Stay or go, go or stay? I hummed and hawed, tossed a coin, deferred to the driver. In the end we had no choice: the room had gone. So off we went, back west, avoiding toll roads, unwilling participants in the Slovak national sport of extremely stupid overtaking. We stopped somewhere that had a big church and a Soviet war memorial, pushed on to Terchova, came a little way back and found somewhere to stay, a privat a few hundred yards from the Hotel Diery with low beds and embroidered pictures on the wall.
Just a little walk before dinner, we thought, so I went out in the afternoon heat wearing a heavy cotton top and a pair of sandals, neither of which were much help when we were scrambling up rock faces, hauling ourselves down chains, walking over waterfalls on metal ladders, or clinging to handrails over smooth, drenched, rounded stones. Six and a half hours later I was scoffing the all-in halusky and getting pissed on Zlaty Bazant.
Sometimes it pays not to plan.
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