If I were ever to win one of those TV quizzes where you get to select a prize, I think I would probably not choose a motorcycling weekend in Prishtine, at least, not if there were any chance of rain. When I crossed over into Kosovo from Albania this morning, the weather was cooler than yesterday, but still warm and fair. It looked like it was going to be a fine day. My plan of travel was straightforward: I would take the motorway directly to the Kosovan capital of Prishtine which is located in the dead centre of the country, find a bank, get some Euros, the official currency of Kosovo, and use some of those Euros to pay for a meal. I'd then head due south to the border crossing over into Macedonia that evening, changing my remaining Euros into Dinar when I got there. It was a simple plan. But not one which had considered the possibility of a major downpour, nor had any realistic concept of what riding a motorcycle in Prishtine might mean. Within minutes of my crossing into Kosovo, the skies darkened, and the rain came down in great grey sheets, so by the time I hit Prishtine's six-lane traffic jams and experienced its inch-of-your-life driving, I was already tired, hungry, soaked and chilled. It was not a good start. A principle or point of honour that seems to be applied by all motorists in South-East Europe is that rules belong to the authorities and are there to be broken by everyone else, and this principle is nowhere more ruthlessly observed than in Prishtine. The number of near escapes I had in this city has left me with enough motorcycling stories to last me the rest of my life (and for a traumatising ninety minutes this afternoon my life seemed likely to be a short one). But it wasn't just the crazy drivers that tested my nerve to breaking point; it was the downpour that made lakes and rivers of what had once been roads, and the great, drenching arcs of spray thrown up by traffic in neighbouring lanes. It was the mud washed down into the streets by the flood waters, and the rubble from the building sites washed down with the mud. It was the hundreds of sunken manhole covers, and the giant potholes laying in wait under the dirty waters. It was the metal cats' eyes, lethal proturusions, which stood a full inch proud of the road at crossings. And above all it was the steep, steep hills where the slippery roads offered no grip whatever, every time I was forced to put my boots to the ground by the creeping traffic. Within minutes of entering the city I had lost track of where I was, and had no idea where I was going. I needed desperately to stop and take stock, but there was little opportunity to park a motorcycle here, even briefly, and especially a fussy motorcycle like Felix that will fall sideways where the camber drops to the right, or will roll forward when parked facing down hill, even if left in gear. When I did manage to find and pull into a bus stop to gather my wits (the bus stop was already packed with parked cars, forcing the buses to stop in the middle of the road) the lining in one soaking-wet glove decided to pull loose, stranding me for an additional half-hour in the pouring rain while I tried to get it back onto my hand. After that, I gave up looking for banks, since none of the banks had parking spaces. And I gave up looking for parking spaces because they were all inaccessible or already crammed full. I even gave up looking for signs to Skopje. I had just one thought in my head - to get out of this town and I didn't care how I did it or what direction I did it in. And despite everything I could do, it still took another half-hour of defensive riding in this stop-go, horn-honking chaos before I extricated myself from the city centre, the traffic started to thin and my adrenalin levels began to fall. I pulled in to the forecourt of the first out-of-town service station, and headed for the cafe/restaurant. I've rarely felt more relived to squelch into a seat and order a cup of tea. That was enough. Just to be out of that mayhem was enough. It meant, at least life (mine) would continue for one more day. As the stress and numbness drained from me, it became clear, though, that I also needed to eat, and soon. But that meant, I needed Euros. I had Croatian Kuna sitting uselessly in my wallet, and I had Albanian Leks, but I had no Euros. I fished around in my pockets for evidence of loose change and, as luck would have it, found six one-Euro coins. That, too, was enough. In Kosovo, six Euros will buy you a lot. It will certainly buy you a meal. (I still feel as though I'm cheating people, paying them so little for things.) Before ordering, though, I had to go through my life-saving ritual of showing the waiter a Google translation of 'I am allergic to milk, butter, cheese, cream, yoghurt, nuts and seeds' on my smartphone. This usually works well, but on this occasion the waiter was puzzled. He called over a colleague, and then another. Within the minute, I had a committee of four debating my message. Eventually, one of them pointed to the smart phone and said: 'Serbo-Croat!' I nodded. 'You have Albanian?' he said. How stupid and disrespectful to visit a country and not know what language people spoke. When the job was done and I was satisfied no-one was going to poison me, I ordered a huge plate hot chicken salad, and an even bigger plate of spiced rice, and then washed it all down with two cups of tea. The bill came to four Euros (about £2.80) As the laws of chance would have it, when I'd made my emergency exit of Prishtine, I'd come out on the wrong side of the city. Access to my route meant I'd have to brave the centre once again. But I'd now re-energised myself and restored my wits, the rain had stopped, the roads had cleared and I had a feasible plan. I'd eaten, so I could forget about getting Euros, at least, for now. I could forget about everything apart from finding my road. Riding back across the city wasn't a fun experience, and I had my closest call of all during that ride on a crazy roundabout right in the centre, but my nerves survived intact. The A2, when I did find it, was a scruffy little road, looking like a line of crazy paving with unfinished borders and an occasional trench scooped out of it. But it ran directly from Prishtine down to Skopje in Macedonia, and that's where I needed to go. On leaving the city, it headed out across a wide plain towards a distant line of fearsome-looking mountains, their sharp peaks still zebra striped with snow. Before it could reach those mountains, though, it was forced to run the gauntlet of an uninterrupted 40-kilometer ribbon development of new and half-built stores, hotels, restaurants and commercial enterprises of all kinds. Here was the soulless and probably unsustainable outcome of Kosovo's new, unregulated capitalist economy, a human and ecological catastrophe. For me, the absurdity and ugliness of it all was symbolised by the petrol stations. Three or four massive stations with huge canopies, sometimes standing side by side, were touting for your business on every single kilometer of that desperate little road - hundreds of them, all in competition with one another. There was no relief from this commercial overdrive anywhere along the road's entire 40 km length. The only indication, in fact, that you were in a town with a recognised identity and name, was that the density of new-build alongside the road increased slightly. For the first time since passing through parts of Northern Italy, I began to feel weary and depressed. So, it was with some relief when I eventually reached the mountains, and the road turned east to ascend a pass. Here the scenery changed from commercial post-modern chaos to forested hillsides and steep river gorges. This was a very beautiful part of the country. I stopped off in a small town close to the Macedonian border because I'd seen an ATM, and didn't realise until I got off the bike how tired I feltI. Asking at a local supermarket if there were any rooms to be had in town, I was directed to a local hotel. I'm now sitting on the carpet of a room in that hotel which I've taken for the night. The floor space of the room is somewhat larger than the floor space of my entire house back home in Hertfordshire. To occupy it fior one night has cost me £14. There don't seem to be any other guests. Down on the first floor there is a huge and very empty dining room. The only other person in the building as far as I can tell, is a young man who sits in a corner of the king-sized bar in a padded jacket watching football on television. If I need anything, I'm told, he is the person I must ask. He speaks no English and gets easily flustered. The entrance hall, the dining room, my room and the corridors that lead to it are all painted brilliant white. The bedspread, too, is white, as is the tiling in the bathroom. I feel like I'm living a scene from 'The Shining'.