Hakkari was a place we’d been warned against, both by home and Turkish acquaintances. Riddled with PKK “terrorists”, a Kurdish independence party, it has recently been a stage for many uprisings and protests against the virulent Turkish army. However, as we ventured further south east towards Kars, the stern warnings not to go there lessened: instead of frowning, people smiled when we mentioned the turbulent city, and waxed lyrical about the beauty of the mountainous setting. Popping into a shop on our way to Kars, we’d come across an enormous moustachioed man perched on a stool. Now quite fluent in pigeon Turk-lish, we began asking in our best foreign accents how much the water was (a good gage to the expense of the shop). Having been greeted with smiles and welcomes in the doorway, we were hastily admonished for our Turkish and shown a Kurdish flag under the table. It seems we’d hit Kurdish lands already where Turkish was spoken but not encouraged. To our surprise, and contrary to popular Turkish opinion, we found the Kurds were not all villainous gun swinging, grenade lobbing terrorists. A great relief, and very encouraging as we considered the next leg of our journey.

The further east and then south we went, so the admissions of being Kurdish grew, and with it the generosity and the welcome. The Kurds have their own language and, with a little help from our Turk-lish friends, we picked up the odd word. Leaving Van we stopped for a quick visit to an Urartian Palace called Cavustep, which dates back to 700BC and is perched on a hilltop with wonderful views, and remains of cuneiform writing etched into a large block of black basalt.  Gradually the high steppe gave way to higher, parched and arid mountains, with the drying remains of large rivers groping their way through the boulder strewn river bed. We were frequently stopped by numerous Turkish army checkpoints, all wanting to see our passports, bike documents, and occasionally asking us to unpack. On being asked what we were doing in the area we told them we were tourists and then replied to the next slightly daft question of “Why here?” with an equally testy “why not??!” Slightly alarmed at the very casual appearance of some of the gun-wielding, butch, muscle-bound, dark-glasses wearing, occasionally un-uniformed militia, we slowly edged our way deeper into the Kurdish territory; the checkpoints increased, the size of the mountains increased, our apprehension increased, but the welcomes also increased, as did the hospitality. Stopping for some bread in a tiny hamlet shop, we were ushered next door for tea and a generous spread with the family as the shop had run out of bread.

With each checkpoint we became more sympathetic to the Kurdish cause; being rudely treated and, even more frustratingly, asked to unpack the bike in the boiling heat by bored teenage Turkish conscripts made us all the more pro-Kurd. We finally arrived in Hakkari late afternoon (having been chased by armed secret police at the last checkpoint after accidently not noticing them). The infamous Kurdish town, set amid the mountains was indeed a spectacle to behold. What the buildings lacked in charm, the surrounding scenery more than made up for and we were pleased to have finally weaved our way there. Our pleasure was short lived however, when we soon discovered of three hotels in town, one had closed, the other was full bar a single mattress on the floor (cue Matt’s furrowed brow) and one a healthy £20 over our budget. After 40 minutes of negotiation with the full hotel – discussions taking place over Google translate – I reappeared from the darkened alleyway to find Matt and the bike gone. After a brief heart flutter and panicked look around, I was fortunately recognised (one advantage of our conspicuous bike gear) and pointed back up the hill where Matt had gone to investigate the pricey option. To our amazement we discovered a Professor at Exeter University, just flown in from Heathrow, waiting in the lobby. After a quiet discussion with the management, we agreed on a price and took up residence in our new 3 star luxury home. Apparently, we’d not only hit Hakkari on a weekend when most wedding ceremonies take place just before Rammadan (hence the full hotel), but also on the weekend of an International conference on Kurdish Literature – the first of its kind ever to be held in Turkey. Our hotel, it seemed, was to be the centre of the action…

Amongst the guests in the hotel was Ferhad Pirbal, “passeur de reve”, a well known and well respected Iraqi Kurdish writer. With the Professor, Dr Hashem Ahmadzadeh (an Iranian Kurd forced to flee Iran after the 1979 Islamic Revolution), the writer (imprisoned for years under Sadam Hussein), a couple of young idealistic French journalist students, Gaspard and Arthur, we made up the international leg of the conference…  What transpired from our various conversations was Iraqi Kurdistan was a great place to visit, and a place not to miss out on, especially as it was so close! With a mixture of trepidation and excitement we sat down to consider our options and whether we were likely to ever emerge from crossing the border. Assured it was safe, so long as we didn’t stray from the open road – there are a reputed 280 million landmines still buried in the region – and so long as we only visited Duhok, Erbil (Hawler) and Sulimanyah, and stayed away from Mosul, we should be OK.

Taking advantage of the complimentary breakfast, gorging on the enormous plate of honeycomb and stuffing boiled eggs in our pockets for our picnic lunch, we left the mountainous city. We had been invited to three weddings, where we had joined in the dancing, albeit with two left feet on my part, and made to feel incredibly welcome by the conference attendees. All in all the “dangerous” Hakkari had turned out to be a fascinating insight into a Turkish Palestine. With a few more checkpoints along the way, including one where we were invited to take tea by a Kurdish smuggler, amiably sitting opposite the local army commander who bore an uncanny resemblance to Yul Bryner. With great charm the Captain explained he had caught some of his nemesis’ cohorts the previous evening with a van full of cheap Iraqi cigarettes. Such bonhomie amongst such sworn enemies was surprising! We headed off out of the mountains to the dusty border town of Cizre, wedged into the banks of the Tigris.

Cizre was not our best town. Dusty, smelly and cloyingly hot, we spent a restless, dodgy-tummied night running to and fro from the squat loo down the corridor. Pleased to leave in the morning, we crossed that epic river, the Tigris and headed for the border. Leaving Turkey was fairly straightforward; the usual masters in cue barging were present but, clutching our passports, hot and sweaty in black armoured bike gear, I was in no mood to be messed with. Matt, looking hairy, tall, and a little bit strange, proved an adequate bodyguard to the leering truck drivers and we were soon through the queues and out into no man’s land. Behind us were miles and miles of backed up lorries, waiting to cross the border: never have I seen so many trucks on one road. Most seemed to have a bed in the back of the cab for drivers to sleep in over the estimated 5 days it takes to cross.

The Iraqi border was chaotic but surprisingly efficient. Swept up by half a dozen kind men, we were propelled from one cubby hole to another, collecting the right stamps and bits of paper, lastly being led into a rather smart looking air-conditioned office. Our relief at being taken out of the 45+ degree heat was swiftly abated when we were sat down for some questions. A rather stern “why are you here?” followed by our slightly feeble “tourism!” was greeted with smiles and open arms. After being given cups of heavily sweetened & spiced tea, and a brief warning not to go to Baghdad(!), we were sent on our way. At the door, we suddenly remembered our near miss in Macedonia with a false insurance document and responsibility kicked in. We asked where we might find the insurance desk?  The response was somewhat alarming: “Oh no, you don’t need insurance here, you’re in Iraq now!”…

Trabzon was not a happy time for either of us, and our glue wasn’t working. With the added drama of almost losing a treasured camera, it was a moment in the trip we are both happy to forget. Turning away from the Black Sea, the sticky tarmac, and the endless flight from Istanbul, we rode up through tree covered mountains, to the seemingly impossibly perched Greek Orthodox Monastery of the Virgin Mary at Sumela. Founded in Byzantine times, it was only abandoned in 1923 with the formation of the new Turkish Republic. From the outside the monastery looks mysteriously impressive, and it begs the question, how did they ever build it there? Once inside it becomes apparent. Eating in to the mountain behind it is a large cave, which contains the decaying fresco covered church, the monks’ cells being contained by the exterior wall allowing them a spectacular view across the valley. Fed by a diverted mountain stream, it must have been an idyllic retreat.

Leaving the ghosts of monks past behind us, we carried on through the clouds and our first threat of rain since the Balkans to the regional capital, Bayburt. Noted for its impressive fortified walls from Byzantine times, which circle the crown of a hill above town, we sheltered from the growing heat, only to be back on the road early the following morning to Erzurum across the high plateau in more shimmering heat.

Conservative by nature the inhabitants of Erzurum were charming, and we were soon picked up by Murat, a student who wanted to practice his English. Yes, his uncle did own a carpet shop, and after many cups of tea we did buy a rug but felt we got the lowest price possible: apparently the rent or the taxman were due and they were keen for some cash (it was an expensive carpet!)

We headed north to Yusafeli and the Georgian Valley, which is littered with Millennia old Georgian and occasionally Armenian churches, some dating back to the 6^th Century. All were in a decaying state of ruin, but to behold these edifices up narrow winding valleys, where once they commanded huge wealth and status made the condition of these bold symbols of devotion all the more tragic. Some were patched and used as mosques, others had either no roof or gaping holes. Remains of frescoes could be seen. In one, a group of five kids were playing football against the wall where the altar would have been. Apparently active until the 18^th century, there decline has been long, and it is a testament to the builders skill they remain standing still yet.

The Georgian Valley scenery is one of jagged rocky peaks, barren hillsides, and a shadow of a river struggling down a wide bed of pebbles and boulders. The air smells of heat, the same way a sauna does. Occasionally a waft of figs assaults your senses as you pass a lonesome tree, and the juices start rumbling as you remember it was a long time since breakfast!

With a steady climb we began to lose our impressive scenery, and the heat dissipated slightly. As if drawn on a map like Middle Eastern boundaries, we emerged into the high pastureland steppe, which would eventually lead us to Kars. The scene of much bloodshed, struggle and adversity, being won and lost by the Ottomans, the Russians, the Democratic Republic of Armenia, and finally the Turks in the 1920’s, it is the Russians who towards the end of the 19^th century, after much toing and froing, sieges, victories and defeats left their architectural style on the city. We found an hotel with one of the smallest rooms to date, and tripping over our bags, showered and recovered. After a diner of yet another kebab, we took a small stroll through the town, relishing the cool of the evening. Returning to the hotel we met with three young lads who were in Kars on business, and were eager to chat. Trying to remedy the misconceptions they have of the West, concerning several anti-Muslim stories reported in the press regarding teachers and headscarves, and the banning of the headscarf, we bid them goodnight as firm friends. As we were all beginning to stand, they insisted we should not pay the bill for the hotel, as they would like to cover it, and wouldn’t hear otherwise. So it is we have received many kindnesses throughout Turkey, humbling in the generosity of the gift.

We left early the next morning to reach the ancient Armenian capital of Ani for opening time. On arrival the ticket seller said he recognised me from three years ago… Flattering but, ummm, not quite sure! Ani was as spectacular this time as last, possibly more so as I had Flora with me to umm and aaww with. Known as the city of a thousand churches, it was started in 961AD. Home to the Bagratids, Byzantines, Great Seljuks from Persia, The Georgians, and Kurdish emirs it thrived as a trading city on the mystical and legendary Silk Road. Guarded on two sides by a natural ravine with a wide river rushing through, it was deemed impregnable, but the Mongols and Tamerlane and the great earthquake of 1319 left Ani  crumbling.

The road then took us south to Dogubayazit, which I can never get right and opt for calling Doggybiscuit. Dusty, hot, standing in the middle of the arid plain, the new town, which moved from the hills in the 1930’s, has little charm. The spectacular Ishak Pasha Palace, the epitome of a castle from a Thousand and One Nights, is balanced on a small plateau abutting stark cliffs, and overlooks both its new neighbour in the plains and one that was there since the beginning of time – majestic Mount Ararat.

Forever moving, we set off after visiting the palace to Van. Famed for its lake, which is one of the world’s largest Endorheic lakes(having no outlet) and its cats, which have different coloured eyes and the reputation they can swim, we followed the feline tradition and took a secluded dip to wash away the worst of the days heat. Arriving in Van we did the usual trawl for hotels, and found the best of bad batch. With our budget currently running on £42 for two per day, hotel bargaining is the worst part of the day. Petrol at £1.60 per litre is the worst shock, and with Turkey being quite so large, a constant haemorrhage to our funds.

With the heat increasing the further south we go, Flora took her bike trousers to a tailor, who with close instruction still managed to put a zipper in the wrong place, which is meant to act as an air vent. On the first night we managed to strike it lucky with a restaurant, and so returned on the second evening. At the end of dinner the proprietor came over and for forty minutes we had a conversation in Turkish and English, neither side able to speak the others language, using our now perfected charades, signs and other aids. It was an amiable if somewhat peculiar conversation.

We were finally crossing the border into Turkey – gateway to the Mystical East. By some miracle we found our way straight into the tourist heart of Istanbul, Sultanahmet, and started the trawl for an affordable hotel. The first half dozen were all way above our budget, and despair was setting in, as we had hoped to spend at least four days here. I was across the street from Flora doing my level best at bargaining, when I saw frantic gesticulations. She had found a room for an astonishing 100TL for three nights, …‘but you understand, this is a special price just for you. You should pay up front, and please don’t mention it to the other guests.’ What a result. Trebly confirmed independently by us both, we were on a winner. £14 per night for us both with breakfast – surely too good to be true…!

The Istanbul Hustle. On the morning after the second night, Flora went to the reception to enquire about extending our stay for another (fourth) night. Would they be able to carry on the deal? Flora was shocked and I was furious. They wanted the usual room rate of 100TL per night. They had reneged on everything they had said, and denied ever having said any of it. Looking as fierce as possible all togged up in our armoured bike gear, I simply said we weren’t paying, and they should call the police. I was going to war…! As we waited, but packed the bike up ready to leave, so a man arrived and said he was a policeman. When asked for his ID he simply told me to sit down. I asked three times… The real police arrived, we all jumped in the jam sandwich (no lights flashing) and headed to the first of the police stations. No solution, so back to the hotel, where I jumped out, and followed on the bike to the larger police station. Three hours of waiting, and little happening. Eventually, the man who had claimed to be a policeman appeared. Catching the Goliath copper on the doors attention, we asked if this man was indeed a copper. He shook his head, and asked if we had been shown his ID. We said no, although we had asked. (Understand if you will all this is taking place in charades, and general sign-language.) Ahhhhah! The police’s interest was piqued. Things started to happen. We were supplied a translator. This was a very serious allegation.

Sadly for the sake of expediency, we agreed to drop our allegations, if they dropped their call for 100TL for our second night. It’s the perfect hustle. Most tourists would rather pay the £42 (100TL) than spend 5 hours in the police station… but we’re intrepid bikers, not your average tourist, mister! (and besides, 100TL is our daily budget!!)

We left the police station hopeful the police would keep a weather eye on the duplicitous hotelier, and found a good clean hostel bang opposite the Four Seasons Hotel. Within our budget, paid up, and with a receipt to boot we felt much more relaxed! We were not the only bikers in residence. James and Emily, recently married and on an extended honeymoon, had set out to ride London to Singapore. Having only passed her test in November, it was a bold undertaking, and we were duly impressed. Whilst following James down an empty road, a taxi had swung out into the carriageway and knocked her off, resulting in a nasty burn to leg and foot, which was taking its time to heal. Undaunted by this mishap, we learned they were back on the road again after a five week lay-up, heading through the ‘Stans’ to China.

When I was in India I found an old piece of camel hide, which I cut, drew and coloured into a backgammon board, using the off-cuts for counters. Often we take this with us in the evening, and we are frequently asked where we bought it. With this in mind we set off after a long day in the Grand Bazaar to the Leather Souk. The Turks thought us crazy. With the aid of Mert, who had spent a little time partying in Camden Town but returned home to run his father’s shoe shop, he translated our requests to Erol, a Bulgarian Turk and leather distributor. After much hilarity and tea, we waved goodbye to Erol and Mert with two large leather hides under our arms, and our plan to make and sell backgammon boards a little closer to fruition. Think funds, funds, funds…

We tossed a coin and settled on the black sea coastal route, in preference to the more touristy South Western route. The highway, sometimes dual carriageway, often not, with melting tar, which stuck to everything, took us all the way along the cost to Trabzon. Along the way we passed through Safronbolu, home to the best Lokum (Turkish Delight), the pretty coastal town of Amasra, home to one of the (deceased) bad boys of Turkish pop – name forgotten. We camped on the shores of the Black Sea, where we were eaten alive by the mozzies, finally making Trabzon, where on stopping at a traffic light, a car pulled up and pointed to Flora’s camera, which had slipped from her lap, and lay melting on the exhaust pipe.  We found a room in a dodgy hotel, which we were sure was a knocking shop. Things got tense in the morning when it became clear the bike had been shifted during the night. The concierge said he and four others had shifted it, but by the look of the locking chain wrapped through the brake callipers, it was more likely the Saudi car parked up tight to the bike had sent it flying. This became clearer later in the day when I realised the handle bars were out of line. With a fruitless effort at getting the insurance documents from the hotel owner, the police being as equally disinterested as they were in Istanbul we set off for the Sumella Monastery, walled into a cave up the vertical side of a mountain, high in the clouds.

We waved goodbye to the ‘Land of Brigands’ with a mixture of emotions. It had been exciting to see a country still emerging from years of isolation, with an infrastructure still learning to cope with the 21^st Century, and a road network not yet properly established for modern transport requirements. That it takes 4 hours to cover 60miles is deeply frustrating, but then again the opportunity to witness rural life from yesteryear a real privilege. The Albanians had been kind, and generous, if occasionally a little intimidating, and it had been a rich tapestry of experiences to travel through a once forbidden land.

We raced through Greece, due to it being in the Euro zone, and despite its current financial troubles, things were still very expensive. Our only night was nearly spent in a hotel room where the aircon was actually a heater, and the management utterly disinterested that the room temperature was about 50degrees. With little discussion we packed and left and found a cheaper option round the corner, which had the added bonus of breakfast included. It was touch and go though, as we walked out at 11pm, and weren’t sure if we would be in a tent by the side of the road…

We changed our tyres after 8,000 miles before crossing the border into Macedonia (again). Our first stop was in a place called Bitola; on leaving, 20 miles down the road, as we stopped for a bite of lunch, I felt my pocket and realised I had left the passports with the hotel reception. We raced back to find they were packaging them up to deliver them to our next destination, which had been arbitrarily decided on that morning, and could easily have changed. Safely back in pocket off we set again, to view a nearby rock-perched monastery with the now ubiquitous frescoes which so inspired us in Kosovo, though not nearly as impressive.

Late afternoon we arrived at Strumica on the border of Bulgaria. Our hearts sank. Grotty, modern and expensive this was not going to be the place for us. After several failed attempts to find a hotel, and very near to the end of our tether, a man came up to say hello. This is quite a regular occurrence: looking peculiar as we do, as well as foreign, we are open targets for any passersby. We are told about their great-uncle-once-removed who went to Manchester once, or last week’s football result, or how awful English people usually are, or how rich we are in comparison to them. Lots of interesting nuggets of information. Either that or questions: Where are you from? Are you a Tourist? What are you doing? Why are you here? Are you married? How many children do you have? Why not? When? So, you get the gist. We just weren’t in the mood. As fate would have it however, this was just the person we needed. After standing admirably firm and resilient in the face of our filthy mood, Vladimir told us about a small village southeast of the city where we might find something a little cheaper. Off we sped for a further 20 minutes to come to perhaps one of the most interesting villages we’ve stayed in all trip.

Tucked in the lee of the hills was a collection of ramshackle houses. Matt and I gulped as we turned down a narrow lane. It was as if we’d taken a tumble back to the middle ages. Sheep shuffled out from below houses where they were kept under the timber floors, filthy faces peered from behind windows, carts rumbled along the cobbled streets and in the central square, donkeys and cattle had been brought to drink from a large stone trough. Conversely, the other side of the village stood a monstrous, communist built, 200 room hotel. I felt as if we’d walked into a Dali painting, it was so surreal and mismatched. Later, in a small hotel we’d found tucked up the hill, we discovered the village was an ancient spa town, with hot water still gushing liberally from several springs (and still used in the hot tap for most hotels!). Buried and half forgotten round the corner from where we were lay the remains of an old Ottoman hammam, and beautiful sprawling Roman baths. According to our amiable hotelier, Dragi, this area of Macedonia had been the home of Alexander the Great, hence the many blue eyed faces we saw. The fertile valley had also been known during the Yugoslav years as “the garden of Yugoslavia”, providing most of the fresh produce that fed the country.

We awoke after a noisy night of Macedonian wedding celebrations to heavy storm clouds hemmed in by the hills surrounding the valley. We managed to skirt them for so long as we visited two 14^th Century monastery complexes, but once through border control, where we nearly came unstuck due to our somewhat dodgy carte verte insurance document, which shouldn’t have let us into the country, we got monumentally drenched as a welcome to Bulgaria or Bulgaristan, depending on who you’re talking to! After sitting out the storm in a cafe, eating watery soup, and ground mince kebabs, we made for the charming village of Melnik. The history of the town passed us by, but the grandeur of the buildings certainly didn’t. Clearly a popular destination with home-grown tourists, every second house rented rooms, or had a bar, or a restaurant. The nearby monastery of Rozjay could have been reached by bike in ten minutes, but we decided an energetic walk was what we needed to blow away our sedentary cobwebs. In the somewhat hot midday heat we made it to the most beautiful walled complex, with more astonishing frescoes dating to the 14^th century both inside and on the exterior walls of the church. The rooms to the monk’s quarters were timbered, covered with a vine dating back, allegedly, to the beginning of the establishment of the monastery, with the church in the middle of the slightly squiffy triangular layout. Sadly no photographs are permitted inside the building. Having walked there, we now had to walk back. There was a sign cross-country to the village, and we boldly set out to take the short cut. 7 kms to the monastery via the road, it therefore must be quicker going straight, up and over hill and valley?? The surrounding area is made up of a kind of sandy gravel, with sheer sides having been washed away. So we found ourselves at the top of one said hill, with a vertical drop below us and no way down, other than a lengthy backtrack. Determined not to be thwarted, and with another dose of dark grey storm clouds brewing and approaching, we fought our way through thistle and shrub, jumping boulders in a dry river bed, arriving just before the heavy rain.

It was truly like a Famous Five story, stuck up a precipitous cliff with rolling thunder and noisy purple clouds rolling in. Scratched and sweaty, we were greatly relieved to reach the hotel; all minor arguments about which direction to take forgotten in a mist of relief (although I have to say at this point that Matt’s internal compass needs some serious revision).

Ahhhhem!!!

Stopping off at the spectacular Rilski Monastery on our way to Sofia, we were yet again staggered by the scale and richness of the buildings and paintings. Considering ourselves now quite expert on monastery buildings, we were blown away by detail and colour. Clearly used to visitors however, the monks were less than friendly and, with a shop set up in the courtyard, there was a distinctly commercial feel to the place. After stopping off for some “Monastery beans” in the restaurant, we headed on in rather persistent drizzle to Sofia where we discovered we’d arrived the same weekend as a large Metallica heavy metal concert was playing.

All budget accommodation taken, the manager of the hostel moved his office about and we took the bunks in the room; hardly plush, but at least away from the downpour. We strolled the capital by night, and by midmorning were back on the road, direction Plovdiv. Though an ancient city with the heart of it just about preserved, it wasn’t enough to keep us long, other than to buy some cutting edge Bulgarian fashion, not seen on the streets of the UK for twenty years, and for me to have my first aid haircut made into a proper mullet, had it not been for Flora’s watchful eye!

Our Macedonian hotelier had recommended the UNESCO town of Nessebar on the Black Sea coast. Other than a few tumbled ruins, we were unable to work out why it had UNESCO status. Jam-packed with the lowest form of day trippers, and every street rammed with the tattiest of souveniers…

… A little harsh but yes, it was pretty hideous. We hoofed early the next day to the Eastern promise of our next country, Turkey.

With our bones settled and our washing done, and competition for the biggest bike in town coming from three hairy Greeks all riding newer versions of the GS, it was time to shake, rattle and roll and head on out. Permet, an inch away on the map and only 50 odd miles along the twisting yellow secondary roads, should have been an easy blast, but like everything in Albania, it took us the best part of three and a half hours to cover those bouncing, jiggling, bone jarring miles, only to arrive in a fairly uninspiring provincial town.

Sitting in an internet cafe, skyping Gilbert, our contact through a contact, we were surprised to find ourselves speaking to the man behind the counter… Over coffee Gilbert recommended some of the Byzantine churches we could visit in the locality. However the road he suggested was again no more than a donkey track, and this time the loose rock, the gradient, mud, and ruts did for us and we took our first tumble. Unharmed but for a tweaked back on my part, and annoyed we had finally succumbed to the terrain, we beat a hasty retreat to the tarmac town centre road, and headed out of town and towards the highly recommended Gjirocaster, but not before we took a welcoming cooling dip in the turquoise glacial melt river.

The city has the dubious honour of being the birthplace of one Enver Hoxa, late megalomaniac, paranoid, ruthless and seemingly daft dictator. The impressive citadel dates from the 6^th century AD and was still used as grim prison in the middle to late 20^th century to house dissenting politicians and other free thinkers. Now the impressive structure is in a state similar to the roads and needs much TLC. The rest of the town is a wonderful example of Ottoman style architecture, where houses were built to serve a dual purpose of both defence and grandeur.

I had begun to look like the wild man of the woods with hair and beard well past a need to be cut. After a good five minutes chat with a barber, I was confident he understood what a trim meant. I walked out of the door with designer stubble…

…looking like the 4^th member of the Bee Gees. With his now bob length, blonde hair and newly groomed chin, Matt looked liked some ageing seventies pop star. With our hard core bike image lost in translation, we set off on the road again. Down a magnificent valley to the sea, we arrived somewhat startled in Saranda – tourist haven for half the Balkans it seems, with plenty of lobster pink, underdressed bodies on the beach. Horrified, after weeks of donkey tracks, we sped further south towards Butrint and ended up in the peculiar village of Kamsil; a forest of unfinished, falling down concrete new builds. Apart from the ugly buildings, it was a beautiful coastline – a less crowded Corfu – and we smugly settled down to a day on the beach with half an eye across the water, to the more popular and  expensive island.

Matt’s Bee Gee haircut was becoming offensive and we decided something had to be done. The hotel bathroom was cleared in preparation and Matt took his place perched on the loo seat. However, no sooner had I got the first aid scissors out (our only pair), there was an almighty crack. Panic ensued. The seat had cracked and Matt’s bottom was squished down the loo. Luckily for us, our less than friendly Mafiosi hoteliers didn’t hear the crash and, after hoisting Matt from the loo bowl, we were able to hide the evidence in a bin liner and continue furtively with our mission. No more Bee Gees for us.

After an antiquitous feast at the ancient ruins of Butrint, more terrible roads, a puncture and a few more dodgy meals, we were ready for our next country. So it was we found ourselves arriving at another border point scribbling down some basic phrases in an unfamiliar tongue. The Hellenic hills beckoned, as did the gleaming tarmac, a novelty which wasn’t to last long if we were going to maintain our bank balances in this Euro country…

We had been told by many the roads in Albania were dreadful, and that the whole place was still trying to catch up after so many years of seclusion. All I knew about the country was the usual megalomaniac dictator had kept all the cream, and the rest of the population had suffered dreadful privations. It was illegal to own a private car, and you were likely to be imprisoned if you broadcast the wrong opinions, and blood feuds were still prevalent…

Such a reputation made for fearful imaginings.

Crossing from Kosovo to Albania, where the new four lane super highway peeled off through the mountains, made me wonder what all the fuss was about. Surely the 45mile ride to Peshkopi would be a breeze and take no more than an hour at most. I was also confident that petrol would be cheaper in Albania than Kosovo, and was sure I had just enough to make the distance. As we turned off the highway, we were told the petrol station was out of benzin, and the next one was in Peshkopi. My heart began to sink. The asphalt road stopped and turned into a donkey track, but we were reassured by a local we were on the right road. Surely this couldn’t be right. The map showed the road as a secondary road, in fat yellow lines; what lay ahead was no more than a badly maintained farm track. Rutted, loose, bouldery, cut by mini streams, 180 degree dusty hairpins, and us two up, heavy, and none too agile.

What an introduction! As our track took us winding south through steep valleys, following a river far below, we passed through settlements of loosely grouped old stone houses, which in the sunshine looked idyllic, but in the winter must be perishingly cold. On we bounced, and slid, and freewheeled… This was one place I was keen not to run out of petrol!

With legends of dubious morality and Albanian honour killings ringing in my ears, the petrol light firmly on and night rolling in, I began to daydream the newspaper headlines back home: “Foolish Bikers Cross to Brigand Country with no Petrol to be Murdered… etc”. However nothing, not even our jerking pace, could quite distract from the epic landscape. Rural was not the word. These were untouched, voluptuous mountains, scattered with small dwellings – only our shuddering engine disturbed the peace.

Finally, finally. 4 hours, 45 miles, painful bottoms and thoroughly jiggled liver later we arrived in Peshkopi, a small town seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Nervous but exhausted, we spoke to our first Albanians to discover they’re not in fact all murdering brigands. Petrol tank and tummies full we were asleep pretty quickly in the enormous communist built hotel – ready to explore a new country, but not ‘til tomorrow!

Macedonia was just over the hill, and with only a short bumpy ride we crossed our tenth frontier and visited Ohrid, ‘the pearl of Macedonia’ . Actually to be correct it’s the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia, but that depends on which Greek you speak to… We only stayed a night and that was on account of a monstrous thunderstorm which kept us hostage in a lakeside cafe for an hour and a half. With the weather brooding and unsettled we hunkered down and declined the multitude offers for Ohrid Pearls – authenticity dubious!!

We crossed back into Albania, and as we were bowling down a rare tarmac road, we spied a cross high up on a hill. Curious to see such a thing in a country 90% Muslim, we turned off into the village. We were struggling up a steep dirt track, when Mitro appeared in his jogging pants, a singlet and plastic slippers. His English was good, and he offered to show us the church to which the cross belonged, but only after sampling his home made Raki. On the steep climb to the church we were given a lecture in many things, mostly apocryphal, and then on returning downhill, both of us still in bike gear, hot and sweaty, were invited to take some food his mother had prepared for us. Curiosity had the better of us, and we accepted. Whilst the 30 year old Mitro sat with us and expounded on life, lecturing us on British history learned from such pearls as Braveheart, his down-trodden mother ran hither and there getting food and drinks for us. With little to do, our genial hosts kept toasting us with homebrew, and before long the invitation to stay was offered. Once again curiosity got the better of us and I accepted for both of us.

Alcohol, cars and the need to show off are a toxic mix, and before long we wished we hadn’t accepted the offer of hospitality. A night on the tiles listening to a spoilt child expound on what he was planning to do to an ex girlfriend who had snubbed him, and bullying another girl he fancied left us in no doubt this was someone we would rather not be involved with. After breakfast of plastic bread liberally spread with sheep’s butter and sheep’s cheese, and warm sheep’s milk with a spoonful of sugar to drink, we left. Out of sight of the house, and checking we were not being tailed, Flora leapt off the bike to be sick behind a bush on the side of the road!

It was agony. Mitro’s father had carefully watched our every mouthful while sipping his first Raki of the day. As a chef, I like to think of myself open to all flavours, keen to try local organic produce but I’m ashamed to say this culinary treat had me undone. All that sheep, presented alongside the faint acrid smell of goat, proved too much for my delicate stomach and I wretched dismally for the next 10 miles (while keeping a watchful eye on the horizon and any Mitro mafia shaped vehicles following us). Keen to stay off the beaten track, we headed for yet another rocky road that took us down the most staggering gorge. We jiggled and shook for another 6 hours. Exhausted and hungry, a low moment came when two enormous army men perched on one whining scooter shot past, leaving us for dust. Matt felt emasculated, I felt disheartened and (despite our yummy breakfast) we realised that blood sugar was worryingly low. It was time to take emergency measures: out came our wrinkled Swedish ration pack (ref. Kosovo post). After a fretful 10 minutes of sifting in order to establish what was edible and what was not, we tucked heartily into stale digestives and unpronounceable energy bars. Thanks to the Swedish Army, we were able to continue our journey refuelled.

A night in Elbasan passed in a haze of exhaustion. The impressive old Christian city walls almost tempted us to a day of exploration but, with bags laden with dirty laundry, we were keen to get to our next stop. Another jiggley journey. Another 6 hours (the sparkling tarmac at the boarder now a distant misty dream) and we finally arrived in Berat, old Ottoman town. The beautiful houses perched either side of the river were extraordinary, the ancient Christian fort on top of the hill staggering but, most exciting of all: we found a washing machine in our hotel. Clean clothes, clean hair and 2 whole days off the road… Not even a tiny jiggle.

Tearing ourselves away from the wooded slopes of verdant Montenegro, winding up perilous roads over mountain passes, through logging villages and alpine passes, our road began to descend, our ears began to pop, and the flat patchwork plain of Kosovo spread out below us.

Our first stop was Pec, Pesh, Peja (the ‘j’ being a ‘y’). The variety of names for this town was confusing and depended on who you spoke to – Serb or Albanian Kosovar. Although the conflict is officially over, there are a plethora of K4 NATO troops still in the country. Groups of them guard individual monasteries from attacks by Albanians and Serbs alike – Kosovo is 90% ethnic Albanian, which is itself 90% Muslim. The Serbs don’t recognise the new found independence, and the home of the Serbian Orthodox Church is to be found in the monastery at Decani (pronounced Dechani) so problems abound on all sides!

To gain entry to the monasteries ID was required, which we found out for the first time after having walked 40minutes to the outside of town. Although obliging, the Italian K4 troops were not to be budged. To get past the razor wire and armed sentries we would have to follow protocol.

Returning with passports in pocket, we were awed by what we found.

Luscious frescoes, staggering icons and beautiful inscriptions covered every surface, from the walls and pillars to ceiling and arches. That such exquisite colours and detailed descriptions have survived over eight hundred years in such a war torn country can be nothing short of a miracle (or so the monks maintain). According to history books, the church was even recognised under Muslim Ottoman rule- the Turks paid Albanian soldiers to protect the precious frescoes. The only damage we could see was on the lowest layer of paintings were the eyes of each figure had been chipped out. This could have been vandalism by the Albanian soldiers or women from the village grinding the eyes into powder to drink as a fertility potion.

Back on the roads (which are surprisingly good) and away from the tranquil guarded beauty of the monastery, we set off for the busy capital city of Pristina and a friend of a friend who’d offered us a bed for the night. En route, war damage became more obvious and heading north via Mitrovice, where a kind of stalemate between Serb and Kosovan has been reached, was somewhat shocking. A river divides the town; on one side the Serbs live and on the other, the Kosovans. There are abandoned, burnt out houses on either side and most of the cars have no number plate: a Kosovan registration plate isn’t recognised on the north side of the river, and cars carrying one are often made a target if they cross.

For me the country was reminiscent of Croatia and Bosnia 5 years previously, where the war damage was as equally evident. Seemingly little has changed in this war torn region, where sectarian divide is brutally palpable. Once friends under the firm rule of law, bitterest and most brutal of enemies when it breaks down. Friend and neighbour pitted against each other to extremes of malice and viciousness. Things seem to be getting better, slowly, but like a simmering kettle, its only just below the boil…

Our host in Pristina was involved in the Intelligence department, and assured us all was well, but travelling in the north of the country, Mitrovica in particular, made it clear where we were. Our French host was most generous, and as we have found time and again on this adventure, generous to a fault. Not only did he give us a bed for the night, but took us out to an excellent restaurant. The next day, outside Pristina we visited another monastery, and though beautiful I feel as if we have seen the pearl of them all in Decani. This one was guarded by the Swedish K4 troops, and the gate guard, friendly, broad-shouldered and youthful with his clean-shaven round face was most accommodating. He suggested we leave our heavy coats and helmets in the guard hut, and then called up one of the other soldiers who showed us around the interior of the monastery. Describing daily life he said the nuns had a habit of charging one. Typically my mind jumped to financial charging, but he was describing a couple of the nuns who charged at you with large sticks. As we left so the friendly sentry gave us two ration packs, with the soon to be remembered phrase, you never know when they may come in handy!

From Pristina to Prizren via the Kosovan tourist hotspot Gadime Caves. Discovered by an elderly villager when digging his garden, these impressive caves reach far into the earth. We were fortunate to be given a personal guided tour by the charming but incomprehensible youth on the door. His grasp of English seemed to consist of three rather unlikely and complicated words: stalactite, stalagmite and Shakespeare (one of the rocks we were shown was said to be in the shape of Romeo and Juliet kissing). We were thrilled but a little concerned when, at the end of the tour, we were each handed a piece of rock broken off from one of the afore mentioned stalactites. Let’s hope tourism doesn’t take off with too much speed in Kosovo, otherwise there may be nothing left to show for the prehistoric caves at Gadime. Not only that but our charming guide’s entire knowledge of English could be rendered useless.

The road to Prizren was winding and picturesque, through wooded, steep hillsides. We passed the large German K4 compound, and drove through and round the town. Not a hotel to be seen; tempers beginning to fray; no guide book, no city plan. A man on a bicycle appeared and in broken English offered help. Racing off on his ancient, gearless bicycle, and us following sedately behind, we were shown to an hotel. At €40 per night we declined. Benyamin, our genial cyclist, racked is sweaty brains, but unable to think of anything, bid us farewell. Just as we swung back onto the main drag he reappeared, beckoning us to follow before speeding off. 300 yards later we were shown into another place. Waving him off and not expecting to see him again, we were somewhat surprised when he hailed us as we rounded a corner the following day. Coffee with his mother and wife at the communal family home lead to four hours of personal guide. Despite our very British subtle hints, we couldn’t shake him off, and only after paying for coffee – a deadly sin if you’re if invited by an Albanian – were we able to bid him a final farewell. Leaving Prizren, we headed for more uncertainty as we crossed the Kosovan / Albanian border into bigger mountains, and horrendous roads.

With no cabins available, we passed a fitful night on our sheepskin ground-mats and the seats of the Pullman chairs, which all the Tunisians rip off the seats to act as mattresses, and which we copied. Bleary eyed and disappointed our planed route was in tatters we watched as the cliffs of Palermo hove into view, and the pitched roofs and Church domes comforted our weary soles.

Eager not to hang around in the Euro zone for any longer than we had to we set off for Messina and the next ferry across to the mainland. It was sad to be missing out on Sicily, with its peaks and rugged interior. The road north east was spectacular; more tunnel than open road, we passed under mountains and over valleys on a suspended black ribbon of perfection, with minimal damage to the local environment as possible. What a shame the British government won’t follow this example, and still insist on cutting huge clefts through our precious chalk downs.

We reached Messina, had one of the best sandwiches ever, and found ourselves on our eighth ferry. Soon we were twisting up into the hills, as the main highway was closed for repair. With dusk beginning to settle, our nerves somewhat frayed, our eyelids beginning to droop we hit reality with a wallop and a discounted hotel room at €40. Boy was this visit to Italy gonna have to be swift…

Whizzing along the cliffs and then up the motorway to Bari on the east coast, as if rubbing salt into the wound, we were suddenly hit by a gargantuan stormy rain cloud. With another night on another ferry ahead of us we weren’t keen to get wet. So, balanced carefully on the central reservation of the motorway we both stripped to our knickers – much to the amusement and tooting of passing Italian traffic – and popped our waterproof liners on. Finally screeching into Bari, we managed to buy a ticket at the desk with none of the same charade as Tunisia, gulped a final pizza and boarded the rather miserable, dimly lit boat.

As rowdy youths settled in for a night at the bar, and girls in tight short skirts appeared, my imagination ran riot. After the stifling modesty of North Africa, I felt unprepared for what Eastern Europe might bring…

Our luck certainly changed on landing at Bar, Montenegro. Friends of Flora’s, notified by an ever concerned mother, has tipped the wink to their Montenegrin housekeeper, and within an hour of disembarking we found ourselves ensconced in a fabulous villa, with spectacular views, a swimming pool and a washing machine! What luxury was this?? Many thanks to the Monkton family.

Using the villa as a base we explored the coastline, and ventured into the tree bedecked mountains. On one morning, looking for the small winding back road to the double bay of Kotor, we found ourselves ten miles down a West Country style narrow lane, where it just came to an end above a village. Only just managing a U-turn we then took another ‘wrong turn’, and began to follow a dirt road. Occasional glimpses through the trees, as we climbed higher up the track, showed a cross. Then to our delight the gates of a monastery appeared, and we drove in as if approaching a border crossing. The locals had blown the place up when it had been sold to the Austro-Hungarians in the 1860;’s but there was a very special church at the site which had not been damaged, and so four monks were slowly setting about repairing the complex. They made candles for the faithful to light in Orthodox churches and sold them widely, and relied on donations from the devout. The monastery clung to the mountain side, shrouded in cloud, as if knocking on Heaven’s gate.

As we dismounted a shrouded medieval figure loomed through a doorway; a long straggly black beard and pony tail topped heavy black robes. We were shown into the exquisite little stone church with a barrel ceiling and left alone with the glowing icons. Mystified and hushed we walked out again to be greeted by Vladimir, a Serb and distinctly modern man in amongst this time capsule. With 4 others, he helped the monks make candles and spoke a little English. He explained the life he’d had before coming to the monastery had been filled with “things you see in films” and that now he was much happier.

We were offered their home brew raki but declined in favour of a tamer coffee, as we had the dirt track to negotiate downhill. He invited us back for the Ascension Day celebrations on Sunday, something not to be missed we were told, and we pottered back down the track.

Abandoning the back route to Kotor, we hit the road to Cetinje, the old capital city where we were swept into a pub by welcoming locals. Less able to decline offers of home brewed raki since it was (we later discovered) Independence Day, we spent a dizzying afternoon putting the world to rights with our new found friends. Not quite the cultural day of museums we’d planned but, we decided, just as enlightening.

Only a little worse for wear, having declined more drinks than accepted, we set off for a quite night in and a home-cooked supper of fresh vegetables, which had been sorely missing in our diet, and for which we were longing. Endless nights in endless restaurants make you realise the the luxury of homecooked food.

The following day we took the main road to Kotor. Perched at the end of a double bay this medieval walled town lies guarded by an impossibly perched fortress, the walls of which rise vertically above it. Having climbed the vertiginous steps to the pinnacle the ruined stronghold balances atop the mountain, showing the evidence of armies from the 11th to 20th centuries.

This part of Montenegro, occupied by Venetians, Italians and Ottomans bears all the hall marks of ancient fortified towns, many still in excellent repair. Also in the Bay of Kotor was Perast, another sublime Medieval / Venetian town, hugging the edge of the bay, and opposite two 14th Century churches apparently floating in the middle of the bay. It had once been a rich and important town, with 30 trading ships, and an important timber export industry.

We could go on about beautiful Montenegro for a while: Lake Skada with its epic scenery and quiet vineyards, feast day celebrations at the monastery, turquoise sea, white boulders and the nudist beach. All enhanced by the great luxury of having a house to ourselves + washing machine! We must have been the cleanest people around, relishing our crisp sunshine dried laundry! Many many thanks to the Monkton family for their generosity.

Tearing ourselves away from our new found home, we hit the road again this time heading north for the Kosovan boarder. A good few days in one place had allowed us to get our maps out and plot the next leg of the journey. Curious about the “newest country in Europe” and lured by the foreboding FCO website description we decided to give the boarder a go. If it all looked too hairy we could always turn back, right?!…

We were almost the first at the embassy the following morning, and duly shown the waiting room. Clearly this was going to try our fast disappearing patience. Every obstacle was put in our way, and despite speaking to a couple of people who clearly held a little sway, we told the reference numbers we had would not be recognised, and we would have to reapply – another ten day process. It seems if you stand up to the bullshit proffered, and raise you voice a little they tend to react. We got further than we expected, being invited into the office of a couple of apparatchiks, but despite all our efforts they were not going to roll over and the thought of another ten days of maybe maybe were too much. We mooched back to Sylvia’s sanctuary, packed our freshly washed cloths, and headed to La Goulette and the ferry terminal.

Bad tempered and feeling hardcore we decided not to leave anything to chance and, after buying a couple of boiled eggs from a street seller for our picnic, we pitched camp outside the closed ticket office. Two and a half hours and numb bottom cheeks later we were glad of our prime position. Around 40 fearsome men had also gathered outside the ticket office, pressing closer and closer until some were almost lying prostate over my lap. Clearly last minute tickets were somewhat sought after. I waved my helmet wildly around to fight off the braying (and increasingly rowdy) crowd while Matt stood tall in his padded bike kit. We weren’t letting anyone past. The ticket man arrived, a punch up commenced but we stood firm and managed to procure two foot passenger tickets sans cabin, and a bike pass. The road to Sicily and the Balkans was set.

We stayed so long we became part of the furniture. Greeted daily by shop keepers and cafe owners we feel truly absorbed into island life by the 3rd day: from the milewi (Arabic bread) man to the rather frighteningly hard looking ex-jazz musician in the bar, we felt bosom buddies with most of the island. We chatted to the lovelorn men in coffee shops, eccentric guardians in abandoned Roman ruins. It was enlightening, if a little claustrophobic. Apparently the population of the island rises ten fold in summer time when tourists descend. According to our friendly hotelier, Raed, the British government had an agreement with the Hotel Grand in the west of Kerkennah by which English women of “un certain age” could come and find Tunisian husbands (of a somewhat lesser age).

Kerkennah was idyllic in so many ways; dusty streets lined with rusting, much used, ancient two-stroke peddle-start scooters; men in dated pinstriped suits looking colonially out of place; the blissful silence interrupted by the farcical bray of the ever complaining donkey about the drudgery of life; scrawny cats slinking past doorways taking cover from passersby and chewing on carelessly discarded scraps of food; the unhurried pace of life, making do, getting on… It would have been too easy to have stayed and stayed, but leaving the sex tourism and the idyllic turquoise sea and sandy beaches behind we once more took the ferry, muddling in amongst all sorts of other curious passengers and their vehicles.

We had decided to do a week’s whistle stop tour of the south by way of the Star Wars film set village and the Saharan dunes with camels, salt flats and sun, heat, more sun, and then a bit more. The road south of Matmata, where you are never far away from something reminding you Hollywood was once here, was hot and dusty, and something we soon got used to. The further south we went the more expensive the water became, tripling in cost. Matmata sits about 100 miles inland; there is a neighbouring village called Toujane, 30 miles down a twisting, shimmering road. We stopped to enquire about accommodation in an “auberge”. We eventually declined the offer of an Arabic futon, and having to cross the road to use the family bathroom for all ablutions’ in favour of a troglodyte hotel room where we met a Dutch/Czech couple.

It was great to chat to people other than each other, and we wiled away a good hour perched in our troglodyte dwelling chatting beneath the stars. On their recommendation we set off the next day for the oasis town of Ksar Ghilane. As the ground flattened, the plants disappeared and heat rose several degrees, we realised we were entering the desert Proper. Despite our topped up water supplies we felt a trickle of concern at the unrelenting emptiness of the wind whipped bakingly hot road. Not a place to break down we realised after passing a second donkey skeleton. Reaching green palms and human life was greatly comforting and, clambering off the sweltering bike into the warm murky springs, heaven sent. After soaking away the hardcore drive we returned to base camp and met Mohammed, our Saharan guide, and two camels ready to take us into the dunes…

Whilst the hot springs in the oasis were deeply relaxing after the seemingly relentless drive through drifting sands, how clean the spring water was didn’t bare asking. It was noticeable the locals were not to be found in them…

Mohammed was delightful. Sadly not on his own camel, our caravan was somewhat small with only the two beasts. I was somewhat put out to be shown the smaller and rear camel, but in retrospect it was as well Flora had the larger leading camel. She has now been sitting on the back, my big head for a view for too long, and now I began to see how the other side was. We set off into the desert at 6pm, the worst heat of the day beginning to dissipate, Mohammed leading the way on foot. Getting on was a minor feat as first up went the back feet and then jerkily the front, nearly unseating me. I found the large round squelchy front feet of the camel fascinating as it plodded along, over scrub bush and dune alike, and the rhythm of the camel easy to slip into. All too soon we made camp hugging the side of a dune, and following Mohammed off into the dunes to find brush to make our campfire with.

Expecting perhaps a readymade tent to welcome us, we were a little surprised but delighted to discover it was just going to be the three of us out in the open. After setting up a fire and laying down a few rugs we quickly felt settled into our new windswept base. However, as dusk fell, and I’d finished chopping vegetables for our stew, Mohammed began to look concerned. The wind wasn’t abating and the sand was whipping our faces. He ran up a hill and did lots of Saharan native things: throwing sand in the air while looking intently into the distance. Matt and I fidgeted below, mystified, entranced and a little concerned.

Eventually he rejoined us and told us to move the camp to behind a different knoll (now fluent in all Tunisian sign language we had no trouble quickly interpreting these instructions). With all the urgency of city dwellers in the wild, we hastily moved the blankets and camel saddles to our new spot while Mohammed magicked a new fire. Now properly dark, we lent him a head torch to wrap around his turban in order to finish the cooking. In about 5 seconds he produced a beautiful dough from the flour in a camel sack and then, spreading the fire out so only glowing embers remained, threw it onto the hot sand. Somehow, 10 minutes later a delicious, heavy (rather sandy it has to be said) flat bread was presented to us along with bubbling spiced vegetable stew. A carpet of stars appeared and, as we leaned back against the wooden camel saddles, Mohammed got out a tamtam drum and began to sing plaintive desert songs about love, and camels.

Shooting stars and racing satellites, plaintive Arabic love songs and being in the middle of a Saharan sandstorm made for a truly memorable and wonderfully romantic foray into the desert proper. In the morning, clearing sand from our ears, mouths, noses, and sleeping bags, we set off with Mohammed to find father and son camels. The son clearly hadn’t been up for a wild night and was found quickly. Father camel had been off visiting one of his desert ladies and it required a phone call from Mo to one of his desert buddies to retrieve the recalcitrant beast. We took a last dip in the hot springs before leaving the oasis in the full heat of the day. With the nights’ storm having dumped a little more sand, poor Flora had to walk a good 100 metres in full bike gear and blistering heat whilst I struggled to get the bike through the deep sand. Once through it, we hit the road, and were soon battling with another horizontal lashing of fine, painfull, invasive sand. We managed to outrun it, and stopping in a nameless dusty town for a late lunch, made for Tozeur across the dizzyingly flat and endlessly blank Chott El Jerid salt flats: not a living thing is to be seen, the shimmering haze making us see things which weren’t really there, we felt as if we might be experiencing an hallucinogenic trip…