The Journey Begins: From Ohrid to Trebenishta

The morning air was crisp as I mounted my bike in Ohrid, a city that whispers tales of ancient times and echoes with the laughter of its people. The path ahead promised a journey not just through the rugged landscapes of Macedonia, but through the corridors of my own mind. As I pedaled away from the city, the familiar hum of the tires on asphalt was a comforting reminder of the many roads I’ve traveled in search of something elusive.

The route to Trebenishta was a blend of asphalt and off-road trails, each turn revealing a new facet of the countryside. The mountains loomed in the distance, their peaks shrouded in mist, as if guarding secrets of the past. The ride was challenging yet invigorating, each push of the pedal a step further into the unknown. The village of Trebenishta, almost abandoned, stood as a testament to time’s relentless march. Here, by the small mountain lake, I paused to reflect, the stillness of the water mirroring the quietude within me.

A Pause in Trebenishta: Lunch by the Lake

In Trebenishta, time seemed to slow down. The village, with its sparse population and rustic charm, felt like a place where the world had forgotten to rush. I found a spot by the lake, its waters a serene blue, and unpacked my lunch. The simplicity of the meal was a stark contrast to the complexity of thoughts swirling in my mind. As I ate, I watched the gentle ripples on the lake’s surface, each one a reminder of the interconnectedness of all things.

The solitude of Trebenishta offered a moment of introspection. Here, away from the noise of the world, I found a space to breathe, to think, and to simply be. The village, with its quiet dignity, seemed to whisper stories of resilience and endurance, tales that resonated with my own journey of self-discovery. As I prepared to leave, I felt a sense of gratitude for the stillness, a rare gift in a world that often demands constant motion.

The Road to Struga: A City of Poets and Bridges

Leaving Trebenishta, the path to Struga was a tapestry of off-road trails and asphalt roads, each stretch offering its own challenges and rewards. The city of Struga, known for its poets and bridges, awaited like a siren call, promising culture and history. As I rode, the landscape shifted, the mountains giving way to the gentle embrace of the plains.

Struga was a city that spoke to the soul. Its bridges, arching gracefully over the river, seemed to connect not just the banks but the past and present. Here, I wandered through streets that had inspired poets, feeling the weight of words and the power of expression. The city was alive with stories, each corner a chapter waiting to be read.

The journey back to Ohrid, along the old road by the lake, was a time for reflection. The sun dipped low in the sky, casting a golden hue over the water, a fitting end to a day of exploration and introspection. As I returned to Ohrid, I carried with me not just memories of the landscapes and cities, but a deeper understanding of myself, a reminder that every journey is as much about the inner path as it is about the outer one.