“There’s something about border towns that tastes like spilt liquor and cigarette ash. They rarely greet you with a smile. More like a shrug, a raised eyebrow, maybe a tax. And crossing from Slovakia into Hungary felt exactly like that: like the end of a party we were never really invited to. Gone were the manicured roads and apologetic drivers of the West. In their place: cracked tarmac, sun-faded billboards, and a lingering Cold War hangover you couldn’t quite shake off. It was perfect.” HungaryBeautifullyrawBordertownsCultureshiftCycletransitionEasterneuropePostcoldwarRoadrealitySaddlesorewritingTravelmood Book:SaddleSore: From England to India Source: SaddleSore: From England to India