Like a seagull over the Sea of Azov

Because the clocks tick differently here, we set our watches an extra hour ahead first thing in the morning. The sky is hazy and overcast but it’s not cold. The bad dog guarded our bikes well. Of course, what thief would want to run the risk of being mauled? It’s better to look for easier prey. We leave the Gastiniza behind us and follow the well-maintained and wide road eastwards again. It starts to drizzle slightly. We unpack our rain gear and prepare for wet weather at the roadside. Just minutes later, we’re sweating like monkeys under our clothes. Then the sun makes its way through the clouds and warms up the day. To the left, as you head east, the beach of the Sea of Azov stretches just a few meters from the road. Accommodation, huts, houses, bars and cafés tell us that we are in a tourist stronghold here. Now, towards the end of September, there are only a few guests on the beach. Everything seems more or less abandoned. We stop for a rest at a beach bar. We eat a bortsch, some bread and then have a coffee. The last ice cream on a stick has just been bought by an elderly gentleman. There are a few old Ladas on the beach. A few bathers sit in front of their vehicles and enjoy the last rays of sunshine. A boy has put his towel on the trunk and made himself comfortable on it. The adults sit laughing and cheerful under the parasol. A scene that reminds us of an old movie from the GDR era. After our bellies are full, our thighs move the wheels over the asphalt again. Traffic has visibly increased since the border. Suddenly the road rises to a height of around 70 meters. A few paragliders have gathered at the highest point of the steeply sloping coast to take advantage of the thermals for their flights. We stop to take a few pictures. “Where are you coming from? Where are you going?” we hear the questions repeated over and over again. “Come and fly with me. I have a tandem glider. I invite you to fly along the coast,” he says happily. As we want to get a few more kilometers behind us today, we decline. “But why? It’s great fun,” replies the pilot. “I flew myself until a few years ago. Unfortunately, I had an accident on my last flight and crashed. Thank God I only suffered a few bruises back then. So it’s not that I’m really scared of flying now, but still. Burma is still a long way away. It’s better I don’t risk anything,” I reply, to which he is satisfied and lets himself be carried by the thermal winds over the coastal strip of the Sea of Azov with his large glider, like a seagull.

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