Ken's Blog

Beyond the coastal town of Sile, it didn’t take long for the D-20 dual carriage way to be reduced to a potholed minor road. Foolishly, I decided to switch to the coastal route, mainly because it would be quite a bit shorter, and I didn’t think it could be any worse. It was. Bitter, penetrating winds, winding descents and steep climbs, traversing valley after valley. Took about three hours to cover just thirty kilometres.

For a supposedly coastal route, the Black Sea rarely put in an appearance until I reached the seaside town of Agva. Pleasant enough, but, conscious of limited daylight, I pressed on inland, back on the D-20, towards the town of Kandira. As I headed away from the coast a light dusting of snow on the surrounding hills soon became a thick blanket, fortuitously just the road remaining clear.

Progress was now much better, abruptly interrupted only by the odd dog encounter. I’d already abandoned my electronic dog deterrent since all it seemed to do was, at best, to arouse curiosity, but more often than not, to act like a beacon for every mastiff in the neighbourhood. Fortunately, the dog repellant faired better, but even that really required the canine to be downwind or else you ran the risk of coming off worse in the encounter.

Reaching Kandira at nightfall – population 14,500 the sign said – I was hopeful of somewhere to stay. Stopping beside a cafe on the edge of the town, I soon drew a small crowd, whose intent, I quickly realised, was to help me. A brief conversation in French with a woman and a man was detailed off to escort me to what I hoped would be a cheap hotel.

And cheap the hotel certainly was – about eight pounds for a bed. Quirky too – no light switch in the room, you had to ask Reception to turn the bare bulb on and off. Not a huge inconvenience as it was only about ten feet away. But, nevertheless, a friendly establishment, a steady stream of hot tea as I sat in the lounge. Just best not to mention the one communal toilet and shower.

Harry Potter. Definitely. Actually, he was the owner, not just of a small hotel, but a collection of riverside chalets and apartments. Not bad for twenty three. I’d arrived late on a wet February night, looking for somewhere to escape the weather. A little birthday treat.

He knew well I’d not be going on any further that night, but equally I knew he’d want the trade. An online translation service proved much quicker than my phrase book, enabling us to quickly settle on a price. I’d shown him my website and dinner had been thrown in. The translator advised that an evening meal was available ’immediately’. It was late I suppose.

We skipped the menu, but the food was hot and plentiful. I watched the owner at work, quietly ushering his staff. A light touch, interrupted only by the occasional ringing of his phone he kept close at hand. In the morning I returned to reception to retrieve my passport, catching a brief glimpse of his office. Business like. By the time I got home he’d probably have a chain of hotels.

I’d sought to reassure Tugba (pronounced ’Toooba’) that I really was fond of cats. We’d met for coffee a few days previously in Istanbul and she’d invited me out to her island. Just one thing, she explained. She had seven cats. Not a problem I had said. And it wasn’t. Still, quite a few though. On the ferry out – about an hour and a half sailing – I’d found myself engrossed in a reprint of an old espionage novel set amongst the estuaries and channels of the North Sea. Seemed suitably nautical.

The island was quite beautiful, many of the houses reminiscent of the English Colonial style. It was quiet. Few, if any, tourists, and far to early for the summer residents. Horse drawn carriages the only traffic, except for the odd government vehicle. A welcome change to Istanbul. I’d arrived in time for lunch, met by Tugba at the ferry terminal. We ventured into a nearby cafe for some warm tea and a chance to try her homemade spicy filled bread, a speciality in the Black Sea region where she’d grown up.

A keen amateur photographer, in the evening I’d a chance to have a look at some of her work, shot in South East Asia. She was putting together a small exhibition. A natural eye for people, her other compositions were equally striking, good use of light. Sort of imagery you’d find in National Geographic.

But most intriguing was her interest in astrology. Not the sweeping generalisations you’d find in newspapers, but something much more individual. Whatever the merits of the underlying theory, of which there seemed to be a good deal, Tugba definitely didn’t seem to be the sort of person easily seduced by pseudo-science. This was a confident, intelligent, questioning woman, not someone grasping for answers. Enthralling.

I was hopelessly lost. I’d been in Asia for about ten minutes. The problem was two-fold. Firstly, I’d disembarked from the ferry further south than planned, largely because one of the ship’s officers had explained that the northern tip was a ’Forbidden Zone’. This had been news to me, but I suppose that was the point. Military hush hush… The second reason for getting lost was much more familiar. The map. Big on scale, small on detail. But much worse than normal. Couldn’t find a single road sign that married up.

Asking passers-by wasn’t a huge help. My destination – Sile – was so far away that, in all probability, any road would lead there. Eventually. I’d resorted to using a compass and sticking to roads that looked like they might be going somewhere. To make matters worse, none of the road signs, of which there were quite a few, included distances, or even the number of the road you were actually on. It began to drizzle.

A few hours later, the rain by now fairly heavy, I stumbled across a more substantial road. I’d still no real idea where I was. There were two choices. Left or right. I chose the first. Northward. And downhill. I could at least cover some distance and, with a fair bit of luck, find somewhere that actually featured on my map.

Catching the odd glimpse of what I hoped was the Black Sea, I suddenly came across a sign for Sile. I’d a suspicion this was the scenic route, slow and ambling, not quite I’d have wished for with three hours of daylight left. But at least it was going in the right direction. I ploughed on, progress thwarted occasionally by road diversions, a funeral cortege, deep muddy potholes, and general uncertainty at each and every fork in the road.

As the light faded I was still feeling my way along what had become the coast road. The odd village, the better looking properties holiday homes I thought, otherwise nothing. Steep climbs and cautious descents. Slow, tedious progress. The few people I’d seen had all indicated it was still some way to Sile, and they’d all been as confused by my map as I was. And then I encountered a German speaker. ’Autobaun’ he said, pointing up a road off to the left. This sounded plausible, encouraging, so I took his advice, quickly finding myself on the D-20 dual carriage way that ran east, loosely following the Black Sea coast.

It’d been dark for a while, the rain heavy but the traffic light. I was still uncertain as to where exactly I was, but confident nevertheless I was heading towards Sile. And then a petrol station. Decided to stop and ask for directions. Must have looked pretty bedraggled. The two attendants insisted I join them and have some warm tea. A more welcome offer I could not have imagined. They explained there was a small pension about four kilometres further on, drawing me a small map so I’d not miss it. I thanked them profusely for their kindness, returning to the road for the final push to find shelter for the night.

"You will die" he said emphatically. But this wasn’t a threat, just helpful advice. I explained that, much as Iraq sounded intriguing, I didn’t plan to visit, not for a while at least. He was a retired Colonel from the northern part of the country, enjoying a brief respite in Turkey with his wife.

I’d taken a ferry up the Bosporus from the European side of Istanbul, with the intention of disembarking on the Asian side, close to the Black Sea coast. The passengers were mostly tourists, including a large contingent of Chinese. Each had a smart camera so I foolishly assumed them to be Japanese, a presumption they were quick to correct. I apologised, they accepted, and Emma and I posed for photographs.

Perhaps drawn by the small crowd that had gathered around Emma and I, my Colonel friend had approached me muttering "Tony Blair". I was quick to explain that not everyone liked him. I suggested Gordon Brown. Despite his opening gambit, the Colonel seemed a jovial chap. Suppose you would be when the only thing to contend with in Turkey is the odd rogue carpet salesman.