179 CYCLE TOURING GEORGIA (2)

 

BETWEEN CONTINENTS

23 August – 8 September 2025
15 Days – 448 km

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VOICEOVER

 FLIP-BOOK

 

Prologue — Crossing Into the In‑Between

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.

 

 

Pattaya, Thailand to Tbilisi, Georgia

The journey to Georgia began not with a bang, but with a blur—two back-to-back four-hour flights, a seven-hour layover in Mumbai, and the kind of sleep deprivation that turns airports into surreal dreamscapes. I had left behind the humid embrace of Pattaya, Thailand, and landed in Tbilisi, Georgia—a city that once welcomed me in 2008 and now stood waiting, changed and yet familiar.

Tbilisi, the ancient caravan town at the crossroads of Eastern Europe and Western Asia, has always been more than a dot on the map. It’s a place where empires collided, where trade routes braided cultures together, and where history clings to the stones like moss. I arrived groggy and disoriented, but the moment I stepped into my guesthouse—a humble gem tucked away in the folds of the old city—I felt as if I’d been gently transported back in time. The walls whispered stories. The air held a kind of quiet reverence.

Despite my declaration that I was venturing into a new continent, Asia hadn’t quite let go. As I looked around, I knew I’d be staying in this vibrant region for a while longer, as there is too much to see, too much to feel.

That first night, sleep came like a balm. Airports may be where dreams go to die, but Tbilisi offered resurrection. I collapsed into bed and woke before dawn, the time difference working in my favour. At 5:30 a.m., I brewed a cup of coffee that filled the room with its rich aroma and stepped into the streets, ready to meet the city.

Tbilisi is a city of layers. Established in the fifth century, its buildings wear their history like patchwork coats—crumbling facades held together by timber supports and memory. The cobbled streets twisted and turned, revealing sagging clotheslines and faded balconies. I wandered through the old town, chasing echoes of my younger self, seventeen years removed. The city had changed, but its soul remained intact.

Modernity pulses through Tbilisi now. Renovation projects hum along, scaffolding clings to buildings like exoskeletons, and yet, the old rhythms persist. Elderly women in black shuffle to markets, exchanging quiet words with neighbours. Their presence is a gentle reminder that life here moves at its own pace—unhurried, deliberate, dignified.

One of the first cultural nuances I encountered was the Georgian demeanour. Aloofness, at first glance. Serious expressions. Smiles reserved for familiarity. It’s not coldness—it’s custom. In Georgia, casual banter with strangers can feel insincere, a relic of Soviet restraint. Public cheerfulness was once discouraged, and the echoes of that era still shape social norms. I found it fascinating, even comforting in its honesty. It fascinated me as it reminded me that travel isn’t just about seeing new places—it’s about learning new ways of being.

And then, there was the food. Oh, the food. Khachapuri, Georgia’s beloved cheese bread, is comfort incarnate. That morning, I devoured a Penovani khachapuri—flaky pastry wrapped around molten cheese, topped with a golden egg. Each bite was a revelation. Later, I savoured pelmeni in a clay pot, dumplings swimming in broth and sour cream, sealed with a baked dough lid. It was hearty, humble, and deeply satisfying.

Tbilisi had welcomed me with open arms and full plates. It was a city that didn’t rush to impress but quietly revealed its magic to those willing to linger. And linger I did, knowing that the road ahead would be long, but that this—this moment of stillness and warmth—was the perfect beginning.

The following morning I again woke before the city did. I stood in the little courtyard of my guesthouse, cradling a steaming cup of coffee, the aroma curling into the quiet like incense.

Outside, the city stirred slowly. I stepped into the streets, camera slung over one shoulder, heart wide open. The morning light in Tbilisi has a way of slipping through the cracks—between shutters, over rooftops, across cobbled lanes—like a whispered invitation.

Tbilisi, with its fifth-century bones and twenty-first-century heartbeat, unfolded before me like a palimpsest—layer upon layer of history, memory, and reinvention.

The old town was a living museum. Twisting alleyways led me past buildings that leaned into each other like old friends, their facades faded but proud. I remembered these streets from seventeen years ago, but they felt different now—more worn, more alive, more urgent in their beauty.

There was a quiet dignity in the decay. A kind of resilience. And amidst it all, signs of renewal: scaffolding, fresh plaster, the hum of restoration. Tbilisi was not frozen in time—it was evolving, but carefully, like someone rearranging heirlooms on a shelf.

Again, I passed elderly women dressed in black, their movements deliberate, their faces unreadable. They shuffled to markets with cloth bags and quiet purpose, pausing to exchange murmured greetings. In a world obsessed with speed, their pace felt radical. Sacred, even.

That night, I wandered the streets again, the city now glowing under amber lights. Musicians played on corners, their melodies weaving through the air like smoke. I felt both foreign and at home, a visitor and a witness. Tbilisi had opened its arms not with fanfare, but with quiet grace.

I returned to my guesthouse and sat beneath the flickering light of a single bulb, scribbling notes into my journal. Outside, the city exhaled. I listened to its breath and thought: this is why I travel—not just to move, but to be moved.

 

Leaving Tbilisi felt like tearing a page from a beloved book before finishing the chapter. The city had wrapped itself around me—its crumbling balconies, its quiet dignity, its cheese-filled bread—and I wasn’t quite ready to let go. But the road was calling, and I had promised myself I’d listen.

I set off just after eight, which, for me, counts as an early start. The city was still stretching its limbs; shops remained shuttered, and the streets were hushed. I coasted downhill toward the Mtkvari River, the morning air cool against my cheeks, the city slowly receding behind me.

Then—disaster. A screw from my front luggage rack vanished somewhere along the cobbles. I cursed under my breath, suspecting the bike shop hadn’t tightened it properly. But cable ties, those unsung heroes of the road, came to my rescue. I patched things up, made a mental note to find a proper fix, and pedalled on.

The landscape began to shift. Mist clung to the hills like a secret. Waterfalls spilled from hidden ravines. Ancient castles crowned distant ridgelines, their silhouettes softened by the morning haze. It felt like cycling through a medieval dream.

And then, rising above the valley like a sentinel, stood the Jvari Monastery. Perched atop a rocky cliff, it commanded the confluence of the Mtkvari and Aragvi rivers. Legend says a wooden cross was erected here in the fourth century by Saint Nino, marking the dawn of Christianity in Georgia. The current stone church, built between 585 and 605 AD, is a masterpiece of early Georgian architecture—simple, solemn, and utterly majestic.

As I stood there, wind tugging at my sleeves, I felt the weight of centuries settle around me. The stones beneath my feet had borne witness to empires rising and falling to prayers whispered in candlelight, to the quiet persistence of faith. It was humbling.

Just beyond the bend, Mtskheta revealed itself like a secret garden. Once the capital of the ancient Kingdom of Iberia, it’s one of the world's oldest continuously inhabited cities. The village unfolded in soft hues—stone walls, terracotta roofs, pomegranate trees heavy with fruit.

I found a guesthouse tucked behind a wooden gate, its courtyard dappled with shade. The owner, a kind-eyed man, offered to drive me back up to Jvari. I accepted without hesitation.

That evening, I wandered the cobbled lanes of Mtskheta, eventually arriving at the Svetitskhoveli Cathedral. Built between 1010 and 1129, it’s said to house the robe of Christ, buried beneath its foundations. Whether legend or truth, the cathedral radiated a quiet power. I sat on a bench in its shadow, watching the light fade, feeling the hush of history settle around me.

Later, I sipped a cold beer in the courtyard of the guesthouse, the air thick with the scent of ripe pomegranates. The sky turned lavender, then indigo. I thought of the morning’s chaos, the lost screw, the misty hills, the ancient stones. This, I realised, was the rhythm of cycle touring: the unexpected, the sublime, the small victories. A day that began with frustration had ended in stillness and awe.

 

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 tyres, 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.

Seventy-five kilometres later, just 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.

On closer inspection, it revealed itself as Uplistsikhe—a city carved from stone, older than memory. The cave complex dates back to the second millennium BCE, a pagan stronghold long before Christianity swept through the region. Temples, dwellings, tunnels, and streets—all hewn from rock, all whispering of lives once lived. I wandered through the ruins, running my fingers along ancient walls, imagining the rituals, the markets, the quiet moments of a civilisation now vanished.

The northern approach had once been fortified with ten-meter-high rock walls, a natural defence against invaders. Now, it was open to the sky, the wind, and the occasional wide-eyed traveller. I stood at the edge of a cliff, looking out over the valley, and felt the weight of millennia settle around me. I was not the first to pass this way. I would not be the last.

That night, I found a room in a timber house with a vine-covered pergola. My host, a woman with kind eyes and strong hands, served me a mountain of khinkali—dumplings bursting with flavour—alongside slices of watermelon and a cold Georgian beer. We didn’t share a language, but we shared a table, and that was enough.

I sat beneath the vines, the sky darkening, the air thick with the scent of grapes and earth. The day had begun with no plan, no destination. It ended with ancient stones, unexpected friendship, and a full belly.

This, I thought, is the magic of the road: not knowing where you’ll end up, but arriving exactly where you need to be.

 

The way out of Uplistikhe began with a gentle descent, the kind that lulls you into a false sense of ease. Just twelve kilometres from my timber guesthouse, nestled among vines and dumpling memories, lay Gori—a town with a name that echoes through history, heavy with implication.

I arrived in Gori, the birthplace of Joseph Stalin, with curiosity, not reverence. The statue that once loomed over the town square had been removed, its absence more telling than its presence ever was. But the museum remained, a relic of Soviet pride and post-Soviet reckoning. As I approached, I crossed paths with two Chinese women and their English-speaking guide. They invited me to join them, and I gratefully accepted. Some places demand interpretation.

Inside, the guide spoke with clarity and candour. There was no attempt to soften the edges of Stalin’s legacy. Instead, she offered facts—meticulously researched, quietly devastating. We moved through rooms filled with artefacts, photographs, and contradictions. I found myself unsettled by the parallels between Stalin’s behaviour and the bravado of certain modern leaders. History, it seemed, was not content to stay buried.

Outside, the sun was high, the air thick with silence. I cycled to the Gori Fortress, perched on a rocky hill overlooking the town. Its origins stretch back to the final centuries BCE, though written records only begin in the 13th century. I climbed the ancient stairs, each step a reminder of the layers beneath my tyres, beneath my feet, beneath my thoughts.

By the time I left Gori, it was well past midday. The road to Surami was quiet, winding through sleepy villages and sun-drenched fields. After seventy-five kilometres, I arrived content and happy to find a guesthouse with a veranda, a kitchen, and a spacious room. It was the kind of place that doesn’t try to impress—it simply offers comfort.

That evening, I sat on the veranda, watching the light fade. The weight of the day lingered—not just the kilometres, but the stories. Stalin’s childhood home. The fortress. The quiet dignity of Surami. I thought about power, about memory, about the strange intimacy of standing in places where history happened.

 

Surami – Kutaisi - 93 km

Georgia isn’t flat. That much I knew. But the road from Surami to Kutaisi reminded me just how dramatic its contours could be. Hills rolled like waves, each one steeper than the last, and just when I thought I’d reached the crest, another climb appeared. I pedalled steadily, breath syncing with the rhythm of the land, legs burning, heart open.

Then came the freeway. A sign flashed “prohibited,” warning cyclists to stay clear. But the road workers, grinning and waving, ushered me through like an honoured guest. I hesitated, then followed their lead. Suddenly, I was gliding along a pristine stretch of highway, tunnels swallowing the hills, the ride transformed from gruelling to effortless. The tunnels were eerie—long, dim, echoing—but they carried me through the Rikoti Pass like a secret passage carved into the mountains.

Emerging on the other side felt like a rebirth. The air was different. Softer. The descent into Kutaisi was swift, and with it came a sense of arrival—not just in place, but in rhythm.

Kutaisi, Georgia’s third-largest city, greeted me with cobbled streets and steep inclines. I had booked a night at Friends Hostel, drawn by its proximity to the iconic Bagrati Cathedral. What I hadn’t anticipated was the final ascent—a punishing climb up a narrow, cobbled road that tested every ounce of my resolve. I wheezed, cursed, and dragged my bike upward, questioning my sanity with every step.

Still, the hostel was worth it. Budget-friendly, buzzing, and brimming with travellers from every corner of the globe. I arrived sweaty and breathless, expecting solitude, only to find a vibrant community. Among them was a South African artist now living in Russia; his stories were as layered and textured as the paintings he described. We swapped tales over laundry and tea, each conversation a thread in the tapestry of shared experience.

That night, I sat around the communal table, surrounded by laughter, languages, and the quiet hum of connection. Kutaisi had offered me more than shelter—it had offered belonging.

Cycle touring is often solitary. You ride alone, think alone, eat alone. But sometimes, you arrive at a place where the walls are thin and the stories spill over. Friends Hostel was one of those places. A pause in the journey. A reminder that even on the loneliest roads, you’re never alone.

 

I extended my stay in Kutaisi, drawn not just by the comfort of Friends Hostel but by the promise of something strange and beautiful just beyond the city limits. Tskaltubo. A name that sounded like a whisper from another time.

I set out early, pedalling through crisp morning air, the road quiet, the sky pale with promise. Tskaltubo was once a jewel in the Soviet crown—a balneological resort famed for its radon-carbonate mineral springs. But I wasn’t chasing wellness. I was chasing ghosts.

The town unfolded slowly, its grandeur faded but unmistakable. Neoclassical facades stood cracked and crumbling, their columns chipped, their windows hollow. Sanatoriums lined the streets like sleeping giants, each one a monument to a vanished era. I wandered among them, camera in hand, heart thudding with curiosity.

In the 1950s, Tskaltubo welcomed over 125,000 visitors a year. It was a scientifically planned resort, its bathhouses and sanatoriums arranged in an amphitheatre-like formation amidst lush greenery. Stalin himself bathed here. The architecture was bold, theatrical—a blend of Stalinist ambition and classical grace.

But the fall of the USSR changed everything. The buildings were abandoned, repurposed, forgotten. Some now housed families displaced by conflict. Others stood empty, their staircases crumbling, their ballrooms silent.

I couldn’t resist. I climbed walls, ducked through broken doorways, and tiptoed across sagging floors. Inside, the air was thick with dust and memory. Faded murals, rusted fixtures, echoes of laughter and pain. It was exhilarating and eerie, like walking through a dream that had been left out in the rain.

Each building told a story—not just of healing, but of hubris, of collapse, of resilience. I imagined the patients who once soaked in mineral baths, the doctors who prescribed treatments, the architects who believed in beauty as therapy. And now, silence.

In 2022, the Georgian government began auctioning off these properties, hoping to revive the town’s legacy. There’s talk of restoration, of renewal. But for now, Tskaltubo remains suspended—between past and future, ruin and rebirth.

I returned to Kutaisi that evening, my mind buzzing with images: cracked tiles, vine-covered balconies, the soft echo of footsteps in empty halls. I sat on the hostel’s veranda, sipping tea, listening to the chatter of fellow travellers. Some of them had not been to Tskaltubo. I tried to describe it, but words felt inadequate.

Some places aren’t meant to be explained. They’re meant to be felt.

I stayed another day to explore the region as just outside the city, nestled within the Sataphlia-Tskaltubo karst massif, lies Prometheus Cave. I had heard whispers of its beauty, its scale, its ancient secrets. But nothing prepared me for the awe that awaited.

The cave stretches over eleven kilometres, though only 1.8 kilometres are open to visitors. Still, each step felt like entering a cathedral carved by time itself. I moved slowly, reverently, through six caverns, each one more surreal than the last. Stalactites dripped from the ceiling like frozen rain. Stalagmites rose from the ground like silent sentinels. Helictites twisted in impossible directions, defying gravity. Needle-like anthodites shimmered like stars caught in stone.

It was quiet. Not the silence of absence, but the silence of presence—of something vast and ancient watching from the shadows.

Prometheus Cave is estimated to be 60 to 70 million years old. That number is impossible to grasp. But as I walked, I felt it—not as math, but as memory. Fossils of cave bears, starfish, and molluscs from the Cretaceous period have been found here. The walls themselves seemed to breathe history.

I paused often, placing my hand on cool stone, imagining the millennia that shaped it. Water, pressure, time. The slow alchemy of nature. It made my own journey feel small.

The lighting inside the cave was subtle, theatrical. Blues, greens, and golds illuminated the formations, casting shadows that danced like spirits. It was beautiful, yes—but also humbling. A reminder that the earth holds wonders we barely understand.

When I emerged, blinking into daylight, the world felt louder. Brighter. Faster.

That evening, back in Kutaisi, I sat with fellow travellers and tried to describe what I’d seen. Words failed. Photos helped, but only a little. Prometheus Cave wasn’t just a place—it was a feeling. A descent into deep time.

And so, I added it to my growing collection of moments. The kind you carry long after the journey ends.

 

I woke in Kutaisi to the soft patter of rain on canvas, cocooned in the spacious tent pitched behind the hostel. The drizzle was gentle, rhythmic, almost meditative. I lay there for a while, tempted to stay another day among the laughter and stories of fellow travellers. But the road tugged at me—not urgently, but insistently. I packed up, waved goodbye, and pedalled into the mist.

The ride to Ureki was 100 kilometres of shifting terrain, narrow roads, and unexpected detours. Road closures funnelled traffic into tight corridors, turning quiet lanes into chaotic bottlenecks. It wasn’t the leisurely ride I’d imagined, but the warmth in the air and the lush, green landscapes kept my spirits buoyant. Villages passed in a blur of stone houses and roadside stalls.

Ureki greeted me with a burst of energy. A holiday village pulsing with vacationers, beach umbrellas, and the scent of grilled corn. I found a snug; affordable room tucked away from the noise—a pocket of calm in the summer buzz. That evening, I wandered the shoreline, watching the tiny waves lap against the stony beach. The sea was quiet, almost shy. I felt a strange mix of arrival and anticipation.

 

The next morning, I set off for Batumi, 63 kilometres down the drag. It's Georgia’s second-largest city and its only harbour. The ride hugged the coast, the sea a constant companion. I lost track of time, caught up in the rhythm of the pedals and the salt-kissed breeze. I forgot to drink water. I forgot to stop. It was foolish, but exhilarating.

Batumi rose from the horizon like a mirage—modern, vibrant, layered. I checked into the Surf Hostel, oddly named for a place with no waves, but perfectly located in the old part of town. It was inexpensive, welcoming, and full of character.

I spent the following day doing the usual housekeeping—laundry, errands, wandering the boardwalk. The Black Sea stretched endlessly, its surface calm, its depths mysterious. I learned that beneath its placid exterior lies an anoxic layer saturated with hydrogen sulphide. Ninety per cent of the sea is oxygen-depleted, a perfect preservative for organic material. Ancient ships sleep in its depths, untouched by time. In 2018, scientists discovered the world’s oldest sunken ship here, dating back 2,400 years.

The Black Sea was once a freshwater lake. Then, around 7,600 years ago, a catastrophic flood poured saltwater in from the Mediterranean, transforming it forever. I stood at the edge of that history, toes in the water, mind adrift.

But not everything was poetic. My financial lifeline—Wise—had failed me. It had worked flawlessly in Asia, but now I was stranded, unable to transfer money from my South African bank to my Thai account. Vulnerability crept in. I felt exposed, floating without a safety net. In a moment of desperation, I messaged my sister, hoping she could help. I crossed my fingers, willing the funds to appear.

I wasn’t in a rush, but I needed resolution. The road to Turkey loomed, and with it, the need for a sleeping bag—something I’d discarded long ago in the heat of Asia. Camping was my only affordable option now, and I had to prepare.

Batumi became a pause. A place to problem-solve, to breathe. The sea whispered reassurance. The hostel offered warmth. And I, once again, found my footing.

 

A Passage into Turkey

The road south from Batumi was quiet, the sea to my right, the hills to my left, and the border drawing closer with every turn of the wheel. Fifteen kilometres out, I came upon the Gonio Fortress—a massive stone structure that seemed to rise from the earth itself, its walls thick with centuries.

I parked my bike and wandered inside, eager to learn more. Gonio, once known as Apsaros or Apsyrtus, was built by the Romans between the first and third centuries as a military outpost. But it was more than a garrison. Archaeologists have uncovered remnants of a theatre and hippodrome, water and sewerage canals, and two Roman baths with underfloor heating—boiler rooms connected by narrow tunnels. It was a town, a hub, a place of life.

Some believe the grave of Saint Matthias, one of the twelve apostles, lies within the fortress walls. Excavation near the site is restricted, the mystery preserved. I stood near the centre, imagining Roman soldiers, traders, priests, and pilgrims. The Byzantines fortified it further in the sixth and seventh centuries. The Ottomans captured it in 1547, transforming it into a trade centre and slave market. It remained under their control until the Treaty of San Stefano in 1878, when it was ceded to the Russian Empire.

The stones whispered all of it. I lingered longer than planned, then crossed the border into Turkey. The transition was smooth, almost anticlimactic. A few stamps, a few questions, and I was through. Just beyond the checkpoint, I spotted a campsite nestled beside the water. I hadn’t tested my gear in a while, and the spot felt right—quiet, shaded, with a small restaurant nearby.

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.

 

Prologue — Crossing Into the In‑Between

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.