The Lone and Level Sands: through the desert from Esfehan to Yazd and Shiraz

I'd always wanted to see the desert. It was one of the things I'd harp on about to anyone who asked, and it's one of the things Iranians are proud of - theirs is a land of contrasts, they'll tell you, high mountains and tropical coastlines, howling deserts and groping jungles. Actually, I've seen plenty of photos of the "jungle" in the Caspian basin, and it doesn't look any more daunting than British woodlands - it's hardly the Darien Gap. It may be a translation difficulty, or characteristic exaggeration. But I digress.

Esfahan was a wonderful city, where I spent a few days to recover from the flu. I reckon I spent more time sleeping than sightseeing, but still, what a place. Mosques and squares and rambling bazaars and on top of the history, a great bustling sense of activity and possibility. Esfehan does suffer in one way from its success - the pervasive smog didn't half choke my delicate lungs, and I was there three days before I realized there were mountains around the city, hidden as they were behind the jaundiced fog. It'll always be yellow in my memories. It was the first Iranian city, though, that I enjoyed walking around - Zanjan and Khoy and Tabriz belong to the car, but in Esfehan it is still possible to wander as a pedestrian, which is my favorite way to explore cities.





I still didn't feel great when I left, but the visa clock was ticking, so off I rode towards Yazd. Nice tailwind that day, and I soon found myself surrounded by...well, nothing, which is one of the things you look for in a desert. Apart from the road and the telegraph poles and power lines to either side of it, nothing. As well as nothingness, one of the things everyone knows about deserts is that they are cold at night, when the heat radiates away to the stars. The stars were spectacular when I was away from the towns and cities, though with the cold I was unwilling to linger long outside my tent, and in fact the first night away from Esfahan, I slept at Mohammad's homestay in the town of Toodeshk, which is a wonderfully evocative name, the eastern promise in the drawn out first vowel and the guttural finishing "shk" sound. Toodeshk had a very traditional air, mud brick buildings and narrow alleys and sand.

Mohammad also gave me some good tips about the next bit of the route: "it's uphill after Toodeshk, downhill to Naín, then flat to Yazd, don't camp too close to the mountains as there have been reports of wolves, and if you camp in the ruins at Now Gonbad, the old man who cooks the omelettes will come to your tent and try to homosexual you. If (!) you don't want this, wave your phone at him and shout 'police'! He'll leave you alone." There was more advice after that, but I mainly remembered the part about Iran's Uncle Monty, and I didn't camp at Now Gonbad.

Sina had arranged for me to stay with his friend Ali in Yazd, though there was a slight language barrier in that I can only speak a few words of Farsi and Ali only speaks a few phrases of English. Luckily we had Sina on speed dial as a translator, and I had an enjoyable afternoon soaking up the atmosphere in Yazd. Ali took me round the mosque and the bazaar and best of all, a meander through the ancient streets and alleys, where the desert winds have worn the sharp edges from the stone. There was also Dowlatabad Gardens and its amazing wind tower, an ancient form of air conditioning. An afternoon wasn't long enough, but I still felt the sands of time running out on my visa, so I had to say farewell to Ali's hospitality (which was as generous as ever - I had to put my foot down to stop him from emptying his own cupboards into my panniers) and get straight back on the road.



Now, Ali is a cycle tourist, and he had ridden from Yazd to Shiraz, so I checked out his photos and asked him about the route. He warned me about a few big hills, including one near Deh Shir, about 45 miles from Yazd. Something must have been lost in translation, as he didn't tell me that those 45 miles were ALL uphill. In my weakened condition, I came damn close to chucking my bike over the nearest hedge, except this was the desert and there were no hedges, and I wouldn't have had the strength anyway. I like hills and mountains more than most cyclists, I suspect, but I was not prepared for 45 bastard miles uphill. I spent the whole day not quite believing that it would keep going up. Even with a tailwind it was a brutal slog, and I gave it up at about 3.30 after 43 miles, and camped just off the road, behind a spoil heap.

Overnight, naturally enough, the wind changed direction to become a headwind. At least it was only another 3 or 4 miles to the summit, even if they were tough miles which took me 48 grumpy minutes. I scowled at an Iranian couple who'd stopped their car to take photos of the view, and then of me. I couldn't help smiling. They waved me down and fed me some welcome chocolate.



It was flat or downhill to Abarkuh, and the desert landscape was making a reappearance after my excursion over the mountains. I plugged away into the wind but I was disappointed with my slow progress, and starting to worry that I wouldn't have time to renew my visa in Shiraz, and to visit the Persian remains north of Shiraz.

I was thinking about this and letting myself fret as I rode south on the main Esfehan-Shiraz road. Yet another car beeped at me (as one in every three or four seems to) and, feeling bad-tempered, I flicked him the v's. Nobody in Iran knows what this means, so it makes me feel better without offending anyone. Except this time, the car stopped and pulled off the road about a hundred yards ahead.

When I got alongside the car, the driver was waving his flask at me and saying "Chai! Chai!" Well, I'm not one to pass up an opportunity for tea, so I said bale/yes, and in a whirlwind of activity Mahmud (which was his name) had laid out a cloth on the ground and a whole picnic of crisps, fruits and nuts, but sadly no tea, though he did provide the bizarre substitute of an effervescent vitamin C tablet in water. Mmm. He even tried to set up a water pipe, and generally fussed about like an English housewife who's just heard that the Queen's coming for tea. It was surreal, and wonderful.

I had to stop for the day not long after setting off again, as my legs had given up. I pulled up next to a wagon, hoping to blag some water from the driver so I could set up camp for the night. He didn't have any water, but he did offer me a lift - which I had been secretly hoping he would. I had absolutely no energy, and when I saw the size of the hill I would have had to go over, I knew I wouldn't regret that decision. It would have taken me until the next day to get over that bastard.

It also added another dimension to my journey, though the conversation (Mehmat spoke pretty good English) became a bit repetitive.

"Hey, got any photos of English girls?"
...
"Oh, you're going to Thailand? Beautiful girls there."
...
"So what do you think of Iranian girls?"
...
Etc. I told him he should come to the UK and I'll take him somewhere like the Bigg Market on a Saturday night.

He dropped me about 70 km on, at Pasargard, the first in a series of ancient Persian sites I wanted to visit. It was getting on so I camped up by the local fly tipping spot - it was dark, and I didn't realise it was the dump until morning. No harm done, though I started to realise that my fatigue was more than just an after effect of the flu - without going into too much detail, you didn't want to get caught between me and the toilet at the wrong time.

At Pasargad, I was the only visitor so early in the morning: the desert air was crisp and clear and the light was amazing. The tomb of Cyrus the great is the most impressive relic there, sited alone on the plain. Apparently it was originally surrounded by a pleasure garden, but on its own it has...presence.



Still feeling knackered, I talked another wagon driver into giving me a lift to Persepolis. Like Mehmat, he refused any kind of payment, though his English was nearly as limited as my Farsi. He did, however, insist that I visit Naqsh-e-Rostam before Persepolis, and he was quite right to do so, as it is a powerful place. The Achamaenid kings' tombs are carved into a huge rocky escarpment, each tomb open to the elements so that the bones can be picked clean by vultures, in Zoroastrian tradition. I also met an English woman and her Iranian family; proving yet again that it's a small world after all, she told me she was born in Darlington as soon as I said that's where I'm from. She also reminded me that it was Christmas day - I suppose it's no wonder that I forgot, as spending the day amongst the relics of a civilization which rose and fell before the birth of Christ is about as un-Christmassy as you can get.



My last Achamaenid visit was the daddy - Persepolis, or Takht-e-Jamshid as it's known locally. I'm not likely to forget this, as there were loudspeakers at the site blasting out a commentary from some local ham, and the words "Takht-e-Jamshid" occurred at least once in every sentence.

It had a very different atmosphere to the stark dignity of Pasargad or the sun-scorched antiquity of Naqsh-e-Rostam. Persepolis is big business, though refreshingly it's only 5,000 rials to enter (about 30p). But the huge car park and the rows of businesses mean there's money there, though not so much in the middle of winter, even if I did find it warm. I also found it quite busy compared to the other sites. It must be dreadful in high season.

There's no denying the scale of Persepolis, though. You climb up the hill behind the city and you can look back over the pillars and arches and try to imagine it as a place of wealth and power, the capital of an empire that stretched from India to central Europe. I even managed to tune out the commentary for a bit.



I haggled and earned myself quite a cheap rate at the on-site hotel (proximity of a toilet was quite important to me at that moment) by using my natural charm and the manager's confusion about the difference between dollars, tomans and rials. With so many noughts in the currency, even Iranians sometimes get confused, and for once it worked to my advantage.

The next day I rode down to Shiraz, where I renewed my visa easily, which both relieved and annoyed me. I didn't have to dash to the nearest border in the two days before it expired, but I could probably have relaxed a bit more and seen more of Iran. Ah well. I put that behind me and tried to find a hotel in Shiraz where I could rest up for a few days.

The first hotel (Ferdowsi Hotel on Zand) was not the haven of rest I craved. The staff were sort of friendly in a grinning-inanely kind of way, but quite useless. They spent ten minutes asking me questions when I'd explained that I was tired and wanted to go my room. I asked for the shower and they pointed me to the toilet, so I had to go back and get the shower key, then they asked me for my passport even though I'd handed it over ten minutes before. Useless. It was also too loud in my room adjoining the courtyard, and the centerpiece of the evening was spanging cockroaches with my pan, then watching the local ants guzzle the remains. I moved hotel the next morning, to the simple, cheap, friendly and clean Zand Hotel. That was my base for an abortive exploration of Shiraz. After Persepolis and the rest, it was always going to be a let-down.

Hospital and Hospitality: through northern Iran from Tabriz to Zanjan

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"Hospital" is a bit dramatic, I admit. But I picked up a strain of flu which has been going around Iran, and it really took it out of me. I tried to cycle out of Zanjan after an unpleasant night's coughing and sweating, riding with the famous Matt and Andy (The Cycle Diaries), a couple of English cyclists I'd met when we all took shelter in a Bostan Abad hotel after riding out of Tabriz and into heavy snow. That was a filthy day, as all the passing cars churned the snow into an Iranian toothpaste of snow, grit, mud, petrol and other thankfully unidentifiable roadside crap. We ate dinner and watched the snow fall - one poor guy cleared his car, then went away for half an hour, and when he came back the snow had covered his car again.



The next day was better: it was bright and clear and the snow had stopped, though it was still thick on the ground. Andy suggested that we should follow the motorway, which was wider and clearer than the parallel road (and the guy at the toll booth just laughed and waved us through - bikes win again), even if the lack of facilities started to make itself felt after a while, and at the end of the day I expected we'd be camping. I'm nearly always quite happy to camp; my rule of thumb is that it should be above freezing during the day to make camping reasonably pleasant, and it certainly was. However, Matt and Andy had a magic letter in Farsi which introduced them and what they were doing - Matt showed this to the guys at a local community centre which was about the only building for miles, and without hesitation we were wved in, fed, watered and entertained for the evening. Iranian hospitality is an amazing thing. They turned out to be a gang of navvies who maintain the motorway between Tabriz and Tehran, and the evening passed with a revolving cast of locals coming and going. While we were eating our second evening meal in the warm, I pointed out to Matt that we could have cycled another ten miles if we'd been willing to camp - well, you wouldn't believe the language he gave me in response.



The navvies even gave up their beds for us, which made me feel a bit guilty until I realised that the floor would probably have been softer.

We had an early start the next day as Matt and Andy had arranged to stay with a cyclist in Zanjan, and we had ninety miles to cover. That was when my flu started to make itself felt, as I had a thich head and heavy legs and a chesty cough made worse by the thick fumes from passing HGVs. It should have been an easy day, as there was a strong tailwind and the terrain rolled up and down, and I'd actually had five days off the bike in Tabriz, but my legs weren't getting the message, so it was a day of endurance as I tried to keep up with the others but ended up watching them ride over the horizon while I gritted my teeth and found a plodding pace I could maintain.

I'd also been stopped for a friendly chat by a passing police car, and Andy asked if I had a sign saying "British Spy" above my head, as I'd already been questioned by the police in Azarshar and Tabriz for about five hours apiece after some friendly locals took me hiking up to what was apparently a strategically vital waterfall in the Sahand Mountains. I could have done with a drink after that.





Actually, the hiking trip to Hargalan was a grand day out, despite the views of police station interiors which followed, and which probably wouldn't feature in the highlights reel of anyone's trip to Iran, but it was a relatively painless affair and there was even a touch of comedy when the sergeant in Tabriz offered me his chai as a gesture of tarof (ceremonial politeness - I was supposed to refuse until the third offer) and I unthinkingly took it, much to his amusement. Hey, I was thirsty.

The walking in the high mountains gave me another excuse to rest up in Tabriz for a few extra days, and it was just bad luck that I picked up the flu. Sina - the cyclist we stayed with in Zanjan - and his family expressed concern that I shouldn't be cycling, but I thought I'd be able to ride it off, and I didn't want to burden these kind people with my illness. However, when it took me two and a half hours to ride seven miles away from Zanjan, I decided to turn back.

Sina and his family were amazingly kind and generous. Here's a picture of the food mountain his mother, Soosan, forced on me before I left.



They had already fed the three of us the night before, and invited the family round for a wonderful evening, although I was a bit too ill and lacking in energy to play the part of the guest to the same standard. I'm sure they understood, and Sina insisted I visit the doctor, which was quite a bit different from the UK experience. Instead of just being told to rest up, it was Blammo! straight in with the penicillin injections, one in each buttock plus another in the right for good measure, followed by a course of antibiotics. I was feeling a bit vague and fuzzy, which didn't stop one of the enthusiastic locals from jabbering at me while I was lying across the bed in the surgery like a slab of meat.

Despite feeling distinctly woolly, the flu did give me a welcome excuse to hang around Zanjan with Sina and his family - we had a look around town at the knives for which it's famous, and at the local picnic areas, and I bought Soosan some flowers as a small thank you for the hospitality we'd been shown. We had discussed bringing a gift before we arrived, but as the only place on the motorway was the service station, we decided that a gift of petrol, banana wafers or twenty Mayfair would not be appropriate. Buying the flowers may have been a tactical error, as it only seemed to increase the amount of food I was given when I left. Not that I'm complaining, as home cooked food in Iran is very good indeed, and quite a contrast to the limited fare available at restaurants.



I'd looked at the distance I had to travel, and the time left on my visa, and my ability to ride, and I made the decision to take a bus down to Esfahan. Time was looking to be a real issue, and something had to give. Sina did say that the ride to Esfahan was boring, but I was skeptical about that, as he'd said the same about the route from Bostan Abad to Zanjan, where we passed between glowing mountains and amongst rocky valleys which reminded me of a snowy Arizona. If that's boring, he should try the A167 down to Busby Stoop ona grey Sunday afternoon.

The night bus was an enjoyable run, especially as I was lucky enough to be seated next to an English speaker from Qom, so I now have an open invitation to stay in Qom, which in another country may have been a polite nothing, but Iranians mean this when they say it. Still, I wasn;t unhappy when he got off, as I could then roll up my fleece and lay it against the window for a pillow and get a couple of hours' sleep before the morning arrival into Esfahan.

Linky to Photos on Flickr.

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.

Güle Güle: Standing Still in Istanbul

How you say goodbye in Turkish depends on whether you're staying or leaving. If you're leaving you say "hoshchakal", but if you're staying behind you say "güle güle".

After five nearly non-stop weeks, I stayed at the same hostel in Istanbul for ten days and felt like the centre of a turning world, staying put while other people came and went, a revolving cast of characters. Donald Macleod, a Scottish cyclist, recognised my Ortlieb pannier in Hagia Sofia and introduced himself - he was also cycling east, but by a different route, going through Georgia and Kazakhstan and across China. I spent my second night there drinking with an Irish couple, a Mexican, a Colombian and an American pharmacist who gave me a few bags of Trail Mix. An extremely well-travelled Frenchman introduced me to Turkish pepper paste, and Alireza came through on his way from Iran to Sweden; Alireza was embarking on the quickest tour ever of Istanbul's sights, at least the ones that weren't museums, as he doesn't do museums. I met Al and Sally from Alaska, who'd parked their bikes next to mine in the yard, and whose brains I picked about Turkey, as they'd come from Erzurum and along the Black Sea. I nicknamed them "Disaster Area", as they'd just come from Van, where an earthquake had struck, and they were booking a flight from Istanbul to Bangkok as news started to come through of the floods devastating the city.

There was also the visit from the meths fairy. At least, I think it was the meths fairy, as a half litre of meths appeared by my bed, just as I was worrying about running out of fuel for my alcohol stove halfway across Turkey. Thanks, meths fairy! It might also have been the Swiss/German couple I'd been chatting to who left it, especially as the bottle was labelled brenspiritus, the German name for meths.

Pride of place, though, goes to Erkki, the Finnish spy. OK, he claimed to be a journalist, but my suspicions were first aroused by his speaking such excellent Turkish. Not that it did him any favours with the hostel staff - they said they'd ask him to leave if he washed his clothes in the sink again. He also spoke Romanian, which he admitted had astonished the locals when he'd been hiking there on his way to Turkey. Nobody speaks Romanian, let alone Romanian and Turkish. He said he'd been on plenty of long cycling tours previously, and warned me about wild dogs in Turkey (which I had started to worry about), told me that I'd need a mirror (which I haven't bothered getting) and told me to consider getting a gun. He was a most interesting character.

I enjoyed the time I spent there, relaxing, wandering the city (Istanbul can be a money sink, but walking around is still free), arranging visas and re-organising my bike, as my sister had sent a package of spares and maps to me in Istanbul. Collecting that from customs is another story...

Dragons and Dinosaurs: On my Own in Bavaria

I must have spent too long in the sun, which is still quite strong at southern latitudes. Certainly too strong and too south for a northerner like me. I tried to ride, but I had absolutely no energy, fell asleep on the grass, then threw up when the strengthening sun started to take effect. I took the hint. I'd passed a campsite a mile or two back - a beautiful spot beside some rapids on the Altmuhl, where I dossed the day away, chatting to the locals including a guy in a Stetson who'd first camped and canoed there 25 years ago, and a dotty Bavarian psychologist who introduced himself with a riff on his harmonica. I also met Hans the Bavarian Boatman, who possessed the most wonderful rolling Bavarian accent. He was from Munich and escaping the Oktoberfest madness by boating down the Altmuhl.

I had an early start the next day, passing Hans downstream, and I was in Eichstätt before the rush hour started. The Altmuhl valley has a rich geological history. Millions of years ago, it bore the main flow of the Danube, but the geology shifted and now the size of the river hardly seems to do justice to the huge valley through which it flows, and which dwarfs it. The Altmuhl is also where Archaeopteryx and other famous fossils were discovered, but I decided not to visit the museum: onward!





The Altmuhl loops north after Eichstätt. I decided to cut the corner, knowing that this was likely to mean tackling a few hills. I do enjoy the challenge of hills, but the steep valley walls looked rather forbidding. The route, however, was quite well graded, except for a steep path through the forest. However, the forest was sublimely quiet. I stopped in the chamber of trees and once again I imagined myself as Bilbo Baggins, traipsing through Mirkwood on his way to meet the dragon.



I was enjoying being on my own again. I set my sights on Landshut, the Danube, and the road to Austria.

Chasing the Kingfisher: down the Tauber and Altmuhl with Felix,September 2011

"Federalüntergerauntenflederhafenschaften" is how the sign read, I think. Forgive my poor memory, and worse German. Felix laughed when he saw it, as it meant "Federally Approved Place of Relaxation". This being Germany, it obviously meant that we wouldn't be able to relax anywhere else, so we were obliged to ride through southern Germany in a state of heightened tension. Damn those Germans and their rules!

I'd met Felix earlier that day, when I was riding out of Frankfurt while suffering from the kind of hangover you get when you spend the night drinking with a gang of young Americans on their way to Oktoberfest in Munich. It was too bright and I was going very slowly. He overtook me when I stopped to remove something from my wheel, then I leapfrogged him when he stopped to check his map. He addressed me in German, then again in English when he registered my incomprehension, and when he told me about his plan to ride along the Tauber river, it sounded far more interesting than my planned route. The Tauber Valley is known as "Lieberlisch Taubertal" on the publicity brochures and maps, it is home to many wild birds and animals and possesses natural beauty which was only enhanced by the first blush of autumn in the trees and the sunshine of the Indian Summer which I was enjoying through Europe, though the Germans have a different phrase for it: Altweibersommer, oldladysummer. The towns along the Tauber all show signs of its rich history. They each had a medieval Altstadt, most notably Rothenburg, where Japanese tourists pointed their cameras at Felix and I cycling up the cobbles rather than the glockenspiel display in the town square. There were other signs of the Tauber's history, such as the beautiful stone bridges which had been built with church money and were adorned with statues of the local saints or bishops holding crosses in attitudes supposedly of religious contemplation, but they mostly reminded me of axe-wielding rock stars.



For at least the second time since I'd left the UK I had chucked away my plans and went a completely different route. One of the delights of cycle touring is the flexibility and freedom which you don't have when you travel by plane or train and have to keep to timetables not of your own making.

Chance companions are another: Felix bristled with information about the natural history of the region, its geology and wildlife and plantlife. He told me that of all the wild creatures that dwelt along the Tauber, the one he most wanted to see was the kingfisher. It's a small, elusive bird with brilliant blue plumage, and it lives by rivers such as the Tauber, perching on a branch at the river's edge, watching the water flow beneath and waiting for the moment to dive into the stream and re-emerge with a silvery fish clutched in its beak.

As we rode along, then, Felix and I would pause at the bridges and other places where the kingfisher was likely to be found, hoping to see it.

We did see kites, kestrels, magpies and pied wagtails, oystercatchers, hares and foxes, yellowhammers twittering in the trees, huge pike lazily turning under the bridges we crossed, and buzzards whose cries came down through the trees at our camping site in the abandoned orchard. At least, it should have been abandoned - Felix assured me that the apple trees above us were too old to be commercial crops... Which was true, as the farmer told us herself when she came past on her horse to check the new orchards in the top field. She was so flabbergasted to see campers that she could only say to her horse, "look at that, look at that". Felix proved to be a bit of a jinx when it came to choosing campsites; the next night, we camped by a quiet pond, on a dirt track which was quieter than quiet, apart from the yahoos who used it is a shortcut between their village and the local drinking hole. The next night, in deepest Mittelfranken, we went along an empty track and through a stand of trees to camp at the forest fringe, but even there, just as we were cooking our supper, we could hear the putter-putter of an approaching engine.

We tensed as the tractor approached, but the driver refused even to look at us as he passed, so we relaxed (despite not being in a federally approved place of relaxation), and just as we were opening our Bavarian beers, we heard the putter-putter returning, with reinforcements. I felt as though we'd wandered onto the main road when I saw the tractor and two other cars turn the corner, and both Felix and I thought we were due to be chased off the land, if not threatened with guns.

However, they were delighted to see us there. I'm told that wild camping was legal in Germany until the 1960s, and people seemed to remember that and enjoy seeing us carrying on the tradition, or perhaps they were entertained by the sight of a pair of mad cyclists camping in a field. The farmer pulled his Mercedes over and showed us off to his young son in the passenger seat, and insisted on giving us a pumpkin. When they'd gone, and the tractor had putter-puttered back the way it came, Felix and I turned to each other and burst out laughing.


The pumpkin made a good supper. Food is food, and when it's free it's twice as good. Autumn is a fabulous time to be on the road, when the trees and hedgerows are filled with fruits and berries ripe to be picked. I've probably never eaten as healthily as I did during that month in Europe.



We even found a plum tree by the Tauber; I used my flag to knock them from the branches down to Felix beneath, who caught as many as he could. We stopped on the next bridge to eat them and to watch a huge heron which was waiting on a rock in the stream as if it was about to launch itself into the air. I leaned against the handrail, popped a plum into my mouth, then tried to shout "kingfisher!" around it. Felix turned in time to see the kingfisher fly underneath the bridge in a flash of blue and then away downstream. That glimpse was the most we saw of a kingfisher, but that glimpse was enough. We didn't follow it downstream but continued upstream, to the south and the Altmuhl, chasing the summer.

The Belgium-Germany border: 16/09/2011 to 18/09/2011

Dark brooding forests and grey days and rain. I checked into a campsite and only realised my mistake when the two minibuses of insufferably jolly young Dutch persons parked to either side of me. Even with earplugs and a buff round my head they were making enough noise to wake me at one in the morning.

I'd stopped on the long climb away from Verviers, telling myself any number of reasons - the road would be quieter on a Saturday, the weather would be better - but really I stopped because I couldn't be bothered. My mood had nosedived, I felt lonely and isolated and I was asking myself what I was doing there. Nothing unusual in that, except the usual answers didn't hold their usual power to keep me going.

I plodded along in isolation on the Saturday and the Sunday, and spent a terrible couple of nights where I kept waking up unable to breathe. I opened the tent and gulped in the cool night air, read for a bit until I felt tired again, fell asleep and started the whole cycle again. It also rained on the Sunday night and morning. Striking camp in the rain is a depressing activity - everything's wet and it's going to stay wet.

I grabbed a couple of apples from beside the Mosel near Zell and munched them at the roadside. I was in no mood to go on. I was on the verge of tears all day, not because it was wet or because I was on my own, simply because I was homesick. When I had slept I'd dreamt of home, and friends and family.

The climb out of the Mosel Valley is 7 km long. I know this as the information was shared by a cheerful local cyclist. Too cheerful for me - I was polite but I was in no mood to chat, and he soon dropped back to chivvy his friend along. The poor sod was going even slower than me.

The tears were coming all the time, and eventually I pulled into a layby and sobbed to myself for ten minutes. It didn't lift my brown mood, but at least I felt I could carry on. One of the thoughts that kept me going was that I hadn't tolerated a job I disliked just to turn tail after a week, and as my sister said in a text message, they'd all still be there when I got back.

A truly bewildering encounter with a mad old German next - I knocked on his door and asked for water, he ignored me and threw some nutshells into the road. I wasn't to be dismissed so easily, and said more insistently: "Wasser, bitte." He still refused to look at me. I followed him towards his house, though, and he knew I was there as he scraped his feet on his drive to indicate that I should wipe my feet. Despite showing my proficiency at this task, he obviously thought I was some sort of simpleton, as he wouldn't let me turn on the tap myself. I don't know what was going on - maybe he thought my grandad killed his brother in the war. Maybe he wasn't used to passers-by. More likely, he was just a miserable old sod.

Pondering this kept my mood up, as did the improving weather, though the proximity of ear-splitting engine whine from dozens of fucking too-powerful cars and motorbikes on their way to the nearby Nurburgring certainly didn't. Tossers.

Sunday in Germany is a miserable place. Nothing's open - it took me ages to find a garage where I could buy some milk and beer, and I got lost trying to avoid one of the Autobahns. I left Simmern, rode another 10 miles, then had to come back to Simmern and found myself back at the same, closed, supermarket.

I did at least have a good tailwind, so I struck east when I eventually found a cyclable route out of Simmern. I wanted to get to the Rhein that night. Unfortunately there appeared to be a huge hill in the way, near Bacharach. I said a little prayer that it wouldn't be too hard, as I hadn't the energy. I kept following the cycle route signs for Oberheimbach and Niederheimbach, but without much hope. "Ober" always means a bastard of a hill.

I had to stop a couple more times for a cry - the landscape was beautiful, gentle rolling hills and a deserted road winding through pine forests, but I could only think of home.



Something strange happened near Oberheimbach - I still can't work out the topography, but the hill which I didn't want to climb never appeared. The road tracked the Heimbach (Heim Beck) down, down and down some more to the milky waters of the Rhein. The sunset was putting on quite a display behind me, but I was far too relieved to stop - it's a strange feeling, when an obstacle you expect to encounter fails to materialise. I hardly pedalled through Oberheimbach and Niederheimbach, freewheeling all the way down to the Rhein. I found a campsite, which was rubbish, but there were some very friendly people there, and I had another night's disturbed sleep, but that was owing to the busyness of the Rhein Valley - two railway lines, two busy roads and endless traffic up and down the waterway. I still felt homesick and isolated, but I'd been to the Rhein Valley before, so I was in familiar terrain, and I'd come through a tough mental patch, and that gave me the fortitude to carry on riding.


Der Rhein!

What's a Prince Albert in Dutch? Antwerp to Maastricht along the Albertkanaal, 15/09/2011

The day I eventually left Antwerp, Sven skived off his college course and rode with me along the Albertkanaal. This was the flattest 90 miles I have ever ridden.

Not to say it was dull; in Antwerp, Sven had insisted that I buy a Union Flag to put on my bike, which drew more than its fair share of attention. As we were brewing up by the canal a load of factory workers on their fag break came over to chat, and a lady out to get her shopping said "I'm very proud of you" when Sven explained (in Dutch) that I'd ridden from the UK.

Sven had ridden this route loads of times, but that didn't stop us getting lost. We were high above a lake and riding through a pine forest when Sven commented "This is really pretty - I haven't seen this before."

Actually, Sven was a very good guide, and pointed out things I would have missed on my own, such as the work of a Belgian artist/lunatic who wanders the country picking up discarded plastic and nailing it to the closest bit of wood, or the crossover from urban Antwerp, where the local posers ignored us, to friendly Limburg, where everyone wore a smile and every cyclist waved at us. A few of them commented on the discrepancy in weight distribution between our bikes, as I was lugging four panniers plus drybags, and Sven had a spare tube and a pump. "We play Paper-Scissors-Stone", Sven told them.



After the detour through the pines where we realised we'd been going north instead of south, I started to look for somewhere to camp, and though there was a campsite marked both on my map and on the one belonging to a Belgian couple who were cycling to Germany, we couldn't find it. I'd had enough after 90 miles and the ground next to the path was flat. That did for me. There were a few odd looks from passers-by and the Belgian couple laughed, saying we'd given up too soon.

A few beers and a bit of tea, then Sven went to ride back to Antwerp, and I felt weird, as it was the first time I'd be on my own and with no familiar people on the horizon. It felt as though, after an extended and boozy few days with friends through Yorkshire and Belgium, the trip was really starting here.


Sven: "I think it's this way"