Mtskheta – Uplistikhe - 57km
The following morning, I lingered in Mtskheta longer than planned, lulled by the
rustle of pomegranate leaves and the slow rhythm of village life. But eventually,
the road called again—not with urgency, but with a gentle nudge. I packed my
panniers, sipped one last coffee in the courtyard, and pedalled into the morning.
The road out of Mtskheta was hilly, winding through valleys that seemed to fold
in on themselves. I had no fixed destination—just a vague sense of westward
movement. I called it the road to nowhere, though in truth, it was leading me
deeper into Georgia’s heart.
The landscape was a painter’s dream: mist curling through the trees, golden
fields being harvested under a soft sun, and ancient fortresses perched like
sentinels on distant hills. The air smelled of earth and late summer. I rode
slowly, savouring the silence between villages, the crunch of gravel beneath my
tires, the occasional bark of a dog or call of a bird.
Then, a flicker of movement on the horizon—a cyclist, loaded with panniers,
heading my way. We slowed as we approached, the unspoken camaraderie of
cycle tourers drawing us together. His name was Alex, a German nearing the
end of a four-month journey. We stood by the roadside, bikes leaning against a
tree, swapping stories like old friends. There’s something about meeting
another traveller on the road that collapses time. You skip the small talk. You
speak in shorthand—kilometres, gradients, border crossings, breakdowns,
kindnesses.
We parted with a wave and a shared smile, each of us carrying a little more
than we had before.
Later that day, as the road dipped toward the Kyra River, I spotted something
carved into the mountainside. Curiosity tugged at me, and I veered off course to
investigate. What I found took my breath away.