Humphrey's Cycle Adventure

Route Map

2010-01-13T11:42:00.000-08:00

View Buckingham Palace to Government House in a larger map

View Buckingham Palace to Government House in a larger map

View Buckingham Palace to Government House in a larger map

MISSION ACCOMPLISHED

2009-12-13T20:19:00.000-08:00

Wuhan to Government House, Hong Kong

On the morning of the 24th November, I headed for the “breakfast alley” that had been described by another traveller; it is wise to make the most of a large city’s easily accessible breakfast food. I found some tasty rice cake from a dark stall and some sweet and chewy rice-flour doughnuts from a street vendor. Children were being welcomed at the local school by rousing communist music and a guard of yawning prefects at the gates. Many anxious parents (I assume- I like to think that is what they were) were watching their offspring playing in the yard through holes in the fence.

On the way out of the hostel, I was given some more fried doughnuts by the friendly management. My bike was looking ever more ragged- the sophisticated wires supporting the bar bag had snapped on entry into Wuhan, and had been replaced by an ingenious –if I may say so myself– looking lattice of shoelaces and parachute string. My clothes had not dried in time for my departure, so they were strapped onto the back of the bike for an adventurous air-dry. This didn’t matter due to the glorious sunshine: it was t-shirt weather, a huge relief after the freezing cold further north! Palm trees were everywhere by this stage, and the odd orange tree was appearing, with the corresponding orange sellers in the streets. The countryside in this area became much greener, and the leaves were still on the trees, rather like turning the calendar back to early autumn.

In Xianning that evening I found a trendy little hotel with the most beautiful receptionist yet. Arguing the price down to an acceptable level has never been so enjoyable. There were English language TV stations from Shanghai, which made a welcome break from CCTV 9, the only channel usually available. Pornography in China is totally banned –there are regular reports in the news on crackdowns on mobile phone operators who allow access to porn via handheld devices– however it is amusing to see a particular channel pushing the boundaries as far as possible with risqué coverage of underwear fashion shows. The coverage reminded me of the fat-bottomed sheep of Kyrgyzstan and Xinjiang province.

In Xianning, I noticed real 100% juice in the shops for the first time in China. The Chinese must have an aversion to its strong taste, as only “juice drink,” really a squash, is widespread. It was as expensive as in England, which may be the reason for the limited availability. Other gaping holes on the supermarket shelves in China are any sort of cereal or fresh milk, although preserved milk is available in little plastic pouches- slightly sweetened.

The following day, quite unexpectedly as the Chinese maps I have to use do not show any topography, I headed up into the lush green hills, and bamboo forests. There is much activity around this area with harvesting and transporting the bamboo, and I have started to see it used as scaffolding. Warm weather again made for pleasant cycling. I noticed an enormous fire engulfing a mountainside, but when I pointed this out to a villager she was uninterested. Perhaps this happens the whole time, maybe caused by the authorities for an unknown purpose.

I paused for lunch in a small town, surrounded as usual by curious faces. There were dozens of individual identical meat dishes cooking on a steamer, so given the opportunity to avoid another round of Chinese Menu Roulette, I ordered one of them with some mifan, steamed rice. Sometimes, it seems, as in any Casino, you can never really win because the odds are always stacked against the punter. Although the dishes looked like a sure bet, they consisted of one small piece of meat and many delicately arranged slices of pork fat. This wasn’t as bad as you may imagine, but I didn’t finish it. Later on, I stopped at a street side noodle seller to supplement my pork fat lunch. The MSG overloaded noodles weren’t bad, but I had attracted such an enormous crowd that I had to pack the noodles away for consumption after having left the town.

That evening, I stopped in the town of Tong Cheng, where I thought I would approach the largest 4* hotel in town just in case it turned out to be the bargain of the century. The price of a room was more than three times what I was prepared to pay, so I walked out in search for somewhere kinder on my people’s currency. The staff were fascinated by my trip, and so utterly shocked that I was about to walk out that they asked me what I was prepared to pay for a room. They accepted my offer of RMB 80, and I was shown in. The room was spacious, the shower good and I made some hot chocolate, and some hot walnut powder drink, and went out for supper.

The restaurant was wholly open to the elements, but there were burning bricks of charcoal underneath the table to warm diners. On my return, I was shocked to find my 4* hotel room to be crawling with cockroaches, particularly the bedside table. I immediately headed for reception where, with improvised sign language, I tried to politely explain that my room was infested (fingers daintily crawling all over the reception counter.) When they didn’t understand this, I asked for a piece of paper, and with my limited artistic skills, doodled a roach, complete with a smile. They still didn’t understand, and they didn’t have internet (Wikipedia cockroach definition would have been a good bet)- I had to keep going with these attempts for five or ten minutes until someone arrived who spoke a smattering of English. They kindly moved rooms, but were adamant that the unwelcome guests had gathered due to my failure to immediately wash up my cup after use. It was my fault that the hotel is infested!

This attitude was reflected in the phrasing of the “Service Directory” which contained the following rule: “Obey the management. The guest who breaks this provision should be subjected to be punished” – without fair trial?!
My first day in Hunan Province greeted me with heavy pollution, and terrible visibility. The road was very hilly, and terrible quality- I hadn’t had such poor quality in China. The miserable towns were strewn with rubbish. I had to take some detours through agricultural land as the road was impassable in places due to works. These towns were grey, lifeless, and didn’t have many restaurants. I was refused food at one stall, which made me furious. In these towns there appears to be a constant stream of fireworks and bangers released into the air- I can only imagine, to cheer people up. On this day I joined the G106, the road that would lead me all the way to Canton.

I stopped for the day in Ding Jiang, a nicer town with a lively market. I initially had trouble finding a hotel, but a very kind lady frying savoury doughnuts in the street left her mobile stall attended by a passer by to walk me to a hotel. I managed to find a map of Hunan province in this town, incredibly useful, and I asked the hotel receptionist to sound out the names of the major towns I will visit on my route, as I don’t understand the map’s Chinese characters. I found a tasty supper of aubergine cooked alongside a number of other individual dishes inside a giant steamer.

On arising the following morning, I was greeted by rain, and I brought the won ton soup and steamed buns I found in the market back to the room. The rain was so hard that I became wet despite my waterproofs. A hearty lunch of pork noodles warmed me up briefly. It is interesting to note that the kitchens in these restaurants are usually outside on the pavement, and there is no back room to the dining room.
After lunch, I became so cold due to the wet that my hands ceased to function properly, highly miserable. I stopped at a cycling shop where I planned to buy an all-encompassing poncho. I was invited behind the scenes to a bowl of warm water into which I dipped my hands, and a cup of tea. Relief! Gradually the movement came back. I then sat down at a small table with the shopkeepers to warm my legs- there was a burning piece of charcoal underneath, hidden by heavy rugs. I bought the poncho, which was heavy and cumbersome (it covered not only me, but also most of the bike!) but I was not prepared to take any more chances with the weather. They informed me that I had taken the wrong road, which meant that I didn’t manage to reach my goal of the day, and had to eventually stop in the small town of Jiao Xi at dusk.

A policeman showed me to a fairly grotty restaurant that had a room to the same standard. I had hoped for a warm shower, and heating, but there was no shower, a missing window pane, and a squat loo. I didn’t mind too much- it was merciful simply to have stopped. A knock on the door from the owner summoned me downstairs for supper. I was very kindly invited to eat with him and his friends. This was a family restaurant, and they were all fascinated in a gentle and charming way with me and my adventure. I was not charged for dinner.

The following morning, I asked the landlady if there were any breakfast going, and she prepared a large steaming saucepan of dumpling soup, which she shared with me. She didn’t want to charge me for it but I forced her to accept a fair amount. I probably should have accepted this free meal, because it was clear that she wanted to give me a present, and she produced an earthenware bottle of rice spirit that she insisted I take with me. In return I gave them some of the lapsang souchong tea bags I carried all the way from London. I exchanged email addressed with the son, and promised to send some photos when I get home. When I had checked into the place, I had not in any way anticipated such kindness and special treatment.

The day kicked off with a big climb up into the smoggy cloud, through dense dark green jungle-like terrain. I wore my poncho to protect my hands from the cold as my gloves were sodden, however this had the undesired effect of condensing my sweat and making my clothes damp. At the first town I bought a nice pair of knitted gloves, and I had a fan who followed me all round the city, and told me to head in the wrong direction, which lost me some time. More fireworks, and quite impressive ones too, being let off in the middle of the day. I think these may have been connected with the many weddings that are taking place across the region. This had clearly deemed an auspicious time to get married! In many cases there were white uniformed bands, and loud faux communist rocket launchers. Mercifully, the quality of the G106 improved, and the towns became less depressing.

At one town I paused for a moment to inspect the impressive market. I saw tables and tables of what looked just like small legs of mutton. On closer inspection, I noticed that the legs did not have trotters, but paws and then I saw (with an odd mixed emotion of horror and amusement) that the skinless little tails were also attached the legs. Sadly I was so absorbed that didn’t think to take a photograph.
The hotel I found that night in Liling ordered food to be brought in for me, which meant I didn’t have to go out again. Next morning, I sent Noel a happy birthday text, and he replied saying he had reached Shanghai. I was a bit jealous, as I still had a fair way to go, through some tough ground. I had some noodles in the street where a businessman was having his shoes shined while he slurped his noodles.
I arrived at Youxian, the town I had been aiming for at 3.30 pm, and I saw a sign, in effect throwing down the gauntlet as it announced 50km to Chaling with 2 hours of darkness left. Taking up the challenge, I pedalled as hard as I could for the next two hours, and arrived at Chaling, satisfyingly, with five minutes of daylight left.
After a breakfast of stuffed steamed buns and dumplings conveniently in the street outside the hotel (to the delight of the assembled crowds), the road once again led me into the hills, and the bamboo forests. The scenery was quintessentially chinese as the road undulated next to a wide, meandering dammed river with the old little working boats plying the calm waters, against a backdrop of soaring jungle hills.
For a moment, with failing light, I was afraid that I wouldn’t find lodgings at all, and there were no obvious camping spots. I was delighted when the village of Shiu Kou came into view, and I asked a fruit seller where I could stay. She pointed to the shabby restaurant behind. I sat for some time “chatting” to some over-excitable children worrying if the restaurant owners would ever show me to a room. At last, they provided a spartan room, a cement floor, no heating, and certainly no spring to the rock hard bed. This doesn’t bother me at all, as I now have my technique for these beds- the thick duvet is folded in half, and slept on, and my own down sleeping bag is used. My fleece makes a useful cover to the filthy pillow. For less than £2 you can’t really complain.

A fried egg crowned my bowl of breakfast noodles, a satisfying touch. The road climbed steeply, and fell steeply, and I was reminded of the Black Sea coast of northern Turkey. I had planned to do a quick 60km before having lunch in a town marked on the map, and heading on to try to hit my theoretical 100km target. The road however had other plans. It climbed up, and up and up and into the clouds, and kept on climbing. This was difficult to take, because I had no inkling at all that there would be a big climb- these Chinese maps are truly irritating! I passed the 17,000km mark during the day, which cheered me up for a short period. The clouds were making my clothes damp, and I was hungry, and thirsty. I used my purification tablets to gain some drinking water for the first time since Tajikistan, and used Turkish orange powder that I had been given by Mongol Ralliers in Tajikistan to make it palatable.

When I finally reached the summit, it was so late that it wasn’t worth going any further than the first town, Gu Dong. I had a look at an overpriced hotel room, and decided that I would try to find somewhere better, leaving my bike in the lobby. A kind onlooker (as usual, there were many!) understood that I was after a cheap hotel, and led me to a wonderful little place, clean, en suite (albeit hole-in-the-ground), with English language TV for a fraction of the price of the other place.
When I returned to my bike, I found that someone had stolen my trip computer, which was a real blow. This is the only time anyone has stolen something from me. The computer would have been utterly useless without the sensor, which makes it all the more irritating. Perhaps it will be put on someone’s mantlepiece- that’s all it is good for! I had a spare trip computer, and I had noted my distance for the day, but I was unsure whether the spare I had bought in Istanbul would work, so I went out to try to buy another. After a long time pedalling the streets, I found a bike shop, but they couldn’t understand what I was asking for, despite my best sign language attempts (I really can’t understand why they didn’t understand me!) and I was close to tears of frustration. I asked in a trendy looking sportswear shop thinking one of the young shop assistants might have a smattering of English. This was correct, but she only led me (and an enormous crowd) back to the same bicycle shop that had already told me to go away. I politely thanked the kind girl who had tried to help me, and cycled back towards the hotel, fierce with rage.

Some children were silently following me, and I tried to lose them by going down a small lane. They followed. I went down another, and they followed again, so I stopped, and turned back. They did the same. I was not in a friendly mood at all by this stage, and loudly implored them to “JUST F@~& OFF!” At which, they impersonated me parrot style, and actually- left me alone!

The lady at my hotel didn’t want me to take my bike into the hotel, but just leave it in the street. This was the first time someone in China had said this- my bike knows the interior to 4* hotel rooms! It was only when they realised that I genuinely was going to go to find somewhere else that they let me put it inside. This was the final frustration to a highly irritating day.

After this, the evening improved. I managed to get my spare cycle computer working, so the whole escapade into town had been totally pointless. At an internet cafe I learned that my mother had booked a flight to Hong Kong to some to see me before flying home together, which was very exciting news. I woke a sleeping fruit seller to buy an entire sugar cane to chew on in bed, and some persimmons. I recognised Marc Edwards, a CCTV presenter doing a travel programme on “Taiwan Province.” Wikipedia confirms my suspicions that he was at Radley with me and Durham.
Weather the following day was absolutely stunning, and there was still quite a bit of climbing to do, but nothing like yesterday. Very few of the villages had restaurants and I was quite cross when some old ladies laughed their heads off at me when I thought I had asked where I could eat!

The necessity to extend my visa had been stressing me out, and on arrival in Ru Cheng, I decided to get a bus to Shaoguan to apply for the extension. I missed the last bus, and was moping and feeling generally sorry for myself in the bus station when I was approached by a pretty 21 year old girl, Penny. She had spotted my in the street, and wanted to come over to say hi. Nothing boosts a chap’s spirits like such an encounter! She is a student, and is currently arranging a year abroad in Canada. After we had chatted for some time, I explained to her that I needed to find a cheap hotel for the night. She led me to a perfectly fine en suite bedroom for less than £2, and we arranged to go out for supper.

I thought that, being China, I could make an impact without having to spend too much money- I went to a shop and bought a couple of small bars of premium Dove chocolate, and handed her one. Choclate is costs more China than back home, so it is really quite expensive. She seemed pleasingly impressed, and she took me to eat some noodles. It was great to have some real Chinese company- I felt much less of an impostor walking the streets chatting to a Chinese girl. She is a fashion student, so she is always immaculately and stylishly dressed. People still stared, but it didn’t have the same effect. Let them stare! One child bore a facial expression of utter shock, as if he had seen a ghost. He pointed at me, point blank and ran inside to tell his parents. I told her this sort of thing happens the whole time, and she said in a matter of fact manner that it is because no travellers come to this place. A man said something to her in the street, and she giggled and said something friendly in return. I asked what he had said- “He said that I am nice,” she replied ordinarily, with a smile. I was ashamed that I had been so irritated when people had shouted at me from passing cars earlier in the day.

I asked if she wanted to go for a drink.

“Where?”
“A bar?”
“What is a bar?”
“It is a place where there is an area that sells alcohol, and you can sit there and drink it”
“We do not have bars”
“Where do you go if you want to have a drink with your friends?”
“We go to karaoke! Do you have karaoke in UK?”
“No”
“Then where do you go to sing?!”

In the end, she took me to her uncle’s house, where I met her cousin, and showed them both most of my photos on the computer. The house was surprisingly large, and really quite smart. They were particularly interested in the photos of Xinjiang and Gansu provinces. It is strange to think that I have seen more of their country than they have.

The cousin produced an enormous bag of food which he insisted I accept, including a huge bag of pastry biscuits, 40-something nestle wafer biscuits, Dove chocolate, instant coffee, chicken wings and chicken feet. I should have known. When it comes to generosity, you just can’t beat the Chinese, and you will always be put to shame by this.

After we had finished with the photos, it was about 11pm, and they decided it was time to go out for a meal. I had been used to going to bed at 8 or 9 o’clock, so I was astounded that a restaurant should still be open at this hour. We were led upstairs to a private room. I told my hosts that I didn’t realise that such rooms existed. He replied that if restaurants didn’t have private rooms, they wouldn’t have any business because Chinese people like to eat and talk very loudly! I couldn’t have agreed with him more! He ordered an exciting array of dishes- pigs’ ears, ducks’ feet, beef tongue, tofu, rice porridge, small snails, and steamed buns with condensed milk dipping sauce. Little plastic bags were provided to hold the base of the feet as you attack the other end. I asked Penny what you do with the bones (it is mostly bones)- do you crunch them up or do you spit them out? She replied that you can do either- it doesn’t matter. What is particularly fun about eating duck feet in a restaurant is that the sticky bones are spat out onto the fresh table cloth.

After supper, they dropped me back at my hotel, and made sure I was settled nicely into my room before leaving me. I was left utterly shellshocked by such unbelievable kindness. I told Penny I would call her again when I return to Ru Cheng after arranging my visa in Macau.

The following day I left my bike in the hotel, and made my way to Zhuhai by coach, the border town with Macau. I had been told I would be granted another extension in China, but as Rosie Wilkins promised to come and say hello, I elected to go a little further and see her at the same time as get the visa. Zhuhai was a bit of a shock- there appeared to be no cheap hotels anywhere. I asked a street cobbler if he knew where there was a cheap hotel, and he immediately led me to a room in a dreary block of flats. It all seemed a little dodgy, especially as they seemed very keen I am meticulous to lock the door, but it all worked out fine.

I was given special screening at the Macau border by the Chinese authorities, due to the numerous chinese visa extensions in my passport, and they carefully went through everything in my bag. They were particularly interested in my books, no doubt trying to prevent any politically sensitive information leaving China. If they knew I had been in Xinjiang, no doubt they would have been through all my thousands of photos.
Once in Macau, I had a great time with Rosie and Richard Whitall, exploring the old cobbled Portuguese streets and enjoying the baroque buildings (although there was Tarzan rage when the visa cost 5 times more than I had anticipated).

The following day, I made it across the border in time for a bus to Shaoguan, however I had to spend the night there because I had missed the last bus back to Ru Cheng and my bicycle. The first hotel I went to refused to let me stay after at length calling the police, and I had to go to another. The bus left at 7am, and there were so many suitcases and goods being transported that they took up the entire aisle; there was no room for bodily manoeuvre inside the bus and it was very uncomfortable for the two hour journey.

On returning to my bike, I changed clothes in the deserted hotel lobby, and phoned Penny who came to meet me for breakfast. She took me to a restaurant that specialises in Guanzhou noodles, noodles that are made from raw egg and steamed in a tray- halfway between an omelette and a noodle. During breakfast (or, rather, as I tucked into my second course) she stood up and said she wanted to go and buy me some chocolate. I tried to stop her, but she was very insistent; I hoped and thought she would buy a cheap bar of Chinese chocolate. She returned however with three bars of the most expensive Dove chocolate. To put this into perspective, this has higher economic value than a night in the hotel. It was an unbelievably generous gift, and I felt very bad to accept it, however I had no choice if I did not want to cause offence.

The journey for the day was largely a satisfying downward serpent of crossbacks, as I had a lot of height to lose before heading south into Guangdong. The smells that floated around reminded me of Summer- quite surreal such a short period of time after the arctic blizzards. At a roadside restaurant, I had a lovely dish of soft tofu, stuffed with pork, stir fried. The kind couple who ran the place gave me a huge plate seconds for free, which I genuinely couldn’t eat after the first course and all the rice I had wolfed down. They also gave me some sugar cane and a big bag of dried sweet potato as a present.

That evening, in Rei hua, I was led by some ladies to another extremely cheap hotel with an en suite bedroom. After a noodle supper, I snacked on stinky, and delicious durian fruit in bed.

After I returned from steamed bun and dumpling breakfast, my bicycle had decided to let off some steam...or at least a lot of air from the front tyre. This is always a frustrating start to a day when trying to get away early. The woman wanted me to fix it in the large area in the front of the open-air lobby, but blissfully she seeemed to understand my sign language that if I did it there I would have had an audience.
Annoyingly, the spectacular scenery of the area was veiled by low lying clouds. It was possible to make out the bottoms of the steep, thin craggy mountains that erupt vertically from the flat ground like thorns. I had briefly seen them from the window of the bus on the way to Macau.

That evening I walked out of the first hotel I went into because every room I inspected was swarming with mosquitoes. As I had paid in advance, the manager gave my money back as he seem to think this was fair enough, and directed me to another hotel. This time, the room was fine. It is funny in China how even the crummiest hotels give you a free comb and tooth brush, not that the comb comes in particularly useful on my dreads!

Fruit sellers decorated the streets with their enormous collections of bananas and oranges. I replenished my supplies, and returned to my room to fix my three holy inner tubes. The following morning, I breakfasted on steamed buns and dumplings, and liver soup which I left.

I started to notice that people now appear to be used to living in a more tropical climate. Sandals without socks are regularly seen now, despite it being December. I saw a couple of tramps who wore clothes and smiles that made them seem more Jamaican than Chinese. I made good ground, so that I could have a half day to explore Canton the next day. The hotel I stayed in that evening, in a small town, had the most ingenious bathroom. The washbasin plumbing emptied onto the floor, and this in turn drained into the hole-in-the-ground loo, flushing it. So when you wanted to flush the loo, you just turned the taps on in the basin! I went out for supper, and took the conseil du garcon, which meant three dishes arrived when I only wanted one. Dim sum was served for the first time as one of the courses- little parcels of rice pastry with chopped water chestnut inside. The noodles I had asked for were entirely saved for breakfast the following day, allowing for an early start.

I negotiated Canton rush hour the following morning- a mad dash of scooters and motorcycles. Arrival at Canton was a maze of junctions, barriers and flyovers, and it took me a long time to reach the Isle of Shamian where there is a youth hostel. A local Cantonese-speaking high school student with a smart bicycle very kindly led me there on his lunch hour.

Shamian is an island in the Pearl River, which used to be a European traders’ enclave; for long periods, it was the only place they were allowed to go in mainland China. There is a latent soothing colonial atmosphere on Shamian, where beautiful old buildings remain, there are many international restaurants, expats with pushchairs, and traffic is strictly regulated. Crossing the bridge into the rest of Canton is rather like crossing an invisible international frontier.

I headed for the nearby Qingping Chinese medicine market where I saw live snakes, scorpions, terapins and dried bugs among all sorts of other creepy looking stuff on sale for human consumption. The stalls were piled high with stock, and it was an extremely lively place. I didn’t see the caged dogs and cats that the guidebook had warned about, however I was shocked to see what could only have been tiger paws for sale, laid out on the street, on square pieces of cloth.

This is the first time I had seen such a market in China, and I gained the impression that this town was culturally very distinct from the rest of the country, and also from other places in Guangdong province. This is the third major language area I have now passed through in China (Uygur, Mandarin and Cantonese.) Despite the commercial frenzy, there was an underlying relaxed feeling to the air and people did not seem as manic as in other parts of China. This could have something to do with the sweltering heat that envelops this area of the continent, and warmth through the winter. The city sits just south of the Tropic of Cancer. There is a catholic church in the centre of Canton that could have been transplanted from a small French city, amid the lively chaos. The noticeboard outside sets out when the services in Cantonese, English and Mandarin will take place.

In the evening, I found a covered collection of food stalls by the side of a road in the central commercial district with a common seating area. I had a selection of Cantonese dumplings, followed by a ubiquitous set milk custard. I passed on the fried tarantula, cockroaches and millipede on a stick. The shops were all open late into the evening, with staff standing at the doors desperately trying to divert the pavement traffic into their establishments. One amusing tactic was to clap hands applause to the public, or to all clap in time.

The next morning, I tried my usual trick of taking breakfast in a major hotel, however I soon realised that in Canton the large hotels are charging western prices, so I went for a wander. I found a smart, but very lively restaurant, and was ushered upstairs. There were a couple of friendly looking 21 year old girls (Silvia and Fong) in the waiting area, so I asked them if I could get breakfast here. They said dim sum was the fare (hurrah!) and they would help me to negotiate the menu. As I was alone, I was seated on a table with a friendly couple of elderly ladies. They said I had to try some special tea, which was prepared in a ceremonious way- to my shock, the entire first pot was used to clean the teapot, and thimble sized cup, and thrown away. After this, Silvia approached me and said that they were waiting for some friends to join them, and they invited me to join them for breakfast. I hastily paid for the tea, and we were moved to a large table downstairs. Friends from both China and Malaysia arrived- all of whom were also students. I sat next to Fong (from Macau, who thought Macau was better off with the Portughese) and Wing, a journalism student. I asked her if they teach them what is not permitted to write under communist censorship, and she said no, “We just know.”

They ordered a feast of dim sum with all sorts of different types of steamed dumpling, rice cakes, chicken feet, and my favourite of all, a fried pastry stuffed with durian fruit. They taught me to wash my bowl and chopsticks with tea, and to pour the discarded fluid into a special container. Wing and Silvia then showed me how to say “thank you” in Chinese tea tradition: You tap your first and second fingers lightly on the table. This comes from when one of the emperors used to travel to other parts of the empire undercover in secret to check on things. Courtiers could not kowtow because this would give the game away, but instead they used this finger trick, a sort of kowtow of digits. They say that single people only use one finger.

Having finally finished breakfast, I was informed that Silvia was celebrating her achievement of a scholarship, therefore she was treating everyone to the meal. This made me feel quite bad, but there was nothing I could do. They all went off for karaoke (at 10.30am!), and I headed to my bicycle to begin the push for the Hong Kong border. The route out of Canton was difficult because no one seemed to know the way. I followed my compass and the river east. At last a couple of friendly cyclists led me to the correct road.

A flat tyre delayed me further, highly annoying, and there was rage when a street sweeper swept around me when I was fixing it and eating a sweet potato from a street seller, causing a huge billow of dust. For most of the day, the road was being resurfaced, therefore the temporary surface caused terrible dust, and there was an army of sweepers who seemed to cause more problems than they solved. I was pleased to get more thumbs-ups and friendly waves than the normal incredulous stares; I am unsure whether this approach is indicative of a shift in culture or if I just happened to cycle past a lot of friendly people.

The delays meant I had to cycle up until dark to make an acceptable distance and I
luckily found a basic but acceptable hotel for my last night in China. It was frustrating that people in this town pointed and stared at me shouting “lawai!” I would have had supper in a nice looking restaurant, but when I saw the reaction of the diners when I approached, I walked away very quickly, and ordered some egg fried rice from a street cook.

My final breakfast in China was Guangzhou noodles and pork congee, and the man sitting in the next table was trying to get his toddler to say “one two three four fixe six seven...” because I was there. They never made eye contact with me or said hello and I thought this was all very irritating.

The weather was absolutely glorious, and I had a shiver of excitement at the idea of getting to Hong Kong. I was brought back down to earth when I ran over a human turn that made two brown stripes in each tyre. In seething anger (where else in the world could this happen?!) I stopped to clean my wheel with some grass cuttings. It amused me that after 10 months, the same bottle of hygiene gel was still being used. I found a car wash that let me hose down my tyres for free.

The border into the Shenzhen Special Economic Zone was not even checked anymore; it reminded me of the borders between EU Shengen countries. On the brink of arriving in Hong Kong, I was utterly frustrated by people’s utter ignorance of the direction of Hong Kong, and there were absolutely no signs. It reminded me of trying to find Gibraltar from Spain when I was a child. One would have thought that in 12 years of Chinese “sovereignty” Hong Kong would be on the street signs. When I did find someone who spoke English, you can imagine my frustration, just as I was on the brink of finishing my journey when she said, “You want to cycle to Hong Kong?! It is really far! Take the train!” This reminded me of the man I had met on arriving into Tirana, Albania who said that we couldn’t have possible cycled from Montenegro that day as it is a thousand kilometres away!

I eventually followed the instructions of a sage seeming sugar cane seller, and found a border crossing. The last border crossing! En route, I met the Pacific Ocean expanding in front of me, an extraordinary feeling.

I had to wheel the bike through the pedestrian area rather than go with the vehicles which was a bit awkward, especially when filling out immigration and “I have no flu symptoms, I promise” forms. Others in the queue were sympathetic and friendly.
Hong Kong is absolutely terrified of flu, which is not surprising as they have had a lot of cases of various types of “killer flu” in recent years. A sign asked people to “maintain coughing manners” as one of the ways to fight the disease. The idea of appealing to people’s manners in China amused me.

Once through the border checks, and in a jubilant mood, I made for the road. I was immediately beckoned to stop by a policeman. He informed me that there was a bridge, and that this was a motorway therefore and if I attempted to cycle over it I would be arrested. Having cycled over every bridge and through every tunnel on the trip, I was convinced that I would be able to talk my way out of this one. I talked through the trip, and said that in China I had been allowed to cycle, or had been given a police escort. By now there was a crowd of police officers with “Hong Kong Police” written on the brass on their hats. The Hong Kong police crest looks more British than Chinese- the royal crest has been replaced by a bauhinia flower image (Hong Kong’s national flower and symbol) but it retains the feel of the crown crest.
“I am sorry, there is nothing that can be done. This is Hong Kong; this is not China. They do not have law. We have law. Our law is based on London Law. If you cycle on the motorway you will be arrested.” It was irritating, but refreshing to be in a free country ruled by law for the first time since, well, Greece, Turkey or Georgia, depending on where you draw the line. I asked if there was any other way rather than cross the bridge, and he replied with pride that I could try to walk round the beach, back into China and down the beach into Hong Kong, but then I would be picked up and arrested with all the other Chinese attempted immigrants, as happens every day.

They very kindly let me put the bike in one of their police vans rather than pay a taxi fee, and gave me a lift over the bridge, dropping me off on the other side. They were very friendly, and interested in if their police van was similar to police vans in the UK. I replied slightly tongue-in-cheek that I haven’t seen the inside of many police vans in the UK but this joke fell on deaf ears. They asked me if I was an Arsenal fan, and I replied that I prefer rugby and cricket to football. “Ah yes, rugby and cricket, very good!” they replied knowingly. How marvellous to be back in the real world! As they dropped me off they gave me directions, and suggested I buy a map. “Pteh! I need no map!” I thought to myself.

It was strange to be driving on the left again for the first time since Kent. Northern Hong Kong seems like suburban Britain with its little streets, British road markings and pedestrian crossings as well as the UK style number plates on the cars.
Cycling in the north western New Territories was easy, and there was a backdrop of the famous green mountains. I reverted to using “proper” cycling road rules! I met a couple who cycled with me for a period, showing me the right way. The road continued down to follow the coast. I asked a passing cyclist to take a “money shot” of me right in front of the Pacific, and I was excited to make out the skyscrapers of the city in the distance. I fixed the Union Flag that Rosie had brought out from London and given to me in Macau, to the stump that was once a wing mirror on my left handlebar, with a couple of cable ties.

After a while, I found myself in the Tseun Wan, which is still quite a long way out considering the hundreds of pedestrian crossings in Hong Kong that severely hinder progress. Tsuen Wan is very developed, and I mistakenly thought I was well down into Kowloon. After a lot of asking around for the Star Ferry, and a lot of frustration that no one seemed to know where it is, I found a couple of police who told me that realistically, my only option was to put my bike on the MTR (tube.) I explained to them that this was not an option, and they suggested I take the motorway. I asked if I would be arrested, and they said I would probably be OK. Clearly not all Hong Kong police are quite so zealous!

I found the motorway, lit my rear light and went for it- the traffic was dense and I cycled fast to get this highly unpleasant experience over as soon as possible. As I approached Kowloon, I spied a flashing light out of the corner of my eye. Thinking this was the police, I decided to come off at the next exit, a little early. It was however a recovery vehicle, but I was close enough to Tsim Sha Tsui (Star Ferry!) to get there on the normal roads, although this took some time.

On arrival at the ferry terminal, I wheeled my bike through the bee hive-like crowds and propped it against the glass fence of an observation pier to take some celebratory photographs. It was pitch dark by this stage, and the buildings over the other side of Victoria Harbour on Hong Kong were lit up in neon, standing tall like a very funky feng shui guard of honour. One bore large words “Hong Kong Welcomes You.”

The ferry that takes bicycles goes to Wan Chai, and I decided to find a hostel near there, in Causeway Bay and make the final push to Government House the following morning. I was stopped by a very pretty girl who wanted to pose for a photograph with me. I wondered to myself whether it will be difficult to come down from such celebrity status. I checked into the hostel I had stayed on my previous trip to Hong Kong. Arriving at a city that I know strangely adds a greater deal of satisfaction than arriving somewhere unknown. I have perspective; I know that the last time I was here it took 12 hours on a flight.

The following morning, the 13th December, I loaded up the bike with all the belongings that had safely brought me here from London for one last time. The Union Flag fluttered beautifully in the breeze as I followed the tram lines towards Central. Government House is located up the hill in the Mid Levels: what a time to discover that a gear cable had broken! I took a self timer photo at the exiting moment I found a tourist information sign to my final destination.

Unable to cycle the bike up the hill, I had to push it through the pavements, and up and down a number of flights of stairs. One flight was so steep that I had to detach all the panniers and carry them up first. At the top I was met by an English voice “Canny that, a Union Jack!”

At last I arrived at what looked like Government House (I had never been there before), and asked the policeman outside if it was; he confirmed that I had finished my journey. The final day had been four kilometres, but over the last 10 months and 9 days I had cycled 17,692 km. I told the policeman that I had just cycled here from Buckingham Palace, and that this was the end. He seemed fairly disinterested, but obligingly took a couple of victory photos. The Hong Kong Flag with its Bauhinia Flower crest was raised over Government House just as the Royal Standard had fluttered above Buckingham Palace back in March. Reaching my final destination was rather like arriving in Australia with a spade. If you keep digging it really is there; I am walking proof that if you jump on a bicycle in London and keep pedalling, you really do get to Hong Kong!

Over the months I had imagined what the feeling would be to complete the task I had set myself. Would I be overjoyed, sad, or relieved? The answer was that I was confused. It would take some time before the fact that my quest was over would consciously sink in. At that moment outside Government House I had all my kit inside my panniers and instead of stopping, I could just as easily have pedalled on. I said goodbye to Government House, and walked down the hill. At the bottom, I paused for a while, gazing up at the skyscrapers around Chater Garden. I felt dizzy as I contemplated all the places I had been, the people I had met and the friends made, who had nursed me, fed me, given me shelter, and helped me to get here.

The trip had taken me through: The UK, France, Belgium, Luxembourg, Germany, Austria, Italy, Slovenia, Croatia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Montenegro, Albania, Macedonia, Greece, Turkey, Georgia, Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan, China, and Hong Kong.

The exhilaration of touring the world on a bicycle is well expressed in the lyrics of Walking in the Air, as I realised during my cycle in the evening through the chilly desert of eastern Xinjiang, waving at dumbstruck children. I moved slowly through their world, a world incomparable to mine but I was there long enough for them to wave at me and interact with me. Others simply went about their daily lives without noticing that a Chartered Accountant from England was cycling through their village en route to Hong Kong.

We're walking in the air
We're floating in the moonlit sky
The people far below are sleeping as we fly

I'm holding very tight
I'm riding in the midnight blue
I'm finding I can fly so high above with you

Far across the world
The villages go by like dreams
The rivers and the hills
The forests and the streams

Children gaze open mouth
Taken by surprise
Nobody down below believes their eyes

I was interrupted from my daze by John Sutherland, an English chap who recognised that I had just completed something large, and he invited me out for a celebration lunch. He had toured the world on a motorcycle, and knew something of the magic to be free on two wheels. As I tucked in to a hamburger, assuming its new status, the bicycle was wheeled into a hotel left luggage room.

Dangfang to Wuhan

2009-11-24T01:22:00.000-08:00

On the morning of the 16th of November, having learned out lessons from the following day, w made a supreme effort to wrap up as well as we possibly could, for the snow was still falling. it felt a little like putting on armour in anticipation of battle, with three layers of socks, and plastic bags between various layers on hands and feet.

When I checked out of the hotel room I was met by three giggling chamber maids. As I made it down the landing towards the lift one of them shouted. "I love you!" to which I responded "I love you too!" More giggling. And they shouted "I LOVE YOU!" again to which I responded, "I love you MORE!" Fits of giggling from all three, and they all disappeared into a bedroom for, no doubt an uncontrollable giggling session.

On the way out of town, in driving snow, I asked a fruit seller for a couple of plastic bags to go on top of the socks I was using as mittens. She carefully placed them on my hands and tied them on my wrists with the delicacy of a tailor.

It didn't take long, however, before our hands and feet seemed like frozen ice blocks and incredibly painful, despite our best efforts with gloves, plastic bags and socks placed in some very inventive places. We found a barn where a group of men had lit fires from breeze-block style charcoal bricks in terracotta bowls (one brick per bowl.) It took a long time before the pain left my hands and feet, which produced a lot of steam.

Needless to say, for the second day running, we stopped early due to the weather conditions. The town was freezing cold, as was the hotel which was lacking electricity, although this later came back. Restaurants don't bother with any heating and everyone simply goes about in multiple layers and coats. Wartime spirit!

The following morning, having eaten a very Chinese but satisfying breakfast (largely consisting of tofu, vegetables and steaming hot rice porridge) and having loaded up the bike, I noticed my tyre was flat. With an ever growing crowd, despite the fact that this was in the hotel lobby, I repaired my spare, and fixed it to the bike. All along, the crowd had been growing, and when I started pumping up the tyre outside the hotel I had attracted a serious gathering. When I removed the pump there was a loud pop and a hiss of air. The valve from the shoddy brand new chinese made inner tube had broken off. This produced fits of uncontrollable laughter from the crowd, at which point, incandescent with rage at them, I told them all to F off very loudly and crossly. They don't understand English but I have found that if you drop the F word it gently lets people know you may be a little irritated- it's not as belligerent as it would be to English speakers. This only produced more laughter. In provincial China, westerners are seen by many as, as I have mentioned before, fascinating exotic creatures. In this case, I got the distinct impression I was more of a clown. Even when you are cross you are funny.

When I went inside to find my trusty Halfords inner tube, padded in 12 patches but Not Out, the class idiot followed me inside and started rootling through my things. I raised my voice again, and he copied what I had said, parrot like, and sniggered. Noel pointed to the broken Chinese innertube and said loudly "Zhon Guo bo hao!"-"China- Not good!" Usually I would be a little embarrassed about such a outburst, but on this occasion I chipped in "Zhon Guo bo hao!" and "Ing Guo Hun Hao!" -"Britain very good!" (pointing at the trusty world travelled inner tube from Halfords) This wasn't a particularly nice thing for us to have said. The army of chamber maids were an injection of calm and peace, soothingly helping to hold things where needed and actually being quite helpful. In all other countries, when people stop when you have a puncture, it is nearly always to try to help or at least to try to chat or communicate. In China, it is simply to watch- usually without even saying Ni Hao (hello).

Luckily the old tube was repaired and we were on our way, much later than hoped. Noel didn't whinge about all the wasted time which was good of him. At lunch, Noel's chain broke and he attracted a similar crowd. Shop assistants had stopped working to stare at him through the window displays. Luckily he is very nimble and repaired the link very quickly.

The town we stayed at that evening really didn't understand about winter. It was truly freezing. Families were sitting outside their homes eating, chatting and playing board games. All doors were open, and you could look into the houses and see the bedrooms. The doors to the hotel were wide open, as were the windows and when we complained that one of the bedroom windows was missing a pane, the woman didn't know what we were complainig about. We spent a long time looking for a restaurant that had closed its door for supper, and when we had made out choice, we then realised that the back door was wide open. On the way into the hotel after supper, Noel closed the front door as we went upstairs. 2 minutes later I went down again and the door had been propped open. Breakfast was served in the hotel lobby, under the hood of my down filled jacket.

The following day the weather was marginally better, but still cold. We passed through one area that was devoted entirely to stone carved statues, mainly of dragons and Glorious Chairman Mao. It was extraordinary to see such skillful work being carried out in the streets. That evening we stayed in a truly world class hotel in Nanyang which would have cost an awful lot of money back home, but in China it only set us back less than 15 pounds each.

This was the point where we had planned to part company, Noel to continue for Shanghai and I to branch off South for Hong Kong. Noel left first, and left me to check out. When I did so I was handed both our passports back as he had forgotten his. I texted him to return, and I had looked at the map and decided that a good route was to continue east for another couple of days and turn south at Xinyang. We therefore had a further 2 days cycling together, which was good.

Another puncture, another crowd, despite being in the middle of nowhere. They were amazed as I put my socks on my hands over my gloves. What a fool I am! Socks go on your feet! On the way through a town we passed a couple of carts selling fish. Tethered to the carts were the cormorants used by the fishermen to catch the fish.

The staff at the little hotel we stayed at in the small town (by Chinese standards) were all standing to attention in grid formation as we returned from breakfast. It is not ususual to see this in all places and establishments, from petrol stations to restaurants. More hilarious is the dance routines that often they all have to perform together in the street first thing in the morning. It can be quite strenuous looking!

In Xinyang we went out for a final supper together, and ordered a sweet and sour pork- it looked more like a cocktail, served in a pineapple shell. The best either of us had ever had, although at GBP 3.50 it was very expensive by Chinese standards.

Noel very kindly tore a couple of pages out of his Chinese road atlas before we parted in opposite directions the next day. The weather was great- sunny and verging on warm as I entered Hubei province. I am hoping that when I get down to the tropics it will be reliably nice and warm!

There has suddenly been a re-appearance of water buffalo. I haven't seen these much since Azerbaijan. Back then, all you could make of them was their heads and horns as they peered out of the mud but now there is no need for them to wallow. They produce gigantic mounds on the roads, and they are largely it seems used to pull ploughs.

In the small town where I stayed in a comfortable room they were burning rubbish, including plastic and leaves in the street. This is a very common sight. There was a lively market the following morning where I took breakfast and wandered through. There was only one shout of "Lawai!" which may be a record.

The weather was still good, and I put in a very long 140km day to get to Wuhan,the capital of Hubei province. There were droves of sugar cane sellers in the streets for much of the day. Wuhan is a city of more than 4 million people, and I was surprised to see B&Q and also Wal Mart. The town sits on the massive Yangtze River, an awesome sight from the bridge across it set against the night time (by the time I reached the bridge) city-scape and laser shows from many of the buildings. Enormous hulking barges and ferries plough constantly through it. Reaching the Yengtze brings another feeling of accomplishment, rather similar to having reached the Great Wall back in Gansu. I am truly now in China's heartland. There were lots of smooching couples all along the bridge. Cheap date! With the help of some very kind members of the public who led me to the correct road, I found the hostel. It is very nice, but they have that leave-the-doors-open problem and the room isn't heated. I shouldn't grumble- I have been severely spoilt by the incredible hostel in Xian.

Yesterday I spent most of the day finding innertubes, which proved successful. The hostel staff were very kind in sorting out this important issue. There was a superb lunch market near the bike shop selling all sorts of goodies. I had some garlic-grilled oysters, sugar can juice and a chicken kebab. The kebab was pleasant enough, but there were pieces of chicken cartillage between the pieces of meat. Crunchy!

I then took the ferry across the Yangtze. As I bought the ticked I was reminded of the formalities of Chinese queueing when a woman craned her arm past me and held her money into the small glass window opening in the hope (haha! in vain) that she would be served before me.

The ferry reminded me of the old ships that constantly stream across the Bosphoros in Istanbul between Europe and Asia. The sun was just setting and there was a pleasant (pollution induced?) blue-grey pastille hue to the sky and the sky skrapers. On the other side of the river, I wandered down the main commercial street; it is extraordinary how affluent some of these Chinese cities are, when there are farmers only a few kilometers away who are using buffalo to pull a plough.

The glitz of the shops would easily rival London, Hong Kong or New York. Many of the shops are still however chinese brands, selling brand names that wouldn't be allowed in the west such as "Polo" instead of "Ralph Lauren Polo" and "Crocodile" instead of Lacoste, with very similar logos. The name "BBC" made me laugh for a clothes shop, expecially as there had been a clothes chop in Xian called "Tony Wear." "Playboy" is considered quite a respectable designer brand here in China- people have no idea of the pornographic implications of the trade mark in the West. Pornography in China is banned so there is no reason for them to realise it, but is rather disturbing to see respectable middle aged people wearing Playboy jackets. When I told one of the receptionists about the connotations of the brand, she was absolutely amazed. Leopards really can change there spots in China; anything is possible here, as we are constantly reminded.

I ventured out to the supermarket last thing where there were tanks full of toads and another of terapins! As I approached the tanks, a large fish jumped clean out of the water, splashing me and I noticed that there was another tank of little crabs. There is no need to visit the zoo in China, you can simply go shopping.

I had planned to leave Wuhan this morning, but as I munched my breakfast I was conscious of the fact that I am tired out and need a full day of rest, which is what I have done today- next to nothing.

I am still, despite a few frustrations, really enjoying China. It is invasive and unpredictable and frustrating, but that must be part of its addictiveness. It must be said that the people, although en mass, they can sometimes be a little irritating, are almost without exception utterly charming and helpful individually.

I have done more than 16,000 km from Buckingham Palace, and more than 10,000 miles. 5,000 of those kilometers have been in China alone and there remains about 1,200 until Hong Kong, the final destination which should take me less than 2 weeks. I hope you are all happy and well. Thanks Jam Pot.

Baoji to Dangfeng

2009-11-16T00:46:00.000-08:00

After I had finished writing my last entry, I locked my bike, and caught a taxi to Xian to try my hand with the authorities there to extend my visa. The hostel I found, very near the south gate was the cheapest (Y 25), and the best hostel I have found anywhere in the world. It was housed in a very old building and took the feel of an old Oxford college, with a lively bar and restaurant downstairs.

That evening I met Charles, Jamie and Susie for a drink in a bar, but they were already utterly sozzled, so the evening didn't go on very long. This was probably a good thing considering the marathon day awaiting me. Susie managed to backward somersault into the table behind her while showing off her stylish new red high heels. Glass and wood went flying, but the Chinese neighbours were very placid.

Upon finding the right place to renew the visa, which took considerable time as the office had changed locations, I was told that, "According to regulations, your visa cannot be renewed a second time. You must leave the country. You can go to Hong Kong to buy a new one."

This wasn't good news with a visa expiring the following day, so I hared back to Baoji to take up their kind offer of a visa in 7 days. This was granted, 35 minutes before the close of play after I managed to persuade them, with no material proof whatsoever other than a credit card, that I have at least US$ 3000 at my disposal. I had to come up with some pretty cringe-worthy chat about the fact that "I am a man of considerable means" (ahem) and "I am a Chartered Accountant, don't you know?!" In the end, the clincher was the moment I punched some figures into a calculator and said "That's how much money I have!" The auditors among you will rest assured that analytical review skills can come in handy for visa extensions! I would sadly have to return to Baoji the following Thursday to collect my passport and the shiny-new visa occupying an entire page.

The ride between Baoji and Xian was glorious. There was a slight following wind, blue skies, and plenty of little villages to pass through and observe. There were many stone masons at work by the side of the road, carving beautifully-formed Chinese characters with pick-axes and chain-saws onto what looked like marble grave stones. The only thing that slightly deflated me was the constant stream of "HEEEELOOOOOO!" shouted from distant strangers on the street. I had concluded to answer back with "Konichiwa!" but I hesitate to drop that bomb for fear of causing injury to innocent bystanders.

I stopped for a sugar cane snack- the first time I have seen this. It is remarkably refreshing and satisfying even if it does create a huge mess of the pulp that has to be spat out. This makes one fit in with the locals! I also had a barbecue pork sandwich for the first time, from a very hospitable lady in the street. In the little town I stayed in that evening, I found a very lively outside, but covered market of food stalls selling all sorts of things, but mainly beef kebabs, grilled fish, and pots of rice noodles with quails eggs and chicken. As I was perusing, and taking photos, I was approaced by Billy, a pretty Chinese girl who spoke perfect English due to having worked as a "dealer" in Singapore. As I enquired the subject of her dealings, she informed me that she dealt cards. I rather put my foot in it by asking if the little girl with her was her daughter when in fact it was her sister, but she was still keen to help me find the best place to eat, and she stationed me at a stand selling a very spicy but very nice rice noodle dish cooked in a clay pot. She told me that she was astounded to see me in the town, because "foreigners don't come here!" I found this especially pleasing, and is a very good reason to explore a country in the manner I have chosen.

The arrival at the West Gate of Xian was significant, as this is the end of the Silk Road, which I have now cycled in its entirety, originating in Istanbul. I took a quick arm-length shot of myself at this victorious moment, and my bike marked it by yielding a flat front tyre. The last thing I wanted was to change the inner tube in the amphitheatre of a 3 million inhabitant Chinese city, so I pumped it up and continued. I had to perform this three times to get to the oasis of peace that is the hostel. In the process I was unduly rude (I entirely ignored them with a frown) to a load of old gaffers who no doubt thought that a lawai (foreigner) pumping up his tyres was the most interesting thing to happen in the streets of Xian since the forming of the People's Republic.

At the hostel I met up with Noel, a jolly American chap I had met in Kyrgyzstan with whom I had hoped to travel on to Hong Kong. He has however been given a deadline by his girlfriend, and has had to revise his travel plans, and is going to finish in Shanghai. For the first few days we are heading in the same direction, so we will cycle together for at least a bit.

I really enjoyed a few days' enforced rest in Xian due to the need to return to Baoji on the Thursday. Apart from the first day, the weather was too awful to spend hours exploring the streets, but it was a very pleasant place to be, and the hostel was a wonderful base to spend hours chatting to other tourists, and the pretty English-speaking receptionists (this was particularly fruitful as it yielded a discount!)

Xian is full of quintessentially Chinese buildings with enormous rooves, which include the city walls and gates, bell tower, and lots of pagodas and temples. It is also home to the first McDonalds I have seen since Baku (Azerbaijan), many high rise buildings, and a disturbing amount of pollution. Some days you can't properly see the buildings, and the power of the sun is hugely reduced.

We made it out in the driving rain to pay homage at the Terracotta Army, very much worth the effort. I hadn't realised that the rooves to the ditches in which the army had been placed had collapsed over the millennia, in effect crushing the whole army to smithereens (ignorant me), and that the excavation work is still very much ongoing; you can see the archaeologists at work. The many warriors and soilders who have been immaculately pieced together are however collectively and individually an incredible sight. It is like looking back through time at individual people, life size, who walked the earth before the time of Jesus, complete in their true raiment. Fascinating.

On Wednesday evening, the town was completely covered with a thick icing of snow. This produced a pleasant effect on the large sloping chinese rooves and dragon follies, but it also meant that my train to Baoji the following day waited on the platform for an entire hour. The effect of this was that I missed my return train, and arrived back 4 hours later than planned after a 2.5 hour standing-only leg. When I turned up at the police to collect the visa, it took nearly an hour for them to hand back my passport. They had clearly not started the visa process until I had returned to their offices; I wish they could have saved me so much wasted time and given it to me when I first went there!

Returning to the hostel that evening, I found Chris and Astrid, the British and Dutch couple I had met in Kashgar. It was great to see them again, and we all went out for supper. They had had a horrible time in Xinjiang, being followed by the police to such an extent that the police even booked themselves into the hotel room next door! I am glad my passage through Xinjiang was so comparitively hassle-free! They are also going to Hong Kong, so I will next see them for cocktails in the warmth!

I have been cycling with Noel for the last few days since Xian. It has been great to have someone to joke around with; we have a similar sense of humour. The weather has been bitterly cold (0 degrees C) to the extent that fingers and toes turn to ice blocks in the freezing wind. We have not cycled long days due to the lie of the towns. Yesterday we cycled up a 1000m+ pass which was very pretty in the mist, and we hadn't anticipated it. We had a nice noodle lunch where we met another pair of cyclists who had cycled from France and were en route to Shanghai at ultrasonic pace- their visas were running out! The doors to the restaurant were left open despite the freezing conditions and the full house chatted away from under their heavy coats. The chef was hand pulling the noodles. This is done all over China, and I don't know why we never see this back home.

Today we had a very early stop. We were both in considerable cold-enduced pain from the snow. I put on three layers of socks and also put socks over my gloves in an attempt to beat the wind chill on my fingers, but after 50km we decided to dust off the caking of snow, and call it a day at noon in a little town called Dongfeng where we have found a nice little hotel. Our clothes are hanging up, we have defrosted under a warm shower; we spent the afternoon devouring sweet and sour pork and watching a film on Noel's laptop. I have discovered an ingenious way to heat up walnut milk (ubiquitous, although choclate milk is very hard to find) in the kettle by dipping the plastic sachets in the boiling water. A soupcon of brandy would greatly improve it, but me must make do.

I am still having a superb time slowly feeling my way through China, and I am really looking forward to the weather warming up a little as I head further south. I have finally booked a flight on Air New Zealand to arrive home on Christmas Eve, hopefully in time for a pint of Hooky at the King's Head. It's time to venture out for another tickle of the tastebuds, which takes priority so I must close.

Sary-Tash (Kyrgyzstan) to Baoji (China)"

2009-11-05T07:36:00.000-08:00

The marshrutka (minibus) ride back from Osh to Sary Tash to rejoin my bike was utterly miserable. The road was non-existent, and it wound through the mountains, through enormous herds of fat-bottomed sheep. I was lucky to have a group of Belgian backpackers to share the miserable experience with. It made me very glad to be traveling by bicycle!

As is typical for Kyrgyzstan, the place I left my bike wanted to charge me for half a night’s stay for each night my bike had “slept” on his property. I couldn’t be bothered with an argument, so I reluctantly parted with the cash.

This was to be my last experience of Central Asian (or Soviet) tourist standards. The heater in the room I shared with an interesting French photographer was heated by an electric cooking ring; supper was rice cooked in milk; breakfast was yoghurt and bread (I left the warm milk, which I really can’t stand); the stove was fired by cow pats and there was of course a pit loo at the end of the garden. I had to use ear plugs to block out the sound of the grandmother shouting at the wailing children to get to sleep. In the morning, they all burst into the room without knocking, as it pleased them. This really gets my goat when I am paying for a room.

After 2 months in Central Asia, I was more than ready to get to China. My cycling was lethargic on the ride towards the border. I felt a little like a dog who is bored of all the old smells and wants to go on a new walk. The road from Sary Tash to the border, in true Soviet style (one last flurry!) was absolutely awful, and had been dug up in preparation for the laying of tarmac. The guidebook I believe says they have been trying to do this since 2003. The road resembled a river delta as most traffic didn’t stick to the official “way” (I shall not flatter it by calling it a road any longer) and they ploughed new paths over the green pasture. Feeling low on energy (rice for supper and yoghurt with bread for breakfast) I stopped to make some noodles with sardines. This was revolting, but gave me a little oomph. Later on, a phone call from my mother and from Pat Lardner at Cothill (my old school) lifted my spirits. It was incredible to be able to speak to them from one of the most remote places in the world! This was the last phone call I would be able to receive for a month as I was about to enter Xinjiang province China, which, despite being officially described as being “Autonomous” has had its internet and international phone lines cut by the central government in response to the summer riots.

I camped that night surrounded by 5000m snowy peaks, and it was too cold outside to cook. The following morning, having dusted the ice off the tent, with pretty low energy I headed out on the final push to the Irksteim Pass, the Chinese border. I was prepared for an enormous climb. The route that morning was however downhill nearly all the way. When I reached the bottom, I was certain that this was the start of the Big Climb, however I met a friendly cyclist couple, Erin and Sam from Wyoming who gave me the Good News that in fact I had done the pass, and that I was nearly in China! Hurrah! All that Pamir Highway training has clearly not been wasted. The road miraculously became beautiful tarmac, and there was even a line down the middle of it. At the border I ran into the Belgian gang with whom I had shared the ride from Osh. The border was closed until 2pm and they were playing a card game, bataille. There was a shop where I bought some much needed sugary drink and grub. In typical fashion, the woman took a long time with a calculator to add up 40+40+30.

When the border finally opened, I have never seen a border guard take so long to stamp a passport. With serious furrowed brow, he looked the whole thing over about five times before finally giving me the green light to leave the country. What the issue is, I really don’t know. Check the photo (admittedly I don’t much resemble the photo which was taken during a miserable lunch break in my fat audit days), check the visa; stamp.

For some reason it amused me to see “OUP” on the back of most of the lorries. I doubt this stood for Oxford University Press.

At the chinese border point there was an old sign saying “Welcome to China” which rather disappointed me because I was hoping for a more gleaming 21st century reception. A military man took all our passports into a porter-kabin and we were given tiny stools to perch on. There was a man directing traffic with a red flag, except there was no traffic. There was also a lot of marching and standing to attention from the assembled troops. It was shambolic and there was much fidgeting; it reminded me of CCF at school.

When they had finished playing with (I later found out they were photographing) our passports, we were sent down to the real customs and immigration, a few kilometers down the road. This was more like it. The reception here was more like Miami Airport, and we had to fill out Immigration cards and Arrival cards. The immigration desk had a selection of buttons you could press at the end of the process, ranging from “Satisfied” to “Checking Time Too Long” and “Poor Customer Service.” Although the process took a really long time, the Belgian guy in front of me pushed “Satisfied”; I abstained. Thankfully customs didn’t make me unload all my stuff to put it through an X-ray. I understand now that this was a minor miracle.

Immediately having passed through the border formalities and cycled onto the open road, I could feel the excitement and energy entering my muscles. After 11,100 km I was finally in China! The uphills were no longer difficult with the perfect tarmac, and I sailed up and coasted down. The slowly up and slowly down of Tajikistan was but a memory! The villages I passed through were still however mud-brick, and I noticed that the local language is written in Arabic script. Road signs have large Chinese characters, and small Arabic inscriptions. There were colourful signs showing Chinese and Central Asians (some of whom in yurts) living side by side in harmony.

I saw the first camels since Uzbekistan- these are all majestic two-humped bactrians, growing their wooly winter coat. I also whizzed past many yurts- something I had thought I left behind. Getting towards dark (Chinese time is 2 hours later, so this was about 9pm!) I stopped in a village to ask if I could find a bed. I was told I could not, so I moved on a little nervous.

As darkness fell, then, on the first night in China, I arrived at a tiny village and made the sleeping sign with my hands and head to the first person I found. Without hesitation, I was invited in and given a bed. To this day, I am not sure what kind of institution this was- it seemed like a cross between a police station and a community centre.

In the dark green kitchen tent outside the building, I was given a delicious supper of chinese chicken cooked in a wonderful spicy sauce- the taste of ginger on my tongue was an absolute delight after so long in the culinary wilderness. It was served in a big plastic bowl and everyone dug in with their chopsticks (first time these were used!) Beers were drunk with gusto and each sip was heartuly toasted. They made sure I was eating enough and a large bowl of rice was served near the end of the meal.

They made sure I realised that this was a Kyrgyz village- and that there were a few Han Chinese about too. The two parties seem to live together perfectly happily. They would point to eachother and say "Kyrgyz" or "Han Zou" rather like we might talk about whether someone is English or Welsh. When I asked later on if the music was Chinese, they said "Yes, Kyrgyz Chinese."

After supper, we all went into what seemed like a classroom, and everyone (about 20) sat down at the desks. Sweets were then spread out on the tables in front of everyone and everybody dug in. It seemed very ritualistic reminded me of prep school! After this, the older people retired and the younger people played some music (not that loud) from the computer, and started waltzing round the room! They insisted I joined in. When we were doing a bit of freestyle dancing I showed then how to twist and turn Scottish style which amused them greatly!

They were very considerate in that they realised that I would be tired, and before too long asked if I wanted to retire for the evening, which I thankfully accepted. They would accept no money at all.

The next day was glorious weather (it is rarely not in this region of China) and I raced past a man riding a camel. I found breakfast, which was steamed buns stuffed with mutton. Not bad, although I would have liked anything but mutton. There was a little shop in the small town, and after the barren shops in Central Asia, the contents seemed like a bank vault. I bought a preserved duck leg which I had for lunch on-the-go which was delicious.

The scenery was mountainous, and very beautiful although I wasn't well prepared for the lack of towns and I was very hungry by the end of the day. At the first town I got to, a couple of hours before dark, the nasty man in the noodle shop refused to serve me, and the guesthouse refused to let me stay. The shop sold me some flakey bread and some candied peanuts which saw me through to the next town.

This town, I think was called Huaheu (I am not entirely certain because all the signs are in Chinese!) and was much bigger. I arrived at sunset. I thought at the time it was huge, but in hindsight it wasn't that big in Chinese terms. I had RMB 88 in Chinese money which is about GBP 8. The hotel was RMB 80, leaving me only RMB 8 for supper which I assumed wasn't going to be enough. They insisted on payment in advance so, in a huff, off I trotted to the cash machine. On the way there I was stopped by the police who spent what seemed like an age passing my passport among themselves. This made me even crosser. Then I found out that my card has been suspended by Barclays, in their wisdom. I could not find anyone to exchange my USD notes. I went back to the hotel and the woman still insisted on payment in advance, despite the fact that I indicated that I would not have enough money to eat. A sharp shake of the head and a click of the tongue. Furious, I threw the money at her and was shown to my room. This is the first time I had lost my temper with someone on the entire trip, and only my second day in China. With a devil-may-care attitude, I went to a cafe and eat a lovely stir fry vegetables and rice, which mercifully came to RMB 8.

The hotel room itself was an absolute delight- the first crisp clean linen for a few months, TV, and all sorts of little nic-nacs like toothbrush, shoe shine mitt, and little disposable shoes that are standard in all Chinese hotel rooms.

The following morning I obtined cash through the "charge-up" emergency card I bought in Dover. This, along with the USD I was carrying was enough to see me right through Xinjiang.

On arrival in Kashgar, I realised I had lost the card detailing the location of the hostel. I meandered through the Sunday Markets (some one had told me the hostel is near there) but no luck. The crowds were pretty heavy, and I was a little shocked to see an official punch a member of the public in the face. Most people on the streets of Kashgar are Uygar, not ethnically chinese at all, hence the recent troubles. These people are the natives of the area, and their physical features are much the same as Anatolians (Asian Turkey), Azeri and Uzbek. The local language is Turkic, and they wear similar clothes to other central Asians. The men wear enbroidered skull caps and many of the women cover their heads, often their faces too.

After a good couple of hours searching for another tourist who could help me out, I realised that there are not many tourists in Kashgar and it was getting dark. As I passed the Glorious Statue of Mao (complete with garrisons of military riot police, armed to the teeth trenched in behind camo barriers) I was stopped by a very serious policeman. He was very interested in why I was in Kashgar, where I came from and how long I was planning to stay. He gave me a lecture about how if I tried to do any cycling at all in China I may well be punished. After this, he insisted I follow him in his car to a Hotel- he said he would find me a cheap one. I started off walking the bike down the pavement as he had told me not to cycle, then he screamed out the window, "YOU CAN CYCLE!"

He led me to the Qinnibach Hotel, which was such excellent value that I ended up staying there for an entire week. I had an enormous en suite room and over the week it only cost about GBP 20 more than sleeping in a dorm. I had hoped to meet Tom (with whom I cycled in Central Asia) in Kashgar, or at least get a message from him in the hostel as we had arranged, but he must have forgotten.

In any case, there were plenty of fellow lunatics (cycle tourers) to keep me company, including a Swiss couple, Bruce and Patricia, on a tandem who had met Isabel when she was in Samarkand. I then ran into Pierre and Janie whom I had met in Turkey! They were staying in the same hotel, and it was brilliant to see them again. There was also a fellow Brit, Chris with his girlfriend Astrid who had cycled from the Netherlands. All very jolly, but sadly no one I could carry on cycling with. I had hoped to meet an American chap, Noel, who I had met in Osh, but he was well behind me and with the visa days ticking I needed to push on before he got to Kashgar.

It was in Kashgar when I first attempted to cut out the dreadlocks that currently afflict the back of my head, but it was a little painful with a Swiss Army knife, so I gave up after a while. I confess, the back of my head is more Rastafarian than Radleian. The mop has not been cut since February, and with the daily beating of the helmet and the fact that showers are often hard to come by, it is difficult to keep that L'Oreal perfection. The idea of going to a terrified Chinese hairdresser is too awful to consider. It shall have to wait till Hong Kong.

In the first few days in Kashgar, it was still Ramadan and there was a particular street near the mosque where a veritable feast of street food was served on different stalls after sunset. This was a wonderful treat to someone who has, as I have said, been deprived of food variety for a number of months. There was fried fish (fresh water fish with a slight hint of mud, but very tasty when hot), hot and cold noodles, boiled eggs in soup, chicken, melons, sweet pancakes with meat inside (not bad, although I didn't eat any more after I learned about the meat!) No dish cost more than 40p- most of them about 20p. I steered clear of the intestines, heads, hooves, and tongues.

The streets of Old Kashgar by day bustle with shops selling the objects that have been made by their skilled artisans in the workshops in the back. This includes metalwork and woodwork, including cooking utensils (lovely wooden steamers) and toys. There is also an abundance for some reason of dentists. As you wonder the streets you are treated to the sight of people having their teeth drilled much as you might glimpse someone having their hair cut in Stow-on-the-Wold.

I went to the Sunday animal market where they sell tons of sheep and goats, no small number of cattle, and a few camels. The sheep and goats are arranged side by side with their heads through a rope which creates a very artistic chevron pattern. It was interesting to observe deals being made and the traders joking with eachother whilst making business. I was hit by a moist flying cowpat when one of the cows jumped out of its trailer.

The Sunday Markets themselves were no different on a Sunday than on the day I had arrived- they are like the Souks of Morocco or the Grand Bazaar of Turkey, but without so much character. There are long covered alleys of stalls, many of which attempt to sell tourists fur hats- dog skin and fox skin are favourites. There are however many alleys that only sell consumer goods such as cooking equipment, so it is nice to see that these ancient markets are being used by locals and not solely devoted to the tourist trade. The true old town of Kashgar is being knocked down bit by bit, day by day. It is mud brick and a little grimey, but it is rather a shame. The Party wants to make everything nice and new. You can see the demolition teams working just outside the Sunday Markets, and there are places all over the Old town where old is going down and new going up. The new buildings are not unattractive- after central Asia I was delighted to see clean new structures, but it is a shame to lose the old.

After the troubles in Urumqi back in the summer, there is a massive military presence on the streets of Kashgar. As I mentioned before, armed soldiers are trenched in in places where people go about their daily business such as near smart new shopping complexes! It seems very surreal. There are also convoys three trucks of riot police who patrol the streets day and night. They gaze out at the crowds from behind their transparent shields thoroughly bored. One night the driver of one of the trucks waved at me. We had been told on the last night of Ramadan that there was a 11.30 Beijing time (9pm Xinjiang time) curfew, so we made sure we were not on the streets that evening.

I eventually left Kashgar on the 24th September, and ended up camping in the Taklimakan desert. The camping spot was however well secluded and I slept well. I wasn't well prepared for the lack of towns or shops and didn't have enough supplies! I cycled further into the desert the following day, and had my first Laghman for lunch. This is a dish of hand pulled noodles, fresh vegetables, and mutton and is actually quite nice. The only problem, as I was to discover, is that is really the only dish served in Uygar restaurants. I camped again, this time on very uneven ground which made me sleep really badly. On top of this, I stupidly didn't have enough food, so my energy levels were very, very low the next morning. Repairing a tyre and packing up camp required a supreme effort, and the 47km to the next town the next day felt like four times that. Lorry drivers were very kind and stopped to give me drinks. Another car stopped to give me water. If you have been a fool and not taken enough water, you never need to worry in China because someone will stop to give you some.

At the town, I found a little hotel that took me in, but insisted I register with the police. They took an age writing all sorts of details down, and then took me off in a car to a copyshop where they copied EVERY PAGE of my passport. They then came to inspect the room, I assume to make sure it was fit for a foreigner. The room was pretty foul, and the guy tapped the windows (why, I don't know) before giving it the all clear. I was furious because he had brought his lighted cigarette into the room. It must be said that he was very polite, but he swaggered like only a provincial Mr Plodd could have.

The next day I felt much better having had a hearty laghman supper. Laghman then followed for breakfast, lunch and supper. It's funny how there is usually a huge selection of restaurants, but not of dishes!

My skills at tying the chinese characters on the signposts the map were vastly improving. I was stopped by the police only because they wanted to goggle at my bike, offer me fags (that seems like the usual Chinese friendly gesture, so it's a shame I don't smoke) and feed me delicious melon. A VW passat slowed down to have a look at me, and I gave them an ironic wave, pretty cross at being stared at even as I cycle. Ten minutes later, I saw them parked in the verge, and they beckoned me over. They insisted I accept a bag stuffed with fruit and moon cakes, and a couple of bottles of water. They took lots of pictures, and were really friendly. I felt severely guilty for having been peeved at their initial slowing down; you have to have patience in bucketloads and just be friendly to everyone. This is not always possible! Many times cars have stopped to give me snacks and water; the Chinese have proven to be a supremely generous bunch.

That night I stayed in an Uygar guesthouse in Achu- back in the land of the pit loo, although this one had a chair with a convenient hole for those too weak to squat.

The roads are some of the safest I have riden on due to the paucity of cars and the large hard shoulders. Despite this, coach drivers are a total menace. They have horns of which the QE2 would have been proud, and use these as a substitute for prudence. They do not slow down for these little towns, and I saw one in Achu terrifyingly overtake a lorry at speed in the middle of the town. I am glad to be only a spectator to the action on the road!

The following day, as I was approaching Aksu, a car stopped to give me some water (unbidden) and it was Mr Li and his sister- a wealthy cotton merchant who had given me a drink a few days earlier when I really needed it. He told me to look him up when I got to Aksu later that evening. He was very friendly, but had a slight resemblance to Michael Jackson! He wanted me to stay in the 4* hotel he was in, but it was a little more than I wanted to spend (albeit only 20 quid, I should have gone for it!) He found me another, marginally cheaper 3* with English films to watch for free! He took me out for supper of dumplings, and I watched a Ralph Fiennes and Julianne Moore film when I retired. I can't remember the last time I had watched a film.

The landscape for this stretch had been very beautiful, with the desert sands to my right and high deserty mountains, shrouded in a sands haze to my left. The heat during the day was still pretty hot.

It was such a nice hotel that I took an easy morning, and when I ventured out, a police woman checked my documents as I sat and took breakfast in an outside stall. A white face equals a police check in Xinjiang. She was not friendly, but she was extremely polite, passing me the napkins just before I needed them. She had to call English speaking reinforcements to interrogate, and he was quite friendly when I told him about my trip, and wished me well. Later on, a poor policeman had to chase me down on foot when I inadvertently jumped a checkpoint, and even he was very polite and friendly. The haze lifted that afternoon to reveal snow capped mountains to the north.

And so, on the 29th September, due to the late start, I decided to stop at Karayulgun after only 54km. I found a nice little hotel with en suite bathroom, and argued the price down from the equivalent of 12 pounds to less than 7. The lady then insisted I go with her to the police with my passport, and she bought me a drink on the way. When we were there, she grabbed the passport back off the policeman when she realised he had done the official check and was now just being nosey! In these provincial towns the police are the local lads, as they are in the UK and are not at all a force to be feared. On the way back she bought apples and watermelon which she showered upon me, and then took me out for some chinese beef noodles at a restaurant that was delighted to have a foreign visitor. Many photographs, and posing whilst shaking hands. They like that. She would not accept any money for all this kindness.

The following morning, I went back to the restaurant and had beef noodles for breakfast as I had promised. He totally refused payment. More shaking hands, more photos. The son of the Uygar neighbour restaurant owner then insisted I go with him to a photographer over the road to have a picture taken with him. The background could have been taken from the smurfs! During this time his brother turned up, whom I had not met, combing his hair, and he also wanted a photo taken with me!

Being a foreigner in China is sometimes like being a celebrity, and other times it is like being an exotic bird in a zoo for everyone to gawk at. They will shout "Hello" at you in a ridiculous manner, toned as you would talk to a dog, or if you were asking polly if she wanted a cracker. If you respond, it is more likely than not followed not by friendliness, but by hoots of laughter. They have made the bird talk, or the dog roll onto his belly! I am still undecided as to whether this treatment is excusable by the fact that there really are not many different looking people in these parts, but it is truly enraging. You cannot cycle through a town or even walk down the street without people shouting this at you and it is pretty uncomfortable. Sometimes I have taken to wearing my buff as a mask.

The following night, the teahouse in the middle of nowhere let me pitch my tent after my evening injection of Laghman. There was a large refinery with a yellow flame illuminating the desert nearby.

The next day the 1st of October, I had my temperature taken twice by the police at checkpoints, with a terrifying little infrared gun. We would find this kind of intrusion onto one's personal life utterly awful at home. I arrived in Kucha which is a big town, and I had high hopes for an easy night watching chinese adverts on TV. The 60th anniversary of the state holiday however meant that all the hotels I could find were full, and I wandered the streets for probably an hour and a half looking for lodgings. I was picked up by the police, who, after making sure I had bought supper, led me to a perfectly nice and cheap hotel. They took my temperature with a thermometer in the armpit before letting me in the room.

The next day, my temperature was taken again before I was allowed into the supermarket! I love Chinese supermarkets- there is always something new to try, and a huge basket of snacks seldom exceeds a fiver. On every sales shelf there is a loudspeaker barking away, and on this occasion, with the holiday, it was utter bedlam. I spent that night in Luntai, a small town where I found PORK noodles for supper.

The next morning, I had what has become my morning staple for the first time, meat stuffed steamed buns. You usually get about 10 in their own little steamer. You dip them in soy sauce and chilly sauce and they are not bad. Also recommended is deep fried dumplings or deep fried dough. All this usually comes with a tofu soup or a sort of dark congee which is delicious if piping hot and mixed with sugar.

I am ashamed to say I used my middle finger in true anger for the first time in my life on that day. A JCB driver with the loudest horn I have ever heard thought it would be hilaroius to draw up next to me and give a good blast. I used the American version because it is more international: I didn't want him to get confused and think I was giving him a victory salute. I felt pretty bad afterwards as I only want to be charming and friendly to people in these countries I visit, especially when so many people have showed me such kindness.

That evening, I arrived at a little village at dusk that had no guesthouse. I asked the police where I could camp, and they told me to wait for a bit. After a wait, and a lot of banter, I was invited in to stay with an Uygar Family. My host was a 20 year old student. He has sisters and a brothers, and his parents were very happy to have me to stay in their home. He was very excited to have a foreigner to stay and was fascinated by my passport. He told me that it is very difficult for locals to get travel documents. He insisted that he is Uygar and not Chinese- this was the first time I had encountered such sentiments, and that is why me description here is deliberately vague. I was a little surprised when he showed me a picture of Osama Bin Laden on his phone, and he showed me a video on it of human bodies being taken apart, I assume by a medical professor. I put all this morbid fascination down to naive innocence rather than being a serious pervert: he was very childlike. He pointed out his music heroes on the TV, and I noticed that they were Han Chinese.

The following day his mother made a laghman that was very nice, and eaten with steamed buns and he insisted on taking me to see his "pear tree," which I thought was rather odd. This actually turned out to be an enormous orchard and he filled a shoe box with the most delicious pears. At the time I thought this would be too big to carry, but when I tasted the pears I was very glad to have it. Chinese pears, and in particular those from the vicinity of Korla are both crispy and juicy- unlike our pears which tend to be either crispy and dry or juicy and soft. They were extremely concerned that I do not forget them, and he gave me a necklace to ensure I do not.

The wind was so awful that day that I decided to stop early in Korla. I found a 3* hotel for half the price of a German youth hostel, and was utterly delighted with the huge, immaculate room with computer (being Xinjiang, no internet alas), bathtub, the "news" in English, 2 double beds and all sorts of toys. Below there was a spa where I steamed away for a while.

The fire notice on the door read as follows: "Please do not worry if a fire is occuring, our hotel has owned superior scattering facilities to ansure you are transmitted safely" (!) What about Extreme Unction? Surely that would be included in the full hotel service?!

The next day the wind wasn't so bad, and at dark I found a small town with a cheap hotel. The woman showed me where I could eat supper, and I had a very nice fish dish although the bones were everywhere and I impaled my tongue. I thought I had ordered pork ribs. When I finished I returned, showered and got into bed. Fifteen minutes later there was a rat-a-tat-tat on the door. Who the hell could this be?! It was the hotel owner who spoke no English. I dismissed him politely and got back into bed. Ten minutes later, at half ten there was another knock. This time it was the police. "The hotel has no right to have foreigners; this is a private hotel. This man will take you to the next town, 15 km away where there is a hotel for foreigners. I am so sorry." Complaints, appeals to decency and human rights would do nothing to help my cause. Feeling like a refugee, I got dressed and packed up. It took a long tome to explain to them that I wanted to leave my bike at the hotel because I have cycled all the way from London and I am not going to let this sort of thing break my line, damn it!

It transpired that as I had had a shower they would not refund my previous hotel, so I had to pay for 2 nights that night. I was not a happy man, although the amounts were not material. silver lining was that the new hotel included breakfast, although a Chinese hotel breakfast is nothing to get excited about: cold salty vegetables and lukewarm soup.

I returned to my bike and continued my cycling. That evening I got caught out by the dark in the middle of the desert on the quiet motorway (motorways are safer and faster if you get the chance). There was a barbed wire fence preventing escape, so I camped in a tunnel underneath which was surprisingly not too noisy, but the ground did shudder when a lorry went over.

The next day quite unexpectedly led me up quite a high deserty mountain pass which was really beautiful under the blue sky. I reached the top just before dusk, and I found a chap in a portakabin selling instant noodles to truckers, which did very nicely for supper with some bread to dip in. He led me to an unused bedroom in a sort of unused police station which was great because it meant I didn't have to pitch my tent. I killed an ENORMOUS spider just before going to sleep.

The next day, the 8th of October, I sailed downhill into the Turpan depression, one of the lowest places on earth, and the place where the highest weather temperature ever was recorded. In the depression it became very hot and I whizzed past many nodding donkey oil pumps. I had seen quite a few of these in Xinjiang in the previous few days. Turpan is famous for grapes and raisins and the town was surrounded with vineyards. There were also loads of mud-brick lattice buildings for drying the grapes. I was too late for grapes, but fine for raisins. They were enormous, plump and very sweet- and bright purple or bright green.

The town itself was much like any other large Chinese town. It took me a long time to gain entry because the police check was baffled that my visa had been issued in Baku. I went to see the police here, who extended my visa without any problems aside from linguistic ones. As this took an entire day, I went to see the ancient silk road city of Jiaohe which, although being more than a thousand years old, and made of mud, is in remarkable condition. It was like visiting ancient Mycaenae in Greece.

Cycling through desert-like terrain the next day I decided to stop at a melon seller for a snack. I chose a small one, and the guy refused to sell it to me. He insisted on a large one. Big confusion and frustration. He opened it up and fed me piece by piece until I had had enough, and then refused any payment. In Shanshan I found a really nice, and cheap hotel.

The next day, I cycled into the desert again (I have never made the mistake of being under-supplied again!) and found a large crater by the side of the road which hid my tent perfectly. I was startled by human voices in the night, but Chinese trucks break down the whole time, and this one had done so on the bit of the road nearest the crater. Not the best sleep I have ever had, but crystal clear stars.

The next day took me through a place I have since discovered is famous for being outrageously windy. And it was just that; not much fun at all. As the road turned south however towards late afternoon, the wind started to assist more than hinder, and I made good ground. Despite this, at fall of night I arrived at a village, Yiwanquan, with no guesthouse. The police directed me to a building where I was immediately invited in.

I had been thinking that day, as the mind wanders when you cycle, what it would be like to be back in an institution like a prep school. I was just about to find out. This was a workers' lodgings and I was given a bed in the dormitory. Workers in China nearly always wear combat camo clothes. They then asked if I had a bowl; I provided my army mess tin. They filled this with lovely bean sprout stir fry from the enormous couldrons of the kitchen, accompanied with steamed buns. They were all extremely concerned to make me feel at home, and ensured I had second helpings. They were fascinated by my sleeping bag and how it can compress into such a small bag.

As I dozed off, they were getting stuck into a serious game of cards. If in Central Asia they play backgammon, in China they play cards. At half 6 the next morning, just as used to happen at prep school, the lights were automatically turned on, and just as at prep school, no one paid any attention. This was followed 15 minutes later by bursts of Peking Opera music, and half an hour later again more music. This was when everyone started to stir. They provided me with warm water to wash my face, and soup and steamed buns for breakfast. They also insisted I take some steamed buns in my bag, which was lucky because I was nearly out of food. Before I left I gave them all some small euro coins and some of the many Azeri coins that have been cluttering my bag. They were delighted.

They had tried to get me to slurp my soup. Chinese table manners are something that take a long, long time to get used to. It would appear to me that in general no one really cares how you eat your food. If you are in a restaurant and you want to spit, by all means make a huge noise to clear your throat and project a gobule onto the floor. This noise is what usually wakes me up when I am in cheap Chinese hotels. Also, there is no need to use the chopsticks to pick up your noodles- you can shovel them. Just move your head down to the bowl, and slurp them from the side.

I stopped in a little convenience store to buy some sweets in the afternoon. The woman behind the counter filled a carrier bag to the brim with sweets, cakes, preserved eggs, coke and sprite, and insisted I take it. I tried hard to give her some money for it, but she would not accept.

In Hami that evening, I found a cheap hotel, where the staff led me to a rerstaurant for supper. I made a noise like a chicken and then a noise like a cow with a gesture, thinking I had asked for chicken or beef. Just as I had finished the chicken, and was about to ask for the bill, a huge plate of beef arrived, which the woman insisted I had asked for. Why they thought I wanted 2 huge, and expensive dishes is beyond me. Communication can be so frustrating sometimes, in that they are programmed it seems, totally differently. In another country, they may not understand your speech, but when you ask a question or make a gesture, there is no other question you could possibly be asking them, so they understand what you mean. It is so frustrating sometimes that it is hard to restrain one's temper, and sometimes you can feel like crying or biffing someone. Patience is everything!

At the bank the following day, hanged my remaining USD 300 for Chinese money. There was a Bank of China, which is the only institution that will do this. My passport was scrutinised by 3 different people, I had to go to one clerk to prepare the forms before proceeding to the cashier. She worked quickly, but there was so much paperwork that it took an age. She was very pleased when I pushed the "good Service" button. Then, at the cashier, I counted 9 forms going off to different places, each one stamped with three different stamps by the same clerk. So much for segregation of duties. I counted 9 forms going off in different directions, one of which with my phone number on. In any other country, this transaction would have taken about 3 minutes.

That evening I was invited to stay with the Traffic Police, who collect road tolls. It was good to have somewhere to stay, and some supper although one of them was I fear a little disappointed that I don't swing the other way, if you understand what I'm getting at. I don't know what gave the impression that I might, but I fear it may have been the rather strange photo with the Uygar boy I mentioned above that he picked out of my bag, and the pictures on my camera of the guy I had stayed with in the orchard, who looks rather camp I am afraid to say. I pretended I didn't understand what he was getting at and made very clear that all I was interested in was going to bed!

The 15th of October was a mammoth day of 140km to XinXinXa, the border town with Gansu. I followed a new, and as yet unopened motorway all day and it was like having the worlds best cycle path. The only problem came just before dusk, as I was arriving at the town, when it turned out that they had not finished blasting through the rock at one end. This was a very nervous moment, but I found a road worker who showed me the dust track into XinXinXa.

I had met a friendly Taiwanese cycle pair (Ida and Leon, brother and sister) in Hami who had warned me that one hotel in XinXinXa was awful, and best avoided but they said I had no way of telling which one this was. I was very disappointed when the staff at the hotel I had just checked into told me about a Taiwanese cycle pair who had stayed there a few days before. They made a nice supper, but the hotel was AWFUL. The loo was an unconcealed hole in the ground at the end of the corridor, right next to my room. No water, no flush. And it wasn't cheap either. After I had turned off the lights to go to sleep, there was a knock on the door. Oh No! Not the police again! It was a young staff member who it appeared was interested in chatting. I was fuming with rage, and told him that I was going to sleep and closed the door. Five minutes later, another knock, and the woman who runs the place was going mad. She then led a stranger into my room and gave him my spare bed. I had not paid a dormitory price. It was not worth complaining, and I went to sleep.

The next day, I cycled into Gansu, although I wasn't aware when I actually crosed the border. Finally, in touch with the internet and the outide world again! I had a long day cycling through hilly desert-like scenery, and I was concerned I wasn't going to find a town with a hote, as my water was running very low. I crossed the railway tracks however, which are great landmarks because they tell you exactly where you are on a Chinese map, and saw that I would soon arrive in a town.

I played Russian roulette with the menu, which yielded a pleasant pork sate, asked if there was anywhere to stay. When the bill came, there was another 2 quid on the bottom of the bill. When I asked what this was, the waitress replied, "Sleeping," whereupon I was led to a more than acceptable room I had to myself. The loo was un-usable as far as I was concerned- a pit with four standing holes side by side, and mounds of poo (sorry everybody) rising up above each hole. The Chinese are largely not bothered about privacy when it comes to defecating. I remember being shocked when I was taught at school that the Romans didn't have any dividers in their latrines. Well, often, nor do the Chinese. I often see them doing it just standing by the side of the road.

The following day, the wind was extremely kind to me, blasting me at 40 km/h for the last few hours to such an extent that I cycled 154km by the end of the day. The landscape was lunar, but terracotta mud, and I whizzed past an enormous sea-loke reservoir that wasn't marked on the map. I exited the motorway in the middle of nowhere, and asked the toll people where I could pitch my tent. I was told to speak to a girl who spoke English on the tannoy, and I was invited in.

They made a huge fuss over me, plying me with milk, cakes, tea, and a huge supper. I noticed that they were very civilised, and used their chopsticks with great delicacy. They were very impressed that I know how to use them. Many places assume that no foreigner can use them. They let me use the internet to check my emails, which I had really been looking forward to, but I found out that some spammer had sent a wierd email from my account about mobile phones to all my contacts, and deleted not only all my contacts but also all my emails for the month before. So if you got an email from me like that it was spam, and if you sent me an email, send it again!

The next morning, they very kindly made me some noodles and warm milk and asked if I wanted to stay another day. I cycled further into Gansu, and having now left the desert, I was catapaulted into Autumn. The sweet smells reminded me of home, and I didn't realise it, but I subconsciously associate autumn with happy thoughts, like Rugby. This gave me a boost. The landscape reminded me of home, with the autumn hues, the hills, and the sheep. I found a room on that evening, the 18th October in Yumendong.

The next day, I arrived early in Jiayuguan, and went to see the castle that marks the start of the Great Wall. It was a surreal thought to have reached such a landmark, having left London on my bike and just kept pedalling. It was a very impressive castle, but the wall itself has not been restored, and is purely mud brick. Inside the castle, there were waxworks from hundreds of years ago doing daily chores. It occurred to me how little life has changed for many people over the last few hundred years. The wood burning stove with large circular pot holes in the kitchen could have been taken out of any of the local restaurants. That day, I had also seen fields being ploughed with oxen and small farmers work the land and harvest by hand.

I was very tired the next day, and decided to pop into a passing town, Jiuquan, only 20 km on to buy a map of Gansu. This was an utter disaster as no one could work out what I wanted. I would show my map of Xinjiang, and then said "Gansu," pointing again at the map, and indicating I wanted to buy one. I found a shopping mall, and when I thought I had found a bookshop, the woman provided a child's jigsaw map of China. This nearly brought tears of frustration. I walked past a bike shop, and they changed my brake pads and cables for me, and a passing woman who spoke English in the meantime quietly went off and bought me the map I wanted. Just as you are about to strangle someone in China, someone does something unbelievabley kind to make everything OK again. I was tired and decided to call it a day, and the bike mechanic led me to a nice, very cheap hotel (2 pounds).

That evening I walked out of a restaurant when as I walked in pretty much everyone stopped talking to stare at me, and the waitress looked at me in the manner of a dog pleading not to be shot. I was tired.

The landscape the next day reminded me of the south west of France, complete with snowy mountains in the background. The mornings are very cold, but the lunchtime heat is still shirtsleeves weather. There are carts everywhere with maize stalks and chaff, and every possible space is given to drying the maize: gardens, streets, rooves. I stayed in a little town called Yuanshanzi for RMB 10 which is about 90p - the least I have ever paid for a room anywhere in the world! Perfectly acceptable and they even give you a thermos of hot water.

The night of the 22nd was spent in Zhongye, a large town where I found a decentish hotel. I bought some dragon fruit to snack on, very nice. The following day was perfect weather, and I should have made good grouynd, but I only made 66km and stopped in Shandan due to tyre problems. I started to follow the Great Wall which snakes in and out of the railway tracks. No one really pays attention to it- in some places it is gone totally, in others it is quite significant. After while I found a grotty little guesthouse, which was cheap so I accepted a room. These two revolting men who seemed to run the place then came in, and one of them brushed the dirty bed sheets with his hand in front of me to try to make them clean. The other guy had chronically nicotine stained teeth and a large boget hanging from one nostril, which he wiped off and flicked somewhere in the room. They then sat on the bed and tried to explain something in Chinese. Another frustrating thing is that if you don't understand what they are saying, they are convinced you will understand it if they write it down for you...in Chinese characters. I was getting pretty cross and indicated that I didn't understand and that I wanted to be left alone. The bogey guy then made an obscene gesture with his hands to indicate sex, and I realised they were pimps who wanted to know if I required any "services". I said no, and told them to leave, but they wouldn't go, and 3 minutes later he made a different gesture. At this point I was livid with rage, picked up all my things, and demanded my money back, which he reluctantly gave me. The last place I want to stay is a brothel with dirty sheets! Luckily I found quite a nice place nearby that I can't believe I had missed before. There was a power cut for much of the evening, and they provided candles.

The following day, having been woken up by the Peking Opera music blasted into the streets before 7am, I cycled up and down a huge hill to Yongdong. The Great Wall followed me all day, firstly on my right, and then the road cut through a narrow gap in it (I do hope they didn't make the gap.) It is mud-brick, and the little gaps in it make it look a bit like cartoon teeth. Being mud, it is the same colour as the landscape so I would be very surprised indeed if you can see it from space, even with a really really good telescope. There are the remains of watchtowers every few hundred yards, and huge forts lie unceremoniously derelict. The landscape was a little deserty, but I suppose it couldn't have been true desert as there were many sheep and shepherds going about their daily lives around it, paying no attention to this world famous relic!

Next day, the 25th October, I continued to plod on, enjoying the beautiful autumn weather, and watching the locals at their back-breaking agricultural work. The pit loo in the little guesthouse that evening was guarded by one of the biggest and meanest spiders I have ever seen. I just can't get used to the public nature of these loos. When I went in the following morning there was a chap in there chatting away on a very high tech phone whilst squatting. You often see people squatting by the side of the road- it is necessary to watch where you cycle!

I cycled up a 3000 metre mountain pass that afternoon, and there was lovely snow-kissed scenery at the top. Buddhist buildings have started marking the landscape which is both beautiful and adds more satisfaction at having made it into the buddhist world. I had noticed people transporting as many as three live sheep on the back of a motorbike, and also bikes with panniers made especially to carry chickens! I had to cycle a little into the dark that evening, which I usually will do anything to avoid, but before long I found a little guesthouse in a town and a very nice won ton soup.

The Chinese National Anthem blasted into the streets rose me the following morning, and I enjoyed a long downhill stretch. I had been cycling down the motorway (EASILY the safest option) and someone helped me lift it over the fence for lunch and back onto the motorway again after lunch. I enjoyed boiled vegetables (the ones where you choose which veg you want to eat on little sticks and they cook it for you) and steamed buns while seemingly the entire population of the local school took it in turns to peer at me through the doorway, and come and have little chats. I didn't mind at all- sometimes I imagine foreigners NEVER come to these parts, and they were very friendly. The towns however are incredibly modern with high rise buildings, modern-seeming shops and wide, if quiet, streets.

That night, I got caught out by the dark, so I climbed out of the motorway and asked in a little village where I could camp. Although the chinese are incredibly kind and helpful in general, they do not seem willing to help much when it comes to this sort of thing. In central asia, I would have been invited into a home to camp in the garden, or, much more likely, to be an honoured guest in the home. In this little village the people wanted nothing to do with me. I really don't mind this: they owe me nothing and I owe them nothing. I am self sufficient, and I was only asking where I could camp our of courtesy. I wandered off and found a quiet spot in an orchard. I took a couple of nice juicy pears from one of the leafless trees as the harvest had already happened it seemed, and the remaining few fruit it seemed were left there to rot.

I had camped only 40km from Lanzhou, the capital of Gansu and my plan was to spend one night there before bashing on towards Xian the next morning. I was not expecting the Hong Kong style metropolis that Lanzhou is with green buddhist temple-crowned mountains close-in, a large river and hundreds of gleaming high rise buildings. I settled into the first hotel I found at an acceptable price that took foreigners and planned to do nothing other than write this blog for the rest of the day.

After lunch there was a knock on the door. This was not the police, nor an angry chambermaid about to bust me for washing my clothes in the sink. There, somewhere under a hevy mop of hair and a shaggy beard, much like mine, stood Charles Lamb, an old Oundlian fives player with a passion for eating well. He was dressed in clothes very similar to mine (blue tracksuit bottoms and a red fleece) and the staff had thought he was me, and tried to let him in my room. He also has the same bike as me, minus the Rohloff Speedhub. It was a boon to meet another British man having not held a proper conversation with anyone other than my family on the phone for a while. Rather co-incidentally, he had been cycling for a long time with a girl I met on a boat to Bilbao in Spain last November! After a bottle of 1994 Chinese red, we decided to cycle together for a bit, although in retrospect, he has been cycling for a long time with these guys at the speed of light (150 to 200km a day compared to my 90 to 120) so we only ended up cycling together for a few days. I have no intention of ruining my enjoyment of the cycling (and cycling here really is enjoyable) by busting a gut to stay up in the fast lane.

The following day I decided to stay in Lanzhou all day while Charles went to see some buddhist caves and I spent all day writing the bulk of this masterpiece. That evening, by another co-incidence we met a friendly anglophone chinese man that Charles had met at the caves when we headed into the centre for food. He very kindly treated us to some local muslim grub- a very nice cooked pear, some delicious sweet cold wheat soup, and a foul sweet bean soup that we both just managed to finish out of politeness. He then insisted on taking us out for some beers, which was very kind of him too. In China, beer is drunk out of little shot glasses which are constantly refilled. It was very late by the time we went to bed! He talked a lot about politics, and was a little like a prophet for the Communist party. "It is great here- progress is so fast. In UK it takes decades to build a road, but here we have communism, we just move people...There are some crazy people in Tibet and Xinjiang who do not want to be part of China..."

The next day we left very late having had breakfast in a 4* hotel -a great wheeze- and done a few chores. While Charles was in a shop I observed a man having his shoes shined. The woman took a lot of care over the job- dilligently rolled up his trousers and carefully placed pieces of paper to protect his socks from the polish. At the end, after she had carefully rolled down the trousers and taken out the bits of paper, he never looked her in the face, or said anything to her- he just gave her the money (RMB 3 - 27p) whilst chatting on his phone, and walked off. This appears to be the norm- they don't say thankyou in a commercial transaction, and explains why they are always a little flabbergasted when we do. I have actually stopped using the Chinese word "Xie Xie" in such circumstances, and have started saying "thankyou" instead which causes less surprise.

That evening we found a nice little hotel in a little town, and it was good to have someone to split the already cheap bill with. These little towns are being rebuilt by the central planners. It is plain to see that people are being turfed out of their little traditional chinese houses (which have chinese-style rooves and little ornaments on them) by way of "progress" in the form of blocks of flats. Charles made the comparison with Britain in the 1960s, and that they don't seem to be learning from our mistakes! You can see the diggers at work, and the next street earmarked for the wrecking-ball. The building work goes into the night. As we wandered early in the following morning in the Hunt for Breakfast, they were busy laying the marble in the new town square. This would have been a clutch of little houses very recently.

Poor Charles was startled when I speepwalked in the middle of the night - I thought some chinese guy had come and moved into the room! I shouted "WHAT'S GOING ON?!" at which point he woke me up and all was well! Early the next morning, at about 8am there were people classically dancing in the main square, as well as performing aerobics, and funny dance exercises involving badminton raquets and shuttlecocks. Most of these people are elderly, and I have since seen government advice for the elderly that to do this too early in the morning on cold days may be bad for their health!

For three days, the mountain scenery was made even more dramatic by the presence of terraces going from the valleys right up to the summits. The terraces themselves were either ploughed terra-cotta in colour or as bright as Augusta golf greens- surprising considering the scarcity of rain in the area. The views were truly breathtaking, especially when the panorama opened up down the valley.

The next day, as I was fixing a puncture on the side of the road, Susie Wheeldon and her pal Jamie -the people Charles had been cycling with- flashed past and I hailed them down for a chat. I hadn't seen Susie since that boat to Bilbao from Portsmouth (last year I made this trip and cycled back to test out my bike, stopping with friends at Sauveterre on the way back and demolish as much foie gras as politely possible.) It was great to see her again, and to meet Jamie, who (I hope he doesn't mind my saying this) has a touch of Johnny Vaughan about him.

They all warped on, leaving me to take things at my preferred pace, whilst enjoying the scenery. They found a 4* hotel in Tianshui which if shared with another person only costs a tenner. We sat there for a good hour the next day munching away at the all-you-can-eat buffet which had a man pulling fresh beef noodles, the traditional chinese breakfast favourite. I decided to part company from the peloton and make my way towards Xian while they took a day off to inspect the Majishan Grottoes.

I plumped for the small road rather than the motorway as I thought I may want to stop earlier and there are always more towns on the little roads. I thought I was terribly clever following the chinese characters for Xian and Baoji, and enjoing the villages I was passing. Grain was being dried on the verges on the road; they even put it on the tarmac itself so it was necessary to take care to avoid running over it. There was a lot of climbing involved, up into the green hills/mountains. These were very steep as they crowded round the road, much like sandcastles made with a bucket and spade.

I was irritated when I arrived at a police roadblock and told that this was a dead end at about 3pm. After a bit of non-linguistic communication, it turned out that I had taken completely the wrong road and I had in fact cycled up to the Majishan Grottoes. 5 minutes later, Charles, Susie and Jamie turned up in a 3 wheeled taxi. I decided to call the cycling a day, and joined them in the grottoes. It was a good mistake to have made because the grottoes -caves with buddha statues on a sheer cliff face, made accessible by artificial platforms and metal staircases- were very special indeed. The sight of the largest 15 metre buddha statues carved into the side of the cliff against the blue sky and the green mountains was quintessentially chinese.

I found a little, extremely cold guesthouse near the grottoes that also gave me some supper. I have started usinfg my water bladder as a hot water bottle from the thermos of hot water you always get in these establishments, and it worked very well indeed. After finding breakfast in the street of plain doughnuts and glutinous spicy noodles from some delighted ladies the next day, I tried to find the through road, heading in the right direction. The terrain reminded me of the north coast of Turkey, the hilliest place I have cycled so far. I passed quaint little villages, all decked out in red chinese lanterns (no doubt left over from the holiday a month ago) as we would use bunting. Then the road passed under the motorway and I realised I was totally lost, and needed help. I asked some workmen for the right way to Baoji, and they pointed me down a disused dirt road, steep downhill and through a tunnel. I took their advice, and 5km later when I saw the motorway again I realised I was going perfectly the wrong way.

The only way of getting back on track would be somehow to get onto the motorway, which was going to be difficult as in this section it is usually either high bridges or tunnels. I spotted a banked section, and climbed the bike up the steep bank, removed the panniers, and carefully passed them through a hole in the barbed wire. After a lot of struggling, and a lot of swearing, I was moving in the right direction (having crossed the central reservation -the motorway was largely EMPTY) After I emerged from the first long tunnel, The air had taken a sharp, damp coolness that instantly reminded me of Belguim back in March. Much of the rest of the day was spent in large, well-lit tunnels. I would rather cycle in the open air, but being in a tunnel means that I have not had to cycle over the top of the hill!

As I approached what would be the last tunnel of the day, I was hailed down by the police. Oh No! They explained that the road was very dangerous; I explained (without lying) that in my entire trip across Eurasia this was the safest road I had been on. China is funny. They think that the highway is dangerous because in the west we think it is dangerous, and they are keen to have western values but do not make any allowances for the fact in the west we actually have something called "traffic"- a noun alien to the Chinese highway.

They wanted to shove me and my bike into a police van and drive me through, but when I explained (again, without lying) that I had cycled every inch of land between here and china, they went off and held a discussion. This was positive. They announced that they would let me cycle through the tunnel, in front of a police car with flashing lights. So off I went, pedalling as hard as I could into the tunnel, with had a "continuous downgrade" as the chinese signs say, allowing me to be very speedy at about 35 kph. The police escort was made even more ridiculous by the fact that half of the tunnel was cordened off for pithy roadworks, and this was where I cycled, and would have cycled- reducing the danger factor to 0.0001. The tunnel went on and on and on. At an approptriate place, a layby, I pulled over assuming the police car would want to pull over to let the angry motorists who were bottled in behind carry on with their lives. They were having none of it, and told me to carry on, for heaven's sake! The tunnel kept going- on and on. When I thought we were nearing the end, it turned out to be simply a white coloured paint that was slapped on every few kilometers to wake everybody up. When the motorists started angrily hooting their horns, the policemen would silence them with an angry message through the loudspeaker. It was like the announcements silencing the growing murmours in the Sistine Chapel.

When we eventually got through the tunnel, which turned out to be 12km long, big handshakes all round, and they insisted on carrying on the escort until I was on the right road, despite a fifteen foot hard shoulder and no traffic. They were very concerned that I should take a few sips of water before carrying on. The scenery was lovely and I should have liked to have stopped to take a few photos, but alas this would have given rise to a lot of moaning. At the first exit, I asked them if I should leave the motorway, but they said no! Very kindly, they let me continue until the town called Fujiatan on my English map, but in actual fact is something else entirely and I have forgotten. They took me to a hotel, and helped me navigate the sea accommodation woes (en suite, not ensuite, inspect the rooms....) before finally a cheery farewell. The hotel menu had photographs, which meant I didn't have to play gastronomic roulette, and I managed a nice belly pork dish with egg fried rice.

The next morning, after fixing an inner tube and devouring a curious breakfast of fried eggs, sweet egg soup, salty vegetables and a mountain of fried bread, I left Gansu province and entered Shaanxi province where it seems, the police are more keen to keep cyclists off the motorway. They man the entry roads. This is irritating because while the motorway tunnels are lit perfectly, the common variety ones are not. This doesn't mean I am going to get hit by a car because I am lit up like a Christmas Tree, and you can hear all the cars coming well in advance, allowing a leisurely migration to the pavement. It is however much, much slower. Big irritation.

I arrived in Baoji last night hoping to renew my visa here, which must be done before the weekend. The last visa extension in Turpan took overnight, and I know that small towns are easier than large ones like Xian, which take 5 days to process. The rules are not uniform however, and when I eventually found the PSB (Public Security Bureau- similar to Bergerac Jersey's fabled Bureau des Etrangers) they told me, by way of a phone call to a university lecturer who spoke English (no doubt a friend of one of the pretty girls who worked there) that in Baoji this would take 7 days.

I found lodgings for a tenner- for another tenner I could have wallowed in 4* luxury in the hotel opposite. In Chinese hotels you often get unusual phone calls from someone who doesn't speak English. I was unusually friendly to the one last night, and chatted in English for a few seconds to whoever it was before putting the phone down. A few minutes later there was a ginger knock on the door, and in the corridor stood 2 girls who seemed far too beautiful and well dressed to be prostitutes. It can seem a shame to have morals sometimes.

I made it over to the 4* joint there for quite simply the best breakfast I have ever had in my life (excepting, of course my mother's one.) For less than GBP 2.50 there was an all you can eat buffet with all sorts of fruit, sweets, chinese funny things, hot milky coffee, eggs, bacon (!!!), toast and jam (!!) all sorts of things from portion sized steamers, a selection of soups and porridges...my description is hugely wanting in delivering the true splendour of the occasion. You sit down on enormous round tables with whoever is there and in the full hour that I dedicated to stuffing my face, the company changed twice.

I have opted to train to Xian, 200km away to start the 5 day renewal process, and come back here tomorrow to continue cycling. I appear to have charmed the hotel staff who are letting me leave my bike here. There was a train ticket booth conveniently next door to the hotel, and I purchased a ticket to Xian for this afternoon by way, again, of a telephone to an English speaking colleague. It is good of them to do that. Unfortunately the morning trains were all booked out so I am off at 4pm. The terracotta army will have to wait.

I have had an email from Noel, the American chap I met in Osh. Apparently he is a few days behind me, and we may combine efforts from Xian. He cycles at normal speed, it seems.

I am about 2 thirds of the way through China, and I have cycled more than 15,200km since that cold morning at Buckingham Palace. The plan is to get to Hong Kong before Christmas. If anyone fancies a chat, my Chinese number is 15293752474. The adventure continues!

Many thanks to Jam Pot for uploading this for me.

THE PAMIR HIGHWAY (Khorog to Sary Tash)

2009-09-12T20:55:00.000-07:00

I have taken a short side trip to Osh, Kyrgyzstan because the Chinese border is closed at the weekend and as I am not Moses, I don't really fancy spending two or three days up a mountain. This is good becauase it allows me to check my emails for one last time before heading into Xinjiang Province, which hashad its internet and international phone connections unplugged by the Chinese Government.

As usual, I left Khorog rather late on the 2nd of September- after a large breakfast of Manti (Central Asian Dumplings), sweet blinis and cake at the daily breakfast "bar" in the bazaar. I then fixed a few things on my bike, and by the time I left, it was 1 pm. On the way out of Khorog, I stopped in a shop and bought an expensive Cadbury Caramel ice cream. The wrapper read "Have you visited Cadbury's World?" and gave an 0800 number for customer services. The ice cream inside was however exactly the same as every other plain vanilla ice cream wafer sandwich in Central Asia. I should have known better.

On the entrance of the Pamir Highway there was some great CCCP artwork with many hammers and sickles commemorating anniversaries of the founding of the superpower, in what is now a very poor and very insignificant part of a very poor and very insignificant country.

The road gently and steadily climbed and climbed so I made slow progress- made even slower by the little dangling temptations on the mulberry trees that lined the road like a Napoleonic awning. Another flat tyre was also very frustrating. I camped behind some rocks some way back from the road, and the view of the mountains from the tent was stunning. They seemed to be crowding round my tent like women round a baby's pram, and most of them were white with snow. I heard some strange explosions that night, not really sure what they were. Most likely they were power lines frazzling- I had seen this in Khorog.

The following morning I made the most revoltin breakfast of pasta with what I thought was Borsch mix, but actually turned out to only be borsch herbs and salts. I supplemented this by honey, bread and tea in a teahouse. As usual, the teahouse staff couldn't add up the bill.

I managed 73km uphill on the second day, and it became noticably colder. My thermals were brought out of hibernation- they have not been used since the Italian Alps. The mountain scenery never diminished in impressiveness. At the end of the day, I asked at a farmer's house whether I could camp. They immediately invited me inside, but due to the abundance of children, I decided to camp in their garden. They gave me a lovely supper of macaroni mixed with potatoes, creamy milk to dip bread into, and some rather disgusting yoghurt. There was a television, and the only channel in English was a Christian channel with a shiverring American preacher.

The following morning, I was again invited in and treated to the same menu, and they were particularly keen that I inspected thair house, a classic Pamiri design. Having fixed another puncture, I was again on my way. I noted that the crops up there were still green while down lower the harvest was well underway.

I was disappointed that in a little town called Jelandy, the shop that I had been hoplding out for sold little more than wafer biscuits and condensed milk. I am not sure whether the chap was joking or not when he said "Good shop, isn't it?"

My four skin hat became useful toward the end of the day, as it became bitterly cold, and I fastened the ribbons under my chin. As I was approaching the Koi-Tezek pass (about 4,200 metres), I was invited in by a farmer and his wife who were on their way to tend to their herd. I was given smitan (like smoked clotted cream- delicious, but awful for the stomach) and bread for both supper and breakfast. Breakfast also included milky, salty tea. Old oil cans were used for flower pots, and there was a large bucket next to the stove which functioned as a spitoon. This family were extremely poor, and they had very little indeed. Not even a loo (although when I had asked at the previous place, I had been told to go wherever I like!). They felt the cold, which I wouldn't expect for a family who live on the roof of the world. One could sense that there was a lot of love in the house, but their faces portrayed the monotonous and tough life they lead day in day out. I was very grateful for a warm bed in a warm house, because it was snowing outside.

4km remained the following morning until the pass, and I was really not used to cycling at such high altitude. I managed 300m or so at a time, before hunching over the handlebars, gasping for breath. The snow on the road had largely melted, but the pamiri thistles were still bristling white.

Usually after a mountain pass, you have a long and glorious downhill, but not so this time. This was the start of the Pamir Plateau, a moon-like high altitude desert that would largely last until Kyrgyzstan. The scenery was no less impressive, but was more akin to moorland than white alpine mountains, although these were also visible in the distance. It was always bitterly cold.

I failed to find a turn-off for some hot springs, but I wasn't too concerned due to the cold. I didn't fancy drying off in the freezing cold and tramping back to a tent. I found a B&B in Alichur with a Kyrgyz family, where I was given a bed, and mutton soup for supper and breakfast. Having explained to me that he neither eats not drinks during daylight in Ramadan, the family sat down to their morning soup with the sun blaring through the windows into their eyes. They did however seem to be praying at any spare moment of the day- surely more often than the 5 times required by Sunni faith. The man was a stalking guide for enormous Marco Polo sheep and Ibex, and he proudly showed me photos of the kills of wealthy American clients. He earns $50 a day for doing the work, an enormous amount of money.

The following day, the desert gave way to a huge plain of high pasture punctuated by yurts and grazed by yaks. Under deep blue sunshine, the day's cycling was an absolute pleasure, with following winds and a largely slightly downhill descent to Murgab. The pasture continued right up until Murgab, whose plain had a snakey blue river weaving through it.

As I was cooking some lentils and tuna for supper, content as could be, a car stopped and two guys got out. The first guy relieved himself right in front of where I was cooking. They were friendly and tried to be helpful, but were excrutiatingly annoying. They couldn't believe I didn't want a lift. No, I can open my tuna tin, thank you! No you can't ride my bike! No I don't want vodka shots, thank you (at 4000m+, cycling) No, I don't want to swap sunglasses. He was very confused when he dipped some bread in my lentil cooking water and ate it. He looked at me as if I were a culinary caveman. Thankfully they eventually left me alone after a short while. It is difficult to be friendly to everyone.

Murgab looked like an anchorage when I was approaching- all the little white houses are detached, and there are telegraph poles here and there. It certainly has a wild west feel to it. The only electricity in my room came from a solar panel on the roof. To turn off the light it was necessary to unplug the bulb. The family were however very friendly, and the daughter was very pretty, despite her gold teeth. It was possible to see the smooth 7546m Chinese peak of Muztagh Ata from the guesthouse. The food was great, although I wan't feeling too well on the first night, and couldn't manage much. For this reason I took a day of rest in Murgab, with the company of Phil, a French Londoner who has a particular passion for photography. He invited me round for lunch at his guesthouse- how civilised! The bazaar stalls in Murgab are made from refurbished shipping containers- with holes cut into them in convenient places. The streets are dirt, and the town is dusty. It is not a hugely charming place, and it was good to eventually leave.

The road from Murgab follows the Chinese border, and the barbed wire fence into no mans land at times comes within feet of the road. I was heading towards the Ak Baital pass, at 4,655m the highest of the journey. Poor roads uphill and adverse wind meant I didn't reach the pass that evening, and camped at about 4,200m. It was bitterly cold and I slept with all my clothes on, including my down jacket. When I woke up in the morning, my water bottle had frozen inside the tent.

I was enjoying tea in a Kyrgyz home nearing the pass when in walked Joris, another Dutch cyclist, and a fellow accountant. He works with the Tajik finance department, and was shocked to find that the staff there do not know how to use excel, and that the use of pirate software (with viruses) is rife. We cycled together for the rest of the day, but as he is much lighter, he was much faster. The pass was very satisfying, and very windy and cold!

Still following the chinese border fence, we reached lake Karakol, Central Asia's highest lake where we stayed in a B&B. It was interesting to note numerous holes in the border fence, and it was sorely tempting to hop over and not take the long and legal route round to the official entry point in Kyrgyzstan.

The lake itself was deep blue in the centre, with turquoise round the edges, a crust of salt round the edge (it is salty) and bright green grass supporting tethered donkeys on the banks. White mountains surround the lake in all directions.

The town of Karakul itself was like Murgab without the charm (!), not that Murgab has any charm. The streets are littered with debris, and the rocky area near the lake, with the already decomposed bodies of animals that no one ever bothered to clear away. All that remained was skeleton, horns, and wool in surprisingly good condition. It seemed like a scene after the apocalypse.

The following day, Joris headed off fast, and I was alone again. There were two 4200m passes between me and Sary Tash, the first town of Kyrgyzstan. The first pass was straightforward, however the route up to the second pass was marred by nosewinds. Many of the mountains were now terracotta and white, very spectacular. Some friendly retired Germans, on a 5 year campervan trip round Asia stopped and gave me an apple and some choclate. This was much appreciated! Some Ipod support got me up to the international pass (I tried to imagine I was dancing the Dashing White Sargeant, and tried to kick hard on the pedals when you are supposed to stamp, but the energy levels just weren't there).

The customs office was a dirty portakabin full of cigarette smoke, and they were not interested in my customs declaration form (on the other side of the form, it was clear that the form had previously been literature for a mobile phone company). Onto immigration, who were much more interested in riding my bike than checking my passport. One of the young ones proudly wore a hammer and sickle belt buckle as part of his uniform- probably inherited.

Over the pass, and into Kyrgyzstan, country 21 on my bike ride. No man's land was about 15 km long, and I was offered to stay with families' B&Bs before the border checkpoint. I wanted to reach Sary Tash, so I pushed on. The tripartite border clearance of Immigration, Drug Control, and Customs seemed pretty pointless as none did anything other than glance at my passport.

With failing light, I eventually reached Sary Tash. I asked someone where there was a guesthouse, and he said not to worry, I could stay with him. Used to hospitality like this in every country I have visited yet on this trip, I thankfully accepted. I chatted away to the teenage sisters, and slept very well. The next morning, they seemed less friendly, and demanded money. When I gave them a fair amount of money, they complained and so I gave them a little more, and they kept pestering me. I then saw a friendly German guy who assured me that what I had given them was WAY more than the fair price and I ignored them.

This is the way Kyrgyzstan works: money, money, money. There is none of the generous hospitality of the other countries I have been to- you are expected to pay for everything. I am glad I am only spending a few days here, even though the scenery is stunning, with green pastures and soaring snowy mountains. As I said, the border is closed Saturday and Sunday, so having left my bike at the B&B where I will spend tonight in Sary Tash (again, this costs money), I argued a fair price and got a lift to Osh. People in Osh are pretty rude, and this is the first city I have been to on the trip where you genuinely have to be careful, but it is great to have some modern comforts such as an indoor loo and some shops and restaurants.

I have met some other cyclists who are going the same way, including an American chap, Noel from Wisconsin. Hopefully we will meet up in Kashgar to cycle further. I am hoping to see Tom in Kashgar, but I will be far behind him now with this weekend border closure so I don't know if he will still be there.

In Xinjiang I think it will be impossible to post blogs, but in the rest of China I will do so by means of a nominated administrator who will upload my mumblings. Jam Pot has volunteered.

Right, I now have to find a lift back to Sary Tash to be reunited with my bike. Farewell, internet!

Dushanbe to Khorog

2009-08-31T23:45:00.000-07:00

The rumour mill seemed to suggest that the route from Dushanbe to Khorog, the town att the start of the Pamir Highway, would be a simple and straightforward journey. This is proof the rumour is not always the best source of information, although in this part of the world, it is usually the only thing to go by.

As usual, I left Dushanbe late on the 22nd August, after the last minute errands I wanted to do before leaving town. I met a rather friendly 23 year old girl who helped me buy rehydration salts (of all things) in a pharmacy. I tried to explain to her that they were for my supplies "just in case" but she didn't understand. She was very keen to take my phone number to practice her English, which I thought was rather odd since she is married with a child. She never rang!

The first day was well paved, and I found a teahouse that allowed me to sleep as well as have supper and breakfast for less than $3. This had been the first day of Ramadan, and people tutted "ramadan, ramadan" as I sipped an ice tea in the street. Ramadan unfortunately means that a lot, but not all, of the teahouses I rely on for sustinence are closed.

The following evening I saw a cowboy riding with no saddle, herding his large flock of horses down the road. A few moments later, I ran into some friendly Irish Mongol Ralliers, and we decided to camp together by the river. They had had an interesting trip, having already been to Syria, Iraq and Iran in their car. One of them was a bicycle mechanic and he kindly gave my bike a once over and tightened a few screws. He also gave me some useful bike tools and a pair of long finger gloves.

They cooked me a great supper of pasta and sardines- just what I needed as I really couldn't be bothered to cook. After I left them the following day, there was the amusing sight of both of them pushing the car down the hill that led to the rickety bridge, and jumping in just in time to turn the ignition.

The road by this stage had been awful for a long time, with no tarmac, but stones, boulders, and potholes in spades. The most irritating thing about such an awful road, in combination with hilly terrain is that you go up the hills slowly, and then instead of whooshing down the other side, you go down at the same speed you went up. This reduced my daily kilometer total to less than 50km, when I usually like to count on 100 to 120.

The following day at about lunchtime I stopped in a teahouse that was obviously closed, but desperate for something to eat, I went round the back and hunted for someone who could perhaps help me. They told me they were closed, but gave me an enormous loaf of flat "non" bread and four big tomatoes for which they would accept no payment.

I followed the rotten road down into a valley where there was the wildest ford I have ever seen. The cars, minibuses, tankers, lorries and -well- bibycles were forced to cross a proper flowing river and go straight up a very steep hill of mud and stones on the other side. After letting out a sigh and a groan, and having given a little banter to the assembled children, I took off my shoes and socks, tied them together in a bow so they would sit on my bike frame, and walked my bike through the fast flowing freezing water. A lorry had broken down in the shallowest part of the river which was very irritating. Passengers in minibuses were forced to get out and push on the other side, and I was treated to the amusing sight of a dozen people trying to push an oil tanker uphill.

That evening I was a little caught out by the fact that it now gets dark at about 7.30pm, and I arrived in a village just as darkness was falling. Children shreaked with excitement from seemingly every house gate- highly irritating as I was trying to keep a low profile. Two children started to follow me, and out of irritation I slammed on my brakes and asked them where they were going. I then felt a little guilty as one of them then said he knew where I could stay. After a long and confusing circle of the residential area, where women ignored me when I tried to strike up conversation ("Izvinitye pajalsta...")I was led to the police station. I asked in my best Russian if they knew where I could sleep in my tent, and the old officer made a call on his mobile. With the gesture of a host in a private house, I was then invited into the police station where I was given tea, soup, bread, plov (the national dish) and watermelon. One of the policemen then took me back to his home where I was given a bed for the night. So much for the reports of corrupt and nasty soviet police!

I found an open teahouse the following morning where I received a delicious goulash and the old guy played the usual game of putting things in front of me that I had not ordered. This time, I was delighted to receive a large bowl of honey, and a "non" bread. I met a Pamiri man in the teahouse who is a driver in Dushanbe, and who lamented the demise of the USSR. "USSR was good country- people had to worry about nothing. If you needed clothes, you had clothes. Now, we have to buy things from China, and they brake immediately." There are an extraordinary amount of people here who wear tops with USSR or CCCP emblazoned on the back, and the statue of Lenin still holds pride of place in many towns.

I felt very tired later that day, and a call from Jam Pot raised my spirits. It was great to hear about what my friends have been up to over the last few months. Very sorry to hear that Patrick has had a bad fall from his horse, but hope he is on tip top form despite.

That evening, I made my way up towards the khaburahot pass, and camped by a mountain stream in a place that could have been created just for me, out of sight from the road. The stars that evening were extremely special. I broke my fast the following morning with honey, bread, and lapsang souchong, and headed further up the mountain. En route to the pass, I met many workers who were harvesting, all armed with scythes. The weather was hot, but the water from the mountain springs was cold. I would have to put in a further 22km of pure uphill to reach the pass (having done about 5km the previous evening) The first 18 km of this seemed easy; I was strong and the road seemed to disappear behind me with surprising ease. I spotted what I thought was the pass in the distance, however when I reached this, and there was another valley to cycle round (and then another, and then another) my strength was not what it had been.

At the top, the snow lay on the dark mountainside in smooth spots, like the markings of a killer whale. The guards at the top were not a barrel of laughs and "joked" that a photo next to the 3252m sign would cost $100.

Just as I was thinking how lucky I had been not to get a puncture, I felt the now familiar sensation of my back wheel becoming more bouncy, and realised I had a flat. With low energy, I found the most idyllic place to rest, with green grass next to a mountain stream, and I drank my emergency can of red bull. I was pretty tired. As the rubber glue was drying, I made myself some rice pudding. Another puncture was then found, and in turn was mended.

Ten minutes after I had set off again, the rear tyre was again flat, and the patch had leaked. It was on the inside, and did not have the tyre wall to lean against- making it particularly prone to leak. I peeled off the patch and applied another one.

Five minutes after having set off again, I felt what I thought was another flat and, spitting blood, I removed my panniers and inspected the inner tube. Nothing. I put it back on and reloaded the bike. By this stage, light was a precious commodity.

The decent from the mountain to the river at the bottom was spectacular, with soaring cliff faces rather than distant views. A police registration checkpoint infuriated me by wasting my time for five minutes, writing down the details of my passport. "TAJIKISTAN VERY GOOD"

I made it that evening to Kalaikhum, the first Pamiri town, although I didn't realise it at the time. There was a pleasant homestay, with a nice supper, although the children didn't bother even aiming for the loo hole, and went in the corner of the room. I was later informed that, out of the 5 Pamiri languages, (people in the Pamirs are Pamiri rather than Tajik), Kalaikhum has its own language. Lenin still stands proud in the centre of town.

The following morning, I reached the panj river, the frontier between Tajikistan and Afghanistan. The road would follow this river for the next three days en route to Khorog. In places the river was so narrow that you could hear Afghan ladies as they washed their clothes, and Afghan donkeys echoed out along the valley. On a couple of occasions, I heard some cheers, and when I looked up I realised it was a load of friendly Afghans who were waving.

Afghan villages had flat rooved mud brick houses, and astonishingly most had satellite dishes. I never saw a vehicle of any descripton on the Afghan side of the river, save a load of donkeys and one bicycle. It was entrancing to watch Afghans go about their daily lives on the other side of the river- carrying their shopping, driving their cattle, smacking their donkeys with sticks. In many places, Afghan children would swim in the river, in sheltered parts where the flow of the river was diverted.

All of this took place to a backdrop of snowcapped peaks on either side. The quality of the road in the valley was comparitively very good, which meant I could enjoy the views without having to worry too much about the road.

On my first night in the Panj valley, I was thwarted by a closed teahouse, but I was invited by Alexi, who runs a business selling fuel from a tanker on the side of the road to spend the night on his rickety spring bed next to his tanker. He prefers to sleep inside the cabin. He only has one leg due to a car crash a year ago, and hobbles about on old fashioned crutches. In Europe he would have been given a prosthetic leg. He studied Business at University, and makes a good living selling petrol. He is 27, but looks 37- most people in this part of the world look well older than their years. Interestingly, his brother serves for the Russian, rather than the Tajik, military.

I was woken by early morning customers, and the smell of diesel being poured into a bucket- the method used for each customer.

Another puncture that afternoon, and another audience who very kindly provided some dried mulberries as I fixed my innertube. I asked in a village where I could pitch my tent, and was immediately invited in, and given tea and supper. The whole extended family came round, including a niece who studies English at the University og Khorog. She was amazed that I don't have blue eyes- "Doesn't everyone in England have blue eyes?" They told me not to use my tent, and gave me a bed inside the house. They all get up at 6am to eat (Ramadan) and pray- and I felt rather lazy lying in until 6.30. I was given a milky noodle pudding for breakfast and ordered to stir in some butter. It wasn't bad, although I usually avoid such things like the plague. They took some fruit down off the apricot tree for me to snack on. I was sent on my way with a large bag of dried mulberries.

I was beckoned over by an old guy less than an hour after setting off, and plied with more apricots, the sweetest I have ever tasted. At midday, as I was getting something out of a pannier, I was approached by a Pamiri girl, and invited into the home for tea. There was a spread of biscuits, watermelon and butter mixed with sugar. Just as I was about to leave, a massive plate of plov made with noodles, and a salad arrived which I was ordered to eat. She spoke good English, but none of the rest of the family did. She is about to start an accountancy course at the University of Dushanbe. The garden was dripping with fruit, and all hands were on deck peeling them, presumably to make preserves.

It was breathtaking to have received so much kindness in one day from so many different people.

I arrived at Khorog just as darkness fell, and had an awful time trying to find Pamir Lodge, the place I am staying at. It was full of cyclists, including Tom and Blaise- so it was good to speak some English with English speakers for once!

I have felt a little tired and under the weather in Khorog, so have decided to stay here for a few days to recharge my batteries before heading to the Pamir Highway. Khorog is framed by spectacular mountain views, but the most exciting thing is a restaurant which serves western dishes in western style! Central Asia has a choice of about 6 different dishes in total, so it is good to have a crispy chicken burger for once!

I will hopefully be heading for the Pamir Highway tomorrow, and then it will be about a week until I get to the Kyrgyz border...and another 2 or 3 days to the Chinese border! All reports state that the Chinese have pulled the plug on the internet and international calls in Xinjiang province where I will be for the first few weeks, but watch this space!

Bukhara, Samarkand, Dushanbe

2009-08-20T03:38:00.000-07:00

As I write this, I am sitting in Dushanbe, sipping a Coke made at Bagrami Industrial Estate, Kabul, Afghanistan. I am surprised the Coke has made it here with no bullet holes! It is the first time since my early childhood that I have had a Coke from a can where the top actually comes off, leaving a little triangle to drink through. Afghan Coke is much less fizzy than other Cokes. I digress.

The journed from Buchara to Samarkand should have been a straightforward two and a half or three day cycle through populated areas(hence easy, due to the abundance of shops and teahouses.)I didn't get going from Bukhara until about 4pm due to the need to sort out a few things before I left. I had found the bicycle bazaar that morning, which had the usual unfortunate choice between Russian or Chinese goods. Some of the inner tubes on sale read "Made in the USSR." I eventually found a decent enough looking Russian tyre, and bought it (having haggled the price down a little, I was then bought a Coke by the stall holder). I gave an old lady begger a minuscule amount of money at the stall (the stallholder had done the same thing) and she gave me the traditional Central Asian greeting of washing her face with imaginary water.

After some beautifully sweet melon, and having taken my B&B hosts' recipe for Plov, I set off into a glowing evening. I managed about 50km that day, further slowed down by a punctured tyre. I stopped at a large commercial teahouse and asked some assembled gentlemen if I could sleep there. Before long, I was sitting in front of a mountain of meat stew, a huge salad, some roasted apricot stones, a steaming pot of green tea, and the world's biggest sugar lumps that they insisted I put into my tea. I had the four kind Uzbek gents for company that night (one of whom owned the tea house, and would accept no payment). They gave me blankets, and showed me where I could sleep.

The following day I became a severe victim of, we shall say, "Travellers' Tummy Trouble" which is no fun at all when you are trying to cover some ground and there are absolutely no loos anywhere. Where there is a "loo" in central Asia, it is a pit with a hole in the floorboards. Flies and mosquitoes -the occasional wasp- enjoy life in these pits. I had to stop early, and I was very quickly invited into an Uzbek home by the kind father when I asked for directions to the "gostinitsa" (guest house.) There I was treated to a bath, which consisted of a sauna (not lit, thankfully!) with some buckets of water to pan over oneself- one of the buckets had been heated on the stove. They also gave me some soap to clean my clothes but I felt too awful to do it. There was a son of about 15, who liked volleyball and a little daughter of about 7, both of whom were very friendly. The language spoken at home was Russian rather than Uzbek, and the children go to a Russian school. The father was half Russian half Uzbek. With some shivers and a slight headache, I couldn't eat much of the lovely supper, but the fresh Apricot juice was delicious. I slept outside, under my mosquito net. When I went to get dressed in the morning I found that the mother had very kindly washed my filthy clothes for me.

The next day I felt much better, and managed a giant 130km, to within a spitting distance of Samarkand. I stayed in another teahouse where I shared a room with the cook, at no cost. Teahouses are rather annoying because they often bring you all sorts of things you didn't order, and then charge you for them. When you get a free bed out of it, it doesn't matter so much!

A mere 40km the following morning, and I was in Samarkand.

"We travel not for trafficking alone,
By hotter winds our fiery hearts are fanned.
For lust of knowing what should not be known
We take the Golden Road to Samarkand"

--James Elroy Flecker (as in my Lonely Planet Central Asia)

The town itself is an ordinary large bustly city, however the historical sites that peer above the haze there are simply awe-inspiring due to their enormous size, and the fact that they actually satisfy the romantic, exotic ideas implanted in our heads by lines as quoted above. The soaring height, the medressa arches, the domes and the intricate blue tiles are mesmerising, especially when you position yourself so that they are all you can see. If you get the chance to go there, take it up! It was particularly good to have seen Khiva and Bukhara beforehand, building up to the majesty of Samarkand.

On one morning, I woke up at 5am and tipped the policemen to let me climb the minaret on the Registan to watch the rising sun over the city, and the panoramic view. It was very worthwile- and this is the only time they will let you do it!

Samarkand afforded a superb hostel ($6), with free breakfast, tea and watermelon and $2 hearty dinners. It was like an oasis of relaxation, and many travellers recharge their batteries there for a few days.

I met some more British Mongol Ralliers who were taking a more leisurely route through Asia, and explored the town with them. They were a really great bunch of guys, and one of them, Felix, is a current student at St Cuthberts', Durham!

After I had recharged and drunk lots of green tea, and ice cream, (the little chap in the ice cream shop greeted me with great affection when he realised I had been back loads of times, each time with people from the hostel)I headed east towards the Tajik border.

When I got to the border, I cleverly hid the USD that I was carrying under the innersoles of my shoes in case a greedy customs officer were tempted to try to extract it from me. It was when I was filling out my Uzbek customs exit form that I realised I must have also hidden my customs enrty form and registration dockets in my innersoles with the cash! Oh NO!

I had been chatting jovially with one of the customs officers, who said initially, "Da, Bolshoi Problem!" (Yes, Big problem!) when I asked. Then he said it would only envolve a small "fine," then with a little bit more banter, they let me out of the country with no issues and no searches.

On the Tajik side, the kindly customs and immigration officer helped me fill out the Russian forms and welcomed me into his country. The hills of Tajikistan were immediately visible- very exciting. If in Uzbekistan, children seem to do everything that adults do- run shops, drive cattle, hassle customers, the children of Tajikistan are all riding donkeys or donkey carts.

The men nearly all wear tall skull caps, worn more like crowns, sitting up on the top of the head. The women wear long flowing dresses, with bright patterns or bright stripes. They also wear matching trousers under the dresses. With respect, they remind me a little of Wilma Flintstone! Headscarves are now very common, but they are simply tied around the back of the head, and do not cover the neck, or all of the hair. All women, with very few exceptions wear this uniform. I have observed families where the women and girls are in traditional garb but the men and boys are in western clothes.

My first night in Tajikistan was in Pendjikent, where I asked the first person I found where the guest house was. He refused to speak Russian to me, and insisted on speaking German which was highly irritating. All he said in English was "I am a student of Leningrad University" which was highly irritating! He led me, even more annoyingly to the decrepit Hotel Intourist (I later found out that the guide book has rather a nice place in it). This place had no water in the en suite bathroom, meaning that guests have to use the pit outside. Despite this the filthy loo still dripped, producing a sea of water flooding the carpet.

The following day I managed to change money with a friendly well-to-do Tajik lady who needed dollars "for Dushanbe" and I had some breakfast of fresh bread and strawberry juice at the thriving market, the foothills in the background.

I was invited into people's homes three times that day, but unfortunately had to decline each invitation because I really wanted to make some progress. One chap was very old in a remote village, dressed highly traditionally, and spoke very good English. He was a retired English teacher. At one store I bought some cold water, and I was treated to a selection of Russian and Iranian biscuits. He also refused to allow me to pay for a couple of AA batteries.

The road was hilly and bad, making progress slow. The following day, I met some more British Mongol Ralliers who gave me some fresh water and purifying tablets. It was a real lift to see them as the weather was hot, and my motivation levels were sagging.

That day I ran into some seriously odd people. In one teahouse (I simply couldn't use the loo as the room and the vicinity were scattered with turds), I bought a big bottle of Coke, to find it poured out to the first punter who walked in without asking me! Enraged by the annoying child who wouldn't stop touching me and asking annoying questions, mainly about the value of my bike, and my casio watch, I picked up my Coke and moved to leave. Another guy said "Hey, I haven't had any Coke!" No one said thank you. They then pestered me to let them ride my bike, which I refused and sped away. That was in the town of Ayni, which still has a majestic statue of Lenin in the centre.

I stopped at another teahouse later that day. No coke. No Fanta. No food. No Juice. Only tea and nescafe and bread. And two children from hell who would not stop shouting at me with menaging grins. They were both filthy and had horribly eroded teeth. The staff (parents?) did nothing to make them go away, and later picked up my mobile phone and tried to use it even though I had expressly told them not to (I don't have much credit at all). They seemed to think the whole thing was hilarious.

After a severely tyring day, I found a teahouse that let me camp in the grounds. When I told them I didn't need help putting up my tent (it is truly a one man job, and is very fast when done as such), they sent a teenager o help anyway, and were rather surly when I sent him away. I then had to coach him through putting the thing up. When I pointed out to him he was about to step on a turd, he reached down, pcked it up and threw it away! I was in rather a grump at the end of the day- especially after the added "extras" I was charged for at the teahouse, such as sugar!

Next day, I headed up the Ansov pass. The road itself up the pass is new- thanks to the Chinese road workers who are toiling away on it. It is closed to
traffic, making it rather a pleasant,if tough 2000+ metre ascent. At the top was a tunnel, under construction, which was open to bicycles. The first 50 yards were terrifying because there was no light, and a lot of water flowing through it, but soon there were dim lights lighting the 5km way. I felt like Indiana Jones! On the other side, I was greeted with a breathtaking view of snowcapped summits and glaciers (It is AUGUST!), and deep green valleys. I really felt privileged to be there, especially since that particular place is out of bounds to most people at the moment.

There followed 90 km of glorious pure downhill to Dushanbe. At the bottom of the valley, there flowed a fast white river and the road followed this. Nearing Dushanbe there were very smart teahouses on the river with swimming pools. I also went past a presidential palace that straddled the river and could have been modelled on Chateau de Chennonceax in the Loire Valley.

I didn't quite reach Dushanbe that night, and stayed in one of the teahouses-cum-hotels, which was quite expensive but had a warm shower. The chap I dealt with was an 18 year old Tajik who goes to a Turkish school, and is taught wholly in English. I found him friendly at first, but then highly irritating as his attitudes could have been taken directly out of Borat. He found it hilarious that we have a Queen in the UK "She is a woman! That is terrible for your country!" and he was obsessed with an idea of western women learned from, it seems, MTV. This, he backed up with movie extracts saved onto his mobile phone. When I was asleep in bed, he burst into my room, turned on the lights, and asked me to help his friend fill out a visa application form that had to be done in English. I refused.

In Dushanbe, the following day, I met up with Tom and Blaise again who have had a totally different experience of the people of this country, talking only of kindness, respect,and generosity. These have been the hallmarks of my interraction with the vast majority of the people I have encountered on this trip. You can meet bad eggs in every country you visit and I have unfortunately met a few here- that said, no one has ever been really really unpleasant. I have no doubt however that the rest of the trip here will be of a different nature.

Dushanbe itself is a pleasant, leafy town with surprisingly western amenities, a thriving market, and colourful women as always. It is beautifully tame, and I have been enjoyng the normal food in the restaurants (a break from mutton!). I had pizza last night in a Turkish restaurant, chicken for lunch at a Georgian restaurant, and supper is going to be an Indian curry. Well, I am not far from India and Pakistan!

I am extremely excited about heading to the Pamir Region -my GBAO Pamir travel permit arrived hand delivered to my hotel by a very kind man this morning. It is going to be a challenge making it over the multiple mountain passes over 3000 metres, but by all reports it will be worth it.

My tajik number is

927916740

The international code for Tajikistan is +992

So to call me, it will be either +992 927 9166 740

or, +992 791 6740

I can't work it out, but if you try all alternatives you should get through!

Cultural Learnings from Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan for Make Benefit Glorious Kingdom United

2009-08-01T02:21:00.000-07:00

The ferry had one air conditioned common room, however the portholes were large, and could be opened wide, allowing a good breeze for sleeping. We cooked on our stoves on the top deck, in front of the setting sun and clusters of oil rigs- some of which had yellow flares piercing the purple hue.

To kill the time, we invented a game on the deck rather akin to boule, but with far more rules and played with Azeri coins. It was rather good!

As Kazakhstan came into view at 10 am the following morning, we all got rather excited at the idea of hopping onto our bikes and heading into the desert that afternoon. We headed very close in, and just as I had gone below to pack up my stuff, I heard the loud and familiar noise (having lived on a boat) of the anchor chain being lowered. There was absolutely no public announcement other than the rumour mill, but the ship was to anchor off the shore for another 22 hours.

When we finally docked, the Kazakh customs officer came aboard and started telling tourists that no meat products, including tins of tuna, could be brought into the Glorious Nation. It was extraordinart how East Asian he, and all the other Kazakh officials looked. If one had been told they were from Vietnam, it would have been believed.

Customs was an irritation as all our bags (I have 6) had to be humped from one room to another, while our bikes stayed onboard, to be collected later. Once through the first truly Soviet border formalities I have yet encountered, we were cycling into town when Azret, a local cyclist pulled up beside us (me, Greg, Tom and Blaise), and started chatting to the others. I heard his voice and thought it was Tom doing a Borat impression!

He was a very kind chap who was very generous with his time. He showed us where we could get food, sim cards, sunscreen, and lunch. He cycled with us for a little period after lunch. I had to stifle a snigger when he mentioned the Borat film "Who is this idiot talking bullshit about Kazakhstan?!" Of course the film does not bear any real reality - it is far better suited to Georgia and Azerbaijan (sorry to my Georgian and Azeri friends- you guys don't count!) The English accent Borat uses is however pretty accurate and the dislike for "A**holes Uzbekistan" is right on the money. It is very rare to find anyone from Kazakhstan who will not warn you about problems in Uzbekistan.

Actau had a lovely looking quiet beach- unfortunately with the absence of a fresh water shower I abstained from a dip in the Caspian.

We headed out of town on lovely tarmac, and found a great place to camp on the Steppe just before sunset. The steppe is technically not desert, but as far as I can make out, it is pretty much the same thing, but with hard, dried mud instead of sand. You can stop wherever you like and set up camp which makes life easy. It was very exciting to have seen our first camels in the Steppe- both single hump dromedaries and double hump bactrians. A pack (what is the collective noun?!) of horses seemed a little interested in our camping, but went away with some shouting. I put my inner tent up, but the others just slept in the open air and were bitten to hell. It never got very cold that night- we were below sea level- and we were all sleeping in pools of sweat.

The following morning, we got up at 5am but we were very disorganised and were not cycling until about 7. The steppe is so aggressively hot (about 45 degrees c) that it is totally necessary to shelter from the sun from about 11am to 4 or 5pm. We sheltered that day in a passage under the road that was full of dry camel poo. Most days however we built shelters by tying tarpaulins onto our bikes and crawling underneath for a few hours to melt away into a pool of sweat. There were plenty of tornadoes around the steppe- they looked just like water spouts going right up into the clouds. On a couple of occasions these were quite close to where we were sheltering. I don't know how strong these were, but being the steppe they could not have been very dangerous due to the total lack of debris.

That afternoon, the tarmac ran out and the road became a "way" covered in moon-style dust. This was not great for cycling through and feet would disappear down into it. The next time we would see Tarmac would be Beyneu, 5 days later, and then it would disappear again until we were well into Uzbekistan. Here would begin 10 utterly gruelling days!

On the Steppe, the dry heat parches the mouth, throat and sinuses and the wind is almost worse as it speeds up this process- it is so hot that it is not actually cooling. If you have ever been in a sauna and blown onto your skin (can be painful) you will know what I mean. Sometimes the wind blows in your favour (usually evening), sometimes the wind blows against you (usually morning). It seems to change quite a lot.

The roads are usually straight, however the wise cyclist will regularly change positioning on the road to pick the smoothest places. I found that the best place to cycle was on the right verge. There were very few shops or teahouses- perhaps one a day. It is extraordinary how much you can look forward to a cold drink, and also how hot your water bottles can get! Tom came up with the ingenious idea of brewing tea in his sun-warmed water bottles, and before long we were all doing it. There was a train line that followed the way (purposefully not calling it a road) and you could see the telegraph poles heading in a straight line before disappearing into the distance. This is rather disheartening!

In Kazakhstan, the tea house owners were the most miserable bunch of people I have met on this trip. When you ordered something from them, they usually appeared genuinely sad that they had to actually do some work, rather than happy that they had some business. They also have utterly awful mathematical skills (which is a lot coming from me)- very basic sums (100 tengi plus 100 tengi, for example) are a true struggle. Most of the locals that we did meet in the little towns we went through were however very friendly and interested in us. One chap had met Isabel a week earlier, and pestered me for hours for her phone number!

During the time in the Kazakh Steppe, we didn't see any of the famed deadly Black Widow spiders, but we did come accross 3 scorpions. One was at a teahouse, the other was under something I picked up in the morning when I was packing up camp (and properly flattened), and Blaise found one too. I have been tapping my shoes in the morning ever since (good idea, Major Boulter!)

In Europe I never had to cook more than once in any given day, however on the Steppe, it was necessary to cook three times a day- the lack of teahouses made this obligatory. Rice pudding made with powdered milk is a favourite brekkie treat. Powdered borsch or schie and rice or pasta does well for lunch or supper. On the occasions where a chaihana (teahouse) is found, the offering is usually fried eggs and bread, although some places will offer lagman (noodle soup) or borsch.

The steppe is flat, but there are a few gruelling hills onto new plains to deal with. These are a challenge, especially in the heat. At the top of one of them a teahouse came into view at the very last minute, which was a real boon!

Reaching Beyneu on the 6th day was a fantastic feeling, not least for the tarmac that surrounds the town. It is little more than a large rail transport hub, and most useful things such as shops crowd round the station. It is dusty, and the buildings are mostly bungalow style with no upstairs. We found a cheap little hotel near the station (surprise surprise) which was sandwiched between the main line and a branch line. I didn't mind this as it felt like we were sleeping pretty much on the tracks. The action taking place around us was a pleasant change from the Steppe! We all crammed into one room (4 of us), and they kindly let us bring our bikes in too.

A shower had to be paid for extra, but was well worth it after 5 days sweating in 45 degree heat, slapping sunscreen on each day, and going to bed each night utterly filthy before more sunscreen on salt crystally skin the following day. Cleaning my clothes was also a succulent treat- they were not as you can imagine not clover fresh. You can see the veiny streaks of salt crystals in the fabric. I have been known to take a rehydration solution to replace body salts lost through sweat.

The following day we only cycled in the afternoon, and spent the morning trying to find an internet cafe which was alas closed. It took a long time to find it- Greg and I nearly walked into a school by mistake on our quest. It was amusing to note a multi coloured nodding-donket oil pump in the playground (a climbing frame?) and - best of all - a 20' section of railway. I suppose this is how the clildren learn to play on the railway tracks. Beyneu did have a lively bazaar with a lot of very jolly and friendly ladies selling fruit and nuts.

On the way out of Beyneu, we saw an enormous hulk of USSR Steam Engine rusting on a siding. Like children, we ditched our bikes and clambered all over them. It was fascinating to see that there was still some coal left in the storage hold, and to note a plaque that seemed to indicate that the train was built in the 1950s.

The following day (another camp on the steppe, like every night), we reached the Uzbek border. It was quite extraordinary because the road was an untreated dirt track without much traffic, and the border appeared, on the Kazakh side, to be equally deserted. There was, unsurprisingly, no indication as to where to go, but we eventually arrived in no-man's-land.

We were pretty worried about corrupt Uzbek officials after some horror stories on the grapevine. Immigration was no problem, and they were very friendly. We then had to fill in customs declaration forms in Russian, so it took rather a long time! They wanted you to delare pretty much everything you carry, including all cash. Conventional wisdom is to use discretion. We were not searched at all, which saved some time. Most or all cars were searched with a fine comb.

We safely moved through the border 3 hours later, past the policeman who cannot control the local children who run past the barriers into no-man's-land to sell parched border crossers a drink. We were immediately greeted by a host of friendly money changers, and purchased Sum for dollars on the black market. The black market is the only sensible way to change money in Uzbekistan- the government enforces an official rate of about 1450 to the dollar in official banks but the street rate is between 1800 and 1900. The largest not is worth about 50 US cents, so a hundred dollar bill translates into 180 notes, which all need to be carefully counted. This takes time and is very frustrating when you have a ten year old tugging at your t-shirt trying to sell you a drink when you are on 12o-something. Reminds me of stock takes!

There was initially some tarmac in Uzbekistan, however this was not an awful lot of use as it was mainly molten. This is great for noise pollution (not that it's an issue on the steppe) as I saw road workers ploughing up the road rather than having to use pneumatic drills! We were soon greeted by our usual rocky track.

Teahouses in the Uzbek steppe became even more seldom (sometimes 160km between each one) meaning it was necessary to carry 16-18 litres of water on the bike. The bikes were hideously heavy. Far from being true to the Kazakh warnings, the Uzbek teahouses seemed immediately more cheerful and pleasant to be in. In the first one we found a friendly onlooker bought us a watermelon. It had been the first teahouse for about 150 km and the accompanying coke and fried mutton were most welcome.

The Uzbeks are very similar to the Turkish (well, they are technically turks) in their culture of hostpitality looking after travellers. Teahouses have raised tables with beds around the side so you can recline Roman-style when you eat, and then have a snooze when you have finished your meal. It was preferable to tarp shelters, when we could find one. The food in Uzbek teahouses is a little more varied, with shashlyk (skewered and BBQed mutton) or laghman (noodle soup) usually on offer.

The second stretch of Steppe, from Beyneu to Nukus in Uzbekistan was not much different to the first. Just as gruelling, but with nicer teahouses. Aside from scorpions, we also saw large hairy white spiders the size of your palms. Lovely.

Nearing Kungrad, a town near Nukus, there was a drop in the road by about 100 foot, and in this time the landscape turned from Steppe into lush green farmland with canals and heavy irrigation. The air became humid. On the downward hill, just still in the steppe, we cycled upto what looked like a bustling city with little houses everywhere and a large sapphire domed mosque on the highest point. I thought this must have been Kungrad, however when we got closer it eerily became apparent that this was not a town at all, but a cemetery in the wilderness!

In Kungrad we visited the market to get some tomatoes and melons for supper from the, and we were completely mobbed by a deluge of questions by the fascinated residents. As always, the market traders were very friendly, and I had a personal assistant who led me through the market, helped me pay for things, handed me back things I dropped, and held my bike steady while I loaded the produce into my panniers.

Now we were out of the desert/steppe, we couldn't just camp anywhere we liked because all the land was being used for something. We cycled down a side street and asked an old chap in a car if we could camp. The gobsmacked gent said that of course we could, and so we set up camp. 20 minutes later, he turned up and said that we couldn't camp there- and showed us a better place, further from the ubiquitous mozzies. 5 minutes later, he was back again, and invited the four of us to camp in his garden, which was ideal. His pretty daughters wanted pictures with all of us (steady, Greg!) and we slept very well aside from a hostile dog that he kindly scared off in the middle of the night. Uzbek homes have many of their facilities outside. The sitting room is a large raised bed on the porch area, and the basin was also outside. Not to mention the loo...

The following day, we finally made it to Nukus, having been treated to another free watermelon at a teahouse/yurt en route. It was great to be in civilisation once more, and the hotel had a friendly Georgian-family-run teahouse next door. I am not sure whether it was the soft scoop ice cream or the pretty daughter who operated the ice cream machine who kept me going back.

In Nukus there is an important art museum, full of art from artists who had been persecuted under communism. There were also ancient Uzbek artifacts. Many paintings depicted the misery of life in the cotton fields, and it was surprising to note quite a lot of Lowry-style paintings and Russian cubism.

It was in Nukus that I tasted my first cup of green tea- which has become the norm. For 100 sum you get a large pot, the equivalent of about 4p. Samsas have also become a cheap staple food- similar to the samosas of India to the south, these are usually triangular pastries and filled with chopped onions and mutton meat. They are very tasty, especially when you shake a bit of dill-enfused clear vinegar on top of them.

Still could not find internet that worked in Nukus, but I did find one place with computers, and no connection. As I waited in vain for the connection to start, chatted to the pretty Kazakh girl on the computer next to me, Bagilla. Rather like the former Yugoslav countries, there are many different nationalities living next to eachother in these Central Asian countries. Just because Bagilla has an Uzbek passport does not mean she is Uzbek- her family speak Kazakh and she is a Kazakh. The same is for the Karakalpaks (Nukus is the capital of Karakalpakstan) She is off to Almaty for university next year. She informed me that she works in her father’s “fragrance store” in the bazaar and she drew me a little map of how to get there.

I ventured into the bazaar to change money later with Tom and Blaise, and by chance went into her chemist shop to buy some sun cream. I was greeted by a cheerful “hello!” – I like to think Tom and Blaise were impressed at my speed in chatting up the local girls.

The rate in Nukus was much better, but when I produced a $100 note that was not the most recent series, the guy said the rate had to change from 1870 to 1800! I protested that dollars are dollars, and got the original rate although the chap wasn’t happy about it. “This is not bank! This is bazaar!” the chap complained. It certainly was bizarre. Dealing in 100 dollar bills felt like swapping football stickers at prep school- a 2006 series (Man-U striker) is clearly worth more than a 1999 series (Blackburn defender).

Into the steppe again for a couple of days, and then split from Greg who wanted to head straight for Buchara, I then cycled to Khiva. Khiva is an extremely well preserved walled city and former khanate on the Turkmen border. It feels rather like Carcassonne in France- arguably not a “real” town anymore, but very beautiful architecture. The people suddenly became – extraordinary as I am going East – Turkish or Azeri looking rather than East Asian or Mongolian features. Many of the girls are absolutely beautiful. I stayed in a lovely guesthouse with a superb breakfast – about $10 a night. The air con didn’t work brilliantly, but it was a miracle it still worked at all since it was built in the “CCCP!”

After Khiva, I headed into the Kyzulkum desert- this time a real sandy desert – for 4 tough days before reaching Buchara. This was easier going than the Steppe because there was tarmac all the way, and usually teahouses every 20km- so no need to cook. On the first night I bought a honeydew melon which was the sweetest I have ever tasted. A whole watermelon can be bought for as little as 20p.

The final day was truly grueling, and I was very tired. It was difficult to motivate myself, and I cycled pretty slowly, getting to Buchara at sunset. I decreed that as I was tired, a rest is in order, and I have spent three days in this wonderful city. I met Greg on arrival who led me to a charming little guesthouse he has found ($9 a night)- it is run by a lovely Uzbek family who also live there (Madina and Ilyos). It is also rather unusual- the shower is in the kitchen (!) and Ilyos rather infuriatingly has a little hole in the window large enough for him to poke a screwdriver to turn off the USSR air conditioner when he thinks you are asleep. They do serve a wonderful breakfast of egg, fried aubergine, potato, frankfurter, cake, melon, cream/yoghurt, and green tea, which varies a bit each day. There are a couple of resident kittens, to the delight of the guests.

The town’s Islamic architecture is truly breathtaking- soaring medressas dripping with blue tiles, domed bazaars, a fortified palace, a soaring minaret- and plenty of store traders to fill in every space. I nearly feel that a genie is about to appear and grant me three wishes. I bought a great “four skin” (!!!!) hat yesterday, made from sheep fur, with a flap that can either be tied up, down, or back. It will come in handy in the Pamir mountains. The lady who sold it to me had been befriended by Greg, and on mentioning his name, she became even friendlier than she was already. Her family make the hats at home, and she called her son on the phone so I could speak to him in English. I sat with her for a while sipping tea, and she made sure I ate some sweets – boiled on the outside, fondant on the inside. She insisted I accept some old Sovier banknotes and coins as a gift souvenir. They are from the 60s to 1991 – with Lenin’s head winking out of them. Later I sat and chatted to a 19 year old persian carpet seller who was bored “come and sit on my magic carpet for a while!” His boss regularly goes to Iran on carpet-buying missions. As usual in these parts, he has no desire at all to visit a foreigh country. He was shocked when I pointed out on a map how close Turkmenistan is to Buchara, and he said he doesn’t want to go to Tajikistan.

“Why?! Why don’t you want to go to Tajikistan? It is supposed to be very beautiful and you Uzbeks don’t need a visa!”

“Tajikistan – Prob-lem!”
“Really?”

“OK, maybe….maybe no prob-lem. I just…I just don’t want to go!”

The town has also been swamped by largely fresh-faced Mongol Ralliers. It has been great to seem some other English guys, and it is rather satisfying when they balk with disbelief that I have cycled here from England.

Heading up to Samarkand tomorrow, which is 3 days’ cycle away, and Samarkand is half a day from the Tajikistan border. I am very excited about Tajikistan and the Pamir Highway, having heard so much about it’s beauty. It is going to be a challenge, with many mountain passes higher than 5000m that are going to be as tough as they are glorious…

The Steppe and Desert were very tough, but they are beautiful wildernesses. It is thrilling to see the land on the steppe as flat as the sea, with the sun setting and rising at exactly the time it should. The dunes of the desert were equally fascinating- although pushing the bike through them to a camping spot required motivation. By cycling through them I have understood (dear God) truly what a desert is- rather than in the protective bubble of a car. It is amusing to hear Mongol ralliers complaining about their 3 days- they should try 2 weeks! This sort of travel is not supposed to be plain sailing all the way, and when you emerge at the other end, the satisfaction at having “earned” to be here in Bukhara is immense. When we were doing it, we didn’t think it was all that hard- we were far too busy - it is only from the comfort of an armchair and hindsight that you realise that it was actually really hard work! This doesn’t mean that I didn’t constantly yearn for the hospitality I would have been receiving from the legendarily generous people of Iran, had I taken that route. Another time.

Anyone who wants to talk to me can call me on +998 9137 03491.

Tbilisi to Baku

2009-07-15T01:24:00.000-07:00

As we cycled out of Tbilisi on 25th June, we noticed a couple of large Stalin head reliefs glaring down from an old building on the outskirts of town. No attempt to conceal them had been made- surely many Georgians view them with a pinch of pride!

The seasonal heat had clearly severely increased during our week in Tbilisi. There was no wind, and ice cream-and-drink-stops were very regular indeed. Heading east, toward the Azeri border, and through Georgia's wine growing region, and found a beautifully scenic place to camp for the night, tucked up into the hills, on a grassy plain next to a depleted river.

Having tried to get up early the next day, we in fact only got going at about 7am and experienced another absolute scorcher; the apparently safe public springs that sprout up all over Georgia came in very handy indeed. We cycled through Signagi, an extraordinarily smart and bijoux town (more Italy than Georgia) with a lovely view of the high Caucasus mountains looming in the distance, seemingly floating on a cushion of sky.

At the Azeri Border, there was a sign in Georgian and English which read "Azerbaijan Border 100m. Good Luck!"

As we crossed the Georgian checkpoint into no-man's-land, the friendly Georgian policeman grinned "Good Luck!" to us a second time. From the orderly queueing at the shiny new Georgian border post, we were made to wait on the other side of an iron gate before being called forward. Embarrassingly, we were skipped past everybody who was waiting. Immigration were friendly and swift, although it was irritating that they insisted on playing with my horn. "Welcome to Azerbaijan. Now go to Customs."

Customs took our passports away to a different room for closer scrutiny, while one customs officer sat on a stool in front of us to begin his interrogation.

" Where from?"
" England" (they never understand UK)
"Tourist?"
"Tourist."
"AR-MEN-IA?"
"NO no no no no no no no"
"No, ....... Georgia - Ar-men-ia, ......... Ar-men-ia - Georgia?" (His eyes narrowing)

"Absolutely not!" I had placed a black tape over the name "Armenia" on the guide book and hidden it at the bottom of a pannier. Ex-pats refer to it as "Kansas" so as not to utter the taboo word.

Having satisfied themselves that we have not been, nor that would we ever want to go to Armenia, they said "Welcome to Azerbaijan." Another man came up to us, an said "AZERBAIJAN! VERY GOOD!" With this ringing in our ears, we set out down the road, which immediately turned to a rocky track, past a gypsy village, and we were chased by wild dogs.

In Azerbaijan, there is a reverence to the late ex-president Heydar Aliyev which is very similar to the way Ataturk is revered in Turkey. There are photos of him everywhere (NEVER defaced), sometimes with an inspiring quote, and most things (!) are named after him. People refer to him as "Our Father". On his death, he was replaced by his son.

Luckily, that evening we found a Motel in Balakan with air conditioning to relax in and acclimatise to our new country. The following day, we resolved to make it to Sheki, a famous mountain town with a beautiful khan's palace. We took a wrong road near the end of the day, and had to negotiate 15 km of extremely stony and pebbly dirt track upon which I suffered a tyre blowout, which only prolonged the miserable experience. At the end of the day, there was an enormous climb up to Sheki, which was dead straight, therefore looked deceptively shorter than we thought. The highlight of Sheki is a silk road caravansarai which has been converted into a hotel. Having found that the hotel was full for a function, we contacted Ilgar, who can arrange home stays (number in the lonely planet).

He was a very friendly chap (he also runs a tea house), however the homestay was not an awful lot of fun- the room wasn't great and you had to walk through someone else's room to get to ours! We had a chat with the family, who were friendly enough, although the level of inherent racism that many people from this part of the world have became rather obvious. When I said that London is a beautiful city, the woman said "London! Prob-lem! Many negro! Many Hindu!" , whilst pointing at her skin. Multiculturalism has passed Azerbaijan by. There is only really one type of person living here (Azeri, apart from expats) and they are pretty afraid of different people, it seems.

The following day, we were invited to Ilgar's family home for a lovely breakfast of rose petal jam, cheese, tea (with rose water) and bread. His family were happy and friendly, and he showed us all the plants he has in his garden.

We then went to see the beautifully oriental khan's palace, which is held together with no glue and no screws or nails. The intricate paintings on the inside were lovely. In the grounds of the palace a load of schoolchildren (and their teachers!) insisted on having their photos taken next to us, one by one!

Ilgar doesn't allow the locals to play backgammon in his tea house because they get over excited! During our tea break we hailed down another cyclist, Will, another Brit who has the same idea as me! We stuck together for the rest of the day, and went up to see an old church in an over-packed minibus. There must have been 30 people in the minibus, and there was absolutely nowhere to sit. Isabel managed to bag a place on an old lady's knee. She, as do many people here, had a full set of gold teeth. Our theory is that aside from being fashionable, gold teeth are the product of the method of putting the sugar lump in your mouth rather than in your tea, and the lack of dental hygeine. If your tea is too hot, pour it from your cup into your saucer and sip it from there!

We all stayed in the Caravanserai hotel that evening, and really enjoyed being there, under the mountains surrounded by such lovely buildings. We had supper there, and were irritated to find that the staff were using our table as a training table for the new young waiter who was yet to learn to pour a bottle of water. Isabel had not yet finished her plate when the keen young waiter tried to take it away, and on protesting, the haid waiter only relpied,"He wants to take your plate away." How rude of us to intrude on his desires!

The following day, Will cycled with us, and we ended up camping in the woods. It was a great place to camp, but chicadas were emerging from large pupae stuck onto the tree bark. We looked just like hornets, and we were pleased to notice on close inspection that they were in fact chicadas!

On the next morning, the 30th June, we elected to take a route into Baku that would go south of Baku, and up to it along the Caspian Shore due to the apparent non-existence of tarmac on the main road into the capital city. This led us down, away from the mountains and onto the desert plain. The heat was pretty intense, and when it came to the evening, we found a petrol station where the kind little chap showed us a padoga by a nearby lake we could camp on. We had no real food that evening but feasted on watermelon I had bought, and many other small melons that kind store owners had given us.

When we packed up at 6 the following morning, the "kind" teenager who had shown us where we could camp had clearly had ideas during his long night shift about cash-extraction the following morning, and had thought we would be a good source.

"Om Besh Manat!" he announced (15 Manat, about GBP 12). We offered him a slice of watermelon with big grins and pretended not to understand. When we tried to leave he blocked us in by standing in the narrow entrance to the pagoda, and kept repeating "Om Besh Manat!" We only escaped because he had to go to serve a customer. The Achilles heel to his little plan!

In the evening of the following day, we arrived at the Caspian Sea (or Lake?), a very satisfying landmark. We had intended to cycle the full 150km to Baku that day, however the headwinds were the worst I have encountered on this trip so far. On the flat, I usually cycle at about 25 kph but could only manage about 6 or 7. The wind was blowing sand accross the road in interesting patterns. We were not going to make it to Baku, and I was beckoned over by a smart looking chap with a white flat cap, and invited to stay with him and his family. This was the Soingacal family, and we were summoned inside for tea, and ordered to take showers.

It is interesting to note that although a house may be very smart, showers and loos are a shed accross the yard. It was great to have a scrub after so long unwashed! We were immediately given some food, and more tea. With no safe drinking tap water, it seems people here drink tea instead of water. The eldest daughter (of the three still at home) appeared to be rather a strict muslim, sporting a headscarf. She said she was sad that Michael Jackson had died because he was a muslim. Supper was a casserole of one of the chickens, prepared by her, and was delicious.

Another daughter is living in Germany with her German boyfriend, and I chatted to him on the phone. He sounded very friendly, and it was good to talk some English because my Russian (with which I communicated with the others) is not very good. Mr S used to be a police officer, before and after the fall of the USSR. He is a great supporter of the current president.

The following morning, we were treated to a feast of a breakfast, including fried eggs (hurrah!), outside, in view of the 130 chickens (or was that 129?) and 6 or so turkeys clucking away in the penned-off garden. We were given a grand tour of the garden, and it was great to see all the different fruits grew therein, including figs (ripe), apples (just about), quince, and grapes among many other things.

The ride into Baku that day was far less windy, and we bashed out the 45 or so km before lunchtime, despite the late start. The 1000 Camels hostel is located in the walled old town, which is in the south of Baku, so it was very easy to find. The sign outside the front door "The key is under the flowerpot" was a prelude to the utterly shambolic nature of the place.

Ramil, the manager, would have been more at home in Fawlty Towers. Until the moment he went on holiday, it was not possible to relax for 10 minutes in the hostel without having to hold a conversation in complete gibberish.

"YOU STAY? YOU STAY? OKAY, NO PROBLEM! YOU STAY TONIGHT, NOT TOMORROW NIGHT? NO PROBLEM, YOU PAY THREE NIGHTS OKAY? MUST GIVE MONEY TO BOSS! BOSS VERY ANGRY! OK RELAX NO PROBLEM. YOU PAY? HE PAY?..."It turns out that "Boss" was in fact his elder brother Samir, who is the owner and about to do an MBA at St Aidan's College, Durham next year.

The place was utterly shambolic, with a permanently broken sink and rock hard beds. At one point, I was told that as there was not change, I was owed money by one of the other guests! One evening, when I was doing some bike work in the courtyard, there was a problem with the plumbing and brown mess (yes, that's right) started falling from the sky, to be cleaned up with a broom by one of the neighbours.

Despite all this, it was a great place to stay due to the regular flow of other travellers, in particular cyclists! We all gathered in the tiny common room where it was possible to cook (wash the plates up in the loo basin.)

Will was there on the first night waiting for us, and Elmar was there too, a Dutch cyclist whom we had met in Tbilisi. It was great to see them. Elmar kindly gave me his expensive rear tyre in return for a meagre pizza. Mine had materially failed, and the choice in the only bike workshop (not shop) in the city was "Russian or Chinese"- no reliable German manufacturing!

Baku is described in the guide book as an "oil boom town," which is certainly the case. The streets are resplendent with Hermes, Gucci, and Mont Blanc shops- and the litter bins are intricate metal urns spraypainted silver. The people are well heeled. The town is pretty immaculate, at first glance. All this when most of the countryside does not have running water or even a lick of tarmac! Vast areas of the city are however either being demolished or rebuilt. You can buy as much designer tat as you like, but if you want to buy something useful like a bicycle part or a tent peg, you can think again.

There is an efficient Metro which only costs about 5p per ride, despite this being an expensive city. The trains give out a catchy jingle when they stop- I think each station has its own jingle. This is important because there is absolutely no indication of the station name on the platforms, which makes it rather precarious for foreigners.

One evening, Isabel and I met a contact of a friend of ours from Baku. It was great to meet a friendly local who was our contemporary, and she was keen for us to sample proper Azeri tea. As we sipped the amber ambrosia through sugar cubes implanted in our cheeks, with the oil rigs of the Caspian in the background, the profoundness of the dislike and distrust of Armenians became clearer than ever, as well as the inherent racism that appears to be implanted in the area. "Armenians complain about the genocide, but I tell you that genocide never happens unprovoked! Take for example Britain. Britain for a long time occupied parts of Africa and now there are Africans occupying parts of London!" It is difficult to reply to such things. "Lovely evening isn't it! I say- you can see the oil rigs!"

I ended up staying in Baku for more than 2 weeks, sorting out the visas required for the rest of the trip (Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan and China.) Isabel and Will both left before me. She had had enough of cycling with me and intended to try a little more non-cycle travelling. The visa problems are protracted by the requirement of certain embassies to hang onto the passport while processing, meaning it is not possible to get the ball rolling on another visa. As it turned out it was very lucky I got my Chinese visa in Baku because the grapevine is reporting that Central Asian embassies are not granting visas!

It was at the Chinese Embassy that I met Greg, a long blond haired (well, it was short when he left England 5 months ago) Hertfordshire chap who is cycling to Australia. It seemed like a shambolic attempt as there were some European tourists who had been sent away and ordered to get a letter of invitation, and Greg already had one. The frustration grew as only other man in the queue worked for an agency, had about 100 passports, 2 loud mobile phones that rang interminably, and failed to acknowledge us once. Greg approached the window, and handed his letter over, which had been prepared by a family friend in Beijing. The Azeri girl who worked for the chinese consul consulted with him. He read the letter, smacked it twice and sent it back. "A law firm cannot invite you for a cycling trip! It must be from a sports club! This invitation is invalid! Greg had failed to get a visa with a letter! What were my chances?

"Hello, I would like to know if I can apply for a Chinese Visa"
"WHO TOLD YOU COME HERE?!" Barked the consul.
"I have read in my guide book that I can obtain a chinese visa here"
"I WANT TO SEE YOUR REGISTRATION"
"I don't need to register as I am a tourist staying in Azerbaijan for less than 30 days"
"I WANT TO SEE YOUR TLAVRRERS CHEQUES"
"I am using cash"
"HOW I KNOW YOU SUPPORT YOURSELF IN CHINA? I WANT TO SEE YOUR TLAVRRERS CHEQUES"

In the end, he accepted a photocopy of my credit card (gulp!) for which I was ordered down the street to find a copied, but the Chinese Visa for some reason was secured. Greg eventually got one too, without a letter.

That evening Tom and Blaise turned up at the 1000 Camels. Tom is ex-Durham, and they are both cycling the same route. We all decide we will travel the dicey desert stretch through Kazakhstan together.

To kill some time, I visited the famous mud volcanoes at Qobustan, which are not spectacular, but well worth the hour long taxi ride for their faintly rude curiosity. They are grey mud mounds none more than 6' high that belch and bubble, and produce noises to make onlookers snigger. On the same trip I visited some important petroglyphs. I also biked to a place where natural gas seeps from the side of the rock, giving a perpetually burning flame.

For the second week in Baku, I went to stay with Kyle, a friendly American expat chap whom Greg had met through couchsurfing. He was very kind and generous with everything he had (he had a Nintendo Wii!), and it was brilliant to get out of the hostel!

Having secured all the necessary visas, I sat down in an internet cafe and found out that the FCO travel warning against going to Iran has been lifted, meaning my insurance was no longer invalid. I fired off an email to the agency who had obtained my Iranian visa, and they replied the following day that although my visa ran out on the 19th July, I would be given 15 days if I entered before the 18th. I hurried down to the Turkmen Embassy to apply for a Turkmen transit visa (to collect in Mashad) which appeared no problem, although I was a little disturbed by the question "I am sure there will be no problem, but what will you do if you don't get granted the visa?"

We (Greg, Tom, Blaise and Pedro, another cyclist) held a summit in Ale's teahouse- should Humphrey go to Iran or Kazakhstan? Iran is not extending British visas, so getting out of the country on time would be a real rush. Sorting out the Turkmen visa in Mashad is also far from certain. I had to enter Iran in 2 days time, also a logistical headache if I wanted to cycle. What if Turkmenistan only grant a 3 day visa? Not sure if my folks are particularly happy with me going to Iran in the current climate, despite constant reports of the friendliness of the Iranian people. And in any case, this route would involve 21 days of cycling without a rest day.

In the end, the decision was a snap decision, and I plumped for the safe option, the ferry to Kazakhstan (well, safe in visa terms- 11 days in the desert was an interesting experience!). I have had a great time over the last couple of weeks (this will be the subject of the next post), but it was a decision that has been eating away at me ever since.

The ferry from Baku to Actau is really a cargo boat that leaves without announcement. Tickets go on sale a few hours before the ferry leaves, so it is necessary to hang around the kassa on the odd chance that the ferry will go. You have to ask if it will leave today, and they will give you absolutely no indication whatsoever, apart from "Try again later." Will had caught it by camping down at the ferry port.

As it happened, the tickets went on sale the morning after the "Summit"- and right until I had handed over the cash to the ticket witch (as she is known to all travellers- she charged us an extra $15 each for our bikes because we hadn't hidden them from her sight).

Having bought the tickets, we had a long wait to be called through immigration, and security who made us remove all our panniers and put them through a scanner while all the cars just drove on. As we sweated outside, Blaise was asked inside and given a cold drink. Corrupt port officials tried to collect "port tax" but we somehow managed to sneak past. The exit stamp on my visa meant that I couldn't go to Iran anymore even if I wanted to.

Far from having people ushering us where to go, we had to find our own way onto the ferry, and we secured our bikes next to the freight rail carriages that had rolled on.

The ferry was clearly incredibly old, and grotty as hell. The cabin I shared with Greg had a loo with a broken cistern, and when I complained, the woman only laughed. It did actually work properly later on , but through direct pipes- the cistern did not fill with water! The matteresses had ominous looking holes.

The ferry left without ceremony, and set out onto the largest lake in the world on a journey pretty much 200 miles due north that should take 18 hours.

Trabzon (Turkey) to Tbilisi (Georgia)

2009-06-21T01:01:00.000-07:00

David

Eating Xinkale

Political protests- more peaceful than Iran!

Georgian script with traditional drooping Georgian cross of St Neno

David

View of where the 2 rivers meet from Jvari monastery

Jvari monastery, the spiritual home of Georgia

The Shrine of St. Joseph - the house where he grew up in the foreground

Stalin's train

This is where he sat on his train in his living quarters!

Stalin's Loo!

Stalin's death mask

Best pals

The main street

Stalin's Statue

Chacha?

Monastery church (wedding guests in view- it is used for weddings at weekends!)

No Obedience on Sunday afternoons. Ioana is second from the right, and the lady who gave us the pendants is fourth from the right.

My room at the monastery

Passed into Georgia, thank heavens!

On the 10th of June, I did indeed go for an egg mcmuffin in Trabzon, and it was absolutely delicious. The ham seemed like real ham, and the eggs were beautifully runny. There was the usual problem with getting change however- in this part of the world not even McDonalds carries a cash float!

That evening we were going to stay at Rize, however not particularly liking the place, we pushed on and made it to Chayeli, where I got a puncture and had a group of 6 incredibly irritating and very curious and friendly children to throw random questions at me as I tried to concentrate on my inner tube changing skills.

Isabel in the meantime had found a smart hotel that miraculously didn't mind us camping in their garden. As we arrived to go round the back, feeling mightily out of place among the smartly dressed businessmen, we were invited inside and given a lovely room for the night! As we were settling down, there was a knock on the door and we were invited to dinner! It turned out to be an all-you-can-eat feast of turkish cuisine, complete with soups, salads, vegetables, and meat dishes. Pudding was a mountain of baclava and turkish rice pudding, with profiteroles to match. As I am sure you can imagine, I found it hard to hold back.

During dinner we met another cyclist, John. He is a retured scientist, and was on the way back from Armenia and Georgia. He lent us his Russian phrasebook and we talked about the places we were about to visit accross the border. We had arranged to meet again the following morning, but we were not in the end invited to break our fasts so sadly we missed him.

The following day we had planned to spend the night in Turkey, but we had reached so close to the border by 4.30 pm that we decided to go the whole hog and cross into Georgia. As we approached the border we noticed that many of the shop windows already had signs in Georgian script, a very strange alphabet that borrows nothing from the Romans, and has curved letters rather similar to Thai.

The border was a veritable bunfight with people everywhere, cars and lorries everywhere, and no signs whatsoever indicating where one is supposed to go. A fight broke out between a lorry driver and a car driver in the crowds. Shepherded by a kind onlooker, we wheeled our bikes past the lorries, and eventually found the Turkish farewell exit post. When we were through this, we found the Georgian immigration (no indications either) and waited in a line. There was a pungent smell of BO- people in these parts do not seem to regard a bath or a shower to be a daily rite.

Having had our passports stamped, we didn't simply walk forward, but had to go around the back, and through the red customs lane (I think because the gates to the green lane were rusted shut.) It was a wonderful feeling to be finally into Georgia, and to see Christian Crosses as opposed to minarets everywhere. No more pre recrded call to prayer at 3.30 AM!

With fading light, we decided to push hard and make it to Batumi that evening, Georgia's seaside resort. We found a cheap hotel out of the guide book, and when we had moved our bags in the guy asked us if we were planning to take a shower. We had clearly just done a day of cycling and we were staying in a hotel. This gives an indication as to the Georgian attitudes! On hearing our affirmative response, he proceeded to get his screwdriver out and spent half an hour tinkering with the water heater in our bathroom. At the end he said "Nyet dush" unapoligetically, and showed me a very shabby bathroom in another room we could use. When you turned on the hot, the lights dimmed.

Batumi itself has some impressive European style buildings and the entire town is receiving a facelife, all at the same time. All the central streets are being dug up, and there is no fencing off- pedestrians simply have to make their way through the troughs, piles of gravel and pneumatic drills.

The town does have a waterfront area that has been completed, and it is rather smart. There is an enormous musical fountain that actually dances to the beat of various well known tunes in the evenings. It is rather clever and really spectacular.

We spent the following day relaxing in Batumi, and I went for a swim in the Black Sea from the pebbly beach. Not too cold, but not warm either. I ate an Ajaran Khatchapuri (sic?) which is a boat shaped doughy base, filled with an inch of cheese, and with an egg and lashings of butter on top. In the west these would probably be banned! The Iranian election was on TV and was being carried out peacefully, thankfully for us.

I was a little startled to see big macho men walking arm in arm- this is not because they are gay, but because they are friends. It is not unusual to see men rolling up their T shirts to expose their tummies and walking round town. Very odd. Most shops here in Georgia still use an abacus to add up groceries! I have not seen an abacus since I was learning about numbers at the age of 5, so this is really extraordinary to see.

The following day we rather aimlessly headed up the coast, and cut east away from the Black Sea for the last time after a month. In the evening, it became clear that we would have to find somewhere to camp, but the surroundings were full of houses, making it rather difficult to find a suitable place. Just as we were getting a little worried, we saw a sign to Sameba-Jikheti Monastery. Like all monasteries in Georgia, this was on top of a very large hill, (mountain?) and I was a little concerned at the numerous buses of schoolchildren who were returning from excursions.

At the top I asked a couple of serious looking nuns if it would be possible to camp in the monastery grounds, and they asked me to wait. 10 minutes later Ioanna appeared, a tall young looking nun who spoke excellent English (self taught). We were invited in, and invited to sleep in the monastery itself rather than in the tent! We were invited to evensong, however Ioanna told us that Father insists that we eat beforehand because the prayers last 2 hours and we must be hungry.

At this stage, having put our bikes away and donned some trousers (isabel a borrowed mandaroty skirt and headscarf), it was nearly dark and there was a thunderstorm outside. On top of the mountain, amongst the fireflies this was extremely atmospheric as we were led to the gently lit refectory which had 2 places set out, and an extremely generous spread of food. I had imagined that this would only be bread and cheese, but we were treated to chicken, comato and cucumber salad, fried potatoes, honey, bread, tea and the most lovely cake.

The nuns' singing in the service that we joined was utterly beautiful, extremely fast plainsong in Georgian. The church was lit by dozens of beeswax candles arranged around the many icons. After the service I was shown to my room in the boys' area (the boys being one chap who helps Father with the service), a basic little room with a candle and a bed, which I shared with a sparrow who was nesting in the corner.

At 4.30 AM the bells started tolling a slow, muffled funeral-type toll that waits for the sound from each ring to nearly totally finish before ringing again. I made it down to the church, but unsure about where to go, I waited outside for five minutes listening to the gentle yet quick female plainsong. A couple of gentlemen beckoned me into the church, and I was ushered to the back right hand side where there is a bench. Orthodox churches do not have pews; people stand during the services, however given that this service was 2 hours long, I was pleased to be put there! The men are from the church community, and come from time to time to help the nuns with building work. There is much kissing of icons and making the sign of the cross during the service, and people are free to come and go, sit down and stand up, as they please. It seems that members of the congregation make the sign of the cross whenever they like during the service, rather than at any particular moments. The Georgian method of making the sign of the cross is rather how you would imagine a rapper doing it, the hand rather rhythmically goes down from the head, and up to the very top of the shoulders, down again and right up to the other shoulder.

Outside the church, the day changed from darkness to light, and the gentlemen beckoned me to stand up and move into the centre of the church at key moments when Father walked round the church, blessing it with incense. At one stage in the service each of the nuns went up and knelt before Father one by one, and I think he was taking confessions. Later in the service everyone circulated round the church, touched the floor before the most important icon (the miracle working icon of the Virgin, given from the monastery at Mt Athos), kissed it and received a brush of holy water over their baptismal cross. I was very happy to sit and watch until one of the men beckoned to me to go up too. I don't know how to kiss an icon! Perhaps I would do it wrong, or forget to touch the ground before... I faced the icon and made a sheepish sign of the cross, and luckily Ioana caught me and said "Humphrey, you must not!"- cue for me to go back and sit down in my place, rather cross that I had initially been beckoned up!

After the service Ioana showed us round the nunnery, through the gardens and vegetable patches to some newly built churches, one of which to St George ("Father is very industrious!") Ioana was surprised that St George is also the patron saint of England. A new living quarters block is being built with a highly dramatic view over the mountains, however this is not going to be completed any time soon due to the difficulty in getting building materials and labour up to the site. I took a slip and fell on my back on the dewy wooden ramp up to the foetal building.

At 10am the bells rang for Sunday prayer, which was attended by many more members of the public, and the toll was much more jolly, less funeral like! The service itself was not that dissimilar to the ear that does not understand Georgian. Holy Communion was served (sadly as members of the C of E we were denied) which consisted of huge hunks of bread that everyone was gnawing on, and large gulps of communion wine. Rather more civilised than a wafer!

After the service, we were invited to Sunday lunch. The male congregation sat separate to the female congregation, but no nuns were sitting down to eat. The chicken casserole was delicious, as was the Russian salad and cucumber salad, but as I was sitting opposite Father, I was polite and didn't dig in too much. He never looked me in the eye and spoke to me through a friendly nearby medical doctor who had assisted with the service. One of the questions "Is Isabel your wife or your sister?" was a little difficult to answer. The response that she is the girlfriend of a friend wouldn't cut the mustard, so I said "She is my friend" - to which all assembled company sniggered. I was offered wine, which I accepted. Mindful of the fact that it is considered rude in Georgia to drink when there is not a toast I waited for a while, and when I noticed that I was the only one on the table to be drinking wine, I took a sip. To my horror, a couple of minutes later, the toasting started, and others had charged their glasses and were making toasts in order to drink. I hoped no one had noticed my previous indiscretion! We were toasted several times, and I then asked permission to make a toast in reply from the toastmaster-doctor (necessary) which went down with lukewarm appreciation. Lunch ended very suddenly with grace, exactly as it does at Cothill House, when, I imagine, Father had finished eating. As a prelude I was ordered to down my wine in one.

After lunch, the nuns were free to relax because ironically, like prep school, "there is no obedience on Sunday afternoons." We sat chatting away with them for a while and taking photos. They also took some pictures on their smart looking mobile phones. It was striking how young some of them were- in their late twenties and early thirties. One of them gave us each a little pendant made up of beads which depicted a sign of the cross, and encased a rolled up extract of scripture, probably from Psalms. It was her birthday, and we managed to botch together a birthday card of a postcard of the Queen's State Coach which she liked as she is a horse lover. Ioana gave Isabel her icon of St George. It was very das to have had to leave the monastery- they had taken us in and looked after us with such generosity and trust. Ioana gave us the contact details of her family in Kutaisi, and said we should contact them on arrival- and that we could go and stay!

The distance to Kutaisi was not long, but we lost a lot of time on the 14th June due to torrential rain and we didn't get there until the evening. Having spoken to Ioana's brother on arrival, we were given some really complicated directions, and a police car flashed their lights at us. We thought this was because we were going the wrong way down a one way street, but they just told us to carry on. We went down another street and they followed us there. We stopped and asked them (in my bad Russian) what the problem was, and I showed them the text message which contained the address we were trying to find. To our horror, the policeman dialled the number, and spoke to Ioana's brother. It turned out that the police in Georgia are exceptionally friendly, and we were given a 3 car police escort complete with flashing lights, and loudspeakers barking threats at motorists at junctions! Cycists' revenge! When we arrived at our friends' house, the police didn't simply leave us alone, but insisted on ringing the door bell and speaking with the family to make sure it is "safe" for us, apparently!

The welcome we received from Ioana's parents and her brothers Nugzar and Timur was as warm as that we had received at the monastery, and the showers we that we revitalised us. The monastery ascetically does not have loos or showers. We were treated to a wonderful supper of chicken and all sorts of accompaniments. It is Georgian custom to lay the table with a big plate on top of a small plate, and to discard the small plate whenever you feel like it in favour of clean new larger one. As all dishes are served at the same time, it is a matter of personal preference. Georgians eat with only a fork and use their fingers to help. We were given knives at the sighet of our cack handed approach to this method! This was all washed down with lashings and lashings of home made red wine (!) and home made cha cha. The cheese was also home made, as was the cherry soft drink, and Isabel thinks that the chicken was killed to order from the squadron of garden roosters!

Mr Cheishvili is a retired airline pilot, and latterly ran Kutaisi Airport. Mrs Cheishvili is an accountant who spends five days each week in Tbilisi, returning at the weekend. He has travelled all around central asia, so it is great to speak to some one who doesn't look at us with amazement when we tell him where we are going. The family are heavily aviation orientated- David, a son who lives in Tbilisi is an air traffic controller, Mrs C works for an airline, and the eldest son was a pilot who died in the Abkhazia civil war.

The following day, Timur and Nugzar took us out on an wonderful and enormous sightseeing tour, taking in the spectacular Gelati monastery which has extraordinary paintings and frescoes, and Motsameta monastery. Both of these are highly important to the Georgian people: President Saakishvili even chose Gelati for the location of his inauguration. The Georgian identity is necessarily bound up with the devotion to the church; to western eyes, the devotion may appear a little obsessive-compulsive. Buildings are reveered as icons in themselves, and a Georgian will usually make the sign of the cross three times when walking past, sometimes even kissing the railings. Nugzar bent down and kissed the tomb of David the Builder, the most important Georgian King, buried at Gelati. He explained to us that it is very bad form to walk behind an icon, or to even place your foot on the upper step heading up to the iconostasis. I had thought that it was only going behind the iconostasis that was forbidden. It is not unusual to see people kissing the ground in front of icons.

At Gelati, we met a friend of Nugzar, Father Iacob, who at 21 has been a "black priest" (monk) for the last five years. He was busy painting a holy icon, and was a very gentle man of few words. It was extraordinary to see a photo of him later that evening, earlier in his life, wearing a leather jacket!

Ioana had explained to be that the icon is not an idol as the catholics argued in times past, but it is an instrument of devotion- when you see the saint you are praying to in the icon, it helps your prayer to come alive. I suppose, this is in the way that seeing a person in the flesh is a better relationship than simply speaking to them on the phone.

They also took us to see some fossilised raptor footprints, and to some impressive caves before a sumptuous feast of Georgian food, that, despite our protests, they would not allow us to pay for. We feasted on shashleek (spit griled chunks of pork) and xinkale. Xinkale is a georgian dumpling, rather like an overgrown won ton. The correct method of consumption is to bite a small hole, and suck out the meat juices before eating the rest. They are particularly tasty.

In the evening, we were treated to another feast of chicken in a garlic creamy sauce. I played backgammon with Mr C, which is quite different to how we play in the UK. He holds a real presence in a room, and has a very masculine Georgian mustache, and without being unkind to him (he is a lovely man,) it was what it must have been like to play backgammon with Stalin! There is only one set of dice, and as soon as you have thrown the dice, they are picked up by your opponent and thrown- as it is then his turn! You have to move really quickly and I found myself forgetting what the roll was, and making tons of stupid errors. It was frustrating because I am actually quite good at backgammon! He must have thought I was a ninny!

Both mornings we were given lovely breakfasts, which consist of fruit, cherry juice, tea, cake, the previous night's chicken, and (which cannot be avoided) a large shot of the fire water chacha!

On the following day, the 16th June, we reluctantly left and the boys escorted us all the way out of town and kindly put us in the right direction. We were bought an ice cream by a kind local at a petrol station, and were fored to drink a little more chacha before finally escaping to carry on! That evening, contrary to reports, there was no hotel in Khashuri, and the gormless town police and petrol station staff didn't help us much, insisting we must cycle 20km to the next town where we would find a hotel. With very little light, this was not tempting, so cy cycled a bit out of town and asked at a farm if we could camp. My schoolboy Russian came in handy, but it still falls tragically short of the mark.

George invited us inside, and within 5 minutes we had been given beds. I used my Russian and the dictionary to make certain that everyone would have a bed, and that we were not taking anyone's bed. This was a totally different side of Georgia- rural life truly is basic even if the people appear to be happy, keep horses and animals, and enjoy fishing. The house was large, but in pretty bad disrepair, and there was no running water- it had to be carried upstairs. The loo was a shed at the end of the garden with a hole in the floorboards. The lady of the house was frying whitebait on the fir-cone-fuelled stove (we tasted one each), and we were given fresh mint tea. We had a long chat in broken russian (phrasebook fuelled), and found out that the home owner was Ossetian and that Stalin always spoke Russian with a Georgian accent! We were invited to go riding the next day, which we refused.

The following day, we left after another glass of mint chai, and made it to Gori. The entire town is a shrine to the "Great" man of Stalin. The main street is called Stalin Avenue, and has an enormous statue of the dictator in front of the municipal building. At the other end of Stalin Avenue is the "Shrine to Saint Joseph"--the Stalin Museum. The museum itself seems more like a cathedral, and outside the west front (if it were a cathedral) lies the humble home of Stalin where he spent the first 4 years of his life. The other houses that once stood in the area have been demolished as the town was re-designed in memory of St. Joseph. The house lies inside a Parthenon-like portico type structure to protect and further glorify it. Outside the museum is also Stalin's train, which went inside. It is a bit disturbing to tour Stalin's personal loo.

The museum itself has a hushed and dimmed light atmosphere, and it is very Soviet in style, with internal columns that are much wider at the top than at the bottom. A complimentary english speaking guide showed us around, and neither she nor the museum mentioned anything negative about St. Joseph at all. There were plenty of smiling photos of him, and inspiring Indiana Jones style paintings of how he must have looked when escaping a Tsarist Siberian camp when he was a young man. His death mask was on display in a darkened room with a bunch of dried flowers next to it.

Having paid our respects, we found a "homestay" that was extraordinarily recommended by the Lonely Planet. The floor was like a barn, and the [long drop] loo was revolting; the shower did not exist. The landlady was busy fixing her chacha still (a converted exhaust pipe) when we arrived.

We made good time the following day, and made it to Tbilisi and found a lovely little guest house recommended by the guide book. Dodo, the septuginarian landlady, is very kind and made us turkish coffee when we got in, and she speaks very good English. She has even forcefully pressed some boiled rice on me when I had an upset tummy.

We contacted David, Ioana's (our nun friend) air traffic controller brother. He took us out to see the spectacular and important ancient monasteries at Mtskheta, and Jvari which are incredibly important to all Georgians, and which also house stunning frescoes, icons and paintings. We also saw the new hulking Sameba cathedral in Tbilisi. It is built in entirely the old style, and within the huge courtyard, behind the high walls, it is an oasis of tranquility where you can only see the surrounding hills and nothing of the city. It was consecrated only 4 years ago, and work is still ongoing on some of the out buildings. So many of the churches we visit are being restored- this is clearly much more important to Georgians than making any attempt to repair the roads or look after the poor better!

David has been in constant contact since we arrived here, and has been really looking after us well- even asking to take an early finish to his working day to be able to show us around better. It has been great having some one to show us Tbilisi's finest places. With David, I have tasted Chinese food for the first time since England and we went to a wonderful French style restaurant, intricately decorated.

The central area in Tbilisi is very leafy and clean, and it is a real pleasure to be here for a few days. The street we are staying on is alive with market traders selling all sorts of fruit, and I cannot walk down without buying something. One lari (39p) buys a mountain of fruit. I had some mulberries and peaches with my breakfast yoghurt this morning! I have also bought some coffee- you buy 100g in the street for 1 lari and they grind it for you there and then. I have developed a taste for Turkish coffee, and made myself some this morning.

Outside the parliament building people congregate to enjoy the evening sunshine at the end of the day- some to protest against President Saakishvili's supposed poor democratic record, some simply to relax. There are some really quite good buskers who are a joy to listen to. It is lovely not to be subjected to the wailing Turkish cacophany, and to be able to enjoy music once more, rather to feel persecuted by it.

We have been waiting to receive the extortionate Letter of Invitation from a travel agency (come ON!) before we can buy our Azerbaijan visas. Recent events in Iran have meant that despite buying GBP 200 Iranian visas, plus malaria tabs, it doesn't look like we are going to be heading there. We are going to monitor http://www.fco.gov.uk/ for the latest travel advice, as well as speaking to the numerous contacts we have along the way, but for now it is not looking good. The alternative route, which is looking more likely is the less interesting, unscheduled and uncomfortable ferry accross the Caspian Sea (or lake?) to Kazakhstan. Either way, it will still be interesting.

It is really rather satisfying to have got so far already! I have cycled more than the distance as the crow flies since London than from Jacksonville Florida to San Diego. I am more than half way to the Chinese border from london (it is only 2630 km as the crow flies to Almaty, Kazakhstan from here) and my bike has notched up more than 6,600km since London (despite it only being a depressing 3,540 km as the crow flies.

Georgia has both a European and an Asian feel to it. Many people here look European, but have Asian habits, such as the way they can sit for ages in a squat position on the side of the street. The state of some of the cars on the roads is rather Asian too, each one with an icon on the dashboard to protect it. Wherever we go next, it will be an adventure, which is exactly what is written on the tin, so I can't really complain. Georgians also dress very modestly, and most wear at least one black item of clothing. Many of the ladies in the street are dressed as the nuns dress, and for men a black t shirt and jeans is normal.

I can be contacted on our local mobile number +995 55 285 685 by anyone who wants to say hello (please remember we are 3 hours ahead of UK time!)

The Grand old Duke of York, he had two tired cyclists! (Or Istanbul to Trabzon!)

2009-06-08T11:16:00.000-07:00

A tea storage house

The gate to Sancta Maria church

Fresh Turkish gelatinous ice cream

Sunset at Chayeli

Our free hotel at Chayeli

Trabzon's Haghia Sofia

Evening Shadow

The journalists!

Camping on the beach with Hamit and Tinto

Hamit and wife

Yes, yes- these hills are lush and hilly

With Aydogan

Camping in the woods- out of sight of the teenagers!

A moment of vanity

Amasra. Chok Guzel!

Our Friends with the Russian holiday homes!

Isabel chatting to Turkish schoolchildren

Morning after camping to the cacophany of Turkish music blaring from the nearby bar.

Underneath the bridge over the Bosphoros- looking over to Asia!

The start of the Asian Adventure!

We defied traffic regulations and cycled accross the northern Bosphoros brıdge on the 23rd May, and in doıng so I finally crossed into Asia, and completed my European tour! It was sad to wave goodbye to the hulking outlıne of Haghıa Sofia and the other landmarks, but we were hungry to get goıng havıng spent 10 days ın the Cıty.

As we neared the Black Sea, the hılls started to get steeper as we began to experıence the notorıous unforgıvıng and undulatıng landscape that would dog us for the next ten days. For me, thıs was rather lıke sıttıng an important exam having studied for a while, but poor old Isabel had to sıt ıt on the fırst day of term!

We camped ın an 'offıcıal' campsıte on the beach ın Acçakase on that nıght, an idyllic location that was marred by revolting loos, dry showers and even more foul musıc blarıng out untıl well past our bedtime from the adjoınıng bar. Ear plugs were no match. Some locals came over and gave us some vodka whıch was very frıendly, however they couldn't understand why we dıdn't speak Turkısh!

The next mornıng, we headed skyward up an ımpossıbly steep bluff, only to go down again, and repeat the whole thing again and again and again... It was very beautıful and I was glad of my fıtness which stıll allowed me to look around and apprecıate the stunnıng scenery- wıth the hılls plungıng straight ınto the Black Sea. The Black Sea regıon ıs very green and lush because ıt receıves a lot of raın throughout the year, although less so ın Summer.

We arrived at Kandira late, and were busıly scratching our heads trying to work out where we would rest them for the nıght when Wasel, a Turkısh Amerıcan wıth a Kentucky Amerıcan wıfe Sandy ınvıted us back to theır home to spend the nıght! They were very tıred from a busıness trıp to Jordan so ıt was partıcularly kınd of them to have us. They lıve in an American-style gated communıty in a lovely house wıth a great vıew. The neıghbours' dog starts howlıng along to the call to prayer from the neıghbourıng vıllage ın antıcıpatıon before ıt actually happens! They treated us to Chıcken Sandwıches and Baclava and showed us some of theır favourıte places along the coast.

The following mornıng, Sandy made us a lovely breakfast, and even gave us mılk in our tea! They educated us about the 'Gypsy' sub-culture, who have theır own language, mostly lıve in tents, have darker skın and generally have rather a rough tıme, ıt seems. They used to be blacksmıths, however there ıs less demand for thıs trade, and they suffer from unemployment, poverty and often succomb to alcohol. They made sure we knew to pedal quıckly past these vıllages. Sandy and Wasel are part of a group who trıes to help these communıtıes ımprove themselves.

Sandy told us that the smart lookıng stıcks that we have tucked ınto out pannıers for doggıe defence are actually rollıng pıns for makıng fılo pastry. That explains why people have been fallıng about wıth howls of laughter at the sıght of us!

The followıng day we cycled quıckly past the Gypsy vıllage, and dıdn't notıce anythıng hostıle- just some chıldren wavıng as usual. Turkısh hospıtality ıs utterly extraordınary, and we realısed that we would be offered tea pretty much everywhere we venture in Turkey. On one occasion, we stopped in a shop, decıded there was nothing there we wanted to buy, and then were presented wıth not only tea but a mountain of stuffed vine leaves!

We made ıt to Kadıkoy, where we were investıgating the possıbılıty of campıng on the beach when we ran ınto three Turkısh frıends. They insisted we accept a beer, and wıth the help of a phrasebook, we just about managed to communıcate. It became clear that we were invited to stay wıth them. What we dıdn't realıse was that they were the buılder-caretakers for Russıan owned holıday homes, and we were led to a holıday home where we could spend the nıght! We watched the sun set over the black sea, and the three chaps also provıded a lovely supper of cheese, bread, tomato and olıves! We felt rather guılty acceptıng all thıs hospıtalıty, however ıt ıs clear that Turks take great prıde ın lookıng after guests.

The following day we were not quıte so fortunate. The hills were so fierce that we didn't at all manage to reach our goal destination for the nıght, and were forced to camp in the woods, rıght up in the hılls. The population ın the surrounding villages contained teenagers who were a lıttle too 'curıous' for comfort, so we decıded not to stop ın a vıllage ıtself. We found a very scenıc spot in the woods near the vıllage of Gokçeller, surrounded by pınk blossomıng shrubs. Just as we had turned the lıghts out we heard loud teenage voıces nearby- some of the locals had clearly come along to rouse us! Isabel thinks some of them mıght have spotted us from a faraway hill as we turned off the road. Luckily, we were very well hidden and well away from the track and we would have been ımpossıble to find. We didn't sleep very well that nıght in any case!

The followıng day, the 27th May, we stopped off ın Zongulduk to use the loo at a BP petrol station (they relıably have western loos, whıch makes one brıstle wıth prıde and want to sıng God Save the Queen when sıttıng down- whıch ıs more than can be saıd for French owned Total statıons). We were of course offered tea, and the kındly old chap insısted we go in the car wıth hıs son to the spectacular caves nearby. They were spectacular, wıth stalegtıtes and mıtes galore and ıt would have been a shame to have mıssed them. The chap circled a town on the map, wrote a note whıch he signed and gave to us, and his son who spoke a lıttle English told us that we would not need to pay ıf we stayed at this hotel! It appears that the old chap was something of a captain of industry!

That evening we reached the town of Çaycuma, and attracted crowds of curious spectators in our quest for a hotel room. Just as we were about to check in to the hotel which we eventually found, Aydoğan introduced hımself and invited us back to hıs apartment. He is a German Turk wıth strong Turkısh roots and hıs wıfe and chıldren were all in Germany. We chatted to them for a while on MSN. He very kindly gave up hıs bed and slept on the sofa so Isabel had a bedroom to herself (ıt ıs ımpossible to refuse Turkısh hospıtalıty!) So that made ıt 3 out of 4 nıghts beıng put up by strangers!

The following day we made ıt to Amasra, over some extremely steep hills that pushed Isabel's sense of humour to the lımıt (but still left it ıntact, I hasten to add.) It was a pretty lıttle seaside town wıth an old fortified area. En route, we stopped for lunch in a canteen full of giggling school children and had a great fill of Turkish home cuısine. Kofte 'casserole' was very tasty, as was the stewed spınach and aubergınes. Salad tends to contaın raw onıons and ıs dressed ın mostly lemon juıce whıch works very well. It reminds me of Conch Salad in the Bahamas. That evening in Amasra I did however have one more mısadventure wıth the tastebuds in the form of 'Hot Fermented Carrot Juıce' -- purple, cold, strong and REVOLTING! I made up for ıt wıth a mountain of baclava to flush out my tastebuds. On the 29th, we had a pretty uneventful day of rest in Amasra whıch ıs exactly what we need sometımes! The poınt blank mınaret blaring out the call to prayer at 4AM dıd however hınder sleep somewhat.

Turkish command of the Englısh language contınues to be a strange experıence. To ask you your name, ınstead of sayıng 'what ıs your name?' they wıll say 'My name ıs'. When you look puzzled, they say agaın 'My name ıs'. I don't know, Mehmet, Mustapha...??

That evening a kınd hotel owner in Kuruşaçile allowed us to pay a campıng fee to sleep in the grounds and use the bathrooms. The bar next door made a lıttle too much noıse for a good speep as ıt was Saturday nıght.

On the mornıng of the 31st, Isabel decıded that enough of the hills was enough, and departed for Sınop on a bus. I was to meet her there three days and 290km later. The hılls were extremely gruesome for those three days, especıally as I needed to cover some decent ground. After askıng some locals in Doğanyurt where I could pıtch (alas no guest house), I found a nıce spot near the beach. I got a horrıble nıght sleep due to the dogs that growlled around my tent all nıght and terrıfıed me somewhat. At least I was armed wıth a rollıng pın! I had cooked some soup and did not properly washed up my mess tin, whıch was what they were interested in. Luckily (or unluckıly?) ıt was outsıde the tent. I won't make that mistake again!

The hills the following day felt much harder as I had had very lıttle sleep. I stopped for some lunch where I went through the menu, and the waıtress ınformed me each tıme I asked for somethıng that 'Hamburger menu ıs absent', 'Ketchup ıs absent', 'Chips ıs Absent.' Having cleared the gastronomıc mınefield, I settled on a toasted sandwıch.

Later on that day, as I was panting halfway up a hill, a Jandarme (polıce) van pulled in front of me and four policemen got out. Oh Dear. At least I think they were policemen- though theır berets and the chap wıth the AK47 suggested to me more Sandhurst than Scotland Yard. They only wanted to know that I was OK, and the chap wıth the AK47 reached into hıs pocket and handed me a handful of green young plums, a Turkish specialty. The police here are very friendly and are always keen to have a chat.

I found a small hotel ın Catalzeytin that night, and relaxed in front of Aljazeera (IN ENGLISH!)

At breakfast the followıng mornıng (lentil soup), the owner spoke a bit of French and gave me some pızza and çay for free- hospıtalıty as always! I arrived in Sinop after another long day to fınd a rested and renewed Isabel. We decıded to take the old chap in Zonguldak's ınvıtation serıously and headed south to Gerze, where we found the Hotel where we were promısed a free nıght.

A polıceman saıd 'WELCOME! WELCOME!' through the loud speaker of hıs car as we cycled ınto the town.

On presentatıon of the note, the senıor staff all knew what to do, and the manager saıd 'Yes, he ıs my boss!' We were shown to a truly luxurıous room, and showered. We also found Englısh Aljazeera who were gettıng terrıbly excıted about Presıdent Obama's Caıro speech. We enjoyed some backgammon ın the hotel 'lounge' whıch had a great vıew down to the Black Sea, and we the head waıter insısted that we eat the seabass, whıch was delıcıous.

All thıs came crashıng down when all the ımportant people were out when we trıed to leave, and the junıor receptıonıst and head waıter were left holdıng the fort. The language barrıer meant ıt was ımpossıble to explaın what was goıng on, and they were clearly too ın awe of theır superıors to contact them out of hours. We had to settle the bıll whıch would ın ordınary tımes cover the best of a week's worth of accommodatıon. Thıs ıs however Turkey, and by western standards ıt would have paıd for 2 nıghts. Not the end of the world but hıghly ırrıtatıng.

That day, the hılls dısappeared entırely, and were replaced by a glorıously flat road wıth new tarmac. Twıce, people on the roadsıde showered us wıth fruıt as gıfts- fırst a charmıng old couple wıth young plums, second a group of young guys wıth a load of cherrıes! Whıle we were campıng on the beach near Dereköy, a menacing lookıng dog came close to the tent whıle Isabel was outsıde, on the phone. I was ın my sleepıng bag (ıe, not wearıng a lot), and I half crawled out of the tent wıth the stıck. Just as we were about to get serıous wıth the curıous canıne, we heard a voıce sayıng 'don't worry, she ıs perfectly harmless!' It was Hamıt, an extremely frıendly Englısh speakıng Turkısh eccentrıc who walks hıs dog Tinto on the beach every nıght. After a chat we exchanged phone numbers and we were ınvıted round for breakfast.

Hamit was in touch fırst thıng the followıng mornıng, and kept us company as we packed up our gear. Hıs home was rather lıke a Bızantıne vılla, and hıs garden was full of prıceless pottery datıng from antıquıty whıch he ıs ın the process of donatıng to a museum. He rescued ıt all from ıgnorant people who had thrown ıt out when renovatıng old buıldıngs. Hıs wıfe produced a sumptuous feast of specıal Halva, olıves, three types of delıcıous cheese, honey comb, dark bıtter honey, tomato, cucumber and bread- all wıth lashıngs of tea. He ınvıted us to a wonderful classıcal concert the followıng evenıng and an educatıonal day ın a bırd reserve whıch we were very sad to mıss due to the need to press on at thıs stage. He has an amerıcan hat collectıon and wears shoes rather sımılar to cowboy boots wıth hıs smart chınos and pressed cotton shırt.

He contacted some journalıst frıends who met us later ın the day to take some ıntervıews and some photographs- we have appeared ın a Turkısh newspaper!

The next day we made ıt to Unye- just! We lost a lot of tıme ın Petrol statıons beıng offered too many cups of tea. We are goıng to have to start refusıng the stuff as there ıs a great vıcıous cırcle wıth tea drınkıng and the need to make another stop- whıch ınevıtably ınvoles more tea! It ıs also a lıttle tırıng havıng the same straıned conversatıon wıth curıous but frıendly petrol statıon staff 6 tımes a day when they don't speak Englısh and we don't speak Turkısh.

On the 6th June we were cheered up by the chance encounter wıth Pıerre and Julıe, another paır of cyclısts en route to central asıa. They were campıng ın a spot whıch looked serıously unappetısıng so we left them to ıt, and headed ınto Gıresun to fınd a cheap hotel.

The followıng day we were both serıously tıred for some reason and found everythıng and everyone rather hard to deal wıth. We found a beach to camp on and by chance Pıerre and Julıe were there too, enjoyıng the sunset! They are a great paır, from the Savoıe, and they are skı ınstructors. They are ıntendıng to be away for a long tıme and therefore they are on an absolute shoestrıng budget. We chatted away all nıght as we cooked our pasta.

They very kındly shared theır bread and nutella wıth us the followıng mornıng (we ıntroduced them to Lapsang Souchong) and we cycled together en route to Trabzon where we had a pıcnıc together of cheese, bread, tomato and cucumber. En route I had a puncture and ıt was nearly ımpossıble to stop the 10 turkısh arms who were all keen to lend a helpıng hand (as well as play wıth my horn as I gently smouldered.)

Followıng our Lonely planet, we were told that the cheap hotels ın Trabzon double as brothels where the 'Natashas' who have ımmıgrated over the sea from Russıa ply theır ancıent trade. At the bottom of the page there was however a note sayıng that ıt ıs possıble to stay at 'Sancta Marıa Hostel' -- addıng that you don't need to be Catholıc to stay there. Puzzled, we made our way to the anoınted spot, whıch was a bıg pınk metal gate wıth the word 'Allah' wrıtten on ıt, and no ındıcatıon of a hostel. I rang the bell-

--'Is thıs - er - Sancta Marıa?'

--'Evet' (Yes)

--'It ıt possıble to - er - stay tonıght?'

--'Evet'

It turns out that the place ın fact ıs a rather heavıly fortıfıed Catholıc Church wıth a house for travellers. We can stay ın a lovely en suıte room, and they ask for a 'donatıon'. The place feels lıke a Durham (or Oxford!) College, say, St Chad's and ıs beautıfully peaceful. It smells of sweet pıne. Nıco, the Rumanıan deacon (or at least that ıs what I thınk he ıs) speaks French and has a bad back- he was dısappoınted I am not a doctor! We feel very lucky ındeed to be stayıng there!

Today, we ventured out to the mountaıns by bus to see Sumela Monastery, an ancıent Chrıstıan Monastery that clıngs desperately to the sıde of a mountaın 250m up ın the aır. The clımb was steep but ıt was ındeed çok güzel (too beautıful) as ıt has been descrıbed by everyone we meet. Its frescoes have however dısappoıntıngly been rather vandalısed, and ıt ıs heavıly restored so one can't really tell what ıs olfd and what ıs new.

I then went to see Haghıa Sofıa, another Bızantıne Church (thıs tıme XIII c. I thınk) that spent some tıme as a mosque followıng the fall of the Bızantıne Empıre to Mehmet the Conquerer. It ıs small and jewell lıke, set ın front of the brıght blue sea. The frescoes ınsıde are very ıntrıcatre and excellently preserved.

I am ashamed to say I have ındulged ın McDonalds today- the thought of Western food was too much to resıst. The sausage was however Tavuk (chıcken) sausage whıch ıs not quıte the same. I feel the urge tomorrow mornıng for an egg McMuffın may be too much to ıgnore! Watch thıs space!

We are only 2 days away from Georgıa- I am really lookıng forward to gettıng there as I wıll have been ın Turkey for a month, easıly the longest out of anywhere.

Istanbul

2009-05-29T09:38:00.001-07:00

The GBP 220 visa for Iran that we were so excited about receiving

Mosaic at Haghia Sofia

Blue Mosque from Haghia Sofia

Fast and furious nightlife in Beyoglu!

Lamb's intestines. Lovely!

Due to the irregular opening times of Consulates in Istanbul, we were forced to remain there until the 23rd May, which, although wonderful, left us chomping at the bit to get back on the bike and make some progress. We didn't want to leave town without our Uzbek visas, so we just had to wait until they were ready for collection.

Strangely enough, collevtion of the Iranian visa was very straightforward once we had turned up at precisely the correct time, and on a day when the consulate is not on holiday. Consulate staff get all Turkish and Iranian holidays- a good life! The Iranian Consulate showed Iranian news which was particularly interested with the UK MPs' expenses scandals and the resignation of Michael Martin. The Uzbek consulate were very friendly, despite opening half an hour late, and they arranged the required Letter of Invitation ("LOI" for those in the know) for free. We just had to remain in Istanbul from Monday until Friday.

The Azeri (Azerbaijan) Immigration authorities have conveniently changed their rules a month ago, and now require an LOI. The little chap in the Consulate told this to us with great relish, expressing his "regret" that as Her Majesty's Government makes it difficult for Azeris to visit the UK, they will also make it difficult for us to visit Azerrbaijan. This seems a great way to inject energy into their tourism trade. The fact that we geve them a 6 month multi entry visa for the same money they will give us a 30 day single entry visa appears to be ignored. This is simply another bit of red tape to jump through, hurrah!

This aside, Istanbul remains arguably my favourite city in Europe. Its star attractions are simply awe inspiring and its atmosphere is addictive.

I still have not visited the Harem in the Topkapi Palace, due to the failure of the ticket printing machine at the critical moment, and we were denied entry despite already having bought a ground entry ticket. I will go there on my next visit! The displays of Chinese porcelain were also sadly not on display which was also really irritating!

The Basilica Cistern was well worth a visit, the grandest and oldest (532 AD) underground water storage tank imaginable, built out of the salvaged columns from ruined classical temples. All the columns are different, and there are even two bases in the shape of Medusa's head, one upside down and the other on its side. They were simply pieces of rubble used to build the water tank!

Haghia Sofia (532AD) is as utterly awe-inspiring not only for its inherent sense of wonder due to its extraordinary age (it was more than 500 years old at the time of the Norman Conquest) but also its simply extraordinary interior. The sense of space inside the enormous dome is mesmerising. It is incredible to think that this was achieved before the invention of the flying butteress, and that the Norman Churches such as Durham Cathedral that were built some centuries later relied on enormous piers that obscured the view of the nave. There are heaps of delicate Christian mosaics that were only awoken from their hibernation under whitewash when Ataturk proclaimed the building to be a museum (Not a church, not a mosque). For me, a visit to Haghia Sofia is the highlight of any trip to Istanbul.

Off the beaten track, we ventured down the banks of the Golden Horn to Fener, home to the Orthodox Ecumenical Patriarchate of Constantinople (now they don't have Haghia Sofia!) The church was adorned in every possible place with lold leaf and icons. As we arrived a choir were milling about chanting the most wonderful sound and we felt very luck to have been there to hear it. We realised they must have been tourists (from Greece?) when, at the end of the chanting they all hastily posed for pictures standing next to various items and exited as quickly as possible- including the priests among them! Perhaps they planted bugs!

I booked a table at Hamdi Restaurant on one night on the balcony which gives a view onto the Golden Horn towards Galata Bridge and over the Bosphoros to Asia. The kebabs are supposedly the best in town, and they were not bad, although they were far outshone by the view, which is the real reason we were there. Out of a very, very large restaurant there were only 6 covers outside, so we felt very pleased with ourselves for having been quite so organised (and lucky) with our reservation.

The Grand Bazaar is an enjoyable excoursion, although having now visited the Souks of Marrakech, I now realise that the haggling banter in Turkey is not quite the same. Store owners will happily turn business away if the customer does not pretty quickly come to the acceptable price, without much charm.

I had noticed what looked like roasted legs of lamb everywhere around Istanbul, and decided it was time one lunchtime to give myself a treat. The meat was sliced, and then chopped into lots of tiny pieces before being put into a bun with some spices. I took a large bite, and was shocked by the aggressively bitter and strong taste the meat had, rather like the flesh around the ribcage of a sardine. On closer inspection, there were loads of little fatty pieces glinting in the smoggy sunlight, and I decided it wasn't wise to continue with this experiment. I suspected that this was the Wrong Sort of offal, that is offal from the Wrong End. A few days later, while having a drink with Tom R (an OR and a friend of Jonny Black's family, I am not going to attempt to spell his surname) I found out that this was Cokorach, sheep's intetines. Lovely.

Shoe polishers are rather a nuicance if one is wearing leather shoes...like docksiders. When they spy you they will chase you down the street, and they will shout out at you that your shoes look grubby and could do with a shine. If I were going to work I imagine they would be quite useful. I don't know why they don't all go to the financial centres rather than the tourist sites. They will walk slowly along the street, and "by mistake" drop one of their brushes for an honest tourist (like me) to pick up and give back. This is a chance for them to corner you for a shoe polish. "Please don't break my heart!" The second time this happened near me I walked past the cham and gave him s smile.

The methods used by Istanbul sellers, and restaurant staff to drum up business are quite extraordinary and rather tiring. Each restaurant you pass will speak to you in English, pleading for your business. "Maybe later" turns out to be quite an effective response as it leaves them, it appears, with the genuine hope that you will venture through Istanbul, past all the thousands of others, to their patricular kabap stand a bit later on. One chap shouted out at me when I had walked past ignoring him "Maybe next year?" to which I replied "Yes, maybe next year!" "Please don't break my heart!" resurfaces every now and again. What they don't relise is that for foreign tourists like us British they are actually turning away business with their aggressive methods.

"How can I help you to spend your money?" was a rather honest enquiry, although another chap was a little more candid that afternoon saying, "How can I have your money?"

Ice cream sellers are more like clowns- they play games with the gelatinous turkish stuff, twirling it in the air and teasing passers by and punters alike with a wafer cone stuck on the end of a long spatula. They ring a bell above their head whenever anyone walks past, and flair their eyes with a grim smile. The enthusiasm with which they stir their ice cream has to be a device to drum up business.

I met up with Ertan, a friend of my pal Jessica Ozan on my last night, who is a Turkish Phd student. It was fantastic to meet him, and he took me to this wonderful art workshop in Sultanamet which served a great Turkish coffee. He then took us out for some red wine on Galata bridge and adamently refused to let me pay- typically Turkish! He is a font of knowledge about Turkey and I hope to see him again when he gets over to Western Europe!

Talking of Western Europe, it amuses me greatly that the touts have no idea there "Great Britain" or "UK" are when they try to get you into a conversation. This is one conversation I had recetly:

Tout "Hello!"
HWHW "Hi!"
Tout "Where are you from?"
HWHW "Great Britain"
Tout "Where?"
HWHW "Great Britain!"
Tout "Where??!"
HWHW "It's an island off the coast of Western Europe!"
Tout "I don't believe you!"

I will write an update for the travels since Istanbul at the next internet cafe.

Tırana, Badshasheshe, Ohrıd, Scopje, Bıtola, Kavadarcı, Thessalonıkı, Parachıa Ofranıon, Nea Kavalı, Alcıona, Ipsala, Tekırdag, Istanbul

2009-05-16T00:44:00.000-07:00

The arrival of the bride

Lunch in the Albanian Quarter in Scopje with some familiar faces

Another border

Archie with the Barber. Just a shave, sir?

My 26th Birthday, chez Kadia

Arber, watching himself on TV (recorded!)

The start of the Turkish Adventure

A load of friendly students, Ipsala, Turkey

My last pork before entering Turkey

Camping on the beach, Greece

Greece!

The late snake

Lake Ohrid

A lot has happened sınce my last post, and apologıes for the lack of news. I have been extremely busy (I covered more than 1000km ın 9 days non-stop from the Albanıan border wıth Macedonıa (Ohrıd) the trıumphal arrıval ın Istanbul.

Harkıng back to the evenıng of the 28th Aprıl (my 26th bırthday) I went to watch Arber Kadıa play ın a professıonal basketball playoff, whıch ıs one of the most ımportant games ın the season. It was fully televısed, and I was accompanıed by Arber's father and hıs brother's gırlfrıend Amarda. Arber lıkened the match to the equıvalent of Cheltenham Town (hıs team) takıng on Chelsea, and the general physıque of the other team was posıtıvely mountaınous compared to our boys. The game was fast and furıous, and we erupted every tıme out team scored, Arber puttıng ın hıs share of 3-poınters! Arber's father could have been Alex Fergusson ın hıs devotıon to the game, and the mental trauma he experıenced at every twıst and turn. At half tıme, there was nothıng to materıally separate the teams (save perhaps the opposıtıon's close relatıonshıp wıth the stratosphere). Sadly we couldn't keep thıs up for the second half, but ıt was stıll a hıghly ımpressıve performance from the underdogs ın my opınıon!

On returnıng to the haven of the Kadıa famıly home, we watched the game agaın, as Mr Kadıa had recorded ıt from the lıve TV broadcast. Arber had been on TV twıce that day due to an ıntervıew he had broadcast on the preservatıon of cultural buıldıngs!

Mrs Kadıa must have been preparıng all day an utterly sumptuous bırthday feast for me whıch ıncluded DELICIOUS stuffed fresh vıne leaves from the garden, and a large bowl of Tzatzıkı for each person. She had bought an utterly superb marron flavoured gateau for puddıng- I never thought I would have a bırthday cake thıs year! That evenıng Arber took me out for some drınks ın the Block, the trendy bar area whıch was very jolly.

After the late nıght, I got up far later than planned however Mrs K stıll laıd on another breakfast feast. I eventually got goıng, under pleasant sunshıne, to leave Tırana. On the way out I spıed an entıre donkey ın a butcher's shop whıch stıll had ıts fur and head on, about to be butchered. It makes me a lıttle squeamısh when I see sımply 'meat' on the menus wıthout any further qualıfıcatıons!

The route out of Tırana was a large clımb over a mını mountaın, and just as I was gettıng up ıt the weather turned nasty and I got utterly drenched and very cold. Thıs ıs not a lot of fun when cyclıng up ın the clouds! The route down was freezıng, wıth the wınd blowıng and the muscles not havıng to work.

I took a break at the bottom to feel thoroughly sorry for myself, and was ımmedıately ınvıted ınto a restaurant for a cup of lemon tea and brandy whıch went down a treat. The owner, Tauly, also got a blow heater to heat up my hands agaın very kındly!

For €15 he gave me a great dınner, a bed ın hıs home and a lovely breakfast on the condıtıon that I send hım some photos when I fınısh my travels. When I had fınıshed my breakfast he saıd 'You are free to walk'(!).

The next day was better weather, but there was stıll a steep clımb ahead to the border wıth Macedonıa. I couldn't work out why the border guards were wearıng masks and gloves, and why they were askıng be about where I had been for the last few weeks- not havıng seen any of the Swıne Flu coverage!

On the banks of Lake Ohrıd I got my fırst puncture of the trıp, hıghly ırrıtatıng. The lake ıs huge, and the wınd made ıt produce a sound just lıke the sea on a sandy beach. I found a prıvate room whıch was very plush for €10 and the owner made me Turkısh coffee and ınsısted on kıllıng a bottle of Macedonıan red wıth me, whıch meant I had to leave the tyre fıxıng for the next mornıng.

On the 1st of May, I receıves a summons from Archıe and Wılly, who had ventured from the Kıng's Head ın Bledıngton to Scopje for a frıend's weddıng. Olıvıa Packe had very kındly tıpped them off that I was ın that part of the world. I therefore decıded on a 'sıde trıp' to go and see them for a nıght, and to return to Ohrıd the followıng day.

Arıval ın Scopje was not a pleasant experıence ın fılthy weather (and ergo a fılthy temper to match). My fırst ımpressıon was that the cıty ıtself was thast ıt was as pleasant as the meterologıcal condıtıons. I eventually got to the Holıday Inn where Archıe and Wılly were takıng refuge ın the Casıno on the fırst floor. I had to pretent to the doorman that I suported Mancheter Unıted, change ınto my spart trousers, and proove that I carrıed no gun or camera to be allowed ın. Wılly was proppıng the whole place up, and a faster blackjack player has never walked the earth. After Wılly had fınıshed wınnıng pots and pots of money (ahem), we retıred to the Irısh Pub that was convenıently close to the hotel.

Thet evenıng I was kındly asked along to the gatherıng at a Cuban bar whıch was extremely authentıc and a lot of fun. The slıced oranges and lemons ın the Urınals were a nıce touch! I met Rupert, the groom, who amazıngly ınsısted I stay for hıs weddıng! After ascertaınıng that thıs was a genuıne ınvıtatıon through varıous thırd partıes, I stayed the followıng day to explore the cıty wıth the other Brıtısh crowd who were great company. In the sunshıne I dıscovered that Scopje actually does have a lot of charm, partıcularly ın the old muslım quarter whıch does not seem so grotty anymore. It was unusual to see badger furs on sale!

We notıced some serıous howlers ın menus ın Macedonıa. Archıe managed to order the 'Delıcate Old Sheep's Yellow Cheese' whıle keepıng a straıght face. Accordıng to the waıter ıt ıs the 'fınest cheese ın all of Macedonıa'. At a fısh restaurant, the menu offered 'Frıed Squıts' whıch was bad enough, however when turnıng the page the pıece de resıstance was 'Baked Crap'. We dıdn't rık those ones.

I was very kındly lent a tıe from Wılly and a Savılle Row blazer from Archıe's brother ın law Casper for the weddıng. I hoped no one notıced I wore the same shırt for 3 nıghts runnıng (cleaned overnıght ın the shower of course!) It took place ın a nınth century orthodox monastery on a mountaın sıde overlookıng Scopje. The servıce was nearly entırely conducted ın chant by the three offıcıatıng Orthodox prıests, and took place ın the centre of the nave, as a gospel readıng may take place ın Durham Cathedral. The congregatıon do not sıt down ın an orthodox church, but crowd around makıng the whole thıng extremely ıntımate. The prıest every now and then slıpped ın an 'In the name of the father and of the son and of the hold spırıt' for the Brıtısh whıch was a nıce touch. The best man had to vouch that they were not related, and had to wave largs golden crowns over theır heads, whıch they wore for a large part of the servıce.

The ımportant parts of the ceremony were gently translated for the Brıtısh attendees, ıncludıng the humorous Jım Davıdson style comments from the prıest: On makıng the vows 'Look at hım when you say ıt! Are you talkıng to some one else?' On beıng ınstructed to kıss the brıde, and delıverıng a polıte kıss on the cheek 'NO! A PROPER KISS!' On seeıng the groom wearıng hıs crown 'Look at hım! You'll be lookıng at hım a lot!' to whıch the brıde relıed 'He dıdn't look lıke that when I met hım!'

The ceremony had an extraordınary balance of formalıty, ceremony and humour whıch seems to be very approprıate- after all ıt ıs a weddıng! In Brıtaın we the ceremony and the humour are quarantıned: a Macedonıan weddıng ıs much more yıng and yang (ıf you get my drıft!). Afterwards the entıre congregatıon cırcled past the happy couple ınsıde the church for a kıss from the brıde and to wısh them both well. There was a lot of kıssıng: ıf you walked too near one of the prıests, he would present you wıth a cross to kıss!

After a large chamagne receptıon, there was a large buffet wıth probably every ımagınable Macedonıan delıcacy (ıncludıng two pıglets!) and Rupert put me on a table wıth loads of pretty Macedonıan gırls to chat to whıch was excellent fun. Each table had a jug of Rakıa- LETHAL!

Everyone grooved the nıght away on the dance floor, wıth a break for the most superb fıreworks and tradıtıonal Macedonıan dancers. These were ın full ceremonıal costumes, women and men dancıng a separate dance wıth both a drummer and some one playıng an beautıfully ıntoxıcatıng but deafenıngly loud reed chanter. At the end the whole room joıned ın ın a large spırallıng cırcle- an amazıng experıcne. It felt lıke Indıana Jones and the Temple of Doom!

The followıng day I took the bus back to Ohrıd. The nasty bus drıver would not let me put my bıke ın the hold wıthout gıvıng hım some money to trouser. One bad thıng about Macedonıa ıs that ıt ıs the one country where people have trıed to rıp me off ın taxıs and restaurant bılls and the lıke- you have to stand your ground and fıght your corner. A good meal wıth 2 courses and a drınk need only cost GBP 3 - but you have to make sure the bıll ıs charged correctly.

Ohrıd ıs descrıbed as the spırıtual home of Macedonıa, and has an orthodox church for every day of the year. Many are nınth and tenth century wıth frescoes the same age. The vıews out over the lake from some of the churches are breathtakıng. The tıny church of St John ıs the most spectacular.

The next mornıng I cycled to Bıtola, a pretty Macedonıan town whıch has both ımressıve mosques , and churches. The Macedonıan weather was very frustratıng- sunshıne at one mınute and shelterıng from torrentıal raın the next.

When I arrıved on the followıng evenıng ın Kavadarcı I asked a group of frıendly lookıng young people where I should go for a cheap bed. They led me through the town to a sports ground where a smartly dressed man came out, shook my hand a saıd 'hello, what ıs your name?' Bemused, tıred and ın need of a bed, assumıng hım not to speak good Englısh but to be the person who runs a B&B, I saıd 'Hı, do you have a room for tonıght?'

He repeated hımself agaın, thıs tıme wıth a broad smıle 'What ıs your name?' I twıgged that he was not a B&B owner, and that thıs frıendly chap was makıng conversatıon, so we had a chat about my trıp, where I was goıng and what I was doıng. Hıs name was Amır, and he was an Israelı workıng for some ınvestors ın Macedonıa. He saıd that he was a supporter of Couchsurfıng, a scheme by whıch travellers can stay wıth locals for a nıght for free. He made a brıef phone call and gave me dırectıons to the Euro Palas Hotel, and added, 'You wıll not have to pay anythıng'. So we exchanged detaıls, and I headed off- my head rather spınnıng about what had jut happened.

When I got there, the receptıonıst Lılıana greeted me wıth 'You're Amır's frıend!'- and showed me to room 1 on the ground floor (no humpıng bags up 5 floors!) where the TV played CNN, there was a double bed and the shower had 8 heads. I texted Amır to say thank you but he was a buy man and dıdn't have tıme to come and see me agaın. It ıs extraordınary to encounter such kındness.

As I was checkıng out the guy saıd 'you have breakfast'- and to my utter delıght I was also treated to a breakfast feast. It was good cyclıng weather, and on arrıval at the Greek border I resolved to cycle all the way to Thessalonıkı whıch turned out to be a long 160km day that I achıeved just about before sunset.

When I was nearing the border, a passing car slowed down and shouted something in Macedonian. I assumed it was something like "You are mad you idiot!", however about a hundred yards later I noticed a funny looking object in the middle of the road. I then noticed this funny thing rearing its head and snapping at a seagull. A big snake! As I stood pondering what on earth I would do about this obstacle, a white van came by to whom I made a slitting action with my throat and pointed at the offending obstacle. He smiled, sped up, splatted the snake, reversed over it, then skidded over it the third time before speeding away. "Fala! Fala!" (thank you) I shouted as I waved.

A cheap hotel (by greek standards) and some Greek gyros ın a greasy pıta made a good reward at the end of the day. It was a litle depressing to have to pay Greek prices again after so long in Yugoslavia. Greek voices are nearly unanimous when the complain about the Euro and how it has "ruined" their country with its ridiculous inflation. A greek coffee used to cost the equivalent to 30c. and now you cannot find one for less than two Euro. They complain that with a normal wage still around EUR 600, it is hard to earn enough to live well, however under the old currency this would have gone a long way.

Greece was the first time I have noted commercial agriculture in the Balkans. Croatia used hand held rotivators, Albania and Macedonia and other former Yugoslav countries used good old person power with scythes and spades. Greece has combine harvesters! And modern tractors!

I camped on a beach in Greece a couple of times which was really peaceful and scenic (not to mentıon cheap!) In one campsıte, I was treated to some beer by the famıly who had recently buılt ıt. Stella had studıed ın Edınburgh. The head gardener had spent thırty years ın New York, and I sat and chatted to hım for a long tıme whıle I fıxed my tyre puncture the next mornıng over a frappe nescafe (Greek specıalty- agaın, on the house).

Just before cyclıng to the Turkısh border, I stopped off to fıll my face wıth a bıg plate of Greek gyros pork- the last pork for a number of months I suspect! The roads to the border were enormous but there were no cars on the roads at all. Clearly people don't cross much! Even Stalla had never been to Constantınople, as the Greeks stıll faıthfully refer to Istanbul. As I spıed a large red Turkısh flag bıllowıng ın the dıstance I realısed I was gettıng close. I saved a football sızed tortoıse that was about to cross the road a few kılometers from the border, but I don't fancy hıs chances much due to the surroundıng fencıng.

It was strange to cross a border between two countrıes who, whıle not beıng enemıes, are certaınly not the best of buddıes. For the fırst tıme ın my trıp, the border (a rıver) was guarded by the army. The greek guards saıd 'no photo!' crossly, but on the Turkısh sıde the army were more than happy to let me take a photo of myself crossıng the border. I felt lıke puttıng my thumb on my nose, and wavıng my fıngers over to the Greeks whılst blowıng a raspberry however I refraıned, keen not to ınduce a dıplomatıc ıncıdent: "GREECE INVADES TURKEY TO ARREST INSOLENT CYCLIST" I was chased by a couple of stray dogs ın the quarantıne zone between the two countrıes whıch ıs the last place ın the world I would have expected them to be!

I stopped ın the fırst town I came to ın Turkey, Ipsala. I spıed a place advertısıng "Pansıone" and assumed thıs was a guesthouse. It turned out to be a student dıgs, and I was ınvıted ınsıde for some çay (tea). There was about 15 of them and they were very excıted about where I had come from and where I am hopefully goıng. They then showed me where I could get a bed for the nıght.

On arrıval at the hotel, I was convınced I could get a room for €10 as thıs ıs the prıce on the bıllboards, so I started hagglıng. After I had attracted an audıence of perhaps 6 or 7 students, I hastıly accepted the €15 prıce offered. The hotel was clearly also used as student dıgs and the owner ınvıted me to go and play football whıch I declıned havıng cycled about 110km that day.

The next day, the 12th May, I antıcıpated leavıng really early but I had to go and see Vodafone because my Turkısh sım hadn't yet started workıng. They told me not to worry, that ıt would work at 11am (whıch ıt dıd!) and offered me a cup of çay. When do you ever get a cup of tea ın Vodafone ın the rest of the world?!

After I got goıng, I wasted a couple of hours at a gas statıon fıxıng a tyre wıth AWFUL repaır patches that dıdn't seem to want to work at all. Hıghly frustratıng, but I dıd have a team of enthusıastıc Turkısh petrol statıon staff helpıng me whıch was rather fun.

The hotel that evenıng was ındeed €10 (thank god) however rather alarmıngly the TV wasn't plugged ın, but one wıre was soldered to each plug. One can't help but mutterıng "thıs wouldn't happen ın Brıtaın!" sometımes! Not a hotel for toddlers.

Next day, I rose early and went to get somethıng for breakfast. On my last trıp to Turkey I ate delıcıous lentıl soup for breakfast most mornıngs, so decıded upon a nıce lookıng soup restaurant. One by one, the chap showed me each of the four soups on offer, each wıth dıfferent lookıng meats, and the last lookıng lıke very borıng vegetable soup. I chose the fırst, whıch the chap descrıbed, "Thıs -TURKEY SOUP!"

Wıth oral hallucınatıons of my mother's delıcıous Boxıng Day creatıon, I hastıly ordered the "Turkey soup", and sat down to enjoy ıt. The chap gave me an extra large helpıng. After the fırst spoonful, I sensed that somethıng was slıghtly wrong, squeezed ın the lemon wedge that perched on the sıde of the plate. and after the thırd and fourth I couldn,t go on. The stuff tasted lıke a cross between latrıne, and that off smell that beached seaweed sometımes produces, and the lemon only roused ıt. On a further ınvestıgatıon, I could only conclude that thıs was trıpe soup, and extremely hıgh trıpe at that. I put down my spoon, but realısed that I was surrounded by the chef, head waıter, and another guy who worked for the restaurant, and I was the only customer. I made what I thought was an apologetıc motıon, whıch I thought was a polıte way to say I dıdn't lıke ıt and leave the restaurant, but they only thought I was commentıng on how much I was enjoyıng the belly dancıng whıch on the TV. I paıd hastıly and stood up only to be stopped, and they ınsısted I try another soup- so I chose the borıng lookıng vegetable one. Thıs was actually very nıce, and they kındly dıdn't charge me for thıs. In the week sınce I have had flashbacks to the taste I experıenced on that mornıng, not a very enjoyable thıng!

The countrysıde of Thrace (European Turkey) ıs very sımılar to the Cotswolds, wıth rollıng hılls and fıelds of sımılar sıze. The colours are also sımılar wıth rape growıng ın manyof the fıelds, and the barley was begınnıng to dry out. The only dıfference, apart from the sewlterıng heat, ıs the prevalence of mınarets ın the place of church spıres.

I arrıved ın Istanbul wıth what I thought was enough tıme to get to the centre before nıght fall. When I was eventually ın a posıtıon to ask for dırectıons, I was ınformed that ıt was 20km away, whıch when you don't know where you are goıng ıs more lıke 30km. The good news was that when the sun went down I was able to cycle on the pavements, and to follow the coast of the Sea of Marmara. It was a wonderful moment when the Sea of Marmara turned ınto the Bosphoros, and I was greeted by the vast contınent of Asıa at the other sıde. Thıs ıs the end of my European adventure, and the start of my Asıan adventure!

When the Bosphoros turned ınto the Golden Horn, I recognısed the landmarks of Galata Tower and Topkapı Palace, and found my way to the hostel easıly at 10.30 pm havıng been here before! I met Isabel at the hostel, who ıs travellıng wıth me for the next few months. It ıs great to have some company! The hostel ıs near Haghıa Sofıa, and we can hear the call to prayer from ıts mınarets whıle we play backgammon on ıts roof terrace. There ıs a vıew over to Asıa from there too!

I wıll wıte another post for our adventures ın Istanbul, and the hunt for the elusıve Azerı vısa

Ulcinj, Tirana

2009-04-28T07:56:00.000-07:00

Arber, with lunch!

Museum of National History, which I visited this morning. Note the impressive communist style mosaic.

Main Square. The mosque was left by the communists despite the destruction of other mosques due to its beauty.

Danny and Fabian

Just crossed into Albania!

I decided to head down to Tirana, and then East to lake Ohrid in Macedonia. My trip will then probably dip into Bulgaria before going through northern Greece towards Turkey.

After a great day under sunny sky, the three of us found a camp site near Ulcinj, not far from the Albanian border. The weather was so lovely that I couldn't resist going for a dip in the chilly sea on the pebble beach that was near the campsite. That night none of us got much sleep due to a Slovenian students' weekend away that was taking place in our campsite. If Fabian hadn't insisted on a 6am start the following day I would have joined in the revelry! The early start did however mean we achieved a lot that day.

The following day the 26th, we cycled to the Albanian border where we were met for the first time by "old fashioned" border crossing rituals- long queues, and the necessity of E 10 entry tax - the EU does have a few advantages!

The moment we crossed the border, we became aware that the culture of our surroundings had vastly changed. People were using donkeys to move things around the countryside, and ladies were washing their clothes in the street. Rural Albania is visibly not a wealthy place however nearly every person smiled at us broadly and waved, shouting "Ciao, Ciao!" We felt like filmstars, and it became quite a skill to both wave and shout back at the same time as cycle! It turns out that most Albanians speak Italian as their primary foreign language due to the availability of Italian TV. It was not only the pedestrians! Most cars hooted their approval and waved, and people hanged out of buses to wave and ask us where we were going!

At a bridge a ten year old kid high-fived us all, then ran on to meet us when we stopped. In an instant he had his mits in Danny's bag, and had taken his small box of turkish delight. He did not however run off with it, but returned it and was given a piece. The kids here are cheeky but they seem to be friendly and honest.

Due to some military discipline from Fabian (I confess to find hard cycling not particularly relaxing!), we got to Tirana, a distance of over 145k in time for tea. The city has smart bars, and reminds me of Miami and Bangkok rolled into one. It also has a central square that reminds me of Havana. People are well dressed, and sip cocktails as they would in any other major city.
The city has a true buzz to it, and you feel yourself interacting with it, rather than simply looking at it. Crossing the road requires some skill as the little green man is about as useful as a zebra crossing in Toulouse. I find the safest way is to shadow a local as they navigate the crossings, cars going everywhere around them. I was a little shocked to see a pram being wheeled over the road, however it all seems to work, every man takes responsibility for his own safety, and there are apparently no more accidents than in other places.

The other thing to note about Tirana, is the almost total absence of beggars- it seems that anyone who would be begging has taken some initiative and is selling something on the side of the street! This is a very happy city, amid the chaos!

After my mother told my brother Dan Dan (George) I was in Albania, he called is close old Radley friend Bessi (sorry mate, I don't know how your name is supposed to be written), and within 10 minutes I quite unexpectedly received a call from Bessi's brother Arber (an old Etonian, but no one's perfect!) who lives in the city with his mother and father. I was immediately invited to stay, and have been truly spoilt with Arber's mother's most wonderful Albanian home cooking- roast sea bream with all all sorts of accompaniments, Albanian Riesling, and a great Albanian cooked breakfast this morning with eggs, saugages, and goat cheese amongst all sorts of other things. His parents are fascinating to talk to, as they can speak very clearly about Albania's difficult past and fastly developing present. Today, Albania applied for membership of the EU, which shows quite how far they have come since the fall of communism. The family is very proudly Albanian, and quite right too. They also love telling jokes!

Yesterday, Arber took me out for some delicious koftes, and got stuck in Gridlock whilst taking time out of his working day to come and collect my stuff in his car (Greek PM visiting). He has been really generous, and I have also met some of his friends. He is playing in an important pro basketball match tonight- and I am going to go and support. Fingers crossed! We may head out to celebrate victory tonight with a drink or two (or else it will be my birthday to celebrate!) Right I need to go and meet him!

Macedonia tomorrow!

Some random beach, Dubrovnic, Kotor

2009-04-24T12:41:00.000-07:00

View of Kotor from the fort

Arial view of Kotor

Kotor, and its fjord

Andy and Danny

Into Montenegro (the sticker on the bottom left was put there by an English motorcyclist I met on the Austria/Italy border!

Dubrovnik

Dubrovnic

Camping on the beach-cum-quay

On the 21st, I met up with Danny, a Swiss cyclist I had met on my first day in Croatia. He took a different route to Mostar, but we are heading in the same direction. That morning (I had just arrived in Mostar after a stupidly early train to get back) we also ran into another couple of cyclists- James who is en route to Jerusalem, and Fabian who is also heading East. I am still travelling with Danny, and we have now run into Fabian again so we are rather a jolly little team. I am the only cyclist I have met so far who is not sporting a beard. I might sprout one to appear a little more Islamic when I get further east.

I digress. Danny and I cycled south from Mostar which was rather satisfyingly downhill most of the way, and it was interesting when we noticed that we were in Serb areas when the Roman alphabet signs were blacked out by graffiti, and in Croat or Muslim areas when the Cyrillic signs were blacked out. To get to the Dubrovnic part of Croatia, we had to dart back into Bosnia's 14kn coastline before re-emerging into Croatia. It was a nasty wet day, and we warmed our hands by a barbecue during a coffee break (Danny is addicted to the stuff!)

That evening, failing to find a campsite, we found a deserted small beach-cum-fishing quay where we pitched our tents, and made spaghetti with spicy ragout sauce and rehydrated some mash. It was really very scenic.

We then made good time into Dubrovnic, and accepted a very grotty but impeccably located apartment spitting distance from the city walls. We agreed to a lower price on the condition that we would not cook in the flat- so we used our stove in the courtyard!

Dubrovnic itself is a very beautiful place, and it is just as I had expected. It is rather like St Malo, but with nicer colour stone, and a lot more panache. It was great to have a rest day the following day (my sleeping bag liner is now clean and my sleeping bag is dry!!) We ran into Fabian, the other Swiss chap in the supermarket co-incidentally, and arranged to meet again in Kotor, Montenegro the following day. He was leaving at sparrow's fart, so we didn't cycle with him, favouring a more gentlemanly 8.30am.

The route out of Dubrovnic this morning was rather a climb, but afforded stunning views of the old town. On my way into Montenegro I asked if I could change my left over Kunas into Euro in Macedonia, and was promptly reminded that "Montenegro" was the name of the country I was about to enter! I received my first stamp in my passport in my entire trip at the border.

In Montenegro, we immediately found a little butcher's shop which would not only sell čebapčiči meatballs and chicken pieces, but also grill them for you next door, and serve them to you in a lovely greasy pitta! Delicious!

We then saved a tortoise that was about to get run over on the curb by hurding him back into the brush- every 10 seconds his head would emerge from his shell, he would try to move forward, then a car would roll by and his head would go back inside for a further 10 seconds.

To get to Kotor, we circumnavigated the largest fjord in southern Europe which is absolutely stunning, with little villages on the banks, and ancient churches. There is a monastery on an artificial island that was built hundreds of years ago!

On the banks, we ran into Andy, another Swiss chap who has decided to walk from the Iranian border home to Switzerland. He started in December, and has no money, and no tent. He has relied on people to look after him all the way, and he has been very successful. Amazingly he refused some pasta when I offered it to him!

Kotor is a truly special little place. Set on the banks of the fjord with the mountains behind it, it is protected by ancient city walls just as Dubrovnic is. It is much smaller, but feels more authentic and less touristy. There is a marina with some lovely mega-yachts flying the British Ensign.

Overlooking the city, hundreds of feet up, is the old fortress that used to protect the city from the Ottoman Turks. The climb was tough but gave us the most incredible views.

I am sharing a room with the other Swiss guys- very cash efficvient and more comfortable than camping! I have yet to finalise my route east. I had thought to go through Albania to Kosovo (both countries are aparently safe) and then through Macedonia and Bulgaria. The FCO however advises against the border area between the two countries due to unexploded devices, so my insurance is not valid for there amd I therefore won't go.

I will probably go down to Tirana, then into South Macedonia, and into Greece however I have not ruled out the Tirana-Scopje-Sofia route. Watch this space!

Zadarje, Bročanac, Mostar, Sarajevo

2009-04-20T10:11:00.000-07:00

The Holiday Inn, which became home to wartime news reporters

Bashcharchia, Sarajevo

Chevapchichi, sarajevo

Turkish Coffee in Bashcharchia, Sarajevo

Sarajevo

This house was on the front line, the highway, between Croat and Muslim forces, and still acts as an ethnic divide.

1993 graves

View of the Stari Most, Mostar, from the minaret

Just arrived in Mostar!

Neno's lorry, where I spent a very pleasant night

Petar and Neno

Into Bosnia-Herzegovina

The canyon the next day

The mule and his mule!

Philip, and his mule

On the 17th April, I didn´t actually get going until 2pm, as errands (such as writing this blog! and doing my laundry) delayed me. The ride south of Split was very beautiful as the road clings to mountain sides that soar up directly from the bright blue Adriatic.

The late start meant that without realising it, I cycled later than I normally do, and was caught out slightly by the fading sun at 7.30. I asked a farmer if I could camp in their field, and they turned me away to my utter disgust! I continued a further half a mile to the next settlement, Zadarje, where I met a friendly group of young people. Maria suggested that the best place to camp was near the spectacular canyon which runs 20 km all the way to the coast, and boasts an enormous waterfall. I therefore went up, and set up my tent.

As soon as I had finished setting up camp, I was rather alarmed by an approaching car, and the tepping of the horn. I went over to say hi, and it turned out to be Maria's brother Philip. He is a maritime student, extremely tall with a deep Croatian voice. He was extremely friendly, and interested in my travels, and suggested that I move my tent to his barn. The panniers went in his car, and I set up camp in a barn comfortingly laid with hay.

We then went down to the village where all the young, between the ages of about 14 and 35 gather around a low wall (which serves as a bar), and the locak "Market" that sells the beer. They plied me with strong, tasty Croatian beer and refused to let me pay for anything. They were all very interested in Football, and I found my lack of knowledge of the Premiership a little embarrassing!

Philip, and his best friend rather comically and affectionately refer to eachother as "My Mule", and we briefly went to visit Philip's friend's real mule, Victor. He was a large beast who makes a grunting noise if grunted to!

They tried to get me invited to a wedding they were going to the next day but unsurprisingly the groom, when consulted by phone on the eve of his wedding day did not want a random British cyclist gatecrashing his big day.

I slept rather well, but was woken various times by the guard dogs. In the morning, Philip kindly brought me a huge ham and cheese sandwich and some milk.

The following day, I cycled up to the border with Bosnia and Herzegovina which was a steep climb. I was chased by a vicious dog for the first time (all the others have been restrained so far!). I managed to outpace it.

In the Croatian border town, just before the border I ordered a large ice cream and a baclava for which the chap would accept no payment. Ice cream in the Balkans is truly special, especially when my cycling routine means I can eat as much as I like!

On entering Bosnia, I was rather struck by the fact that as far as I was concerned, there could have been land mines anywhere that was not on the road. It was a little chilly, so I opened a pannier to don my fleece.

I cycled past a couple of children who screamed, "What's Your Name! What's your name!" I slowed, without stopping and sais "Humphrey, what's your name?" to which they just kept repeating themselves. I sped up, and the fat one lobbed a small stone that hit my panniers.

Fifteen minutes later, I discovered I had neglected to do up the pannier, and had lost my down jacket. I decided to turn back to look for it, and luckily the children were not there, and I found the jacket. On the return leg, however there was a group of 7 or 8 of them, and they appeared a little more menacing. I sped past them, shouting friendly pleasantries and the same fat kid lobbed another small stone that missed. A couple of them had bikes, and rode behind me for a little bit but lost interest after fifty yards.

I don't genuinely think they would have hurt me - they could have pelted me with stones at short range instead of halfheartedly lobbing one solitary small one, but it was a bit of an eye opener! Dogs and kids should be banned!

As it approached the time when I was looking to stop, I went past a house with a friendly looking chap (Petar) who asked me where I was going. I explained I was looking for a place to stay, and he said I could camp on his brother's land no problem. He explained that this part of Herzegovina has no land mines, and that it is a very safe country, which was good to hear! I was invitred in for Turkish coffee, dried ham and Bosnian savoury pancakes, which were all lovely. Each brother has 4 happy children, and a wife, so there was quite a crowd! I was given a large package of pancakes and ham, and they suggested that instead of sleeping in my tent I should sleep in Neno's lorry, to which I jumped at the opportunity!

After a lovely, comfortable night's rest I was invited inside in the morning for another sandwich and more Turkish Coffee, and plain drinking yoghurt, which is delicious. Neno is typical in that although they are Bosnian Croats (catholic), they try as much as possible to play down differences with Bosnia's other nations. I thought it was interesting that Neno was watching the Orthodox (Serb) Easter celebrations on TV in lieu of going to church as it was his turn to babysit the baby.

I cycled through the rain to Mostar, which is an incredibly beautiful city. The old part has been restored, save the ubiquitous ruins that still pepper the streets. As I crossed the Stari Most, the famous bridge that was rebuilt after the war, I heard the Muslim call to prayer. I scanned the cityscape, and noted minarets from mosques in all directions, and it dawned on me that I was in a truly muslim city. That said, if you cross the highway that acted as the Front Line with its honeycomb blasted buildings, you enter the Catholic (Croat) area. A large cross, erected controversially after the war, glares down on the city from this area.

A girl in the free photo gallery explained to me that her father, a muslim had lost a kidney trying to save a croat. A serb was then shot trying to help her father. This shows how pointless the whole thing was. It is extraordinary talking to other young people who have lived in the heart of a battlefield for four years. The chap in the pensione where I stayed is 23, and a muslim. He said that his father, a doctor, once came home covered from head to toe in blood, having tried to help a pregnant woman who had been shot. The town is littered with cemeteries, which are still surrounded by ruins, and the date on the headstone is nearly always 1993. The same young chap, on observing that I was using my bungee cords to hold my trousers up hung a leather belt on my door, saying that I could have it as he doesn't need it anymore.

I had supper with a view of the Old bridge, and it was one of the most beautiful places I have ever dined.

This morning, I woke up early and bought a return ticket for Sarajevo. An American missionary helped me with my bike, and we shared a cubicle. He further enlightened me to Bosnia's complicated history, and the cultural resonances that remain. For example, the word you use for bread is different depending on which community you are in, and if you use the wrong one, they will pretend they don't understand you! Also, if you buy a stamp in the Muslim area of Mostar, they will not allow you to post it in the Croat area!

Sarajevo has been much more cleaned up than Mostar, and there are nearly no ruins in the old part of the city. There are however bullet holes in the walls of many of the buildings. The old Ottoman area is a lovely bustly place where you can get great turkish coffee, and čecapčiči, Bosnian BBQ meatballs served in a greasy pitta with onions and Kajmak, young cheese. I have eaten very well!

I have also been to the town museum, and viewed the pistol that killed Archduke Franz Ferdinand. I have also stood in the place where the shots were fired, near the Latin Bridge. It is a truly extraordinary city. I have become very attached to Bosnia, and especially Mostar and Sarajevo- I will be very sad to leave.

I have encountered extraordinary generosity wherever I have been for the last week. It has been truly humbling.

Tomorrow morning, I will head back to Mostar to continue my cycle ride towards Dubrovnik- if the weather improves. It is currently raining cats and dogs!

Ljubljana, Kostrena,Tribanj, Biograd, Rogozica, Split

2009-04-17T02:35:00.000-07:00

Mountainous coastline but great views!

With Rick, the Australian chap who looked after me in Split

Sunset

Camping in Rogozica

Rogozica, making supper

Tribanj

Danny

I stayed a further night in Ljubljana, however the hostel was full, so I found a campsite that was pretty close in to town, and saved some much needed cash!

The alarm went off the following morning at 4.45am to rouse me for the 5.53 train back to Koper, which I caught by 15 seconds. Phew! It would have been a pretty depressing 2 and a half hours to wait for the next one!

I explored Koper for an hour, which is a charming sleepy old port town in its centre, but highly industrial on the outskirts. The star attraction (not to detract anything from the town!) was a visit to the Tourist Bureau, and a long chat with Tina, the stunning girl who works there who gave me tons of history, maps, and advice for what to eat when I get to Mostar!

The ride up to the border with Croatia was steep, but it was great to finally have to show my passport at a border crossing, and to leave the cursed Eurozone. The borderguards, who was pretty stern at first fell about laughing when I asked if I could fill my water bottles! They helpfully obliged nonetheless.

In Rijeka, neaerly at sunset, when consulting my map I ran into Danny, a Swiss chap who is cyclinig the same direction as me. He has the same bag setup as me, and is going in the same direction. We camped side by side in the closed campsite at Kostrena, just east of Rijeka. It turned out that we had both asked the same group of police officers outside a football match for directions to the nearest campsite, which may explain why they were so very bemused to see me!

The next morning, Easter Sunday, we enjoyed a decent breakfast at a restaurant with a great view of the Adriatic. The first omlette for a long while went down a treat. We then parted company as he was going a different route, through the islands.

Easter weekend is not a great time to arrive in Croatia, as all shops were closed, and I had to eat out a couple of times, which was a bit pricey. The calamari were however exemplary.

That evening I camped at Sinj, in a closed campsite (FREE!) right on the sea. The only annoying thing was that as the nightclubs closed an afterparty kicked off at the other end of the field which was a little noisy.

That evening, I found another campsite right on the sea, this time unfortunately open at Kruscica. The neighbours were Italian, and not at all friendly which was a bit of a shame. It was good to have a shower, however my sleeping mat developed a hole that night, making for a poor night sleep. I mendee it this morning, so fingers crossed!

Despite the shops being open again, the little ˝Markets˝as they call them were expensive and badly stocked which was a bit of a shame. I found myself buying ˝the choclate bar˝at one of them, which must have been there for a while. Communist Cuba has better stocked shops. Thankfully, towards the better populated areas supermarkets do exist, and it was great to have finally found one that evening! The evening of the 14th April found me in another closed campsite in Biograd.

I have noticed that the locals don't have front lawns, as every available inch of land is cultivated for veggies, seemingly out of necessity due to the high prices in the shops. I am always seeing people tending their little patches. It is the asparagus season, and there are ladies on the side of the road everywhere selling the stuff.

I got to Split yesterday, and just as I had found the street where the hostel was based, a friendly Australian chap befriended me, and asked me if I wanted to stay in his flat. He is a coordinator for student volunteers who come over here to lend a hand at various improving activities. He is very knowledgable of the city, and showed me all the great viewpoints (Diocletian's palace is a maze of ancient streets, highly impressive!), and took me out for some great drinks, and cooked me a superb supper.

This afternoon I am going to start cycling toward Bosnia!

Ljubliana

2009-04-09T11:22:00.000-07:00

Ljubljana from the castle

Into Slovenia!

Having had a glorious day in Trieste, the plan was to spend some time in Slovenia en route to Croatia. What I neglected to notice was that the Slovenian passage was only 40k, which would have been a morning. I cycled over the border to Koper, and then on a whim decided to get a train to Ljubliana for the day, and return to Koper tomorrow or the next day to continue the voyage. It is a shame to come here and not come to Ljubliana for the sake of a train ticket.

It is an absolutely charming city, incredibly clean and safe, and bikes go everywhere, including the pavements, which makes a change from draconian Munich! It is expensive- but worth it. The most delicious ice cream I have ever tastes comes from a little place near the main square, and at 2.40 was also the most expensive I have yet encountered.

A chap stopped me in the street to ask about my bike "Is that a Thorn?" because he has one too. He said it was the first time he has seen one in Slovenia! He also said that the Croatian costal route is very good which is great to hear.

I am staying in a hostel which is a converted prison- I am in cell number 215. Thankfully there are no communal showers, so I have no concerns about dropping the soap!

Munich, Lenggries, Innsbruck, Frenfeld, Rasen, Lozzo, Vittorio Venetto, Aquileia, Trieste

2009-04-08T07:36:00.000-07:00

The Hapsburgs' palace at Trieste

Posing in front of the Adriatic, Grado

I have cycled to the Adriatic!

Ancient mosaic at Aquileia

The family in Lozzo who asked me in for dinner - Luis, Lorenzo and Christina

Innsbruck

Into Austria, hurrah no EU logo!

Maurilina pass, which I did without realising it!

Crossing from Austria into the Sud-Tirol region of Italy. Note the sign.

Innsbruck, from near the ski jump

One foot in Austria, one foot in Germany!

Lady surfer, Munich

Traditional Bavarian Breakfast ( minus the orange juice)

Starkbier Fest

Thomas, in his regalia

Lady surfer, Munich

Apologies for the lack of news everyone, I have genuinely not happened upon a decent internet cafe until now (and even this one won't let me upload any pictures). They have taken a copy of my passport under Italian Law, I can only suppose to trace me if I am a spy.

Munich (27-29 March)

I had an absolute ball in this city, and found it very difficult to leave. It is one of those cities to which one can simply turn up and very quickly have a group of friends- at least that is what happened to me. The great thing about making friends there was that I managed to sample a little of the food and culture that would have been impossible otherwise. Cat, who I befriended from the hostel took me to a great student haunt that served a Wiener Scnitzel the size of a stingray (no joke), and we then went to a bar to meet her boyfriend who was about to make a trip to Kyrgistan. I am awaiting his news from there!

They came over for breakfast the following day (traditional Bavarian Breakfast of Pretzels, Weisswurst sausages (put them in a pan of boiling water, but don't put it on the heat), and Weiss Beer. All very tasty.

The following day, the 29th I had planned to leave munich, however I overslept, the clocks went forward, unbeknown to me, and my phone stopped working, so I decided to remain in the city for another day. This was in fact a great boon because it gave me time to go to the Strong Beer (Starkbier) festival, upon Angus Bauer's savvy recommendation.

Verdi could have been thinking of the Paulaner Strong beer Festival when he wrote his Drinking Song in La Traviate, which we performed as the Social Shout when I was a schoolboy. The English translation that we performed was rolling round my head all evening ("I drink, yes I drink to the pleasure of life, And the glorious enchantment of beauty! I sing, yes I sing...!)

I arrived at 4pm, having visited BMW, and fully intending only to stay for half an hour (have a beer and go). I was met by an extraordinary sight of men in lederhosen, and ladies in traditional costumes that greatly flatter the feminine figure standing on benches dancing and singing to the traditional band as they imbibed from enormous ceramic tankards.

The beer, which was rather like Christmas ale at 7.5% was only available in litre measures (appropriately called a Mass). I circled the room nervously looking for a place to sit as I was rather clearly Jimmy-no-mates. I spotted a friendly looking couple, Thomas and Frederike, who informed me that all I needed to do was sit down and order a beer! So I did. At the end of my first mass, I could already feel the effects of the alcohol, and was very soon dancing on top of the tables with the rest of them.

It was rather like the "Feast" at Cothill house, however no one waited for the Christmas pudding before stamping their feet and cheering. The room was furnished with trestle tables, and benches, school style, and nearly everyone in the room was standing on top of them (except the ones who were falling off onto the neighbouring table). Many of the songs had hand gestures, rugby club style, and the lyrics were rather catchy (Viva Bavaria! being one of the regular refrains). But there was a line- at one point out table moved out of line by about 3 feet, and were given a wave by an usher. We immediately rearranged, and carried on as normal as if we had been given a frown from the headmaster.

I never saw any agression, apart from one small tiffle in which no blows were thrown, and the atmosphere were purely jovial. I seriously doubt if that would have been the case in Britain.

There is an Italian having an argument on the phone right in my ear which is driving me insane.
Anyway, where was I?

On the way back (after 3 mass), my friends made sure I got the right trains and trams to get home, which was very good of them. I was shocked that drunken students at midnight in Munich still wait at the little red man for fear of getting a jaywalking fine. I even met a chap who had been given a fine for riding his bike on the wrong side of the pavement!

Lenggries 30 March

Having eventually left Munich, I headed south towards the mountains, following the Isau river which conveniently goes in the direction of Innnsbruck. By the end of the day, I arrived in Lenggries, which is a small Bavarian ski resort. The chap working in the hostel was British, on his gap year and planning to study in Canterbury. He made a good German breakfast the next day! I was a little shocked that having spent a large part of his gap year working in a ski resort he had done no skiing- hopefully he will have fun with all the money saved!

Innsbruck 31 March - 1 April

The cloud cover only cleared to reveal the alpine peaks in the afternoon of my cycle to Innsbruck, which was a real joy to see. I did not notice much of a climb on the route to Innsbrick, so I was totally shocked when I found myself at the top of the enornous Inn valley (don't know if it's called that, but it has the river Inn at the bottom of it!), and I had a glorious downhill run of several hundred metres to the bottom. On arrival at Innsbruck, after a while I found a grotty independent hostel, but was pleased to share the dorm with a pair of friendly Aussies.

The following day, the first of April, was gloriously sunny, and the scenery of Innsbruck which is surrounded by a corona of white mountain peaks was breathtaking when seen against the blue sky. I spent the day exploring the city with those guys, and managed to trick Anthony (it being April 1st) that a fountain was spurting apple juice. He tasted it (sorry Anthony!), but he claims he was only doing it to be polite!

One funny thing about the Austrians is that if you ask them "Do you know where the ski jump is?" they will simply answer "Yes". You have to ask "Please, tell me where the ski jump is."

Freinfeld 2 April

I was very nervous about crossing the Brenner Pass into Italy, but it wasn't nearly as bad as I had thought. On the other side, I was a little annoyed to find that nothing of the culture is Italian, as the official sign at the border "Sud Tirol ist nicht Italien!" suggests.

The food is still bratwursts, and the language is Deutsch. The only difference was the quality of the breakfast, which consisted of 3 pieces of bread, some scrapings of cheese, and jam. This was a big shock after Germany.

Rasen 3 April

Found a campsite on this day, which was lucky- still in Sud Tirol. The Alpine scenery was stunning, and the night was not too cold.

Lozzo 4 April

I asked a farmer if I could camp in his field, and he asked me in to have supper with his wife and son. He is an electrician 5 days a week, and keeps sheep and donkeys for the weekends. The Spag bog was very tasty as were the home made saucisson.

Vittorio Venetto 5 April

Having decended the mountains, the warm mediterranien air is wafting over my skin. The nights are balmy, and the realisation that I have cycled to Italy is now a reality. I stayed in a shared apartment in the city where some of the inhabitants cooked my supper for me in the proper Italian way! (pork rashers, globe artichoke, and wonderful tomato shaped like a pumpkin)

Aquileiea 6 April

The flat lands of Italy were a treat after the hills of the Dolomites. I made good progress, and made it to a campsite that was getting ready for the summer season by cleaning the pool. This was a major city of the Roman Empire, so I explores some of the ruins, and the Basilica contains a huge mosaic commissioned by Constantine after the legalisation of Christianity.

Trieste 7 April - present

I am loving being in Italy, and it will be sad to leave it for Slovenia tomorrow. I have explored Trieste and the Hostel is beautifully perched overlooking the Adriatic. I sat up in bed this mornign and looked at the ships bobbing up and down. It is very near to Miramare, a stunning castle built by Archduke Maximilian who lived here when it was part of the Hapsburg Empire.

I asked a lady in the street where a good place to eat well for little, and she took me to Marios, where I hat the most delicious gnocci in gravy sauce. They were the size of hamburgers and tasted like stuffing. Delicious. I then went to a cafe and had an espresso topped with a little bit of whipped cream!

Still in Munich!

2009-03-29T06:13:00.000-07:00

My phone is broken, so anyone trying to contact me, this is the reason! I am going to stay in Munich until tomorrow to buy a new one.

Inventory List

2009-03-27T04:39:00.000-07:00

For those of you interested in the stuff I am taking with me, and those of you who might like to join me, here is a list of the kit I am bringing:

Bike, etc
Thorn Raven Tour bike
Brooks Saddle
Cateye Rear and Front Lights
Cateye micro wireless Trip Computer
Thorn Racks, front and back
Zefal HPX pump (and a spare mini pump)
Large Ortlieb Bar Bag
Ortlieb Map holder
Ortlieb Classic Rear Panniers
Ortlieb Front Roller plus panniers
Large Ortlieb Dry bag with shoulder straps
Shimano Deore LX brakes
Schwalbe Marathon XR tyres
Photocopies of Passort, driving licence and NHS card

Clothes
Fleece Balaclava
Buff
High Viz waistcoat

Short Finger gel gloves
Sunglasses
Alpkit Filo Down Jacket
High Viz raincoat
Ortlieb Sleeping mat
Thermal Top
Thermal Tights
Padded Tights
Baggy cycle shorts
Padded Lycra Shorts
Thin Fleece
2 pairs of thick Socks
Short and Long Sleeve Cycling Shirts
Light weight tracksuit bottoms
Travel Towel
Waterproof gloves
Warm Hat
Turnbull & Asser cotton shirt (well, some luxuries?)
Cashmere jumper
Blue jean cords
5 pairs of boxers
Exustar Stelvio leather SPD cycling shoes

Random Useful Stuff
Petzel Head Torch
Antibacterial Gel
Top Peak multi tool
Scissors
Combination lock with wire
Leatherman style too (thanks Jam Pot)
Sewing Kit
Sterilisation Tablets
USB Keys (Thank you Lucy!)
Vaseline
Camera, memory cards
Sunglasses
Ipod
Plastic Bowl
Wooden Spoon
Digital Dictaphone
MSR Whisperlight Stove and fuel bottle
Bike Cable, a highest level Lock, and another cable lock
Helmet
bungee cords
Terra Nova voyager tent
Spare tent pegs
Tarp for under tent
Zip lock bags
Ortlieb Sleeping Mat
Plastic Mug
Soap
Mess Tins
Loads of dry bags
Mozzie net
Large water bladder
Lapsang Souchong
Dried Soup
Military parachute cord
Plastic clothes pegs
water purification tablets
Plastic water bottles
Seamgrip
Lightsticks
Deet
Small and large cable ties
Emergency blanket
Duck Tape
Power monkey
Phone charger
wind up charger
Cables for elecronics
Travel adaptor
Alpkit Sky High Sleeping bag
Jag bag silk sleeping bag liner
Casio watch
Docksiders
Compass x 2
Europe on a shoestring Lonely planet (irrelevant pages ripped out)
Pritt Stick
New Testament

First Aid, and Personal Hygeine
Wash bag
Ortlieb First aid bag
Adhesive tape
Surgisilk
Antiseptic cream
Elastoplast
Urgostrips
Eyebath
Paracetamol &codeine
Razor
Nail Clippers
Chap stick
Shampoo
Moisturiser
Tissues
Plasters (cushoned)
wound dressing
gel blister plasters
Emergency antibiotics
TCP Spray
Anti Perspirant
Immodium
Sudocream
Ibuprofen gel and tablets
Gaviscon
Adcortyl for mouth ulcers
Piriton
Electric shaver

Spares:
Brake and gear cables
Rohloff Oil Change kit
Spare Rohloff Oil
Spare brake pads
Spare rear spokes
Spare Rohloff cable
Tyre repair kits
Brooks Saddle wax
Torx Screwdriver
Spare Rohloff fittings
Multi bike tool
Polyurethane adhesive
scalpel
chain tightening tool
Chain oil

Dinkelsbuhl, Donauworth, Augsburg, Munich

2009-03-26T11:45:00.000-07:00

I left Rothenburg on the 22nd and headed for Dinkelsbuhl, another walled city (are all cities in Bavaria walled?!)

I have been following the "Romantische Straße" cycle path, which conveniently took me in the general direction I needed to go. I have seldom ever had to use the road in Germany. The annoying thing about cycle paths over roads is that if you lose your way, not only are you lost, but you could be in the middle of farmland. You have to retrace your steps looking for the little indicator signs.

I cycled with another chap for half of that day, but he wasn't terribly friendly, and I was pleased to part company at the end of the day. The only times he stopped were to pick up empty plastic bottles from litter bins to claim the 25c deposit back. I have seen quite respectable people in Germany going through rubbish bins picking out plastic bottles for that reason.

In Dinklesbuhl, the hostel was closed so I stayed in a b&b which was only a couple of Euro more than the hostel would have been anyway. I fell asleep at 9pm for the first time since the age of 13 (that is 8 pm in the UK!) The b&b was run by a very sweet old lady who laid on the most fantastic breakfast just for me. Different types of bread, sausage, and cheese, a boiled egg, yoghurt, EARL GREY, orange juice... It felt as though Father Christmas had been as I entered the Breakfast room to see it all spread out.

I then headed for Donauworth, where I was yet again the sole hostel resident, and the sole recipient of a lavish breakfast. The lady on reception spoke very good English, despite only having studied it for a short period, and I made myself a very Germanic supper of smoked frankfurters and sauerkraut!

On the morning of the 24th my heart sagged when I was greeted with a view from the window that was more South Pole than South Germany, however thankfully the air temperature was too warm and it melted pretty fast. It snowed nearly all day but never settled. I stayed that night in Augsburg, which is a pleasant city west of Munich.

The following day it snowed hard all day, but never settled thankfully. I left the Romantische Straße and passed through Dacau on the way to Munich which was the site of the first concentration camp. It is a truly vile place and I was surprised to see hoardes of adolescent school children giggling round the place and taking tons of photos. The calm of the buildings, and the huge "parade square" is quite unsettling. There was a very informative museum exhibit in one of the complexes. When cycling up to the memorial site, is very strange to note the normality of life that goes on around it, with suburban houses and children's playgrounds encircling it.

I eventually got to Munich that evening, and easily found the hostel for once, which was a boon considering the weather conditions. It is a large independent hostel that was recommended by Wolfi, and is very jolly with a lively bar and all sorts of people everywhere. The staff are also very friendly and interested in my trip. One of them, Cat, is really into cycling and helped me a lot in getting my bike safely stored underground. The only annoying thing is that smoking has not been banned in Germany, so clothes stink of fags having spent a few hours in the bar.

I took a city tour organised by the hostel, by a chap called Osbourn Kemp- who is proud to be the only black guide in the city. He told me he has lived in the Bahamas.

Met Nick Francis for a multitude of beers in the Augustiner Brewery beer hall, and we had an excellent supper of roast pork shank with perhaps the best crackling I have tasted. He has kindly let me stay in his flat, so I am going to take advantage and stay an extra day in the city. It is a good idea to have a proper break before taking on the hills that lie south and the weather seems to be improving all the time.

I now need to move my stuff to Nick's flat at the other end of the city!

Frankfurt, Miltenberg, Bad Mergentheim, Rothenberg ob der Tauber

2009-03-21T10:51:00.000-07:00

Rothenberg´s City Walls

Snowball

Summer Gazebo for the night

Supper my friends brought me!

The kind people who looked after me so well

Frankfurt´s old area from the river (the church on the right)

A REAL Frankfurter!

"Grilled Rib"

Le Fort´s supper of Frankfurters

Frankfurt

My cycling pal down the Rhine

On the morning of the 17th, I received a text message from Justin Le Fort who is on business in Frankfurt that I should go and visit him. As I was only 50k away, this was a great idea and it turns out that there are cycle paths on this route as far as Munich and beyond, usually following rivers.

After a glorious morning cycling down the Rhine with Holyie, a German chap who is cycling the length of the Rhine, I turned onto the Main (pronunced mine) river for Frankfurt.

I looked a little odd walking through the lobby at the Marriot in cycling tights, clutching my worldly belongings in black pannier bags, however we made it unchecked to the lift, and the thirty somethingth floor which afforded an amazing panorama of the city. Frankfurt has skyscrapers like Manhattan, however it is as though all the people have permanently gone upstate. It feels like a ghost town, and there are not even nearly enough cars to fill the broad streets. It is rather like Birmingham, but cleaner. It was carpet bombed in the war, so very little remains of the old city, save the church where the Holy Roman Emperors were crowned. I had no idea Europe had a skyline like it.

We had a good evening sampling Germany´s best beers and some of her Riesling. Arguably too good an evening. We supped in the most extraordinary stereotypical German restaurant with kitsch gnomes and cuckoo clocks adorning every available space. The chiwawa which trotted about the place was the cherry on top. It was quite extraordinary, but the food was tasty and the service was friendly. Everything was served with sauerkrout and mashed potatoes, and half the menu was different types of Frankfurter. I plumped for the "grilled rib" on the English translated menu which turned out to be a pork chop, but it was rather nice.

We walked out of the first restaurant because they didn´t accept plastic- Germany has not fallen in love with credit cards as we have. I have found my card to be always refused in Supermarkets, and where they to accept it, there is never chip and pin. These wild barbarians!

The next day, the 18th, I didn´t feel as hung over as I would have thought and managed a long day to Miltenberg (a very quaint German town on the river Tauber) where I found the youth hostel that had been indicated on the map was closed. I therefore found the camp site, pitched up and lit my stove. The sunlight was by this stage gone. Just as I was preparing to cook my Pasta Sauce supper, I heard a voice near the reception kiosk, so I went over to let them know I was there.

"I am sorry, but zee cimpzite iz clozd". When I asked if I could just sleep there and move on in the morning, the little bastard just repeated himself. Looking back on it, it was rather humorous, like a scene out of "Allo Allo", but it placed me on rather a sticky wicket. I packed up my stuff, and cycled back to the bridge (the campsite was thankfully in the town).

As I looked at the tourist map, working out what I was going to do, a chap asked me what I was doing. I explained what had happened, and he beckoned me to the house where his daughter Tanja lives. "She speaks better English." She came out, and very kindly said I could sleep in her garden. It turned out that I could sleep in the summer gazebo. I was incredibly well looked after with a blow-heater, tea, a thermos of hot water, and a beef stew! I was even invited inside to take a warm shower, and we used an internet translator to just about converse.

I have therefore experienced coldness, but extreme kindness and hospitality in Germany.

Next day, I cycled to Bad Mergentheim, where I found I was once more the only person at the hostel and I received a buffet breakfast all to myself! The chap was a German student (Ben)- all German boys have to choose between 9 months in the army or 9 months doing public service, and youth hostel work counts as this. He is bright, and finds the menial work irritating as he wants to get to university to study science. It appears unfair that German girls don´t have to do it. He gave me a "Radler"- a German bottled shandy (tasty) and we stayed up talking about history. It´s the first time I have chatted to a German about that which Basil Fawlty couldn´t help but mention; it was interesting to hear him, and reassuring to know that Germans generally feel the same way about that period as we Britons do.

Yesterday, it was gloriously sunny but hideously freezing with head winds so I decided to stop in Rothenberg after only 50k. I have taken a rest day here. It is a beautiful walled medieval city, like St Malo but smaller and prettier. A quarter of the people on the streets appear to be Japanese tourists, and many of the menus are in Japanese and Germen (not English!) The local delicacy appears to be "snowballs" which are solid spheres made of ribbons of biscuit, dusted with icing sugar. I thought it was a little disappointing.

German youth hostels don´t have kitchens which is irritating for those of us on a budget. I have used my camp stove in the past, but tonight it is going to be potato salad and a few other cold things. I am sharing a dorm with a friendly Frenchman called Dominic who is addicted to travelling, it appears.

Need to go and have some supper!--but first I am going to try to upload some photos for the first time to all the blogs I have written so far

Bingen

2009-03-16T12:33:00.000-07:00

In front of the Rhine outside the Hostel

I think this is posibly the most expensive internet mchie in the world! Cycled along the Nahe rivr toay toBingen which is on the rhine. good brekkie- all by myself, which was salami, cheese, more slami and sugar bet syrup- very sweet but very tasty! Very good cycling weather, and at one point Iwas cycling through vineyards on the edge of hills which were terraced rather like paddy fields. Some friendly vineard workers gave me a short cut hint which was very sneaky! A secret tunnel under the railway line saved me a 50m climb! Here at Bingn, the Rhine is amazing, and you can see the enormous brges going up it from the hostel. There are som spectacular castles perched on rocky crags. The hostel is on a hill so the view isinredible! I have noticed that the Blgiens and Germans are happier to ue english words than the French in everyday use. I saw some interesting graffiti today which read "fuck coff". How quaint! This computer is wful so I am going to stop and go and wash my clothes!

Idar-Oberstein

2009-03-15T12:53:00.000-07:00

Currently parked at Idar-Oberstein, on the river nahe.

Yesterday, I only managed about 35km due tko a late start messing round Trier sorting out maps (why on earth don´t they sell one for the south west quarter of Germany?

When I eventually worked out the direction I wanted to go, I realised I had pointed my nose in the direction of a small mountain range! Little wonder that having started at half 12 I only managed a piddly distance before the end of the day.

I found rather a grand camp site for a small village (Reinsfeld) which had rather nice warm showers and loos to make up for the sleeping-in-a-field bit. It wasn't really worth the 10 euro they charged for it! I was out of fuel for my stove so supper was tinned herring in curry sauce (YUCK! why did I buy that?!) and the last bit of chorizo. Not quite Chateau de Sauveterre standards.

On the way to the second mountain range this morning, I bumped into a couple of friendly German cyclists. Bernhard and Paul took me out for a few appletises and explained that the route I had set myself was headed for mountain after mountain all the way to the alps. After much map pointing and discussion, they agreed I should head down the Nahe, which in turn feeds the Rhine, and then to follow the Rhine all the way down. So that is the plan...but these can always change which is the joy of being on a bicycle with no ties!

Idar-Oberstein itself is a very spectacular little town with a church built into a rocky crag. I have the youth hostel all to myself (hope it´s not haunted!) and it is rather smart- the sheets are already on my bed with the towl in a fan shape avec chocolat on the summit.

I really have been surprised at how open, friendly and eager to help the Germans are. I am always in need of a little help from strangers, usually directions, andf they have been seriously helpful. Frank, the chap in the bike shop in Trier would not accept anything for a good half hour's skilled work getting my gears one and two back into action. If you are going to have a problem with a Rohloff speedhub, best to have it in Germany.

Onward to Luxembourg and Germany

2009-03-13T15:10:00.001-07:00

Trier´s beautiful Cathedral

Alive and kicking in Germany!

Market Square, Trier

Another Border!

My hostel in rural Luxembourg was next door to this castle!

Into the Grand Duchy

Barge Lift!

The computer I was using for the last blog deleted hqlf of what I wrote so I´ll try to backtrack. This Gerpam keyboard is similar to UK ones, except that the Y is at the bottom left. How irritating!

Right, we got as far as Ypres which was 7th March. That was a lovely sunny day, and come the evening I was rocketing along the Belgian calals under blazing sunlight so I thought I would push on another 30km. Big error as night fell earlier than I had anticipated, leaving me no option other than to camp on a village football pitch (at the suggestion of a local). This was actually rather jolly, and I enjoyed pesto with chorizo pasta from my new camp stove. Rain the following morning made packing up a little messy.

Next day I cycled along the canals further to Mons, which is a lovely student town with a clen an and pleasant hostel. En route I met a Flemish couple who had bought a 120´ barge and were converting it into a guest "house". They invited me aboard for deliciously tart apple juice from their garden.

On the 9th I discovered that the cycle paths in Wallonia are awfully signposted cmpared to Flanders, and I was horribly frustrated to more than once find myself on the wrong bank of the canal as it broke off in another direction with no bridge to cross. Grrrr. At Namur youth hostel that evening, I discovered the joys of 9.2% belgian lager with a friendly Japanese tourist.

I also saw the most incredible barge elevator (pictured).

10th was simply awful weather and I managed to get to Champlon, about 90km away due to the fact that it was straight down a straight road. Boring but satisfying:

Next day, I cycled into Luxembourg which was an absolute pleasure. The north Luxembourgeois countryside is like the Highlands of Scotland with a Narnian attitude. It really is lovely, and I stayed in a lovely hostel on a cliff next to a castle.

I then made it to Luxembourg (city) which is a nice little city, but not as amaying as the countryside to the north. I was concerned it may remind me of an unmentionable rock in the Channel, but thank heavens no.

I left Lux this morning. I cycled under sunshine along the border with Germany, which is the river Mosel, before finally entering Germany. I managed to sort out a few bike problems in Trier (new lock, gear problems) and the Germans have been so friendly and helpful which is brilliant!

Trier is another lively and pleasant student town with roman ruins and an ancient cathedral. I met a Singaporese student this evening and went for a drink. Out of internet time!

England, France, Belgium

2009-03-10T13:58:00.000-07:00

I am sorry this has not been updated- unbelievably none of the youth hostels I have stayed in until today have had internet connections.

I fear there will be a fez typos as I get used to the continental AZERTY keyboards again.

The trip eventually got underway on the 4th March from Buckingham Palace (mainly because from there both Blonde and Guy could wave me off and get to work semi-on-time. Her Majesty was in residence, but she didn't come down to wave a hankey which was rather a shame.

Blonde, the little darling even brought me tea, banana and marmite sandwich!

Having left the sending off committee, I negotiated the City, stopping off at the Gherkin to see Jonno and Emily, and past Grenwich and into Kent. The first night was spent in a youth Hostel in Medway which was un utter nightmare to find.

Second day took in Canterbury, and I stayed with the Loder-Symonds who conveniently life near Dover!

An early start got me into Europe (Calais) at about 1pm local time, and I immediately headed for Dunkirk which has a youth hostel which was just about open for business- I had to hang around for a while for somepone to turn up.

I arrived in Belgium to be greeted by scores of shops peddling cheap tobacco seemingly exclusively to the British, and the area was full of "fag cruisers" coming down from Kent.

I headed south to Ypres, and passed by a great many British WWI cemeteries. That, along with passing through the Menin Arch was a highly sobering experience. The arch is dedicated to those who died fighting for the British Empire.

Departure Date

2009-02-22T15:33:00.000-08:00

I have completed the vaccinations (my account is £400+ lighter for it), and I have most of the kit needed. I am currently rattling round buying items on a list which seems to be perpetually growing, and reaching the end of it is like chasing a mirage.

I am hoping to be departing on Sunday 1st March.

Update

2009-02-08T02:48:00.000-08:00

The snow has meant that I have decided to postpone my departure. This also allows me to totally finish my extremely expensive course of vaccinations. I now expect to leave on the 24th February.