I have to admit I don’t make a very good patient; Or more accurately a very patient patient. Injuries are just so inconvenient when there are so many things to do. Last year I broke my wrist and instead of being sensible and taking some time to recover I went out running in the woods in the dark and inevitably fell over. Add another 2 weeks to the recovery time and ramp up the frustration. On the plus side I got a fresh cast put on which pleased Kirsty as the old one was getting quite pungent..

So spending 1-2 weeks on a sofa in Avanos was not an appealing prospect but without being able to bend my left knee there wasn’t much else that could be done. Kirsty was also shaken up from the slam down so wasn’t keen to go far for a while either.

Some post crash analysis revealed that the cause of the burst tyre was from one of the brake blocks rubbing ever so slightly on one side. At high speed the friction was enough to melt a small groove in the side of the tyre, leaving a tell tale black residue on the brake block. After 1 too many 70kph descent the small groove became a small hole right through to the tube and that’s when things went wrong. We think the brakes must have got knocked when we were clearing the clay off the bike after our visit to the quarry. Although avoidable with a bit more of a careful check of the bike each day we’re very glad to know that it wasn’t just a random puncture or unexplainable inner tube failure. A lesson learned for sure though.

In our feeble states the occasional hobble to the shop for fresh supplies or to the clinic for a fresh dressing was about as much as could be done during that first week and even that was probably over doing it. The weekend after the crash we were glad of a visit from Charlie and Ryan who brought with them a pack of Haribo, well know for its healing properties. We had met Charlie in Istanbul and he and Ryan are following the Silk Route to Beijing. We’d left Istanbul a few days before them and were hoping to stay ahead for a bit longer but now we’ll be following their tyre tracks once we get back on the bike.

By the following Monday, 9 days after the crash I paid another visit to Nevşehir hospital as it was time for the staples to be removed. The procedure was quick, relatively painless and could have been done by Kirsty with the Leatherman pliers without the 84 TL bill.

Although Arif’s flat had everything we needed (a kitchen, a sofa and the internet) we were now desperate for a change of scenery. We still had some money left on the Hotel Voucher that was so generously given to us by friends and family before we left so using this we booked a room in one of the famous cave hotels in Göreme.

Göreme is like no other town we’d ever seen. It’s often likened to the set of Star Wars or the Flintstones with its a rock houses and surreal landscape but even George Lucas would have struggled to dream up such a unique place.

Our hotel room has been carved into a mound of rock high above the town and from the breakfast terrace we get some great views looking across the valley punctuated with dozens of rock towers, each one with windows and doorways revealing the fact they are not just geological features but are also luxury accommodation.

With the staples removed from my knee and Kirsty’s grazing healing up well we decide to finally get out and see what Cappadocia has to offer. There are 17 valleys and each has its own collection of unusual cliffs, hoodoos and cave dwellings in a variety of unusual shapes, sizes and colours. The most famous of which is Love valley whose phallic rock towers are enough to make a nun blush.

 

Cappadocia is also famous for hot air ballooning and so most mornings a huge flock of them fly over, teeming with Japanese tourists keen to snap the sun rise. One morning they fly straight over Göreme so we watch them from a cliff above the hotel. On another of our walks they chase us down the valley like a scene from The Prisoner.

 

By the end of the 2nd week we’re back in Avanos and ready to think about pedaling again, but we need a bike to ride. The now very familiar Turkish postal system tracking website is being watched eagerly while our parcel of bike parts gets closer and closer. While we wait we pay a visit to an underground ceramic museum which is not as impressive (or unusual) as the hair museum, housed in a cave. Here, thousands of locks of hair dangle from the ceiling, left by previous visitors and the explanation from the owner is that one girl started it and then lots of people did the same. Of course Kirsty is obliged to add to the collection but I’m not allowed to donate as it’s for girls hair only. Not even beard hair is welcome.

Finally the parcel arrives, in a town 10km away due to an address error. But the next day we get to collect it from Avanos post office.

So the bike rebuilding gets underway. I’ve never built a wheel before but it seems like a good enough time to have a go so at least I know how to do it if something happens again. Or know to always get a bike shop to do it for me if it goes wrong. I get a handy tip on how to go about it using a cheats method after some enquiring online. By taping the new rim to the old one each spoke can be moved across one by one. It’s then a case of tightening it all up methodically, making sure the wheel is round and tight and Bob’s your Uncle we should be rolling again (Hi Uncle Bob).

After a few hours of spoke nipple tweaking it certainly looks like a wheel. It goes round and the spokes go ping of if I hit them so the only thing left to do is ride it and see what happens.

Without The Big Crash we would be well on our way North East to Trabzon by now. But our uncertain physical capabilities and the size of the mountains en route that would test even 100% fit riders meant that another plan was needed. We also planned a rendezvous with someone in Tbilisi and with all the delays a speedier method of transport was needed to make sure we got there in time.

A thirteen hour coach journey provided the answer. 700km passed overnight and with it all those chance encounters, epic views, challenging climbs and snowy camp spots that would have made for a great bike ride (you can read about Charlie’s experience of the ride here). Bus travel is certainly an effective way to get across a country quickly but in terms of experiencing the country fully we’d much rather do it by bike.

In Trabzon our host is Yildirim who runs an English language school. He makes use of our command of English to test some of his students so we get asked how we are by four 8 year olds in turn. I hope we passed the test too.

While in Trabzon we decide to try and play the longest of long shots. So long in fact is this shot that it’s well clear of the 18th hole and somewhere amongst the BMWs in the car park. We stroll into the Iranian embassy and ask if we can apply for a visa knowing full well that the rules for UK citizens changed last year. We’re supposed to now need a code that’s issued by the government once they have verified that we have a registered guide for the entire time we’re in the country and a fully planned itinerary. This is hugely expensive and also makes the kind of spontaneous travel we like almost impossible. If we’d arrived 12 months previously this wouldn’t have been necessary but the rules changed without warning. If we were from any other country other than UK, USA or Canada we wouldn’t need the guide either. But there are rumours that it may change again which is why we thought we’d give it a go without a code to see what happens.

Our time in the embassy lasts less than a minute and the conversation goes something like: “where are you from?”, ” England “, ” do you have a code? “, ” no “, ” go and get one and then come back “, ” bye “.

It’s a great shame as Iran was somewhere we were looking forward to a great deal but it will have to wait until another time and another trip. This time a voyage across the Caspian Sea will be our next best option.

While in Trabzon we also take another bus trip to the famous Sümela monastery. As if one bus trip was not enough for one week.. Perched on the side of a cliff high up on a mountain it’s not easy to get to at the best of times but there’s been heavy snow so it’s now even more difficult. Usually I’d prefer to travel across snowy mountains on a pair of skis but here we have to brave a ride in a mini bus with snow chains on for the last stretch of road up to the top. The ride up is quite hairy but coming down is equal to the adrenalin rush from the most treacherous of black runs.

It’s worth it though to see the incredible buildings built into the rock face. Just as incredible is the amount of damage from graffiti and from shepherds using the priceless frescos for target practice over several decades. It’s all now very well guarded so hopefully it won’t get any worse.

Our bus takes longer than expected as it includes a lengthy stop for lunch at a restaurant that feeds our driver well for bringing in his bus load of guests. So our plan to leave Trabzon that afternoon needs a rethink. It’s actually a lucky escape as the customary Black Sea rain has been falling all day. Yildirim tells us he wouldn’t have let us leave in that weather anyway so we stay another night.

Our long awaited return to the bike and continuing journey east has to wait until the next day and by now my patience is almost at an end. Hopefully cycling is as good as we remember.

You may be surprised to hear that I believe in fairies. For a start there’s the P*nct*re Fairy, a spiteful little creature who takes great delight in deflating tyres at the most inconvenient time and is easily summoned just by mentioning the P word a few times. A good friend of hers is the Adventure Fairy who gets her kicks from chucking in a few mishaps and a dash of crisis during a trip just when you least expect it. With the proliferation of Microadventures taking hold all over the UK the Adventure Fairy has had her hands full trying to keep up with the number of bivvy bags that need raining on and stoves that need preventing from lighting. As such we’ve been allowed to get away with having far too good a time for far too long. But sooner or later the evil little flying pests were bound to catch up with us and have a bit of a score to settle.

Once we arrive in Aksaray we stop at a petrol station for fuel for the stove and meet a man who thinks he looks like Tony Blair. It’s uncanny, but only if you shut your eyes very tight. He offers us a Turkish flag for the back of the bike to help us win favour with other drivers on the road. It seems to work as we get plenty of waves and beeps as we ride across the town.

It’s been a long day so after buying fuel for our stomachs we find a small park near the outskirts which seems quiet and dark enough for us not to be noticed and get the tent up.

In the night Kirsty is woken up by a noise that sounds like someone tripping on a guy rope but when she opens her eyes there’s light pouring in through a gaping hole in the side of the tent. Still half asleep it takes a few moments to realise what is going on. but then I jump out of the tent to see that there is no-one there, however several street lights have been switched on, lighting us up like a Christmas tree. Christmas isn’t popular here and someone must have wanted to demonstrate that by delivering a sharp rock straight through the tent. Kirsty had found the offending object lying next to her while I was checking the bike.

We don’t sleep much for the rest of the night, but for the few minutes that I do dose off my dreams are filled with images of all sorts of things breaking.

In the morning we can survey the damage more clearly and it’s going to take some careful stitching and a good roll of gaffa tape to get our home weatherproof again. We can only be grateful that the missile didn’t land on either of us and cause more painful damage. At least we weren’t hurt.

In  despondant mood we pack up and get going early and cover all of 900m when a car pulls out from a turning on our left, drives the wrong way down the road towards us then turns right across our path. There’s not much time to react to such an unexpected manoeuvre so I swerve as best I can. A front pannier comes into contact with the car’s rear wing and is ripped clean off. We wobble violently but stay upright.

I push the bike to the side of the road and throw the damaged pannier down in frustration while Kirsty has a sit down and takes dome deep breaths. The driver of the car is a nurse and was just turning into the hospital. She comes to see if we’re ok then asks us if we’d like to go and drink tea. This is not the time for tea as all we can think about is how we can continue when the pannier is ruined. At least we weren’t hurt.

She calls her husband and a few other people gather round while we try to explain our predicament. They agree to drive us back into Aksaray to see what the local bike shops have and also to see if anyone can fix the pannier but our hopes are set very low on finding a possible solution from either option.

It’s not a huge town and the only pannier we find amounts to little more than a school satchel. Our best option seems to be the Vaude dealer that we’d visited back in Ankara so I borrow a phone and give him a ring. He needs to see if he can get the bag we want from the Vaude distributor so I leave him to look into it and also for him to arrange a courier to get it to us.

Meanwhile we are driven back to the scene of the accident to be reunited with our bike. Another nurse who speaks better English is found and the negotiations begin. The driver and her husband think they’ve done enough by trying to help us find a new bag so want to walk away, but of course we’re not happy to leave it at that and tell them about the cost of the new bag. The driver protests saying that the fault lies 50:50 and so they offer to pay half, also pleading that they don’t have much money. Turkish law may be different but in our view, a driver driving the wrong way down a road and turning onto an oncoming bike should take more than half the blame. We tell her this and are given an ultimatum: either take half the cash or call the traffic police. Sitting through a foreign police procedure doesn’t sound like much fun so we pursue the cash option and give our own demands for 200 TL, the approximate cost of the new bag adding that we now have to stay in Aksaray until it arrives, which maybe tomorrow (Saturday) or possibly Monday. At this the husband reluctantly pulls out a huge roll of bank notes and peels off a couple of 100s before climbing back into his new Volvo. The nurse offers a few apologies and then dashes off into the hospital.

The rest of the morning is spent in a cafe organising the delivery of the new pannier and finding somewhere to stay for the night. One of the waiters used to live on the south coast of England so speaks good English and is happy to help wherever he can. He lets us use his phone to speak to the bike shop in Ankara and the good news is that they have the pannier and it can be delivered tomorrow morning, all for 190 TL, which is convenient.

A flurry of emails to couch surfing and warm showers hosts brings back a quick reply from Ahmet who is more than happy to help even though it’s short notice. We then spend the afternoon on a park bench in Aksaray taking stock of an eventful morning and watching the crowds pass by. Every now and then a different small boy would arrive to try and sell us tissues. These are Syrian, Afghan and Somali refugees, a lot of whom will have walked hundreds of km to escape the troubles in their home countries. Our inconveniences seem incredibly petty by comparison.

We meet up with Ahmet in the evening and he and his girlfriend Orkide treat us to a great meal while Ahmet explains that he loves to assist travellers in need. He is a member of a Turkish emergency medical response team that can be deployed anywhere in the world in case of a disaster. Ahmet and Orkide have half a dozen 10 day old Labrador puppies for us to play with so the panniers will have to be checked before we leave in case Kirsty has tried to smuggle one out.

In the morning we drive to the parcel depot and miraculously the new pannier is there waiting for us, which means we can get back on the road again. Waving goodbye to Ahmet and Orkide, and counting all 5 of the puppies, we set off into the glorious sunshine with Mount Hasan taking centre stage again for our view.

The road to Nevşehir has a wide shoulder and being a Saturday there isn’t much traffic. The temperature climbs to the mid 20s so we’re in shorts and t-shirts and pootling along nicely. In many ways we are glad to be clear of Aksaray as it seemed to be a town that held bad luck for us. But at the same time we had made some new friends and hoped that we’d meet them again sometime and somewhere.

Of course Lady Luck hadn’t quite finished with us as she tends to favour dishing out her misfortune in batches of three.

After spinning up a long drag we crested the hill to see a straight descent followed by another long climb. We needed as much momentum as possible to get up the other side so we tuck down and pick up speed. I remember glancing down and seeing the speedo pass 60 kph then shortly after there’s a sound that every cyclist dreads. A loud hiss from the front wheel is very quickly followed by the sound of tearing rubber, then crunching gravel and the world flips upside down.

The bike, bags and its two riders all eventually come to a stop in a heap on the hard shoulder after bouncing and sliding along for an unknown distance. We’ve both picked up a fair bit of road rash and Kirsty has a bleeding lip but on first inspection there are no major injuries so we sit and take deep breaths trying to compose ourselves.

The bike has taken a good whack too with my bars twisted and bent, the front tyre ripped and several chips in the rim. Most annoying of all though is that the only bag to be damaged is of course the brand new pannier. It lasted 35km.

We flag down a truck from Iran whose driver takes one look at the bike, shakes his head then drives off. Shortly after another truck pulls over and is a bit happier about chucking everything in the back and letting us climb into the cab. We just have to take our shoes off first as it was fully carpeted.

Our kind driver takes us to Avanos, 50km away and deposits us outside a cafe while wishing us luck (we could do with more of that). We had intended to get to Avanos the following night and had made arrangements to stay with Arif. We fired off a text message from the truck to warn him we were in a bad way and ask if we could arrive a day early.

While waiting for Arif to come and pick us up the waiters from the cafe come out and give us water. One of the staff is a mountain biker and calls her friend who happens to be the bike mechanic for the Turkish cycling team. Then Ahmet arrives as he happened to be passing by and had spotted us. As he is an emergency anaesthetist he has a good supply of first aid paraphernalia in his car so sets to work bandaging us up. Arif arrives shortly after and then the bike mechanic zooms in on a motorbike to give his assessment of the damaged tandem which in summary is ‘no problem, I can fix it’.

We’re overwhelmed by the crowd of concerned helpers but during all of this my knee has been getting steadily more painful. It had been bleeding badly when we’d got out of the truck and Kirsty suspected it would need stitches, but for now she had bandaged it tightly.

Our luggage goes in the back of Arif’s friend’s car with Arif hanging out of the back towing the back half of our bike. We ride in Ahmet’s car and after dropping everything off at Arif’s house we head to the nearest emergency clinic.

Kirsty’s fears are confirmed when they unwrap the bandage on my knee to reveal a big hole, but the clinic isn’t able to do much for me there and then. Instead they decide I should have a drip and try to put Kirsty on one too but she manages to refuse. We’re then bundled into an ambulance for a ride to the main hospital in Nevşehir.

Straight away we’re both inspected, scrubbed, disinfected, bandaged and I get several internal stitches and 6 external staples to hold my knee together again. Kirsty comes away partially mummified to protect the grazing down her sides and with some superglue and steristrips on the cut on her lip. A few x-rays confirm that neither of us have any broken bones and then we’re free to go. But not for free. We’re handed a lengthy bill and have to pay there and then in cash. So Kirsty heads off to the nearest ATM only to find our daily limit won’t allow her to withdraw enough money. When we try and explain this to the hospital they reduce the bill to a sum that we can afford making us wonder if we should have claimed that we had even less? The valuable invoices that we’ll need for our insurance claim are printed off for us and we climb into a taxi to head back to Avanos, via a pharmacy for a few antibiotics. Now we need a cup of tea.

So here we are again, housebound in Turkey with a waiting game to play. Kirsty has been stiff and sore for the last couple of days and I can’t really walk very far. Hopefully we’ll both loosen up over the course of the next week and I’m due back at the hospital to have the staples out next weekend. How soon after that we can ride is anyone’s guess, but the bike won’t be serviceable for a while anyway. Once again we’re at the mercy of the Turkish postal system as there are various specialist parts being sent over from the UK. As Kirsty keeps telling me, this enforced wait is probably a good thing as it prevents me trying to get pedalling too soon anyway.

Yesterday we had to give a statement to the police to say that we didn’t want to blame anyone.  This seemed like a huge waste of time for all concerned, but they insisted. Apparently if we hadn’t gone they may have started a civil case (against whom was not clear since no-one had made a complaint) and this could have been an issue when we tried to leave the country . Quite the opposite reaction to the UK police who would struggle to give an injured cyclist a second glance even if they did want to blame someone. Arif tells us the Turkish police have been known to charge for damage to the road after a bike accident, so hopefully we didn’t leave any ‘tandem rash’ on the hard shoulder.

It’s at times like this that we realise just how wonderful and valuable the WarmShowers and Couch Surfing community is as Arif and his girlfriend Gülsün have told us we can stay with them as long as we need to. Gülsün was our translator during the police interrogations. Ahmet has also called in to see how we’re doing and asked if he can help in any way. These are people who until a few days ago we’d never met and yet they are opening up their homes to us and doing everything they can to help us out. It’s an amazing thing purely brought about by a shared love of pedal power and travelling, and we are incredibly grateful for what they are doing.

Travelling is all about new experiences and the last few days have given us a fair few that we hope to not have to repeat. We’re both glad that our injuries are only superficial and will take each day as it comes for the next week or two. Convalescing in Cappadocia could be worse. The region is famous for its amazing rock formations, cave towns, underground cities and tall rock hoodoos that they call fairy chimneys. Once we’re mobile again we’ll find the one that the P*nct*re Fairy and Adventure Fairy live under and give them a darn good kicking.

Leaving Istanbul by ferry is much more civilised than taking our chances on the roads again. Apart from the 7:30am sailing time that is.

Once across the sea of Marmara we arrive in the small town of Mudanya and our wheels touch down on Asian soil at last. The route up through Bursa isn’t quite the easy escape east that we’d hoped for so again we’re mixing with fast traffic and big trucks for the first 40km.

But once we’re under the motorway and past the airport it all quietens down and we find our own peaceful bit of tarmac leading us out into the hills. The road we’ve chosen isn’t the standard route for cyclists, who tend to take the faster, flatter option through Eskisehir. In fact it barely shows up on Google maps but is much more prominent on our paper map so we think it’s worth a look to get off the main highway. It turns out to be a great, scenic choice.

A hilltop quarry is an inviting campsite but I fail to spot the deep clay on the way in and push the bike right into it. 30 mins later we’ve extracted it again and got most of the mud out from under the mudguards which we now know work as effective mud collectors.

It’s good to be back in the tent and now we’re not worried about the plummeting temperatures as we’re properly equipped. Our new quilt acquisition is longer, wider and thicker than the old Thermarest model and is more snug than a bug in a rug. The difficulties with getting it are already a distant memory.

The hills get longer and steeper the next day. There are snowcapped mountains on the horizon on our right and huge cliffs on the horizon on our left so plenty to look at as we spin onwards, upwards, downwards then upwards some more. We stop for çay and pastries in Bilecik, which sits at 500m, then drop down into a valley to 250m knowing that altitude needs to be gained again, this time with interest.

We have only managed 60km by the time we arrive in Sögüt at a height of 600m but the cumulative climbing and severe gradients have left our legs telling us they’ve had enough. A wooded park provides a good spot for the tent and we’re joined by a curious boy who collects some firewood for us. It’s a bit too public for us to get a fire started so we try to explain that we’re very grateful but really just need to cook food and get into our tent, then he runs away.

Thankfully the next day starts easily as what goes up must come down. Almost straight away we drop into a magnificent steep sided canyon right down to the river at the bottom. On the way we zoom past hundreds of tangled poly tunnels. It’s as if a huge storm has ripped them all apart. The farmers don’t seem too worried though and smile and wave before getting back to the task of unraveling it all.

We think we’ve got the road to ourselves until we round a corner and see an unusual rock up ahead. It turns out to be a tortoise taking a breather during its epic hike to the other side of the valley.

Quick as a flash Kirsty is off the back of the bike and carries it to safety before any cars can crush it. Hopefully she put it on the side that it was trying to get to otherwise that will be one angry tortoise.

While enjoying çay in the village of Inhisar an English speaker is fetched who explains that we are now in an area of heavy agriculture where they grow anything and everything. It’s currently onion season. When the snow fell a couple of weeks ago the village was completely cut off and had no power for 2 to 3 days so it was very lucky we hadn’t arrived sooner. We get given a grapefruit by a passerby, presumably grown locally, before we head off again.

The valley really starts to impress through Saricakagen with amazing colours on the jagged cliffs. A geologist would describe them better but there are bands of red, green and orange made even more vivid as the sun starts to go down.

The next day we’re straight into a 15%-20% climb before the porridge has even had a chance to digest (the porridge topping of choice is now a tahini and grape molasses paste). It’s our payment for a day on the valley floor and the only way out. The effort keeps us warm though as it’s a much  colder morning. We’re grateful to find a small cafe with a blazing stove in a tiny village at the top. The owner is deaf so no problem with our lack of Turkish as we all resort to basic sign language. The now very familiar stirring teaspoon action gets a resounding nod.

There are a few more 20% climbs along a ridge being grazed by various flocks of long horned sheep and then we get to enjoy cashing in our potential energy and hit 70 kph on a long descent into Nallihan.

While enjoying complimentary coffee in a mini market the owner suggests we head for a lake called Bird Paradise for the evening. It sounds like a great place to camp so we crank up the gears and get going.

From Nallihan the view changes again. This time we have a wide arid plain and a long straight road right through the middle of it. There are more coloured cliffs in blues and reds. The 1kg of bulgar wheat that we’d bought helps us pick up speed on the gentle downward gradient but needs to be eaten before the next climbing day!

Bird paradise turns out to be cycle tourist’s paradise too. The artificial lake was formed when a dam was constructed downstream and is now home to tens of thousands of migrating birds. There is a glorious backdrop of mountainous cliffs in multicoloured stripes and the marshland surrounding the lake is teeming with activity.

We’re very grateful when the park warden tells us it’s no problem to camp by the side of the lake and we get one of the best views from the tent so far. It’s also the first night for ages we haven’t been woken by the ezan before dawn, just a few howls in the distance that may or may not have been live versions of the stuffed wolf we’d seen in the visitors centre.

The next couple of days aren’t quite as picturesque but the climbing is much more gradual. We’re on our way up onto a plateau that a lot of central Turkey sits on at around 900-1000m above sea level.

Stopping at the off-puttingly named ‘Kiler’ supermarket in Beypazari we’re loading up the rack bag with a few meals worth of food when the manager comes out and offers us çay. We’re then led to the canteen and asked if we’d like to join the rest of the staff for lunch. Now Kirsty and I were loyal customers of our local Aldi back in Bristol but I can’t remember the manager even saying hello so there are clearly customer relation lessons to be learnt from the Turks. I expect the Aldi staff don’t get fed quite as well either.

Near the end of the day we get a stiff climb from 700m to over 1100m through Ayas that brings us out onto a dual carrirageway with a high barrier preventing us from getting off the road. Just as we think that we’ll be trapped until Ankara, a layby appears with a gap in the barrier and an adjacent wood. We hop off the road, get the tent up, the stove on and a fire lit for our highest camp site yet. Getting close to the fire and sipping ouzo before diving under the quilt helps us shrug off the fact that its -4c. Did I mention how much better life is with our new quilt?

Ankara may be the capital but its only a third of the size of Istanbul. Still big enough for us to be reluctant to take on the roads into the centre so we wheel the bike onto a metro train in Sincan to make the final 20km more pleasurable. 50p well spent.

Although we probably didn’t give it much of a chance, few people had much to recommend of their capital so we plan on a brief visit. It seems to be a fairly bland, very busy, business city built in a bowl surrounded by steep hills.

Our task is to visit a good bike shop,Erdoganlar, and pick up a few bits and pieces, stay overnight to celebrate our 200th day on the road then get out the next morning.

I’m sure regular readers are tired of hearing about our wheels so I’ll spare you the details but in short we need yet another new front tyre. The shop also happens to be a Vaude dealer so we pick up some spare buckles to replace the one broken in Istanbul. For some reason Vaude changed the design of the buckle between us buying the rear panniers and getting the front ones and the new design, although looking better, is not nearly as sturdy so it’s handy to have some more in reserve.

We spend the night in a room in a hotel that doubles as a sweat lodge, get woken up by a faulty electronic door latch that refuses to stop beeping and then have to decamp to another room at 2am when it can’t be fixed. Who says sleeping in a tent is less civilised?

With a yawn, and after filling up at the breakfast buffet that includes chips and soup, we climb up to a chilly, windblown summit overlooking the whole of Ankara.

The wind blows from the north and places two icy hands on our shoulders to speed us south. Finally that pesky wind is on our side and begins making up for all those days when it was the other way round and it felt like riding through treacle.

Picking the truck stop with the largest number of vehicles outside on the basis it must be the best we head inside for a refuel. It’s packed with leather jacketed men, there’s a constant supply of çay moving round the room on trays and hazy smoke drifts out from the open fire, loaded with kebab skewers, in the corner. We meet a couple of drivers who know a thing or two about long distance journeys and they invite us to sit with them. There aren’t many railways in Turkey and it’s a big country so there are thousands of trucks moving container loads of goods on every road. Every few minutes we’ve had a friendly, and often musical, toot as they come thundering past, always giving us plenty of space. We seem to be kindred spirits.

One of our lunch mates is heading for Iraq and offers to smuggle us over the border but that’s an adventure for another day so we politely decline.

Back on the road we sit tall to get maximum purchase from the helpful northerly breeze and arrive at the shores of Tuz Gölü in time to watch the sun go down and with just enough light to find a spot for the tent.

Tuz Gölü is the second largest salt lake in the world and in the summer dries out to form a vast, blindingly white crust. But at this time of year there is a shallow covering of water, only 2m at its deepest point. With the right conditions it takes on a mirror like appearance with some spectacular photo opportunities.

When we crawl out of the tent in the morning that’s exactly what we see. Despite being barely above freezing I roll up my trousers and wade out while Kirsty snaps away. Losing the odd toe to frostbite seems worth it for the results. A few minutes later the wind picks up again and the mirror effect is gone.

There’s nothing like a bit of cycling to warm you up again so that’s exactly what we do. ‘Tost’ and çay for second breakfast then we round a corner to see mount Hasan rising up from horizon to a height of 3268m. And it stays there for the rest of the day, getting bigger and closer until we arrive in Aksaray near its base.

It’s been a great few days with plenty of pleasant surprises and Turkey has really been showing off its wonderful scenery and huge generosity. The town of Aksaray has a few more surprises in store as our fortunes change significantly but that’s a story for another post.

According to the news reports, last week saw the heaviest snowfall in Istanbul since 1987. So much for letting winter pass on Paros and missing the bad weather. But there are worse places to be stuck.

The snow did eventually stop and by Thursday afternoon the roads seemed to be clear enough to risk trying to get into the centre. This proved to be no mean feat requiring a bus, a Metro Bus and a tram and taking anywhere between 1-2 hours. Traffic in Istanbul is notoriously bad but chuck in massive piles of snow by the road side and tricky conditions on the smaller side streets and things go from bad to worse. On one particular expedition on the public transport system Kirsty and I were stood right next to the driver with our noses pressed against the windscreen and a jam packed bus behind us. People continued to squeeze on through the back doors at each stop but instead of taking this as an opportunity to skip paying they all diligently passed their travel cards forward down the length of the bus so that they could have them debited. Whether the correct cards made it back to their rightful owners again we’ll never know.

Once we eventually arrived in the tourist epicentre of Sultanhamet
we were treated to the unusual sight of all of the majestic landmarks decorated with snowy white caps and precarious icicles. The street hustlers were kept at bay by the cold and so were a lot of the crowds but it wasn’t easy negotiating the streets as the majority of the pavements hadn’t been cleared. So for two days we were trudging through ankle deep slush getting cold feet that we tried to defrost by sipping several Turkish coffees in the Bazaars. Plastic bags over our socks helped and looked particularly stylish when we had to remove our shoes to visit the mosques.

After a visit to a photography exhibition we set the cameras to black and whıte for the afternoon.

As we had hoped, the temperatures rose again quite quickly so by the weekend everything was thawing out and returning to normal. We’d planned to stay for 3-4 days but as 2 of those had been spent effectively housebound we decided to stay a bit longer. In fact we didn’t have much choice as we were also waiting for a parcel to arrive. Although it may be a case of slamming the stable door while the horse has long ago galloped away given winter should now be on the backfoot, we thought it was time to upgrade to a warmer quilt for our nights in the tent. Our route across Turkey takes us onto the central plateau that last week dipped to -16. We’ve also got some high altitude riding in Central Asia so there should be plenty of opportunity to make good use of it despite the fact that it would also have been useful 3 months ago. We had ordered a super warm yet super light double quilt from Enlightened Equipment in Minnesota who hand make them to each customer’s requirements. They had stitched it and stuffed it in record time then handed it over to USPS to try and get it to Istanbul before us.

I’d read various horror stories of how people had spent countless days wrangling with the Turkish postal system trying  to recover what was rightfully theirs and had several fingers crossed that we wouldn’t have a similar story to tell. I don’t think my fingers were crossed tight enough though.

The parcel had arrived in Istanbul on 17th February and from the online tracking I could see that it had passed through customs, the first opportunity for a problem to arise, fairly quickly. Then the snow arrived so nothing happened for 2-3 days. Once the delivery trucks could start moving again they decided to give our parcel a little tour of the city via various depots and sorting offices before it eventually got to a point where they could try to deliver it. Only the delivery driver  couldn’t find the address so sent it back to the depot. Twice. Add another day when the entire computer system of the Turkish post office went offline.

By now it was 24th February and we’d had to move from Erdinç’s house to a hotel as he had other guests arriving. It was a 30km ride to our new accommodation which included a slight altercation with the side of an impatient car resulting in a broken pannier buckle but thankfully nothing worse. More positively we also found that by walking round with the laden bike we were transformed from someone to try and extract money from by selling us a carpet (several of which were claimed to be ‘magic’ but the vendor couldn’t guarantee he knew the magic words to make it fly) to something of a curiosity that people wanted to help. A brief stop outside a restaurant became a 5 hour meal when the owner beckoned us in and presented us with çay and then the man at the table next to us invited us to join him for lunch and paid the bill.

On the third trip to the parcel depot (an hour each way via a tram and two trains) I finally managed to get myself into the same room as our parcel. There it was, sat by the desk of the girl I’d been trying to convey my predicament to for two days but she wasn’t going to give it up without one last fight.  Their paperwork only had Erdinç’s name on it so they said only Erdinç could collect it. I had to point out that the parcel itself actually said Marcus Mumford c/o Erdinc Topcu and showed them my passport to prove that I was in fact Marcus Mumford. She looked at the parcel, then the passport, then at me then back the passport and then the parcel before saying “OK, you can take it”. I managed to hold back from diving in for the hug but I think my huge grin probably said enough. There was the small matter of paying the customs charges and then I was free to leave with the box under my arm and  a Dick Van Dyke-esque click of the heals. It had taken 7 days from the point of the parcel arriving in Istanbul to us taking possession which by most accounts is actually very good.

In my excitement to get back to show Kirsty our new acquisition I managed to get on the wrong train and rode to the opposite end of the line before realising. But this in itself proved fortuitous as I met Abdu, a student from Yemen who helped me get back in the right direction and  also showed me to the finest falafal cafe in the city.

We celebrated the prospect of many warm  and cosy nights ahead, and the fact that we could now leave Istanbul, with a couple of drinks. We met up with Charlie, a cyclist from the Highlands of Scotland who is also tackling The Silk Road and discussed the road ahead. It’s highly likely that there will be a few more frustrations to come as we cross into Asia but our extended stay in Istanbul has given us a great introduction to how things work (or don’t)!