Seventeen kilometres he’d said. It was getting late, but I’d decided to push on to the seaside resort of Amasra. I’d stopped in the large inland town of Bartin for warm tea and soup, and a chance to glean something of the road ahead from the cafe’s owner. It sounded fine. He’d been a cook in the Merchant Navy and, as I quickly ate, told me of the many countries he’d visited.
As the light faded the rain had set in, but progress was good. Then an unexpected junction. As I pondered which way to go, a car stopped and the driver explained. Take the shorter old road to Amasra, or the newer highway, a few kilometres more. I decided on the latter, expecting it to be quicker, particularly in the dark. It probably was, but as I slogged my way up into the hills in the cold, damp night, no sign of my destination, I began to wonder if I’d misunderstood, that perhaps this was a bypass. Disheartening.
Then, suddenly, to my left, the lights of Amasra. My spirits lifted, I quickly found the turn off towards the town, steadily making the long, downhill descent. Reluctant to drop down too far, I came across a hotel on a high promontory, overlooking the harbour. Looked a bit on the expensive side, but I’d learnt that there was often little relationship between appearances and cost. I’d go and ask. Less than twenty pounds for a night, and they could rustle up an omelette for me. Bargain.
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