Back on the road again

I had said my goodbyes to Spitak on the Saturday allowing me to take my leave unobtrusively on a clear and crisp Sunday morning. Retracing my steps, taken over a month previously, to Vanadazor.

I had to reach the Iranian border by the 6th of December putting a less than welcome time-scale on my progress. Still after some initial wobbles my confidence returned and the going was fine. If I was stopping rather more than previously and feeling a touch discombobulated it wasn't sufficient to prevent me making steady progress.

South of Vanadazor I entered gentle hillsides.

The last of Autumn still hanging on picturesquely in places.

Dark clouds over Yerevan

I took a Marshutka to Yerevan which meant going to some wasteland behind a pharmacy and saying Yerevan to various loiterers before lucking upon a driver, who pointed at this glorious vehicle.




The bus doesn't leave until full and so people enter, put a bag on a seat, and then get off for a cigarette, go shopping, or talk loudly into mobiles. How this doesn't result in the bus never leaving is a mystery to me but through some magical process passengers re-coagulated at a seemingly unappointed moment and we were off.

The recovery of Thom-Jan

Safely in Spitak I sat on the outside wall of the YMCA tired and unable to summon the will to enter. Within minutes a friendly greeting came to find me as Haykuhi and Alva ushered me inside and showed me to my room.

Both the welcome and the room couldn't have been further from my Vanadzor experience.

Homage to Shatalonia*

The cold morning of my third day in Armenia soon wilted and a gorgeous sunny day rapidly had me stripping-off layers. The road steepened as I closed in on the Vanadazor plateau and despite stopping to inhale the last of my provisions (bread and nutella) I wasn't making great progress.

In truth I felt tired - which was odd given I had slept like a log from 9pm-6am. Still, I was in no rush and so under the guise of letting my tent dry I gave in and stopped sometime late morning. Having stretched out my Hilliburg I promptly laid down and slept - cold floor chilling my bum while the sun warmed my face.

Waking an hour later feeling not very refreshed I loaded back up and wobbled on.

Something didn't feel right and so I pulled in at a petrol station and attempted to make use of the facilities. Nothing doing - but if the clammy sweat and stomach cramps were anything to go by that state of affairs was unlikely to persist,

Half a mile further up the road things reached their predictable climax. If the sight of a fully loaded English touring cyclist didn't attract enough attention one suddenly projectile vomiting off the bike surely would have. Blessedly there was no one around to witness this low point or indeed to knock me over as the sheer force of my convulsions sent me zigzagging across the tarmac.

Debed Canyon

My days in energetic Tibilsi coincided with the city's annual independence celebration and thus necessitated greater than even usual Georgian alcohol consumption. Vague recollections of drunken horsemen clattering up cobbled streets filled with festive Georgians like some Tolstoyan nightmare bubbled up as I awoke hungover.

I'd enjoyed my time in the city in an aimless way: Meeting a trio of Anglo-Australians driving from Tokyo to South Africa via London, ineptly wooing a pretty Georgian girl named for their warrior queen regent and eating outrageous quantities of khachapuri and dumplings.

At first light, having had my fill, I fled the capital which I have failed utterly to document. Leaving behind its steep valley setting, hilariously bad luminous Eiffel tower rip off and sulphur springs,

The good.

The bad

A crisp sunny autumnal morning greeted me as I followed the course of the Kura heading due south.

Georgian river running

An already leisurely departure from Batumi was further delayed firstly by meeting a friendly South African cycle tourist who was bird watching his way from Europe to Cambodia. After sharing route tips and discussing the Georgian raptor migration the sun had drifted past the yard arm so I decided to have a hearty lunch before setting off.

Eventually I rolled out of the hostels door, went all of five feet before pausing to add some little extra air to my front tyre. This provided all the opening Georgian hospitality required. A head popped out of a shop doorway and beckoned me in. Slightly dubious I followed slowly and found a butchers where he and his coworker were sitting down to a hearty meal of sausages and chilli to which I was clearly invited. Fit to burst already I simply couldn't bring myself to look this gift pig in the eye and so forced down some excellent fare before being offered (and accepting) some rather fine cognac.

Despite his minuscule amount of English and my absolute lack of Georgian we talked freely using bits of French, German and universal hand gestures and I think discussed at some length the unfairness of Georgia letting everyone visit easily while Georgian's finding it impossible to holiday in Europe and elsewhere. I could only agree and was heartily embarrassed once again by the UK governments visa policies.

Thus It was mid afternoon by the time I wobbled out on my bicycle (more due to overeating than the cognac) and set about a pleasant roll along the sea front cycle route before, eschewing the flatter main route north east towards Tibilsi, I struck due east towards the inviting mountains on what had turned into a delightful sunny day.

Looking up the Chorokhi valley's broad and verdant lower course 

Batumi

So having escaped the glorious clutches of Cappadocia - cheated by catching a bus to Trabzon - I entered a new country, Georgia after a month in Turkey.

A nation in love with tea (Chi) as much as the Brits, where backgammon (Tavla) is taken almost as seriously as being a good host; Turkey had been more than good to me but it was refreshing to cross another border and find a new and very distinctive land spread before me.

The most noticable change was the weather which had been chilling even in Anatolia and had now taken on a definitley autumnal feel as I cycled along the black sea coast accompanied by blustery squalls. The subtropical lushness of Alara was a marked contrast to the continental aridity from which I had emerged. Suddenly thick green vegetation punctuated by waterfalls proliferated.

I crossed the border under dreary skies which occassionally summoned the will to drizzle.