BETWEEN CONTINENTS
GEORGIA
23 August – 8 September 2025
15 Days – 448 km
VOICEOVER
FLIP-BOOK
PHOTOS
Prologue
I
landed in Tbilisi half-asleep and half-expecting Asia to finally loosen its
grip on me. Instead, Georgia felt like a threshold—where continents blur,
histories collide, and every crooked balcony seems to whisper an invitation. I
came looking for rest, but the road was already calling.
Chapter
1: Arrival in Tbilisi
The
wheels of the plane touched down in Tbilisi, Georgia, with a gentle jolt—a
fitting welcome to a land where ancient history and modern energy collide.
After a whirlwind of days in Thailand and a sleepless journey marked by
back-to-back flights and a seven-hour layover in Mumbai, I found myself in the
heart of the Caucasus, exhausted but exhilarated. Airports, I mused, are places
where dreams go to die, but my humble abode in Tbilisi was a sanctuary—a place
that felt as if it had been plucked from another era.
Georgia,
perched at the crossroads of Eastern Europe and Western Asia, has always been a
land of passage. Its strategic location has made it a coveted prize for empires
and a melting pot of cultures. I had last visited in May 2008, and now,
seventeen years later, I was eager to see what had changed—and what had
endured.
My
first morning in Tbilisi began before dawn, the three-hour time difference
between Southeast Asia and the Caucasus working in my favour. I brewed a cup of
strong coffee, letting its aroma fill the air, and stepped out into the city’s
awakening streets. The morning light danced off centuries-old facades, and the
pulse of the city beckoned me to explore.
Tbilisi
is a city of contrasts. Its cobbled streets twist and turn, revealing crumbling
buildings held together by timber supports and untold stories. Clotheslines sag
overhead, creating a patchwork against faded walls. Yet, amidst this historical
charm, the city is alive with renovation—a testament to its resilience and the
determination of its people.
I
wandered through the old town, memories from my previous visit flooding back.
Elderly women, dressed in black, shuffled to the market, their quiet
conversations a gentle reminder that life here moves at its own, unhurried
rhythm. The city’s social fabric is woven with traditions that may seem aloof
to outsiders; smiles are reserved for acquaintances, and casual banter with
strangers is rare. It’s not coldness, I realized, but a reflection of deeply
rooted social norms—a fascinating legacy of the Soviet era.
No
introduction to Georgia would be complete without its food. At the heart of
every meal is khachapuri, a warm bread boat filled with molten cheese and
topped with a golden egg. I savoured Penovani khachapuri, its flaky pastry and
gooey cheese a perfect union of texture and taste. Lunch brought pelmeni in a
pot—dumplings swimming in fragrant broth, crowned with sour cream and baked
beneath a delicate crust. Each bite was a celebration of comfort and tradition.
As
I settled into my new surroundings, I felt the anticipation of adventures yet
to come. Georgia was no longer just a place on the map—it was a living,
breathing story, and I was ready to write my next chapter within its ancient
walls.
Chapter
2: Into the Heart of Georgia
Leaving
the embrace of Tbilisi was no easy feat. The city had woven itself into my
heart with its labyrinthine streets, ancient buildings, and the gentle rhythm
of daily life. Yet, the promise of new adventures beckoned, and with a mix of
trepidation and excitement, I set out at dawn—well, my version of dawn, just
after eight.
The
city was quiet, the shops still shuttered, and the air crisp as I raced
downhill toward the Mtkvari River. My worries about navigating heavy traffic
and steep hills melted away in the peaceful morning. But travel is never
without its surprises; disaster struck early when a screw fell from my front
luggage rack. Improvisation became my ally, and a few cable ties kept my
journey on track, though I made a mental note to find a more permanent fix.
As
I pedalled away from the city, Georgia’s landscapes unfolded in breathtaking
fashion. Misty mountains loomed in the distance, wooded ravines hid waterfalls,
and ancient castles perched atop hills gave the countryside a medieval air. The
Jvari Monastery, a UNESCO World Heritage site, stood majestically on a rocky
cliff—a silent witness to centuries of faith and architecture. According to
legend, a cross was first erected here in the early fourth century, and the
monastery, built between 585 and 605 AD, set the stage for Georgian and
Armenian ecclesiastical design.
Just
around the bend, the ancient capital of Mtskheta came into view. Founded in the
fifth century, Mtskheta is one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in
the world. Once the heart of the ancient Kingdom of Iberia, it unfolded before
me like a storybook. I wandered its streets, marvelling at the Svetitskhoveli
Cathedral, built between 1010 and 1129, and soaking in the village’s unique
charm.
My
guesthouse host offered to drive me to the Jvari Monastery, and I eagerly
accepted. The journey was a gift—an opportunity to see the landscape from a
local’s perspective and to hear stories that don’t make it into guidebooks.
Later, I enjoyed a refreshing beer in a tiny courtyard overflowing with
pomegranate trees, savouring the simple pleasures that make cycle touring so
rewarding.
The
next morning, I lingered over coffee in my pomegranate garden, setting off on
the hilly road with no fixed destination. The scenery was spectacular: misty
valleys, ancient fortresses, and the unmistakable signs of summer’s end as
crops were harvested. Along the way, I met Alex, a fellow cycle tourer nearing
the end of a four-month journey that began in Germany. Our brief encounter was
a reminder of the camaraderie that exists among travellers—a shared
understanding of the joys and challenges of life on the road.
Descending
to the Kyra River, I spotted something carved into the mountain and decided to
investigate. Uplistsikhe, one of Georgia’s most extraordinary archaeological
sites, revealed itself as a cave complex dating back to the second millennium
BCE. Carved directly into the rock, the town features temples, dwellings,
tunnels, and streets, with walls up to ten meters high offering natural defence.
Tracing the footsteps of travellers, priests, and traders over millennia, I
felt a deep connection to the region’s ancient past.
I
ended the day in a typical Georgian timber home with a vine-covered pergola,
enjoying a massive bowl of khinkali dumplings, watermelon, and Georgian beer. The
hospitality was genuine, and the sense of discovery profound.
Georgia’s
language, Georgian, is a linguistic island—unrelated to Indo-European, Turkic,
or Semitic languages. Written in Mkhedruli, its oldest surviving literary text
dates back to the fifth century AD. For a traveller like me, picking up the
language was nearly impossible, but the warmth of the people and the beauty of
the land spoke volumes.
As
the days unfolded, each pedal stroke carried me deeper into Georgia’s heart—a
place where history, culture, and adventure intertwine, and where every moment
is a story waiting to be told.
Chapter
3: Ancient Roads and Cave Cities
The
road out of Mtskheta was a ribbon of possibility, winding through misty valleys
and past ancient fortresses. Each morning began with coffee in my pomegranate
garden, the air tinged with the promise of adventure. I set off with no fixed
destination, letting the hills and curiosity guide me.
Georgia’s
countryside was a tapestry of harvested fields, wooded ravines, and distant
mountains shrouded in haze. The end of summer was palpable, and the rhythm of
rural life unfolded with every pedal stroke. Along the way, I encountered Alex,
a fellow cycle tourer heading in the opposite direction. His journey had
started in Germany four months earlier, and our brief exchange was a reminder
of the camaraderie that exists among travellers—a shared understanding of the
joys and challenges of life on the road.
Descending
toward the Kyra River, something unusual caught my eye: a series of structures
carved directly into the mountain. Drawn by curiosity, I discovered
Uplistsikhe, one of Georgia’s most extraordinary archaeological sites. This
ancient cave complex, dating back to the second millennium BCE, is among the
oldest urban settlements in the country. Traces of habitation reach back to the
Bronze Age, and the site flourished as a pagan religious centre before
Christianity took hold in the fourth century CE.
Exploring
Uplistsikhe was like stepping into another world. The town’s temples,
dwellings, tunnels, and streets were all hewn from solid rock, with walls up to
ten meters high providing natural defence. The northern approach, carved into
the mountain, hinted at the ingenuity of its builders. As I wandered through
the labyrinthine passages, I felt connected to millennia of travellers,
priests, and traders who had passed this way.
That
evening, I found lodging in a typical Georgian timber home, its vine-covered
pergola offering a tranquil retreat. My host welcomed me with a massive bowl of
khinkali dumplings, watermelon, and a cold Georgian beer. The hospitality was
genuine, and the sense of discovery profound—a perfect end to a day spent
tracing the footsteps of ancient civilizations.
The
next morning, I continued my journey, cycling just twelve kilometres to Gori,
the birthplace of Joseph Stalin. The town’s history is complex, and its
connection to one of the twentieth century’s most controversial figures is palpable.
Stalin’s statue, once a prominent feature of the town square, now resides in
the local museum. I joined two Chinese travellers and their English-speaking
guide, whose insights brought Stalin’s story to life with meticulously
researched facts. The parallels between history and the present were striking,
and I left Gori with a sense of unease and fascination.
Before
departing, I visited the imposing Gori Fortress, perched high on a rocky hill
overlooking the city. Its origins stretch back to the thirteenth century,
though archaeological evidence suggests fortifications existed here as early as
the final centuries BCE. Standing beneath its ancient walls, I felt privileged
to witness the layers of history that define Georgia.
By
midday, I was back on the road, cycling toward the village of Surami. My chosen
guesthouse was a delightful surprise, with a charming veranda, a kitchen, and a
spacious bedroom—a welcome respite after a day of exploration.
Georgia’s
language, Georgian, is a linguistic island, unrelated to Indo-European, Turkic,
or Semitic tongues. Written in Mkhedruli, its oldest surviving literary text
dates to the fifth century AD. For a traveller, the language is nearly
impenetrable, but the warmth of the people and the beauty of the land speak
volumes.
As
I settled in for the night, I reflected on the journey so far. Each day brought
new discoveries, challenges, and connections. The ancient roads and cave cities
of Georgia were more than just destinations—they were chapters in a story that
was still unfolding.
Chapter
4: Stalin’s Shadow
The
morning sun rose over Surami, casting long shadows across the veranda of my
guesthouse. I lingered over breakfast, savouring the quiet before another day
of cycling. My destination was Kutaisi, but first, I would pass through Gori—a
city whose name is forever linked to one of history’s most controversial
figures: Joseph Stalin.
Just
twelve kilometres from my overnight stop, I rolled into Gori. The city’s
connection to Stalin is inescapable. Once, his statue stood tall in the town
square, a symbol of Soviet pride. Now, it resides in the local museum, a silent
witness to changing times and shifting perspectives. As I approached the
museum, I was joined by two Chinese travellers and their English-speaking
guide, who graciously invited me to tag along.
Inside,
the guide led us through Stalin’s life with meticulous detail, painting a
vivid—if unsettling—portrait of the man behind the myth. There was no attempt
to sugarcoat the past. Instead, we were confronted with the complexities and
contradictions of a leader whose legacy still echoes through the corridors of
power today. I found myself reflecting on the parallels between Stalin’s era
and the confident world leaders of our own time. History, it seemed, was not
content to remain in the past.
After
the museum, I made my way to the Gori Fortress, perched high on a rocky hill
overlooking the city. Its origins stretch back to the thirteenth century,
though archaeological evidence suggests fortifications existed here as early as
the final centuries BCE. Climbing the ancient stairs, I felt the weight of
centuries beneath my feet. The fortress had witnessed invasions, sieges, and
the rise and fall of empires—a silent sentinel to Georgia’s turbulent history.
By
the time I left Gori, the day was already slipping away. I pressed on, cycling
through rolling hills and quiet villages until I reached Surami. My guesthouse
was a welcome surprise: a charming veranda, a well-equipped kitchen, and a
spacious bedroom. As evening fell, I reflected on the day’s encounters. Gori
had challenged me to confront uncomfortable truths, to see history not as a
distant story but as a living force that shapes the present.
Georgia,
I realised, is a land where the past is never far away. Every fortress, every
monument, every conversation is a reminder of the struggles and triumphs that
have defined this country. As I drifted off to sleep, I wondered what stories
tomorrow would bring—and how my own journey would fit into the tapestry of Georgia’s
history.
Chapter
5: Across the Rikoti Pass
Georgia’s
landscape is anything but flat—a fact I was reminded of as I set out from
Surami, heading west toward Kutaisi. The road twisted and climbed, revealing
new surprises at every turn. My destination was Turkey, but first, I had to
cross the formidable Rikoti Pass.
Cycling
through the hills, I soon found myself at the entrance to a brand-new freeway.
A sign flashed “prohibited,” warning cyclists to stay away, but to my
astonishment, the road workers waved me through. Suddenly, I was gliding along
smooth asphalt, passing through a series of tunnels that transformed what could
have been a gruelling ride into a breeze. The tunnels were a bit
nerve-wracking, but before I knew it, I emerged triumphantly on the other side
of the pass.
Arriving
in Kutaisi, I decided to stray from the usual path. Instead of a traditional
guesthouse, I booked a night at the Friends Hostel, drawn by its prime location
near the iconic Bagrati Cathedral. Reaching the hostel, however, was a
challenge in itself—an incredibly steep cobbled road tested my resolve as I
struggled to drag my bike uphill. I questioned my sanity, but the promise of
budget-friendly accommodation kept me going.
To
my surprise, the hostel was buzzing with life. Travelers from around the globe
filled every room, sharing stories and laughter. Among them was a South African
artist now living in Russia, whose tales added colour to the evening. The
hostel’s communal spirit was infectious, and I quickly found myself swapping
stories and advice with fellow adventurers.
Once
settled in, I tackled my long-overdue laundry, grateful for the chance to
refresh both my clothes and my mind. Each conversation with other guests was
like finding a piece of a puzzle, painting a vivid picture of cultures and
experiences from afar. The serendipity of these encounters made my journey all
the more memorable.
The
next morning, I extended my stay for another night, eager to explore Kutaisi
and its surroundings. The city’s blend of history and modernity was
captivating, and the hostel’s welcoming atmosphere made it easy to linger. As I
wandered the streets and chatted with travellers, I realised that the true
magic of cycle touring lay not just in the places I visited, but in the people
I met along the way.
Chapter
6: Spa Towns and Soviet Relics
Kutaisi
had a way of encouraging lingering. The hostel’s communal spirit and the city’s
blend of old and new made it easy to stay another day. Early the next morning,
I set out to explore Tskaltubo—a town that felt like a time capsule, brimming
with history, healing, and architectural ambition.
Pedalling
through the crisp morning air, I was struck by the stories hidden in
Tskaltubo’s streets. The town’s reputation as a wellness destination stretches
back centuries, with its radon-carbonate mineral springs first mentioned in the
seventh to ninth centuries. By the 12th and 13th centuries, Tskaltubo was
already celebrated for its healing waters, and by 1920, it had officially
transformed into a balneological resort, specialising in treatments for
everything from circulatory issues to skin conditions.
The
Soviet era brought Tskaltubo to its zenith. By 1953, it had achieved town
status and blossomed into a premier spa destination, drawing 125,000 visitors
each year. The town was meticulously planned, with 22 sanatoriums and nine
bathhouses arranged in an amphitheatre-like formation amid lush greenery. Each
building was a testament to style, blending neoclassical and Stalinist
influences in a captivating display of architectural beauty.
But
the fall of the USSR marked a poignant decline. Many of Tskaltubo’s
once-thriving sanatoriums were abandoned or repurposed to house people
displaced by conflict. Yet, hope flickered anew in 2022, when the Georgian
government began auctioning off these properties, sparking renewed interest in
the town’s restoration and untapped potential.
Wandering
through Tskaltubo, I was struck by the juxtaposition of splendid yet neglected
buildings. Each step was an adventure; I couldn’t resist the thrill of climbing
crumbling walls to peek inside these architectural relics. The experience was
exhilarating and a little eerie, as I let my imagination roam through the husks
of a once-bustling spa town.
Back
in Kutaisi, my days were filled with simple pleasures—chatting with fellow travellers,
wandering the old city, and tending to practical matters like bike repairs. The
pace of service was slow, but the atmosphere was relaxed, and every errand
became an opportunity to observe daily life.
Georgia’s
spa towns and Soviet relics offered a glimpse into a world where history,
ambition, and resilience intertwine. As I prepared to continue my journey, I
carried with me the stories of Tskaltubo—its faded grandeur, its promise of
renewal, and the enduring spirit of a place that refuses to be forgotten.
Chapter
7: Natural Wonders
The
days in Kutaisi unfolded at a gentle pace, each one offering a new opportunity
for discovery. After tending to practical matters—like finally fixing my front
luggage rack and acquiring an odometer—I set my sights on one of Georgia’s most
captivating natural marvels: Prometheus Cave.
Just
outside Kutaisi, nestled within the Sataphlia-Tskaltubo karst massif,
Prometheus Cave stretches over eleven kilometres, though only a portion is open
to visitors. As I entered the cool darkness, I was immediately struck by the
otherworldly beauty of the underground world. Six caverns revealed nature’s
artistry: glittering stalactites hung from the ceiling, towering stalagmites
rose from the floor, and delicate helictites and needle-like anchorites adorned
the walls. The formations, shaped over millions of years, seemed almost alive,
shimmering in the soft light.
Prometheus
Cave is more than a geological wonder—it’s a window into the distant past.
Fossils of ancient cave bears, starfish, and molluscs from the Cretaceous
period have been discovered within its depths, offering a glimpse into a world
that existed 60 to 70 million years ago. As I wandered through the caverns, I
felt a sense of awe at the sheer scale of time and the power of nature to
create such beauty.
Back
in Kutaisi, life at the hostel continued in its easy rhythm. I spent my days
chatting with fellow travellers, sharing stories and advice, and wandering the
old city’s winding streets. Each encounter added a new layer to my
understanding of Georgia—a country where history, culture, and natural wonders
are woven together in a rich tapestry.
The
journey was far from over, but as I prepared to leave Kutaisi, I carried with me
the memory of Prometheus Cave—a reminder that beneath the surface, there is
always more to discover.
Chapter
8: Black Sea Adventures
The
call of the open road was irresistible, and soon I found myself leaving the
comfort of Kutaisi behind. The morning drizzle accompanied me as I pedalled
through lush, green landscapes, each village along the way offering a glimpse
into rural Georgian life. The journey was far from leisurely—road closures and
narrow lanes created a rush of traffic, but every challenge brought me closer
to the majestic shores of the Black Sea.
Arriving
in Ureki, I was greeted by the vibrant energy of a holiday village. Vacationers
filled the streets, yet I managed to find a snug, reasonably priced room that
offered a slice of tranquillity amidst the bustle. The air was thick with the
scent of the sea, and the gentle sound of waves provided a soothing backdrop to
my evening reflections.
The
next day, I set out for Batumi, Georgia’s second-largest city and its sole
harbour. The ride along the Black Sea coast was exhilarating—tiny waves lapped
against rugged, stony beaches, and the fresh sea breeze invigorated my spirit.
Lost in the beauty of the landscape, I barely paused for breaks, each pedal
stroke an adventure in itself.
Batumi
welcomed me with its lively boardwalk and cosmopolitan atmosphere. I checked
into the Surf Hostel, a quirky spot in the old part of town, and spent the
following day exploring the city’s charms. The Black Sea itself is a marvel—a
two-layered basin with a deep, anoxic layer saturated with hydrogen sulphide,
preserving ancient shipwrecks and secrets from centuries past. Its depths reach
2,200 meters, and until about 7,600 years ago, it was a freshwater lake,
transformed by a catastrophic flood from the Mediterranean.
As
I wandered Batumi’s streets, my thoughts turned to the practicalities of
travel. With prices rising, camping seemed the best option for my upcoming trip
to Turkey, but I was missing a sleeping bag. More pressing was a financial
challenge: my usual method for transferring money, Wise, was no longer working.
I needed to find a new way to access funds from my South African bank to my
Thai account—the only card I had on hand. The uncertainty left me feeling
vulnerable, so I reached out to my sister, hoping she could help bridge the
gap.
Despite
these worries, I preferred to tackle challenges head-on. The peace of mind that
comes with financial security was essential before embarking on a new journey.
As I prepared for the next leg of my adventure, I reflected on the resilience
required for solo travel—the ability to adapt, improvise, and keep moving
forward, no matter what obstacles arise.
The
Black Sea coast had offered both beauty and lessons in resourcefulness. With my
spirit renewed and my plans in motion, I looked ahead to the border crossing
and the promise of new discoveries in Turkey.
Chapter
9: Crossing Borders
The
time had come to leave Georgia behind and set my sights on new horizons. With
my gear packed and my mind buzzing with anticipation, I pedalled south from
Batumi, the Black Sea glimmering to my right. The road was gentle, the air
tinged with salt, and each kilometre brought me closer to the border with
Turkey.
Fifteen
kilometres from Batumi, I encountered the imposing Gonio Fortress—a site where
Roman military strategy, Greek mythology, and centuries of shifting empires
converge. The fortress, once known as Apsaros or Apsyrtus, was built by the
Romans as a military outpost in the first to third centuries. Archaeologists
have uncovered remnants of a theatre, a hippodrome, water and sewerage canals,
and two Roman baths with ingenious underfloor heating systems. Some believe the
grave of Saint Matthias, one of the twelve apostles, lies within the fortress
walls, though excavation near the site remains restricted.
The
fortress’s history is a tapestry woven by many hands. The Byzantines fortified
it in the sixth and seventh centuries, and by the fourteenth century, the name
‘Gonio’ appeared in historical texts. The Ottomans captured it in 1547,
transforming it into a trade centre and slave market, and it remained under
their control until the Treaty of San Stefano in 1878, when it was ceded to the
Russian Empire.
Crossing
the border into Turkey was both exhilarating and bittersweet. I had barely
started cycling when I spotted a campsite right next to the water—a perfect
place to pause and reflect. The gentle lapping of the waves, the comfort of a
nearby restaurant, and the satisfaction of testing my camping gear after so
many nights indoors made for a peaceful transition.
As
I settled in for the night, I looked back on the journey through Georgia: the
ancient cities, the mountain passes, the warmth of strangers, and the lessons
learned on the road. Each day had been a story, each challenge an opportunity
for growth. Now, with the border behind me and Turkey ahead, I felt ready for
whatever adventures awaited on the next stretch of the journey.
Prologue
I
landed in Tbilisi half-asleep and half-expecting Asia to finally loosen its
grip on me. Instead, Georgia felt like a threshold—where continents blur,
histories collide, and every crooked balcony seems to whisper an invitation. I
came looking for rest, but the road was already calling.
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