Illustrations

My joy at leaving mosquito infested Greece led me to forget the bad events that happened leaving Turkey. After 7350km and only one puncture I had to bid farewell to my rear tyre when it decided to burst. I don't know exactly what happened to it, but I think that overinflation on dirt roads may have been a contributing factor. Whatever the reason, I'm just glad I carried a spare!

The other not-so-pleasant event was my Israeli-imitation-MSR-Whisperlite-multifuel-cooker deciding to spray petrol in my eye. It hurt like hell. Still, as a wise man once said:

"If you're going to be a cheap bastard, expect the shittiest portion"

And here are a couple of photos...

After just 1 puncture, this is what happened

Vaude and Adrian
















Whipping the sniffer dog into a frenzy













Entering Bulgaria














Vania, my host in Haskovo












This is the sign that made me laugh: Bulgaria meets the EU

Learning Bulgarian

Stage 18: Istanbul to Haskovo (Xackobo) (391km)
Day 1: 92.4km beyond Gumuspinar
Day 2: 103.1km beyond Uskupdere
Day 3: 90.6km near Rizia (Greece)
Day 4: 105.3km Haskovo (Bulgaria)

What a wonderful way to leave Turkey, a country that has been so, so, so good to me (three 'so's is roughly equivalent to two 'very's). The countryside was rolling hills, but not monotonous, the roads were good, and a light tailwind helped me on my final two days. I even met two other cyclists travelling the other way who spoke English. Adrian was heading to Cape Town, and Vaude to somewhere in Asia (he didn't yet know). These were the first cyclists I've spoken to since bumping into Thibault the far side of the Dead Sea. I passed two Russians in Cyprus who couldn't speak English, and I passed one guy in Turkey who simply waved as he sped downhill in the other direction to me. He was lucky he was travelling fast; having not spoken to anyone in about 3 days, I wanted nothing more than to pelt fist-sized, pointy stones at him!

I even got a bit of good news at the internet cafe in Edirne (close to the Greek and Bulgarian borders). The Irish government (or a subsidary thereof), in their infinite wisdom, have decided to fund me my PhD! Woo woo. I now have something concrete to return to: 3 years of looking at mud down a microscope. I'm excited!

Feeling invincible, I made it to the quiet border with Greece. I could have easily gone straight into Bulgaria, but the 40km road in Greece ticks one more country off the list. I breezed through the Turkish side, and returned to Europe proper. Simple.

Not quite. An hour's wait, with my bags open and on the ground in front of Greek customs (I'd made it through passport control) ensued, while I watched the Greek custom officials walk up and down in front of me doing absolutely nothing. Eventually the second most indisciplined sniffer dog I have ever seen was brought out to slobber all over my bags...twice. Another short wait, then the most indisciplined sniffer dog I have ever seen was brought out. Rather than sniff my bags, this one preferred to bite them and drag them across the ground.

The response to my shrug of shoulders (a what the "F" fashion) was greeted with a little smile and a rub of thumb against fingers. I took this to mean he wanted a bribe, so reached deep into my pocket, pulled out my camera and took photos of each of my bags should futher damage occur. 10 minutes passed while the customs guys played with the dogs to get them all excited, then I was informed that I could proceed.

But hey, at least I was in a Christian country. I mean, they're the good guys.

Right?


My perfect introduction to Greece was compounded by the presence of enough mosquitos to force me to eat my dinner in my tent. Let's just say I was glad to reach the Bulgarian border the following morning.

"You can definately NOT use Euros in Bulgaria" was the response of Vania, my host, to my question. It kind of explained the reason why there had been change bureaus at the border showing an exchange rate with the euro, why the shopkeeper in the fruit shop had responded with surprise when I pulled a 5 euro note out of my pocket, why the bookshope vendors in Haskovo had pointed me to the change bureau when I had tried buying my Bulgaria maps (one in English, one in Cyrillic) with a 20 euro note and why the price of petrol seemed extortionate at about 2 euro 20. Somehow, my conversation with the Bulgarian diplomat on the boat from Israel where he had mentioned that prices had increased recently in Bulgaria, combined with my knowledge that Bulgaria was in the EU had convinced me that Bulgaria used the euro, and nothing was going to change my mind. But I guess that one and one does not always equal three.

I met Vania through Couchsurfing. Those who don't know it, check it out (www.couchsurfing.com); quite possibly the very, very best way to travel. An excellent host and introducer to Bulgaria. I've been here barely 24hrs, but am sure I'm going to like this country!

The busy road into Haskovo convinced me that I didn't want to follow it to Sofia, so am using my brand-spanking-new maps to get me through the minor roads, around the highest mountain in Bulgaria and into Macedonia.

ps. lack of photos because I don't think the computer can take it (not that it's an antique, it just doesn't have java or something or other that makes putting photos up here easy. I don't really know because I don't really know how computers work. I see a screen, I see a keyboard, I see a black box and I let the geeks deal with the rest). It's a pity, because I passed a cracker of a sign.

Goodbye to Asia

Stage 17: Tusoço to Istanbul (1200km)
Day 1: 18.3km NW of Silifke
Day 2: 87.2km Nr Hakora
Day 3: 82.8km Below Başkoye
Day 4: 88.3km Nr Ucpınar
Day 5: 104.5km Beyşehir
Day 6: 93.6km Nr Aksa
Day 7: 135.5km Nr Şuhut
Day 8: 103.1km Kırka
Day 9: 101.1km Nr Dağküplü
Day 10: 120.2km Nr Taraklı
Day 11: 113.3km Nr Kandıra
Day 12: 69.2km Nr Akçakese
Day 13: 82.8km ISTANBUL!!!!

'Ujez Asha-uh-bo-as (Aşağıboğas)?'

Smiles all round as the people realise that the person who has just pulled to a stop wearing a bright red cycling jersey, atop a fully laden touring bike isn't actually a local.

I'll try again...

'Ujez Asha-uh-boas'

Titters of laughter. 'Uh, no Injeleeze speaky'

Muttered through clenched teeth:

'I'm not speaking foxtrotting* English, I'm speaking cotswaldian Turkish'

Here we go again:

'Ujez Asha-uh-boas?'

No, don't get on your phone, there's no need to call anyone. It's a simple question. Ujez means 'where is', and Aşaıboğas should be a town about 10km away that's directly in front of me. I only stopped for verification so that you could point in the direction I'm travelling and I can just continue, safe in the knowledge that I'm on the right path. Oh, you're taking a photo of me now. Fan-fallafel-tastic. Just as well you won't be able to see the difference between a smile, and clenched teeth.

Taking out the map:

'Ujez Asha-uh-boas?

After close scrutiny:

'Ah, Asha-uh-BO-as'

'Yes, Asha-uh-bo-as'

They have a little conference before pointing in front of me.

'Teşekkür ederim' (thank-you)

I make to push off, but only to a hail of protests. Oh yeah, I have to wait for that English speaker to arrive. 3 minutes later, a girl walks over.

-'Do you speak English?'
-'A leetle'
-'I am trying to get to Asha-uh-boas'
-'It is this way', pointing ahead.
-'Thank-you'

I push off, my blood pressure slightly elevated.

I can usually deal with these interactions by the side of the road without a smile fading from my face. On this particular day (Day 10), the smile was never present. It was meant to be a relatively easy 5km descent down dirt roads to the small town of Aşaıboğas where I could leisurely drink some çay before continuing on my merry way. Instead, after having asked for directions, I found myself, following a 10km descent, not in Aşaıboğas but with 20km of rolling hills still to do. I wasn't happy; anger had sat in. This was all after a 1100m ascent in the morning.

It was the kind of rage you get when you're happily padding round your house in bare feet. All of a sudden, as you pass through a door frame, you catch the little toe of your left foot on the side of the frame; just the little toe, none of the others. The anger wells up. It's an anger directed at the door, at your little toe, but most importantly, at you yourself. It was just so easy to avoid. All you had to do was move slightly to the right. You'd seen it yourself, you'd seen you were going to be close, you may have even thought of moving right just a fraction. But you didn't, you thought you could make it, and now the pain is about to hit and the blood begins to boil.

I knew the turnoff I'd gone wrong at, and if I'd only gone right, instead of left, I would have been a full 2 and a half hours beyond where I was right now. Still, I found the best motivation for getting up hills. Anger. You fly up them, oblivious to your body's protests.

I needed to get a big stage in. The Middle East was fantastic, and I don't regret heading on that little detour in any way, shape or form. But on returning to Turkey, I found myself in almost the exact same location I was over a month previously. I think one of the hardest feelings one has to deal with whilst cycle touring is the feeling that you are not actually getting anywhere. Psychologically I needed a boost.

So I decided to head direct to Istanbul.

I'd forgotten how much I'd liked Turkey the first time round. The scenery is sublime (particularly in the south), the people are fantastic and, this time round, the water was spectacular. Natural, unchlorinated springs are dotted round the countryside and have been piped into troughs to feed livestock - perfect for filling up water bottles and dunking one's head into.












There were some steep sections over the Taurus mountains which just confirmed my desire to have a bit of a refit for Sicandar in Istanbul. I've been using a front cog on the bike that has 28 teeth, but ones with 22 teeth exist. I can only imagine that the difference will be like having someone else do the pedalling for you. It's what I'm expecting, so will be disappointed with anything less.

Of all the days, one of the hardest was the final, relatively short day into Istanbul. So much of cycle touring is psychological. If you expect an easy day and have an easy day, it is an easy day. If you expect a hard day, and have a hard day, it is an ok day. If you expect an easy day, and have an ok day, it is a hard day.

The wind was against me. Hills existed that were too small to appear on the map, but real enough to make me angry. A dog had eaten my cheese and salami from my bag the night before and no shops existed to buy some more; I had to eat in a roadside cafe. They were widening the road so it was dusty, but my sunglasses were buried somewhere deep in one of my bags, and I didn't know which one. And worst of all, 60% of traffic on the road were 40tonne lorries transporting aggregate for the road. After 1100km of minor roads, with barely even other cars to worry about, thundering trucks were not what I wanted.

Still, I arrived into Istanbul intact. Made my way (across motorway in some sections) to the river, hopped on a boat, and now Sicandar and I and Mr Broom are in Europe (technically).

Which only leaves the final poignant point to make.

If I was a crow, I'd be home by now.

7289km


*NB this post is rated PG

It was a hilly start to the section

















We left our mark on the first snow we've seen since leaving the mountains of SE Turkey


















A well in the Lake District

















One of the many old-style villages I passed through
















The thought: 'wouldn't it be nice to travel over a dirt road' flashed across my mind before I could banish it. 30km of unconsolidated road construction!
















Still, there were some nice views from the partially made road.


















Sometimes you forget where you are. Luckily, there are usually some subtle reminders.
















The land opened up a bit in Central Turkey
















Back into hills

















Having gone wrong (but not knowing it yet - it's a real smile!)















Crossing the 7000km mark (I never reset my computer at the start!)



















Could be the rolling hills of Leicestershire
















Still looks blue to me
















I blame my parents for actually making me want to do this. It wasn't the cold sea I was hesitant about, more the knowledge that there was no hot water for the shower afterwards!
















It's amazing what you can do with a poncho and some string...and a fence, a broom handle with a personality, a tent peg, a small tree, a bungy cord, 4 bicycle panniers and an orange survival bag

















Crossing into Europe


















Fishing in İstanbul

















European Sunset

Salaam aleikum

Stage 11: Sanliurfa to Aleppo
Day 1: 123.8km
Day 2: 83.8km
Day 3: 85.8km Aleppo

I don't ever remember actually deciding to come here. I remember thinking about it, I certainly did that, and I looked into the practicalities, but there was never a moment when I said "I'm going to Syria". It was Will who first suggested it way, way back in India, but we both decided then that it just wasn't feasible. But, after cycling through Gaziantep, I found myself turning down towards the border and now here I am 120km later in the wonderful city of Aleppo.

Why is it so wonderful? There's old buildings and all the rest of it, but people who know me well (and even not-so-well), know I love to eat. There's a saying we have in our family that's basically an excuse for gluttony: "It's better to be a pig once, than half a pig twice". It means you can tuck into that second half of your Terry's chocolate orange safe in the knowledge that you're taking the better option. It would be irresponsible, and downright wrong, to wrap it up and leave it until tomorrow.

It kind of falls short when you go out and buy a second chocolate orange the very next day, and that's basically what I've been doing (6 times over)! But when every shop has pastries stuffed full of walnuts and pistachios, topped with coconut and smothered in syrup and honey, it's difficult to say no. I'm just glad I'm on my bike and have left the bullying pits of secondary school behind or I'd be in for a rough time on my return; I'll tell you that.

It looks like a covered a lot of ground on Day 1, but looks can be deceiving; as can road signs! I'd been following the E90 for over 300km (I just made up that figure, so no-one had better be smart and try prove me wrong and make me look stupid, I just can't be bothered to look it up myself), so when I saw the road branch off, with Gaziantep signposted in both directions and the E90 towards the right, I went with what I knew and turned right. It was only 10km up this road that they decided to place the wonderfully illustrative sign shown right!

I camped that night inbetween ploughed furrows of an olive grove and awoke to a strong headwind. This made me curse my undesired detour even more given that I should have been 20km further down the road that I was at that exact moment (every moment of the day!). I camped about 25km from the border and was, again, accosted by shepherds. This time, after once again declining proper accommodation (spending an evening with locals is an incredible experience, but also a draining one), it wasn't dinner on offer but milk straight from the sheep, which I boiled over an open fire and had with my dinner.

After getting severely ripped off whilst changing money with a respectable, middle-aged man with a moustache (Hitler, Stalin and Sadam aside, who wouldn't trust a man with a 'tache?) and watching the news in an office I made my way to the border.

Cave men didn't have it so rough - they even had satellite TV!

















Crossing the Euphrates

















Food heaven






















Food not-quite-so-heaven

Half time

Stage 10; Şirnak to Şanlıurfa
Day 1: 102.3km
Day 2: 85.6km
Day 3: 106.5km
Day 4: 104.7km

What a difference 1000m makes; now it's no longer hyperthermia I must be wary of, but sunburn! The temperature gradient has also made one other important contribution to the way I conduct operations; it is now possible to camp.

There is a huge advantage to camping whilst cycle touring. No longer am I burdened with a necessity to reach certain destinations during daylight hours; whenever I see a nice place to camp, I can just pull into the side of the road and set up shop. Unfortunately, there just seems to be a distinct lack of nice places!

Steep mountains gave way to steep hills before Şirnak. These gave way to rolling hills which morphed into a low gradient limestone plateau-esque countryside before a final descent onto plains. Plains became hillocks and I finally find myself in Şanlıurfa. Sounds like there would be a never-ending supply of fantastic camping grounds, but this would be wrong!

An absence of surface water everywhere left me filling up from petrol stations, and the limestone areas came complete with (funnily enough) stones. On the other hand, the flat and fertile plains had every available ınch of land taken up with agriculture. Still, when an adequate place had been cleared of sharp pointed rocks, it was nice to sit next to a small fire, gaze up at the stars and power my torch!

My final campsite was indeed next to a river and although the coast was clear when I arrived, it transpired that my chosen area was the thoroughfare for returning sheep, complete with shepherds. Although I successfully managed to refuse offers of accommodation, I caved easily once food came on the agenda, and found myself back at one of their houses, surrounded by 15 children from 3 different families as they laughed at my attempts to put a mıxture of eggs, potatoes, green herbs and chilis into some bread. The wife of my host was so disgusted at my lack of sandwich-making abilities that she insisted on doing it for me, and the moment the end of one piece of bread had disappeared into my mouth, another was already in the making.

The cycling itself had good days and bad days. The road was abysmal in places and the wind against me for long sections. I've been forced of the road god-know how many times and even witnessed the rear rıght wheel of a car lift of the ground as it skidded 90 degrees in front of me. The man had been attempting to overtake a car that was attempting to overtake me, with the result being 2 wheels in the gravel, a squealing of breaks, black marks on the road, and a car that was almost flipped. The other car (the one that had been overtaking me) merely continued on its chosen path, while the driver of car that had conducted a risky manoeuver at high speeds did what all people do when they're safe in the knowledge they are in the wrong; they try to blame someone else. Gesticulating at the verge and with an irritated tone to his voice I got the impression I was being ticked off for not having the courtesy to struggle through the gravel. I simply repeated my well worn phrase: 'no turkish, no kurdish' (I haven't even learned these in their respective languages - but look how far that got me in Iran), and gave an award-winning smile before he sped off into the distance.

Total distance thus far: 3605km! It means I've passed the landmark figure of 3520km which is the halfway point between Delhi and Dublin (as the crow flies). It's all downhill from here!!!

First green field I've seen since 28th December!<

One of the many sandwiches















SSDD...it was closed. Supposedly the prophed Abreham threw himself/was thrown from the walls of this castle(I don't think I'm making that up, but I could well be!)

The Border Story

Stage 9: Hakkari to Şirnak
Day 1: 91.4km Ortaküy
Day 2: 102.3km Şirnak

3200km done, but the last 2 days have been without doubt the best so far; and to think I almost took another bus!

I always try and go by local information and advice, so was pleased when I met an English-speaking Kurd ın the Post Offıce of Hakkari. I was ınvıted back to hıs hıs house for dinner but was a bit dısmayed to dıscover that his advıce was to take a bus for the 200km stretch to Şirnak that skırts the Iraqı border ın places. Hıs vıew was that unfamiliarıty of the locals to tourısts could cause problems, never mınd the recent ıncursıons of Turkey ınto northern Iraq. Still, durıng the evenıng, the news was reported that Turkey had fınıshed its operatıons and I decıded that I would at least attempt the journey. I was confident that I wouldn't get passed the first checkpoint so at least I could say I'd gıven it a shot! I knew that minibuses left for Şirnak at 8am, so provıded I was there when they passed thıngs would be just dandy.


20 stray dogs were passed on the 7km steep descent from Hakkari to the first checkpoint; many a stone was thrown and progress was slow. I handed over my passport and prepared myself for the 45mın waıt untıl the minibuses arrıved, but ınstead of a rejection I was wıshed a pleasant journey. The road was open; in for a penny, in for a pound!!!

A truly glorious 50km descent followed through steep lımestone gorges and crossing 2 further checkpoınts untıl I reached the turnoff towards Şirnak. The buses had passed so there was no going back, but almost all reservatıons I may have had evaporated wıth the warmth of greetıng I receıved from the locals I passed. Wıthout exceptıon, my wave and greetıng of 'assalam alaykum' was ruturned with an even more enthusıastıc wave, a smıle and the reply: 'wa alaykum as salam'.

Offers of chai were abundant and thıs turned out to be the 2nd hardest feature of the 2-day journey (the 1st being the inclınes!!!!). Every village I passed I'd get appeals to stop and drınk some tea. Many of these I accepted, but ınvarıably once tea was served, out would come the bread, cheese and olives and a planned 5mın pause would turn ınto a 30mın rest. Wıth short days, long waits at checkpoints and a reasonably respectable dıstance to cover, I often felt I dıdn't have tıme to stop and had to cycle past quıckly (thıs was a lot more dıffucult through the vıllages that were located on ascents!).

At my 3rd checkpoint I was asked if I was aware that there were terrorists ın the regıon. I replied that I was, but still wanted to continue. There was no problem with this and after my 30mın wait was allowed to cycle onto the next checkpoint situated a full 100m away. Here I endured another hours delay, but ıt was a productive one ın which I met the commodore and received an ınvıtatıon to sleep at any of the checkpoints along the way and agreed to send him photos of my journey when I got the chance!

A 25km ascent ıncluding 2 further checkpoınts and a pass at 2080m exısted that took a large proportion of the day. It was on thıs leg that the noise of a motorbike behind me made me look round and I was greeted by the beautıful blue of the saltıre emblazened on the front of a rather fetchıng motorbike. Meet Mick, the other tourist in the region and teacher from Fife, on his round the world trip. The ridge of the hillsıde behınd hım ıs Iraq!

I reached the pass at about 4pm. Wıth ıt gettıng dark near 5, I needed somewhere to stay, so asked at the next checkpoınt I arrıved. Sure enough, the mılıtary were more than obliging, but ınstead of stayıng ın the barracks, I was hosted by one of the villagers. Surrounded by Kurds dressed ın tradıtıonal clothıng and passing round
a promotional video for the PKK on a mobile phone (the sayıng 'one man's terrorist ıs another man's freedom fighter' appears to be very applicable ın thıs regıon), I was treated as an honoured guest, ate fıne food and watched as they played a game not dıssımılar to gın rummy.



After a fantastic nıght's sleep I set off later than normal at 8am. I passed thıs patrol of Turkısh soldıers on the descent and Sicander was comandeered for a brıef rıde up and down. The welcoming greetings I received from the local Kurds was equally matched by that of the Turkısh soldıers ın the regıon. At every checkpoint (and I passed through 11 in total) I was greeted wıth courtesy and friendliness and provided wıth food, chai and water (generally there was always someone who spoke reasonable English). The soldiers I passed by the sıde of the road would often offer chai.



At one checkpoint where English was not spoken, I managed to ascertaın through a serıes of gestıculatıons and repeatıng the words 'Turkey' and 'Iraq', that here ıt was not the ridge that was the border, but the tiny lıttle stream that ran up the valley I was headed. 10min up the road, and out of sight of the checkpoint, I strıpped off my shoes and socks and conducted my own ıncursıon onto Iraqı soil (well, Iraqi rock).


Iraqi Me

A series of ups and downs was the order of the remainder of the day, wıth an unexpected and very unwelcome 20km ascent ın the fınal 30km and I arrıved ınto Şırnak about a half hour after sunset, very, very tired.

The best news: I am now below the snow line.

Woo Woo

Though it is pishing it down outside right now.

Boo Boo




Mick and I stopped for a Coke, and most of the village joined us

Children would run beside me on the bike. One group helped to push, another group decided to pull; they were lucky it was early in the day, any later and they would have had a short, sharp meeting with Mr Stick!<

My first view into Iraq. I believe the first ridge to mark the border, so the second hill from the left should no longer be Turkey.<

The kind of people one meets by the side of the road. Kurds just seem to command my respect.

Looking back, once finally out of the snow!!!

It was a bit dark when I arrived in Sirnak