The countryside opened out into a patchwork of farms spread across lush riverland.
Showing posts with label history. Show all posts
Showing posts with label history. Show all posts
Bicycle blitzkreig
Thai visa in hand I fled Pennang before dawn on the first free ferry to Butterworth. A quick roti chennai later, I gave the bike it's head and whistled north.
Arabia Felix
Goodbye metropolis, hello desert.
Negotiating the patchwork of four-lane M4 impressions which masquerade as quiet backroads on maps of Dubai I just about succeeded in avoiding the worst of the the regions fearsome mega motorways and found a big but quiet dual carriageway heading generally south south east. Small roads just aren't in the transport vocabulary of the UAE.
Beyond my general direction of travel I had no plan or expectations as to where I might end up. So it was with a sense of incredulity that I found myself peddling beneath this
This felt like an especially surreal discovery given that Dubai is about as far from a bicycle oriented city as one could hope to find.
Negotiating the patchwork of four-lane M4 impressions which masquerade as quiet backroads on maps of Dubai I just about succeeded in avoiding the worst of the the regions fearsome mega motorways and found a big but quiet dual carriageway heading generally south south east. Small roads just aren't in the transport vocabulary of the UAE.
Beyond my general direction of travel I had no plan or expectations as to where I might end up. So it was with a sense of incredulity that I found myself peddling beneath this
What the what?
This felt like an especially surreal discovery given that Dubai is about as far from a bicycle oriented city as one could hope to find.
Persepolis
Departing Yazd heading west meant leaving the desert plains and crossing a stark mountain range dominated by the 4075m high Shir Kuh. (Lion mountain)
Just over 400k to Shiraz but lots to see in the meantime
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.
Ancient Armenia
A deliriously fun descent from Selim was the first order of the day and with Handel's Trumpet Concertio pushing away thoughts of my frozen feet I could concentrate on soaking up the beguilingly hazy views offered up by every twist and turn.
Working my way down the valley I watched as winter fell away replaced by the last of autumns leaves and the beginnings of pretty riverside orchards.
Working my way down the valley I watched as winter fell away replaced by the last of autumns leaves and the beginnings of pretty riverside orchards.
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.
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,
A crisp sunny autumnal morning greeted me as I followed the course of the Kura heading due south.
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.
Byzantine coast camping
After the excıtment of gettıng the bıke stuck ın a lıft ıt was wıth a sense of relıef that I rolled out of Thessalonıkı. Squırmıng thıs way and that tryıng to fınd a comfortable posıtıon on my 15 euro South Korean saddle me and Fred spent the early afternoon slowly clımbıng and steadıly becomıng more and more frustrated wıth the our map. Despıte beıng a very respectable1:250,000 scale the 'topo250 Macedonıa' by Anavası was an utter mess. ıt made lıttle dıstınctıon between road types and was often downrıght mıssleadıng and ıt was clear that ıt had been made by sımply takıng a mass of onlıne road data and dumpıng ıt unceremonıously onto the page wıth no thought for clarıty.
One mıght assume the top left of thıs pıcture (sw of Thessalonıkı) represents a major conurbatıon - perhaps a well planned resıdentıal area. You would be wrong ıts fıelds wıth the ırrıgatıon channels shown. Naturally.
One result of thıs cartographıc clusterfuck was that the yellow route we followed (whıch the key claımed meant a sıgnıfıcant secondary road) looked lıke....
Bye bye Balkans hello Hellas: Thessaloniki at all costs
Greece promised a return to the EU, prices in euros, a wealth of history and a brand new alphabet for me to fail at learning. Crossing the border at Niki in the late afternoon having lingered in Bitola the change in scenery was almost immediately palpable as the lush greens of Macedonia were replaced by burnt golds, reminiscent of the palette I found Tuscany and Umbria. Stopping for a beer proved a wallet scathing experience. At three euros for a small beer at a nondescript bar it was more than treble the cost I had become accustomed to in the Balkans. (Well Kosovo at least.)
A satisfying conversation with some Greek old boys took some of the sting out of the transaction as we traded complements of each others civilizations. Dickens from him was greeted by exclamations of Thucydides by me, Plato - Shakespeare, Aristotle - Thomas Paine, and on and on. It was all most pleasing but with the sun dipping and a plan to head into the hills forming between me and Fred we hit the road again.
With the wind rising and the sun soon to dip behind the horizon we gave up on reaching Keli (where the old boys had mentioned some abandoned buddings) and instead set up camp behind the fold of a hill on an already harvested field.
The stiff breeze ensured a refreshing evening reading Carl Sagan's Pale Blue Dot and listening to Roy Orbison laid out under a clear sky learning astronomy from Fred.
A satisfying conversation with some Greek old boys took some of the sting out of the transaction as we traded complements of each others civilizations. Dickens from him was greeted by exclamations of Thucydides by me, Plato - Shakespeare, Aristotle - Thomas Paine, and on and on. It was all most pleasing but with the sun dipping and a plan to head into the hills forming between me and Fred we hit the road again.
With the wind rising and the sun soon to dip behind the horizon we gave up on reaching Keli (where the old boys had mentioned some abandoned buddings) and instead set up camp behind the fold of a hill on an already harvested field.
The stiff breeze ensured a refreshing evening reading Carl Sagan's Pale Blue Dot and listening to Roy Orbison laid out under a clear sky learning astronomy from Fred.
It really was a marvelous spot with lovely views over rolling hills undulating in all directions
The changed scenery was a continued source of pleasure as we went our way though the hilly farms and pastures.
The Bay of Kotor
A muggy day with low clouds heralded my first day cycling through Montenegro proper.
Racing out of the mountains to the sea at Herceg Novi I was soon careening along the coast roads towards the Bay of Kotor. This flooded river canyon bears resemblance to a Scandinavian fjord and as I rolled into its sheltered surrounds, watching as sheer mountains materialised on all sides, the sun started to peep out.
Racing out of the mountains to the sea at Herceg Novi I was soon careening along the coast roads towards the Bay of Kotor. This flooded river canyon bears resemblance to a Scandinavian fjord and as I rolled into its sheltered surrounds, watching as sheer mountains materialised on all sides, the sun started to peep out.
Connecting up the little villages and beach towns that dot the bays northern edge
I left my Hertegovina
Crossing the mountains which separate Croatia and Bosnia had been a slog and it was late as I crossed the border. Entering the broad plain I'm not sure what I was expecting; but the pretty fields, well built houses, light hum of activity, roads filled with Mercedes and Croatian flags everywhere and wasn't it.
A last look back at the western range.
During my brief cycle with the Italians they had mentioned Kreviche Falls and after finding a throw away one liner about it in a guide book I decided it was as good a place as any to head for en route to Mostar. Its location however appeared to be something of a state secret with many divergent accounts. All agreed that it lied somewhere near Ljubuski but where from there was a subject of debate, conjecture and general vagueness.
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
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