Ken's Blog

Beyond Amasra the road changes. Winding steep descents, only to slowly, painfully, regain the height, traversing around the next headland. Then downhill once more, perhaps eight hundred feet. Tough coastal riding. A struggle to average little more than twice a good walking pace. I was reckoning on about six thousand feet of climb each day, hauling Emma and sixty pounds of kit.

Barely any respite, perhaps a few kilometres of relatively flat road each day, no more. Little traffic and few settlements. A first beautiful, unspoiled, before the repetitive tedium, the slow, grinding progress, takes hold. The odd gem to lift faltering spirits, a natural harbour reminiscent of Lulworth Cove in Dorset.

Few people seemed to visit this section of the Black Sea coast, even in summer. Just the odd place to stop, mostly workers hotels, cheap and functional. The houses, with their distinctive concrete frames and red brickwork, reminded me of rural Bulgaria.

I was finding progress frustratingly slow. I’d a plan to reach the port of Sinop, some four hundred kilometres east of Amasra. From there I planned to leap ahead by coach to meet up with my father, before returning to continue east once more on the bike. But I needed to get to Sinop first, and endless poring over my doubtful map wasn’t bringing it any closer. Nothing for it but to pedal harder. At least the weather was holding, and frequently I’d be invited off the road for warm, sweet tea by curious locals.

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.

It was gone nine. Tired of my frequent banging on the hotel’s front door, the night porter had eventually risen from his couch and let me in. He shuffled off, I hoped, optimistically, to prepare breakfast of sorts. I’d arrived late the previous night into the small Black Sea town of Turkali.

There was just one place to stay, a collection of seaside holiday apartments dotted around a small hotel. It wasn’t expensive, but I still felt a bit aggrieved. Nothing worked. My efforts to complain resulted in shrugged shoulders. The few other residents seemed equally lethargic, wrapped up in their jackets and woollen hats to fend off the indoor chill.

I’d left the warmth of Alapli the previous day, making steady progress to the large industrial town of Zonguldak. Grim. I’d decided to leave the main highway, instead following the smaller coastal road towards what I hoped would be some lovely seaside towns and villages. What I found was impossibly steep climbs and plunging descents, amidst endless urban sprawl. I stopped briefly in Catalagzi which, like the railway marshalling yards along its length, seemed much neglected. It would soon be dark, no choice but to continue along the valley in search of the coast. It was this that had brought me to Turkali.

Breakfast, when it eventually appeared, was the establishment’s one and only redeeming feature. The bill settled, time to move on. I’d heard that the fishing port of Amasra, sixty or so kilometres along the coast, was definitely worth a visit. It could only get better.

Feeling surprisingly refreshed the next day, the offer of a sauna from Zehra’s good friend Huseyin was nevertheless very welcome. He’d installed one in his barbers shop, as smart and immaculate as the pharmacy he also ran a few doors away. We chatted a great deal, Islam, Capitalism, subjects that often people are reluctant to discuss, especially with relative strangers.

They were most insistent. I should put on the clean, dry socks they’d found for me. I hadn’t the heart to explain that once I put my boots back on, they’d soon be as sodden as my own, presently steaming next to the cafe’s stove. I’d stopped outside a little seaside establishment near the town of Karasu, quickly finding myself being beckoned inside, a chair drawn up for me next to the fire. Hot tea (cay, pronounced ’chai’) was provided, followed a short while later by a large toasted sandwich.

I’d left Kandira early, aiming to reach the coast by lunchtime, conscious of some lengthy climbs and a good deal of ground to be covered to my next stop. During a mid-morning break for tea an elderly chap kept saying ’wasser’ (German for ’water’), but exactly why was unclear. A little later, as I descended towards the flat coastal strip, the meaning became quickly apparent. A river had burst it’s banks, submerging the road under a couple of feet of water.

Any detour, even if I could find one on my dubious map, would add hours to an already lengthy day. No choice but to wade knee deep through several hundred metres of icy water, carrying my kit. Emerging from the flood water, a few bemused onlookers approached as I sat wringing my socks out. They suggested a nearby guest house where I could dry off properly. I thanked them, but explained I had to push on. A few kilometres later, my legs now feeling numb with cold, I’d spotted the seaside cafe and decided a short break was now in order.

Returning to the road in clean socks, stoked with tea and toasted sandwich, I continued east along the coastal strip. Beyond Karasu it seemed very grey, featureless but for the wide road and sporadic clusters of workshops and small businesses. But, as the rain returned, it did afford a relative quick passage towards the town of Akcakoca. It looked big enough on the map to offer shelter, even out of season.

The final ten kilometres towards Akcakoca drew me away from the coast, climbing once again. It was beginning to get dark. I was flagging. Then another small cafe. Like so many I’d passed, it seemed to be more a place for local men to meet than a viable business. Beckoned inside once more, I was fed warm, sugary tea whilst I sought to explain what I was doing. Spirits lifted, on to Akcakoca. Couple of more short climbs I was assured, then downhill to the coast.

I found the lights of Akcakoca alluring on such a bleak night, quickly finding a small hotel. For about thirteen pounds I wasn’t going to quibble, and they could quickly fix me a hot meal. Very comfortable. I’d found in Turkey, and to some extent in Serbia and Bulgaria, that the quality of accommodation often bore little resemble to the price. One of the nicest stops had cost me about £7.50, about the same price as a night’s camping in France.

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.