It has to be said - et in Arcadio ego

Yes, I did cycle through Arcadia, today so I mean the quote literally. No allusion intended to a blissful afterlife. Perhaps I'll acknowledge an element of that other interpretation of the phrase, nostalgia for one's youth.

But Arcadia came late in the day. I began with a glorious spin through alpine meadows, beside tiny, exuberant streams - marred only by exuberant dogs. I started a flock of starlings, hundreds if not thousands, whirling over my head in silence for twenty or thirty seconds. They felt almost close enough to touch, sweeping over my head first from the left, then back, then from the left again. It was uncanny but not frightening: I have never seen them flock from so close, and never so soundlessly.

Later, hot from a long and tough climb, I happened to stop near a telegraph pole and spotted a tree-creeper circling it. At the top he trilled a proud cock-crow. I paused, holding my breath, to see if he would drop back down and dance the maypole again, as they often do, but with another happy trill he was off.

Sooner than expected I reached the very top of the gorge, above the source of the river that created the little railway's backdrop. A Greek flag flaps sturdily at the high point, from where I can look down into three valleys, each with its road to this pass. Inevitably there is a little shrine. High in these mountains (at around 2000m) there are few roads, and the crossroads does seem noteworthy.

About 3k into the descent I notice a huge weeping willow, incongruous so high up. Next to it is a water fountain, so probably the willow enjoys its own spring water. This is at a switchback turn where I can see for miles up and down the huge valley. I see no houses yet beside the willow is a small church, probably holding 20 people. The large bell in a separate tower seems too large the church, but it must call people a long way.

Downhill for miles now, moving in the next 30km from Alpine meadows with goats to fertile meadows with crops. The aspect of the mountain must make a difference, as I am still high up. A patch of warm air hits me in a gust, a pleasant surprise, and I realise how cold the air has been, despite the heat of exercise. As I started from Kalabrita my breath hung in the air as steam, another first this trip. Autumn is well underway now.

On the edge of Arcadia I take a little detour to visit "Pausanias' vine", a rambling monster of a plant that is said to be three thousand years old, vast and old when Pausanias wrote of it in the second century AD. It is rather disappointing, really, big and messy, balanced on big plane trees. I had planned to eat my lunch here but am driven away by the endlessly agitated dogs. I can't help thinking of Marvel's "vegetable love" that he said would grow "had we but world enough and time". For some reason I always imagined the vegetable love as a giant cabbage. Imagining it as a giant vine doesn't really help. To a modern reader there is no getting round it, vegetable is a silly word in this context.

As I pedal through the autumnal landscape of the real Arcadia several Autumn poems run through my head. One is prompted I suppose by the notion of nostalgia for our youth's Arcadia. Roughly.. " tell me, Margaret, are you grieving over Goldengrove unleaving.." (lovely word) tum ti tim tu tum ti three four, "it is Margaret you grieve for ". Even in my teens I thought the poet (um, GM Hopkins?? Not sure) made a good point, even if the rhythm is rather overbearing. The landscape is different, less harsh than the mountains, and the streams less precipitate. You can see why this land was cherished in ancient times for its well-watered fertility. For me, though, Pan no longer feels close to this place, it is too populous.

The weather becomes quite threatening as I reach the 45k mark. The approaching cars have their lights on, always a bad sign. The obvious thing to do is to stop for lunch and hope the weather blows over. Great lunch largely stems from a great breakfast... Hardboiled egg, sandwiches, cake and an orange. The dark clouds seem to have moved to the right while I was eating, but the cars still have their lights on so I switch mine on and don my bright yellow waterproof.

The remaining 20k to Libidi is uphill all the way. Sweltering in my "breathable" Gortex jacket I am pleased that I haven't had to push the bike since I left Olympos behind. It is probably easier terrain, rather than my fitness improving! I think these more civilised mountain roads have been built with more forgiving gradients.

So I persistently climb, always with an eye to the dark cloud which never quite reaches me. It takes over an hour to find a hotel. Guides should not be allowed to say"200m from the main square" when every road in the town branches from the main square. I keep asking people and go round in circles. I find a four star hotel that is full. I know there are at least two other hotels in this town. I ask again and again and eventually ask in a honey and sweet shop. The assistant is very sweet herself, she invites me to warm myself at the wood-burning stove and fetches me water, urging me to sit down. She speaks little English but phones her mother, who arrives by car and takes charge. Mother speaks good English (another daughter is studying in London). She phones around, everywhere is full except one, so I have little choice. She gives me a local specialty sweet, a crisp pancake dripping with honey. She is proud of the beautiful decor of her family shop, extraordinary embroideries done in the 1920s, good paintings of flowers and family portraits. It truly is delightful and I feel lucky to see it. She then drives ahead of me to the hotel - very slowly, as it is a hideously steep and very convoluted route. Again, it is wonderful how kind people are.

The hotel has fantastic views on all four sides: it really is the high point of the town. I still prefer the wild mountains! I spend a very cold night that feels more wintry than autumnal.