EIGHTH LEG DIARY: Istanbul to Amasya

(Click on photos to enlarge)

Written by John

Wednesday 26th July – Tuesday 22nd August Istanbul

Christmas comes but twice a year: once in December and for us, this year at least, on the 25th July. Mum and Dad arrived in Istanbul laden with fresh supplies of clothes, bike spares, newspapers and books. We also receive an e-mail from the Iranian visa agency informing us that Tehran have issued us with a visa code. After months of waiting the news is a breakthrough. It doesn't guarantee a visa but it means we are through to the second round and are now able to proceed to the Iranian embassy in Ankara. Suddenly the trip is back on track. The news is like manna from heaven!

They'd only arrived three days before us, but already mum and dad are already well ensconced. Mum has bought a carpet in Sultanahmet, Istanbul's old town. She knew exactly what she wanted and how much she was willing to pay, after extensive research in John Lewis's carpet department in Aberdeen. Sultanahmet's army of carpet salesman know how to barter but they are no match for mum's bargaining skills. Walking through the neighbourhood it becomes apparent that Dad is already friends with half the locals. They seem particularly intrigued by his beard, which, in the eyes of many, give him the distinguished look of a mullah or, in the words of one cheeky local, Santa Claus. Unlike me, Dad enjoys jousting with the rug touts. One tries to convince him that a carpet is not just a carpet but “a way of life”.

We enjoy blissfully lazy days catching up with them, wading through stacks of newspapers and soaking up Sultanahmet's exotic “East-meets-West” atmosphere. Narrow cobbled streets wind past colourful bazaars, mosques and crumbling hamams. The pavements are packed with street vendors, peddling everything from jewellery to wind up chickens to a rabbit that reads fortunes. In amongst the tourist tat, Sultanahmet's residents carry on their everyday lives. Ladies sit on blankets outside their front doors sewing, surrounded by children playing games. Returning from dinner one evening we pass a wedding party dancing away in a side-street.

A two hour ferry journey takes us to the Princes Islands, an archipelago in the Sea of Marmara. Virtually traffic free and laid back, they're a great antidote to the pandemonium of Istanbul.

Sadly, after just a week with them, Mum and Dad are leaving today. Before they go, they accompany us to a cheaper hotel a few streets away.

“For six years I smuggled rugs from Iran into Turkey - just me, some friends, a Kalashnikov and some donkeys brother”. Whilst checking into our new hotel, Octavius, Kurdish ex-rug smuggler turned hotel manager, swiftly brings us up to speed on his C.V.

“But don't they make lots of rugs in Turkey too?” I ask.

“Tax brother, tax”, Octavius explains, stubbing out a cigarette. It had been a lucrative enterprise for Octavius until the tax loophole was recently closed, forcing him into early rug-smuggling retirement.

After lunch Mum and Dad head off to Ataturk Airport. Back at the hotel I decide to tap into Octavius's “inside knowledge” of the carpet industry:

Me: “So how much should a carpet really cost?”

Octavius: “That depends on whether it is made in China or not”. Spotting a potential sales opportunity…“Do you want to buy a carpet brother? I can get you the very best and guarantee good price.”

“Thanks but it isn't really practical. We are travelling by bicycle to India and are already carrying too much weight”

“No problem - I will post it”

And so begins Sultanahmet's wearisome daily carpet refusal ritual.

I awake in the night with a sore throat and spend the following day in bed. Walking the streets alone, Sal is repeatedly pestered by young Turkish men attempting to lure her with lines like “urr you murried beautiful lady?”. Many seem convinced that Western European women are all “up for it”, coming to Istanbul to fulfill their fantasy of being swept off their feet by a Turkish stallion. Subtlety just washes over them, forcing a blunter approach: “I can make an enormous fuss if you don't leave me alone - so why don't you just piss off right now!” she shouts at one of them. Taken aback, he retreats to his hole.

After a couple of bedridden days of unsuccessfully attempting to shake the lurgy, I tentatively venture out of the hotel in search of an ice-cream and a newspaper. Noting my below par state, Octavius dishes out a proprietary mind-over-matter remedy:

“Do not be weak brother - you muzt fight eet and be strong. You must visualise the pain and deeztroy eet”. Sensing my sceptism, he offers an alternative:

“and if that doesn't work just deny eet brother, deny eet”

He prescribes a heavy daily dose of raw garlic, honey and a special tea bag, the contents of which, I'm still none the wiser.

The garlic stinks the room out but seems to do the trick and within a couple of days I'm feeling human again. Unfortunately just as I'm getting back on my feet Sally relapses and now she's confined to bed. Returning from the chemist with some Strepsils, I witness the rug smuggler's hands-on marketing skills outside the hotel. He sprints across the street and pounces on an American backpacker stepping through the threshold of the guest house next door. “Looking for accomodation brother? Follow me”, he says, reversing him by the rucksack and frogmarching down the steps and into his office.

In between harpooning potential guests, he attempts to lasso unsuspecting female tourists with cringeworthy chat-up lines.

Octavius: “Meez, where are you from?”

Scandinavian tourist: “Norway”

Octavius “Ah, how I dream of the Fjords”

Minutes later…

“Look brother, look! There goes meez Turkey 2007. Oi Meez Turkey 2007 come here!”

Trapped between the Bosphorus and a sea of carpet salesman, our world shrinks to a few streets either side of our hotel. Worse, without Sal to accompany me through the streets of Sultanahmet, I'm bereft of my first line of defence against the predatorial restaurant touts. I boycott these restaurants on principal, limiting us to just a handful of eateries. What makes it all the more frustrating is that I know, from a previous visit, that there are great restaurants in Istanbul in the trendy Beyoglu district on the other side of the Galatta bridge , but with Sal incapacitated they are beyond our reach. The best of the bunch nearby is a kebab house with the incongruous and cheesy tag-line emblazoned on the menu: “Because sometimes love is a nice invitation”. I'm not sure how this relates to skewers of chargrilled lamb, but the food is decent and the waiters are friendly.

Whilst waiting on our take-away, the rattle and click clack of rolling dice and backgammon counters punctuates the hum of conversation emanating from the outdoor board games cafe next door. Concentrating on the game in hand, most are smoking cigarettes but a couple of players are puffing away on enormous hookas. Smoke rings float upwards, drifting along the underside of the canopy and then dissappearing into the night sky.

A week later and with no abatement in Sally's condition, we decide its time to get a professional opinion. The tourist information office recommends A&E at the University Hospital located four tram stops away. Having watched my hair grow longer waiting for treatment in A&E departments in British hospitals, we load up with books, diaries and postcards in preparation for a long sit-in. Leaving Sally outside, I step through the hospital entrance into a long, dark corridor. A bare torsoed man on an intravenous drip is stretchered past. I find a security guard and tell him I'd like to see a doctor. Seconds later two junior doctors and two nurses appear. “Come with us” one of the doctors says, ushering us into an examination room. We couldn't have wished for a better outcome. Ten minutes later we leave the hospital without having parted with a penny, prescription and a charity donation from the doctor in hand!

Back in the hotel I decide to practice my Turkish on the housekeeper, complementing her on the nice breakfast and asking her for clean towels. She doesn't seem to understand. Later, I test drive a few other simple phrases on her but again she looks puzzled. I tell Octavius about my lack of success:

“Thats because she's Georgian and doesn't speak any Turkish”

“Not a single word?”

“Not a single word brother”

“Do you speak Georgian?”

“No”

“Does any other member of staff?”

“No”

“So how does anybody communicate with her?”

“They don't!”

Despite the language barrier she runs a tight ship and, as favoured long-term guests, feeds us tasty home-made Georgian bakes.

With the antibiotics kicking in and Sal on the mend, it's time to meet up with two other cyclists who are also attempting to cycle from London to India. Will and Clare set off from Crystal Palace a day before we left home and we've been in regular contact for the past month. To date there's been little overlap on our paths across Europe. They travelled South through France, onwards to Italy and then island hopped their way across Greece. Fortunately our journeys converged in Istanbul.

We meet up on the roof terrace of their hostel. They are at a low ebb, traumatised by the onslaught of Istanbul's traffic, but after a couple of beers the stress of the past few days falls by the wayside. We share stories of local hospitality, bad drivers and ankle gnashing dogs. After deciding to take a year out they'd drawn up a shortlist of ways to spend it, eventually narrowing it down to either cycling from London to India or renting a flat in Ibiza. I get the impression they're beginning to regret their choice.

Later on we're joined by Pat and Helen who, after two years of V.S.O., are on the final leg of their round-the-world motorcycle trip. They'd recently passed through Iran and give us a glowing report. They'd also encountered several long distance cyclists along the way. Amongst them, Joff, a Londoner, who set of one month after us and is already half way across Turkey:

“I could tell by the Penny Farthing and the Pith Helmet that he was an Englishman right away” Pat tells us.

Without brakes, Joff is frequently forced to make crash landings, acting on the advice of a 19th century penny farthing manual that recommends veering into the nearest hedge or plump lady. Traffic lights and roundabouts are a particularly tricky. Apparently after Istanbul he's decided to avoid cities altogether.

After enduring two weeks of kebabicitus-inducing food in Sultanahmet, I'm looking forward to discovering new dishes in Iran and Pakistan and ask Pat to give me some examples of typical dishes.

“In Iran it's mainly kebabs and in Pakistan it's err…mainly kebabs”

The next day I notice the rug smugglers absence. Another member of staff tells me that “with Octavious there has been a problem and now he has gone”. Whilst his methods were unorthodox, they were effective, ensuring a near 100% occupancy rate. Moreover, he often went beyond the line of duty to help guests. When I asked where we could have our tent repaired he stitched it for us the same day free of charge. Unfortunately, however, it seems he went beyond the line of duty with a female guest and was swiftly dismissed. He's soon replaced by the Georgian housekeeper's daughter who is in the middle of her school holidays. She speaks excellent english and her mum is very pleased with her appointment.

By now we are familiar faces in the neighbourhood and accordingly, the carpet salesmen and restaurant touts have started treating us less like tourists and more like human beings, making the local neighbourhood a more relaxing place to hang out in. Sal's back to full strength so it's time to resume the sightseeing programme.

For a thousand years Byzantium was just another Greek settlement. Then, in A.D. 330, realising its potential as a trading entrepot between East and West and its superior geo-defensive location as a fortress, Emperor Constantine decided to make it his base and modestly renamed it Constantinople. From here he temporarily reunited the Eastern Byzantine and Western Roman empires, ruling an area stretching from Britain to Syria during his thirty year reign. After his death the Western Roman continued to decline, but for the next thousand years Constantinople remained Byzantium's capital. In time New Rome became the greatest city in all of Christendom.

At its heart the mighty St. Sophia, originally built under Constantine's reign and restored after an earthquake to its fully glory in A.D. 537. The reconstruction took ten thousand workers almost six years to complete. Emperor Justinian issued an imperial rescript summoning the most precious artifacts and relics from around the empire to be brought to his temple. These included the true Cross itself and the table from the Last Supper, which have long since disappeared. The inside of its enormous dome was originally encrusted with almost four acres of gold-leaf mosaic, portions of which remain intact today. Upon entering the newly rebuilt church for the first time Emperor Justinian looked around in marvel, announcing: “Solomon, I have surpassed thee”. With Solomon's temple destroyed long ago, we'll have to take Justinan's word for it. Despite fires and earthquakes in later centuries St. Sophia remains a glorious testimony to the confidence and wealth of Constantinople's Byzantine rulers. The Ottomans, Byzantinies usurpers, claimed St. Sophia for themselves and converted it into a mosque. Upon Ataturk's instruction it was desecularised, and today it's preserved as a museum.

Next door lies St. Eirene, Justinian's other architectural masterpiece. Unfortunately the door is locked. We make enquiries with a nearby security guard but they prove fruitless. Apart from the occasional concert, entry is only possible by written application to the director of St. Sophia. For now, we'll have to wait and instead decide to explore some other churches in Istanbul's suburbs. Amongst them, one of the world's earliest examples of a prefabricated buildings - a Bulgarian orthodox church built entirely from cast iron.

The e-mail from the Iranian visa agency stipulated that we must proceed to Ankara by the 24th August. At the time this deadline seemed a long way off but now it's just over a week away. We're forced to abandon our original plan of cycling the three hundred and fifty miles to Ankara, and opt instead to leave the bikes in Istanbul and catch the overnight sleeper train. In the evening we take a ferry across the Bosphorus to Hyderapasa train station. We're share the carriage with shoals of Japanese tourists, guaranteeing an uninterrupted nights sleep.

Ankara starts badly. The friendly, softly spoken man behind the counter in the Iranian embassy informs us that they have not received a letter from Tehran approving our application. He advises us to return again later. Demoralised, we return to our hotel and phone the visa agency, only to find they are on holiday and won't be reopening until after the 24th August deadline. The Iranian embassy is closed the next day but we decide to be optimistic and press on with our Pakistan visa application in the meantime.

The Pakistan embassy informs us that because we are applying for a visa outside our home country that we'll need to get a letter of support from the British embassy in Ankara.

The friendly guard, housed in a tiny sentry box containing only a heating element and a machine gun, gives us directions for the British Embassy. He bids me farewell with “See you later my dear”.

An hour and forty five quid later, a secretary in the British embassy issues us with an letter typed on impressive “On Her Majesty's service” embossed paper. The diplomatic wording reads straight out of a Ferrero Rocher advert:

“Her Britannic Majesty's Embassy presents its compliments to the Embassy of the Islamic Republic of Pakistan…”

Rounding off with:

“Her Brittanic Majesty's Embassy avails itself this opportunity to renew the Embassy of the Islamic Republic of Pakistan the assurance of it's highest consideration”

I rummage around the envelope in the hope that the embassy have included a complimentary chocolate but unfortunately there isn't one.

With it's modern grid iron plan, leafy gardens and largely pedestrianised centre, Ankara has a very different feel to Istanbul. The buzzing downtown streets are packed with students and there are far fewer veiled women here.

Having aligned themselves with the Central Powers during the First World War, their defeat led to the collapse of the already waning Ottoman empire. It was subsequently split between the Allied Powers in the post-war carve up. Encouraged by the British, Greece recaptured several western regions formerly ruled by the Ottomans. Seizing on widespread discontent and riding high on his victory over the allies at Gallipolli, General Kemal Ataturk saw his chance. He led Turkey to victory in the two year war of independence against Greece and then ousted the incumbent rulers by a military coup, bringing to an end nearly seven hundred years of Ottoman dynastic rule. After some tough negotiation with the Allied Powers, the new Republic of Turkey was promulgated in 1923. Ataturk swiftly introduced wholesale reforms, separating church from state, replacing Arabic with Latin as the official alphabet and increasing the rights of women. To further separate Turkey from its previous rulers he moved Turkey's capital from Istanbul to Ankara. He also banned the wearing of Islamic head dress in public institutions - an act which remains controversial today. The government retains tight control over mosques: each Iman is appointed by, and salaried by the state. We've also heard from several Turks that there are “spies” in mosques who report back to the government on any behaviour which might be against Turkey's interests.

The following morning we unsuccessfully attempt to psyche ourselves up into a positive frame of mind and set-off for the Iranian embassy expecting the worst. “We have found your letter from Tehran” the man behind the counter tells us. I want to “high five” Sal on the spot but it doesn't really feel appropriate in front of the Iranian diplomats and we reserve our celebrations for later.

In the evening, we meet up with Sean and Katie, a couple we met in the embassy, for a celebratory dinner. Sean hails from Nottingham and Katie grew up in America. After a few years of teaching in Thailand they are spending some months travelling before they head to the U.K. and are rounding off their trip with a visit to Iran. Their journey across Mongolia and Russia gives us inspiration for the return leg of our journey. They also tell us about a website called globalfreeloaders.com which provides free accomodation all over the world. The only catch is that you must make your own home available for other members of the club - but I'm sure our tentants won't mind!

Ankara also takes the Turkish restaurant phenomenon of “plate whipping” to new extremes. Rather than waiting for customers to finish their meals many overzealous waiters “whip” the plates away before they're empty. The most extreme platewhippers shadow their diners every mouthful, removing plates at the first opportunity. During one breakfast a waiter stands just a couple of feet away for half of duration of the meal, nasally breathing loudly in our ears. The risk of plates disappearing is particularly high during trips to the toilet and from experience I've learnt to ask Sal to guard my food and cutlery for fear it's gone upon return.

We're in high spirits as we board the sleeper back to Istanbul. Shortly after lights out I take a trip to the toilet at the far end of the carriage. Upon return I realise I have absolutely no idea which berth we are in; looking down the long narrow corridor, every door looks identical. I search for the guard but he's nowhere to be found. I make some calculations and knock on the door of what I hope is our cabin. There's no reply but I assume Sal's sound asleep. Sliding open the door I reveal a startled man standing in his under pants, say “sorry” and slam it shut again. The returning guard strides down from the far end of the carriage and directs me to my cabin.

We're back in Istanbul and it's time to round off the sightseeing schedule. We take a trip to the Topkapi palace, a sprawling labrynth of gardens, harems, courtyards and circumscision chambers which was formerly home to the Ottoman Sultans, their harem and hundreds of eunuchs. Six years after conquering Constantinople Sultan Mehmed II commissioned the construction of a palace to accomodate the Ottoman administration and royal household which was to remain the seat of Ottoman power for the next four hundred years. The Northern wing houses a highly guarded collection of holy relics belonging to the Prophet Mohammed. Amongst them teeth, hair trimmings, footprints, and nail clippings. For many, setting eyes on these artifacts is a deeply moving experience with several dabbing tears from their eyes.

On the way to the palace Sal notices some workmen entering St. Eirene. They leave the door ajar and we seize our chance, stealthily slipping past them down a long corridor and sneaking into the nave. An opportunistic German tourist also notices the workmen's slip-up and joins us. He leaves a few minutes before us. As we're about to exit the heavy iron doors slam shut. “Quick Sal - bang on the door!” The workmen unshackle the padlock a few seconds later and the doors creak open. Fortunately the German tourist had noticed the doors being locked, informing the workmen of impostors. They are not best pleased to find us but the visit was well worth their wrath.

Waylaid by illness and taking longer than we thought to reach Istanbul, we've decided to revise our route across Turkey. By skipping out on the Aegean and Mediterraenean coast and heading through Northern Anatolia we'll cut a more direct path to the Iranian border twelve hundred miles to the East. After long deliberation, we've also changed our proposed route between Iran and India. We originally planned on skirting around the North of Afghanistan by heading East across the top of Iran and onto Central Asia. From there we'd drop down into Pakistan via the Karakoram Highway. However this high altitude pass connecting Pakistan and China closes whenever the snow arrives and remains shut until the following May or June. Winter usually arrives in November, but if the snow comes early then it's a six month wait until the pass reopens. Meaning that if we arrive too late we'd either have to abandon the trip, backtrack several thousand miles or get friendly with the locals and wait for spring to arrive. We're cutting it fine as it is and have decided to take the alternative route which skirts around the bottom of Afghanistan by heading South East across Iran and onto Pakistan. This path relies on increasing our daily milage and being granted visa extensions, but we've heard this is a fairly straightforward process. We're sad about missing out on Central Asia which promised to be a fascinating and memorable leg of the trip. However, it means we'll get to spend more time in Iran and Pakistan and see many of the cities and sites we'd otherwised have missed, which we're very excited about.

So, after a month of fighting off flu and carpet salesmen, we are finally ready to leave Istanbul and do battle with the mountains of Anatolia, central Turkey.

Wednesday 23rd – Monday 28th August Istanbul to Akcakoca 120 miles

Europe: it's the final countdown! Asia Minor here we come! The hotel staff send us off with the customary gule gule! (Pronounced like the “gooly” in ginggang gooly) . Decending into the blanket of nicotene tinted smog that permanantly shrouds Istanbul, we freewheel through Sultanahmet's cobbled streets, passing through Emperor Theodosius's great walls. These fortifications saw Istanbul's citizens through a near constant succession of protracted sieges. During one, Sergius, the Patriarch of Istanbul, introduced a particulary novel form of intimidation, making daily trips along the parapets with an enormous icon of the Virgin Mary held above his head. Apparently this was all to much for the eighty thousand barbarian heathens camped outside. Striking terror into their hearts, they soon abandoned their siege and headed for hills. Where the Avars, Huns, Persians, Goths and Arabs failed, the Ottoman Turks succeeded. On the 29th of May 1453, facing starvation after a three year siege, the gates of Contantinople were opened to Ottoman Sultan Mehmet II and his conquering army, bringing to an end 1,123 years of Byzantine rule and heralding the birth of the Ottoman empire. At it's height the Ottoman empire stretched from Morocco to Oman and from Budapest to the Ukraine.

Today these crumbling ramparts are studded with satellite dishes and air conditioning units. Hugging the Bosphorus, we follow the esplanade around the peninsular to the Galatta ferry terminal. The breakwater is packed with early morning sunbathers, mussel vendors and fisherman.

The Bosphorus hums with traffic. Tiny open-decked clinker yawls, each with a Turkish flag flapping in the stiff breeze, nip between ro-ro ferries and laden oil tankers. The sunlight glistens off the water and white horses smack off the side of the ferry's hull. Onboard, nimble tea servers weave along cluttered decks, precariously balancing trays of filled tea-cups and pretzels on upturned palms. We pass under the two enormous bridges that straddle the Bosphorus, connecting continental Europe with Asia. Towering above us are six lanes of traffic suspended by a cat's cradle of wires from two massive uprights.

After alighting, we enjoy a lunch of rich, viscous Turkish coffee and chiz tost (cheese on toast) and contemplate the long climb out of Istanbul. Picking up supplies, a shopkeeper in a grocery store tells me that “Turkey is a very beautiful country and that Istanbul is a very beautiful city” and then, with the question fully primed asks: “do you like Turkey?” There's only one answer to give: “Turkiye cok guzel!” which means “Turkey is very beautiful” or “too beautiful” (the cok is pronounced like the choc in choc ice and the guzel like gooz-elle). Eavesdrop on any conversation in Turkey and it'll be littered with “cok guzel” this and “cok guzel” that. It's a catch-all superlative describing not just conventional beauty but everything from a footballer scoring a goal to our cycling trip. On a television documentary following a drugs bust I even heard the officer in charge of the operation describing the capturing of Mr Big as “Cok Guzel!”

By three o'clock we've cleared the outlying suburbs and enjoy an uninterrupted view across mile after mile of oak forest towards the Black Sea coastline to the North. Mum was right when she told me that “Asia feels different son” during an earlier trip across the Bosphorus: we've trully left Europe behind now.

In the late afternoon we stop at a roadside restaurant to stock up on water. It is positioned on the banks of a river and surrounded by woodland and we gladly accept the proprietors invitation to camp on his scenic premises. None of the family speaks English but with his sparing use of words and clear hand actions the son has an intuitive knack for communicating without a common language. Clearly he didn't inherit that gene from Grandma, who goes for the machine-gun approach, babbling away in long, uninterrupted monologues devoid of hand signals. She seems to be enjoying herself though. In the night I awake to shouts of “help” from Sal, trapped in the toilet block by one of the “friendly” dogs. The next morning we are treated to a tasty breakfast of fresh bread, olives, cheese, honey and big green chillies.

Disappointingly, after a month off in Istanbul, we're feeling as unfit as when we left London. My saddle feels like a piece of 4 X 2'' timber and Sal keeps stopping to cough, wheezing after a month's worth of Istanbul's toxic smog.

Today's warm up routine takes place outside a Jandarm station. Like Scotland, Turkey's police force are called the “polis”, but in addition Turkey also has a strong-arm Jandarm just like France. An officer calls over to us whilst I'm in the middle of a buttock stretch. My general policy is to ster clear of the fuzz at all costs but, keen to stay on their right side and noting the semi-automatic slung from from his shoulder, we accept. They only speak a few words of English, but with assistance from our phrasebook we tell them about our trip and enjoy several cups of tea in the well tended police station gardens. We return to our bikes just in time to see, but not to prevent, a dog cocking its leg against my rear pannier.

A couple of hills later and the road descends through fragrant pine forest to the Black Sea. Stopping to siesta-off the worst of the afternoon sun at beach-side picnic area, we see first-hand the Turkish national past-time of picnic abandonment. After enjoying an enormous all day outdoor banquet many simply get up, walk over to their cars and speed off, leaving a trail of smouldering fires, plastic bottles, crisp packet and gas canisters. Worse, nobody else seems bothered about cleaning it up either and the beach and surrounding forest are strewn with rubbish. The stray dogs seem to be enjoying the after dinner feast though.

Steep, rocky slopes, dense undergrowth and high population density mean that tonight, through lack of choice, we're heading to the “Woodyville Cowboy Hotel and Campsite”. The proprietor spotted us on our bikes from his 4 X 4 jeep ten miles from his campsite. His passenger rolled down a window and handed us a postcard. On the front, a photograph of a “Paint Your Wagon” reenactment, featuring encirclement of Indian chiefs and cowboys sitting around a camp-fire on straw bales. On the back, a helpful map and the motto: “Woodyville Cowboy Hotel and Campsite: where nature calls”. The road hugs the coast-line descending and rising sharply into bay after bay. Exhausted, we push the bikes through darkness for the last hour, arriving just after ten o'clock. ‘What took you so long', the creepy proprietor, dressed up as a cowboy, asks us. His prices are the steepest we've encountered on the trip. He attempts to levy additional charges on the bikes - a new one on us and as outrageous as the tariff policy used by many French campsites wherby additional per child, per dog and per transit van fees are levied in an attempt to deter pikeys. “You've got to be kidding” Sal tells him “there's no way we are paying that” I follow up.

Outside, a worker with a petrol driven modified leaf blower blasts a cloud of insecticide around the campsite. We saw the same thing happening in Istanbul, leaving a wake of coughing children. Holding our breaths, he guides us to the camp-site which is situated in the middle of a dog-run. Later, true to it's “where nature calls” tag-line, I return from the toilet block to find a dog has urinated on the tent. The dogs bark all night and several collide with the tent after tripping over guy ropes.

Daylight reveals the depressing reality of the proprietor's ranch fantasy. Devoid of a concience and animal husbandry skills, a half-starved menagerie of horses, turkeys, dogs and sheep scavenge from dustbins. Ten yards away from our tent, a malnourished guard dog lies tethered on a meter long chain in the blazing afternoon sun. I notice that nobody has bothered to feed or give the dog water. By nightfall I decide to do something about it. The proprietor is schmoozing with hotel guests in the restaurant. He's dressed in his all-white cowboy evening wear, accessorised with a stetson, leather neck-tie and a gun-slinger style mobile phone holster.

“Excuse me, but nobody has bothered to give that dog food or water today”

He summons a waiter and I follow him over to the dog. He scatters a small plate of leftover chicken drumsticks which the dog crunches on.

“I think it needs a bit more food than that”. But the waiter just walks off and doesn't return.

The next morning, as we are setting off, I untether the guard dog. Too weak to bark, he whimpers at me as I approach him. A claw hangs from his paw by a bloody clot of fur. Removing its collar reveals raw flesh. The dog bolts but unfortunately it's towards the proprietors chalet rather than out the front gate. Later I write an e-mail to the Turkish tourist board reporting the proprietor for animal cruelty. Just to make sure he gets the message, I email him too. So, with his rip-off pricing and botch job ranch, perhaps the proprietor is a bit of a cowboy - but just not the kind of cowboy that he thinks he is.

It's really really hot. If you want to recreate our experience at home then down a doner kebab with extra chilly, embalm yourself in Deep Heat and then leg it down to the nearest Turkish baths with an exercise bike underarm. Next, crank up the bikes resistance to its highest setting and pedal like fury all day. Almost every other cyclist we've met has long since adopted a get up early approach to coping with the heat. But we're useless at getting up early and whenever we set the alarm early we just sleep through it. By midday it's over forty degrees celsius in the sun and it's getting to the point where it is so hot in the morning that we're forced out of the tent shortly after dawn.

The early morning sun soon burns off the dew. We cycle through lush forests; the road is lined with berry-ripe brambles and ferns. Further on and the workers are busy in the hazelnut groves, finishing off this year's harvest. Hazelnuts are a big part of Turkey's economy. When we were in Istanbul we saw rioters on the television throwing petrol bombs at riot police, who in turn were dispersing the angry crowds with water cannons and plastic bullets.

“What are those people rioting about Octavius? Are they anti-war demonstrators?”

“No brother - it's the annual hazelnut riots. The farmers are trying to agree a fair price with the government”

“Their technique certainly took “hard bargaining” to a new level.

Leaving the forests behind we re-enter farmland. Enormous blue tarpaulins are laid out on every available flat surface: gardens, garage roofs, car parks and pavements. Spread across each is a sea of hazelnuts upon which cross legged ladies sit, busy sorting good nuts from bad. By twelve thirty it's too hot to cycle any further and we seek respite, collapsing under the shade of an oak tree. Even in the shade it is thirty six degrees centigrade. By four o'clock it's cool enough to get back on the road, but with the nights drawing in, there's only three hours of light left and we push on into the dusk. At every turn there's a house or farm and the fields are packed with hazelnut pickers: it's a wild camper's nightmare! As darkness falls we're passed by trailer loads of hazel nut pickers returning home. The women are dressed in headscarves tied at the back and massive “Ali Baba” type brightly patterned trousers that look like they've been fashioned from a pair of 1970's curtains. They smile and wave at us as they overtake. We cycle around the edge of a football pitch, push the bikes down a dirt track and dive into a hazlenut grove. Sal sets up the tent whilst I whip up my new wild camping culinary masterpiece: pasta with tomatoes and cheese. Simply boil some water, drop the tomatoes in for a minute, remove them and peel the skins off. Whilst the pasta's cooking chop the peeled tomatoes and then add them with the cheese to the boiled pasta. It's a delicious and exotic alternative to my other two culinary wild camping piece de resistances: pasta with olive oil and, when the oil runs out, the ultimate in wild camping nouvelle cuisine: boiled pasta. The blazing sun has been heating up the ground all day, turning the tent into an oven. There's an army of mosquitoes outside, so opening up the flysheet isn't an option. As I'm drifting off I hear the sound of field mice and hedgehogs nibbling fallen hazelnuts a few feet from my head.

Shortly after dawn we awake to the sound of encroaching hazelnut pickers. We pack up quickly and push the bikes back along the track to the main road. On the way we pass a horse and cart, disturbing a dozing hazelnut picker lying in the back.

In many villages we're greeted by excited children waving their arms when they spot us. Some accompany us on bicycles for a mile or two, pulling wheelies and skids; but most just shout their few words of English at us. Typically it's “how are you?”; “what is your name?” or “where are you from?”; but one shouts “Oh my God” and another little unseen voice “I love you; I love you!'”

Back on the coast and we enjoy that double-combo of cycling rarities: a tailwind and flat roads. We power along the Black Sea coast to the seaside resort of Akcakoca. With it's new bypass we nearly missed it altogether. Fortunately a local teacher passing in a car notices our mistake and stops to give directions. She esorts us into town and checks the campsite out for us in advance. Situated between the beach and a hazelnut grove, it's an ideal place for a days rest. Erol, the owner, made his money as an aircraft mechanic in Germany and retired to Turkey to set up Hamburg Camping.

Just as we're wondering what we'll do for dinner, Erol's friend Osman (Ottoman is the Anglicisation of Osman) drops by the tent. “Come and have dinner with us: feesh and macaroni: no pay, no pay! Just come up when you are ready”.

Ten minutes later and we are sitting in Erol's dining room overlooking the camp-site. Osman's busy cooking in the kitchen and Erol's dozing on an armchair with a baseball cap covering his face. It starts as a fairly sober affair, but soon livens up as more and more guests arrive. Osman introduces us to them. There's an army colonel based in Ankara, a dentist with a two strand comb-over and a food and beverage manager from a nearby city. The latter two are fondly referred to as “Laurel and Hardy” and bear an uncanny resemblance to their famous counterparts. Enormous plates of macaroni, fish stew and salad are placed on the table, accompanied by a succession of litre bottles of Raki, an aniseed based firewater with a high double digit alcohol content. As the alcohol flows, the conversation gets louder and louder and soon the singing begins. The Black Sea Coast, or ‘Karadeniz'in Turkish, has its own cultural identity with it's own music and a dedicated Karadeniz music channel which blasts from the television in the corner. All of the music videos are set against a backdrop of mountains and waterfalls.

By now the dentist is so animated that he's shouting at the other guests. I ask Osman why he's upset but Osman tells me that he just gets a bit like that after a few drinks and nobody else seems perturbed. Next the dancing begins. Karadeniz dancing looks a bit like Irish jigging from the waist-down and a bit like Elvis from the waist-up. Hardy is an excellent singer and soon they all join in his medley of Karadeniz songs. Holding onto the table, Laurel-the-dentist rises to his feet and starts jigging his way around the room. Osman, now minus his shirt (see photograph!) soon joins him. Just as we're getting into Karadeniz spirit the inevitable occurs:

“We want Eenglish song; we want Eenglish song” the chanting begins. It's at times like this we wish our friends Jo and John were with us. They're currently on a year long honeymoon and touring the U.K with their band (see www.caliko.net for their tour diary): they could keep Osman and his friends entertained for hours. The food and beverage manager pipes up with another number, but the distraction is temporary. The last time I caught a whiff of being press-ganged into a karaoke-type event, I went to the toilet and didn't come back. But this time, with the tent outside, there's no escape.

Having spent several years in an am-dram club, I'm hoping Sal will step in and do the honours, but her mind goes blank. My repetoire is strictly limited to a few soft rock numbers and I get a hunch this isn't what they want to hear. Eventually, as the chanting grows louder, I clear my throat, take a deep breath and warble my way through the only other song that comes to mind. It's the hymn “One more step”:

“One more step along the world I go”

“One more step along the road I go”

“From the old unto the new, keep me travelling along with you”

“And its from the old I travel to the new, keep me travelling along with you”

After the first verse I run out of lyrics so just repeat the first verse a couple of times with a few improvised modifications. The others attempt to join in, but soon fade. Spotting we're in trouble Hardy rescues us with another Karadeniz folk song.

Later the colonel asks us where I am from. “Scotland” I tell him. “Ah you are a brave warrior! You are a Braveheart”. Being Scottish is great. Wherever we go in the world I seem to get a warm reception just by virtue of being Scottish. I feel sorry for Americans backpackers who frequently resort to stitching maple leaf emblems onto their rucksacks in an attempt to pass themselves off as Canadians. The Scottish stereotype abroad, stems, almost exclusively, from the film Braveheart. The fact that this is a historically innaccurate film, shot in Ireland and starring a cast of Australians, French and English seems does little to dent its “authenticity”. But hey, who cares! With his anti-semitic drunken outbursts Mel Gibson has utterly disgraced himself with the Jewish community, but with Braveheart he's achieved wonders for image of Scots abroad. I only hope that Mel never commissons “Rab C. Nesbitt The Movie”!

The colonel discloses his other key fact about Scotland. “Ah you must be tight just like our dentist friend over there. He is very rich but never spends any of it.” He smiles jestfully, emphasising his point with a clenched fist.

I ask the Colonel if he thinks Turkey will be allowed into the European Union and if it will be beneficial for the country:

“Europe is dead. The future is Asia! Europe needs Turkey more than Turkey needs Europe. Turkey is a modern and progressive country.”

And then, without a hint of irony he switches the subject to family and says:

“when you have children it is best if you have a boy”

As with many of the other countries we have travelled through on this trip, the subject of E.U. accession arouses strong feelings. Whilst in Istanbul I asked Octavius the same question. “Brother, Turkey will never be allowed to join the European Union because it will never say sorry for all the bad things that it has done to the Kurdish people” he said bitterly.

Osman shows me his photo album whilst the food and beverage manager cracks open hazelnuts on the table by stamping them with the bottom of a beer bottle. In one of the photos Osman is sitting next to his grandmother. She looks ethereal and is easily the oldest person I have ever seen. Osman tells me that she is one hundred and fifteen years old.

On the wall, a picture of the omnipresent Ataturk. Osman points to him:

“Do you know who that is? That is Ataturk and he is a great man…he is the greatest man and he is in my heart.”

It might just be a linguistic slip, but Osman speaks of him in the present, as if he is still alive. He died in 1938. It is illegal in Turkey to speak ill of Ataturk and it has been known for custodial sentences to be imposed on those who publicly slander his name. This rule was promulgated after Ataturk's death and seems inconsistent with a man who went to great lengths to modernise Turkey.

Tuesday 29 th August – Wednesday 6 th September Akcakoca to Kastamonu 205 miles

After a day of rest we set off the following morning. Whilst we are settling the bill Osman hands me Erol's business card and scrawls his mobile number on the back. “If you have any problem in Turkey just call me and I will fix it. Farewell my friends.”

A cool breeze blows off the aquamarine Black Sea and gentle waves lap the edges of its grey sandy beaches. Turkey's mediterranean south coast is packed with Western European holidaymakers but the Black Sea is a Turkish holiday resort for Turks. Unfortunately much of it is being concreted over, blighted with shoddily built holiday homes. Many remain half built, abandoned mid-construction.

At noon we head inland, leaving the Black Sea for good. This is the last time we will see open water on our cycle trip. The road rises steeply into a forested valley. By late afternoon we've climbed five hundred metres and there's a noticable drop in temperature. Already the leaves are turning; the ferns are golden yellow, amber and brown.

In nearly every village locals hail us down, inviting us for tea or Cay (pronounced Chai) as it is called in these parts. Turkish life, or to be more exact life for many Turkish men, revolves sitting around drinking tea all day - women appear to undertake most of the physical labour. Every village is lined with tea salons. Brewed in special samovars, Cay is usually it is served in a small tulip shaped glass placed on a pewter saucer. No milk is added, just lots of sugar. A deep amber colour, it is strong and packs a powerful caffeine kick. Most countries are either tea or coffee drinkers but just like the British, the Turks drink both. But tea dominates here, mainly because of cost and because brewing Turkish coffee is a complex palava that involves boiling it and reducing it four times.

If we accepted every tea invitation we'd probably still be languishing somewhere in the outer suburbs of Istanbul. Even with a strict tea invitation acceptance quota it's still tough escaping the clutches of the Cay drinkers who drink it from dawn till dusk. Frequently, we are spotted a hundred yards or more away by men who wolf whistle or shout “Merhaba Merhaba Cay Cay!” (Hello Hello, Tea Tea!) at the top of their voices. However, a couple of times we've been pursued by sprinting men running down the road after us, fag in mouth, shouting “Cay, Cay, Cay!”. But we've become adept at them spotting first: “Quick Sal, incoming cay hunter at 5 o'clock! Keep your head down and pedal hard!” The tea is so caffeine rich that if I drink any after 4 o'clock I have trouble sleeping at night which probably explains why many villagers appear so drowsy in the morning and so wildly animated by night.

The skies cloud over and there's frenzied running around as the tarpaulins are drawn over the hazlenuts. “Yamoor, Yamoor” a farmer tells us, pointing at the heavy clouds. The starting gun of rumbling thunder and lightening signals heavy rainfall and we seek shelter next to a building with a tractor load of hazelnut pickers.

The following day we climb a thousand metres through the drizzle, ascending higher and higher into the mountains. By nightfall the drizzle turns to rain. We scramble up an embankment and set up camp in the darkness. Just as we were finally getting into a routine of getting up early the seasons have suddenly turned, with Autumn arriving almost overnight.

In accordance with the adventurer's adage, “know thy equipment”, I've decided to read the instruction manual for my wrist-top computer, discovering in the process that it can measure cumulative height, enabling us to know how much climbing we do each day. I'm impressed to discover that during the past five days cycling we've climbed over four thousand metres. For me lugging my heavily laden bike up mountain after mountain is equivalent to powering a tractor with a lawnmower engine but Sal's power to weight ratio is analogous to powering a combine harvester with a strimmer. The steep hills slow our pace right down, but whenever I get frustrated with our progress I just think of all the people on exercise bikes in the fancy gym near our flat. Some of them have been cranking away for months and haven't budged an inch!

We pack up the following morning and descend down to the valley floor in the pouring rain, stopping only to pick off some friendly stick insects that have hitched a lift and to enjoy an early lunch. The young waiter in the restaurant recently returned from one and a half years of military service, which he served in Bosnia where he was attached to NATO. Military service is compulsory in Turkey and like many other young male Turks we've spoken to he loathed every minute of it. We tell him that we camped in the mountains last night. He looks concerned:

“You should carry a gun it is dangerous up there”

“Are the locals unfriendly?”

“No but the wild animals are!”

Crossing the valley floor we follow a river snaking across a shingle flood plain. The river winds its way round dark green spurs jutting out from the densely forested valley walls which extend upwards into the cloud base. The rain sets in for the day and for most of the afternoon all I can hear is the patter of raindrops and the whirring of bike chain.

Later, we stop in a village to pick up food for dinner. A group of intimidating looking hoodies give us helpful directions to the shop. With darkness falling we have no time to waste. Polite but firm attempts to refuse the compulsory Cay drinking invitation are unsuccessful. The sight of two drowned rats on heavily laden bicycles soon attracts plenty of attention and additional tea offers flow.

“Thank you for the very kind offer but we really really have to go” we tell the proprietor.

Whilst we're pleading he despatches a youth to the bakery to fetch bread for us and refuses payment. Meantime the tallest Turkish person I have seen so far joins us. He's an exception: as a general rule most Turks are fairly short compared to Western Europeans. Rounding up to the nearest foot, this makes me about average height in these parts which I like a lot.

“Eez there a problem?”

“No, not really but we are in a hurry and unfortunately are unable to stay for Cay. Please can you thank the shopkeeper for his kind invitation but we really have to go”.

“Ah no problem - two cups of cay coming right up”

He's a Professional volleyball player from Ankara who's visiting his family for weekend. We ask him where we can buy tomatoes and he sends his little brother off to get us some from his grandmother's garden whilst we sip the the tea.

A couple of miles outside the village and we spot a track leading into the forest. We switch our lights off, remove our reflective vests and take one last scan around before darting into woods. The rain pours all night but abates by dawn. I pull on my cold wet socks and then step into my shoes, displacing miniature geysers of water from the lace-holes. Unzipping the flysheet reveals a beautifully crisp and sunny morning. The air is so still that we can hear the wingbeat of gulls circling high above the canopy of silver birch.

Heading further inland, the valley narrows to a gorge, revealing coal seams where the roadbuilders have blasted through spurs. We enter a long dark tunnel. Apart from oncoming cars which blind us with full headbeam - the concept of “dimming” hasn't reached these parts yet - the tunnels are unlit. The rain has seeped into our electrics and our headlamps are not working too well. In the first tunnel I forget to remove my sunglasses and pedal through in the pitch black. With no pavement, it is terrifying. There's no alternative but to soldier on, passing through a score more.

We reach Safranbolu in the late afternoon. Safranbolu is to Ankara what the Cotswolds are to Londoners: a twee weekend retreat packed with boutique hotels and knick knack shops. The souveneir shops are appropriately called “Safran Tat”. Formerly an Ottoman trading post, today, with it's well-preserved Otoman architecture, it's a UNESCO protected heritate site. Outside the smart boutique hotel Sal and I debate about who looks the least unrespectable. I'm probably wetter but marginally less caked in mud and therefore less like a creature from the Blue Lagoon. The local etiquette is to remove outdoor footwear at the door. Reluctantly following protocol, I remove my sodden shoes and squelch my way across the ornately patterned rug to the reception desk. Retracing my wet footprints back to the porch I inform Sal that they've got a room available.

Our huge, high ceilinged bedroom is lined in wood panelling and floored with limed oak. On the outer wall, a row of tall narrow shuttered windows and a long cushioned bench measuring five meters or more which makes for a perfect reading area. The public areas are floored in flagstones and overlaid with ornately patterned woollen rugs. Most of these elegant 19th century townhouses are based on a similar Ottoman townhouse design: typically three stories high, with the upper stories jutting out over the lower one. The exposed timber frames are infilled with either brick or mud and straw. In many houses this is left bare, but the more salubrious residences have a white-washed finish.

Strolling along Safranbolu's narrow cobbled streets, we get talking to a local artist who crafts hand-made pots. This is his thirteenth year of production but his first season in Safranbolu and he's struggling to make ends meet.

“Turkeesh people no appreciate hand-made pottery. They think factory better” he explains.

“Yes but what about all the foreign tourists? Surely local handicrafts are right up their street?”

During our conversation it becomes apparent why foreigners are reluctant to buy his fine pots. For starters there's no information about the pots or their prices - just a couple of tatty newspaper articles about the artist that are hidden under an overflowing ashtray and a pile of empty tea cups. With his long unkempt hair, week old stubble and bloodshot eyes, he looks intimidating, belying his gentle character. But it's his terrifying “hijacking” sales technique that's the real sales killer. Mid-sentence, he spots a foreign tourist glancing at his pots, runs up to him and accosts him with the hard-sell: “Non merci; Non merci!” says the alarmed tourist, backing off and disappearing round the corner.

I explain to him that Western Europeans generally prefer to browse undisturbed, only asking for assistance if they want it. Furthermore they like to have information about the products and also clear fixed pricing rather than having to barter. I also tell him he might want to charge a bit more for some of the more elaborate pots: not only to reflect the higher labour input but also because some people find higher prices “reassuringly expensive”. The next day I spend an hour with him, compiling an information board with details about his pots and their provenance. Time and again I turn round to ask him a question only to spot him lynching startled tourists on the other side of the street. Despite my best efforts to persuade him otherwise he remains convinced that it is the most effective approach. The irony is that compared to most of the plastic knick-knacks on offer in neighbouring stalls, his pots are a high quality souveneir; but with his desperado sales technique, few visitors will ever hang around long enough to make this discovery.

Thursday 7 th – Wednesday 13 th September Kastamonu to Amasya 162 miles

After two days cycling and about one hundred and fifty tea stops later we arrive in Kastamonu, a former Byzantine and Ottoman trading post. Set around a castle perched high on a mound of volcanic rock, it reminds us vaguely of Edinburgh. Like Safranbolu, there's plenty of vernacular architecture, but because it's further from Ankara there are far fewer tourists here and it has the pleasant buzz of a town going about its every day life. Whilst Sally's phoning home in the Turk Telecom Office, I get chatting, via the phrasebook, to the staff. I tell them about our trip to date and our route after Kastamonu. One of the staff starts making roaring noises and draws a picture of a mountain and a bear. He's a bit of a joker and I think little more of it.

Fully rested we begin the long climb out of Kastamonu, heading deep into Anatolya's moutainous interior. After sweating our way up to the head of the valley we stop at a factory to ask for directions and to get water. It's a family business which distributes cigarattes. Selen, who is currently managing the finances, insists we stay for lunch. She recently returned to work for the family business after completing a degree in fashion in Istanbul. Whilst we're waiting for lunch we get to indulge in English language television, watching BBC World on a big-screen TV in their plush offices. Smoking, as elsewhere, is big business in Turkey. Almost half the adult population smokes and it has the second highest growth rate in cigarette consumption in the world after Pakistan. In Britain around a quarter of the adult population smokes. With such a high proportion of heavy smokers it's probably just as well that Christmas isn't celebrated here. Every year in Britain several heavy smokers are admitted to hospital with burns because they forget to remove the cigarettes from their mouths whilst trying on new “Crimbo knits”. If Christmas ever becomes popular in Turkey it could cause A&E gridlock.

We eat a hearty lunch of lentil soup, macaroni and salad in the staff canteen. Selen asks us why we are making the trip. A man from the factory worker's table across the dining room asks me, through Selen, why Robbie Fowler is no longer in the England Football squad.

Replete, we set off along a quiet road, climbing all afternoon through mountainous ancient pine forest. By five o'clock we're near the top and stop to get water in a tiny and remote moutain village set in a forest clearing. Outside one of the houses an old lady stirs an enormous vat of stew simmering on an open fire. One of the villagers fills our bottles and offers us delicious home-made yogurt. It's time to find a camping spot.

Set in a forest clearing, looking down over miles and miles of unbroken pine forests and with not a soul around it seems like the perfect wild camping spot. Perfect that is until about half an hour after lights out when I'm jolted awake by a cavernous growling sound just inches from my head. I can feel the ground vibrating as the large animal circles around the tent. It's like being woken up with a defibrillator. Terrified, I lie absolutely motionless for a few minutes. Sal's fast asleep and oblivious to it all with her earplugs in. But not for long:

“Sal, Sal wake up - there's a f?????g bear outside the tent!”

Paralysed by fear, we lie in the darkness. Angry farmers and deer are scary enough but the arrival of a bear catapults fear levels to new and unchartered eschelons. Events like this make you realise that a tent is not so much a portable home but a flimsy nylon bag held taught by a couple of spindly aluminium poles. The manufacter claims the flysheet is made from rip-stop nylon but I doubt they stress tested it with bear claws. It pads around the tent once more and the fortunately disappears into the night. Gathering our thoughts we formulate an emergency plan.

“What do bears eat?” Sal asks

Recalling a bear documentary I recently saw at an IMAX cinema I authoratively reassure her that they are mainly vegetarians with a fruits and nut based diet.

“What do you mean mainly ?”

And then, in the interests of full disclosure I add “and occasionally human beings”, recalling a bear documentary maker who had recently been killed by one of his subjects. “But that's only when they feel threatened, surprised or are defending offspring”.

“It's the food they'd be after, not us” I say, trying to calm both of us down.

We wait for a few minutes and zip open the porch. Whilst Sal blows on a whistle and bangs the metal fuel bottles (bears don't like noise) I heave the bag of food as far as I can into the darkness. For good measure we eject all other food related matter: the camping stove; cooking pots; cutlery and, as an afterthought, a handfull of brazil nuts that a man had offered to me a few hours before.

With the nearest village a couple of miles away, we decide to sit tight and wait for sunrise. We enjoy about three minutes of sleep, spending the remainder of the night on high alert. Dawn when it finally arrives brings relief for mind and bladder alike.

Apart from being grumpy, my favourite morning activity is normally just sort of standing around staring into space. This morning I'm in fast forward. At first light we're up, out and down the mountain at lightening speed.

There's nothing like a bit of hindsight: so the joker in the Turk Telecom Office really was being serious when he cavorted round his desk doing a bear impression; as was the waiter when he said we should carry a gun. We didn't think much about it at the time but looking back on it, there was a notable absence of livestock on the hills and we passed several shepherds driving herds of cows and goats back into villages as the sun set. Subsequent internet research reveals that the mountains around Kastamonu are prime bear territory and that “bear watching tours can be arranged”. Moreover, a map indicates that we are right in the middle of a “bear corridor” stretching from here to Iran. Several news articles report of villages being raided by bears and livestock going missing in the night. Suddenly, the mountains of Turkey look less like a pristine wilderness haven and more like a wild game park. As a backlash Sally motions a new policy of only camping in central reservation of motorways and the middle of roundabouts. We'd been foolish and we knew it.

After a viscious eight hundred metre ascent, we whizz down to the main road which will eventually take us onto Amasya, our next destination. After last night's debacle we don't feel like camping but there are no hotels around and it is probably the best way to put the last night's scare behind us. We scout around for the least likely bear spot we can find, setting up the tent a couple of hundred metres from a noisy dual carriageway, with the reassuring noise of articulated lorries thundering past us all night.

The next morning we enjoy a hearty breakfast of lentil soup, olives, honey and fresh bread. Unlike British motorway services where you are charged up to ten quid for the pleasure of eating a sinuous chicken breast that's been fossilising on a hotplate since the Paleolithic era, Turkey's roadside services are superb. As we're settling up the waiter offers us a stash of wet wipes and air fresheners - is he trying to tell us something?

The road follows a heavily deforested valley. Heavy logging means that where once there was dense forest now there are bare slopes, the majestic mountains reduced to little more than barren slag heaps. Three miles outside a town called Osmancik we're stopped by a car load of traffic police.

The policeman in the passenger seat rolls down his windscreen:

“Do you like Nescafe?” he asks us and then before we can answer: “you must come for Nescafe with us”.

We rejoin them half an hour later at a roadside cafe on the edge of Osmancik. Sipping on their Nescafe, the three policemen introduce themselves. Jeem, their cheeky ringleader, speaks the best English. After we've told them about our trip he asks us if we have any Turkish friends back in Britain. “Yes I have a friend called Meltem”.

They all snigger: “Ah a woman” Jeem snorts. Social customs are slowly changing, particularly in some cities, but here generally men hang out with men and women with women.

We ask them for a hotel recommendation. They deliberate amongst themselves and then ask us to follow their car on our bikes. We pass through the centre of town and then draw up outside a bright pink four storey modern residential block. Outside the entrance there's an enormous statue of Ataturk. It's a teachers house that also offers rooms to travellers. “Follow me baby” Jeem says. I assume he's meaning Sal, but he points at me and we leave Sal outside on the steps. It's time to get down to the near exclusive male preserve of talking business.

Once inside they fetch a teacher from the canteen who speaks good English. In his late fifties, he has the manner of a man who's been in the teaching profession for far too long.

“Look at me when I am talking to you please. I am a teacher and I will show you a room to see if you like it. Do you understand me?”

With the cops in tow, I check out the room: “We'll take it”

“The price will be thirty Turkish Lira and breakfast is served from seven o'clock until ten o'clock. Are you listening to me?”

We've been away from home for five months now and the yearnings for English language media grows stronger by the day. A frantic search through the television channel ensues. Unearthing “God UK”, I linger just long enough to witness an advert offering “peace and happiness for only 39.99 a month” and then continue flicking through an endless succession of Turkish television channels with names like “PowerTurk”. Eventually I find the only other English language channel. It's CNBC, a financial news station. I quite enjoy the round up of the day's financial markets but Sal finds it “really boring”. “Is that the sort of stuff you do all day?” She asks, stifling a yawn.

We pass through valley after valley of irrigated fields. Flat and lush in contrast with the bare valley walls rising sharply upwards for a thousand metres on either side. With the harvest over, the farmers are busy tilling and manuring the fields in preparation for next year's crop. The engine casing of each tractor is covered in a natty carpeted “tea-cosy”. The roads are lined with rickety stalls containing large bags of onions. Many of the vendors are sound asleep but one has somehow managed to connect himself up to the internet via a long extension cable leading to a nearby telegraph pole.

We make good progress in the morning and are eight miles outside Amasya by early afternoon. We stop to eat in a roadside restaurant. As with many restaurants in Turkey, the Turkish proprietor made his money in Germany and returned to open a restaurant in Turkey. Whilst the UK and in particular London have well established Turkish communities, Germany is the destination of choice for many young Turks heading abroad in search of work. During their time there, many seem to undergo a process of “Germanification”. Restaurants owned by Turks who have lived in Germany often have prices that are 10-15% higher than average. They usually own a black German car which is proudly on display in front of the restaurant. White is the most common car colour in Turkey which makes sense in a hot climate, but for those who can afford an air conditioned German car, this isn't such an important consideration. When carrying large loads in their fancy German cars, instead of the usual bursting half open boot stanchioned with a piece of string and a precariously balanced set luggage covered by a flapping tarpaulin on the roof, Germanified Turks own neat roof-top luggage carriers. When Germanfied Turks talk to us they insist on speaking to us in German and seem perplexed and disappointed that we haven't a clue what they're saying. Above all else though it's their restrained manner that's the hallmark of a Germanified Turk. Reserved and composed, they're they antithesis of the demonstrative, often effusive villagers we've met along the way. Several Turks we've spoken to told us that they found Northern Europeaners to be stand-offish, and I can now see why they might confuse tactiturnity with hostility. We usually try to explain that it's just that we typically wait a while to “suss” people out before opening up. If somebody is overwhelmingly friendly in the first five minutes of meeting them I'm inclined to think: “what are they trying to sell me?” Culturally we're very different.

We've now cycled three thousand miles and are approximately half way across Turkey. Somewhere during the next couple of weeks we'll reach the mid-point of our journey. But for now part two can wait. After one of our toughest weeks since we left London, we're more than ready for Amaysa which is reputed to be the prettiest town in Turkey. It's time to put the bear trauma behind us and check into the bear-free sanctuary of an Ottoman townhouse hotel.

Thursday 14 th – Sunday 17th September Amasya

Set on the Yesilirmak river, picturesque Amasya is wedged in a deep rocky gorge. Its dramatic setting is enhanced by a cluster of two thousand year old Pontic tombs carved into the rock face high above the town. These, along with its Ottoman town houses, Seljuk mosques, and a castle built and rebuiilt over the ages will provide enough layers of history to keep us busy for a good few days. We check into Pension Ilk, an Ottoman townhouse faithfully restored by its architect-owner, and head out to explore the neighbourhood. As we're strolling down a cobbled side-street a voice behind us calls out:

“Hey! Where are you guys from?”

Yusuf, Ibrahim and Charlu are three students from Amasya, whiling away the summer holidays by walking the streets in search of tourists to practice their English with. Their English is already excellent making it a great opportunity for us to get to know Amasya and learn more about Turkish culture. Over tea in the local music school, which was formerly a musical therapy centre for the mentally ill, Yusuf asks if I know the musician Yusuf Islam. The name's familiar but I can't quite place it. “He used to be called Cat Stevens” Yusuf clarifies. Cat's a bit before my time, but I vaguely remember singing his song “Morning Has Broken” at school assembly and some alleged controversial comments that he made endorsing the Fatwa of Salman Rushdie in the 1980s. During subsequent research, I discover that Yusuf Islam was born Steven Demetre Georgiou, the son of a Greek Cypriot, and switched from Catholicism to Islam after a near death experience in the nineteen seventies. Our Yusuf tells me that Yusuf Islam is a good Muslim and raves about “Indian Ocean”, his first album to be released in over two decades.

Yusuf's passionate about Islam. Keen to find out more, we bombard him with questions: What are the wailers wailing about? Why do some of the wailers sign-off with a touch-tone dialling sound and why can Muslim men marry non Muslim women but not vice versa?

Despite the ongoing spat between Pope Benedict and outraged Muslims, which would suggest the contrary, as our conversation proves, it's perfectly possible to have an enjoyable, sensible and stimulating debate about the differences between Christians and Muslims, East and West. Our similarities far outweigh our differences but for political and religious leaders to admit this would mean undermining one of their key techniques for unifying and controlling their respective subjects: namely, creating a common enemy. Perhaps, in the interests of global peace, Pope Benedict and the Mullahs should come to the Amasya tea rooms and settle their differences over a cup of Cay like proper grown-ups.

Yusuf's concerned that, as a Muslim, he might not be welcome in Britain. We tell him there are a few saddos in our country who are anti-muslim, but they belong to a minority of losers who generally don't like black people or Chinese people either.

We talk about tolerance and intolerance in our respective countries and I tell him about Abu Hazma, a muslim cleric who used to encourage terrorism during his rants at the Finsbury Park mosque just round the corner from our old flat. Yusuf's amazed that we put up with “Captain Hook” for so long and tells us that there's no way he would have got away with that sort of behaviour in Turkey. Despite his concerns he's still really keen to visit the U.K. if he can save up enough money and, more to the point, if he can get a visa. We're really hoping he eventually makes it to our shores. Not only so we can (hopefully) assuage his concerns but also because I want to take him to our local pub quiz and afterwards to a curry house where we can introduce him to chicken tikka masalla. He's looking forward to Ramadan (or Ramazan as it is called in Turkey), a month long festival during which time Muslims refrain from eating, drinking and smoking during daylight hours. It begins in just over a week's time and Yusuf assures us that it will be a really exciting time to be in Turkey wth lots of celebrating. This year he's spending Ramadan in Saudi Arabia where he'll undertake a month long pilgrimmage around the holy sites.

Charlu's studying in Ankara and is worrying about his forthcoming driving test. With examination day just over a week away, it's not so much the test that bothers him but the fact that he has only had one lesson in the car. In Britain, learner drivers have to demonstrate that they have reached threshold competency before being awarded a license. This often takes years of lessons and resitting the test many times. I even know somebody who took six attempts to pass their test! Somehow, despite these checks and balances there's still plenty of absolute lunatics on Britains roads. However the Turkish driving licencing board takes an altogether more permissive approach, taking the view that if a learner has spent five hundred dollars on a driving course then it would be outrageous to fail them. This probably explains why so many drivers here seem to employ exactly the same technique for reversing as they do for going forward. Namely: stare at the road straight ahead, accelerate and stop only in the event of a loud crunching sound.

Ibrahim's reading The Davinci Code. He tells me that there are lots of words in it that he doesn't understand. I tell him not to worry about it and admit to him that when I read it there were lots of words I didn't understand either.

The next day we meet up with Yusuf, Charlu and Ibrahim and head to the one of the larger mosque complexes in Amasya. At the entrance, on either side of the mihrad, are two vertical cylinders set into the stonework. They are supposed to rotate but one of them has jammed, which Charlu tells us is a sign of future problems for the mosque. We're more worried it's a sign of subsidence and in turn earthquakes, which regularly devastate Turkey. Leaving our shoes outside, Sal puts on her headscarf and we step inside. Yusuf prays whilst we take a look around.

We head to a tearoom. It's a cavernous white-washed room with a vaulted ceiling. The room is completely empty in the middle and are cushions on the floor around the edges. On one wall there are photographs of Mecca. On the other side from us is a dozing policeman, slumped on a chair. We sit cross-legged on the floor and the attendant brings over glasses of tea poured from two enormous samovars. After a few minutes we're joined by Emrah, another friend. Emrah tells us that two of his friends have visited London and neither of them liked it. I tell him that I didn't like it very much either when I first arrived but that now I really enjoy living there. “What didn't they like about it?” I ask. He tells us that they found Londoners very unfriendly. “For example,” he says, “my friend was on the tube and asked a man standing in the carriage if the tube was going to Piccadilly circus and the man said ‘I hope so!'” Emrah's friend was so distressed by this “unhelpful” answer that she cried all the way back to her hotel room. We tell Emrah that the man was just making a friendly joke. Now we're worried that we've unknowingly upset dozens of other tourists when we thought we were being friendly!

Yusuf shows us his I.D. card. Unlike Britain (for now at least) everybody must carry an I.D. card in Turkey. Along with the usual date of birth, family name etc, Turkish citizens must also state their religion. Apparently this is process of being scrapped, presumably to conform to European Union entry criteria. Charlu tells us that his grandparents were forcibly moved from Greece to Turkey as part of a “population Exchange” (read ethnic cleansing) whereby many Turks living in Greece were deported and vice versa shortly after the foundation of modern Turkey.

On the way out the tea house attendant hands us a complimentary tourist leaflet on Amasya. “Welcome to Amasya” is written in bold lettering on the front cover. Underneath are two photographs: the first of a soldier in full combat gear kissing a baby and the second showing a soldier with his arm around a middle aged woman in a headscarve. Inside the military theme continues: photograph of soldiers on military parade; photograph of soldiers wielding machine guns and on the back cover a photograph of a fruitbowl and some soldiers holding a mortar launcher. It looks more like a military recruitment brochure than a tourist information pamphlet.

Later we enjoy a concert of Turkish folk and classical music at the music centre and get to see Yusuf working his magic on the reed flute.

The following day we take up Yusuf's invitation to visit the Koran school. It's a real privilege to be able to visit it and not something that is normally possible for tourists. Inside the main octagon there are two games of football being played simulaneously - the sound of footballs richocheting off walls echoes round the atrium. In the middle there's a fountain bobbing with watermelons. Most of the students appear to be between ten and fifteen. Many are sitting at desks around the side memorising verses from the Koran. Yusuf tells us that it takes four years on average to learn the six hundred or so pages of the Koran. He arranges for one of the students to give us a reading. Taking off our shoes we step into a sideroom and kneel down on the deep-pile red carpet. It's a beautiful, melodical sound.

Thanks to Yusuf, Charlu and Ibrahim we've seen the sights of Amasya and much more, but they insist that there's one more trip I must take before leaving: a trip to the local Turkish baths. There they tell me, resides “The Ayoo”, the haman's feared chief masseur.

“That ‘Ayoo' word sounds familiar - what does it mean?”

“It means ‘The Bear'” Yusuf tells me, creasing up with laughter.

After last weeks close shave with a grizzly, I've blown my lifetime desired bear encounter quota of zero; but at least this one's human and besides, no visit to Turkey would be complete without a trip to the Turkish baths.

After a couple of days of summoning up the courage I decide to go for it. Yusuf and Ibrahim agree to escort me to the entrance and arrange everything with the cashier. Sensing my nervousness, Yusuf tries to set me at ease “Hey man relax! You have nothing to worry about!” and then as the doors closing behind me he tails off with “good luck man!” I'm handed a stack of towels by the cashier and taken through to an ante-room that's partitioned into cubicles. In each section are two beds, some shelves for clothes and an ashtray. With a strong sense of intrepidation I walk across the room and prepare to enter the main baths. As I open the door I'm hit by a wall of steam. Peering through the mist I spot a bench on the other side of the marble floor and head over to it. Dripping water echoes around the chamber. There's nobody else around and I'm not exactly sure what I'm supposed to be doing. After about ten minutes an old man enters but he soon heads off to an adjoining room. I can hear running water and the sound of a sloshing bucket. He's clearly a pro and wouldn't mind check-out what he's up to, but I don't want to seem like a peeping Tom, so decide to stay put. Around twenty minutes later a door opens, casting an ominous shadow across the floor. Turning around I see a huge figure in a loin-cloth filling the archway. That must be “The Ayou” I say to myself, gulping. And I can see why. He's only marginally less hairy than a grizzly but probably about the same weight. He beckons me to follow him into an adjoining room. The bear dons what looks like a giant oven glove covered in an abrasive coating similar to that found on angle-grinders and starts vigorously scrubbing me - at times coming dangerously close to the family jewels. Soon great wads of skin start falling off. The flaying lasts for about ten minutes, but this is only his warm-up. Cracking his knuckles he instructs me to lie down on a marble plinth and starts kneading my back. In between the kneading he contorts my limbs, twisting them in his enormous hands as if I were a Rubics cube. Luckily I remember to ask Yusuf what the Turkish word for “stop” is. “Dur” I cry out several times. For the finale the bear instructs me adopt the emergency brace position and then yanks down on my elbows, causing an alarming cracking sound from my back. Feeling glad to be alive, I bid the Ayou farewell head back to the changing room.

Amasya's been a real tonic, helping us to put distance between last week's bear encounter and replenishing our energies for the next stage of our journey which will take us to the Iranian border. Sadly, with our visas ticking away, it's time to move on and say goodbye to Yusuf, Ibrahim and Charlu. I hope they make it to Britain one day so we can return their generous hospitality.