Showing posts with label city break. Show all posts
Showing posts with label city break. Show all posts
Chiang Mai
Solvitur Velocipedo
Cocooned in my forest lair by day, by night holed up in the sequestered serenity of the campsite's riverside glade. I passed my time beneath the 1600m peaks that closet the table land. Five trails led away from my tent; four into the forest hills. The fifth, least used, led back to roads and noise and people. Occasional forays that way into the tourist hub of Tanah Rata's main drag to procure food a fleeting, grating reminder of the busy reality just a tree screen away.
The stillness couldn't last. Altitude is a a cyclists hardest won currency; the urge for a spendthrift splurge rose irresistibly. With a glorious descent promise-note burning a hole in my pocket I packed up my camp and romped through Brinchang and Kampung Raja, the tableland's northern most stations. The scale of the developments was difficult to miss. The WWF's describing land clearance as "rampant" did not seem hyperbolic looking over valleys glaring back from reflective cellophane and glass.
Muscat: The wadi forks
I left the mountains that had beguiled me so and moved from Oman's desert
interior to her salty coastal plain.
A different Oman, no longer dominated by the Rub' al
Khail's echoing void but by the call of the waves. Fishermen and maritime
trade replace goat herds, camels and date farming.
Leaving Iran
Leaving the remnants of the Shahs final excesses behind I cycled across the plain and through the mountains of the lower Zagros that separates Persepolis from the valley in which the city of Shiraz nestles.
Hearing the word Shiraz you perhaps think of a nice glass of red wine. You'd be half right in this case. The region around this most fondly loved of Iranian city is reported to have produced the finest wines in the Middle East from the 9th Century onwards. But 18th and 19th century European tourists were raving about sweet white 'port-esque' vintages; it turns out the link between the city and the popular Syrah grape variety ends with the name. For all you Onophiliacs it's all rendered moot anyway as those much vaunted vineyards have been producing raisins since the Islamic Revolution.
Mention Shiraz to an Iranian however and they are likely to think one thing: Poetry. Iran is a country where poets are revered and where poetry remains a vital cultural currency. Tehran may have the jobs, Esfahan the architecture and Mashad the holiness but Shiraz has the verse.
Two names ring out above all in the pantheon of Iranian poetry. Hafeez and Saadi (Fans of Ferdowsi and Rumi may splutter.) and both are sons of Shiraz.
Even after all this time,
the sun never says to the earth,"You owe me."
Look what happens with a love like that.
It lights the whole sky. ~Hafez
The sun was out as I wove my way through the late morning traffic to the old quarter where I left the main streets and picked my way along winding alleyways flanked by high whitewashed walls in search of the well hidden Niayesh boutique hotel. Sounds expensive but fortunately it wasn't with a single room abutting the central courtyard kindly discounted to a manageable $5 a day.
One effect of my chosen mode of travel is solitude. It's something I have come to treasure deeply but taking a break from it in Shiraz was a pleasant change.
Hearing the word Shiraz you perhaps think of a nice glass of red wine. You'd be half right in this case. The region around this most fondly loved of Iranian city is reported to have produced the finest wines in the Middle East from the 9th Century onwards. But 18th and 19th century European tourists were raving about sweet white 'port-esque' vintages; it turns out the link between the city and the popular Syrah grape variety ends with the name. For all you Onophiliacs it's all rendered moot anyway as those much vaunted vineyards have been producing raisins since the Islamic Revolution.
Mention Shiraz to an Iranian however and they are likely to think one thing: Poetry. Iran is a country where poets are revered and where poetry remains a vital cultural currency. Tehran may have the jobs, Esfahan the architecture and Mashad the holiness but Shiraz has the verse.
Two names ring out above all in the pantheon of Iranian poetry. Hafeez and Saadi (Fans of Ferdowsi and Rumi may splutter.) and both are sons of Shiraz.
Even after all this time,
the sun never says to the earth,"You owe me."
Look what happens with a love like that.
It lights the whole sky. ~Hafez
The sun was out as I wove my way through the late morning traffic to the old quarter where I left the main streets and picked my way along winding alleyways flanked by high whitewashed walls in search of the well hidden Niayesh boutique hotel. Sounds expensive but fortunately it wasn't with a single room abutting the central courtyard kindly discounted to a manageable $5 a day.
That'll do
One effect of my chosen mode of travel is solitude. It's something I have come to treasure deeply but taking a break from it in Shiraz was a pleasant change.
Dasht to Yazd
Iran's geography fascinates. Bestriding the ancient overland trade routes of spice and silk and sitting at the literal crossroads between Europe, Arabia, India, Central Asian and on to China.
Few modes of travel offer a better means to feel that geography than the humble velocipede As I poured over maps in my tent on chilly evenings a realisation emerged and was confirmed as I pedaled; following rivers is both less possible and less profitable In Iran than nearly any other country I had traversed.
*The Silk Roads
Few modes of travel offer a better means to feel that geography than the humble velocipede As I poured over maps in my tent on chilly evenings a realisation emerged and was confirmed as I pedaled; following rivers is both less possible and less profitable In Iran than nearly any other country I had traversed.
Nesf-e Jahān
The bus to Esfahan came to a grinding halt 40k outside the city in a long line of traffic. Sick of being cooped up I decided to get proactive after 30 minutes of imperceptible progress and got the driver to let me out. Bike retrieved I headed towards the city via the Kesheh and dry crunchy hills feeling ever so pleased with myself.
Rolling into a new city after dark would usually be my idea of hell but following the arrow straight and well lit Kaveh central boulevard was a doddle. Iranian city navigation can be especially confusing due to what I consider an especially dull and repetitive naming system. Everywhere you look seems to be a Taleqani street bisecting Kabir Road at Khomeini Junction. If your lucky you might get a Hafez or Saadi place but at times it feels like the revolution is still being fought on the streets such is the dominance of a handful of Mullahs on the naming conventions. I was therefore quite relieved to have nothing but 'straight on' to remember as I closed in on my host Abbas's house.
Naturally that would be far too easy and his location indicated on Warmshowers.com (a bicycle tourist hosting website) proved to be a wild fiction. A quick phone call convinced me that finding his actual location would be an all night job. I changed tack and found the cheapest guesthouse I could and in the interest of financial solvency resolved to reduce my stay to two nights.
With a newly ambitious timeline in which to explore Nesf-e Jahān (Half the World) as Esfahan is called I set off before dawn the next morning to get my fill.
Esfahan is Iran's number one destination for foreign and Iranian tourism and its easy to see why. I began with a restful early morning wander through one-end of the still sleepy main bazaar which vomited me out into the Masjed-e Jameh; A mosque in continually used since 771.
Rolling into a new city after dark would usually be my idea of hell but following the arrow straight and well lit Kaveh central boulevard was a doddle. Iranian city navigation can be especially confusing due to what I consider an especially dull and repetitive naming system. Everywhere you look seems to be a Taleqani street bisecting Kabir Road at Khomeini Junction. If your lucky you might get a Hafez or Saadi place but at times it feels like the revolution is still being fought on the streets such is the dominance of a handful of Mullahs on the naming conventions. I was therefore quite relieved to have nothing but 'straight on' to remember as I closed in on my host Abbas's house.
Naturally that would be far too easy and his location indicated on Warmshowers.com (a bicycle tourist hosting website) proved to be a wild fiction. A quick phone call convinced me that finding his actual location would be an all night job. I changed tack and found the cheapest guesthouse I could and in the interest of financial solvency resolved to reduce my stay to two nights.
With a newly ambitious timeline in which to explore Nesf-e Jahān (Half the World) as Esfahan is called I set off before dawn the next morning to get my fill.
Esfahan is Iran's number one destination for foreign and Iranian tourism and its easy to see why. I began with a restful early morning wander through one-end of the still sleepy main bazaar which vomited me out into the Masjed-e Jameh; A mosque in continually used since 771.
Sunlight dappling the distinctive arches it was easy to believe that this was Iran's largest Mosque.
Tehran
It occurs to me that in my haste to write my previous post I didn't really discuss Iran as a country outside how it impacted on my cycling trip. A terribly narcissistic failing for which I beg forgiveness.
I find myself writing this 8000 miles away, two months removed and three countries later so I'll dispense with all pretense of punctuality and instead luxuriate in recalling this beguiling, contradictory country which often inspires so many opinions based on such little understanding.
I find myself writing this 8000 miles away, two months removed and three countries later so I'll dispense with all pretense of punctuality and instead luxuriate in recalling this beguiling, contradictory country which often inspires so many opinions based on such little understanding.
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 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.
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.
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.
Ankara
Having made a promise to myself during the harrowing ride into Istanbul I caught a bus out of the city.
Emerging from the cramped confines at 06:30 I discovered that the cheap front brakes I had bought in Thessaloniki hadn't survived the trip. This made for an interesting cycle to Christina's flat. Ankara's hills are steep and feel steeper still with only a back break and the sole of my shoes to slow oneself.
My host said there was nothing much to do in Ankara. A claim she almost immediately scotched by taking me to the fine Castle overlooking the city.
Ankara at ground level felt a staid city after Istanbul. Full of embassy compounds, banks and doctors offices. From this vantage a well situated city flowing up and over the surrounding bowl of mountains revealed itself.
Emerging from the cramped confines at 06:30 I discovered that the cheap front brakes I had bought in Thessaloniki hadn't survived the trip. This made for an interesting cycle to Christina's flat. Ankara's hills are steep and feel steeper still with only a back break and the sole of my shoes to slow oneself.
My host said there was nothing much to do in Ankara. A claim she almost immediately scotched by taking me to the fine Castle overlooking the city.
Ankara at ground level felt a staid city after Istanbul. Full of embassy compounds, banks and doctors offices. From this vantage a well situated city flowing up and over the surrounding bowl of mountains revealed itself.
Istanbul: City of the world's desire
Istanbul is a very special city.
Looking back across the Bosphorous at the Golden Horn to see the Hagia Sophia and Blue Mosque
King's Landing
What sentiment can be expressed about Dubrovnik that hasn't already been formulated far better by more articulate souls over its 1000+ year history.
As you cross back across the Bosnian-Croatian border at the tall hills of Brgat the Adriatic splashes back into view. I raced to meet it, flying down the switchbacks to the coast.
After meeing the busy coastal highway a short run north presented me with a first glimpse of this city...
Split and Dalmatia
Despite sensible advice to the contrary I had slept at the prow of the ferry. While I successfully avoided getting wet from spray I did experience what it is like to sleep in a wind tunnel. Turns out it adds less to the words sleep.
However whatever tired irritability I had was soon cast away as I watched the watery dawn illuminate the numerous islands of Croatia's coast.
Inevitable Titanic impressions were resisted
Before long we were pulling into Split, glorious retirement home of the tough to pronounce Roman emperor Diocletian.
Rome in a day
Now here was an exciting moment. Having set off from Hadrian's wall months before I was finally at the beating heart of the Roman Empire.
La Dolce Vita
Staying with Nick and Simona was like stepping into a Rossellini film. I really can't thank them enough for their seemingly inexhaustible hospitality even in the face of a distant relative turning up almost unannounced on their door step and proceeding to borrow money and eat (& drink) them out of house and home.
It's always a little nerve-wracking meeting family for the first time especially when you will be staying with them; what if you don't get on? Simona would later confide over a cigarette that she had shared this concern. Would that this distant relation who was cycling across Europe be a bit straight-laced (no drinking no smoking etc) and had been rather relieved to see a roll-up peeking out from behind my ear as I stepped of the train. Fortunately despite my manifest faults as a house guest we got on famously.
Simona's professional cooking skills and infectious good nature. Nick's wisdom and amazing tales from his time as a freelance photographer in far flung war zones. It all combined a breathtaking Umbrian backdrop to feel utterly intoxicating.
It's always a little nerve-wracking meeting family for the first time especially when you will be staying with them; what if you don't get on? Simona would later confide over a cigarette that she had shared this concern. Would that this distant relation who was cycling across Europe be a bit straight-laced (no drinking no smoking etc) and had been rather relieved to see a roll-up peeking out from behind my ear as I stepped of the train. Fortunately despite my manifest faults as a house guest we got on famously.
Simona's professional cooking skills and infectious good nature. Nick's wisdom and amazing tales from his time as a freelance photographer in far flung war zones. It all combined a breathtaking Umbrian backdrop to feel utterly intoxicating.
The view across the rolling Umbrian hills from the Patio
9 1/2 days in Zurich
While waiting for my new bicycle frame to arrive in Switzerland I busied myself getting to know Zurich.
Walking her busy streets occupied most of my time and frankly there are worse purgatories than lapping lake Zurich for the fifth time.
I think that coot is following me
Walking her busy streets occupied most of my time and frankly there are worse purgatories than lapping lake Zurich for the fifth time.
I think that coot is following me Home from home.
"I look upon Switzerland as a sort of inferior Scotland" - Sydney Smith, an English wit from Woodford. (Rare breed indeed)
North Zurich
Nothing to match the heat of our centuries old squabbling with the French, war won jingoism of common relations with the Germans nor the faded patriarchal contempt for our American and Australian ex colonies. Even the hangover from our 17th Century rivalry with the Dutch has been etymologically preserved in our idioms more boldly. Or have I rambled into double Dutch?
Still I detect a slight derogatory twinge in the average British stereotype of the Swiss.
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