Leaving Istanbul

Drying Laundry

Fearghal

Bulgaria

Last Thursday we cycled out of a grey and shiny Istanbul. It had been raining heavily, the road was slippery, and we we had wet feet within a few minutes. Leaving Istanbul was hard. We had spent the previous week hanging out with family and girlfriends, it was difficult to drag ourselves away and get moving again, the cold dirty spray from passing trucks did little to help. By nightfall we had failed to escape Istanbul’s urban sprawl and camped on the only dry land we could find, on the fringe of a petrol station forecourt.

Munching on excellent kebabs, and drinking the endless supply of tea plied by the forecourt attendants it began to sink in- we were on the last leg of our cycle. In a few days we’d be in the EU, in three months we’d be home- the adventure would be over. Somewhere in Turkey the world had changed, and it now seemed behind us. Somewhere along the way, possibly the cold and empty desert of Iran, or the icy passes of the Caucasus we had crossed a bridge, had left a dream and were cycling towards an achievement- and now it was time to start thinking about after. But enough of after for the moment.

Silhouette

Technically our last few days in Turkey were also our first in Europe, but in reality they were our last in Asia. Cycling towards Bulgaria I could feel it, the tea, the dancing with arms aloft, and all the fancy trim of the orient ebbing away. Curved crescents giving way to angular crosses, warm and unquestioning hospitality to reservation. Inshallah to cold rationality. All of this had been happening gradually, but there’s nothing like a border to evoke determinate perceptions where in reality blurry lines exist. Sometimes a line in the sand really helps bring things into focus, and the line in the sand between Bulgaria and Turkey was a bold reminder that most of this is adventure is now behind us and now each kilometre brings us closer to the familiar rather than propelling us into unfamiliar worlds.

Located at the nexus of several realms, where Europe, Asia, Arabia meet Turkey begs cliches and handy metaphors. All of them apt. It is a crossroad and a bridge, it is where the Occident and the Orient merge, its kebabs and beer, ordered roads and pragmatic Islam. For us its where the hard yards, the unknown and unusual begin to give way.

Turkey was good to us. The Turks possibly the warmest people I’ve encountered. They are excellent hosts, generous and undemanding, gregarious and outgoing. I’m sorry to have left.

Tea House

The Kindness of Strangers

Simon

As we neared the town of Coutance, an Irish guy pulled up in a car to ask if we needed any help. He had passed us going the other direction, saw my flag and turned around to make sure we were okay (which we were).

Only 2 minutes up the road another car was stopped at a crossroads and the lady inside was beeping like mad. We stopped and she hurriedly came over to us, smiling and waving. Turns out the lady, Therese’s daughter had cycled all over the world in 2005-2006 (http://www.unmondeavelo.blogspot.com/). She asked us to stay with her and her family which we gratefully accepted after spending all day in the lashing rain. She dried our clothes over the log stove then we sat down to a big meal, wine, pate, steak, pasta, cheese…..It was a truly great experience to share a meal with a real French family and their two friends. We woke up to a continental breakfast and a packed lunch of bread and pate that Therese had prepard for us. She was teary eyed as we left and to our surprise, drove to the other side of town (10km up the road) to cheer us on. Her husband Serge, a driving instructor, took his trainee 30km up the road to make sure that we were okay, then waved us on our way.

After another rainy day in the saddle through auburn coloured tree lined roads, we set about finding a camping spot for the night. First of all we asked in an orchard where they made Normandy cider. After a quick tasting, we didn’t have a campsite, but instead, a lovely bottle of their fine cider. Eventually, we came across a deserted orchard, waited until nightfall, then snuck in. The whole place was covered in rotten apples, many of which are still smeared on our clothes and tent. Their pungent aroma combined with the dampness of our clothes makes for a pretty nasty whiff that lingered until we were miles up the road. Lets hope we can get our clothes cleaned soon before we start making people ill!