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I have a healthy respect for mountains and the Pamir Highway being the second-highest road in the world with several passes over 4,000 mt (13,000ft), the highest standing at a serious 4,655mt (15,272ft),  deserved all my respect.  I had never planned to cycle in the Pamir on my own but circumstances meant I ended up doing it solo,  something I wasn’t fully happy about. 

The Persians called the Pamir “the roof of the world”. The highest peaks in the world are in the Himalayas but the Pamirs are the main orographic crux in Asia from which the highest ranges in the world radiate: the Hindu Kush to the northwest, the Tien Shan system to lhe northeast, the Karakorum and Himalaya ranges to the southeast.

In its full length,  the Highway goes from Osh, Kyrgyzstan and traverses the whole of Tajikistan to end in Mazar-i-Sharif, Afghanistan.  I cycled it from Dushanbe to Osh via the Northern route to Kala-i-Khumb and the Wakham Valley. 

I stayed in Dushanbe a few days.  I really needed a rest after Uzbekistan. Vero,  a Warmshowers member,  provided the oasis of peace I desperately needed and a community of cyclists to  share stories,  tips,  meals…  I found myself feeling delighted having a little family for a few days but missing my loved ones even more.

Vero is one of the organisers of the Dushanbe Critical Mass and it felt really fitting to attend the event and get back on the road after it finished. It felt good being back on the bike and being with Edmund,  one of the cyclists I met at Vero’s. We followed a beautiful fertile valley,  the road edged by herbs and wild flowers.  We had a taster of storms,  the powerful wind of the region,  sadly headwind,  and the huge landslides that regularly block the road.

The road surface was pretty bad.   Carved in the side of the mountain, it followed a narrow  canyon with a very noisy,  chocolate coloured river forever present.  Clusters of rhubarb sellers sat by the side of the road and children came running to my encounter in villages trying to sell me freshly picked mulberries. I overtook shepherds  taking their flocks to the higher pastures,  donkeys loaded with all their belongings.

After a police checkpoint, in the golden light of the evening,  I crossed and iron bridge and the road got even worse and  narrower.  Excitement grew inside me,  a feeling I was entering a remote world. Me,  Blanca, was in the Pamir Highway!

Over the next couple of days I had to ford rivers where the road had totally dissappeared; each time I had to take all the luggage of my bike and do several trips  until everything was on the other side.  Those times I wished I was bigger and stronger or with someone else,  life would have been easier then. I also had to stop regularly to rest,  each time I told myself it was a good thing as it gave me the opportunity to look around. With the bad state of the road,  it was too dangerous to cycle and look.

In the Northern route to Kala-i-Khumb I encountered my first high pass 3,252 Mt,  the Saghirdasht pass. I was really nervous about it,  what would feel  like with my heavy bike? I camped in the last village before the pass to give myself a whole day to cross it.  The whole village knew I was there.  Soon I was surrounded by women and children,  someone brought me bread an creamy yoghurt and someone else invited me to go to their house. I declined the offer,  somehow I didn’t have the energy to be social.  I needed my all for the cycling.

The following day,  as I was leaving the village,  a really old man bent over his cane offered me tea, his generosity moved me.  As I joined the “main” road tears were prickling  my eyes.  Once more I felt immensely lucky.

After some serious pushing amidst thunder echoing in the adjoining valleys I reached my first high pass.  I had made it! The descent wasn’t easy but the landscape was stunning and by late afternoon I reached Kala-i-Khumb and rejoined the M41 that would take me to Khorog where I would leave it again to follow the WakhamValley.

Just after Kala-i-Khumb I had the chance to visit the Afghan Market. Tajiks and Afghans were busy trading,  I wandered around the market soaking up the atmosphere and I closed my eyes to listen to the hubbub of shoppers and sellers.  With my eyes closed I felt I could be back in one of the London markets on a Saturday morning.

The road went through villages and in each one of them hords of children came running to say hullo,  asking  my name,  demanding a high five and standing in front of my path as they did so.  I found myself getting really crossed with them in a totally irrational way and thinking:  “it’s the kids and not the lorries,  the landslides or the bad roads that were the real hazards!” I just wanted to be left alone with my cycling!!!

In this section of the road there were lots of big Chinese lorries  pulling big trailers.  They arrived in caravans of 3 or 4 and you heard them getting close enveloped in huge clouds of dust.  The road is so narrow that it’s necessary to stop and let them pass,  there is not enough room for them and a bike. For a moment the world dissappeared in dust,  only to appear again in its full glory,  mountains,  the river and Afghanistan just a few metres away on the other side.

In this section too I had some wonderful encounters: The lorry driver that gave me some apricots that were pure nectar; Lluis and Jenn walking from Bangkok to Barcelona with whom I shared precious exchanges by the side if the road; Sabir,  a Pamiri de-miner working to get rid of the landmines that litter the countryside in this part of the country who told me his dreams and hopes;  three little children that were my friends for the afternoon and Edmund whom I thought I wouldn’t see again.

The road was incredibly beautiful and continued next to the river with its ups and downs,  the sound of the water echoing of the walls of the canyon,  all the way to Khorog. I cycled and pushed and just before Khorog I faced some fierce headwind but I was determined to get to the village which held the promise of a shower and an Indian restaurant.

After 4 days in Khorog and 4 curries it was time to enjoy the Wakham Valley.  I remembered looking at the map at home in London thinking how close that was to Afghanistan and wondering how safe it would be and now here I was.

Afghanistan was closer than ever.  I followed the beautiful Valley, huge bushes of   pink and white dog roses everywhere. A football match in progress in a village in the Tajik side and a few hundred metres ahead another football match in the Afghan side reminded me that we are not that different after all.

When at a turn of the road I saw very big, snowy mountains I felt the excitement grow inside me.  Opening my eyes to them in the morning to them was pure joy.  I love mountains.

The views got more dramatic – mountains,  deep canyons and valleys,  Pamiri villages with their square houses and water running everywhere,  shrine like places full of horns of animals,  iron rich water springs dying the soil red.  I gloated on it all and eventually got to Langar from where I turned North to rejoin the M41.

A high pass was between me an the M41.  At 4,344 mt,  the Khargush pass was the highest I had climbed in this trip. The road was worse than ever,  washboards and sand mixed with gravel made me have to push quite a lot.  I camped just below the Khargush pass,  more awe inspiring views in a bleak kind of way.  The pass,  however,  was a bit of a non event.  I only realised I had gone through it when the road kept on going down.  It really felt very remote inside a deep,  very hot canyon like valley.  I went down and down,  having to get off my bike every now and again because of the sand and the washboards. Eventually I made it to the asphalt road and I thought I was flying when I reached the settlement of Alichur.

From there to Murghab was a great ride in an asphalt road with tailwind.  It was such a relief to be able to get some sort of rhythm in the cycling and to met quite a few cyclists,  the highlight being a group of four women going in the opposite direction. They gave me a real burst of energy. Smiling,  I was more able to enjoy the astonishing landscape with incredible rock formations,  mountains,  side valleys.  I was in awe most of the day.

In Murghab I had a lovely surprise,  not only I met with Marko, a cyclist from Slovenia that I had met a couple of times earlier but also saw Tina and Serban,  and Marc and Fabrece some Swiss cyclists that I had first met in Khorog.  It  was a great reunion. Beers were had and stories exchanged. Amazing how close one feels to people quickly in these far away lands. And the biggest surprise of all was meeting James whom I had met in the UK at the first Cycle Touring Festival, incredible to meet again in the middle of nowhere.  I was very moved by the meeting.

I then had a day off the bike being a tourist on a 4×4 with Marko. We stopped at salt lakes infested with mosquitos, at yurts where we were offered yak cream and yoghurt,  at remote villages in the border with China,  at the highest (in elevation) sand dunes in the world…

The next leg of the trip was to the Kyrgyzstan border via the lake Karakul and the highest pass of the Highway,  Akbaital pass at 4,655 mt. And slowly, very slowly I climbed to the pass enjoying the extraordinary colours in the mountains around me. The change of scenery the other side of the pass was amazing.  A truly lunar landscape greeted me as well as a ferocious headwind. I had  had headwind since Murghab but now it was so strong that I had to put my waterproof on because I felt really cold.

Going down needed all my concentration,  again gravel and washboards.  I stopped regularly to look at this wide valley with nothing,  nothing but bare mountains and some abandoned buildings here and there. And then I saw lake Karakul,  impossibly blue.  A  note of bright colour in the middle of this monochrome world.  If I hadn’t seen it myself and someone had show me a photo I would have said that it was photoshopped.

In Karakul I stayed in a nice and basic homestay.  A bucket of warm water provided a blissful shower and a steamy bowl of soup a welcome change from the instant noodles that had been my camping diet.

Suddenly,  Kyrgyzstan wasn’t far away.  Only two more mountain passes away.  Altogether I would have crossed 6 to get there from Dushanbe  (4 over 4000 mt).

The Kyrgyz side was once more populated. Yurts dotted the land at the foot of huge 7000+mt peaks.

In Sary Tash it was lovely to meet again with my 4 Swiss friends with whom I continued all the way to Osh always accompanied by headwind!  

The Pamir Highway required all  my energy. It’s one of the hardest things I’ve done in my life.  At the end of it I felt exhausted physically and emotionally. I am sure that when I’m rested and I look back at the 1,374 km I rode between Dushanbe and Osh,  at the raw beauty of the landscapes I went through; when I think about the kindness of the Pamiri people and the smiles of their children,  I will know how much the experience has enriched me but right this second a siesta is what is called for!

Continue reading Central Asia – feeling challenged in Uzbekistan

Iran, a land that conjures up images of Arabian Nights (las Mil y una Noches), deserts, blue tiled mosques, narrow alleys, ancient history, Silk Road caravans and also images of war,  mullahs, death penalty, compulsory use of the hijab, women as second class citizens, censorship…I have been here for over a month and a half and have fallen in love with the place.

When I crossed the border from Armenia into Iran the landscape changed instantly.  From the dramatic mountains, I entered a desert where fruit trees flowered in a thin strip of cultivated land. I mused about how much man can change a landscape, here was a piece of desert transformed into an orchard.

I thought I had left the cold behind but some unseasonable storms brought in a lot of snow and an enforced stop. It was a lucky stop as I met Jai Lun, a young man from Taiwan with whom I cycled for a few days. It was pretty wonderful to have company, someone to share food with, someone to decide where to pitch the tents at the end of the day and talk about the events on the road, the villages we had been to and the people we had met, and someone with whom to plan the next day. It gave me a glimpse of what must be like to cycle in company and I was sad to part ways with him.

It was an interesting experience being with a man in Iran though as I observed how suddenly I became invisible and people addressed themselves to him and not me.

Tabriz was the first big city I visited. The town was busy getting ready for Nowruz, the Iranian New Year. The bazaar, one of the most important commercial centres of the  Silk Road was teeming with people busy buying gifts for friends and family. It was the first time that I saw large numbers of women wrapped up in chadors, the black cloaks some Iranian women wear in public. Chadors dont have any buttons so women need to hold them with their hands and a lot of them put a corner in their mouths to stop them from falling off. Looking at them I thought about how restricted their movement must be,  constantly having to worry about them staying in place. I must say that it wasn’t a sight I relished. 

Iranians roads were busy with families travelling  the width and length of the country visiting elders and other relatives as part of the Nowruz celebrations. When drivers got tired they just erected tents by the side of the road and in city parks (it is legal to camp in public parks in Iran), shoes in neat rows outside the tents.  Groups of people were having picnics everywhere. Seeing so many people camping out made me feel instantly safe.

Iran is full of wonders: Magic bazaars, Zanjan with its wonderful brick work, Shiraz a real maze with caravansarais, mosques and bath houses within it. The blue Soltaniyeh dome, one of the largest brick domes in the world, standing 49 mts tall. The beautiful city of Isfahan that captivated me with its beautiful mosques covered in ceramic tiles, its monumental bridges over the river, its decorated Armenian church and its palaces and gardens. And special Shiraz with shrines of saints and mausoleums of poets.

It has been wonderful being in this country, eating in small roadside cafes and spending time with people. People from all walks of life have open the door of their homes  to me.  A young photographer and a older Armenian couple in Tehran,  a carpet weaver  in  Gishi,  a shopkeeper/marathon runner in Marand, a mountaineer in Hasthguerd, an environmental activist in Qazvin, an artist in Zanjan, cyclists in Isfahan, a Zoroastrian couple in Yasd…To many to mention them all here although I carry each of them in my heart.

And each time I felt  utterly privileged to sit with them on the carpet around a spread of delicious food: yoghurt, breads, fruits, nuts,  pastries,  salad,  yoghurt drink and of course gorme sabzi,  a delicious home made lamb stew.

And in the morning,  after sleeping on the same carpet,  I  enjoyed flat bread covered in sesame seeds with cream and honey whilst having conversations about hopes for the future of Iran and of their children before saying goodbye with warm embraces.

The ride across the desert between Isfahan and Yasd was memorable. It was after I left the carpet weaver in Gishi that I reached the small town of Varzaneh, an agricultural oasis in the middle of the desert. The need of fertiliser for the crops gave rise to the building of dove houses where thousands and thousands of pigeons lived, their droppings a precious source of food for the arid ground.

From Varnazeh I reached the desert dunes, some of the highest of Iran where I camped for the night. After pushing the bike in the sand for what felt like hours, I chose a spot surrounded by high dunes. As I was setting camp a strong wind made it really difficult to pitch the tent but I eventually succeeded. Then as it by magic, the wind stop and the desert was silent and peaceful in the sunset. I climbed a nearby dune, the sand hot underfoot. A beautiful sight welcomed me: sand dunes as far as I could see, glowing golden in the evening light. Sitting up there, alone in the middle of the quiet desert I lost track of time and it was only when night fell and I felt a shiver that I made my way back to the tent and into my sleeping bag.

In the middle of the night, I felt the tent shake and heard a mighty noise around me and what seemed to be rain hitting the tent. I was glad that I had secured it with some heavy rocks. As I lay awake in the tent I realised that I was in the middle of a sandstorm. I thought of my bike getting sand everywhere and the harm that that would do to it, but there was nothing I could do about it, I just had to sit tight and wait for it to pass. Eventually it did and the desert felt silent again.

I got up before sunrise, the desert was beautiful without a drop of wind. My footprints from the day before had disappeared and had been replaced by perfect ripples in the sand. Sand had got everywhere in my bike and I spent hours cleaning it to avoid damage to its components.

I left the dunes to cycle across more desert in search of the abandoned caravanserai  were I was hoping to spend the night. For hours I cycled in an unpaved road with nothing but desert either side of me. As I was going along I was thinking about all those caravans that centuries before me had been on this very track, how they would look at hills and mountains as reference points to help them find the refuge of the caravanserai and how as a modern traveller I was also seeking its refuge. I went pass a hill in the middle of the desert, incongruous in this flat land, the space around it littered with black rocks from its decomposing slopes. It was hot and I cycled for hours with nothing but desert around me.  Every now and again I saw camels wondering around.

Around 4 o’clock a strong wind started making it impossible for me to cycle. I walked for a couple of hours but at one point I knew I couldn’t carry on, I was knackered. After a while I found a spot by the side of the road with some piles of gravel and decided to camp there as the gravel would afford some protection against the fierce wind. It was then that I saw a cloud of dust in the horizon, a truck, the first one for hours, was approaching. There and then I decided to hitch a lift to the caravansarai. The truck stopped and the drivers helped me to pile everything inside the cabin. It took me quite a few attempts to convince them that I would be OK in the caravansarai as they were really concerned about my safety. Finally they agreed to take me there. The first sight of it in the light of the evening was of pure happiness, the same one travellers for centuries before me must have felt: I had arrived at Khargushi Caravansarai!

The caravansarai had everything I needed, water in a well in the centre of its courtyard and a maze of rooms all around it. In my mind I could hear the noise and bustle of the place full of camels, donkeys, people, goods…

I settled to sleep after admiring the stars that littered the night sky. I had just drifted to sleep when a car entered the precinct, I heard the noise of their doors closing and some men shouting something I couldn’t understand. I laid very still in my sleeping bag and after a while, when it was clear that they weren’t going, I decided to face the newcomers without really knowing what I would be facing. The light of a torch blinded me and a man crouched by the tent, got a paper out of this pocket and read from it in English. It was then that I saw another man and recognised him as one of the truck drivers. They had  brought me water, bread and cheese and wanted me to go with them to a nearby mine where they offered me a place to sleep. I managed to persuade them that I was OK and finally they went and left me to enjoy the silence and loneliness of my refuge.

In the morning I explored the nooks and crannies of the place. It must have been a magnificent castle in its heyday.

Eventually I left Khargushi and continued cycling in the desert for two more days before I reached Yazd, a city with more than 5000 years of history that was once visited by Marco Polo.

The architecture of the town is really interesting and different from that of other cities in Iran. Yazd has the largest networks of qanats in the world, and to deal with the heat many old buildings in Yaz have windcatchers, and large underground areas.

Zoroastrianism is strong in Yazd.  The city has a Tower of Silence , and a Fire Temple which holds a fire that has been kept alight continuously since 470 AD.

And from Yazd it was Shiraz, the city of the poets and of course Persepolis. Words fail me to describe the beauty of the place, I hope the photos convey some of it!

Now back in Tehran I am trying to nurse my knees back to health. Priorities in my nomadic life are down to the real basics: what will I eat today? where will I sleep? will it rain? will it be cold/warm? So much of my day is spent seeking physical comfort. Health is obviously a big one.  I listen to the niggles of my body and worry when all is not as it should. Right now, I’m obsessing about my knee. Overall, I am feeling well and strong and it would be tragic if all had to stop because I haven’t been disciplined enough to stretched at the end of each day. I know I am my own worse enemy sometimes, I know it only takes 10 minutes to do the exercises but do I do them? Now I have started in earnest and I really hope I haven’t left it too late for the knee to sort itself out because Central Asia awaits.

It was cold in Central Anatolia. At night temperatures dropped down to – 20°C and didn’t manage to go above freezing point during the day.

The cold and snow and the lack of trees made the world  look like an unending icy dessert. For days I cycled on the roller coaster road that would take me to Cappadocia from Ankara.  All my concentration focused on avoiding the ice patches littering the hard shoulder were I was riding. I  was doing really well until I lost  concentration after a particularly steep climb.  I slipped over on some ice,  lost control of the bike and came crushing down on the tarmac ending up in the middle of the road which luckily was empty at the time.  It’s amazing how fast  the human brain works when left to it’s own devices. In what felt like a fraction of a second I thought I had to get myself and the bike of the middle of the road, kicked the bike which slid easily on the ice, stood up,  mentally checked myself over and got back on Foxtrot to carry on to my destination.

It wasn’t until I was warm and settled in the hostel that I noticed the pain on my side.  Breathing was painful and coughing,  laughing and sneezing was excruciating.  I must’ve bruised my ribs on the fall.  I gave myself comfort on the fact that ribs heal by themselves. Patience,  arnica to speed the healing,  Ibuprofen and paracetamol to control the pain that’s all I could do in the meantime.

Sleeping at night was hard but cycling in the day was OK,  the cold  being a very effective anaesthetic.  And so, I  continued towards Cappadocia.

Cappadocia, what a magical,  otherworldly place! I had never seen a landscape like that in all my travels.  Extraordinary rock formations scattered all over the countryside,  evidence of cave living everywhere,  ancient churches and monasteries carved in the rocks.

Cappadocia is ancient, people in the Bronze Age already lived here. I love visiting places like this. When I am in ancient sites I feel some sort of connection with the people who lived here. What was life like for them?  How did they keep warm?  What did they feel when they gathered for worship?

I was so enchanted by the place that I wanted to see it from all angles and decided to give myself an early,  extravagant,  birthday present.  The balloon flight at dawn was an unforgettable experience.  The silence,  the sight of the other balloons,  the view of the fairy chimneys from above,  the sun coming out from behind the snowy peaks…

I could have stayed in Cappadocia for months but Central Asia beckoned and in a dreamlike state I left it and cycled towards the Black Sea.

Last time I saw the Black Sea was in Romania,  seeing it again was like meeting an old friend. It was much warmer too and I could feel my muscles begin to relax.  My neck that for days,  turtle like,  had been buried in my shoulders reappeared and I was able to take off some layers of clothing and even stop for leisurely breaks in the middle of the day. Life is so much easier when it is warm and the sun is shining!

Fuelled by the sun and the continued kindness of strangers I slowly continued down the coast to Georgia.

I have been in Turkey for nearly one month now.  My lovely daughter Amaya and her boyfriend John joined me in Istanbul for New Year.  It was a real treat! It was good to catch up properly and be an off-the-bike tourist for a  few days.  We treated ourselves to nice food,  sightseeing and on New Years day a visit to a posh hamam (Turkish Bath). Saying goodbye was very sad, even more so because it could be a long time before we see each other again. I miss my girls!

Foxtrot also had some treats. She visited the best bike hamam in Istanbul: Bisiklet Gezgini where she was lovingly pampered for two days.   She’s  now sporting a Son 28 dynamo and an Edelux II headlight.  No more worrying about lack of power for my gadgets or being petrified in tunnels.

And then it was back to being on the road again.  Every time I stop cycling for any length of time it’s a bit of a struggle to get back on the wheels.  My muscles seem to forget what is like to cycle for a whole day, the bike feels really heavy and I feel really unfit.  Luckily it’s no long before I get back into the swing of things.

Snow and low temperatures have followed me since arriving in Anatolia. Yesterday was a really hard  day.  A lot of climbing and strong cross wind,  heavy snow and rough road surface.  I was really chafed with myself when I arrived at my destination but my joy didn’t last long,  when I enquired for a place to stay I was told that there was nothing at all in town.  The nearest place with accomodation,  Nevşehir,  was 26 km away and there was no way I could make it.  I had come off my bike once already on the icy road and in the dark in the middle of a snow storm it would have been too cold and unsafe to continue.

The young man I’d enquired about accommodation took me to a café full of men,  not a single woman in sight and sat me by a roaring fire.  A big debate amongst the men followed.  Before I realised they had all chipped in to pay a taxi to take me and Foxtrot to Nevşehir.  I found it hard to hold back  tears I was so moved.  This generosity is not an isolated incident.

A few days ago,  I  was snailing up a mountain road.  I knew there would not be no towns were to find accommodation for the night.  It was getting late and the sky threatened snow.  I was looking for somewhere discreet to pitch my tent for the night when a car stopped.  A young man came out an asked me whether I was OK. After a short exchange he invited me to stay in his farm for the night in a nearby village called Dedeler.

The village was 16km away. The knowledge that I had somewhere warm to sleep gave me renewed energy. I pushed up hill but soon  began to doubt that I could make it.  Then, a tractor stopped and the driver on hearing I was going to Dedeler insisted on giving me a lift.  With Foxtrot installed in the back we continued uphill.  It began to snow really heavily and night fell.  I was lucky,  on my own I would have never made it to the village.

The tractor came to a stop in a dark farmyard. It was muddy and damp.  By now I was very cold.  I couldn’t feel my hands or feet and was shaking uncontrollably.  Ahmed,  the tractor’s driver,  invited me to go inside his house after calling my host who agreed to collect me from his farm.

I took off my shoes to go inside and Ahmed opened the door.  I walked in a small brightly lit room,  whitewashed walls and carpets covered the floors.  A wood burning stove was the centre piece in the room and its warmth filled the space.  It was heaven after the cold and the snow.

An older woman was sitting in a low couch.  She had the  gentlest of  faces and the brightest of blue eyes. Her whole persona exuded warmth and friendliness.  By signs she asked me to sit next to her and take off my damp socks.  What followed was wonderful,  it was the purest form of human comunication,  looks,  touch,  smiles,  intonation.  My words came out in English and Spanish hers in Turkish and yet I know that we absolutely understood each other.

Before long,  a younger woman breezed in from the adjacent room.  Like the older woman she was dressed in traditional Turkish clothes,  wide pantaloons of lovely checkered material and head scarf.  She gave me an open hug,  a big smile lit up her face and by signs told me that food was coming.

In no time a low table was brought in and food appeared. At the same time Feridun,  my host,  came in.  Greetings were exchanged and we sat on the floor to eat.  Different plates of food were placed on the table.  Somehow my plate was always full.  Then it was endless cups of çay,  the tea I’ve come to love.

Finally it was time to say goodbye and walk to Feridun’s farm. Dedeler is very small,  500 inhabitants and Feridun knew everyone. It took a while to cover the 200 mt that separated the two farms,  the walk punctuated by greetings and conversations.

Once in his farm we talked about his dreams and aspirations. He shared with me photos and stories of other travellers he has welcomed in his house and the postcards they have sent him, little treasures he keeps in a box.

Soon young men from the village started to arrive, amongst them was the Mukthar,  the head of the village.  Mukthar means chosen.  In spite of his youth the village had voted him as their leader. People go to him for arbitration and advice. Before the evening was over I had received an invitation for breakfast at the mukthar’s house.

Fresh snow welcomed the day.  By the time we arrived at the mukhtar’s home the table was laid full of delicious home made bread,  yougurt,  cheese, chips,  chicken,  eggs cooked in spinach,  honeycomb,  jams. My second feast on less than 12 hours!

There were no cars on the road.  I relished the silence and I thought about the people who have opened the doors of their houses for me,  a total stranger.  I also thought about the dozens of people who have showed kindness to me in a miriad of ways,  giving me fruit,  calling a brother in Spain to act as an interpreter,  inviting me to their home for tea or coffee, contacting friends to promote my trip,  sending me messages to check I’m OK, hooting their horns,  smiling and waiving as I pass by…

It is the messages from all of you,  the wonders of technology that allow me to be in contact with my closest ones and the kindness of strangers that keep me smiling whilst pedalling.

I am in a ferry to Turkey from Lesbos. I am crossing the same stretch of sea that thousands of refugees have crossed this year in the opposite direction. My ferry is safe,  with a bar selling hot and cold drinks and a working toilet.  The price of the ticket: 10 euros. I know that at this very moment on the other side,  men,  women and children are getting ready to board rubber dinghies with dodgy engines. They will be risking their lives and will have paid exorbitant amounts of money for the privilege (I’ve heard that the going rate right now is between 800 and 1200 euros per person).

The evening is beautiful,  the sun is setting giving an orange tinge to the sea and the lights of the houses in the shore remind me of the Christmas nativity scene we used to have in our house when I was little.  We used moss and pomice stones to make mountains that always had a wolf perched in the rocks, pieces of mirror for the pond full of ducks and cork houses with fairy lights inside, light shinning out of their little doors and windows.  My brother and I loved moving the three wise men closer to the manger each day until they reached it on the 5 January. It was hard to go to sleep that night as we knew that they would also come to our home and there would be presents waiting for us in the morning.

It was cold on deck.  I put my hands in my pockets and my fingers instinctively reached for the ‘hombre al agua’* that Ion, one of the lifeguards from Zarautz,  had taken from one of the boats that morning. His gift to me on my last shift on the Lesbos beaches. I squeezed it in my hand and the nativity scene disappeared and was replaced by the smell of the campfire that we lit to encourage the boats full of refugees to come to a safe landing spot.  I looked out at sea expecting to see the flashing light of phones that told us were the boat was and I was swept by anger at the in injustice of it all.

I spent 6 nights in Lesbos looking out at sea for those elusive phone lights,  watching the lifeguards who seemed to have a sixth sense and saw what we didn’t. I would see them look at one another and then it was all go.  We jumped in our cars and speeded down the coastal road to get to the spot before the boat.  Ibai,  Jaime,  Asier and Ion would jump in the water to position the boat for landing.  One of them would get in and stop the engine. With other volunteers,  I would line up to help refugees of the boat.  Children and babies were passed in a chain from volunteer to volunteer until they reached dry ground. We helped women and men,  many unsteady after hours at sea, to disembark. 

Each boat was different,  in some people were calm and collected and in others people would be extremely distressed and we could hear their screams before they arrived, their faces full of fear when they finally made it to the beach.

Most of them would be wet and very cold. Thermal blankets and blankets were handed out and, if we were in luck,  dry socks. Liz, my roommate,  a nurse,  tended to those who needed medical assistance. I helped and offered comfort to the most distressed.

Then,  imperceptibly,  the mood would change.  Some refugees would make phonecalls to their loved ones and a little girl would giggle bursting soap bubbles blown by one of the  volunteers. There would be hugs and smiles as they boarded the United Nation buses on their way to the camp for registration.

At the camp independent volunteers would be able to offer hot tea,  dry clothes,  a tent to sleep in,  a medical tent,  a children’s tent,  some food in the kitchen tent,  information and human warmth.

Liz and I would gather the life jackets for later collection and the wet clothes for washing and reusing and together with the lifeguards would go back to our vantage point by the fire to wait for the next boat.

I met many amazing people in Lesbos,  both volunteers and refugees.  I am humbled by their strength,  resilience and compassion and deeply moved by their personal stories.  I very much hope I can stay in touch with some.

Back in the ferry I remembered the tiny baby,  wrapped in a life jacket, that I held in my arms and I got a lump in my throat.  I haven’t cried yet,  the enormity of their experience is too overwhelming.  I know at some point the tears will come.

*the kill cord, or ‘engine safety cut-out switch’ is. used to stop the engine in the event of the helmsperson being thrown out of their seat.

Generally,  I only have a rough outline of my route which I refine it as I go along and talk to local people I meet along the way.  A few people had told me about the Buzludzha Monument.  My very first Couchsurfing host even showed me some photos of it.  It was like nothing I’d seen before and I added it to the list of places to see.

To get there I first had to climb to the 1,190mt Shipka Pass and then on to Buzludzha further up the mountains. The day was grey and wet and I cycled all the way to the pass in total cloud. The road a black ribbon and the trees either side of the road like tall vertical black columns reaching for the sky.  The black and white monochrome was only broken by the rusty colour of the fallen leaves and the green of some weeds refusing to die with the frost.  The scene reminded me of one of those arty photoshopped pictures in black and white with a few notes of colour.

I climbed the hairpins of the road slowly and steadily on the lowest gear.  I relished the feeling of my body working hard,  the power of my leg muscles taking me and Foxtrot up the steep hill, the tickling sensation of the rivulets of sweat trickling down the middle of my back and dripping into my eyes and down  the tip of my nose in spite of the low temperature (3C). I was totally in my body.

Without any conscious awareness I was listening out for traffic on the road. The cloud distorted the sounds and at times I couldn’t tell whether the cars were coming towards me or from behind me. The fog was so thick that all I could see were their ghostly headlamps when they were just a few metres away from me. And yet I felt really safe under the blanket of the cloud.

It was nearly dark by the time I made it to the Pass. I knew that there was a hotel at the Pass and I headed for it.  The place was locked but as I could see fire glowing in a wood burning stove inside I knocked at the door.  A woman opened the door and let me in. As I stepped in my senses were instantly assaulted by colours,  everything  looked very bright after the hours I had spent in a black and white world.

That night as I was going to sleep I thought about how lucky I am to be able to get myself in the warm at the end of the day without overly worrying about money.  Age has its advantages!

In the morning the world was again covered in cloud and was raining heavily. The silence was so intense that I could hear a buzz in my ears.

Taking advantage of  a break in the rain, but still in thick fog,  I started the 12 km climb to the monument. The road was very steep and I focused on steering the bike to the bits with the shallowest potholes. After what it felt like a lifetime I reached the end of the road and but still I could see no sign of the monument.Then the cloud lifted a little and I could see what looked like a massive UFO towering just above me and small, muddy path leading to it.

Gingerly,  step by step I got myself and Foxtrot to its base. When I got my breath back I lifted my eyes and was amazed by the scale of the place. Graffiti covered the concrete which was crumbling in places.  I circled the monument a couple of times not quite believing what I was seeing.  Big stairs,  which I had managed to miss in the fog,  led from the road to the main entrance which was blocked.  Just round the corner of it someone had made a hole in the concrete  and it was possible to climb inside.  I considered it for a moment but being alone decided it wasn’t wise to enter the crumbling building.

As I started going back down the fog lifted and the mountains showed themselves in all their glory and Buzludzha stood proud on top of one of them.  I stopped,  looked at it and laughed aloud,  how could I have not seen it until I was right on top of it!

Then I turned around and cycled down the hill to continue my way South towards Greece

Ever since I heard about the painted Monasteries of Bucovina I’ve wanted to see them. Many of them are UNESCO sites. Their painted exterior walls are decorated with elaborate 15th and 16th century frescoes featuring portraits of saints and prophets, scenes from the life of Jesus, images of angels and demons, and heaven and hell. The purpose of the frescoes was to make the story of the Bible and the lives of the most important Orthodox saints known to villagers by the use of images.

Something else I wanted to do was to stay in one. I knew it was possible because a few people had told me so. I just wasn’t sure how to go about it. The opportunity to try it out arose on my way to Galati where I was going to get the train towards Bucovina, quite a long way away from the Black Sea

The colours of the Autumn were just stunning and getting better by the day. It wasn’t too long before I arrived at Cocos Monastery.  I decided to try asking for accommodation.  I was a bit nervous,  I just didn’t know whether I  could make myself understood and what the response would be and it was  getting late to find an alternative place.

From the  distance,  the Monastery was beautiful. Nestled in the forest with shinny metal roofs.  A monk was tending to a herd of goats in the middle of well looked after vineyards. As I approached,  I  saw another monk looking after a flock of turkeys and yet another two after some cows.

I left the bike outside the gate and went in. There was no one in sight.  I went into the church hoping to find somebody.  It was beautiful and peaceful inside but still no one to be seen.  I heard  a voice coming from what I thought must be the monks rooms and found  a monk talking on a mobile phone. Such modernity looked out of place  in this space where it seems time has stopped.  When he finished,  I asked by signs if I could stay and right away I was taken to a whitewashed room with a couple of beds and left on my own.

Soon after a monk was calling to prayer with a wooden tool.  The tradition started during the siege of Moldova by the Ottoman Empire when the Turks forbade the ringing of bells. The striking of wooden or metal bars, known as <em>”toaca”</em>, replaced the ringing of bells and thus, became a tradition. On that day the bells were also ringing in the belfry. Those two sounds were mixing with the tweeting of birds,  the pitter patter of rain and the noise of people walking.

Sitting in the dark outside my room,  I was transported to a  ritual that could  have taken place centuries ago.  It was  very dark,  the only light in the place coming from the Monastery and by now it was raining so heavily that the water was bouncing back from the stone floor of the church courtyard.  Monks clad in black cloaks willowing in the wind and the rain  were hurrying towards the church. All I could make out were their dark shapes entering the church and when they crossed a shift of lightof light,  their long beards and their hair tied in a ponny tail.

The service started and the sound singing from the church filled the whole space. Every now and again a few stragglers crossed the courtyard and later on two women dressed in long  black skirts and headscarves joined  the service.  I was entranced and felt privileged to be there.  That night I went to sleep to the sound of Monks chanting.

I stayed in other Monasteries – Pangarati,  Sihăstria and Sucevita and each was different and special.  The last one,  Sucevita,  is one of the famous painted ones.  A community of nuns lives there.  One of the nuns,  sister Stefania, took me under her wing.  She offered me food in the communal dinning room,  aa simple meal of polenta,  cheese and milk. The cheese and milk came from the Monastery herds.  The flavour of the milk took me back to my early childhood  when I used to sneek in the pantry to drink the milk that had been brought by the farmer that morning.

That day I joined the nuns in the service. Some nuns were kneeling,  others sitting and standing.  The priest in big robes and a hat with a big veil on it went round the room with an incense burner,  whilst the nuns chanted. Once again I was mesmerised by the whole thing. A magical experience.

When I left the following day,  Stefania gave me apples, cards with images of the icons,  a cross and a little money to buy bread.  I was moved to the core by her generosity.

On the road to Transylvania feeling the luckiest,  richest woman on earth having the opportunity the live all these experiences.

I really wanted to see the Danube meet The Black Sea. It’s  Delta  is the largest and best preserved of Europe’s deltas and it is a  UNESCO World Heritage site,  definitely a place to see.

To get there I cycled along the coast from Bulgaria,  entering Romania in Vama Veche.  At this time of the year,  nothing was opened and the beach that in summer is full tents  of people camping was windy and deserted.  I’m afraid to say that I broke an unwritten rule: anyone visiting Vama Veche should always camp on the beach and boycott the new hotels and businesses in order to restore the place back to the old look and hippie feel.  I was too cold and wet and had a nasty cough.  At least that’s my excuse.

I went pass Constanta, a town with a lot of history and the largest  port on the Black Sea.  In Constanta I  had my first taste of  wonderful Romanian hospitality.  I stayed with Marius, a  nice  young man who showed me around the  town and told me  about  it’s history and it’s people.

The following day,  I cycled through flat land.  There  was nothing but the stubble of crops as far as the horizon. As I went by on my bike I disturbed huge flocks of birds that took flight in unison forming huge clouds that soared and turned in themselves,  bestowing the most  incredibly acrobatic displays on me.

I went through villages,  with  houses lining the road,  that seem to go on forever, kilometres between the sign indicating the beginning of the village and the one indicating it’s end.

And everywhere  I went,  I continued to be blessed with Romanian hospitality: kindly being allowed to camp in the terrace of a café and offered  steaming coffee in the morning, being shown around Tulcea by Aurora, my Couchsurfing host and her husband and leaving their house with fruit from their garden and delicious home made preserves and having a house to myself  in the middle of the Delta that belonged to a Warmshowers member.

To get to the house I took a catamaran  from Tulcea to Sulina,  a village  in the the mouth of one of the three branches of the Danube that make the Delta. The catamaran  was full of villagers returning home with huge amount of luggage from shopping expeditions in the town. Everyone settled for the journey,  the men in the back of the vessel smoking and drinking beer and the women inside with the children running in and out.  I closed my eyes to absorbed the  hubbub of music,  laughter and conversations mixing with the noise of the engine. I love human noises, find them really comforting.

Either side of the waterway there were villages and everywhere there was life on the river –  people crossing from one side to the other in boats,  people fishing,   transporting goods and going about their daily lives.  I was amazed at the ease with which they went about in the river using it as  I would use the road and the streets.

To get to Dan’s house I had to cross the Delta from it’s middle branch,  the Sulina branch,  to a village called Periprava in the Chillia branch,  in the north, the longest, youngest, and most vigorous.  In Sulina I was warned about the wolves and jackals and other wild life that  roam in the Letea forest,  the northern most subtropical forest in the world, and about the ‘bad people’ that may attack me seeing me on my own.  In addition to these new perils,  I knew I would encounter quite a lot of sand.  It was my first inroad into real wilderness.

I was a bit apprehensive and I wished I was travelling with someone else. In times like this I am sure it would be much easier to dispel the fear of the unknown. Weighing the pros and cons and working things out on my own should be getting easier but the cold and the early dusk seem  to be slowing down this process.

I  cycled first on a good track by a side water canal in brilliant sunshine. Birds everywhere,  reflections of clouds in the water,   no one around and a tingly feeling in the pit of my stomach,  a mixture of excitement and apprehension.

I went pass tiny villages with reed roofed houses,  saw lots of snakes sunning in the track and going into hiding went I went by.  I also saw lots of water, wild horses in the Letea forest,  big open spaces, and the forest itself silent and beautiful. I had a very special day,  stopping often to admire the beauty of my surroundings.

Fourteen kilometres before Periprava the sand tracks started and it was impossible to cycle so I pushed and pushed my heavily loaded bike until I arrived in the village tired but elated.

The little house exceeded all my expectations.  It had all I needed and more –  electricity to charge my gadgets,  a cooker were I made a hearty lentil stew,  a drop toilet and a little cane enclosure where I had a shower with water from the well. I spent a wonderful day there tending to my bike and to my knee which was getting a bit sore.

I  left Periprava on a very early catamaran,  this time on the Chilia branch which forms the natural border with Ukraine.  I felt really good and looking forward to cycling to the famous Bucovina Monasteries.