Wednesday 
6.8.2025
60km Total: 2631km 
1h 25m Total: 34h 26m
1160km Total: 1500km 
3.32km Total: 40.15km 
I am not in any particular hurry to leave as I don't really have to be anywhere until lunchtime.
My first stop is the office of the company I booked the ferry with, which, strangely enough, is located in an industrial area several miles from the port itself.
Unsurprisingly, the traffic in Bulgaria's third largest city was somewhat chaotic, so even though I couldn't possibly have been caught in rush hour traffic, it took over an hour to drive the 20 kilometres to the office.
Once there, an eloquent gentleman informed me that I had made the trip completely unnecessarily, as you only needed to go to the office if you hadn't bought ticket in advance.
As I had all the time in the world, I didn't think it was worth arguing about, but the fact was that the instruction to go there was clearly stated on the back of the actual ticket, complete with directions and everything.
Down at the harbour, there is a myriad of vehicles, mostly lorries.
Next to the car park are a number of barracks, including one for Vart LTD, which is the one I am looking for.
It's a bit of a strange system with this ferry, as there are several different ‘agents’ selling space on the same boat, one of which is Vart LTD.
Once inside the Vart agents' office, I hand over my passport and the registration certificate for the bike, which a gentleman copies.
I am then told to wait for fifteen minutes.
At this point, it was just me and the lorries, so I felt a bit unique as a tourist passenger.
Imagine my surprise when, on my way out the door, I hear ‘Hello, are you from Sweden?’ (in Swedish) from a guy on his way in.
He had caught a glimpse of the registration certificate for the bike, and behind my motorbike was now a Swedish-registered minibus which, apart from the guy I had spoken to (whose name was Tigran and who was from Karlstad), contained an elderly gentleman (Björn) from Säffle!
The world is a very small place sometimes.
I passed some time chatting with Björn while Tigran arranged their paperwork.
It turned out that in the back of the bus they had a 1950s VW Beetle that they were going to transport to Armenia for a complete renovation.
They had actually intended to travel through Turkey but had been stopped at the border by zealous customs officers who objected to them transporting a car inside another car.
Obviously, this has to be complete bullshit, and Tigran's theory that they did it just to mess with him because he has an Armenian passport doesn't seem entirely unreasonable, as there seems to be no other logical explanation.
There are probably race buses going to or through Turkey every day.
However, they took the hassling a bit too far when they were held at the border control for twelve hours, after which they got tired of it, went back to Bulgaria and here to Varna to take the ferry instead.
My waiting time had now expired, which, after a chat with the old man in the hut, only started a new waiting time where my passport would now be copied.
After a while, the old man leaves the hut and runs off towards the border control with a bundle of papers, including mine, which included my physical passport.
When he comes back, I get a piece of paper that I have to show at the first checkpoint to get into the port area, so now, after more than two hours, I can at last move my bike a little closer to the ferry.
It seems to be casual Friday every day here, because I hand over my permit to enter the port to a person who is dressed in plain clothes.
Then comes the first of two checks, where a border police officer wants to check the VIN number and look through some of my luggage.
After meticulously checking the contents of my toiletries bag and being very curious about my readymeals, I am allowed to continue.
The whole process since I arrived has been very much a hurry up and wait kind of deal, with a great deal of uncertainty about the next step in the process.
Now, however, it was quite obvious that this was the last step, as Georgian border control was clearly signposted.
I had to wait a little longer while two men (one of whom was in plain clothes) checked the VIN number on my bike again and carried out some lengthy procedure with my passport inside a barracks.
I then got my papers back and was allowed to board the ferry... but not very far.
A stevedore who didn't speak a word of English managed to convey that my bike (which I had booked with the passage several weeks earlier) was not on his list.
So that led to another 15-20 minutes of waiting, but by this point I was starting to consider myself quite the veteran in this field, and after waiting for over two hours on the quay in 33º (91ºF) scorching sun, it was mostly just nice to be able to relax in the shade for a while.
(I realised afterwards that this may have been partly my fault, as I found a stamped piece of paper with the bike's details and the registration certificate among the bundle of papers. If I had given it to the stevedore, it would probably have helped considerably).
Finally, I get the go-ahead and drive up a steep ramp to the upper car deck and start securing the bike.
This takes place under the supervision of a stevedore who explains in such meticulous detail how it should be done that he might as well have done it himself.
I suppose it was some kind of disclaimer thing regarding liability.
But he was a really nice bloke and the atmosphere was very friendly, so we got on well.
Once the bike was secured, he gestured broadly and asked Alone? Where are wife? Where are friends?
I pointed to the bike and replied
This is wife 👉🏍️, this is friend 👉🏍️.
He seemed to like that answer or at least he saw the humour in it.
Up steep stairs and into the boat's interior for check-in, where I hand over my passport and receive a ‘receipt’ in exchange, which also states which group I belong to for meals.
It's full board on the boat, and the restaurant doesn't take as many people as there are cabins, so there are two sittings at every meal.
Incidentally, the very first thing that happens is that I am ushered into the restaurant by a babushka for a late lunch.
After spending most of the day in motorcycle gear under the scorching sun, I don't think I've ever smelled as bad in my entire life, but a shower wasn't even on the table in that negotiation; it was shut up and eat, which is exactly what I did.
The food had probably been sitting there for a while, so lunch consisted of cold chicken and cold rice, but it didn't taste too bad anyway, as I was pretty hungry by then.
I took a shower, lugged some more luggage up to the cabin, took a tour and quickly realised that there was absolutely nothing on this boat, not even a drinks machine. Nada.
A minor setback, because if I had known, I would have stocked up a lot better for the journey.
It will be a meagre but wholesome sailing trip with water as the only snack available.
We set sail just over two hours late.
I suspect there had been some explanation for this, as announcements have been made at regular intervals on the world's most crackly loudspeaker system, but the announcements have been in Russian only.
Well, they will have every opportunity to make up for the lost time, and if not, it doesn't really matter whether the crossing takes 64 or 66 hours, as this will by far be the longest voyage I have ever undertaken by sea regardless.
M/V Vilnius, "home" for the next few days
Thursday 
