I pitched my tent, the fabric taut against the breeze, and sat by the shore
watching the light shift across the waves. The Black Sea was still with me, but
the language had changed, the signs had changed, and the road ahead was
new.
There was something satisfying about stopping so soon after crossing. No rush.
No need to push forward. Just a moment to breathe, to reflect, to recalibrate.
I thought about Georgia—its mountains, its monasteries, its dumplings and
ruins. I thought about the people I’d met, the stories I’d gathered, the quiet
strength of a country still stitching itself together.
That night, I lay in my tent listening to the water lap against the shore. The stars
above were the same, but everything else had shifted. Borders are strange
things—lines on maps, gates in fences. But the journey doesn’t stop. It just
changes shape.
The border crossing into Turkey marked the end of one chapter, but not the end
of the story. Georgia had offered me more than landscapes and landmarks. I
had arrived sleep-deprived and left with a heart full of stories: the quiet dignity
of Tbilisi’s old town, the spiritual hush of Jvari Monastery, the carved silence of
Uplistsikhe, the unsettling truths of Gori, the architectural ghosts of Tskaltubo,
the glittering depths of Prometheus Cave, and the salt-kissed shores of the
Black Sea.
I had met strangers who felt like family, hosts who offered dumplings and
kindness, and fellow travellers who reminded me that the road is never truly
solitary. I had faced mechanical mishaps, financial uncertainty, and the
occasional steep climb that tested my resolve.
The journey continues and I will keep on pedalling—forward, inward, onward.