Into Iran

The day I arrived at the Turkey-Iran border was the day after the UK expelled the Iranian diplomats from their London embassy, and a couple of days after the UK's embassy in Tehran was torn apart by marauding Iranians (acting entirely independently and without any official sanction at all). They even threw a picture of the Queen (gawbless'er) off the balcony. All British diplomats left Iran, so there would be no consular support in the country, I had e-mails from home warning that there would be an ugly, anti-British mood in the country, and the Foreign Office advised against all but essential travel to Iran.

Fuck it. I came anyway.

I gave brief thought to turning back and seeing how the situation developed, but you have to be pretty single-minded and stubborn to dump everything and ride across the world on a bike, and I hadn't come so far just to turn back when I was so nearly there. I was a bit nervous when I approached the border, but I can recommend the Kapikóy-Razi border crossing for all your Iran/Turkey needs. It went a long way towards allaying my fears - sitting in a warm office with a bunch of soldiers, being fed satsumas and taught Farsi, while assault rifles lean unattended beneath the desk, can have that effect.

The Turkish side of the border is barren and bleak and has a real end-of-the-world feel about it. It's a high crossing and a big climb to get up to it - I stopped for a rest above Saray, looked around and noticed the silence. No other traffic, no birds or animals. It was even too cold for the ice in the stream to start cracking.

The descent was a joy, too. I whooshed down to the border post, pleased to have chance to collect myself so that I wouldn't be arriving all sweaty and zoned out from the effort.

All the cars and vans that had overtaken me today were still queuing at the border when I arrived. I looked for a way past, and had my encounter with the "passport inspector". He was dressed as a standard Turkish bloke - black trousers, leather jacket - so when he asked for my passport I gave him my best old-fashioned look and asked if he worked there. He said he did, but when I asked for ID he rather lost interest. He did, however, suggest that I could take my bike around the other side of the cars, so it turned out to be a fairly helpful encounter.

I was waved through every check and past every queue, the only exception being when the Iranians were stamping my passport. Part of the issue seemed to be establishing my nationality, as they looked at my passport and asked me if I was Irish. They'd heard of Ireland, and they know about England, but Britain was a new one for them. It did give the Grinning Black Market Money Man chance to insinuate himself next to me, take away my lira and make me a near-millionaire with 930,000 rials. That's about 80 quid, at a guess.

It still took ages to get through the border: I took tea with the Turks, and everyone wanted to chat or say hello. It was wonderful, and I was flying with delight when I left and carried on descending. I had meant to pick up some food, but exhilaration gave me energy. The road is an unfinished dirt road for the first 10 or 15 miles from the border, but that hardly slowed me at all. I had to hold myself back from overtaking the slow wagons as they carefully negotiated the potholes.



Immediately, the world felt different. There was a marked change from Turkey. The first thing I noticed was the trees, which Turkey didn't have. The roads and field margins are lined with tall cypresses, which still have leaves on despite the lateness of the year. Iranian buildings around here are the squat, square mud and brick affairs I associate with the Middle East, and the landscape is crags, rocks, scrub grass. I took advantage of this to camp up a narrow gully, though I had entertained thoughts of carrying on to Khoy.



In the morning I was pleased I hadn't, as the descent through that rocky gorge was a marvel. Epic views around every bend, and the first sight of the huge arch railway bridge across the gorge may have caused me to utter a swearword in awe.

[photograph deleted by Iranian police, sadly]

Welcome to Iran.

When I Get to the Border: Dogubayezit, Van, Iran

These three days have been amazing. I've ridden over the Tendürek Pass from Dogubayezit to Van Lake (2644 metres ASL) despite warnings from drivers about snow drifts and impassable conditions. Those warnings were greatly exaggerated, but the summit was so cold, sterile and beautiful. The landscape on the other side was a white wasteland, until I descended to Muradiye Waterfall, an incredible cascade where I stood on the bridge and felt the spray crystallise on my face. Arhan, the Kurdish restaurant proprietor at the falls, made me breakfast and insisted that I should return to Dogubayezit to get to Iran rather than going through Van. I gave this serious thought when I visited Seytan Koprusu (Devil's Bridge), but once again I ignored sincere advice. I was keen to see Lake Van and I hate doubling back. Also, I want to cross the border at Kapiköy, as I found this interesting Wikileaks cable about the Kapiköy crossing:

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/wikileaks-files/nuclear-wikileaks/8297090/TURKEY-IRAN-BORDER-A-TALE-OF-TWO-CUSTOMS-POSTS.html

I camped by Lake Van, being unwilling to stay indoors in an earthquake zone, even if there was a hotel to be had in Van. It was mild, I pitched my tent to catch the morning sun and had a late start, taking in the warmth while looking at the blue water. After a week of sub-zero daytime temperatures, it was getting above freezing, and the sun was strong. I set off with only a couple of layers on for the first time since Cappadocia.





Rolling down to Van, I had my first press interview! A couple of guys in a van waved me down and made me ride up and down the road a few times so they could get some photos, and though our grasp of one another's language was basic, I told them how long I'd been travelling and gave them an outline of my route.



They warned me not to go into Van, and rightly so - I saw enough in the outskirts. Some of the buildings were showing signs of earthquake damage such as exposed brickwork and gaping cracks; tents and shanties were dotted about the streets and waste ground, a few people had set up roadside stalls to sell their possessions, and gangs of kids crawled across rubble heaps, searching for valuables. Feeling like an interloper, I only stayed long enough to get some food and beer - especially beer, as this is my last night in Turkey, and my last chance to have a drink.

The road surface from Van has been quite poor, and I don't expect it to improve, but tomorrow I'll cross the border at Kapiköy. That'll be one more country coloured in on my map of the world.

Dogged from Agri to Dogubeyazit

I stayed another night in Agri to give myself a day off. I wandered around the market on Saturday and was struck by how poor it was - a few beggars around, rubbish and rubble everywhere, buildings falling apart and a general air of scruffiness. If it had been the UK I would have scarpered sharpish, but I never felt threatened, though I was certainly subject to plenty of attention as a westerner. It was mostly good-natured.

The day off gave me chance to fix a puncture I'd picked up on the way into Agri, and fettle a few other things on the bike. I tightened the headset, which has been bothering me since, ooh, at least Hungary, adjusted the brakes and re-lubed the chain. It felt better when I hit the road.

Back on the D100 again: it's a wide and fairly smooth road and the navigation is simple. I had the choice of two routes to Van from Agri: the main road, which goes over two high passes (the one between Dogubayzit and Van is 2600 metres high), or the southern route which appeared to be less hilly on the map. The D100 promised views of Mt Ararat, so that decided it for me.

Shame it was such a hazy day. No views to speak of, so I was just plodding, as the road rose very gradually uphill over another 2000-metre high pass. Thanks to the roadworks I had an entire carriageway to myself for about five miles. Ice was forming in my beard again and the water in my bottles was freezing. I called into a truckers' cafe to warm up and thaw out.

These are always good places to visit. They're cheap and friendly and the food and tea are plentiful. There are usually two choices of meal: take it or leave it. Today, it was Mystery Meat, which took me right back to 1980s school dinners. Mmmm, tubes.

A few of the truckers offered me a lift to Iran once I'd told them my destination. I politely refused the offers, but I appreciated the generosity.

It was a good day; the only problem was a few encounters with dogs on the road. Most of the dogs can be chased by stopping and shouting, though it's a bit annoying when their owners let them chase after cyclists. But the sheepdogs are easily handled and it's the wild dogs you have to look out for. I was - there's no other word for it - hounded along the road by three dogs which emerged from the brush and crossed the carriageways to chase me. They were catching me, but they were scared away by an even more vicious pair of beasties flanking me from the other side. I stopped to make them back down, and an unusual stand-off developed. They'd back off when I shouted and always stayed outside range of my kicks, but as soon as I started cycling they gave chase, a-snarling and teeth a-snapping. Luckily, I had a Dog Dazer which I'd bought in Istanbul, and which emits a high-pitched noise which startles dogs when you aim it at them. I haven't used it much, but it kept the mutts distant enough while I pedalled away. I'm glad I had it, otherwise I might still be there.

On the run into Dogubayazit the clouds started to lift and the great bulk of Ararat was revealed. I was very pleased that I'd chosen this route. Now, I have to decide whether to continue south to Van or to head straight for the border. I reckon I'll go to Van, unless the weather is especially foul tomorrow morning.

In the Cold, Cold Night: Horason to Ağri

Last night was the coldest night yet, and today has been the coldest day. The most optimistic weather report I saw for last night was -10 Celsius. You don't want to know about the pessimistic reports. Everything froze. I had the foresight to pour some water into a pan to melt for my morning coffee, but the water bottle inside my tent froze solid, as did the milk and Coke and juice. My last hunk of bread was like iron.

Inside the tent, condensation from my breath formed frost on the inside of the tent and when I spilled a bit of my water (OK, beer) it froze into a thin film, but I was warm enough, albeit wearing a lot of my clothes inside my silk liner, sleeping bag and bivvy bag. The main problem was that I use a stuffsack of clothes as a pillow, and as I was wearing most of those, my pillow was a poor place to rest my head. I had a bit of a restless night. I awoke and had to go out to fix one of the tent pegs which had come out of the loose soil, and the stars were astonishing. Familiar constellations were lost in the light from stars which were usually drowned out by the lights of towns and cities, and the Milky Way was a huge daub across the sky. It was far too cold for more than a glimpse, though; I could feel the warmth being sucked out of me as I scurried back into my tent.

Starting again in the morning was tough. Stupidly I'd put my shoes in the porch so my feet were instantly cold. The tent pegs had frozen into the ground. I'm sure I left a layer or two of skin on my fuel bottle when I picked it up wşthout my gloves on. It took me much longer than usual to strike camp, though at least I had some coffee and porridge in me.

I rode a mile and a half to a petrol station just outside Horasan, where I went into the office and sat down to warm myself. The owner gave me tea, and once he'd established that I was the nutter camping down the road, he gave me a huge dressing-down.

Turkish body language can be confusing, but it seems that tapping one's index finger to one's temple is universal sign for "stark staring stone bonkers". He said I could have slept at the petrol station, and that loads of truckers had told him about the madman camping up the road, and they'd tried to tell me I could stay there. Since I don't speak much Turkish, this is a guess, but a pretty accurate summary, I suspect. I explained in turn that the truckers had ignored me and I'd ignored them, and that I didn't know the petrol station was there. I shrugged - done was done, and I was more concerned with the pain from my toes as the warmth took effect. Aaaah.

It saps your strength, being cold, and I was much more cheerful after warming up indoors with tea. The cycling was easy after that - another huge climb over Sac Gecidi/Sac Pass seemed to go on forever, but I was more concerned with my lack of water. The ice I had with me wasn't thawing, and when I stopped to fill the other bottle at a mountain stream, it began to form into ice on the descent. Ice was also forming in my beard, and my toes were getting cold again on the descent. At least on the climb I was working, and staying warm.



I decided to find a hotel at Agri to get warm and thaw out. I rode through the hick town of Eleskirt just as the schools were kicking out, and felt like the main act at a circus. I was happily waving and shouting greetings, but I was a bit annoyed by the little git who deliberately dived in front of me, not to mention the other little sod who clouted me on the back just as I was setting off again. This probably counts as entertainment out here.

It was dark before I arrived in Agri, and I was cold, apart from my toes, which were frozen. I stopped to grab a few beers from a shop, and gratefully accepted the invitation to warm myself by the fire. I cracked a beer and explained my trip in the mix of bits of Turkish and gestures which I've become used to using, and we discussed the possible punishments for being caught with alcohol by the Iranian authorities in quite gruesome mime. The beer went down well, and my toes became satisfyingly warm again. Aaaaah.

Erzurum Doings

Everyone I spoke to in Turkey told me not to come to Erzurum. They said it was too high and too cold. Eddie in Ankara said that in winter the snow is higher than the street, two guys who'd grown up there said they'd left cos it was shite, and whenever I told a Turkish person my destination, they shivered to warn me how cold it would be. Mr Turhan, the Honorary German Consulate in Sivas, very subtly and gently tried to dissuade me from going.

I had little choice about going to Erzurum, as I'd arranged to collect my Iranian visa there, but the uniformly negative reaction made me more determined to go and see if it was true.

There's no denying it was cold: from Erzincan where I camped in relatively balmy conditions there was a gradual height gain, and the water was freezing in my bottles as I rode into Erzurum. But what a ride! I was lucky enough to have good weather on the passes (and there are lots of mountain passes) and the views were awesome. The clouds had vanished, so it was all blue skies, pure white snow and crisp air. It was painfully bright.



Erzurum itself is quite a pleasant little city: small enough to be big enough. It's compact and easy to walk around, but the facilities are good so I stocked up on food and supplies and talked myself out of getting more camping equipment at the outdoor shop. I checked into a fleabag hotel which was cheap and central and where they weren't bothered about me cooking in my room.



There's not a great deal for tourists. I did see the sight, the famous citadel which is the symbol of the city, but it was closed for renovation and covered in scaffolding. I was surprised at how small it was. It was far less impressive than Hasankale Castle in nearby Pasinler, a crag-top edifice which I passed under when I left Erzurum.

It had a relaxed atmosphere, and I imagine it would be a great place to come during the summer to escape the heat at lower altitudes and explore the surrounding area. I was going to visit Tortum waterfall at the north of the city, but it was difficult to get to and one of the locals told me that it was not very impressive at this time of year. He was the only person I met who spoke much English and most people spoke none, except maybe a phrase or two.

I suppose it's a difference in perspective. I saw Erzurum as a pause on my route and not the ultimate destination. As a destination there are better places, but as a calling-point on a journey, and somewhere to take stock on that journey, and for the quite special mountain roads which surround it, Erzurum is in the right place.

I left Erzurum the day after I'd arranged my visa, and when I was leaving, a guy in a shop asked me where I was going next. To save a long explanation I simply named the next town, Agri. His face dropped and he shivered to warn me how cold it would be. Plus ça change.

Watersheds

Today I rode alongside the River Euphrates, or Firat, as it's known in Turkey. Actually it was the western branch of the river, Karasu or Blackwater. it's a light flow at this time of year, it chuckles delightfully over the rocks and flows tamely along its bed, but the dry channels and rocky canyons and deep embankments, and the gaping remains of bridges and houses, hint at the power it must have in the springtime, when the meltwater runs off the mountains.



Yesterday I rode over Sakaltutan Pass (2160 metres ASL) and crossed the watershed between the Atlantic and Indian Oceans. Yesterday I was riding alongside rivers which flowed into the Black Sea or the Meditteranean and west into the Atlantic, today I'm beside the Euphrates, water which is flowing towards the Persian Gulf. Crossing boundaries is always a great moment, especially when the change is accompanied by great drama. The narrow, remote valleys and hunkering mountains gave way to a huge flat valley along which the Euphrates runs as it picks up its tributaries. It took me four hours to ride the 22 miles from Refahiye to the top of the pass and about an hour and a half to ride the thirty miles into Erzincan, freewheeling most of the way.

Not all watersheds are geological: in September I'd been looking forward to crossing into the old Eastern Bloc in Europe. In a reversal of the stereotype, I rode from staid, insular Austria on a Sunday into lively, happening Bratislava. If it wasn't for the endless concrete in Bratislava (like it's been poured from the sky, as someone commented to me), I'd have thought Bratislava and Slovenia belonged in the West and unfriendly Austria in the East.

I had also been looking forward to leaving the Rhine's catchment area. When I was riding down the Tauber with Felix, we crossed over to the Altmuhl Valley. There was a small hill, on which we passed two German cyclists pushing their bikes. "why don't you push?" one of them asked. "Because it's easier to ride than to push," we cheerily replied.

It was a small moment but a big change. This marked the watershed between the North Sea and the Black Sea, between western and eastern Europe.

I have been ticking these off mentally as I've travelled east: first, leaving the island of Britain, crossing into Asia, then personal checkpoints such as the furthest east I'd travelled (somewhere in Hungary, I reckoned), the highest I'd been on a bike, the highest altitude at which I'd camped...

It's part of what drove me to do this trip, the desire to keep moving and see the landscape change. I like stopping at places to meet people and explore in depth, but more often I enjoy the sense of movement and change, and I become frustrated when I don't feel as though I'm getting anywhere. I'm always looking for the next watershed, the next dramatic shift, the next horizon to kiss.

Sivas

I'd arranged on the website Warmshowers (a site for cycle tourists to share accommodation) to meet Ercan in Sivas, which proved to be a blessing, as the ride from Cappadocia was tough. It snowed the night I camped near Kayseri, and the next two days was all about slogging east into an easterly wind. I did find a still-sealed bottle of vodka at the roadside, which I mixed with milk into White Russians, but the nights were cold and I was slow. I try to avoid riding at night (I'm nervous of the driving, and when I'm camping I like to use some of the daylight to make camp), but I was so slow into that wind that I had an hour's dark riding into Sivas, along a dirt road through a narrow canyon. My lights are better than some of the cars on the road, so I had plenty of room and I found myself enjoying it. Still, the driving is too erratic for me to want to do that frequently. With the nights drawing in, I was covering about 60 miles a day at most and often less, rather than 70-80 miles a day in Europe.

Ercan was waiting most patiently for me, and once I'd had some food and dumped my bike and established the reason for all the windows being open in his flat despite the sub-zero temperatures (he'd been struck down with paranoia about the cleanliness of the place, so he'd doused it in bleach, and when he became light-headed he realised that he'd overdone it a tad), I felt relaxed, and welcomed, and decided to stay for a couple of days.

Ercan showed me around Sivas - as much as he could. Although it's comparatively affluent and a fair size, Sivas doesn't have many famous sites. It is, however, comfortable and I enjoyed the relaxed vibe. Being with someone who spoke the language and knew lots of folk around town was such a change: we sat in Ercan's boss's chamber where he gently quizzed me on UK foreign policy, and I spent an afternoon in the company of Mr Turcan, the Honorary German Consulate for the Sivas region. We also visited a Nargile Cafe, and I dragged teetotal Ercan to the only pub in Sivas.



All of that was great. However, touring cyclists are all about the food. I'd been on a quest to find porridge since I got to Turkey; It's called yulaf esmesi here, but could I find it? Everyone knew what it was, but nowhere stocked it. Ercan and Sivas changed all that, and I bought a kilo just to be sure. I'd been having semolina for breakfast, which was OK, but it ain't porridge. Ercan also introduced me to halva, and he cooks a mean fish.

It was a leisurely few days off the bike, which I would have loved to have extended, except that I could feel winter dogging my heels, and I wanted to get south of the mountains before the cold weather really set in. Ercan and Mr Turcan tried to talk me out of going east into the winter, and when I looked out on the morning's sleet, it was hard to push myself out that door. Leaving warmth and companionship for solitary pursuits along bleak dual carriageways? But the snow had stopped, and I had to heed the call of the road.

Kayseri-seri

Sometimes it's just a matter of plodding on and accumulating distance towards the next place.

It's been a grey, hazy sort of day, and I thought my planned route around Mount Erciyes would be a complete waste of time, as I would have seen nowt but cloud and murk, so I skipped that bit. I did have a quick tour of Göreme National Park and had my photo taken by some tourists queuing at the entrance. I would have waved and posed for them, but the steep, cobbled descent was taking all my attention.

I had my first puncture of the trip, and naturally enough while I was fixing it the rain was at its heaviest. Not that it was ever especially heavy, and it came with a lovely south westerly breeze which was behind me all day. When I rode past Kayseri I looked south towards Mount Erciyes and I was pleased that I hadn't gone that way, as the southern horizon was smothered by dark clouds and rain. I nipped into the outskirts of the city to get a few provisions, then back out onto the bypass; Kayseri was bigger than I'd realised, and I did not want to ride through city traffic if I could avoid it. The bypass was smooth and quiet, and it took me three hours to circumnavigate Kayseri.

It wasn't a day where I ever felt inspired, but not every day can be as good as the last few have been. It wasn't a tough day, it was just another day on the road.

How I Won Over Cappadocia: 09/11/2011 and 10/11/2011

"I want to see mountains," I told someone in Antwerp in a very Bilbo Baggins-esque way. Since my route through Europe followed the rivers, there weren't any mountains to be seen there, and I've had to wait until Cappadocia for real mountains.

It hasn't disappointed; from Aksaray, I was riding along the Peristreme Valley, and the great bulk of Mount Hasan glowered over the whole area. I was riding towards it for two days, and I chose a campsite within sight of it, so when the sun set and the moon rose, its slopes glowed in the moonlight.


The Peristreme/Ihlara Valley was a rare beauty as well, a narrow patchwork of rocky canyons and volcanic remains riddled with ancient dwellings and churches burrowed into the caves and canyon walls where the early Christians hid from persecution. Even the modern houses and inhabitants use the caves as parts of their houses, or as cool storage spaces during the hot summers. I'm enjoying the cool bright November days here, but this place must be a boiling hell in the summer.

Mountains means climbing, though not as much as you might expect. This region seems to be a series of plateaus, and the passes between them are not especially steep, though they are very high. On Tuesday night I camped near the summit of Sivrihisar Pass, at an altitude of 1600 metres ASL. The highest I've ever camped, or even been on a bike.

I chose a spot not too close to the road, and next to a water trough which I used for cooking and washing - and drinking. It seemed to be flowing straight from the mountain, so I thought it would be fine.

Camping next to a water source and on a well-trodden footpath with livestock tracks on it is bound to have consequences, and since I lazed in my tent until well after 8, waiting for the sun to rise and warm the ground (the night had been so cold that I'd used my bivvy bag as a sleeping bag outer for the first time), while I was eating my breakfast semolina the cattle arrived to drink their morning water, then the donkey, then the sheep, and finally Ahmad and Jamal, two very serious boys who were shepherding during their school holiday. I gave them half a pack of extra strong mints to share, they gave me a bit of their dinner, and they watched me strike camp with unnerving intensity. I gave them a wave as I rode away up the pass.



I was reminded of how lucky I am to be in such a dry climate; the one water source had frozen into ice across the road in Sivrihisar Village. The rest of the pass, though, was dry and clear and fabulous for cycling.



It was a day of kids being interested in me and my bike. The constant shouts of "Hallo!" did wear after a while, but I answered most of them with a wave, if not a smile as well. Most of them. I stopped for an afternoon snack and when a young lad came over saying "hello", I pissed off straightaway, saying "I just want five minutes to myself!" I'm sure I heard him shout "Arsehole" after me. He was certainly shouting something. Ten minutes before that, one young boy stood in front of me to make me stop, but I won that particular game of chicken. I was going slowly enough to have braked before I hit him, but also slowly enough that he could chase after me and try to grab hold of a pannier. I snarled at him to let go: I guess I don't always deal too well with being the centre of attention.

I had been in a much better temper earlier in the day, when I'd stopped in Ciftlik for some bread and snacks; a gang of young lads gathered round my bike, so I offered the nearest one a ride on it, and had to stifle my laughter when he could hardly balance it, let alone ride it. He was pleased to have made the attempt, though, and one of his mates rode alongside me for a while over the next pass, Sekkin Bogazi Pass, where the tallest mountain in Cappadocia, Mount Erciyes, first came into view. I hope to ride along Tekir Pass when I leave this area, as that rises to 2500 metres beside Mount Erciyes, and should be spectacular, if the days are as bright and clear as they have been.

For today, though, I'll enjoy wandering around the fantasy rock formations of Göreme National Park. It's completely off season, but there is still a fair dusting of tourists in the area. This place must be grockle central in the summer, judging by the number of guesthouses and shops selling souvenirs. It's quite a contrast to the serenity of the upper Peristreme Valley and the down-home realness of Ihlara, but quite an enjoyable change as well. I'm off the bike today, and no one gives me a second look.

Cappadocia Calling: 05/11/2011 to 08/11/2011

I nearly didn't remember the fifth of November. I had thought of buying a few fireworks to mark the date, and I doubted I would have had any problems. All I need to buy a gun here is a valid passport, so fireworks are probably given away free with breakfast cereal.

But I didn't buy any fireworks and I didn't even have a bonfire as there was no wood near where I camped; it was quite an exposed spot, so I couldn't have hidden any fire. Since Ankara, finding decent campsites has been tough as there's so little cover, with barely a fold in the turf to hide me. None of the landowners are bothered, but the police might be (on Saturday night, I camped within a km of the police station, I realised the next day), and it's the principle of the thing to camp as subtly as possible, wherever possible.

On Sunday night I didn't have any choice but to wait until nightfall and pitch my tent as far away from the road as I could be bothered to go, but still within sight of it, as all around there it was flat flat flat. There was ice on my tent again that morning: this is nearly a desert climate, so there's little rain and the days are warm, but at night when the skies are clear the temperatures just fall away. I've had to melt ice for my morning coffee every day since Ankara.

The region north of Cappadocia and south of Ankara is dominated by Tuz Gölü or Salt Lake. When I rode past on Sunday it was busy with Turks paddling in the shallow water. Despite the lake's size, the water rarely gets deeper than a metre, and there were people walking way out into the middle of it. The shore of the lake was hard and calcified white from the salt deposits and the water was a cloudy mirror. It was beautiful, and the road followed the lakeshore for miles.



I wasn't disturbed that night except by the roar of the traffic on the D750, and the shepherds and I exchanged nods while I was striking camp in the morning, so it was all good.

Tonight's campsite is much better. I've entered Cappadocia proper, and you don't get views like this from many hotels, at least not at prices I can afford. I'm hunkering amongst the rocks above the Ihlara Valley like Holmes on Dartmoor, out of sight of everything but the huge mass of Hasan Dagi/Mount Hasan. The sun sets before five at this time of year but the fattening moon is making the rocky landscape glow. Shame it's too cold to sit outside the tent for long.

Cant-Ankara-ous

I hate negotiating cities on my bike. I find it stressful and unnerving. They're all laid out differently and the traffic levels are always higher and the driving standards are lower, and there's pressure to find somewhere to stop, as I don't have my usual fallback of pitching my tent behind the nearest stand of trees.

In Budapest I wandered around for an afternoon without finding a hostel or tourist information, and the hostel I eventually found was full, and the staff didn't feel the need to tell me that until I'd dragged my bike up the stairs into the lobby, or bother to point me towards an alternative. In Sofia I arrived in the dark, wet and bedraggled, and couldn't explain to the otherwise very helpful waiter at a handy restaurant the distinction between a hotel and a hostel. In Vienna, I rode in circles around the endless boulevards and the frustrating Ringstrasse for two hours, trying to find Westerbahnhof or even somebody who knew where it was, but the closest I got was a sign saying that it was 4 km away (and no other signs after that one) and a tram going to Westerbahnhof. Or, possibly, coming from there. Two hours of frustration and no sign of a tourist information. I stopped by yet another tram stop and realised that in those two hours I hadn't seen a single thing I wanted to see again, and having realised that, I left the place without regrets. I slept rough in Wiener Prater, far and away the best part of Vienna, and left at first light.

Ankara was not the worst, but it is a deeply unpleasant city to cycle around. I timed my arrival to coincide with rush hour so as to add an extra element of danger. Filtering through the traffic was a bit fraught, but what choice did I have? The only alternative route was the 20-foot high pedestrian footbridge, and dragging my bike up there would have drained my last strength, with no guarantee that it led anywhere. Ankara is OK to walk around as long as you don't mind stairs (don't apply if you're a wheelchair user), or to drive around, but not to cycle. I crossed to the left hand lane of yet another five-lane road and swore back at the drivers who were beeping their horns at me, and dragged my bike into the hotel lobby. It was full, so I had to go back out and repeat the rigmarole in reverse.

Trying to find a different hotel was no picnic either; I thought I'd just wander until I found one and stop there, as long as it wasn't that expensive. But Ankara doesn't work like that. I was in a street of bars, and getting sick of riding, and there were no hotels for about two miles. It was 8 o'clock and a bit chilly - probably too chilly to bivvy down in the park, if I could find the park, but I was starting to think about it. I stopped at an English-themed bar called Pub Bla Bla to get a meal, as I hadn't eaten since early afternoon and I wasn't thinking straight.

Turns out, the owner of the place used to work in Newcastle, and we had a good chin-wag and he showed me around his pub and when I left he pointed me towards Ulus, the district where I was most likely to find a reasonably priced hotel. The beer and food perked me up, too. I followed Eddie's directions and stopped at the first hotel I saw. I asked for (and got) a slight discount, but at 80 lira that was still a few days' budget. However, when I got to the room and showered and lounged on the double bed in front of some hilarious Turkish TV, I didn't mind so much.

I was still desperate to leave, though, so I didn't even stop for breakfast the next day. Ankara doesn't have much to appeal to the tourist, since it's mostly government: other cyclists and locals I'd spoken to told me not to bother going there, but as it was on my natural route from Bolu to Cappadocia, it was easier to go through than to avoid.



I followed the main road out of town, which was a busy six-lane dual carriageway climbing up the big hill at the south of the city. Riding so slowly up that hill seemed to take ages. I put my iPod on to drown out the noise of the cars. Yet more beeping, yet more swearing at motorists.

Thankfully the hill didn't last more than a few miles and I hit 40 mph on the descent, and finally I raised my fist in triumph when I reached the sign that told me I'd left Ankara and was back on the open road.