the domed walls; colorful, intricate depictions of nature, mysticism, and romance. “I had bad marks in every class at school, apart from drawing,” he tells me, and it was during a stint in prison in the 1980s for “disagreements with the government” that he learned to tattoo.

In the middle of the room is an elaborate wood throne carved into the shape of a dragon, which is where I sit to get my tattoo—a traditional Balkan design comprising floral and geometric shapes. “This kind of tattoo dates back to when the Ottoman Empire ruled Albania,” Marku says as he works. “Ottomans disapproved of tattoos, so people would mark their children as a form of protection.”

I smile as I ride away. The tattoo is the perfect way to remember my trip—not to take anything away from the formidable mountainous landscapes, the hearty food, or the hospitable people.

What the Trans Dinarica has shown me is that there is real and tangible space for travel to have a positive impact. We know residents of Venice, Dubrovnik, Barcelona, and many other places are suffering from overcrowded cities, rising housing prices, and overstretched infrastructure, but meanwhile, small towns and national parks like these lay ‘forgotten’ all across Europe.

Some places I passed through are so unused to tourists that locals thought I was lost. “Where are you trying to go?” an older man with a flannel shirt and a thick beard asked me as I filled up my water bottle at the outside tap of his farm.

”Albania,” I said.

“Oh,” he said. “You best take some honey, then,” he said before going inside to retrieve a small glass jar of homemade golden nectar. Now that’s sweetness you just can’t buy.

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