Ken's Blog

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.

Still snowing. Endless, large flakes, drifting past the window, settling on the roof tops. Serene. Unlike the previous evening. I’d gone for a quiet bite to eat in a small cafe, a short walk from where I was staying. Decent food, convivial atmosphere, rather liked the place. I was about to leave when a Turkish chap decided to join me. Uninvited.

At first I thought it was just a term of endearment for his wife. ’She crazy woman’ he kept telling me with great enthusiasm. Possibly. After a while it became apparent he knew quite a few ’crazy people’. But I didn’t think any of this was cabin fever brought on by the current snowfall. Not when you’d been living in Finland so long you’d taken up citizenship. Thought I was taking it badly.

After breakfast I dug out an old copy of The Times. Managed to crack the quick crossword in a couple of hours. Feeling pleased with myself, decided it was time to venture out. Left my fellow Brit, a Geordie who’d spent much of his adult life in Australia, whittling away the hours watching the BBC on satellite.

Passed a couple of snow ploughs. Watched workmen throw salt and grit from a lorry onto the road, only for local shop keepers to come and sweep it up, spreading it instead outside their own premises. Popped briefly into the cinema to see if they’d changed any of the offerings since my last visit the previous day. No. Smiled weakly at the woman in the ticket office, somehow hoping that this might materialise something to watch. Think she recognised me. I returned to the cold outside. Still snowing.

At first I was very reluctant. Never been my sort of thing. Suppose I’d been pushed into it. Swilling water over my face in the sink, I quickly sensed an unhealthily warm glow. Perhaps testing my newly acquired dog repellant in the sink the previous evening hadn’t been such a wise idea, although I thought I’d been careful to wash away all traces. Scientific endeavour is never without cost. Seemed sensible to skip shaving for once. Besides, thought, somewhat half-heartedly, the more rugged look might be quite fitting further east.

Finding myself trapped by snow and ice the previous day, I’d become increasingly convinced a case of sudden onset cabin fever was brewing. I’d tried to stave it off with a recent copy of The Times I’d found, but it hadn’t taken long for those in the Obituaries to feel like old acquaintances. There was a medical handbook in the bag, but things weren’t quite that bad. Maybe later. So, Turkish cinema it was. Unfortunately, the country has quite a strong film industry so options were limited. One. English with Turkish subtitles.

It hadn’t been the most enthralling of films, but it had given me an idea. The Georgian dog situation had been on my mind for a few days, ever since I’d learnt rabies is pretty endemic there. Now I’d a solution. Two actually. Took a while to find the local gun shop but they were very understanding of my predicament. Picked up an ultrasonic dog deterrent. Not cheap, even with a bit of bartering, and they’d been mixed reports as to its effectiveness, but thought I’d give it a go. Could always throw it at the dog. Besides, I’d been able to acquire a final line of defence. Made my eyes water just thinking about it. But that’s where we came in.

[Author’s note: Great care has been taken to ensure that possession of the non-lethal dog deterrents alluded to in the text is perfectly lawful in the current jurisdiction. This would not be the case in the UK, where, in any case, the risk to life from rabies does not exist. The measures adopted are a proportionate response to a potentially fatal threat]

CHAPTER I

The discovery – Chums Manfred and Ute – Early retirement – Settling on what to take – Maladies and disagreeable sea trips – Picturesque locks and provisions – A record of events

I thought there to be a good deal of similarity between Jerome K Jerome’s amusing Victorian classic novel ’Three Men in a Boat’ and my own earnest venture. I’d chanced upon a copy in a small barber’s shop in an Istanbul back street. Complete and unabridged, which for such a terribly short tale I heartily approved of.

Riding with my chums Manfred and Ute back along banks of the Danube, we had talked at some length of the story it recounted. I had become a little vexed at being unable to recall the author’s name, and I fancied Manfred felt the same. Sharing the same noble resolve, we eventually stumbled upon the answer.

Persuading the barber to allow me to borrow his copy for a few days, I retired early to my lodgings. I felt this to be a very reasonable request, fair compensation for him unexpectedly removing protruding nasal hairs with a lit cotton bud. I read vociferously, declining supper so I might marvel at the albeit fictional tales of Jerome’s creations.

Partaking of a plain breakfast the next day, I continued briskly with my reading, anxious to finish promptly and enjoy an early lunch. The characters had faced quandaries similar to my own, realising, as I had done, that when packing you should think not of what you could do with, but only of those things that you can’t do without.

And, like the narrator, I’d consulted a medical tome, being similarly impelled to the conclusion that I was suffering from every particular disease within, dealt with in its most virulent form. I too had also chosen my present venture because I had found sea trips disagreeable in the past.

There were obvious differences of course. The locks they encountered on the Thames I thought more picturesque, less tiresome affairs, than those on the Danube. And their provisions sounded far more appealing. Cold veal pie. Bread and Jam. Lemonade.

But what really struck me was the appropriateness to my own literary endeavours of the author’s remarks in the Preface to the First Edition ’The chief beauty…. lies not so much in its literary style, or in the extent and usefulness of the information it conveys, as in its simple truthfulness’.

Istanbul, January 2010

[Postscript: If you’ve been charmed by the accounts so far of my modern day Victorian adventure, without, of course, the riding breeches or Plus Fours, please consider a suitable donation to The Outward Bound Trust. My mileage – 3,000 so far – has bounded a good deal ahead of the funds raised so far. Emma and I, and The Trust, would be hugely appreciative of your contributions to such a noble cause as working with young people, especially as we head east in search of more tales of dare-doing, hardship, gritty endeavour and terrible toilets]

With thanks to Jerome K Jerome

Istanbul is a beautiful city. The old part at least. I’d enjoyed my time here, even the visits to the dentist. But now it was time to head further east, following the Black Sea coast into Georgia. Reputable travel advice mentions landmines, unexploded ordnance and kidnappings. Further east the scenery changes. The ’Stans – Azerbaijan, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, back into Kazakhstan. Desolation. Deserts. Prohibited zones. Frequent police checks.

But first I’d have to get there. And that meant unraveling the Byzantine world of visas, letters of introduction, endless fees, mostly in US dollars. It’d all be worth it, a chance to follow the old Silk Roads into western China, to complete an unbroken land crossing of Asia. Epic days, gritty tales to tell. Tough times ahead.

Going a little against the tread, I’d decided not to fit a cycle computer, choosing continents over miles as my preferred unit of measure. But a good friend and former work colleague Tim had been very impressed with fellow English cyclist Myles Mellor’s statistics when he’d reach Istanbul, and suggested it might be interesting if I put some together. So here goes… A careful blend of gut instinct and personal whim. Enjoy.

Distance travelled

3,000 miles / 4,500 km across Europe

Best day by far

Through the mountains to Sofia, Bulgaria – bright but crisp, awesome scenery – well worth the night ride into an unfamiliar Capital city!

Most surreal moment

Police escort in northern Bulgaria, complete with blue flashing lights

Most epic days

Into Istanbul – torrential rain, ferocious traffic, tyre blow-out; Second day in Serbia – 100 miles of mud, mud and more mud, torrential rain, biting cold, and two hours of night riding amidst the potholes to finish; First day on the road – torrential rain and storms on Dartmoor

Favourite stops

Aboriginal Hostel, Budapest, with a breakfast to die for; Tim and Pierette’s campsite at Etables-sur-Mer; Chris, Ruth, Alex and Emily’s home in the hills of eastern Bulgaria

Most intriguing nation

Serbia

Favourite foods

Hungarian goulash; Bulgarian shopska salad and various bits of freshly cooked home reared pig; French chocolate eclairs; Turkish corba (pronounced ’chorba’) soup

Favourite music

Theme from ’Hill Street Blues’; ’Camouflage’ (Stan Ridgway); ’Axel F’ (Harold Faltermeyer)

Things I miss most from home

Family and friends; bacon and egg rolls; my two hundred year old traditional English cottage; Wiveliscombe’s heated outdoor swimming pool

Expedition best buy

Emma – my Thorn eXp expedition cycle; PHD down sleeping bag – cosy; Aspire One netbook

Emma’s contribution

Two punctures, one tyre blow-out, one set of brake pads, one hub gear oil change, various lubricants

Took me a little while to catch on to this. Couple of Turkish one Lira coins. There’s a great deal of old coinage in circulation – all quite worthless – an awful lot of which seems to come in my direction. Barely a transaction goes by without some appearing. Very annoying at first, but now I treat it like haggling in the bazaars, a piece of theatre. Offer me duds in my change and I’m visibly affronted. And quite clumsy. Forever dropping the duds over the back of the counter, once you’ve given the legal tender. And don’t even think about asking for a tip.

I’d been in a reflective mood on the ferry across the Bosphorus. Europe was now complete, crossing Asia the goal for the year ahead. The village send-off seemed an age ago. Storms on Dartmoor. Late summer in France. Biting cold in Germany and Austria. Then into the former Eastern Bloc. Slovakia, Hungary, Serbia, Bulgaria. Tougher going, but great warmth from those I’d met. Then Turkey. Striking. Modern.

I’d enjoyed much hospitality along the way, increasingly so as I’d headed east. Greater generosity towards strangers, perhaps in part because they had a better grasp of hardship, the need for reliance on others, and in part simple curiosity. But there were quite a few exceptions, particularly so in Western Europe. Family and friends at home who’d helped in so many ways. Tim and Pierrette back in France. Manfred and Ute in Germany. Many, many others.

Just as I’d experienced changing cultures, ethnicities, landscapes and climate, I’d found my own mindset shifting. This was no longer about days on the road, much more about countries and continents to cross. Adapting to life on the road. Establishing myself as a long-haul cyclist, an independent traveller. Greater confidence in dealing with unfamiliar environments, languages, uncertainty.

But I’d never have got this far without the support of others, and not just those I’d met on the road. Family and friends back home. My parents of course, Mum now an expert in logistics, Dad a dab hand with Google Earth. And friends, those from my own village in Somerset, those I’d worked with over the years or been at school with. I’d tried my best to give at least some recognition to their help on my Supporters page.