Dean Nicholson - Nalas World: One Man, His Rescue Cat, and a Bike Ride around the Globe

There is a wise old saying where I come from in Scotland: Whits fur yell no go past ye. Some things in life are destined to happen. Whats meant to be, is meant to be. Its fate.

From the beginning I had a feeling that is what brought Nala and me together. It couldnt have been a coincidence that we were at the same remote place at the exact same time. Or that she arrived in my life at such a perfect moment. It was as if shed been sent to give me the direction and purpose Id been missing. I can never know, of course, but I like to think I brought Nala what she was searching for, too. The more I think about it, the more convinced I become. For both of us, our friendship was simply meant to be. We were destined to grow up and see the world together.

Three months before we met, in September 2018, I had set off from my hometown of Dunbar on the eastern coast of Scotland to cycle around the globe. Id not long turned thirty and wanted to shake myself free from the routine of my life, to escape my little corner of the world and achieve something worthwhile. Its fair to say it had not been going according to plan. Id made it through northern Europe, but my journey had been a series of detours and distractions, false starts and setbacks, most of them self-inflicted. Id planned on completing the trip with a friend, Ricky, but hed turned around and gone home already. His departure was probably a good thing, if Im honest. We were not the best influence on each other.

By the first week of December, as I cycled through southern Bosnia en route for Montenegro, Albania and Greece, I began to feel as if I was finally making progress. I was ready to have the experience Id wanted. Long-term, I dreamed of making it through Asia Minor and along the ancient Silk Road and into Southeast Asia, from there down to Australia, across the Pacific and up through South, Central and North America. I pictured myself cycling through paddy fields in Vietnam and across deserts in California, through mountain passes in the Urals and along beaches in Brazil. The world was my oyster. The journey would take me as long as it took. I had set no timetable for myself. I didnt need one; I had no one to answer to anymore.

On that particular morning, I packed up my tent in a small village near Trebinje as day was breaking, around seven-thirty. Aside from a few barking dogs and a dustcart, the shiny cobbled streets were almost empty. I bumped across the stones, the rattling of my off-white bike shaking me out of my sleep, then set off on the road that led up into the mountains and the border into Montenegro.

Snow and sleet showers were forecast for the next day or so, but the skies were clear and the temperatures mild. I was soon making solid progress. After a frustrating few weeks, it felt good to be back on the road and cycling freely. Id spent much of the past week in plaster, recovering from the leg injury that Id picked up jumping off the famous Stari Most bridge in Mostar, a few hours back down the road in Bosnia. It had probably been a foolish thing to do. The locals had advised against it during winter when the river was running deep. But Ive been prone to doing foolish things all my life; once a class clown, always a class clown.

As far as I was concerned, my big mistake was to listen to the guide, who persuaded me to use a different technique than the one I used to jump off the cliffs back home in Dunbar. Id hit the freezing cold water with my legs slightly bent. I knew Id done something wrong the moment I came out of the river. A doctor told me Id torn the anterior cruciate ligamentor ACLin my right knee and would need to remain in a plaster cast for three weeks.

Id cut it off after only one. Id been too impatient to hang around for longer and I left Mostar before my next appointment at the hospital. So as the sun rose up ahead of me and I made my way up the long, slow climb into the mountains that morning, my main concern was the same as it had been since Id returned to the roadnot to inflame the injury in any way. I knew that my knee was okay as long as I didnt move it from side to side.

I was focused on pumping my legs rhythmically up and down in the same plane. I soon settled into a nice routine, and it seemed to be going fine. I was feeling confident that I might get fifty or even a hundred miles under my belt.

By mid-morning, I had entered a mountainous region on the southern tip of Bosnia. It felt a long way from civilization. The last town of any size had been ten miles further back down the road. Id ridden past a quarry of some kind a few miles later, but it was deserted. I was on my own. The spiraling road wasnt especially steep; it was more of a long, slow, gradual climb, which suited me fine. There were sections where the road fell away, too, giving me much appreciated breaks from cycling. The views were spectacular; I was riding along high ridges and looking up to soaring, snowy peaks. It was exhilarating.

I felt so good, I decided to put on some music. The sound of Come Home, a new song by one of my favorite artists, Amy Macdonald, was soon blaring out from the speakers I had strapped to the back of my bike. I must have been in high spirits, because I began singing along to the chorus.

On another day, the lyrics might have been designed to make me feel homesick. And there was a moment when I did think about my mum and dad and my sister back in Scotland, waiting for me to come home one day soon. We were a close family and I missed them, but I was enjoying myself too much to dwell on it.