Day 76. At last, a bit of quality to finish with!

At about 3.00pm today, Wednesday 28th November, I was ushered through the rather tight security screening and taken through to the formal reception room of the British Embassy here in Istanbul for a much anticipated cup of proper English tea with my friend Leigh Turner, who, fortuitously for us both, just happens to be the Consul General here.

For me this marks the end of the 'proper' bit of my journey, though I still have a trip to Bansko in Bulgaria ahead for some skiing with Jack and Charlie. I was very far from sure that I'd make it this far when I set out back in September (didn't really know where Istanbul was to be honest!). But it all seems to have fallen into some kind of place. 

Just over 8000 km in case you're interested - 2500 of them on two wheels, the rest mainly on buses and ferries. Will try and post some route maps and more considered thoughts  in due course but, for the moment, I just want to say an enormous thanks to everyone who has put me up along the way and supported me with some wonderful emails and texts.

And, should you feel moved to make a more tangible contribution, this is the link to Fi's Just Giving page.

As we say here in Turkey, 'teşekkürler ve iyi geceler'!

Day 73-5. Ticking 'em off...

Number 94 on everyone's  list of '101 things to do before you die' is probably not to travel 1000 km on a 16 hour overnight bus journey. But since I've done it, I'll cross that one off. (It's very over-rated by the way.)

Oh. and I can also tick off another one: reached Istanbul via the Dardanelles which, as I learned yesterday on a tour of the WW1 Gallipoli battlefields, is more than the mighty British fleet managed in 1915. So a small pat on the back for self. 

Day 72. Sod the culture

Well obviously the most important thing to report today, much more significant than all the cultural highlights of Cappadocia -  which are many and impressive - is that the substantial Taiwanese and Japanese contingent on our minibus quite spontaneously told me that I looked very like George Clooney. 

I was, at the time, feeling pretty rough after a night trying to ignore a developing toothache and an inflamed lip (don't ask).  And I was probably looking even worse than I felt due to some pretty crummy sanitary facilities at the ShoeString. So it was just the sort of compliment that I needed! They then went and spoilt it by telling our guide, who was a standard, hirsute Turk (albeit with a nice smile), that he looked like Tom Cruise!

Like many of the pansione and hotels in Goreme, 

the Shoestring is built into the rock - very organic!

After several weeks of cycling across the continent with narry a taste of culture, I have done a pretty good job of catching up recently, with an agora of roman temples, history a plenty (Go Hittites!),  more than a splash of early Christian church decoration, and some solid chunks of geology (limestone traventines and Magic  chimney erosion). So hasn't Turkey done well? 

I'm shortly leaving on another overnight bus to check out the Dardinelles (disastrous WW1 campaign) and then all the Islamic stuff that Istanbul has to offer.  Stand by your Baedeckers!

Actually, chuck them away because here in the 21st Century I've been using the Rough Guide to Turkey that I downloaded on to my phone and it's been terrific! 

In the interests of balance, I have also been reading old fashioned books, mainly because I managed to leave my Kindle in the Lesvos B&B (whence it is being sent to Poste Restante in Istanbul). I wonder what George ıs reading...

No George doesn't do that humpy back look but my Taıwanese frıends sımply ınsısted on takıng some pıctures of me. Unfortunately they mıssed out the tourıst camel that ıs just over to my left - much more photogenıc!

Day 70. Wot! No 40 thieves?

I've decided to see some sights in central Turkey and Ali,  my scooter-riding host, offered to get me a special deal. His prices seemed good but, as he pulled out an official pad on which to book a tour for the next few days, I had to stifle a cry of amazement - his name really *is* Ali Baba! Since I'd just given him a load of money and  most of the arrangements seem to rely entirely on trust, I set off this morning on my trip with a certain amount of unease. 

But, you know,  yet again it all seemed to work out rather swimmingly. After three hours on excellent roads (for once, not funded by the EU!), we  de-bussed at Denzili and straight on to a minibus that was waiting for us, with an English-speaking courier, to whisk us to our destination. Here my onward bus voucher was instantly converted to a proper ticket and I was told where and when the minibus would be to take me to the otogar (=auto gare) later. Left the backpack at a friendly hotel and went exploring another World Heritage site: Pamukkale. 

Wow! Check it out on google or somewhere like here (http://www.greecetravel.com/turkey/pamukkale/index.htm) because my words can't begin to do it justice. At first sight it's like nothing so much as a rather dirty ski slope - but it's made of stone, Traventine to be precise, which is a type of limestone. Because it's precious (a bit like coral) you have to take off your shoes and explore barefoot. But walking up smooth white rock, with warm water running down between your toes is actually very different and rather special. 

Then, at the top, you put your shoes back on to explore another terrific archaeological site: Herapolis which is, if anything, even more extensive than Ephesus and which, at this time of year,  was pretty much empty. 

A good day's sightseeing and, so far, no sign of Ali's thieves!

Day 68. Turkish delights

It's all about food isn't it? Shortly after my morning muesli, I was busy jotting down some 'get by in Turkish' key words on board MV Konstantinos, a smallish ferry taking me on the short hop from Mittilini to Dikini in Turkey.

Arrived by 11.00 and went straight from ferry to ATM to collect some Turkish lira. No idea of rate so got 100. Then into shop for chocolate and nibbles in order to try and work out value of 100TL. That's easy: seems to be about £100!  

About to buy fruit when a coach went past with 'Izmir' on back. Quick dash up the road to catch it, chucked backpack in belly of bus & on -  I'm away within 15mins! All v different. 

Actually not that different: the road passes thru the inevitable olive groves and past wind turbines.  The garages sell LPG. The only difference is that we passengers get free water & a squeeze of lemon-scented hand freshener. Don't get that with NationalExpress.

Got to Izmir bus station about 1.30 and walked into terminal to check out the travel options. Said one word (hello) & was directed to their English speaker who sent me out to the minibus that whisked me out of rather industrial and unappealing Izmir towards Ephesus where I hope to find a room. Just had time to buy a sandwich. Off we go again!

By teatime, I found myself at Ali's place - the Nur Pansione  (www.nur-pension.com)  somewhere  in the back streets of Selcuk. I arrived here on the back of Ali's little scooter which pootled up at the bus station in response to a phone call from one of the booking  clerks. Talk about putting your life into someone else's hands!

I was pretty anxious by this point because I didn't seem to have many options and I was aware that another tout thought he had already 'got' me. And, of course, I assume that everyone is out to get me, in the sense of ripping me off, which doesn't help the stress levels. 

It's only as I head out for a much-needed evening drink that I work out that 100TL is actually £30, not £100! Hey - I can afford several drinks...except, of course, I can't because it's a muslim country and you get a choice of orange or pomegranate juice with your meal.  Tant pis. 

Finished the day with my first real Turkish coffee which was, to be honest, not a patch on the version that Graham serves in Croatia. However it's early days yet and I'm hopeful that my enjoyment of the country and its foods will improve as we get to know each other better over the days to come.  Bon appetit! 

Day 65. More politics!

As I was wandering the streets today, I noticed that there were an unusual number of policemen lounging about. When I asked at the hostel,  I was told that November 17th is the anniversary of a famous student uprising in 1973 against the military junta of the time. A demo was planned later on!

 I got down to the Parliament building pretty much at the march began. By then there were hundreds of police and army about surrounding the Parliament building, all in riot gear...just in case, as one shop-keeper told me!

 

When are we going to see some action Sarg?

I haven't been to many protest marches so it was interesting to see this at close quarters. It was all pretty good natured, though the activists at the front of the march were fairly worked up and certainly looked the business. 

 

Banner after banner came through, each with a separate group of supporters, chanting together. Many thousands - possibly tens of thousands - in all.

I was about to head back when I saw an old tramp-like figure, burdened down with big plastic bags, who appeared to be heading into the fray. 

Fortunately he stopped at the edge of the march and, in a rather touching gesture,  proceeded to doff his cap and salute the protesters!

 

Maybe he was involved in the events of 1973?

Day 64-65. Keeping on the fringe of politics

Typical student day, saving money after yesterday's shenanigans: checked out the Parliament square (no protestors), wandered round some of the lesser tourist sights and snacked on rather good street food. 

While visiting Filopapou Hill, opposite the Acropolis, I encountered a fairly wild old guy who seemed to be taking a young person, possibly a relative, on the tour. However this seemed to involve a lot of shouting and generally being unpleasant - especially in his disparaging references to the fucking English who he wanted shot for what they'd done to the Greeks. I think he was talking mainly about the Elgin Marbles but, being English myself, didn't want to press him too closely on that one.

However it set me thinking. Next morning, I was the very first visitor to the Acropolis, and enjoyed wandering around the site which is impressive, if a bit chaotic, with thousands of fragments of carved stone and marble generally lying around all over the hillside. "Why are we not returning the Elgin marbles?" I thought to myself. 'They are doing lots of good conservation and restoration work and surely the least we can do is give back the originals."

Fortunately I kept my naive thoughts to myself until I had a chance to check out some of the arguments on Wikipedia (here), where it emerged that the Greeks want the originals back partly for symbolic reasons and partly so they can put them into their paid-entry Acropolis Museum, not back on to the original building. The British Museum puts up a fair case a. for the marbles having been legally acquired (ie not stolen) in the first place and b. for their remaining in a secure, managed environment where access is free.

Like the case of the recently released Croatian generals, I'm staying out of the political discussion but it's interesting to hear the local point of view.

Day 63. Welcome to Athens my friend

Had a number of experience-building encounters with deft Greek salesmen today.

The first was a charming old bloke in a luggage shop in Patros who, without a word of English, managed to extract the maximum number of euros from me for a rather mediocre backpack. The only thing that was 'special' about the price (he knew that much English...) was that he could retire to the local cafe to buy drinks all round on the profit!

The second was a taxi driver who kindly transported me and my backpack from the bus station in Athens to the hostel in the Plaka area, which is brilliantly located right in the heart of things. Despite his meter clearly showing 6 euros, he blithely charged me ten...but I expected that.

The third was another old duffer who was wandering along the same street as me later that evening.  He had friends in England and I was happy to keep him company as he headed back to his bar since I deserved a beer after that long coach ride. A beer duly appeared. Excellent!

A pretty girl also appeared. I thought it was probably his daughter, wanting to practise her English but, after a few minutes, she suggested that I might like to buy her a drink! Whoa there! Where's my old mate gone? He was chasing another guy who had also been encouraged to buy an overpriced beer but didn't want to pay for it! I paid, made my excuses and left, kicking myself for my gullibility!

Lessons learnt: beware Greeks bearing smiles.

Day 62. Putting the Grim back into Grimaldi.

Those who like to think that I've spent the last two months stuffing my face with lotus flowers (or whatever) will be interested to learn that I've now been awake for about 36 hours following an unexpected delay to the midnight sailing of the ferry to Patras. This resulted in my having to hang around all night outside a locked passenger terminal in Brindisi with a bunch of trucker drivers, waiting to board. Deep joy.

I wasn't really at all prepared in terms of food or clothing so it was pretty uncomfortable night - as I explained in a stroppy email to the company, the appropriately named Grimaldi Lines.

"A cruise on the MV Sorrento is an ideal way to recharge your batteries."

Thank heavens for the Kindle! It did a brilliant job of distracting me from the cold, the incessant chatter of the drivers and the dreadful tedium of a long, long night. I've continued reading on and off all day as we steam towards Patras and there's still over 60% battery life. Great Christmas present boys!

Day 58. Amore eterno in Taranto

I didn't really expect to be coming to Taranto but that's how it's worked out. It is, in case you, like me, were uncertain, to be found pretty much on the 'instep' of Italy. It's a large, industrial city; it's home to the current Italian fleet (the British sank an earlier version in 1940); and it has one of the largest steelworks in Europe which emits vast amounts of dioxin and, consequently, the area has very high rates of cancer.

Faded charm or actually just grotty?

But, of course, the city is charming in that chaotic, faded grandeur way that the Italians do so well and, as I wandered over the Pont S. Francesco da Paola, an old swing bridge that separates the fortified city from the new town, I noticed that the mesh fencing was covered with lots of small padlocks.

Closer inspection revealed that these are tokens of unbreakable affection between lovers. Many are adorned with the couple's name or a little heart; some simply state 'Amore eterno'. In the midst of the blaring horns and general traffic chaos, this was a lovely little testimony to the romantic Italian heart.

Let's hope the people who put them there are still as firmly attached...

Alas I shall be leaving all this behind as I head off towards strike-torn Athens. I have decided that this is to be the end of the cycling element of my journey, since I'll be going on from here by public transport and Larkspur will be whisked back to the UK in the belly of a plane. I estimate that we've covered about 2600 km together on this trip - and the saddle is still uncomfortable!

Rather better quality graffiti than yer average

Day 53. Larkspur speaks

Nice name isn't it?  I'm Jony's bike and, even though I am basically the star of the show, I don't get much of a say, do I? Well it's my turn today because we had a bit of a change. For once, he left all that dreadful luggage behind and we two went out on our own, just like the old days! It was great.  He was positively whizzing up the hills, which makes a nice change after all that walking. 

I took him exploring the south of the island which is, I've heard, the untrendy part. At the very bottom of Corfu is a place called Kavos and, phew!, was it the pits: all English pubs and tattoo joints. Not a cycle shop in sight.

Fortunately on the way back we took a rather nice up and down road that led through miles and miles of olive groves, all with their carpets of netting down ready for the crop. As you can see, he kept stopping to take snaps of everything except moi.  I keep hoping!

                                                                                                           

I think he's planning to explore the north of the island next but, since he'll be moving away from this weird pink place, muggins will be carrying all the you know what! 

Tootle pip!

Day 51. Pretty in pink?

There could be several reasons why I apparently left myself loitering on the polished marble steps of the cruise terminal  in slightly exotic Bari, mingling with the glitterati but the simple truth is that I'm rather embarrassed about where I ended up next! It really was not planned. Honest. 

The fact is that I was only 'bouncing off' Bari because  there's no direct ferry to Greece, so one has first to hop over from Dubrovnik (Croatia) , Bar (Montenegro)  or Durres (Albania) to Bari in Italy and then bounce back across the Adriatic to a little place called Igoumenitsa, which is just in Greece,  is surrounded by some very high mountains and has regular, inexpensive ferries leaving to Corfu, just a few miles across the bay. So that's where I went. 

It gets worse. After a lightly alcoholic lunch in downtown Corfu I put my mind to the question of accommodation and bethought me that maybe the island had a rugged and stripped down youth hostel where I could chill out. Yes and no. 

The name says it all: Pink Palace. It's on Facebook and at  www.pinkpalace.com. Be very embarrassed for me. In its defence I should point out that it is not expensive and that I have my own little room. When I arrived, it was Halloween Party night (every night is party night...) and hundreds of young darlings were dressing up, ready for late nite party games and fun fun fun. I muttered my excuses and went to bed early. 

[A couple of days' later]

To add further to the surreal nature of this place, I now appear to be the only resident! All the many dozens of americans have faded quietly away and I had to almost beg that the remaining staff not to serve me a meal on my own - couldn't we eat together?  Most of the staff are planning to leave in the next few days so my pink period will come to a natural end.  There is also a ferry strike planned for this week in response to government austerity measures so moving on could be interesting...

Day 50. Bar to Bari

Let's face it: there's still something rather exotic about travel by sea. For some reason, most of my ferry journeys have started in the evening and, try though you may, it's hard not to be at least slightly impressed by the sight of a port lit up at night. 

There are all sorts of foreign lorries whizzing about and car drivers with interesting number plates, often anxious that they'll be left behind - especially when the bloody cyclist just jumps to the front of the queue and gets waved through! (How annoyed would they be to learn that bikes get carried for nothing?)

I've travelled all the way from Bar in Montenegro to Bari in Italy, just hopping across the sea and added an 'i'. But, as you'd expect from Italy, their port was just a little bit more exotic than its Montenegian namesake, partly because the restaurants were better and partly because  it had a visiting cruise ship, all white and lit by strings of fairylights. 

 

Glamorous people probably don't do plastic bags

While waiting for my next departure, I indulged in a bit of people watching, as the glamorous and youthful passengers returned with armfuls of souvenirs and exotic presents after a day exploring the town. Unfortunately I had also chosen to spread out my extensive  selection of tatty  plastic bags along the polished granite steps in search of the tin cup from which I eat my muesli! Posh eh? "Ooh look darling: it's some sort of local bazaar....oh, maybe not. Just some bizarre man."

Day 49. Breakout to Bar

Yesterday's clouds turned into a full-scale rainstorm that kept me tossing and turning through the night - aware that if I didn't make it to the port of Bar by that evening, I'd have to wait several days for the next ferry. But  when I actually stuck my head out about 6.30ish into the fog, rain and wind - I had no choice, it would not have been safe on the road.

So I sent some emails, did some reading, and prepared to pay for another night. But the old chap didn't show and, about 10.00, the cloud lifted as the sun came through! So I decided to go for it after all. Packed in a rush and leapt on the bike..only to find that my brand-new, just-fitted tyre had a puncture! 

Adrenaline gave a welcome boost to my tyre changing and my legs, as I charged out of town, looking for the road to Budva, the capital, which I reached about 1.15 after some hard riding in what turned out to be a rather nice, albeit windy, day. 

 

Not ironic. It really was a rather nice area!

 

Somehow the road to Bar seemed much harder work, not helped by the fact that I seemed to have lost my headphones so had no distractions on a couple of very long  uphills. Spirits flagged as I passed one after another half-finished concrete developments, run down houses and generally grotty areas. What on earth am I doing here? 

Feeling a bit overloaded?

Day 48. Keep calm and carry on

It's taken lots of cups of tea, soothing music and deep breathing to quieten my anxieties this evening. 

 After an early morning whizz round Dubrovnik old town which, like Zadar, had a map showing where shells had fallen during the war, I set off along the coast.  The cycling was ok, though a bit up and down, but for various reasons  I was lacking in positive energy this afternoon. It could have been the plethora of bad news from home or just general uncertainty about where I was going. 

I had completely forgotten about the Montenegran border until it just appeared as I walked up yet another hill. Actually that turned out to be Croatian border: the other was found half a mile of very scrubby road later where a classic border guard straight out of central  casting  appeared, fag in mouth, to inspect my passport. 'Ah, Norvich,' he read. 'In Premiere League for two seasons. Who is now trainer for Norvich?' 

Long pause. I pleaded ignorance, grabbed my passport and legged it into his country to search for a room.

God knows -again! - how I found it but, after a lot of walking around and playing with my phone, as the sky was getting dark with rainclouds and I getting annoyed with the world, I eventually went back to a place I'd looked at earlier and rang the other bell - at which an old geezer popped his head round the corner: 'Jony?'. Phew! 

Time for soothing tea on a rather nice balcony from where I can almost touch an orange tree and a grapefruit tree. Two feet to my right is a little bush of those small, edible oranges; above me are hanging lots of (unripe) passion fruits and there's plenty of olive trees in the area. It was only in the last 10k or so that I noticed definite signs of better soil and attempts to farm it: small vineyards, olive nets under the trees and even a couple of cows!

Clouds coming in. Looks like it might be raining for the trip to Bar tomorrow: keep calm and carry on Jony!

Day 47. From one Stari Grad to another.

We pick up the story travelling down the beautiful Dalmatian coast from one beautiful Stari Grad (literally 'Old city'), Zadar, to another, Dubrovnik. It's a  lovely sunny day and the dramatic coast road runs right by the sparkling sea, giving me a spectacular view of the many islands that lie just offshore - a sailor's paradise!

 It's a perfect day for cycling but, alas, I'm on a coach with my bike precariously tucked away in the bowels of the bus where I hope it's happy and safe. 

I'm en route to Dubrovnik and thence, through a bit of Montenegro, to Bar from where I will do a bit of ferry hopping. The main reason I'm taking this rather circuitous route is that I don't fancy Albania this late in the season: no hostels, no language, no airbnb, maybe no campsites...So there's an element of being sensible and an element of wimping out here. 

In the middle of a busy tourist city is a plaque showing, "Historical nucleus plan of the city of Zadar with marked damages made by the Serbian, Montenegrian and Yugoslav army aggression of Zadar escalated by the rebellious Serbian population in Croatia in Zadar from 1991 to 1995." Happy shopping!

[Later]

God knows how I found Zoltan's place! First I had to cycle up a completely unlit hill leading out of the city, then switch on the phone, ring him (no answer), guess where the apartment might be (there were loads of apartments in the general area) and start walking up steps, carrying the bike. Had a bit of a guide from a passer by then, as I walked up, a door entry buzzer buzzed! Found myself in a courtyard and was directed up some steps to - hurrah! - the right place. 

But Zoltan was clearly not expecting me. He was covered in paint and very surprised to see me. However, after a bit of to and fro, we decided that I had booked for the following night but that, fortunately, the room was free! I'm a rubbish organiser...

The route out of Dubrovnik.  Pretty...steep.

More things to do in Croatia

I loved the 1930s feel of this poster. 
They're jumping off the new bridge, built to replace the one bombed in the war!

I forgot to mention that there's a simply splendid, original, moving and altogether Good wave organ in Zadar. What's a wave organ? Have a look at this clip on Youtube to see! 

Day 43-46. And now for something completely different.

Croatia is a bit of a cultural eye opener. It's a lovely place for a holiday, especially if you're lucky enough to have a boat.  The people are friendly, many understanding English, there are western shopping malls, plenty of healthy food, cheap booze and the weather's great. 

But I wouldn't want to live there (sorry Graham!).  I find that bullet holes in buildings always make something of a negative impression on me, bomb holes in roofs even more so. The boys and I got a bit lost in Belfast earlier this year, while on our surfing tour of Ireland, and found ourselves in a street that looked like  a war zone: abandoned houses, bullet-marked walls, glass everywhere - even the boys were a bit surprised. 

Less than 20 miles away from the comfortable bars of Starigrad Paklenica are villages that were ethnically cleansed of Serbs, bombed out schools and people with long memories. In particular they remember the Croatian war hero General Ante Gotovina who was 'sacrificed' to the UN War Crimes Tribunal and is now spending 24years in prison for his part in the cleansing process. 

Update
On 16th November 2012, the generals were acquitted of war crimes (see this BBC News story) which will, I imagine, perpetuate Serbian resentment for another generation!

"Prepared to defend our home and homeland. We'll protect Ante Gotovina." 

(That's not a translation of this poster but a reflection of its ethos.)

Like many westerners I knew all too little about this incredibly complicated war whose roots reach back hundreds of years, way before Tito imposed order on these countries  in the aftermath of the second world war. Even after watching an excellent series about it with Graham on Youtube, I feel I have only skimmed the surface of what it was all about. 

I met nothing but kindness in Croatia and will certainly try to get back there for an activity holiday soon. But with historically high levels of unemployment, a barely functioning economy,  and a macho culture, it feels like a country that still has a way to go. 

Me too!