Author: Maria

The approach

The kilometres roll along, but few with joy.
I slept badly last night, awake through the dawn. Caught a few hours in the early hours.

Legs feel weary. I’m disappointed. I want to do more. We haven’t been able to up our mileage since Istanbul.

My body aches. We had to move the saddle due to a broken rail, and my body hasn’t adjusted yet.

Sunburnt shoulders. Stupid.

Tired. Aches. Making lazy riding decisions. Too weary to ride properly which just makes me wearier.

And the big climbs start tomorrow.

****

We’d come over the border to Georgia a few days earlier and continued along the coast for as long as possible. We were now heading north and in to the Greater Caucasus towards Mestia and Ushguli. These are small mountain villages in the Svaneti region of Georgia, so remote that apparently they were never tamed by any ruler. The people took part in murderous blood fueds up to the seventies, and, so it is said, wore chain mail until recently.

Ushguli is a complex of four villages, UNESCO listed. There are claims that it is Europe’s highest permanently inhabited village.

The landscape of Svaneti is dominated by mountains, separated by deep gorges. The lower slopes are covered by forests – spruce, fir, beech, oak, and hornbeam. Above this rise alpine meadows and grasslands. Eternal snows and glaciers take over in areas that are over 3,000 meters above sea level.

This area mostly attracts hikers and mountaineers, but recently more and more cycle tourists have been exploring the area. More often mountain bikes rather than fully laden touring bikes. We were soon to find out why.

***

Day 1: Enter Karl and the Chacha.

At the bottom of the climb there’s a little town called Jvari (280m altitude) where we decide to stop for lunch before attempting the climb. We’d set off from Zugdidi later than we’d hoped and the morning ride hadn’t been great. Nothing really wrong, it was just hard and like yesterday I couldn’t find the joy.
Is joy a choice?

As we circle the centre of town we spot a bike tourist, who cycles over to point out the best place to eat.

Karl, an American who lives in Poland, is heading up to Mestia too. Hugely enthusiastic and friendly, Karl is instantly likeable. He is riding semi-bike-packing style, mountain bike with back panniers and various bits and pieces wrapped in plastic bags and strapped on with bungee cords

Eager to get going he takes off up the hill, promising to keep an eye out for us later on.

We eat the best shwarma ever which puts me in a much better mood. I’m truly chipper as we start the climb.

But the day is hot hot hot and our tardy start to the day had meant we’re climbing in the middle of the day.

I deal with the heat better than I used to. During this trip I’ve got better at managing my temperature. But whether nature or nuture I am not made for the hotter climates.

And it is steep. There is no shade on the road and very quickly things get sweaty fast.

Shivering from the heat is not a good sign right?

Our water is empty and we spy a spring. It’s not running but there’s a couple of guys – maybe father and son sitting eating nearby. They ask us something, we indicate that we’re after some water. They leap up and fill a glass and hand it to Jamie. He’s just about to down it when something in my memory kicks in
I warn him just in time.
He sniffs. Ah.
Oh well…
Our first, but not last encounter with the chacha.

We make an escape quickly, possibly rudely in retrospect and carry on up.

At last the lake which marks the end of this part of the climb comes in to view.We turn a corner and see a waterfall a little off the road. It calls to us.

Literally.
We peer into the shadows on the other side of the river and see a group of people smiling and wanting. We then notice the touring bike propped up on some rocks. It’s Karl and a bunch of Georgian men. Mostly topless.

We plunge through the river, delighting in the freezing water, to join them. Karl smiles wildly – I thought I’d wait for you here, he explains. This was, apparently the second group to arrive since Karl stopped.  The first group had broken up unhappily when they discovered all the Chacha was gone. He was happy to leave as soon as we were, he hinted.

Someone thrusts a plastic cup in to Jamie’s hand. It’s chacha.

Chacha is the local moonshine. Distilled from grapes or plums or whatever comes to hand, at home, and decanted in to plastic coke bottles. Gentlemen gather with a number of bottles, a loaf of bread, tomatoes and cucumber and while away an afternoon toasting the world.
You toast, you drink (in one go, though I was encouraged to take it slow), you cheer, then eat a little bread with tomato.

As you’d expect the taste and quality varies from chacha to chacha.

On this occasion the chacha was good. Restorative even.

Karl speaks Polish so can make himself understood* to most Georgians who know Russian.

*better when there’s chacha.

With another toast or two we depart together, and marvell at how much better we feel. Legs stronger, spirits higher.

We cruise along the reservoir and river gorge. The landscape is much flatter now and we’re able to enjoy to scenery a little more.

A couple of hours later we bump into another Dutch tourist coming the other way. We discuss routes a bit and he looks sceptical that we’ll make it to Ushguli on our loaded touring bikes. I can’t help thinking it might be influenced by my gender, but I bite my tongue.

We camp at a sawmill further up the road. It’s empty when we arrive but various locals pop by during the evening. We’re not sure who  we should ask about camping, but everyone waves away our enquiries with a “no problem”. We stay up later than usual, as there’s an electric light and we bought beer as a treat. We spend the evening sharing stories and experiences with Karl*, enjoying the companionship of another person who understands what we’re doing and why.

*if you ever meet Karl ask him about the time he fixed his bike with a banana.

Climb: 540m
Distance: 57km

—–

Day 2: up to Mestia

Vroom vrooommm…
There’s nothing like the early morning call of a chainsaw to ease you out of sleep. A little groggy, it takes a moment to remember where we are and why there’s chainsaws and why that’s ok.

I pretend for a while that I’m not awake, but there’s no point really. Time to face the day.

I make us a few rounds of coffee and fried eggs, knowing there’s a big climb immanently. We dither a bit getting packed up, but I’m aware that Jamie and I are at a serious advantage now. There’s two of us and we’re practiced at this dance.

Finally we’re all ready to roll away, but moments after we set off I hear Karl exclaim. He has a puncture.

I let him and Jamie sort it out. Jamie goes in to teaching mode, helping find and mend the hole which is not an easy one to locate. I’m the process Karl discovers his bag of spares – inner tubes, cleats, brake pads – were left in a fridge in a guest house somewhere.

We try again to leave and this time are successful.

The morning is pretty good, we average about 10km/hour which feels about right. No-one is racing. We’re pretty quiet most of the way, which is how Jamie and I ride most of the time. We stop to exclaim over a view – snow capped mountains, a village riddled with defensive towers, a waterfall, the surging river, a church in the distance. We mostly stick in formation,  Jamie, me, then Karl.

Our tummies start to growl and we decide to aim for guesthouse which claims to have food, but turns out to be a very hard kilometre off route. I’m swearing before we’re half way up.

The view is great though, and the food fantastic. Dumplings and chicken soup. While we’re sitting the heat eases off which is a blessing.

There are a group of young christian missionaries staying at the guesthouse.  Accidentally interrupting two of them engaged in earnest conversation, we talk a little and they explain that they have come from many nations, first to a bible school in the Netherlands and then on to Georgia to volunteer with the local children and spread the word.

I refrain from asking why the Georgians need help understanding or interpreting the bible given that they’ve been Christian for longer than most. They were the second country to adopt Christianity.

Instead we tactfully steer the conversation into safer/blander territory and they soon excuse themselves. I’m left feeling icky and disappointed.

It’s a long climb up to Mestia and I’m counting every one of the 60km. I reassure myself that we’re a sixth of the way there, we’re a quarter of the way. Just three more of those. Half way now. Keep on grinding the kilometres out.

A rainstorm hits while we’re about 3km away from Mestia.  We shelter under a tree while we work out what to do. We abandon the plan to camp when the road becomes a river. Karl books us a hostel, and we use a brief break in the rain to get on our bikes again and cycle the last few km to the town.
And then a few more kilometres cycling round and round looking for the hostel. We’re absurdly wet by now.

After a phonecall to the hostel A little girl in a raincoat appears and runs down the hill to show us the way. Modi, aged 12, appears to run the guesthouse. She speaks excellent English and interprets everything for us, sometimes with an exasperated look at her father. The hostel is brand new, plastic sheeting still on some of the bedclothes. More worrying is the lack of window in one of the rooms, but it is dry in our room and we’re not worried about much else.

Climb: 1000m
Distance: 61km
Sleep at altitude: 1500m

—-

Day 3: Mestia to Ushgoli

There is a great feast awaiting us when we drag ourselves out of bed. Chatchipuri, omelette, yoghurt and homemade blackberry jam, sausages, boiled eggs, cheese, tomatoes and cucumber.

We stuff ourselves.

Rush as we’re told the next guests are arriving in half an hour, and then as we’ve decanted all our belongings on to the road we’re told we could stay if we want. However we need to get going so we load the bikes and finally get on our way.

We say goodbye to Karl as he wants to attempt some single track.

We amble out of town, somehow time had crept on and it’s nearly midday. But not too hot, thank goodness.

The first section is paved, sometimes steep but nothing too bad. There’s a fun section where a river – glacier melt – crashes over the road and down off a ledge to the main river below,  bouncing rocks down with it. We both manage it fine, but there is a serious pull sideways.

We continue up, up, up.

Then a brief but fast descent. We make a happy discovery that the switchbacks we’d noticed on the map are part of a descent and not the climb I’d expected. But the climb starts in earnest soon after.

The road surface deteriorates, though we meet a number of road crews surfacing sections, apparently disconnected from  one another.

There’s a landslide. The road is completely awash with gravel and rocks. Some work has gone on to clear it, bit its very hard to ride. We hear a sound and notice a digger above us, clearing rock I guess. Nothing feels very safe but we have no choice but to push on though.

Then comes the sticky mud. Remnants from the rains the night before the mud is thick and sweltchy. It sucks at the tyres as we roll across it. My mudguards fill up with mud, which I stop to scrape out again and again.

On one of these stops a scruffy, mangey dog joints us. Usually we leave the dogs behind on the descents , but on this section there are none and the dogs just trots along behind us for the next 10km. We start to worry about what to do with him – we don’t want to turn up at a guesthouse with him in tow – but then he’s gone.

We roll in to the villages of Ushguli around 6. The villages are the highest permanently inhabited villages of Europe. They are a mishmash of the Sven towers, farmyards, houses and guesthouses. Roads are shale and mud, mostly little more than tracks. Cows  and pigs roam free (as they do in much of Georgia).

The daily rain starts again, and we decide again to go for a guesthouse instead of a camp.

The guesthouse is not a fancy affair. The lights dim a little as it rains. The internal walls feel a bit rickety and haphazard. But food is included in the price, and we’re glad of the company of three Hungarians who ask us about our trip and entertain us in their turn. They’ve ended up with a taxi driver in tow, who worked out to be cheaper than hiring a car.

The food is great and plentiful, and comes with a large jug of red wine.

We get in to our rickety beds glad for an early night, which have been alluding us for a while.

Distance: 43km

Sleep at altitude: 2166m

—-

Day 4: who knew it was cold by a glacier?

We decide to have at least a morning off the bikes to give our legs some recovery time.
There is a retreating glacier nearby so we put on our shoes and waterproof jackets and head outside. The first part of the walk is easy, following the river upstream. Soon we come to a section where another river  gushes over the road. We scramble up the side and follow the river upstream until we can cross. From then on the route involves hopping across streams and soggy landscape. My feet are sodden pretty quickly.
The mountains at the end of the valley disappear in to a bank of cloud.
A short way off from the glacier the rain starts in earnest. We realise that we’ll be soaked whether we carry on or turn back, so decide to carry on.
The glacier, when we get there is fairly underwhelming. They look so pristine from afar, but up close they are grimy and the floor around them difficult to traverse.

We head back as quickly as possible.
But the time we get back to our guesthouse we are completely soaked and chilled to the bone. I pull off all my wet clothes, pull on all my warmest things and climb in to bed. I’m shivering so much Jamie gets out our down sleeping bag and puts that on top of me too.

We get up for another lovely dinner prepared by the guesthouse owner and then sink back in to bed again.

—

Day 5: dreaming of asphalt

Breakfast arrives earlier than anticipated, but makes up for it in quality. Eggs, bread, cheesy potato cakes, yogurt with homemade lemon/lime jam and a lovely fruit cake. We eat more than we need then pocket the rest for snacks.

Before heading off we tramp down through the muddy lanes to find a shop and Wi-Fi. A quick update on email etc and we wander back round to our guesthouse. Walking past another ‘hotel’ we hear a yell and look up to see Karl waving.

He’s been riding off-road for a couple of days, in the terrible weather. He seems fairly unscathed. Buoyant as ever. He’s now running a little short on time though, as he has to get a flight in a couple of days. We decide to at least start the descent today together.

I was very happy to find this shelter during the night. It only had half a roof but it was enough to keep me dry. Also it wasn’t half bad firing up the old stove that was inside to dry out some clothes. The previous night’s storm did claim the life of my cell phone #RIP but thats why you always carry backup means of navigation. #shelterfromthestorm #travelbybike #worldtour #humanpower #ponypower #slowtravel #travelbybike #cycling #adventurecycling #cyclist #ontheroad #outdoorlife #adventure #touringbike #bicycletouring #bike #cyclist #biking #bikecamping #adventurebybike #salsabikes #bikepacking #georgia

203 Likes, 3 Comments – Karl Kroll (@where_is_karl) on Instagram: “I was very happy to find this shelter during the night. It only had half a roof but it was enough…”

 

Before that though we have to get over the top of the pass, (2623m altitude) which is a steep, unpaved 10km.
We’re informed by a local that there’s nowhere to buy food for another 40km,which is also the next time we’ll see asphalt.

We start the ascent, 10km of bumpy, muddy, sometimes flowing road. Ridiculously steep in places, negotiating potholes, streams, rivers, cows and their shit.

The views spectacular, the wildflowers stunning.

The mud is sticky and fills my mudguards causing more friction. I have to stop repeatedly to empty them. Blessed relief to move again with relative ease before my legs and the mud tire me out again. I struggle up.

A 4×4 comes the other way and the driver leans out and solemnly wishes us good luck. He’s serious.

Apparently only 10 cars a day make it over the pass.

We finally reach the summit and are rewarded with a cloud topped, snow capped peak on the horizon.

Beside us I spot snake head fruitillery, several months later than we have them at home. They are joyous to see.

We start the descent.

The first 10km is steep and brutal. With panniers rattling all the way down, and brakes clenched tight we thunder down the road. It’s downhill for the next 150km but we barely make 10km/hour the road is so rough. The gradient softens off a little as we meet the river in the valley floor, but we’re still negotiating rocks, potholes, floods, scree, and treacherous mud that steals the back wheel from under you.

It’s exhilarating, frightening and pretty crazy. In a good way. Mostly.

We make it down without mishap and I’m proud not to have had a tumble. Sections of the road were more technical than anything I’ve managed on a mountain bike.

Karl, on his mountain bike, is much more in his element. Our rigid, fully laden touring bikes, with semi-slick road tyres handle pretty well all things considered.

The rain starts.

We finally make the 40km mark which promises food and tarmac. We find food in a guesthouse, welcome though a little overpriced perhaps. They know their market I suppose.

We decide to carry on, looking forward to the promised asphalt.

“Once we hit the asphalt we’ll fly down” we repeat.

A little out of town we hit it, with a cheer from all of us.

It lasts for less than a kilometre. Then back to rutted, muddy track.

The rain continues as we wind our way down. Sometimes on dirt track and sometimes on beautiful smooth asphalt. We let rip on the asphalt loving the speed and the quiet of the bikes.

We stop briefly when hailed by a group of guys by a bonfire. They feed us kebab, bread and chacha to lift our spirits then wave us on our way.

We spy a campspot around 7, the rain has eased off. We dither for a while, shall we continue… eventually I call time and decide to stop, and as we set up camp the rain starts in earnest again. We forgo supper and crawl into our tent, happy to be warm and listen to the rain drumming on the tent, the thunder booming through the mountains.

***

Night 5: uh-oh

I awake from protosleep a little while later. I hear voices outside. Karl comes over to announce that there are some friendly Georgians bearing chacha if we’d like to join. Jamie’s fast asleep but I, regretfully, decide to join.

A few toasts and multiple shots of chacha. A bonfire is lit, songs are sung. Georgia, a America and Scotland have been declared friends for a lifetime.

One of the guys starts ripping off his shirt, his friends help him. He douses it in cha cha and throws it on the fire.

He’s crazy, we yell.
Not crazy, Chacha! They reply.

I slope off back to bed, knowing I’ve overdone it.

Distance: 50km
Sleep at altitude: 1082m

—

Day 6: Downward

Jamie is an angel. When I can manage to focus I find he’s picked some fresh mint and is brewing some sweet mint tea. He treats both Karl and me so kindly and thoughtfully I want to cry.

I’m horrifically ill, as is Karl who stayed up for several more rounds of chacha. Apparently the men even went home to restock.

While we lie around being pathetic Jamie gets on with mending and fixing.

Finally we deem it is time to head out, none of us happy about it but we have no food. Karl should also be in katisi today, 100+km down the mountain as he has a flight and needs to pack up his bike.

It’s a beautiful road down through the mountains which I fail to appreciate fully. We find a place selling bready treats and eat our fill of chachipuri and lubia. With full stomachs again we make better progress.

There’s an interesting moment when a cow decides to take fright at the very last moment as Karl and Jamie approach. Everyone comes off unscathed but a little on edge.

As we come further down the mountain we happen upon more signs of ‘civilisation’. More cars, more atrocious driving. We meet more cycle tourists when we stop at a town for food. One Pole and two older Italians. We chat for a while and it’s hard to steel ourselves to get back on the bike. We’ve still many miles to cover.

Around 7 we run out of motivation, there’s a hill looming and we know we’re y unlikely to find a camp spot til the top, the valley is steep. We start exploring tracks off the main road and finally settle on a bit of river beach a little way down from the main road. Its a lovely spot with a stone sand black sand beach and complete privacy.

We share a meal and then head to bed calling out as we go “say no to chacha!”, the mantra of the day.

***

Day 7: Sun is shining, and life is better with a clear head.

After breaking camp by the river, we tackle the last 40km to kutaisi. There are a few decent sized hills, made harder by the heat. The temperature has risen significantly  the further we’ve come down the mountain.

We take some respite from the heat by visiting the Prometheus caves. Initially crammed in with a load of Russian tourists we’re herded though a few sections. We make a break for it though, and enjoy the second half on our own which is much more enjoyable. Spectacular 1.4km cave system, with some slightly odd lighting to
set off the stalictites and stalagmites .

We grab some food – more of the wonderful Arjudana Khatupuri, which are boat shaped breads filled with cheese and egg and butter. Then rouse ourselves from the inevitable food coma and follow the road in to Kaisiti.

We spend the last few hours of the day helping or hindering Karl get himself together to head off to the airport for a early early morning flight. We finally wave him off with a giant roll of cardboard strapped to the back of his bike, covered – in case of rain and to help with nighttime viability – with his fluoro jacket. Somehow when he reaches the airport he has to dismantle his bike, pack it up alongside all his kit plus the last minute treats he picked up in the market, including – I was disappointed to find – a bottle of chacha.

Just say no.

Weary, we slink off to our king sized sleigh bed in the oddly grand hostel, and avoid the overtures of the hostel chap who is enjoying some herbal cigarettes on the balcony.

Kutaisi altitude: 200m

 

Two of my favorite people @mariamazyoung and Jamie, a wonderful couple from Scotland and England. We met near Zugduli and rode together for two days up to Mestia after they “rescued” me from some chacha wielding locals. We then split up while I rode some ill advised high alpine single track and by chance joined up as we were all getting ready to go in Ushguli (highest continuously inhabited town in Europe). Then we rode downhill for 3 days, had more chacha encounters and enjoyed the scenery. Absolutely wonderful people they never made me feel like a third wheel. I definitely picked up some touring wisdom from them as well. They are also touring most of the way around the world so check them out! #justSayNoToChacha #worldbiking #travelbybike #worldtour #humanpower #ponypower #slowtravel travelbybike #cycling #adventurecycling #cyclist #ontheroad #outdoorlife #adventure #travel #instatraveling #touringbike #bicycletouring #bike #cyclist #biking #bikecamping #adventurebybike #salsabikes #bikepacking #georgia

178 Likes, 5 Comments – Karl Kroll (@where_is_karl) on Instagram: “Two of my favorite people @mariamazyoung and Jamie, a wonderful couple from Scotland and England….”

 

We didn’t intend to stop in Sultanhanı, but it was fortunate that we did. We’d spotted a campsite on Google maps and decided to give it a go. The owner greeted us warmly, and gave us the tour, it was a tiny campsite in the middle of the city, but well maintained and had what we needed. We got chatting to the owner’s uncle who was very helpful in determining our route through Cappadocia.

In Sultanhanı itself there is a beautiful caravasaray, with a huge ornate stone carved doorway. The inside was under renovation but we were able to walk around, and get a sense of the massive space.

We cycled on to Selime and the Ihlara valley. The valley runs Selime to Ihlara, with a little village Belisırma in the middle.

As we cycled into Selime we began to see what all the fuss was about. Towering cliffs riddled with windows and doors, some of the entrances impossibly high. The cliffs themselves jaggey imposing things, and down at the base totally normal houses nestled in their shadow.

We rounded the corner to see the Selime Cathedral, which is a multi-story complex from the 8th century including a fantastic kitchen with stone carved basins and loads of cubby holes for storing all your tupperware. The views from the complex were fantastic too.

Having dithered about whether to go in we were really pleased we’d made the effort.

As it was getting on in the day we decided to try and find a camping spot in the Ihlara Valley itself. There were a couple marked on our map that looked possible.

The Selime – Belisırma section was blissful. Amazing little tracks running past people’s tiny allotment-like fields. Towering rocks on each side of the valley and lush green grass and willow trees on the valley floor. More caves carved in to the rock faces, high up above us. We found the camping spot – no more than a flat area by the stream which was dotted with firepits. Delightful.

While cooking dinner I saw wild dogs and something that was probably a fox trotting down the road in the dusk. As the sun set the cliffs glowed red.

In the morning we carried on up the valley, and the path got more rugged. We left our bikes to clamber up in the cave houses, each one more astonishing. We found a mosque carved in to the rock, complete with carpet facing Mecca.

We had to carry the bikes through some of the paths at this point, a little nervously. But soon the path was ridable again and we rolled in to Belisıma in time for a cuppa on the river before tackling the more popular section of the valley.

In the section between Belisırma and Ihlara village there are at least 10 churches hollowed out of the rock by Byzantine monks, most with frescos still visible. The valley itself is stunning, though much busier than the previous half. The flowers and the trees all in blossom. We negotiated the tourists and clambered the step staircases to peer in and around the churches. Outside each were noticeboard which would tell you which scenes were depicted, but not why so many churches were needed in such a small area. A particular standout for me was the fresco of the women being bitten by snakes for failing in their duty. Quite right I’m sure.

We came back to Belisırma for lunch on the river again, watching the parade of geese, dogs, cats and an interesting donkey/cow friendship. We lingered long wondering whether to stay another night or carry on. Eventually we hauled ourselves back on to the bikes and peddled up the steep hill out of town, and the steeper hill over to Güzelyurt.

Güzelyurt has two underground cities. We decided to explore the first we came across, which is definitely not one on the main tourist trail. There were no lights, so we descended with our head torches. We found about three stories, with rooms and passages leading off, but with no guidance and the realisation that it was very near closing time and no-one knew we were here I lost my nerve and we headed back up.

We wound our way down in to the Güzelyurt valley – the second most important valley in the area, according to the guidebook. This felt completely different, women herding goats, houses tucked around the cliffs. The valley itself much closer. We rode on as far as was easy and found a spot to pitch our tent. Unfortunately not as nice as the previous night, and the water in the stream smelled grim. But it was too late to change our minds so we settled in for the night.

I was awoken in the middle of the night by a loud, repetitive noise. My mind raced. We were too far away from town for it to be someone’s alarm, but the tone and timing sounded like it. It went on for a long time, meanwhile I tried to come up with rational explanations for what it was and how out was very unlikely to have anything to do with us, falling miserably.
Eventually it stopped.
Then started again further down the valley at a slightly different pitch. A bird, I realised. Doh.

However, perhaps my intuition was on to something, because just as we were packing up our tent in the morning a motorbike came down the track. A man dismounted – we guess the man from the ticket office at the beginning of the valley – complete with gun and handcuffs. He informed us grumpily that we weren’t allowed to camp or have a picnic in the valley. I was ever so apologetic and tried to explain that we thought it would be ok because there was already a fire pit there. Clearly he was relieved that we were already packing up and he rode off.

We finished our pack and set back off, detouring briefly to one of the valley’s rock cut churches. A little further on we passed a police car going the other way, and wondered whether they’d been sent after us. Instead of leaving the way we came, past the man in his ticket office, we took the back way, got lost and failed to see the other things we meant to see in the village. Well, you win some…

Narlı Gol is a gorgeous little crater lake, presumably forged out of one of the prolific volcanoes which sculpted the region. We sat at the top and ate strawberries we’d bought from a woman at the side of the road, across the road from the workers harvesting them. The thunder rolled around us dramatically.

Derinkulu has a more tourist friendly underground city, with 8 levels of city to explore. This time lit, with arrows and signposts we were able to explore it in relative safety. The general consensus is that these cities were used in times of danger, when one invading army or other was on its way. The people could take underground and live down there for years if needed.

From Derinkulu we peddled over to Goreme, the base we’d chosen to explore the main section of Cappadocia. The approach is absolutely astounding. You look down across the central belt and it is like another world, these strange and outlandish rock formations in reds, pinks, yellows and whites. Each valley has different features, some look like someone’s gone mad with a bowl of icing and a spatula, some look like they’ve grown like mushrooms. Some hard and spikey, some look almost soft and pillowy. We looked from the top and just said wow.

We meandered our way down to town and found a friendly hostel to be our base for a few days.

The Goreme Open Air Museum is a big attraction, but having seen a lot of caves and churches in the preceding days we were suffering a little from cave-fatigue. However the frescos were lovely. We were particularly impressed by the ‘Dark Church’ which has had its frescos restored, and is really very stunning.

The sheer number of tourists was pretty crazy though. It made the experience quite different from the previous days. It felt unreal somehow, very hard to engage with, just things to look at. We did a quick round of the sites and left them to it.

We cycled on from there and explored a few of the valleys by bike. They were amazing but I do not recommend trying to do this on a touring bike. The trails are very dry and sandy, which would be ok if it weren’t also for being on the edge of a steep mountain and very likely to give way. Again, my nerve gave out and I walked a fair way. Jamie did much better, unsurprisingly.

It was an upsetting experience to be honest. I know that if I’d had my mountain bike, my gloves and helmet, maybe some knee pads, I’d have felt more confident. I really wasn’t expecting to be unable to ride. Having ridden over 5000km suddenly having to get off and walk felt quite destabilising. However, these things pass… We got back and had a good lounge about, and I was awarded a couple of beers – my demand for having a less good time than Jamie.

We met some fellow cycle-tourists, of the mountain bike variety, and spent a great evening chatting with them.

The following day was declared our day off (the bikes). Much needed as some people were suffering from their brand new Brooks saddle. After a lazy morning we spent some time doing some overdue bike maintenance. 5000km means an oil change for the Rohloffs. Afterwards we went for a walk through the pigeon valley with its melting overhangs.

Goreme the town was a strange one. In some respects I quite liked it, people were friendly, we found great food. But as far as I could see it exists solely to serve the tourists who stream in night and day. There are multiple hotels on every street, and more and more being built. All the shops seem to be aimed at the tourist market selling tat of one sort or another. Towns like these seem to have a glossy veneer over them, you can’t quite see what’s really going on. You get the tourist smile from the locals, but rarely have a proper conversation despite them knowing more English than most of this bit of the country.
The tourists, well they make me wonder. Tottering amongst the ruins in heels, posing with their selfie sticks. Bused in to the scenic bit of the valley for a quick snap then bused on to the next spot.

Jamie and I console ourselves that we aren’t like that, are we?

We pack up the following morning and take a meanderous route out of town. We stop by to see the iconic ‘love valley’ with its alarmingly phallic pillars. We swing by the famous fairy chimneys and camel rock before turning our backs on that weird and wonderful land.

Day 4 back in the saddle…

Its been hard getting back on the bike after the time off in Istanbul.

I’m not sure what changed but the bike feels heavier, legs weaker, hills higher and temperature hotter.

We sweated up some long hills every day, often sharing the road with a lot of traffic.

I had a few moments of panic. What are we doing? I don’t like this anymore. Why don’t I like this?

I realised that I had been deploying a few tactics to get me through the first part of the journey, and they had been used so often I thought they had become part of myself. Having put them down for a week I couldn’t remember how to use them, they felt contrived. However, contrived still works sometimes.

We got up those hills. We pitched our tent. We made our food. We got up and did it all again. We’re doing nothing like the distances we were a few weeks ago. But we’re on our way.

Today I found myself grinding up another hill, and was relieved to find I wasn’t really worrying about it. Just getting on with it, looking at the scenery.

The big joy moments happen. There have been extraordinary views. There has been good cake. But the big joy isn’t always at the surface.

---

Eskishir is a lovely city, different from any other I’ve been to in Turkey. Lively, young, spacious. Fun. Cafes spill on to the street. Rock and roll played late in to the night. Arms bared.

We explored the old city this morning. Pastel painted houses, the book says they are old ottoman houses. The old caravasaray converted to museums with glass blowing, jewellery workshops, a photo gallery. Full of schoolkids.

Weaving our way out we see more unkempt versions of the houses, falling into disrepair.

We ride out of town for a while on the main road. We stop briefly to buy supplies and are befriended by chap who insists on buying us tea and ayran despite his own Ramadan fast. His name is Mustapha and he and Jamie do well conversing in German with a little Google translate thrown in. I follow along well enough, Mustapha is good at sign language.

Eventually we strike out looking for some ruins we’ve read about in the guidebook. We see a sign which seems to tell us we’re heading in the right direction. We reach a fork, and appear to choose the wrong one as we never find the ruins. But the landscape is dramatic, towering cliffs, jaggedy rocks, then some ruling farmland. Thunder is rolling around us. We are drenched a couple of times, then sweat our way up the next rolling hill before we stop to take off the waterproof, then have to don it again a few minutes later.

Beautiful though, and great to be off the main road even if it is slow. We stop to camp at the top of a hill, the next waypoint is 9km off but at our current speed that’ll be another hour and we are both flagging. We get the tent up in time to shelter from another downpour.

All in all a good day.

---

Having carefully followed guidance from our guidebook yesterday, looking for something, though we weren’t quite sure what, we had finally given up finding it. When the  guidebook’s “follow the track for 2km” becomes 10km easily we decide that even a car driver couldn’t get it that wrong…

So we’d camped up overnight and set off again in the morning, this time towards a different landmark marked on one of our mapping apps.

A turn off on to a very bumpy track makes me grateful for my mountain biking practice in Italy last year. Eventually the weird looking hill on the horizon resolves itself in to a rock formation riddled with caves. In fact two rock formations, the very ones we’d given up on finding.

Bolstered by this find we clambered up the ladder in to the main set of chambers. My mind muttering that you’d never get to do this in the UK, no railings, big holes, massive drops. The view is spectacular. We try to make some sense of what we’re seeing, there’s clearly a number of chambers leading off the main one, and you can see from outside that there are more way up. There are some hand and foot holds carved up the side of the rock too. We’re floundering to make sense of it really, but it’s seriously impressive.

Eventually we leave and carry on down the track, finding – we believe – the turn off we were supposed to find yesterday, though we’re still at a loss to know what it was 2km from.

We’re on a roll now. We start to see the landmarks left and right. A carved rock face, a temple-style facade leading to tombs. We meet a few more sight-seers on the road, we were lucky to be alone at the first spot, clearly Sunday is a popular day to look at the local landmarks.

The final landmark is Midas city. From what I gathered the Phyrgian’s worshipped the mother goddess, Cebele or Kebele, of whom I am a fan. They also were serious plumbers, carving huge underground cisterns, waterways and water pools which must have kept many people in water all year round. Apparently this is the first known example of such water storage. Again, very impressive, and fun to explore.
There were also numerous chambers carved in to the rock, and equally fascinating ones which had been started but not finished – giving a very visceral sense of the work it took to cave them out of the rock. The unfinished work also raised the question of why, what happened that made people down tools? Where did they go?

After spending a good part of the day exploring we took to our bikes and peddled a thirty km or so before giving in to a beautiful view and setting up camp for the night.

---

We wake and pull ourselves out of bed. As I poke my head out of my tent I register – a little late – the clanking of bells that means that goats are near. Sure enough, they start materialising out of the scrubby forest we’ve camped near. Two or three at first, then ten, then a seventy or spread out before us. A goatherd follows, if he’s surprised to see us he doesn’t show it, just raises a hand in greeting and shepherds the goats around away from us.

We start our morning dismantling routine, while I get the kettle on. By the time the water has boiled the goats and their man are back. We chat a little in broken sign language. We share some coffee. We break out Google translate to ask him some questions about himself. But soon the goats have wandered off and he’s off after them.

Jamie and I ponder whether we’d enjoy such a life over breakfast. It certainly has it’s charms, but I suspect it’s not everyone’s dream job.

We come down off the hills and cycle across the plateau for 80km or so. The road is pretty flat, which is a change, but predictably perhaps we have a headwind. The landscape is strange. In the distance on both sides their are mountains. We see no-one in most of the villages we pass through, though they must be inhabited. On the outskirts of many there are little camps, we suspect migrant workers of some kind. We see some out in the fields, the minibuses signs that these aren’t the locals.

We’re heading east, we don’t have a particular destination in mind until we reach km 70. The map tells us we’ll reach a town in 20km+ and we’ll need water for the night if nothing else, though a hostel would be welcome too. With no mobile network we have to wing it.

Arriving in the town we see many inquisitive and welcoming faces. It’s the end of the day, so there’s a lot of people on the streets and we feel very conspicuous. A car drives past us slowly, and we see we’re being filmed.

We pull off and try to consult the internet, but before we can get very far a car pulls up beside us. A man rolls down his window and I think asks us which way we are going. He asks – using excellent sign language- whether we’d like to come and eat and have somewhere to sleep. We would, so we follow him. He leads us to his apartment block and we are ushered in to his house. I don’t know if his wife was warned but she welcomes us heartily.

We’re given çay and showers while we are waiting for the sun to set. Our hosts are observing Ramadan, which is wonderful news for us – two weary cyclists. Zehiya has prepared a feast – çorba, bread, rice, chicken, lamb stew, salad, dates, watermelon, and more lovely sticky desserts with icecream. We all eat and laugh as more food is piled on front of us. We are truly grateful and humbled by their hospitality and warmth.

After dinner we chat with the help of translate and eat more cherries. We talk about family, work, religion and travel.

We slope off to bed, overwhelmed by another extraordinary day.

 

Istanbul had been calling to us from the beginning. Back in March we’d sat round the kitchen table making wild calculations about when we could feasibly reach Istanbul. Wild because we didn’t know how far we’d be able to ride each day or the specific route we’d take.

We also had to factor in May Day, Levellers Day and Ramadan, so our window of opportunity was pretty short. With this in mind we agreed a date, 8th May,  to meet Ali and Sue (aka Jamie’s parents) for a week in Istanbul.

Anyway, we could always get the train if we needed…

However, with much sweat but very little blood or tears, we cycled several thousand kilometres and sailed in to Istanbul from Bandirma*, negotiated the traffic to arrive on the doorstep of our apartment moments before Ali and Sue arrived in their taxi. Perfect.

The previous week had not been our finest. Apart from the wonderful encounter in Edirne we’d had a bit of a rough time, cycling on main roads in the rain and wind. The scenic route we’d taken – down to Gallipoli/Gelibolu then along the south coast of the sea of Marmara would have been superb had the weather been kinder. However, we made it, if muddier than we would have hoped.

Istanbul was great.
I’ve spent a little time in the past in Istanbul, mostly as a child, and there are massive Turkish influences running through my life. Istanbul is full of those memories and connections for me, much like the city itself in which the past is all muddled into the present.

I was pleased to be able to act as a tour guide, surprising myself with my memory of the mosaics of the Chora Church, or snippets of history gleaned from many tours round the big sites.

We visited some of the famous working mosques – Sultanahmet, Süleymaniye, my favourite little one just round the corner the Sokullu Mehmet Paşa mosque.

We meandered through the grand bazaar, the spice bazaar, through the little streets filled with shop after shop selling the same stuff and things. A whole street selling headscarfs. The next all swimwear. The next full of tutus.

Ali and Sue had done some excellent research so we found some new places, we had a loud but fun evening down in the fish restaurant quarter where musicians stroll up and down the square bustling with hundreds of locals ordering fish from identical menus. Some of the troupes playing traditional music, some playing pop songs to the delight of the crowds.

We took a walk along the old walls, through the residential neighbourhoods, feeling much further from the tourist trail.

Towards the end of the week we braved the public transport system – we should have done it earlier – taking tram, ferry, bus, underground on a little tour of the different sides of the city. Over to Uskudar to eat at a favourite restaurant from my childhood, back across to Istiklal Caddesi to see the grand shopping streets, up to Taksim Square and then back to our flat in Sultanahmet.

We befriended the man who sold baklava at the bottom of the road, encouraging us to devour more treats than we should have. We lingered long over indulgent breakfasts on our fantastic balcony overlooking the south side of Sultanahmet down to the sea of Marmara. In the evenings, when it wasn’t  raining, we enjoyed the lovely sunsets with an Efes before setting out to find a quiet little corner to eat a kebab, some kofte, a pide.

Over the week we rested our weary bodies, we put on a few missing pounds, we basked in the company of our good friends and left Istanbul better than it found us.

In amongst this we had serious business to do. Visas. Routes. Bikes.

Visas

We decided to apply for our Uzbek visa in Istanbul, and pick it up in Baku. From all we’d read the Uzbek visa was a pretty simple process. Apply in Istanbul, pick up and pay in Baku.
It was simple, but it took us a long time. Firstly we made the mistake of cycling**, rather than taking the trams. Had we arrived earlier we might have got through the system quicker. As it was we arrived a little before 12 and got away by 3.30. The official bit of it lasted a couple of minutes, standing outside what was basically a shed behind the Uzbek embassy (which is a house on a residential street). The rest of the time was spent trying to get our paperwork to the guy to start processing. He was in another step with a window on to the railings at the front, you needed to catch his eye and wave your handful of passports and paperwork at him through the railings. Queues aren’t really a thing, but my British conditioning doesn’t allow for pushing to the front – and then hanging around on the pavement waiting for our names to be called. We met a nice French exchange student with whom we had a chat.
Checking now it appears our visas have been processed and we’ll pick them up in Baku.
We also applied for our visa for Azerbaijan, which is an evisa, which we were able to apply for and receive within 3 days.
As Georgia and Kazakhstan are visa free for us we’re sorted now until Tajikistan.
The big one now is China. The internet seemed to tell us that the easiest place to get it is Tbilisi. We will see.

Bike repairs

The big issue was always going to be Jamie’s rim. We’d noticed on the run in to Istanbul that it was a bit warped.  The rim had got wider at one point. This didn’t seem like a good sign, so after a flurry of emails to various friends and colleagues we’d ordered a rim from the internet to be delivered in 1-3 working days.
In the meantime we also decided to investigate why Jamie’s Rolhoff was leaking a little oil. We discovered that the gaskets behind the external shifter box were little more than scraps of oily nothing and needed replacing.
Jamie got in touch with Dave at SJS cycles, who informed us that there was a guy in Istanbul who could help, and that there wasn’t anyone else further east who was Rohloff trained until SE Asia.
So we removed the wheel and this time broached the public transport. Tram and ferry then bus took us over to Asia and into Kadıköy. We found Gursel Akay Bisiklet and immediately felt at home. Some bike shops are just like that.

Jamie and Gursel tinkered with the hub together over coffee and cake and replaced the gaskets, before we set off back to Europe again.
We got increasingly anxious as the rim itself didn’t appear. Eventually we discovered it was in Turkey in customs. On what should have been our day of departure from Istanbul with the wonderful help of the brother-in-law of our host we managed to pay the customs charge, get the rim released and get them to hold on to it rather than send it out to be delivered – goodness knows what chaos that might have caused. The following day we – on the advice of a local – wheeled our fully laden bikes on to the train and tram (down some escalators, much to my alarm) and then cycled out to the freight depo at the airport. This is not a scenic journey, and not one I’d recommend. However we got it, and cycled off again to catch the ferry from Pendik to Yalova and then up in to the hills to rebuild Jamie’s wheel – which looked like this:

Jamie: I’ve been thinking about the rim and why it failed… And I realised I used this wheel to test whether I could set up the schwalbe marathon supreme tubeless. 

A long story short it doesn’t work very well. The sidewalls are too porous despite what schwalbe say! I think I was having a  issue with the double eyelets stopping the rim tape from sticking properly. 

Anyway I think what did it for the rim and why it crack bed like this was using the airshot on it. I think banging 200psi into the tire repeatedly on a rim which is quite old now anyway (6 years or so) could cause this spreading. I’ve seen it on xc MTB rims before. 

Route planning

With our eyes firmly set on Istanbul we had given little thought of what was to come afterwards. With a few guidebooks to hand and some time off the bikes we were finally able to start planning our route though Turkey. It was (and still is) an incredibly hard decision. What to take in, what too miss? We drew routes that took in as much as we could including Pamukele, the Lycean Way, the mountains in the east, and we considered  the shortest route that hugged the black sea coast.
Eventually we settled on the middle way, heading south east to Cappadocia and then back north east to Trabzon and following the coast from there.

*Arrival by ferry
By all accounts cycling in to Istanbul is horrendous. Too much traffic shoehorned on to massive roads. I’ve read accounts of people doing it, and some have found better routes than others, however we decided to take the long way round  skirting the west then south costs of the sea of Marmara then sailing in to the heart of the city – I can highly recommend this approach. You can get the ferry at three points – Bandirma, Bursa and Yalova, though this last doesn’t take you into the centre but to a suburb Pendik.

**Cycling in Istanbul
It would have been remiss of us not to attempt to cycle in Istanbul a little bit, and so we took to the road on our visit to the Uzbek embassy.
It’s an experience. The traffic in Istanbul is famously chaotic. You need to hold your nerve as cars, buses, trucks, mopeds, taxis negotiate the space with little regard to what we think of as the rules. Everyone just forces their way in to the space – often non-existent space – no-one indicates,  except occasionally at the last minute when they are about to stop in the middle of the road and all the passengers will pour out.

All I can say is thank goodness it’s slow moving. And that it’s not my commute.