This is the story so far, of Dave's bike trip from Dubai to Devon, via Iran, Turkey, Bulgaria, Romania, Hungary, Slovenia, Italy, Switzerland and France in June and July 2007.....

I started off from my home in Dubai in the sweltering heat of June 2007, with 35,000km on the clock and with the aim of getting to Sharjah port and completing the customs clearance for my bike in the early morning before it got too hot and then returning in the evening to catch the ferry for departure to Bandar - e – Abbas, Iran at 9pm. All sounded good in theory, but firstly I was "informed" by the customs authority that I needed to get a "clearance certificate for the purposes of tourism" in addition to the paperwork I had already collected to take my bike out of the country. So, back to Dubai and get the certificate from the Traffic Police, only to return and find the Port Office closed from 2pm - 5pm! So, back to Dubai for a shower (it was 43 degrees and VERY humid) and back again to Sharjah for the final round of form - filling and departure.

Everything went fine and before I knew it, I was waiting at the dock for all the other cars to be loaded and then I could put my bike on last. It was quite atmospheric as the oleagenous water lapped the pier in the foggy humidity with the romance only being ruined by my profuse sweating (again). When I finally got the bike on and persuaded the stevedores that it probably was a good idea to strap it down (!?), I went upstairs to the air - conditioned "passenger salon". It was like walking into a party late with your trousers down, with lots of lingering long stares aimed in my direction, as I was the only Westerner and a bit of a sweaty mess in my motorbike jacket. Nevertheless, after everyone had got over their initial shock, everyone settled down to their reassuringly sexually mixed groups and I made a lot of friends during the trip who wanted to find out what I was doing, etc. In particular a bloke called Mahdi was very nice today at Bandar - e - Abbas in helping me get translations, directions, etc when he needed to get off home to Shiraz to see his family after 2 continuous years of working in Dubai.

I slept better than expected and arrived a Bandar - e - Abbas ready to go through the formalities and head north asap into the Al Borz mountains and some cooler weather. I was planning to get to Bam that night, as a well - known touristy place which should have had plenty of hotels to choose from. All started well, with my Iranian Visa duly stamped in my passport. However, this heady pace soon began to lose momentum as the perspiration and frustration built until it is finally revealed to me that it was a religious holiday (?) and the man who does the carnet de passages wouldn't be back until tomorrow morning. Luckily texts from Lena and Phil kept my spirits up at this low point! I then had to take my bike off the ferry - which instead of a roll on, roll off, turns out to be a last on, last off - and into a compound full of worryingly dusty vehicles. Then unload my heavy boxes and walk with them in the midday heat to the terminal to get a taxi. To say I had a bit of a bead on, would be an understatement. I am worried that I might have brought too much stuff and my sweat glands suggest that my pores may have to be re-bored to deal with the pressure of sweat that evidently needs to evacuate my body........

So, into a taxi driven by the helpful Mr. Parvaz and off to the Hotel Ghods and its merciful AC for a shower and a nap. Wake up to realise what a surreal place I am in. A wonderful sky - blue and sandy shaded Na'ini style Persian carpet that is 12 foot by 18 foot dominates a large majlis seating area. The pile is so thick you need to take a machete with you to safely cross the room, but the furniture was cheap and tacky 12 years ago, whereas now it is a travesty and literally all largely held together by tape and chewing gum, it just didn't match. Anyway, I spread out my stuff and myself on the carpet and listen to the World Service on my new SW radio (thanks to Lena!) and add to the surrealism by listening to the Iran News Agency celebrate the religious holiday (surely they are designed to encourage spirituality and reflection?) condemn the UK for giving Mr Rushdie a gong at the Queens birthday honours and Britain condemn Iran for allegedly supplying a new "more sophisticated" type of roadside bomb to Afghan insurgents. Only 6 weeks ago a group of Royal Navy personnel were detained for over a week for allegedly trespassing into Iranian waters a couple of hundred miles up the coast in the Shatt – al – arab waterway.

However, the most worrying part of a long tirade of negative stories about Iran on the radio, is that in order to demonstrate its equal treatment of the sexes the government has decided to focus its annual summer crackdown on "unislamic" dress on men this year. Revolutionary Guards have shut more than 20 "western" barber shops in Tehran alone and police are authorised to detain and forcibly cut or shave the hair of people wearing degenerate hairstyles or to ensure they are wearing modest male clothing. I look in the mirror at my lengthening hair and emerging beard, all in a very noticeably western shade of dirty ginger and my silky board shorts with giant pink hibiscus all over them and feel slightly exposed in this regard. I decide to go out for an early evening walk nonetheless. I took a kebab and a banana - almond milkshake for my dinner and a growing surrealism created by my feeling of alienation from my surroundings and the heavy, hazy golden light of the evening, was topped off by lots of young men in uniform running on the beach, in combat fatigues that were too vividly blue or too garish yellow, with lots of small policemen with very wide peaked caps (Russian style) and unnecessary epaulettes. Very strange. Maybe I am just suffering from alcohol withdrawal symptoms. I must also admit that the Revolutionary Guards and to a lesser extent the ordinary police that I see, have a faintly ridiculous uniform themselves, which does not seem to be particularly inspired by the revelations of the prophet. Large peaked caps and a plethora of epaulettes, braidings and badges seem to take pomposity to the extreme, no doubt an observation I share with a number of ordinary Iranians, along with a reluctance to say anything about it out loud.
It is a testament to the quality of the Iranian people that I receive nothing but generosity and friendly curiousity during my whole trip. There was only one small exception when one man got out of his car and approached me earnestly, asked me where I was from and said that I had to understand that Salman Rushdie being honoured by the Queen was an affront to Iran. I skated over that particular conversational minefield and replied that I, like him I was sure, would not like to be always represented by the actions of my government and be expected to defending them when they weren't always in concordance with my own. Would he like to be justify the Iranian Embassy siege of 1980 for instance - a point that he judisciosly skated over in turn and we proceeded to discuss the journey I was taking and the high price of petrol in Iran, approximately (8 US cents a litre!) and after a short conversation of only 15 minutes (this is very short in Iran), we parted with a handshake. Friendly curiosity was the norm, particularly when I was asked my name. "Ah, ajudani?" is a common response to David, which when I deny and try to explain "athiest" I only get confused frowns and the conclusion of "nazrani, no?".
Whilst checking my email in Esfahan Central Library a few days later, I remember that during an evening stroll on the "beach" at Bandar - e - Abbas, I was shocked to see several speedboats run right up the beach, unload bales of American brand cigarettes and load up with caviar before speeding off again (most probably to Oman) having once seen the trade in reverse from the port of Khasab in the Musandem Peninsula, all in front of me, some young men in uniforms training on the sand and some traffic police. It stuck in my craw after a day of diligent bureaucratic attention from the Customs at the port 2 km down the coast!

Next day. with the help of my "good friends" Murtaza, Mohammed Riazi and Mr Reyami the Customs Manager, I made it out of the sweltering smugglers den that is Bandar - e - Abbas at lunchtime and was so keen to get some distance on, climb in altitude and head north asap that I did 750 km to Yazd by darkness. Crossing mountains and gaining altitude into desert plateaus, I start to see the black wool tents and herds of goats of the "I'lyats", the famous nomadic tribes of Iran, famous for their production of Persian carpets. With names like the Qashgai and Turcoman, they look down with contempt at those who have literally "civilised" themselves by living in a mud or concrete box. One man I stopped to talk with, Saleem, after being stopped by his flocks crossing the road in front and offered some green tea, referred in Farsi to the "Shehrnishes", literally those who live in cities and lamented their religiousity and revolutionary zeal to rush and modernise and enclose the Islamic Republic of Iran. As the long summer solstice day started to melt into a hazy desert sunset I reached the outskirts of Yazd. I was struck again by a phenomenon often noticed in my travels in Arabia of how when entering an isolated desert city they seem like oases of sophistication and opulence, although after staying for a while or entering, particularly by plane from "modern" starting points, they invariably seem shabby and mean.
I stayed in a great place in the old mud - walled city called the Silk Road Hotel, which had a lovely courtyard with big beds outside for lounging (like the chaikhanas in Uzbekistan), fountain, rooftop restaurant, etc. I spent 2 nights there, had all my meals there because it was so cool and an oasis of calm and they charged me 34 dollars upon departure - blumin' cheek!!! The old town was nice, with badgirs or windtowers, sprouting through the roofs of buildings for ventilation. I thought this was a bit strange as I heard that badgers in Britain are spreading TB, whereas in Iran they seem to be improving respiration? After a good night’s sleep, went out to the Zoroastrian temples to see the eternal flame, ahurumazda, towers of silence and to see if I could pick up any cheap Queen CDs..... Then went to see the Jameh Mosque and went into some underground irrigation channels (qanats) that are dug from the mountains into the town and still in use today.

I stopped in the heat of the day for a fab lunch of fesenjun, which was chicken in a fenugreek, walnut and pomegranate sauce with loads of crispy fresh Iranian bread, which has got to be the best unleavened bread you can get. It was rich and tasty and light all at the same time. Then after a siesta I went to the Hosseinieh ar Amir Chakmaq, which is an amazing 3 - tiered facade for the Ashura festival, which takes place in the month of Moharram. There was a big (50 feet high) nakhl in front of it too, which is supposed to represent the coffin of the Iman Hossein after his death and defeat at the battle of Karbala (the first one, not the current one). Apparently, so another "good friend" of mine told me, this nakhl gets carried around town in procession whilst acolytes of all ages and genders flagellate themsleves with chains and ropes or boards with nails sticking out of them, until, funnily enough, they bleed profusely!? I think the Iranians could learn something from the Brazilians about how to organise a proper street party....

I left Yazd early the following morning, posing for a couple of photos with the bike, before stopping for petrol, which is falling into a well - worn pattern already. Firstly, the Iranian govt had just (this Saturday) implemented a new payment card for buying petrol, which is the only way you can pay for fuel nationwide. Amongst my many heartening conversations at the Customs Hall in Bandar - e - Abbas, I was told that I would have to go to the British Embassy in Tehran to get one as the only way I could legally purchase petrol. This seemed a bit excessive, especially as it is the most dangerous place for a Brit to go at the moment after big demonstrations there last week when crowds stopped diplomats entering for the Queens Birthday celebrations after Mr Rushdie got his gong. Anyway, instead I pull up and point to my tank and say "benzeen" and get the nod or shake and then they fill up the tank. Actually, every time so far, they have massively overfilled the tank and petrol shoots everywhere. This is not very good on a number of counts given that the attendants are usually smoking, everyone's engines are running for the AC and it makes it a bit slippery when trying to get the Big Bird of the centre stand, and it is not good for the environment too. Then the attendant realises I don't have a card and takes one from someone else and then I pay them however much it costs (not much, it is even cheaper than in Dubai). During this time, I have taken my helmet off and the Big Bird has attracted a lot of attention as the govt outlaws bikes above 200cc here (what part of sharia law is that!?) so I have a crowd of "good friends" who want to sit on the bike, peep the horn and have a photo taken with me on their mobile phonecams........

Anyway, after 400km or so following "il rah", farsi for "the way" I reached Esfahan and the weather is still hot, but not humid and getting better all the time. The driving however is deteriorating immensely. I saw a pedestrian knocked over today which is my biggest fear here, as they just seem to walk right in front of you. Coming into town it was almost like there was a real sense of panic on the road and it felt like being in a refugee crisis or something. I am out of touch with the news, but has George Bush done something stupid with regards to Iran or what.....

Anyway, made it to a hotel that ticks the 3 C's boxes (Central, Cheap and Clean(ish)) and went for a Chelo Kebab, THE Iranian fast food, and I mean FAST. Within 20 minutes of entering I had left with 2 lamb kofta type kebabs, a plate of pilau rice with barberries and yogurt, salad, more delicious hot, crispy, thin bread and a peach flavoured Delster, non - alcoholic beer. Needless to say, the bread was the highlight, the "beer" was the lowlight. I am already dreaming of an ice - cold Efes in Van next week. Only problem encountered so far is my bottle of engine oil has split inside the pannier (heat?) and is all over my clothes......

Lovely to talk to Lena last night my love, although I was sorry to hear about the windy weather this end (I think it is the remnants of the storm that hit Pakistan a couple of days ago). Off from Tabriz today to Turkey and my appointment at the first bar I see with a cold Efes Dark..... Thought I would write an email to you and the crew with the details of what has been happening since my last note from Esfahan Central Library. Afterwards I went to Imam Square and enjoyed the sights that we saw together a few years ago, if anything it is even quieter in terms of tourists than before but still just as beautiful. Enjoyed tea in the Qeyssariah Teahouse at the entrance to the Bazaar - e - Borg with a great view in front of the Blue Mosque directly across the Shah's old polo field, which is now the second biggest public square in the world after Tiananmen. Had a strange dinner in the Safreh Khaneh restaurant on the square - a dish called dizi. Basically it is a mutton and vegetable stew, that the waiter presents to you in a bowl. All quite predictable, until he pours off the liquid into a soup bowl to be taken seperately from the solids which are left. He then adds some lumps of mutton fat (presumably for that cloying taste you love) and mashes it all up together into a paste, which he gives you some bread to eat with. Interesting, but a lot of effort for what is still in the end, an ordinary mutton stew!!!
Then went exploring the bazaar for a while and came across the Azedegan Tea House, which is on the site of the old Zoroastrian Fire Temple and was covered in wrestling memorabilia, weapons and hunting trophies. It was a real blokesplace and almost like a pub without the beer. I got in with some bazaaris and shared some tea and a qalyan with them, even getting involved in an arm - wrestling competition with them. I thought it was diplomatic to "lose" my round of three 2 - 1. Then back to the Pol and Park hotel over the Si - o - Seh bridge, which had a nice weekend feel, as it was Friday the next day. Up and breakfasted early, with the bike in attendance as they had let me park it inside the breakfast room. If I can do that in a hotel, why can't I do that at home? Anyway, it wasn't such a good option this time as some of the spilt oil had got onto the tiled floor, which I had to clean up and made it very difficult to manoeuvre my bike out through the door. I was glad to skip out of the door and over the step as the guests stared at me open mouthed, showing me their masticated breakfast pastries, as I skated gingerly over the oiled and tiled floor.... Off on the road to Kashan, and it had become very hot again. It was a pretty uneventful journey through a flat desert apart from the fact that I was going through toll - roads for the first time. Motorbikes are not allowed on them (I guess because they are 200cc max) but the booth attendant waved me through, also without paying - result!!! Got to Kashan by early afternoon and it was D-E-A-D. I couldn't find anything open and wandering around the locked up covered bazaar was a bit eery. There was an old house, the Khan - e - Tabatei which was open, next to some unimpressive Seleucid city walls. So, faced with the prospect of returning to my room and watching Iranian TV, which on Friday seems to consist of constant religious programmes (imagine Songs of Praise ALL DAY LONG, but luckily in a language you can't understand, which was some consolation I suppose) I decided to get on my bike and head out of town to the Bagh - e - Tarikhi - Ye - Fin. These are some classical Persian gardens, designed to represent paradise on earth built by Shah Abbas. There was a lovely teahouse where I chilled out for a while with some tea and ice - cream, all of which really picked up my spirits. Stopped of at the Shahzadeh - ye Ibrahim mosque on the way back, which had the normal blue tile thing going on, but interestingly had a cone instead of a dome, as all the mosques in this area seemed to. Back into town, which was still deadsville, population 5, where I managed to find a pizza place open, which I had with a lovely fresh pomegranate juice.
Next day I was off and out early for the 750km ride to Masuleh and made good progress on the greatest variety of roads so far - terrible pot - holes, fast desert roads and sweeping mmountain passes, tunnels and valleys through the snow - capped Alborz. The last section from Fuman to Masuleh was a track and there had been a lot of rain which had caused rockfalls and landslides. The road was quite traillie in parts, which was great. There was noticeably more of a Turkish feel up here and the town of Masuleh had a nice relaxed atmosphere and was lovely and cool too. I got a big room, filled with a quality turcoman carpet and there was a pile of blankets in the corner. There was a cool chaikhana in the small bazaar which was like a big shed with benches around the perimeter and an enormous stove in the centre which served to heat the room, warm the tea and provide chunks of charcoal for shisha smoking. Here I met the local old geezers and Chris, who was riding from India to England on his DR 650. He had started out with his wife, but they had an accident in Pakistan and she broke her foot and had gone on to England.It was good chatting to him and swapping stories, etc. Went to dinner together and had a fish supper (with rice) and doogh, which is a salty yogurt drink, whist being forced to watch The Good, The Bad and The Ugly dubbed into Farsi - strange, but if you were going to watch any film dubbed into a language you don't speak, than that was a pretty good one. I was up early the next day after a fitful night's sleep due to a lot of movement in the night, outside where my bike was parked and inside the blankets too. It was a long day's ride to Tabriz, via the mountain towns of Astara and Ardabil on the Azeri border after 100kms along the disappointing Caspian coast. It was also hard to believe that this was still the same country as the sweatbox of Bandar - e - Abbas a week ago, as there was a distinct chill in the early morning mountain air. I got pulled over by a copper on a motorbike, although luckily all he seemed interested in was having a closer look at my bike and showing off to the inevitable crowd that gathered to see what was happening to the farangi by pulling away with a sort of do - nut, skid turn. I'd had no breakfast and couldn't seem to find anything on the way apart from a couple of bananas, so by the time I got to Tabriz, I was knackered. I opted for a smart hotel near a park on the outskirts of town with secure parking, rather than trawl through the downtown traffic looking for somewhere cheaper. It also had the added attraction of a swimming pool and sauna, although after check - in I found out that it was ladeez only day. I had something to eat and got a splitter of a headache and went to bed - lesson learnt. Yesterday, I was up early feeling refreshed and went for a swim before a big buffet breakfast and a ride into the city centre, unencumbered by luggage or a helmet. First stop was the ruins of another Blue Mosque, which had been destroyed by an earthquake in 1773. Before a ride-by viewing of the Ark (castle), which was also mostly destroyed by an earthquake in 1826. Then into the bazaar, which was enormous and fortunately not significantly seismically challenged, Most interesting places were the motorbike souk, where I managed to buy a can of some fairly decent looking engine oil (only SAE 40 available though) and some tacky "Iran" stickers for my bike - I suppose they wouldn't stick if they weren't tacky. Highlights were a pre - revolution Honda 750 - 4 in mint condition. The bazari - bloke let me have a spin and said he would sell it to me for $300!!! I later found out from Neil that a good one goes for 6,000+ GBP in the UK. Then there were some really awful looky - likey new Harley cruiser things, which were a massive 200cc. I then went to the carpet section and succumbed to buying 2 Armenian carpets and a Tabrizi kelim - for just over $100, which I thought was a good price. Generally, things are very cheap here, especially petrol, which is even cheaper than Dubai. My tank has always cost less than $1 to fill up. (Note to self, must fill - up before the Turkish border).
So, off to Turkey now and time to swap over my Iran Lonely Planet to the "Europe on a Shoestring" one. This however, presents a navigational challenge, as it means that I will getting directions from an A4 - sized map of Europe and my stick - on dashboard compass. At least thanks to Ataturk, most of the signs will be in Roman script........
Rıght then my love, wıth Phıl's technıcal assıstance I have managed to change the settıngs of the Turkısh keyboard and wrıte you another note after a few days. It wıll probably fuck ıt up for the next user, but hey, that's the sort of homogenısatıon you get wıth the globalısatıon of the world capıtalıst economy for you....

Anyway, after takıng a shortcut through an unpaved road to the Turkısh border at Sero, I fılled up wıth my last tank of cheap Iranıan fuel. I went through a couple of hours at the Iranıan Customs facıng the 'go there, get a copy of thıs, come here, your bıke ısn't valıd ın Iran, etc' malarky, I thınk the offıcıals eventually decıded that ıt was best just to let me go. It was very difficult not to laugh when the copies that you faxed to me were held up to the light, sniffed and turned upside down, just in case they could reveal there secrets....

Through to the Turkısh sıde and a very frıendly coffee wıth the Customs Offıcers and an all - round effıcıent process let me through ın less than an hour, despıte lots of Kurdısh and Iraqı refugees at the border. A toothless old arab Iraqi man came up to me and asked me for a lift to "Constantinopli", which was very poignant as I don't think he could have made it up on to the pillion seat, let alone hung on for the journey of several thousand kilometres to the other side of Turkey, especially as the Turkish border guards didn't seem to keen to let him and his kith through in any great hurry. Bumpy roads through lovely verdant mountaın passes wıth no traffıc on the roads except lots of military hardware and lots of annoyıng mılıtary checkposts manned by swaggering teenage conscripts who seem to delight in harassing travellers. Fortunately for me, they seem more interested in hassling Kurds and Iraqi refugees than a westerner with a ginger beard on a bike. The weather started turnıng nasty wıth heavy thunderstorms and haıl too, hastened the dusk. Past the ımpressıve Hosap Castle, perched on the mountaın top domınatıng the valley. It looked very omınous ın the glowerıng lıght, an effect heightened by the overflight of a large group of black low - flying military helicopters, amongst which I recognise the twin propellor chinooks and black hawk attack craft. Birds too are swarming in the dusky gloom amidst the excitement of the market traders who run out into the road and grab at my arms to tempt me to stop. Some of the helicopters break off from the main group and circle the castle several times and one of them seems to hover over my bike making fast progress out of town, trying to beat the gathering storm. I know you can have a murder of crows and a parliament of rooks; I wonder what is the collective noun for this group of black birds? Eventually I get to the top of a mountaın pass to see the sun settıng vermillion over Lake Van under the low black clouds. wıth weather - forecast symbols of thunderstorms skatıng over the surface of the molten water. Into Van town and park up at a cheap hotel wıth parkıng before enjoyıng a well - earned doner kebab and some cool pints of Efes beers.

On Wednesday I get up to a crystal clear day, pleasant temperature and the Turkish call to prayer starting with "Allah buyuk" rather than the "Allah Akbar" I have been used to so far in Iran and Arabia. So, out to the massıve Rock of Van castle. It ıs possıbly the bıggest castle I have ever seen (way bıgger than Carcassone) and ıs absolutely deserted with loads of opportunıtıes for Boys Own adventures scramblıng up walls, clımbıng towers and explorıng dungeons. It was a cıtadel too, although that ıs semı - burıed beneath due to the rısıng lake waters. Back to to town and sort out some qualıty motor oıl, exchange money and buy a map of Turkey - thıs country ıs bıg! So, I am glad that I have the map, although ıf I got lost, I suppose I could always make lıke Ms Muffet, sat on a Tuffet and asked a Kurd the way......

Get the bıke out of the garage and head out of town on another luggage and helmetless jaunt to catch a ferry to Akdamar Island to see ıts 10th century Byzantıne church. The building was lovely and the atmosphere was great as well. I meet an Orthodox priest (or perhaps he was a monk?) there who comes over to me to explain one of the friezes that I am looking at in very good English (my Turkish is non - existent except for the words that are similar in Arabic – lotfan, etc). However, because he is whispering, speaking quickly with no natural punctuation and in a very heavy accent on some detailed point of theology I can't respond and participate, which must have seemed very rude. The only thing I can recall from his monologue is that the Orthodox trinity emphasises that the holy ghost is linked only with the father and not the son, so as not to detract from his strictly human nature, whereas in the "western church" the holy ghost is another equal and indivisible part of the trinity. Overall fırst ımpressıons at the end of Day 1 ın Turkey are posıtıve - the whole world seems to have gone yeast crazy - they are usıng ıt ın bread, beer and everythıng. Also the phone network ıs much more relıable but the drıvıng and the roads are much worse than ın Iran. 1 day was enough to do Van and I am ready to move onto Mt Nemrud the next day. Van's other claım to fame ıs that all ıts cats have odd Davıd Bowıe eyes, whıch only goes part of the way to explaın the truly terrıble statue of a cat on the outskırts of town, crafted from pure fıbreglass....

Next day I am shocked by the 50 - fold ıncrease ın petrol prıces but even more so when a numpty reverses ınto me ın the hıgh street whılst I am statıonary ın traffıc and have my lıghts on full - beam! Anyway no harm done apart from hıs hurt prıde as all hıs mates ın the cafe opposıte take the pıss out of hım rotten. Out of town and through the last of the mılıtary checkposts, whıch ıs a great relıef. What look lıke spotty 15 year old wıth AK47s swarmıng all over the bıke and askıng to have a go on your bıke ıs a bıt stressful. After the fırst few, I found the best way to approach them ıs to go for the most senıor lookıng bloke, take my helmet off ın advance and stay on my bıke. Sınce the border I have been leavıng my chınstrap undone to facılıtate thıs. They ımmedıately see that you are a farangı and wıth lots of marhabas and tamams everythıng ıs less confrontatıonal all round. Hot agaın as I descend ınto the Anatolıan plateau from Caucasus or the Taurus or whatever these mountaıns are, and the roads become truly awful. Lots of bıg potholes, meltıng slıppery tar and deep, loose gravel only seem to be exacerbated by the plethora of roadworks whıch mean upto 20km stretches of rough traıl rıdıng through dust or mud. The repaırs seem to make thıs worse and the solutıon seems to be to add another layer of tar and dump loads more gravel on top. I went through one pot hole today that was so bıg ıt had ıts own potholes and I was at eye level wıth the draınage dıtch stood on my foot pegs. In the afternoon I take an entertaınıngly chaotıc ferry trıp across a trıbutary of the Euphrates and then a great road clımbıng up to the cool of Mt Nemrud. What possessed an obscure Commagene Kıng to buıld such a grand mortuary complex ıs not clear but the effect ıs very grand, espcecıally as he statuary represent a mıx of ancıent Persıan and Greek gods. Orgınally set up lıke 2 ancıent chess sets, they have been knoecked out of sequence by earthquakes - the settıng ıs spectacular too. Thıs was enhanced by watchıng the sunset and moonrıse sımultaneously over the West terrace wıth gold and sılver reflected respectıvely from the surroundıng mountaıns and lakes.

I stayed ın a shack behınd the cafe at the peak and got up at 4am the next day to see the sunrıse over the East Terrace before a breakfast of tea and cheese toasty and off on my way before 6am. As ı descended the dogs, goats, cows, donkeys, hens and geese who sleep on the tarmac for the exra heat, wake and scatter before me. There ıs a zıg zag route today, wıth lots of delays because of roadworks, more terrıble road surfaces and a rock fall whıch the army were blastıng and clearıng as we waıted. At one poınt I was followıng a traın of lorrıes waıtıng for the chance to overtake, when suddenly we went ınto another roadworks where the top surface was taken off and we were on dust and rock. It was a complete whıte - out of dust and ıt was lıke beıng stoned as they pınged off me and the bıke. Eventually get ınto Goreme ın Cappadocıa ın the mıd afternoon and go for a walk to stretch the legs ın a fantastıc, surreally beautıful landscape. I enjoy the walk stıll further because there are loads of great scrumpıng opportunıtıes of fresh, rıpe cherrıes and aprıcots - luvverly! Then I get back to town and treat myself to a bıg meal and a bottle of wıne at the Orıent restaurant where I met Toby and Ann who were on theır Tıger and had had theır headlıght smashed ın a sımılar whıte - out experıence that I had. I helped them tape ıt up and they gave me some of theır wıre gauze they had bought to make a protectıve cover, whıch I dıd the same. I must say, my bıke ıs lookıng suıtably dusty and fly - blown now to look lıke a proper - job overlander.

So, up and at em to the coast from Cappadocia to the coast today as I descend the Anatolian Plateau to the Med and the heat and humidity start to pick up. This spells double trouble as it makes the road surface even more treacherous as the tar melts and then also thunderstorms lash me from Antalya to Olympos/ Hitting the coast was a culture shock after Iran and Eastern Turkey as all of a sudden there are a lot of tourists and lots of flesh on display, I also witness a police raid on the Bulldog Pub whilst waiting at a set of traffic lights, I was so proud of my compatriots as they were dragged from the bar in their Manchester United football tops into the police van and it was still only 2pm. Anyway, I make it into Olympos where the high street had turned into a muddy river with bars and treehouses and beach shacks on each side/ The town is in a National Park, so it is surrounded by wooded mountain slopes and leads into the ruins of the ancient city of Olympos. I get into my shorts and head to the beach for a splosh, followed by a snooze in the hammock outside my tree house. Then later I head to one of the bars that serves Efes Dark and plays non - trance music and relax even further.

Next day is spent lazing around after riding to Kumlica (no joke, that is its name) the next big town to get some cash. I am really enjoying this helmetless riding I must say. I tighten up the bikes front suspension, add more oil, have 2 swims, laze in the hammock, talk to Lena about our plans for meeting in Milan = very busy day. There are lots of boats here as it is one of the stopping off points for Blue Cruising around this area. I am missing Lena bigtime again here as it is another romantic place, so I plan an evening trip to the Chimaera, which was very interesting, but would have been rubbish in the day, something like the calor gas flicka - flame fire my Mum used to have in her front room! It is a mountain top that had lots of vents with vents of gas which spontaneously ignite into quite big jets. Off to Efes tomorrow to see the ancient city of Ephesus and hopefully to camp for the first time too - both of which I know Lena would not enjoy particularly so that makes it a tiny bit easier to cope without here being here.

I arrived into Selcuk yesterday via the sweltering coast and the ports of Kas and Fethiye. It was lovely going past the 3 mast schooners that ply the Blue Cruises around this area and seeing them from the snaking road out in the islands and bays. The water is surprisingly lovely and clear here and just the right temperature for refreshing swimming. The ride is only marred once again by the lethal road conditions and the heat. I am drinking 6l a day - 3 each morning and after lunch from my camelbak, hardly stopping for a pee and feeling driza bone in the evening. Luckily on entering town a bloke on a moped leads me to a good pansion that has all the 3 Cs - cheap, central and cleanish - as well as a pool, so I abandon all plans to camp immediately. After a refreshing plosh I am out into town.

It is quite a modern place with lots of bland buildings, but still manages to be charming. Running through the town is the remains of the Roman aqueduct, either as a few columns still joined by arches, single columns serving as traffic islands or even some sections with modern houses jammed in between. Then there is a Byzantine castle, medieval mosques and the tomb and basilica of St John. The town serves as a metaphor for Turkey as a whole - a modern facade concealing a fantastically mixed up ancient heart. The town is also inhabited by a colony of storks, who nest on top of the columns of the aqueduct or less often the modern buildings. I eat a restaurant in the main square and it is really entertaining to see life go by, especially the teenage fledglings try out flying for the first time. They are impressively big birds and the adults are very elegant, whilst the teenagers are awkward and gangly, knocking the overcrowded nests apart and dislodging their siblings with all their hovering and flapping. The lucky ones have family homes on sections of arched aqueducts as they have a natural runway to use. I get to play chess with some of the old geezers who seem to always be hanging around in the square whatever time I pass by. I win at chess but get slaughtered in backgammon, so everyone ends up happy.

Today has been a day of sightseeing the impressive ruins at Ephesus and the Temple of Artemis, which has to rate as the least known of the 7 ancient wonders of the world, so I satisfy myself that I have at least productively improved my likely future performance in future pub quizzes today. The statues of Artemis look distinctly Asian to me, most likely it is her 50+ breasts which give her a resemblance to a goddess from the Hindu pantheon. I really enjoyed it all, apart from my first experience of crowds at sights for the first time on this trip. Bussed in from cruise ships at nearby Kusadasi wearing colour coded stickers like cattle at a livestock market, they really change the atmosphere of a place when they arrive in their hordes. I spoke with one American bloke on a cruise of the Med and in less than a week, his group had gone from Barcelona to Nice to Genoa, Naples, Athens and now Turkey!

Before I finish, a quick note on vehicles. I have noticed a really odd perambulatory phenomenon in Turkey - as far as motorbikes are concerned, the moped is king and the further west I get the more modern they get. In different towns, different models prevail. In Selcuk every other motorbike is a Jawa, in Cappadocia it was MuZ and when I went through Konya EVERY bike was an obscure Turkish make, each with a sidecar - every single one and I haven\t seen another since!? As for 4 wheel vehicles, the Massey - Ferguson 260 E seems to be king, with a trailer option for all the family. You see them everywhere - supermarket car parks, parked in the main square or outside a bar - even here in Selcuk, they are the vehicle of choice.

Off to Bulgaria tomorrow - border crossing and ferry to the Dardanelles willing.
Off to the ferry at Cannakale and on the way, I met Stavros and Georgiou on the road on their V Strom and GSX 6öö respectively. We met up at the dockside and compared journeys, they were heading back to Greece after touring Turkeys med coast. Reassuringly, they immediately criticised the roads as I was beginning to get paranoid that it was just me being a wuss. They also solved the mystery as to why Turkish petrol is soooooo expensive. Apparently, very few people or small businesses pay taxes, so the govt massively hikes up the duty on petrol to be able to balance its exchequer. We ride off first from the ferry before it has moored and zoom off past Gallipoli. It was very thought provoking ot have ridden past both Troy and Gallipoli within a few hours; one witnessed the birth of the classical ideal of heroism and the other saw its death.

I also passed through Izmir, which has its own dark history - less than 100 years ago it was known as Smyrna, before the Armenians and Greeks were forcibly deported and suffered genocide. The roads there were pretty horrific too - the worst in all of Turkey, and that is saying something. The city was smoggy and sprawling and the traffic sclerotic. The usual slick tar was added to by rutting between the lanes which literally looked like cart - horses had been using a muddy track. It was actually the main arterial highway and the weight of trucks and buses on the tar had caused these permanent ruts. At one point I had to stop at the traffic lights whilst at the bottom of one of these trenches worthy of the Gallipoli battlefield and put my foot "down". It was actually at 90 degrees and firmly planted in the gooey black stuff. Once out of the city, things sped up and I got stopped by the police and issued with a speeding ticket and given 7 days to pay and a good telling off. I tried to look suitably chastened although I was laughing inside at the thought that I would be out of the country in a few hours! I have kept the ticket as a souvenir and can now add Turkey to Queensland as one of the states where I am wanted for non - payment of a speeding ticket !!

The border formalities were fairly straightforward and I was into Bulgaria and the EU! Immediately the roads were so much better and the country had a quieter, calmer feel about it, with the weather also being much cooler and more comfortable too. I went to Sinemorets on the Black Sea coast (nice beaches and not too developed - yet) and set up camp. I headed into town and had some DELICIOUS yogurt, made from the bacillus bulgaricus strain which apparently is what gives "Greek" yogurt its creamy texture and taste. The red wine is also reasonable and tasty. I also immediately notice that like observations Lena and I have made during travels in Russia, young women are very 'glamorous" and seem to take a great deal of care over how they look whilst the men all look and act like complete slobs. UP early the next day and off to Veliko Tarnovo, which is the medieval capital and still has a well preserved castle, walls etc. but has decided to ditch the buring of witches and heretics. It is also the centre of a growing ex - pat crowd and has a lot of estate agencies in English. One in particular had a sign which read "Cheaper than Spain an Friendlier than France - Bulgaria". I noticed the same feel later in Brasov in Romania and also the very cheap property prices. They seemed to gather at the St Georges bar, from where I enjoyed several boliarka beers and free views the Tsarvets Castle sound and light show across the gorge for free! 3 boliarkas, Chicken Tikka, Lentils, Garlic Naan, Sloshka salad and Frozen Yogurt all came to less than 10 euro. I did however get a bad stomach the next day from the chicken and was reminded too late that along with corruption, food safety was the major concern of the EU in finally confirming last year that Bulgaria could enter. I went back to the hotel feeling quite chipper though and found a road map of Europe (at last) which I bought, only to discover later that it is all in Cyrillic. This is fine in Bulgaria, but useless everywhere else I am going!
Starting with a Bulgarian friend in Dubai before I left and continuing with every Bulgarian, Romanian and to a lesser extent Hungarian, I was to get into a lengthy conversation with (although interestingly none of the ex - pats) all provided me with dire warnings of the perfidy of Gypsies, or Roma, to use the modern PC nomenklatura.Has so little changed since an 18 year - old Patrick Leigh Fermor walked through these parts in 1934 when he described Gypsy girls as ragged but multicoloured mendicants in "Between the Woods and the Water", one of my favourite travel books. Clearly, the women were still dressing traditionally in the more touristy places I visited and using their sweet faced young little girls to do the asking for money. If I had encountered more of the mischievous impish boys, the sallow young men, invariably in the modern colourful garb of the shell - suit and trainers or even the darker, bitter, diminutive and skeletal older men in drab grey suits and loose flat caps hanging around in groups outside edge of town kafehazs or hitching for a ride maybe I would have had a different experience. However, I found their reputation unwarranted although it was noticeable that in all 3 of these countries, whenever you saw someone doing a non - agricultural menial job, they were invariably Gypsies, mostly mature women or men, clearly noticeable by their stature, dark skin and taste for filling their fingers and mouths with high carat gold adornment against the general European taste for lower carat, whiter gold..
Up early and off to Romania today, which seems odd, but most of the countries from now on are mere tiddlers compared to the giants of Iran and Turkey. Once I cross the Danube and get around the horrible Bucharest Ring Road, the roads turn superb and the amount of proper bikes start to increase dramatically - both road bikes and off road bikes too. The Carpathian Mountains form a ring in the centre of Romania and are some oft he best bike roads I have ever been on. The scenery is stunning, added to by the fact that parts of Transilvania in particular seem medieval still, each town has its castle on the hill, there were no farm machines at all just plenty of horse drawn carts and loads of PEOPLE working in the fields cutting hay by hand! The road up to Stoina above Brasov, which is a winter ski resort was brilliant. I also saw what I thought was a big dog walking alongside of the road, before I realised that it was a black bear and it headed across a field. This really is the wicked, wicked, wild wild east. It is also very cheap and because as its name suggests, it has a latin language, it is easy to understand signs etc. to read the label of the national beer and recognise ursus for bear; go to the toilets and be able to choose the right door with confidence, om for men, femie for women and understand countless others such as carne, dog, bou, ox, vaca, cow, mana, hand, etc all from my rudimentary Latin and trying to learn Spanish in the months before leaving Dubai in preparation for the next leg of the trip. Even better, the new EU sponsored legislation to protect the rights of the Roma (that's Gypos or Dids you and I) you can travel or camp anywhere on public or private land - good for understanding of me as the next night I find some good off - roading and a great place ot sleep in the woods. On my first night though, I sleep at a pansion in Bran, near the castle owned by Dracula őr Vlad the Impaler as he is fondly known by the locals. Reassuringly, The pansion is next to the first protestant church I have seen so far, with a quote from Martin Luther on the notice board near the door. Surprisingly, it is not a copy of his famous declaration at the Diet of Worms, but is translated into several languages and says - "who loves not wine, woman and song remains a fool his whole life long".
Feeling reassuringly intelligent I repair to the bar of the pansion and start reading about the famous local bloodthirsty count. Apparently, Dracula means son of the Dragon and his Dad was called Drago, which is where he gets his nickname from. His full name was Vlad III of Wallachia of the Besarabian dynasty who fought the advances of the Turks. He was given in trust as a boy to the Turks as a hostage and spent most of his childhood in the court of the Sultan, allegedly where he developed his taste for excess in all things physical, notably violence and sexuality. He eventually escaped from the Topkapi Palace His local name of Vlad Tsepesh (the Impaler) comes from his "invention" of a new way of killing his victims by impaling them on a stake through their spine, which paralyses but does not kill them, so they suffer a long, slow death over several days. He was able to repay the Turks many times in a proven historical career of repelling their advances, most famously slaughtering an advanced party of crack troops from the Turkish army and turning them into his favourite shish kebab. Sultan Mehmet II, who was renowned for being bloodthirsty in his own right, is recorded as bursting into tears at the sight of his crack Turkish and Bulgarian troops slowly dying in agony......

I had a good dinner of Ursus Black beer, cabbage and bean soup, cabbage leaves stuffed with pork and roasted white and red peppers, followed in the morning by the coldest swim ever and the best breakfast yet of free range poached eggs with Romanian mamaliga polenta and poached eggs, with hot chilli on the side and followed by lashings of proper job lavazza coffee. Gotta go now as the Tourist Office is closing - I will come back in the morning before heading to Budapest tomorrow.......


I have been buying and sticking lots of national stickers to my bike as I have been going along. They are quite tacky (I suppose they wouldn't stick otherwise!), but they, along with my Dubai number plate have really helped me to meet people and start some interesting conversations with people. In Romania alone, one bloke, Mike Craven, an English ex pat married to a Romanian lady, tooted me over in the car park of the newly opened Carrefour in Brasov (or Brasso or Kronstadt or Stalin if you want to take your pick of the 4 names that this city has been known by in less than 100 years!) where I was picking up camping supplies (Bread, goats cheese, cured pork and red wine) and gave me the details of his biking experiences, pointed out some good trails (one I went on to an abandoned salt mine and another where I camped near a ruined hilltop castle) along with his hostel that he is setting up near the Black Church in the centre of the town. Another French bloke, Claude came to talk with me when I was having lunch in Sighisoara (or Segesvar or Schassburg to complete its mere triumverate of names it has been known by in the last 85 years), because he saw my number plate. He works for the Civil Engineers Bechtel and he built a lot of the roads in the UAE during the 1980s and 1990s. He is currently on a 10 year project building a motorway network in Romania (they don't have any at the moment) and took me back to his place and insisted I have a go on his brand new model Honda Goldwing. It was 1800cc of armchair and not my cup of tea at all, but good fun nonetheless, especially messing around with the soundsystem, drinks cooler and reverse gear!

Romania is the wild, wild east - with some of the best biking roads and a truly undeveloped, medieval feel about it. As I said before, there were lots of people working the fields, loads of small conical haystacks and wells with forked - cruck levers to draw the leather buckets up seemingly everywhere you look whilst moving through the countryside - a sort of bucolic paradise - I expected to see a riot of peasants with pitchforks and flaming torches rise up and storm the castle at any moment! I stayed near to Dracula's castle and went on some pretty hairy trails, but the most frightening moment was walking around Brasov and seeing a concert poster advertising that Michael Bolton was playing there!!!! AAAARGGHHH - my heart stopped and my blood turned to ice, but on further inspection I was relieved to discover that he had played for one night only the previous evening!! PHEW!!!

Bran castle was very naff, but in a charming sort of way and they had a "Creuzy" castle outside, which was like a haunted house from the funfair. There were lots and lots of bikes here, lots of locals and most of the foreigners coming from other Eastern European countries. As for 4 wheels, the preferred form of transport is the Dacia car (produced in partnership with Renault and named after the Ancient Roman name for the region) and the horse and cart. Like I said, it is a biking heaven, although there was one feature which would ruin it for Neil. There are loads and loads of level - crossings all over the country. A lot of them have no barriers and some of them you just have to bump over the rails - quite scary really, but a real motivation to slow down and use the Green Cross Code....

Anyway, after a long day of riding 14 hours to travel 650 km due to the lack of motorways and the heavy rain, I cross into Hungary. Immediately, the road surfacing improves further, the level crossings actually become level and everyone seems to stick to the speed limits and even put their lights on during the rain for some teutonic concept called "safety". The whole place feels very German to me, maybe because the roadsigns are in both Hungarian and German. The countryside is quite flat here too and the fields seem deserted, I guess because they use a lot more agricultural machinery here. It is strange to think that I am crossing the western edge of the Great Eurasian Plain which still forms a largely unenclosed, unharvested continuous swathe of grazing from here across the Steppes and into Manchuria. To look at the modern machinery and carefully trammelled fields here it is difficult to imagine that this is the land that this is land contiguous to the grazing of the Scythians, Goths, Huns, Vandals and the Mongols and their route of devastation into Europe.
Into Eger, find a hotel and go out quickly before I crash for a good dinner of dark Bock beer and a rich and hearty ghoulash. Knackered, I go to bed by 10pm local time and wake up by 5.30am, mainly because the time has changed by 1 hour. Luckily, the local Terma Furdo is open (Thermal Spa) so I get down there for a wonderfully surreal bit of bubbly buffeting and a few lengths of the olympic sized pool. The waters are from a natural hot water spring and smell very eggy indeed, which along with the frothy waters is the perfect cover for the effects of my rich, heavy dinner. There are various lolling areas, torrents, cascades, spouts and upwellings, which when surrounded by the baroque architecture and the early morning sunlight, give me a tremendous feeling of wellbeing by the end. I make good use of the buffet breakfast in the hotel with lots of varieties of fresh bread and paprika sausages, before heading into town.

Eger is the first place I have been to on this trip where you can see the impact of Second World War destruction in the town centre, which I recognise from lots of English cities, especially Exeter and Bristol. There are mostly baroque, gothic and neoclassical buildings with occasional, ugly pockets of flat roofed, prefabricated boxes or car parks in the middle which were built quickly and cheaply in the 50's and 60's. There is a minaret in the town, now proudly boasting a cross on top, which was the only remaining part of the most northerly mosque that the Turks built and the height of their expansion into Europe and a lovely covered market with lots of fresh fruit and meat, snack stands and sorozos, which are like pubs, but seemed to be doing brisk business in the mid - morning. I lasted out until lunchtime before I started to get a bit bored with all this safe quaintness and then I went to the Szepasszony Volgy and spent the rest of the afternoon leisurely improving my oenological education. The area, which seemed to be variously translated as the Valley of the Beautiful, Nice or Good Women, literally has caves built into the hillside where the local growers allow you to sample their wares. The locally produced Egri Bikaver or Bulls Blood is a blended red which is allegedly world famous, although I have never heard of it before. It is a good, robust glugger as the name suggests and I sample a buy a few litres for forthcoming evenings camping in Slovenia as it is also VERY CHEAP. I did also try the local Reisling and Pinot Noir which were good, but more expensive and I must get very parsimonious when I get drunk as I thought they were too expensive. On the way back into town I stopped in a kafehaz, with the old magyar, long clay pipes called "chilooks" hanging on the still tobacco stained walls and got into conversation with Balint, my new bar - room "friend". I confess that I couldn't remember everything in the morning, although I do remember that Balint had claimed that the impenetrable Hungarian language is closely related to Finnish and they claimed the Magyars were vikings who had been on a river based expedition through Russia and into the Black Sea. Curiously, before I then descended into trying the local apricot and plum brandies, which literally finished off the evening, I do also remember being taught the very useful phrase of "lovagolni fogok holnap Budapesta", which I believe means, "Tomorrow I will ride to Budapest", which I have faint recollections of enthusiastically and repeatedly relating to the unfortunate night porter who eventually let me into my hotel when I discovered the door was locked on my return.

I get up early again the next day with a bit of a headache, pack up and head off to Budapest, my one and only capital city on this trip. I really lucked out on accommodation, as my Lonely Planet - Europe on a Shoestring - had pointed out that there was a hotel in the Citadella. As this is a bit of a landmark in the city and sits on top of Gellert Hill, opposite Varm the main fortress of Buda. I thought it would be easy to find. It was and involved remarkably little riding around aimlessly looking at my A4 map of Europe and my stick - on dashboard compass. They had a room available for 2 nights and all for 40 euros, no breakfast but fab views. I thought this was a bargain, especially as my main concern in the city was secure parking and I can't imagine anything much more secure than 20 foot thick walls, a moat and a portcullis!!! The Citadella and the main fortifications at Var were built by King Bela, whose shattered country barely survived the devastation wreaked by the mongol hordes only because Batu Khan turned eastwards to the mongol homeland to fight with his cousins and brothers over who would succeed Ogadai Khan and his vast empire that spanned the entire Eurasian landmass in the twelfth century. Apparently, when Bela returned from his Dalmatian island hideout, despite the agricultural and civil destruction he faced, the military fortifications of his capital were his first priority.
The views across the cityscape, with the snaking Danube below are great. Nearby is the Statue of Liberty, which is the only Soviet era statuary left in its original place on top of Gellert Hill. It was presented as a gift by the "liberating" Red Army, but despite its dubious heritage it is a lovely bit of sculpture. There are also lots of monuments to the eponymous St Gellert, who was put into a barrel and thrown off the top of the hill into the Danube by the local pagans when he tried to persuade them of the advantages of letting Jesus into their lives. Good one them I say - if I ever had a house on a hill with a river below and a handy supply of barrels I think that is an appropriate way to treat any evangelising members of the god-squad of whatever persuasion that had the temerity to patronise me uninvited.

Had a good time in Budapest, with lots of quality sightseeing - I went on a city bus tour to get my bearings and the whole place has the feeling of a mixture of London and Paris, a twin centre of an Empire, with grand architecture overlaying a medieval heart, with a grand riverside aspect. Its whole history is one of conquest and re-building, whether from the Mongols, the Turks, The Germans or the Russians. Went to 2 great museums today. The Museum of Fine Arts has and exhibition about the Incas and the biggest collection of El Grecos outside of Spain. The former made me really excited about Neil and me going to South America in a few months to see some of these places and first hand and really impressed me with the mystery of their empire. How could they rule an area bigger than the Roman Empire at its zenith without the wheel and without writing? They had a system of administration and record keeping based on tying knots in different coloured pieces of string that nobody has been able to work out to date. They built on top of the highest mountains without mortar and yet their buildings survive modern earthquakes when more recent buildings collapse. They only had bronze age metallurgy knowledge, so they could only really work extensively with gold and silver (they called these the sweat of the sun and the tears of the moon respectively) and they lost their empire in less than 4 years to a band of 200 marauding Spaniards! Amazing. The El Grecos were also remarkable in that although he's working in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries and painting traditional religious motifs, his style, colours and presentation are very modern and could easily be placed alongside Gaugin for instance and look like cousins if not brothers. The next place I have just come from along Andrassy Avenue is the House of Terror, which commemorates and elucidates the dual use of the building as a centre of torture and deportation during both the local nazi (arrowed cross) and communist dictatorships, highlighting how extremists are extremists whatever side of the political spectrum they inhabit - or maybe it is a wheel, where the 2 ends meet up together. Regardless of the subject, the "museum" is the best educational building I have ever been into. They have reshaped the outside of the classical building with a frame across the roof, commemorate victims with photographs around the outside and have such a wonderfully imaginative use of space, multimedia and exhibits that I have seen. There is an atrium with a T59 tank on a pool in the middle from the crushing of the 1956 Revolution, surrounded by pictures of its victims. There is a chilling restoration of the cells in the basement and a large room actually carpeted in a map of Eastern Europe and Russia, which really emphasises the distance the people who were sent to the Gulags really had to travel. Throughout there is great use of music and video projection and small leaflets on each theme or subject. There are more than twenty in all and probably 10,000 words which I wouldn't have bothered to read if the whole thing wasn't presented in such an engaging fashion. For instance, I learnt that after the end of WW1 and the more famous Treaty of Versailles was finished in 1919, the lesser known Treaty of Trianon punished the Hungarians for being on the wrong side and they lost two thirds of their previous territory, including Transylvania and their access to the sea by losing Croatia and Slovenia (what happened to the Magyar Navy?). I wondered why the next generation of Hungarians hadn't felt the need to conquer Europe in search of leibensraum and on a lighter note, whether they had checked down the back of their whether they had checked their collective sofa, which is where I always find important things that I have lost.....

Anyway, that's me up to date at last. I'm off to the Buda side now over the Chain Bridge and then back to Pest this evening to check out a free Jazzfest. I plan to be up early and out to the Gellert Terma Furdo, check out of the Citadella hotel and pop-in to the park out of town where they dumped most of the communist statues on my way to Slovenia and camping.......
Right then chaps - a week after I got back to England, here is the last instalment of the first stage of the big trip. I think I left off in Hungary, where I enjoyed a great free jazz festival with 2 stages on either end of the Chain Bridge between Buda and Pest. I was looking particularly smokin' as I had my board shorts, t shirt and crocs on from the thermal baths that morning, with my stuff in a bag from the hotel with "dirty laundry" written all over it in big letters in about 12 different languages, which meant that more or less everyone got the opportunity to ridicule me during the day. Nonetheless, there was a lovely relaxed atmosphere and the food and drink was good too, with lots of paprika sausages and an interesting drink called "kreik - garden" or something like that, made from wheat - beer with a dash of cherry brandy, very nice. It is interesting to note how I have advanced through a strange landscape of local firewaters, ranging from tziporo, tznica, slivovitz, barack and arak on this journey.I get up the next day ready to leave Hungary and after stopping off for a big Sunday breakfast (pork ribs, spiced with guess what - yes Paprika!) I am very quickly over the border (thanks to the Treaty of Trianon where it lost two - thirds of its territory after the first world war) and into a hot and humid Slovenia. Paprika and eggy Furdos will be the abiding smells that I will always be redolent in my mind of Hungary.

Slovenia is one of the smallest, richest and most developed of the "balkan" countries, which along with the Julian Alps, stretching across the landscape give the initial appearance of Switzerland. Interestingly, in 1991 it also started the collapse of Yugoslavia as Germany somewhat prematurely granted it accession talks into the EU, which encouraged Croatia and Bosnia - Hercegovina to sucede too. However, Germany was satisfied with the influence and direct contiguous land access it had gained for its tourists and EU military to have access to the Mediterranean and didn't (and to date, still has not) supported commencement of talks with any other FYR nation to join the EU. I quickly pass Llubiana in this pleasingly small country and head for Lake Bled to a great campsite and with lovely views of the castle on the hill overlooking a baroque church on an island on the lake. The afternoon is spent swimming in the lake, which is very refreshing, so much so that I walk up to the castle for a rubbish museum which is there presumably to justify the entrance fee but a lovely drink of a cold Union Beer and meal of venison to restore my energy at the top as the sun goes down. I get back to the campsite and have a nice chat with my neighbour Christian from Berlin, who works for Audi Design and is touring with his family. The next day I get up and swim to the island and ring the supposedly lucky bell in the Blejski Otok church on the island before getting back and packing up and heading into the Julian Alps, after a visit to the less developed Bohinj. There is a lovely lake there and lots of stunningly clear and refreshing rivers along the way which are screaming for a swim along the way. As I go along I kick myself that I forgot to ask Christian what "Vorsprung Durch Technik" means - bugger!

I don't know who this bloke Julian was, but his mountains are rather lovely I must say. I head back to Jesenice after the Bohinj Valley, passed the Karavanke Tunnel towards Austria and over the stunning Vrsic pass. The views are great and so are the switchbacks too, although for some strange reason, on the way up all the corners are cobbled, which the fully - laden GS finds particularly bumpy. It is lovely riding all the way to Kobarid or Caporetto depending on which language you prefer, which apparently was the location used by Hemingway in "For Whom the Bell Tolls". I stay in a great campsite, Lazar Kamp, in the shadow of the mountains with the Soca (sp?) River running through the site - very peaceful. It is a 20 minute walk through the woods to the waterfall at Slap Kozjak, which afforded a very cold but very invigorating meltwater swim and shower. Back to the campsite for a quick clean up and I meet my new neighbour, Horst and his wife Suki, in their VW Combi, which has an XT400 strapped to the back. We talk for a while in broken German about the bikes and it strikes me that these quality campsites, with good facilities and multinational campers are a hope for mankind. 60 years ago in the same location, all the countries that we come from, now all members of the EU, would have been killing each other..... Off into Kobarid for a great dinner of scampi with some chilled Refosk red wine - all for less than 20 euros - marvellous. The food was served with a Mediterranean flair and a teutonic efficiency, which seems to sum up the Slovenian national character quite well.

Next day I head off to Piran and I get very excited about meeting Lena in Milan when I look at the map and see that it is a hop skip and a jump from here to the Italian border at Trieste, past Venice and Verona to Milan and our Rendez - Vous. I also notice that Piran is only 10km across the border from where Lena and I celebrated passing our A levels in Croatia in 1988 at Novigrad. Unfortunately, the only part of this trip that i can relive without Lena around is to eat the delicious grilled sardines as often as possible, which I do at every opportunity. It is very hot in Piran and the room I have has no AC, so I head to the promenade which runs around the Venetian influenced centre of the town and also serves as the beach in the absence of any sand on this coast. The water is lovely and I also realise that as I see some topless bathers for the first time on this trip and everyone seems very comfortable with their bodies what a long way I have come from Iran! Because of the heat, the next day I plan to be underwater or underground. Firstly, I book a wreck dive to some great second world war wrecks off the coast, which is very relaxing and atmospheric and one of the deepest dives I have ever done. There was a lot of algae coating everything, which meant the coral was not too impressive and everything looked like Ms Havisham's wedding party in Great Expectations, although the wrecks themselves and the fish, lobsters, eels and sea-horses were great. I notice when I am struggling to put the thick, full body wetsuit on, which happens to be electric blue with a hood which fits close around my face, as I see Yosemite Sam looking back at me from the mirror, how long and ginger my beard has become and I make a note to self to have a trim before I meet Lena tomorrow! After that, I head off in my shorts and T shirt to the Skocjan Caves, which were mercifully cool, full of interesting bats and stalactites and had a very impressive underground gorge which put Cheddar to shame and had a great little bridge across the middle too.

Next day I want to leave by 6am and despite the assurances of my landlord the night before (admittedly in our shared and broken German) that he would be up to unlock his garage and refusing me to use the parking space in front of his house, I have to rouse the house before I can leave and then I enter some very hot and heavy traffic to Milan. Lena has booked us a boutique hotel right next to il duomo in the centre of Milan and so I spend more than an hour riding around the centre, over cobbles, down sidestreets and avoiding the tramways, humming the theme tune to the "Italian Job", the original not the re-make, in my mind, gradually getting very lost and realising that I have compounded my error by mixing up Milan with Turin! Anyway, I eventually reach the very stylish place a sticky mess with an overheating bike, which I locked to a lamp post outside the hotel. We met in the reception after I had a chance to cool down and we had a fantastic time together which involved going to the opera at la Scala, visiting Il Duomo, shopping, looking at some cool Bottero statues, eating and relaxing in our lovely room in the first 24 hours and then heading just across the border to Switzerland to see our friends Rachel and Marcello in Lugano. We had a lovely time with them, which involved more eating, drinking and shopping. We saw Lena off on the bus to Milan airport on Monday afternoon and I was off. Very quickly, the weather turned bad as I approached the San Gottard pass (so much so that I realised afterwards when Neil pointed out that I missed the pass altogether) and stayed wet throughout as I went through Basel and the interesting biking area around Mulhouse. As it got dark, everything was wet and I had no more clean clothes, I decided to push on and carried on riding until I reached a windswept Calais at 2am. I was straight onto a ferry, where I spent the crossing eating a big, greasy breakfast and standing the men's toilets trying to dry my clothes on the hand - dryers. The ease and speed of travel through Northern Europe was exhilarating although the travel experience felt soulless after what I had been through already. All the cars looked clean and shiny and the same as all the others, as did the people driving them. Everyone seemed to be moving faster, creating a feeling of stress and tension in the air that I wasn't used to anymore. I noticed that a lot of people were travelling alone, some where talking on the phone with blue - tooth ear - pieces and others where consulting their dashboard GPS systems which lit up their faces in blue flickering light in the gloomy light. The interesting thing was that the people I was surrounded by looked the most materially advantaged I had seen for a while and the most thoroughly miserable. Perhaps Everything But The Girl were right in their eponymous album, “Modern Life is Rubbish”.
Through the border crossing with no passport or customs check (no one has looked in my luggage throughout the whole trip!) and through Kent to the M25 and then the M3. As this becomes the A3, the sun comes up and the weather clears to reveal a cold mist coming up off the fields. In my tired state, I have to check that I have come back to England at the end of July and not October, but rapidly arrive in Crediton just in time for breakfast with Nat and Neil and a nap. Thanks for listening to my blatherings and for all your messages during the trip - bring on South America!!!
In my mind this has been but an amuse bouche to the big adventure into the Americas with Neil. If you like, it is the Silmarillion to the Hobbit (subtitled There and Back Again) or the Lord of the Rings, setting the tone and the context for the big trip with the big yin yet to come.
David Jones 2007