Pamukkale, 20 years after our last visit.

Tags

Buldan, Civril, cycle touring Asia, cycle touring Turkey, Dinar, Guney, Pamukkale, Tripolis, wild camping Turkey

Bikes at a wild camp.

We were invited to join the Italian bikers. There is a natural affinity between two wheeled travelers, respect even. You know you are going to have things in common, and tales to tell. ” I was in India, began biker 1, in Deli and hired a bike “. A further beer was placed on the table in front of the two bikers. It took me 5 hours to get out of town, but I was trying to realise a lifelong ambition. The guy is a big Beatles fan and wanted to visit the Ashram where they had stayed. ” I got to the door, knocked and an old man came. Were the Beatles here? “. The biker started to laugh even before he got to the punchline. ” No beetles here, we very clean “.

Erol made sure we had a good time in Dinar.

Erol had appointed himself, protector, guardian and host come tour guide, during our stay in Dinar. He had done a good job, and we had shaken the hand of just about every person in the town. It was time now to push the bikes out of the hotel door. Factor 50 sun screen, paying particular attention to the nose, and off we went into the early morning heat.

Road between Dinar and Civril, I.

We turned left, climbed out of town and found ourselves on one of the most perfect touring roads we have ever stumbled upon. Clear horizons, and Magritte clouds in a deep blue sky. Off to our right were hills that within a few kilometres would run up to slopes of mountains where the ruins of Greek forts and cities stood.

He came after us to bring us some Ayran (yogurt drink)

We had waved at the guy on the motorbike as he moved the cattle across the slope of the hill. A few minutes later and he is by our side. He has two Ayran, the local, and rather tasty milk drinks. ” For you, for journey “. We were going to have a series of these ‘ random acts of kindness ‘, in the next few days and this man on the 625 to Civril was the first.

Road between Dinar and Civril, II.

Road between Dinar and Civril, III.

Wetland, road between Dinar and Civril and Magritte clouds.

The road was joyously flat, and the granny gear was not even troubled for the rest of that day. Lake Isikli, when it came up on our left was as near mirror calm as you could hope for, giving twice the value of sky and clouds. We stop for a random tea in the village of Beydrilli. It would be a crime to be on a tight schedule as you travel here. These moments when we drop into village life, into the lives of the men at the tea stops, are priceless. Payment is refused. We are trying to remember if we had paid for any teas in Turkey.

Three willow trees.

White poppies.

Turkish flag and our lunch cafe.

As a gift, the finest apple blossom honey.

Not much further and we stop for an early lunch. It is an unpromising looking place but we have stumbled across a gem. The guy speaks many languages, is well-traveled and has a series of companies. One of his sidelines is honey, and the ‘ Bee Man ‘, is in with a sample of the new years crop. It is apple blossom honey and is wonderfully light in taste. Esther has her first experience of honey straight from the hive to the plate.

Shop keepers and their friends. Our impromptu tea hosts.

Towards late afternoon we pull off the main road, taking a right, onto a minor road. This road sits in a flat bottomed bowl of fertile land, between high mountains. We are heading to the town of Süller and are running with apple trees and ripening corn. We stop once more for tea, not realising that this is not a cafe. No problem, a table is made up and tea brewed. It takes the best part of an hour. A simple joy.

White poppy field.

Our camp for the night near Sarilar.

We turn from the road, picking a likely looking track into the field. There are fields of white poppies, the sound of bells from flocks of sheep and goat. We have found a perfect pitch. We are just settling down when a motorbike pulls up. The guy looks young, but he has his teenage daughter with him. He is the driver of one of the buses that had passed us on the road earlier with a great deal of horn blowing and waving. They have bought a thick brown blanket with them as it is going to be a cold night ‘ For you to keep warm ‘. How did they know we were here?

10%, morning walk up the Hasatbell ‘ Rampa ‘.

The fun times come to an abrupt hault. Straight onto the road and a big climb ahead. The word ” RAMPA “, needs little interpretation and had featured in tea conversations increasingly yesterday, along with the gesture of hands held at depressingly steep gradients. It was universally obvious that we were going to have a hard start to todays ride.

Wine region.

Rolling road.

We have entered the wine region. It starts with a single field, an outlier amongst the corn and scrub pastures. It soon becomes the dominant crop, the cash turner in this dry landscape. We are not carrying a corkscrew at the moment, which may be a mistake. We try to beg one at our lunch stop. The only way appears to be to go and sit with the people at the old age centre, listen to a few stories, and then take a glass or two of wine before asking if we can have the corkscrew. There does not appear to be the simple option of buying one at a shop.

Lunch at the village of Cal has turned into a bit of a meet and greet. We get our photos taken and there is an almost presidential quantity of handshaking to be done. The owner of the cafe has gone online. He brings the laptop over. Google translate, and he wants to make it clear how much he appreciates the spirit of travellers and welcomes us to his town. Again our meal is paid for.

Local vegetable.

Canyon near Güney.

Reservoir near Güney.

I have had poor ‘achey’ legs since the moment I got out of the tent in the morning. It takes you like that some days. Today there is nothing in the tank. Bit of an inconvenience that, as a series of brutal hills come along. A storm is brewing and we are gaining height and feeling increasingly exposed. It is best to pick a pitch before we are forced to make a bailout wildcamp. We pull off the road and find a track through vines and on to a field of rough grass. We try to get some shelter for the tent behind a ruin and push the stakes into the red soil a little further than usual. It is still exposed, but with that comes a wonderful view.

Camp with amazing view, the loveliest shepherd and a massive thunderstorm.

The light starts to fade. What we thought was inhospitable and empty land stretching to mountains and a far horizon turns out to be quite well populated. Street lights of scattered villages can be seen even onto the higher slopes of the mountains. This is not quite as remote as we had thought. A shepherd turns up at our tent in the last of the light. He has attained the colour of his soil and home. He is uniformly brown from outstretched hand to sturdy boot. Years outdoors have turned him into landscape.

He has bought with him bottles of water, fruit, vegetables and pancakes that have been formed the local way, with a stick. Folded four times they are still the size of an iPad. There are salad leaves, spices and herbs in two of them. So wonderful. One of these times we will not be able to hold back tears. Breakfast is taken care of. A massive thunderstorm keeps us awake until 4 am. You feel so vulnerable in a tent.

Turkish cemetery.

Late start, as we try to get a bit of additional rest until forced up and out by the heat of the day. We pass a cemetery and one of the headstones has the name, Aladdin. I thought that was a mythical name from the Arabian Nights. Never have I known pancakes that weigh so much. The two plain ones sit in Esther’s panniers waiting for the right moment.

We are on the 20-77, going west, and by 12 noon it is 33′c. This is not too hot as long as the road behaves and does not go rise up. We are trying to have an easy day and with the usual inevitability, it ends in a hard climb to a village on a hill.

Ancient transport system.

Turkish bus shelter.

The drier side of the mountain.

Single tree.

Buldan, even from just a kilometre away looks bleak. There was nothing in any of the gps files that would suggest we had made anything other than a bad choice that involved a hard climb to a dead end. We asked in a shop, and got the encouraging news that there was a hotel. The head-scarfed lady came out and pointed to the sky, which was less encouraging. With just 200m to go Buldan opened out into a picturesque square, with cafes and bars. It is on a dead end road into the hills and exists on a historic textile trade.

Warren after 3 days of not shaving and a road with hard dusty climbs.

Buldan celebrating Galatasaray football team.

Men were walking around. With the bravery of a few glasses of wine and a bit of Raki, they were keen for a chat. ” What is the celebration? “. There were flags flying and clearly it was something of importance. ” Galatasaray are champions! ” and the men were beaming with ear to ear grins. ” We are very happy, we are Christmas Happy “. This is going into our dictionary as the expression of pure joy in someone inebriated but still very sociable.

Pamukkale-Güney wine, 14%.

We make a bold change of plans. We are going to Pamukkale, for no other reason than we were there 20 years ago. It feels like a strange thrill to close a loop by going to somewhere we have been before. A place that we travelled to when we had just met and were young. We celebrate with a glass of local wine, which turns into ‘ bring the whole bottle ‘.

Locals in the bar.

Buldan door.

Graffiti.

It is actually a very nice little town and somehow scrapes together enough of a tourist trade to have good restaurants and a bit of a buzz. We get encouraging news, the road ahead is down hill, our favorite sort of hill.

We are dropping into a bowl. It holds the heat but provides good land for vines. It smells wonderful and as full of fruit as last nights glasses of red. We are linking tracks and rough narrow roads using the gps to keep off the main road. It all goes well until we come to a ‘ road closed ‘ sign. Bugger.

Pamukkale wine.

Wine and Yenicekent in the distance.

The alternative is a loop back on the highway. We always go and have a look if a road are really blocked in a meaningful way. You expect a bridge out, or a hole. What you do not expect is the ‘ Lost City of Tripolis ‘ blocking your way. It is huge and we have it all to ourselves. It always amazes us how something so important can become lost and in this case buried under metres of soil.

Road closed by archeological dig.

The important ancient town of Tripolos and our road.

It flourished for a thousand years, is mentioned in writing by the Greeks, Romans and Byzantine civilizations. But then it sits on an active fault and a few earthquakes led to it’s abandonment. We get a tour from the solitary guardian, an enthusiastic archeologist.

Following the irrigation system to Akköy.

Turkish road side water tap.

Mosque with martin nests.

We continue through increasingly rough tracks that link together small, sun baked villages. It is hazy today and we can only see the outline of a huge mountain range ahead. We stop for tea. The village has a blue tilled mosque whose minaret is home to hundreds of Martins. There screaming calls are the loudest sound in the village until the speakers call the faithful to prayer. A good, cheap hotel in the tourist hotspot of Pamukkale to see how things have changed. The guy doing the call to prayer is rubbish – 5/10.

Local pride.

Welcome to Pamukkale.

We were here 20 years ago, Pamukkale.

Turkey, from Eskisehir to Dinar, via Afyon.

Tags

Afyon, Afyon old town, Dinar, Eskesehir, Karadilli, Midas Sehri, Seyitgazi, Suhut

Coffee, Turkish style.

We were camped rather too close to the village, breaking the prime rule of ‘ stealth camping ‘, and now we had attracted attention. The shepherd walked slowly behind his sheep. This day the same as yesterday, the way it had always been. He caught my gaze, left the path and walked 200 metres to stand here, with hand held out. The handshake in Turkey is deeply significant. A welcome, but much deeper than that. Firm handshake over, his hand now patted his chest over his heart, and then gestured at the valley. The greeting could not have been more moving. He looks at you once and you know he understands.

Caps.

On the quiet roads of rural Turkey, we have been made welcome beyond anything we have yet experienced. A hundred handshakes and more, a wave from fields, cars, trucks and cafes. If you had the merest hint of a notion to bring your bike to Turkey, you must come. There now, that is agreed.

One of the things that will take you by surprise is just how cool it can be here. Our minimal research had not included anything about temperature, and it may be that it is just unseasonably cool. Leaving Eskisehir, the forecast was for rain that day. Without the urgency to get up and out before the heat of the day, we had let things slip a little in this part of what is still Asia. It was 9.15 before we threw bronzed leg over custom made and recently dented top tube. Out into the traffic, and pedaling in the general direction of the 665 on the gps.

One big climb, and the road would join up with the 665. Which it did, but not before going through an army base, with rather bored, but heavily armed guards. There is an alarming amount of barbed wire around things in this country and even the supermarket security guard back in the town was armed. We drop back down the hill and go the long way round to pick up the road.

Atatürk and scarfs.

It plays with the 1,000m contour line for  a few kilometres and then pushes up. Before you know it you are at 1056m and rain is falling. Big slowly falling drops at first, that try to hang in the air. Then it is heavy rain and the temperature has dropped to 14′c. We have made a solemn promise never to complain about the cold since our roasting in the far East. This feels cold to our heat acclimatized bodies, but in conclusion we consider it preferable to having your brains fried. It may be just a novelty.

We pass a flock of sheep. It is agriculture from a biblical time and requires great patience and stoicism. There is a big white brute of a dog, there for company I think more than anything technical that would warrant the description ‘ sheepdog ‘. We exchange waves and calls of greeting.

Praying for rain. Seyitgazi.

The small village of Seyitgazi sits under hills on three sides. On the hill behind is a castle complex and mosque. We leave the bikes propped up against the window of the cafe that had just served us an excellent early lunch, and start up the steps to the complex. We are joined by children. The girls in particular are keen to use their English. There is laughing and loud voices as we go through 1 to 10 in English with them.

More and more people turn up and we start to get the impression that this is a significant event. It is a call to prayer and a wish for rain. We are encouraged to join in, and the children make sure we are doing things the correct Muslim way. This is an agricultural valley and people have travelled from the surrounding communities to join in the prayer for rain. We are made to feel most welcome. Food and a drink is put in our hands as we make our way towards the steps to leave.

Small road out of Seyitgazi. Old Mosque in the distance.

Prayers answered – rain ahead.

We are waved at from old men at cafe tables and gypsy families in bright traditional clothing and crow black hair.There is a bank of dark clouds ahead and we are riding right into it. Already, the temperature has dropped to 12′c and a headwind is picking up the first spots of cold rain. We are high up now on an exposed rolling road. The days when the wind blows here are frequent and the houses sit squat to the ground, offering a low profile, thick walls and the smallest of windows. Many look abandoned until you get close enough to hear voices and a television.

Road like a silver thread.

Local kafe (cafe) where men drink tea.

We get to the village of Barbakci, without getting soaked. There are donkeys, carts and mini vans and most importantly a cafe. If the pavement cafes of Paris or Vienna sit at the epoch of cafe culture, the premier league if you will, this is non league, but welcoming. More of a village hall, with somewhere to boil water. It is packed with local farmers, non able to get on with stuff because of the rain. There are big eyebrows, dominating dark faces. Each table has a small pile of earth that has fallen from heavy leather boots as it dried. The smell of sheep and damp woolen clothing fills the air along with the clicking of dominos being shuffled.

Possibly Roman or Byzantine head stones 300 A.D..

There should be the ruin of a caravanserai here, but we can not find it. What we do stumble across is a huge field enclosed by a stone wall. Inside are many hundreds of standing stones. It covers a large area and at the far side fades into what is now a modern cemetery. It is unsigned, unmentioned, and one of the most amazing things we have seen. Next to it is a similar field, but smaller. The call to prayer sounds and we move off to find a pitch for the night.

This goes badly. The soil looks dry enough, but it is clearly wet enough to cling to the tyres and block under the mudguards. Within a handful of metres the bikes are brought to a stop. Nothing for it but to remove the bags and wheels and clean things with a stick.

Scraping off the mud.

I get this done and go ahead up the road. I go to look for a tent pitch and again am stuck in glupe. It all happens so fast. I sit down and start to clean the wheels. In the trees in front of me the sound of sheep bleating, bells and a shepherd singing. It could all be so perfect if I did not spoil it and get stuck again. We eventually pull off onto some grass, and camp under a Juniper tree. Not a dog in sight, perfect.

Saying Hello and giving directions.

Fields on the plateaux.

Next morning we pass through two of the most remote villages I have ever seen. It looks like something from the northern isles of Scotland. More than that, it looks like something from the middle ages. It is like a archeological dig, without the need to dig. It even smells like the peat fires of Scotland as they are burning cattle dung cakes on smokey fires. There are strong handshakes from hands that may never know skin care. The bikes are time machines now, and I can not believe what is in front of us. I bet they are sick of mutton and lamb. I only had a sheep farm for 4 years and still find it hard to enjoy.

Road to Midas Sehri. Cows and woman in field.

Main Prayer Wall.

Exposed Rock dwellings. Midas Sehri, I.

We come across the route of the Phrygian Way. A 500Km walking and mountain bike route across this remote areas of Turkey. There is a temple and city complex here from King Midas and we have it all to ourselves. It will soon be a world heritage site, but at the moment is rather unvisited compared with the well known archaeology of Turkey.

Rock dwellings. Midas Sehri, II.

View from Midas City. Our road ahead.

Water gathering pools. Midas Sehri.

Stork nest in small village.

Road through fields and rolling hills. Junction with 665

After our detour to see the Sehri, we are back on the 665. It has been a long day and again it is raining and the temperature down to 12′c. We find a shop and begin the pantomime of buying supplies for a wild camp. We share a field with cows and a woman whose age could be 40 or 100. She is dressed in traditional baggy clothing and pants that come tight at the ankles, it is National Geographic perfection. Her long days are spent walking up and down with the dozen cows and managing a sort of sprint when they look like they may be up to mischief. We exchange greetings and a dried fig. Such times are priceless.

A rainy downhill on road 665.

It starts to thunder and then rain falls as we zip up the tent and turn in. What a day and what things we have seen. It keeps up a steady rain until we are woken at 4.50 by the call to prayer. It is answered by every dog for miles around. They join in with howls to the stormy sky. We have to ‘ Spanielate ‘ the tent for a second morning ( the vigorous shaking of something to remove water ). Clouds hang low and heavy with rain as we push up onto the road and away from the village of Kayihan.

Sheltering from rain.

Turkish Delight(s), very filling.

Our first stop is a cafe devoted to all things ‘ Turkish Delight ‘, with a few sausages to bulk out the product range and a bit of bread. Just taking a deep breath is worth a half dozen calories. The air is sickly sweet and tastes of rose water. Even hungry touring cyclists will find it hard to eat more than three.

Afyon, old town; I.

Afyon, old town; II.

Afyon, old town; III.

View over Afyon to our route into town..

Two friends.

Woman and child, Afyon.

We need a shower. If you can smell yourself it is time to groom. We find a cheap hotel in the town of Afyon and set out to explore whilst our clothing drips dry in our room. Not expecting much, we wonder aimlessly. We are blown away by the old town when we stumble across it. Anywhere else it would be a major attraction and here it just sits in faded perfection.

Afyon, old town; IV.

Afyon, old town; V.

Afyon, old town; VI.

Tombs for Dervishes. Dervish Lodge, Afyon.

Dome of Dervish Lodge, Sultan Divani, Afyon.

Entry for Woman to the Sultan Divani.

Child and Warren’s shadow.

Two entries. Old town, Afyon.

Door, old town Afyon.

There is also the second most important Sufi Dervish lodge in existence, worth a visit on its own. We go through what would have been a fortune worth of film in the old days of Kodak. It is in the process of being tarted up a bit. Most of the roads have been ripped up and are being cobbled again. It may take some time.

A down hill to the plane.

Monday morning 17′c, but mostly blue sky. We would be in optimistic spirits if we had not looked at the forecast for heavy rain later. We get waves and random handshakes as we make our way out to the road to Suhut. It becomes a long and unrelenting hill climb. Not unreasonable, at 10% max, but long and unrelenting. There is little more lonely, more singularly soul searching, than a hard long climb on a touring bike. There is none of the fun of a light race bike, none what so ever. It is a one way conversation predominantly on the topic of ‘why don’t I stop?’.

Restaurant owners. Suhut.

Over the summit, and then down with panoramic views of snow capped mountains. Is it worth the effort? We stop for fuel and are told the road ahead is flat ahead – not sure what to believe. We end up getting a Police escort into town and onto a cafe. The meal ends with a dark and tinglingly strong cup of coffee. I had noted that coffee here has the ability of prophecy. Upside down and then wait for your future to be revealed.

Coffee tells the future for Warren.Hills and deep valleys.

Good-bye from Suhut.

Out on the road and we are being chased along by a fierce and cold wind at the leading edge of a storm. There are bolts of lightning and the deep rich smell of clover. To our left another storm cell, and now the call to prayer from far behind us in the village. Ahead, there is a massive mountain, the snow still deep on even the lower slopes. We camp above the village of Karaadilli, where we are first discovered by the local children and then the passing farmers. It is 5.10 in the morning when I hear the first sheep being lead by us and up into the open pastures.

Women work in the fields.

Time trial out of the storm.

Glad we were not going the other direction.

Stock man.

Another dramatic sky.

In the morning we ask a shepherd ‘how far is it to Dinar?’. He thinks for a moment ‘ 40Km ‘. Within 1Km of the village we pass a sign, Dinar 56Km. How can someone spend their whole life here and not know that?

Wild camping above the town of Karaadilli.

Kids were so curious and exited.

Cow dung prepared for fuel. Which is why it smells like Scotland.

We have good tarmac under our wheels and a rolling parkour and beautiful countryside. The peaks still hold onto snow and dark clouds are spilling rain into the high corries. The final 10Km into Dinar is along a dual carriage way and yet even here there are waves and greetings. We stop at the traffic lights at the outskirts of the town. A wave and an invitation to drink tea. It does not pay to be in a hurry on a cycle trip in Turkey.

Fairly flat road along beautiful mountains.

The day ends with a  bit of excitement at the barbers. Esther was not aware of the tradition to set fire to your ear hair here. ‘ What is it like? ‘, ” Well, like having your ears set alight briefly and a significant smell of burning “. It is impossible not to flinch, and hope it is not his first day at the job. Like many things here, it is to be recommended.

Passing through villages towards Dinar.

Fertile grounds.

Eskesehir, and into the mountains of Turkey from Istanbul.

Tags

Bilecik, Bisiklet Gezgini Touring Bike Shop, cycling out of Istanbul, Eskesehir, Ferry Pendik - Yalova, Istanbul, Iznik Golu, Valley along river Sakarya Nehri, Yalova, Yenisehir

Approaching Istanbul, and the continent of Europe Turkey.

Now here is something you may want to try for yourselves. In the UK, and possibly elsewhere – who knows. Christmas brings with it the horror that is the brightly coloured paper party hat. Wear it for a few hours and then take it off. Now, occasionally you will catch yourself reaching up to adjust the hat. There is a PhD waiting to be written about why it feels that it is still there. I am only mentioning this now as I have been having the same thing with my sunglasses recently. Pushed onto my head whilst I drink a tea, they have more wisely made their way into my handlebar bag. Yet they feel like they are still on my head, and catch myself reaching up for them. I need to know why, and the WWW. is less than helpful. Any thoughts?

If I had sat down to write this blog even a day earlier, it would have been an unceasing moan, possibly a rant, and certainly a bore to read. You have been saved, and should be grateful. I stayed away from the MacBook Air until I managed a more measured response to the long list of cock ups that have occurred betwixt China, and here in Turkey. I will give you just a small flavour in an abridged version.

On arrival in Istanbul airport, we only have 1 bike. I am numb. My worst nightmare, (  does that assume that you have a ‘ best nightmare ? ‘ ) all enthusiasm has drained away. We wait around for 2 hours, popping back to the carousel now and then, even though our flight number has long since dropped off the display. There is paper work to be filled in. I try to put across to anyone who may be involved in lost property, the serious nature of the loss. ” Round the WORLD, only one bike like it, unique, hand-made, 33,000Km! “.

Esther’s bike about to be assembled.

Mishandled bike.

Google map has the habit of making hotels look close to where you want them to be. The taxi takes ages to get there. It is such a small hotel that there is no one on the desk. The owner takes a chair out onto the pavement, ” do you like my office? “. Which is why the next night we are pacing up and down after midnight waiting for the lost bike to be delivered.

Cafes, Istanbul.

1.30am it gets to us, and I am up at 6.00 to check out the health of my bike. It has several large scratches and two big dents. It, and I look appalling. The bike gets put together and we go into Istanbul, which is every bit as dazzling as you imagine. Every place we want to look at, we actually find the queues for it before we find what we are looking for. We just wonder around.

Blue Mosque, Istanbul.

Colourful houses. Istanbul.

You will need a will of iron, or be riding a bike to not buy a carpet during your stay in Turkey. The art of the hawker, the street trader of tat and exotica, has reached an art form here. We had it explained with the following story. ‘ in New York or London, if a man steps forward and pulls a knife on you, there is a problem. In Turkey, he is just trying to sell you the knife ‘. They will be charming and persistent in five or more languages.

Ferry in Istanbul habour.

May 1st and we put the bags onto the bikes and set off for our tour of Turkey. We are stopped by a Police officer before we have got 1Km. Just down the road we need to go are 15,000 people poised to begin celebrating May Day. Facing them, are a few thousand Police in riot gear. There is no way to get to the Asian side of the Bosporus and we have nowhere to stay.

Two hours later and we are sitting in a nice, but horribly expensive hotel’s lobby watching the riot. Water cannon and tear gas. All they need to use is dog poo on a stick, and people would move. There is an upside to the crap day. I am, for the first time since Malaysia, looking forward to breakfast and a buffet of pure joy.

We sit and eat breakfast. My plate gets prematurely taken away and replaced by the waitress three times. A loudspeaker next door competes with the call to prayer from half a dozen mosques. It is playing a hopelessly slow, and very electronic version  of Santaclause is coming to town. Turkey, the home of Santa until Coca Cola, the Germans and Scandinavia got hold of him and Christmas. It should be poignant, but fails.

We spend a day at a bike shop. We have crossed back into Asia as we came across on the short ferry ride. The bikes both need some TLC to repair what the roads of China and Turkish Airlines have done to them. We settle back as the hours pass and the bill rises.

Railway station, Istanbul, Asian side.

First ferry crossing.

20Km to the next ferry and it is mostly along a promenade. I am now rating the Turks up there with Poles for their love of barbecue and all things grilled outdoors. We ride and occasionally slalom through hundreds, and possibly thousands of barbecues. We end up at the ferry terminal too late for the trip in daylight.

Next morning, we are on the 9.15 ferry. This is all to get a bit of a jump on the urban sprawl and industrial bits of Istanbul. It feels great to be turning a wheel. Which is just what I am saying to Esther 6Km up the road. ” I can not get my big gear “, is her response. The thing that makes it do this has been broken by the rather brutish adjustment at the bike shop. Back across with the ferry etc etc.

Woodfired Kettle.

Balloons for a firing range.

We line up, much later that day at the ferry terminal. Fog has descended, and eventually the word comes that all sailings are canceled. Todays progress is in negative kilometres. There is a saying, it is bleak enough to be Scottish in origin, ‘ if we didn’t have bad luck, we would have no luck at all.’

Clearing fog.

Of course, we do get going and the sun shines down and we are on the right side of the Aegean Sea. We have jumped down the coast to Yalova, and I suggest that you do the same. It is a Spring morning and already the air is warm and full of aroma. Swallows are flying and dogs have already found shade.

Turkish Cow Sign.

A climb challenging enough to search out the form that we have lost since we last turned a pedal in China, and then we have found a perfect road along the shores of Lake Iznik. Now 34′c and the heat is brewing up a perfume,  part olive, part blossom and hints of tarmac. Birds call with an enthusiasm for Spring, and a new year of being a bird.

Beautiful Lake Isnik Gölü.

Rocks along Lake Isnik Gölü

Shed.

A remote village, this will be the first of hundreds to come for us. We sit with the men ( it is always 100% men ), and drink a glass of strong dark tea, followed by a second and then a third. There are three such bars and the men will have rotated between them, seeking shade as the sun has arced across the azure sky. Payment is refused ‘ My pleasure ‘, and a gesture to the heart – this is repeated time and again over the days ahead by identically thin, gap toothed and stubble chined barmen. They have the kind eyes of a faithful dog.

Wild camping by the lake and the unhappy week or two melt away a little. There will always be the barking dog to ruin a perfect spot. This one is well rested and puts in a full shift. I like dogs less by sun rise. Frog chorus begins, there must be thousands.

To slow to cycle.

It is a brutal climb straight from the sleeping bag and into the mountain. The switch-backs are too steep to stay onboard and soon enough we are looking back at the lake as a receding smudge of light blue then grey. There are trees forming a dense and scrubby forest and the call of a cuckoo ( I am taking this as a second species in one Spring ). In the first 8Km we climb and push a 450m a hard ascent onto a fertile plateaux of cows, goats and corn. The fields are small and there are a few low houses.

Snow-capped mountains in the distance.

This is quite unexpected. But then we round a corner and a new range of mountains is in front of us. ” Snow! “, Esther cries. Now that is unexpected, and riding on the thermals above us are dozens of Storks. They are pulling tight arcs, trying to spiral up and over the peaks. I guess they are going north into Europe to nest on Christian Church towers.

Fertile ground.

Big road out of Bilecik, almost empty.

We dive down, the road surface trying to separate the bits of the bike from each other. This is rough. I am pulling on the brakes, eight finger wrapped around the Shimano levers trying to scrub off a little of the speed. It ends in a second big climb and this time there is grass scrub and the sound of a bevy or exaltation of Larks ( I looked it up ). It lifts the spirit and so does the waves from passing drivers. It is always a full blown wave and not the single finger lift from the strearing wheel of back home. It is silly, but it helps.

Turkish graveyard.

Too friendly local.

Hot day and a climb and sweat.

There is also water. There are taps and basins along the roadside even in remote locations and is a custom of Turkey – they are clean to drink. We were just going to pick up a few things in Bilecik and move on. But the end of the ride throws some unrelenting climbing at us. Weak will or what, we book into a cheap hotel. It is a vibrant town and has the Asian habit of getting into the swing at 9.00pm. The out of town store and the big chains are not yet here, and the towns are all the better for it.

Red earth.

Lunch break in a bus shelter on the ridge.

8.00 in the morning and the locals are in T-shirts. Not a good sign, we want them in coats and wrapped up from a morning chill. We have a long ascent on the usual testing surface. It is actually cool enough to be chilled in my ultra light jersey. Posting cards turns into two teas and a 30 minute chat and route discussion. We love the way that waiters will have a wide patch and bring tea on trays even across the busiest of roads. I will count the teas one day soon. I am awash by the end of the day.

Local Postoffice master and a invitation to tea.

As ever, the truly back breaking and spirit crushing manual labour is done by the headscarfed women. They are bent double, hoes in hand doing the finger tip farming. The guys will be nearby at the wheel of an old tractor. It may even be parked up under the shade of a tree. We wave and greetings are returned.

Reminded us of the Lammermuirs, but hotter.

Fruit trees and mountains.

We pull into a village and away from the main road. You know there will be good food and plenty of it. It advertises ‘ Fast Food ‘, and we are back on our bikes at just over the hour. The landscape is becoming dryer as we leave the coast behind. We are on the 11-26 to Inhisar, and have a panoramic view from 740m of chains of mountains. We climb and then there is a massive descent as we throw away 500m of height.

Not sure if ever snows there…

A 5km decent from Söğüt.

The tyres are sizzling on hot tar and we hope for the best. The road levels out and we stop for a tea. The usual gathering of old men in old jumpers and waistcoats. There is a walking stick at every table and they look like they have not moved since breakfast. This is Calti and I doubt you will ever come this way and watch the men talk, and pass prayer beads between dark stained finger and thumb, which is a bit of a shame.

Village architecture.

Turkish Poppies.

I have this world theory that is coming together. The poorer a country, the less economical vibrant, the greater the number of sugar cubes that you get with your tea or coffee. It is as near a makes no difference, a straight line fix. Talk is of the murder climb that lies ahead for us.

Fertile Land, Valley along the river Sakarya Nahri.

Doors.

Çay – tea

Local.

We find the perfect wild camp and within 5 minutes a dog appears. She sits and watches as we put up the tent. I give her biscuits, she looks more hungry than we are. By the end of the day she has had half a loaf of bread and other dog uncertain stuff such as olives. She is such a wonderful dog and I take some time trying to make her yawn ( a thing that you can do to dogs and chimps and of course other people ). It fails, she has a poor attention span.

Mountains off the side.

Best wild camp site.

We name her “Chengdu”.

We have the sort of deep sleep that only comes with being in a remote tent and knowing your tax return is in. The morning is perfection in all directions except the big hills ahead. The road must find a way through these sharks teeth of peaks but it looks impossible. We climb and fall and for a short and blissful time, ride along a river. I have nothing in my legs today, not a thing. Granny gear when the altimeter says 4%, so things are far from fresh.

Morning glory in the valley.

Covered car.

The river Sakarya Nehri.

We stop in a village and soon the talk is of the monster climb. 50% is scribbled in our book. I know this is rubbish, but it must be a brute. More tea is bought and talk of a bus option. All around us there are National Geographic faces. I parked the bikes by what I thought was an abandoned house but now I hear a baby cry inside.

The little village Karaoglan Köyü in the distance.

We go on, and stop in the village of Karaoglan. Again, there is tea and talk of the hill and we conclude that a bus will be the plan. The bus turns up after an hour or more, but it is too small for us plus bikes. Back for more tea and a wait for the next bus, which may or may not be bigger. Village life comes and goes. We get introduced to all.

Cafe owner.

We wait, and this time the bikes are on and we are wedged between them. Straight away it is clear this climb is up there with the great climbs of cycling. Within 13Km it rises 1,000m. I try not to look at the road ahead, but without it I feel sick. Thank goodness we are becoming more intelligent these days, this would have broken us.

Bikes and us on the bus to Eskesehir.

We are deposited into the outskirts of Turkeys fifth largest city, Eskesehir. It sits on a high and dusty plain, which it has done for a few thousand years now. It is the hectic side of busy and could spill over into manic without trouble. We stop for a tea and are treated to a plate of free cakes.

China feels like a thousand years ago, and certainly not part of the same journey. The climbs here are tough, and the heat of the day builds quickly, but it is all logical and knowable. The food is wonderful, that is for sure and the people are doing their very best to topple the USA from prime position in our ‘ most friendly place to bike list ‘.

…and we had not reached the pass yet.

Chengdu, and a major change of plans.

Tags

Chengdu, coach to Chengdu, Kunming, Natooke bike shop, Panda Research Centre Chengdu, road 108 from Chengdu, Sichuan

Purple parasol, Kunming.

Chinese flag.

We are having a bit of a rest in Kunming and doing what passes for recreational shopping when you have the restrictions of weight imposed by a touring bike. Nothing much heavier than the lightest of  feathers or ‘ mission critical ‘. Maps are unavoidably heavy, and are picked up at bookstores along the way. They almost count as a big shopping treat. There are rows of books about business and design, and several kilometres of shelf space to computing. Mao is on the cover of many books, but the standout publication in every bookshop is the Steve Jobs biography. His is the true path, the blueprint for the perfect aspirational life here. I have no idea if Steve gave the cover the green light in his lifetime, and I hope he did not.  I hate the portrait for the single obvious cliché of the hand on the chin. Imagine it without the hand next time you see the book. It is a much stronger image.

Old architecture, Kunming.

The section about Buddhism has nothing by that well known author, The Dali Llama. Lots of other bald blokes in robes, so that is a little strange. The book covers of every nation are one of the last things to become homogenous. A title in France or Germany may be an international best seller, but it will have a unique cover that appeals to the book buying soul of that nation. It is a very specific art. Here in China the covers are minimal and rather beautiful.

Conversation about pigeons.

The next part of our journey would be a grim beyond words if done by bicycle and may even be impossible. We will have to take the bus to Chengdu, which is the best part of 1,000Km north. Taking the bus and putting your bike onboard is straight forward in China as long as you give yourself a little bit of extra time. We check the distance to the terminal on Google and it agrees with the gps, about 10Km. A final walk around town and a treat of a coffee at Starbucks and then we set out with over 2 hours to do 10Km.

There are road works, with terrifying holes in the road that would swallow your wheel whole. There are diversions and places where the only route appears to be to pick up the bike and walk. Then there is the sports centre where the gps shows a purple line and a straight road to the terminal just 2Km away. The road is no longer there or any trace that there has ever been one. We take a small road, and within a kilometre it is now a building site with sky scrapers every bit as tall as the twenty other ones that you can see being built on identical sites as you spin around.

We are running out of time. We take another road, and this has been changed and no longer goes where the gps says it should. Esther is close to tears. We turn around and pick out a rough track which evidently, is now the main road to where we need to be. It spits you out onto a stump of super highway that will by next year take you where you want to go. Today it takes us just far enough, and we turn to the bus terminal having done 24Km. We are too late for our bus. We have to take a room in the only hotel. A new low has been reached as we spend very nearly 24 hours in a bus terminal hotel.

Bikes go on the bus.

Bike storage.

Warren in his berth, middle row.

Next morning, we log onto BBC news ‘ Earth Quake Hits Sichuan province of China ‘. It is a big one, and we would have been very close to it if we had got the bus. Today, catching the bus is just a matter of walking the bikes across to the terminal. The panniers and bikes go into the lockers and then we join the line to board. It is unlike any bus we have ever seen. You wash your feet at a hose and are given sandals which you kick off as you enter the bus. Then you find your way to your cot. This is what space travel will be like if Ryan Air are doing it.

The mountains along the way.

Even for a tall guy it is not uncomfortable. The landscape of China that is passing by, becomes more rugged and the feats of engineering required to put a four lane road through become ever more extraordinary. Tunnel, bridge, tunnel, tunnel, bridge, and so on as we climb and fall. It gets dark and then we stop at a remote village for food. It is back onboard and another session of retching and spitting from our fellow passengers. The darkness makes it all feel claustrophobic and now there is snoring, farting, belching and the retching and spitting before they draw breath to shout on their smart phones.

Intensive farming right up to the top.

This section of the road is still under construction, and the bus is down to just above walking pace and swerving wildly to avoid the bigger of the pot holes. It is horrible. A ship at sea and a gale blowing. I am going to be sick, that is certain. I need to get something to look at. I go down to sit on the steps at the drivers shoulder. It helps a bit, but now I can see how he is driving. Every bit of straight road or smooth surface and he guns the accelerator to get by the line of trucks. There is one blind bend manoeuver after another in a game of chance. They love to gamble and none more than this driver. It is 2.00 am and still a constant flow of trucks. It is terrifying, but I feel less sick now.

The axles hit up against their end stops as we hit yet another section of road moonscape. Up ahead there is a row of kiosks. The start of the toll road again and a sign that improvements have got this far and smooth tarmac is not far away. The driver celebrates with a few more crazy over taking stunts and then just some recklessly fast driving. He chain smokes to stay in the zone and does a few deeply dredged spits.

Amongst the heavy traffic and building of an elevated highway.

View from hotel, Chengdu.

The bikes have had a better journey than we have. Not a scratch, and we hook the panniers on to ride to find a hotel. Building is a mania here, a total compulsion and a primal urge with a whole load of corruption and kickbacks. Kunming was big at 7 million and now we are in a city of 14 million all needing to get a slice of the pie. In our hotel, it is wall to wall coverage of the earth quake. Over 1 million people have been affected and this city is the organisational focus of the rescue. Trucks have a special emergency logo tied to them and speed through the streets. Outside our hotel, a compound has been built to load up supplies. It is clear that the Chinese want to show how good they are at disaster management. They bring out all the technology and the huge manpower of the largest army in the world. It is very impressive. There is blood donor stops on street corners but commerce has not even taken a faltering step. They are used to earth quakes here.

Fish.

Giant Panda nibbling bamboo shoots, Chengdu.

Mao gets a Spring clean and manicure.

Woman in traditional clothing in Chengdu.

Lamp in the monastery, Chengdu.

Chinese Bell.

Prayers written on note paper inside the bell.

Chengdu is the best place in the world to see Pandas. Which is what we do. The cutest creature in the known universe, and the research centre has 40 of them, so it is a must. Next day,snow and heavy rain are forecast for the mountains and the rescue area, we leave the hotel and pedal out into a damp morning. It is cold enough for arm warmers. Like all Chinese cities, there are bike lanes and this helps. We are amongst the commuters and it is what is refereed to as ‘ crush hour ‘. It is bikes, motor bikes, rickshaws and pedestrians and there are no rules what so ever. ” What side of the road do the Chinese drive on? “. Well, that is a trick question along with ” Who has the right of way at a junction? ” It is very hard on the nerves. There are many high value, black window tinted trophy cars. Those without number plates are asking the cops to take a gamble with their careers. Pull me over and you have no idea what you are getting involved with, how far my power reaches. I may be no one, but is it worth the risk.

Bike lane.

Way out of Chengdu. This bit was fine…

We pick up the 108, our road out of the city, and path north through China. Within a few kilometres of finding it, the road works start. We try to find alternative roads and weave through small suburb markets. Every time we pick up the 108 it looks good and then is blocked. Now we are trying to find a route through industrial parks. Security guards watch us pass as they sit in their little cabins. They watch us return from another dead end where the gps shows a road. Back on the 108 with the trucks, tractors and cars and now things are tight. It feels very unsafe. Why are they not on the toll road?

This bit started to show signs of distress…

This bit was closed…

This road was no more… and we could not see an end.

We drop down onto the sand base of where the road will be built. It stretches off to a blur of horizon. This could last 10Km or 300Km. ” Are you enjoying this at all?”. I know the answer already and we stop. We only have this road north, there is no alternative and it looks like the only safe thing is to push. ” There is no logic here, we could have this for days “.  We stand astride our bikes not knowing what to do. ” Shall we go back?”. It is the only safe option. Then we ask the un-askable , ” You had enough of China?”. There has been ample swearing this morning and the answer is clear.

Furniture on the bike.

Last year his was a beautiful road once you get clear of the city. Ahead, there are fields of Sunflowers that stretch to the horizon. It is wonderful touring, but not today, or anytime soon enough for us. We go back to Chengdu and search for a plan. It falls into place quite quickly when we agree that we have had enough of the heat and need to get to the hot bits before they have the full oven roast heat of summer. Turkey it is then.

Bike wash.

Larry of Natooke, Chengdu.

River through the heart of Chengdu.

Near the Chengdu Tibetan quarter.

Cargo bike.

We need to get the bikes ready to fly and give them a bit of TLC. It is here that we have a very big stroke of luck. There was the depressing prospect of a tortuous series of mimes to a disinterested young bike mechanic. ” Big box, pedals off “, and so on. A bit of time on the WWW. and we found Larry Adamson and his shop NATOOKE. A custom bike shop owned by a Chinese speaking Yank. A true gentleman and a font of all knowledge bicycle. We are looking good again and a smile has returned to the corners of our lips. Of course there has been cock ups and we have had to take three attempts to book the flights – thank you CHEAPO AIR – never again.

You do not see many cats…

Writing on the wall, Tibetan quarter, Chengdu.

When next we meet on the WWW. we will be in Turkey. Lets all hope that our bikes and equipment will be there as well. You know that I told you we would never fly Ethiad again for as long as we both shall live. The sound you hear is mastication, us eating humble pie followed by our own words. See you all soon.

Drum, detail.

Wedding photography.

Kunming, capital of Yunnan province.

Tags

Kunming, Mojiang, route 213, Yuanjiang

Local messaging.

We have been trying to remain alert for the ‘ first of things ‘, and also, ‘ the last of things ‘. I think we may have seen the last Gecko, now that temperatures are lower. I did actually see our first caravan. About a week ago it was spotted, parked up in the back of an industrial unit. An undignified semi retirement functioning as squalid accommodation. It obviously had colourful tales of exotic youthful travel to tell. 7Eleven stores were left behind in Thailand, and nothing has really taken their place.

The Eiffel tower in Mojiang.

Then there is the utilitarian wooden furniture of Asia. Often appallingly designed, and put together by someone who both hates carpentry, and has not an ounce of love for wood . At best, it is brutally functional and gives you somewhere for your coffee cup. It is these wooden tables and chairs of everyday life that have now been left behind as we have biked north. Not one piece was ever made from anything less than the finest hard-wood. They disturbed me and all that I thought I understood about inertia. Not once did I get used to their unexpected solidity and weight.

I was trying to think up a word to describe the experience of lifting a chair, that at the last-minute turns out to weigh twice what you thought it should. Then of course I remembered the book ‘ The meaning of LIFF ‘, by Douglas Adams and John Lloyd, that plays exactly this same word game. The air that rushes to escape from a leather sofa as you sit on it should have a name, and so should those triangular things that separate your shopping from the next persons at supermarket checkouts. There are times on any long distance bike ride when you are left alone with your thoughts. Go and look up ‘ The meaning of LIFF ‘ on the WWW., you will be glad that you did.

Birds in the trees. Mojiang.

The end of a warm day in China, and we are in the town of Mojiang ( as always, other spellings are available ). We go for a walk in the town park. People are coming out to socialize, to sit and talk, to meet friends or let children wear themselves out running around. The men, and it always the men, have bought their caged birds to be hung from the trees and sing as the sun dips lower. It is slightly competitive, that is obvious. Many of the cages are beautifully carved and each has just one bird. Positions of the cages are changed to optimise the territorial tensions and maximise the performance.

Valley view from the top.

Mojiang is off the beaten track, and we are the centre of attention, ( next day when we try to send a parcel to Europe, we find that it takes an hour as this Post Office has never done this before ). We are stared at, never once having less than two dozen pairs of eyes following us as we walk around the park. Young girls run up to us in small giggling gangs, ” Hello, where you? ” They are all keen to try out their English. Small children have their hands forced into a wave for us by beaming parents. It is like being a minor Royal, or slightly B list famous and is draining beyond words and simultaneously wonderful.

Along fertile land.

Of course it is a climb out of town and back onto the 213. We had not expected it to be quite so brutally steep and quickly we have gained enough height to be riding among the tea plantations and forest. Overcast and cool, we have recent and vivid memories of how horrid this could have been in full Asian heat. We are riding a rising and dipping road through a perfect landscape of dense forest and misty vistas. The 213 drops a little and we are in a hidden valley that is fertile and industrious. The wide brimmed hats are everywhere, working the terraced fields high into the hills that stretch from the broad and flat valley bottom. It is 15′c and we are over a mile high. It has been very hard work on heavy touring bikes, and where we get a view of the road ahead we hope for as flat a ride as possible, one that follows the contour.

Valley view from the bottom.

Across the valley you can see your path, I.

Following the road.

Esther watched by local children.

The Indian Cuckoo is calling again ( we looked it up ), and signs of Spring are there to be seen. It is not the full blown Spring of Europe, more a phase shift, a hint of minor variation. We stop at a village to find biscuits and milky drinks. Esther makes a sketch and is quickly surrounded by excited children. My hairy legs get attention, stares and giggles. We had started the morning passing a Mosque, and now this remote village has a small white painted Christian church tucked away on the outskirts.

A rural village.

Traditional houses and new bike.

Chinese lady.

On we ride, and the road drops. It is too steep, too bumpy, and far too twisty to let the bike gain the speed that it wants to. The road is doing its best to shake the bikes to pieces and demands total concentration to avoid the bigger lips and holes of the tarmac. 22′c after the descent and we can peel off clothing. We join a river, there are trees fresh in the vivid green of new leaf, and the 1200m descent continues. The river has the feel of a Highland Burn, the first of this character that we have come across in Asia. We stop to let brakes and rims cool and to prise open our hands from the work on the brake levers.

Fertile flat land for vegetables.

Grave stone in a masons yard.

Long descent along the river.

Warren enjoying the downhill.

It is 10′c warmer by the time things flatten out and we are in the town of Yuanjiang. It is just a brown smudge on the map, but in reality is huge and shockingly busy after the remote ride through the mountains. That was a 30Km descent and would have been brutal going the other way. We both know that we had better check what happens to the 213 in the morning. It is not good news when we do find out. We use the gps to guide us to the reception of a hotel and collapse within moments of shutting the door of room behind us. Checking into a hotel in China always takes an eternity with a search for the possible quiet room, the end of the corridor sanctuary from the noise of the Chinese. Passports are always copied or even driven to the Police station for checks.

View from hotel room, Yuanjiang.

Bridge out Yuanjiang and into the mountains.

The hotel staff are helpful and as hard working as ever. The managers small daughter sits by us in the reception lobby and strokes the hair on my arm. It is possibly the most fascinating thing she has seen that week. A poor nights sleep, with shouting and argument from fellow guests. Not good preparation for what Google informs us will be our hardest day yet in Asia. We have seen the elevation details and are worried that we may not manage to get to the next town. We vow that unless there is a very good reason, we will never again look up the profile of the day ahead. It is best not to know.

The rocks felt almost like the Scottish Highlands.

Spring was not quite there yet.

The ‘ Blue Trucks ‘ are working hard, and are out in number, moving stuff from here to there on this narrow twisting road. Their brakes appear to be water-cooled and send up warm clouds of steam as they pass on the descent. Every so often there will be a water station, to fill up tanks for another crazy ride. Even by 800m, the roadside trees are barely in leaf. To try to maintain moral, we section the climb into 100m rides of altitude gain. It is hard climbing ( expletive deleted ). There are the occasional homes and steadings tended by old women in traditional dress. The ride on the 213 is an education.

Local art and culture.

the 213 became very rural – we kept on thinking of Spain and Portugal.

Red soil in the mountains.

The village of Qinglong, and we have joined the path of the Toll Road to squeeze through the mountains ahead. Restaurants are lined up one after another to do trade with the main road and us. We are not very talkative. We know that in the next bit of cycling we are going to throw away a good chunk of the 1,300m of height that we have gained. Meal over and the road drops as expected. But then it goes on dropping. Triceps and biceps of arms are vibrated more perfectly than any masseuse and fingers burn with effort to restrain the bike.

Esther and relaxed bull.

Welcome, again.

There is a noise coming from my rear wheel. The hub has done more than 34,000Km and is a credit to the name of Shimano ‘ Made in Malaysia ‘, but its time has come. It sings in pain and as the road levels after 15Km of down, the unpleasant reality of up begins. We are now low enough for it to be uncomfortably warm. 30′c and then quickly 35′c which feels horrible when the breeze decides to disappear, which it does.

Old houses, woman carrying the water to the vegetable patch.

It is said that it is impossible to experience two areas of pain simultaneously. The mind can flick between them, but you can not focus on the two together. The bottom bracket now starts to complain, and I can worry about that and the unhappy rear hub and its appalling noises at the same time, no problem at all. A pig at an abattoir would be quieter. It destroys concentration and willpower at a stroke.

Luckily, Google had been misinformed or lied to us out of compassion. The climb was not as high as we thought, and a good job too, as I would not have made it. We end the day having done 1,655m of climbing, little of which was enjoyable at the time. We are in the town of Yuangwu, with a sick bike. We need to get up early in the morning to catch a bus or two to Kunming, with the bikes doing he journey on the roof of the bus.

Getting the bike on the bus.

Of course we made it. There is a horrible feeling when you hand your precious touring bike to a bus driver. He has not the slightest idea of its value, its delicate nature, its irreplaceable importance to your continued travel. Your young daughter waving farewell as she leaves in the arms of a boy on a first date may come close to the feelings of overwhelming anxiety, but this is deeper. We are in relative comfort as we drive through a landscape of unrelenting slope. It is up, it is down, but never flat. The road is a miracle of engineering and from it there is the occasional sight of our 213. The terrain on a touring bike is brutal.

Outskirts of Kunming are still transformed.

High rise buildings and clouds, hoardings and clouds.

We first pick a hotel on the outskirts of Kunming, to rest and organise how we are going to ride into this city of 7 million without getting killed. In front of this hotel is a shopping mall. It is easily 1Km in length and almost as broad. It extends to 5 floors, all densely packed with shops and stalls. We go for a walk around it. The thing is, it is not unusual here, it looks as if a  similar MegaThing is being built in two or three locations just 1Km away. If you have ever wondered if there is a shop dedicated to selling Sellotape, I can answer your query right now. Yes there is and there is another next door.

Streets of Kunming.

We set out on our 20Km ride into the centre of Kunming with just the purple line on our gps for comfort. We know that the bike shop is near the university and we have that dialled in. There is almost always a bike lane of some sorts as you ride in cities in China. Trouble is, it offers little of the protection that you are used to from elsewhere. Almost no motorbike follows any road discipline or law. They are on the bike path with you along with stalls selling noodles and people selling puppies, and everything in between. Occasionally, you splash through evil smelling pools of standing water. You need total concentration, a map would be pointless and certainly dangerous. I will tell you again, get a gps for riding in Asia.

Xiong Brothers Bike is full of ‘ Top of The Line ‘ exotics. It deserves it’s fab reviews elsewhere on the WWW. and they gave us undivided attention for a wheel rebuild and general TLC. We rode away in much better shape than we have been for quite a while. Our SIDI shoes have been re-soled and we had a smile on our faces of pure ‘ Christ that would have cost a fortune back in Europe ‘ joy. Within a kilometre we had scored our highest total in the Exotic Super Car Game. It is similar to Scrabble, but only just. Lamborghini, Porsche, Porsche, Maserati, in consecutive parking spots!

Yang from the bike shop.

We wake to the sound of singing from the school next door. It is cheerful, possibly very patriotic and sung at full volume by the children. Obviously, I have no idea of the words. The tune is unmistakably that of the Christmas favorite, Jinglebells. Another day of wonder begins.

Sidi shoes ready for the next thousand miles.

Mojiang, Yunnan province South China.

Pu’er regional tea plantation.

Our Pu’er tea.

Can I assume that you have come across the concept of Owl and Lark people? In our short time here, we are yet to find a Lark. There is also the complete incomprehension of the concept of ‘ the indoor voice ‘. The final thing that puts them into first place in our ‘ most noisy hotels in the world ‘ and knocks the Spanish from that spot. They can not close a door without slamming it, particularly in the two hours after midnight.

Spring flowers.

It is not that they are idle during these night hours. Far from it, for there are things to be done. A collection of 1,000 metal spoons needs to be sorted into metal boxes according to shape and size. Metal plumbing materials also needs to be sorted, and like the spoons, is thrown from one side of the room to the other. Then there is the tv. At any time of day or night there is the unmissable Kung Fu movie. Yes indeed, full volume and with the door of the room open so all can enjoy the screams and bone breaking.

Monkey.

We are becoming very sleep deprived. We compounded our problems last night by staying in a hotel in the heart of the ‘ red light district ‘. It is all incompatible with the lives of the long distance touring cyclist who need to get in some early distance before the heat kicks in. We have been made welcome with waves and shouts of ” hello ” wherever we have pedaled and there is always a beaming smile. Unexpectedly, well I did not expect it. The Chinese like to whistle or sing. It is not that they are all doing it, but more than elsewhere, and enough to be noticed. I would be happy for there to be more whistling and less door slamming.

We manage to find a WWW. spot and I write a blog in Dadugang. It is midday before we are on the road. It is downward straight away. First with tea plantations at either side, then forest. We have done a hard slog upward, and are now throwing away all that hard won ascent. The toll road will be our companion for hundreds of Kilometres showing off its civil engineering against our evolution of horse tracks. It could be so much easier.

Our little road is shown in black on the gps. We descend at speed and I can see that for a few kilometres it is going to writhe in a courtship with the straight red toll road. We stop at the first place that looks like it may do food. Sooner or later we will try to be served and sit down in someones private house, but until then, the rules are; if it looks lie a hotel then it is, and so on.

Strong drink poured from a mile bottle.

Gifts of food and strong drink- the kitchen.

We are made welcome. Offered cigarettes, and poured a home made drink of frightening strength, which is followed by a top up. It is a Saturday and many have time off to eat with friends. We are a curiosity, and everyone is keen to say ” hello “. Within 16 minutes  a little of every possible dish is put in front of us. We are guests of the village and can try anything. Some dishes are obviously vegetarian, but there are others that are more sinister. We try to pay, but are waved on our way. There is no nominated driver and two Dave Yates touring bikes are less stable than normal.

Fishing in the river.

Luckily the road is not demanding. A broad valley, filled to the brim with Banana plantations. We have lost 500m of height from where we started. We intend to have an easy ‘ half day ‘ but there is a problem. The gps says one thing, and our paper maps can not even agree with each other. We find out later that the names of towns have been changed here and whole towns moved and built anew.

Washing.

Afternoon light.

The place we are heading for is further away than it should be and higher. The climbs start and then keep on coming, and as usual, the hardest ascent is left till the very end of the day and a setting sun. Pu’er looks prosperous now that it relies less on the price of tea for its economy. Like every Chinese town, it is having a building boom and spreading itself over the country a little. We ride into the outskirts and the prosperity is obvious. You have as much chance of being hit by a top of the range Audi or VW as you would in the outskirts of Düsseldorf. We find a hotel and are in for our quietest night yet.

Frizzle and bike.

Tea bags.

We end the day, with a walk around the streets of Pu’er. It may be 9.30, but there will be a stall hoping to sell you laminate flooring and another curtains or a mattress. What is also on offer, is the finest possible tea. The packaging is irresistable, but the prices will make your head spin. If you had the suspicion that we in Europe only get the sweepings from the floor to be sold as tea, the proof is here, and all around you. We find a small packet that we can afford and are walking back to our hotel when we are invited to sit and drink tea. It is an education.

Our hotel in Pu’er.

Tea plantation and view to the city of Pu’er.

Pu’er is a nice city, but probably not best viewed from the saddle of a touring bke on a Monday morning with concentration required by navigation and avoiding  being killed by rush hour traffic. I need a ‘  top end bike shop ‘. And with more than a little good fortune, there is one. We sit and wait for it to open knowing that no bike shop ever opens on time. A monk comes over to bless us and we donate a bit of money. If that will get the shop open it is well spent. 9.10, which is remarkably punctual in bike terms, and the shop is open for us.

Whilst the job is done, word goes out and a gathering for tea and the offer of more cigarettes. The universal bond of two wheel pedaling brethren is strong and you know you are amongst friends. There is hand shakes and best wishes as we set off. A little less so an hour later when we have done a hilly lap of the city and end up back here. The road has been moved and in amongst all the building work you now have to find a sandy track to get on the road out.

Climbing with characters.

The day gets going with a climb to a new highest point in Asia for us, 1722m.

Of all the senses, that of smell on a bicycle, is the most acute when compared with other ways to travel. Pine, warm resin smells of Pine released by the late morning sun. It is the first time in Asia that we are riding through Pine and we smell that familiar fragrance well before we notice the trees at the road side. On the descent, I stop to take a photo ad there it is, unexpected and perfectly clear, a Cuckoo calls.

An Inn along the Tea-horse-route.

Waiting to fill the blue trucks.

House along the tea-horse route.

50,000 pack horses moved the tea into the hills and out into the world from Pu’er. We are on their trail and bound for Europe as well. There is construction ahead, and we have the ever-present Big Blue Trucks at our elbow as we climb. China depends on these tough little trucks. There must be literally millions of them. My saddle is squeaking as my sit bones are now two prominent pegs that stick out proud. I am now so thin and angular the saddle is deforming. If I was a horse I would be a horribly uncomfortable ride.

Man working in field.

Horticulture area, approaching Ning’er.

Ning’er refuses to get any closer. Obviously we do get there or I would not be writing this, but it does feel like it is in doubt. Yet another vast building site. We get a good view of it from our hotel room. This has the good fortune of a million dollar location. It is all designer shapes amid mountains and water. The old town has been redeveloped with the exception of the odd shack. If you have lived for 80 years anywhere in China, you have witnessed so much change. Your head would spin over the last few years.

View from our hotel, Ning’er.

Old houses amongst new builds.

15′c, our coolest start yet. It is out into a murky morning and a well graded climb past vegetable plots and rice paddies to take us back up to the Pine forests. Terraces that climb the flanks of even the highest mountains, are being tended by nodding wide brimmed hats moving the red soil by hand. This is a minor road and remote villages of dogs, chickens and pigs. Still we get warm welcomes of ” hello ” and youngsters try out their ” good mornings “.

Rice fields, I.

Rice fields, II.

You know as well as I that there has to be a long hard climb at the end of the day. Pine, Eucalyptus, Tarmac and the fragrance of sweaty touring cyclist mingle in what is now a very hot day. The spelling is unsure and the location variable, but we get to Ton Quang Zheny and there is a hotel. We are absolutely shattered. We are the centre of attention, and possibly the first Europeans to stumble across this small village. High in the mountains now, the heat of the day is soon lost and it becomes what I am now calling cool, but would once have refered to as a summers day in Scotland.

1 mile down.

Misty view.

Parked farm vehicle.

Pigs by the house.

The usual poor and disturbed sleep and off into a cool morning. It is unquestionably beautiful riding. Spring is calling birds to find some of their best songs. We pass isolated homes, each with at least two dogs that have been driven mad by constraint. They snap their chains to tight tension and snarl. 700m down and now 800m back up. We asked a friend to describe cycling in this area, ” 20Km down and 20Km back up “, and he was exactly right. Today is harder than ever. I am finding it hard to smile.

Camera shy girl.

Crossing the river, then a 700m climb.

3 generations.

KM-marker for route 213.

We get waves and salutes from the Blue Truck drivers. The Toll road reappears from yet another tunnel and we are hundreds of metres higher than it. It takes a line and then holds it, held on piles and vast bridges. All around there are vast mountains, with terraces of rice and tea at impossible angles right up the flanks. It is agriculture, but carried out with the finger tips of horticulture. Remote villages are homes to workers and many have no obvious road.

Street in TonQuangZheny.

Blue lorries are everywhere.

Along the old 213.

House by the road.

Just when things are becoming desperate, there is something that looks very vaguely like a restaurant. The old lady has a wonderful smile and she motions for us to go in. We have a wonderful meal for next to no money. This is remote. Just out of curiosity I turn on the smart phone. It is full strength 3G signal and I send an eMail just because it feels so impossible.

Our route; up!

High road with Chinese burial.

The final descent down to the valley and the run into Mojiang is vertigeous. Steep enough to require stops to let brakes ad rims cool and bumpy enough the you can not let the bike have its head.Hands and forearms are burning with the effort. Just 68Km and 1,100m of climbing. We need a quiet night and are numb with the effort. Too numb to notice our red light district mistake. This is wearing us down. I wonder if I could book the whole floor. I do the math and it is not a big sum. We stay one night and then go looking for ‘ the most expensive hotel in town ‘. We need some good sleep.

Pu’er tea.

Our first province, Yunnan, China.

Tags

AH2, cycle touring China, Jinghong, Mekong, Mohan, old road 213

Hut and satellite dish, Laos.

” What time do you get up in the morning?” He thought for a moment, and began. ” When you can clearly see the hairs on your arm, and distinguish each one, it is time “. A normal answer would have been a bit of a letdown and we had enjoyed having lunch with a Zen Master.

That was back in Chiang Mai. He wished us good fortune in our visa application and we parted, us to do a bit more tourism and he, ‘ to stare at a wall for a few hours ‘. We had the visas in our bags, and as we rode out of Luang Namtha and would find out in a few hours if the visa hassle had been worth it.

In every backpacker town, there is always one person whose world citizen credentials make you feel like a day tripper. They are confident beyond words, and enjoy there time as the font of all knowledge. Esther had fallen under the spell of just such a person. ” She said, that because we have never visited China before we will only get 30 days at the border, even with a 60 day visa “.

It was a beautiful start, with a ride out into a hazy valley of muted colour. We would need to climb soon and my legs were showing little sign of being in the best of form. I could have done with another day to recover, but we could feel inertia building. It was far too easy to walk to the backpacker restaurant and order euro-food. We needed to start before it became too hard to do so.

Starting to climb towards the border.

The road rose, finding a line between jungle covered mountains. This is about as fertile land as we had seen in Laos, and where there was flat land, commercial crops were being grown. Melons were being picked by gangs of Laos, and at the side of the road, a big truck with China plates and always nearby a big Merc or Audi with China plates.

Laos and 17km to go to China.

We get near to the border and there is now a stream of trucks coming towards us. The drivers wave. A simple act, but it lifts our spirits more than you can imagine. The lorry drivers of China are a breed apart, the alphas of alpha. They need no sleep and have the reactions of cats and need as many lives. To call it a hard job is not even beginning to quantify things. In the next two days we will see the wrecks of those who do not make the curve. It is good to get a wave from people at the top of the food chain.

Just before the exit point from Laos, there is a shanty town of dust, wood smoke and packing case homes. People are doing what ever it takes to get a half slice of a half slice of 1% of the action. We get our out stamps from Laos and maintain our ‘ no bribes run ‘. Now, onto the big border.

There is a neutral zone of improvised lorry parks. Drivers pass the dead time waiting for customs catching up on sleep and playing cards. They are going nowhere fast. The China border is impressive, which is what it set out to be from the first lines on the architects pad.

Passing China border.

After all the anxiety, the staff at the border could not have been nicer. There are smiles and ‘ hello ‘, and we get our stamp for 60 days and are back on our bikes and riding into a new country.

Usually one country will flow into another. Some of the style of one will leak into the other for hundreds of Kilometres either side of the border. Not here. China becomes China at the border, and it begins with a building boom and lots of smoking and spitting.

The cooling air, not much traffic, on the highway where we were not supposed to be on.

What is now a highway passes through a zone of Cassino and hotels. All built and all sitting empty. We have over shot where we had planned to stop, but there is a second chance at a hotel. We turn from the highway towards an unnamed town. Luckily, hotels the world over look like hotels if you do not count the ones made of ice in Norway. We try to book in and a small crowd press their noses against the foyer glass to watch the pantomime.

Of course we have no Yen and the ATM looks like it only deals with a local card. We manage a command performance worthy of an episode of ‘ from the actors studio ‘. We have dollars and a wad of Laos Kip, and somehow get one double room for one night, and some yen to get something to eat. We are good, and just because we make it look easy do not think for one minute that it is. This is what we tell each other at moments when our stomachs churn with anxiety.

” Esther, we are in China “. This is hard to believe for someone who had not met anyone foreign until the age of 16 for a swimming competition in Portugal. We lie in our soft beds listening to the sound of the market in the street bellow. It does not run out of energy until 2 in the morning and things become almost quiet excepting for the sounds of phlegm clearing and the occasional bark. We have absolutely no idea of the name of the town and never will.

We have no idea, but we have lost an hour now that we are on ‘ Beijing Time ‘. All of China is on one time zone and has no daylight saving, spring forward fall back messing with the clocks. You may need to use a torch until 10 in the morning in the eastern provinces, but you know where you are with your tv schedules.

This was a very short tunnel.

Our first full day in China and we are too nervouse to eat breakfast. We rejoin the highway and put some distance between us and the border at Mohan. It is easy riding thanks to a whole load of engineering easing out the grades. Occasionally we catch sight of the old road as it twists and turns. This would have been hard just a few years ago.

There are huge and very organised banana plantations on both sides of the highway with everything in neat rows and terraced when needed. It fades into jungle on the higher slopes where clouds are held in our valley. It is rather beautiful. We take a turn to the town of Mengla looking for a bike shop. The outer zone is hotel and flagship headquarters, all less than a few years old. It makes your head spin.

We manage to find a ATM that wants to do business with the imperialist master card and then stumble across a hotel. We are feeling worn out by the assault of so much decision making. Lets call it a short day then. We fail to find a bike shop worthy of that name.

Out into a foggy morning and a big climb to make your legs tremble. We pull up into sun and a clear sky and back onto the highway that we had left. NO CYCLING, it could not be more clear and we chose to ignore it. We have a wide shoulder to ride on and it feels quite safe.

The shoulder vanishes at the first tunnel. It is not too long and we put rear lights on. We have to assume that there will be consequences for any of the trucks if they do squish us or at the very least a lot of inconvenience. Even a short tunnel shatters the nerves with the noise and the feeling of vulnerability.

Mountains along the highway.

We gain height. Now, birds are singing and there is dense jungle both sides. This really is wonderful. A police car goes by and I guess he has made the choice that we are going to be nothing but hassle to pull over. He makes a good choice.

There is a series of tunnels, all with no shoulder and little lighting. The final two of the day are pitch black and the last one is 3Km in length. Our nerves are shredded. We have done enough today and the gps shows a hotel in a town off to the side. Before we leave the highway we stop for food. ” Welcome to China ” says the waitress and throws us a big beaming smile.

Drying jack fruit.

We eat the first meal that goes down without complaint in days. The nerves of the border crossing and change of culture are starting to fade. You would think we would be getting used to this by now. On to a hotel in Mengelis and early enough for a walk around.

Recycling collection.

There are huddles of people on impossibly low wooden chairs. Card games are intense and there are bundles of money at stake. A market with wonderful fruit and slightly less wonderful pigs scrotum and penis. There is a tense feeling. Things are a little more focused on the prize here than the Asia we have traveled through.

Mao and the cigarette store.

We set out on what we think is the old road – the G213 to have a day away from tunnels and the AH2. We are on the wrong road and will be all day. Terraced slopes are covered in rubber tress to the horizon. In places that reverts to jungle and then to fruit trees. Mopeds are parked at random points and we can hear work being done, things cleared and shaped. It is just 17′c.

A shading alleyway.

Banana carrier.

When we pass villages, we get ” Hello ” shouted more than we expected. People are so keen to greet us and wave. This is a genuine feeling of hospitality. The younger ones shout ” Good morning ” and have been paying attention in class. We did not really want to go to Jinghong, but have stumbled across a perfect route to it.

Locals read our little script.

Passing a lake.

The little soldier, the little sister and the laughing mother.

We rejoin the side of the Mekong in our third country to ride by its side. Just when I am mentally composing an email to friends about the good road surfaces it quite literally falls apart. Fine smooth black top gives way to sand within a few metres and it is rippled and hard. The reason is clear as we round the bend. You hear from other travellers about China -’ They just rip up the road for 300Km leaving no surface at all! ‘, for example.

Buddhist drum and bike.

Mother and child.

Warren at the Mekong.

You also read about China building a new city every few days. You do not expect to ride into the place where they are doing just that. The Jinhong New City is being built on the banks of the Mekong. It is monumental in scale. This is the sort of things that the Romans did and it is breathtaking in its audacity.

White painted palm trees.

The end of a pleasurable road.

… and suddenly the road was a building site.

It leaves us and the cars and big trucks with about 10Km on sand and gravel. It is a truly horrid few Kilometres of curses from the Anglo Saxon end of the English language. We walk into the first building that looks like a hotel. It could be a hospital or an old people’s home for all we know. That was a hard end to a beautiful day.

Using every little patch of land in the city.

Sandbank in the Mekong.

It would have to be said that we have had two days of stunning bike touring since we crossed into China. We go for a walk around town. We return convinced of the often quoted saying ” The next person to walk on the moon will be Chinese “. You have to see it to believe it.

Building frenzy in Jinghong.

Small boys back home and Chines men here share the same habit. They pull up their shirts to show off round bellies and catch the breeze. Both look strangely pleased  with themselves, but the small boys will tend to not be holding a cigarette between thumb and first finger in the Asian style.

Another noisy night in a hotel. We are back on the 213 and less than fresh and of course we have a big climb to do. The new road will be with us all day just to show how easy it all could be. Easy grades are off limit and this turns into a toll road soon. We have just shy of 400m of climb to start the day.

Passing passing water buffalos.

We enter a National Park, our little road becoming more minor. Just to prove how rural it has become, a herd of water buffalo are being moved down the middle of it. This really is stunning. We gain more height and start to ride through tea plantations. Time for a meal. We have a ‘ crib sheet ‘ of favorite foods and our order always comes with a ‘ fire bucket of rice ‘. You would end up in hospital if you tried to eat even half of it.

Tea plantation land.

Our little road kicks away from the toll road highway and heads up into the hills. We have done 1,000m of climbing and there is much more to come. Tea looks such an unpromising shrub to base an empire and fortune on. The plantations carpet the hills to the horizon now. It has clouded over for the first time in weeks, but the effort is draining. Throats are left as dry as a tube of Pringle’s and swallowing is hard.

Climbing passed a village.

The final few kilometres are more of a ridge ride and the altitude brings cooler air. We get to the little village of Dadugang ( I doubt you will find it on any map ). The gps said there will be a hotel and to whoops of relief all round, there is. The best part of 1500m of climbing done, and it has been breath-taking. We take ourselves and our crib sheet in search of another feast and bring chaos to the streets with people who want to say ” Hello “. It is a good feeling to be welcome.

Our 40 Yen accommodation.

Chinese Notice.

A few days in Laos, with China ahead.

Tags

Chiang Khong and Huay Xai border crossing, crossing from Thailand to Laos, cycle touring Asia, cycle touring Laos, Luang Namtha, Route 3, Vieng Phouka

She deserved our money.

There is one vitally important thing to do before you leave your hotel room in most of Asia. In Laos, it is even more important that you do this, and yet now you are absolutely worn out and want to go and find something to eat. So you will forget to find the light switches first. Do not, for one minute think that you can guess where they are. There is no logic to it here, and Laos takes it to extremes.

I have moaned before about ‘ up for on ‘ not being logical. You have that to face too, once you find the lights to the bathroom. Try looking first behind the curtain on the wall diagonally opposite the bathroom. It is just as likely to be there as anywhere else. The one place you need not bother yourself to look, is anywhere near the bathroom.

Novice, not monk, with our business card.

Ferry that will take us from Thailand to Laos, 80 Bhat for person and bike.

38% of the population of France have never tasted wine, BBC online informs me. We had a bit of time to spare before riding to immigration and the ferry, and I had turned on the computer for a bit of general surfing of the WWW. That sound a bit of an overestimate. I ask Esther, and her Germanic background cuts through the BBC’s stats, ” Rubbish “. She spends the next 40 minutes trying to prove the BBC wrong.

Safe on Laos ground.

Crossing the border from Chiang Khong into Laos is a Dollar transaction only. We have no idea that there are half a dozen places at the ferry to get currency and so are trawling the banks. The third bank has Dollars, but only hundred Dollar bills. They will have to do, but most places in the US would throw up hands in horror at a 100.

On to the ferry and all things visa. Huay Xai on the far bank, is a bit of a backpacker honey pot and there are the usual mix of passports and blonde hair. Here, for the first time for us is China on holiday. They are as anxious and confused as us but a lot more vocal.

Huay Xai from hotel window.

It is all straight forward. The bikes get lifted into the long-tail boats and a few minutes later, we are back in Laos. The president of the National Assembly of Laos was here the day before and there had been fireworks in huge quantities. The flag of Laos and the communist hammer and sickle fly from every logical place to fly a flag and many that are not.

Street view in Huay Xai.

A horrid night of sleep, and we are on the road. A pig runs across the road in front of us. Within the first few K’s we pass the 5,000Km on the road in Asia and pause for a photo. There are ducks, dogs and children running across the road with the pigs and bikes and mopeds. In the shadows of wooden houses, old women are down on their haunches with long tobacco pipes clenched tight in mahogany coloured teeth. Their skin looks as brown and lined as an OS map of the peaks of highland Scotland.

5000 km done in Asia.

Going through the villages.

I had forgotten how many times we are greeted here in Laos and the profile was something I was vague about. There is a very big hill and lots of children shouting ‘ hello ‘, or the local variation ‘ goodby ‘, which they enjoy immensely. 400m climbing, but for the first time since I caught a stinking cold on the flight to Malaysia, I manage to keep my hearing. Brilliant. I will not miss the sound of my heart pounding, and laboured breathing one little bit.

Clean and colourful clothing out to dry.

Road marker.

The novelty is soon over. One big hill after another and in each flat area a village of wooden huts in the dust. We are the highlight of the day, the week and possibly the month if a truck does not crash nearby. We sit, and a can of coke is found. Children are bought to watch the falang drink. They make themselves comfortable for the show and half a dozen dogs turn up to see if there is any food to be had.

Climb ahead.

Gentle road.

Clearings in the jungle.

750m climbed by midday, and it is 40′c. We have done more walking and pushing than I can remember for months and possibly since New Zealand. The landscape makes up for it and the villages, when they come along are fascinating. It is green and lush here in the north, and the patches of vegetables around the villages look happy enough.

Staring at weird Falangs drinking.

Life here is basic but sustainable at the moment. The soil is fertile enough for the same subsistence lives that have been lived here for centuries. There is a fast profit to be made though from the Diamonds buried in the hills and the hardwoods growing on them. The road is now good, and China is just a half a day away in a truck.

Do not use hand grenades for fishing. There may be UXB’s

The new road and the old village.

Every village we go through has shady porches, with National-Geographically photogenic people sitting and watching the world go by. The jungle around the them is being logged and burned at an alarming rate. Smoke spirals up from the canopy or from blackened clear-fell areas. Another truck and another executive car goes down the road to China. Ash falls on the road like a brief flurry of April snow.

Huts, all occupied. Some used for pigs.

A Laos Village, II.

Another agonizingly big hill. The lorries are bought almost to a halt, and certainly slow enough for us to see the tyres rotate next to our panniers. We used to call these ‘ Kojak Tyres ‘. With everything else I guess that tread depth is the last thing on their mind.

Village life.

A Laos village, I.

This is going to have to be split into two today. We sit by a stall and drink bottle after bottle of sugary water. We have done 60Km and the same again is ahead. It is not the best prospect and we are going to have to wait for it to cool down a bit and we will try again.

Water.

Shop with the most expensive cans of Sprite, ever.

On we go. The road goes up and then we are hurtling down, throwing away all that elevation in a few seconds. It kicks three times, and at each summit the altimeter gets close to 1040m, which Google has guessed will be the final climb. You hope it is wrong, but in your heart you know that is very unlikely. And so it is that the final climb is just as late in the day as you had thought it might.

Now it is a race against the sun and horizon to do the last 30Km before there is no light. We have done 1800m of climbing and have little left in our legs. We drop from 1050m and the speed goes up. The town at the end of the purple trace on the gps fails to get any closer.

Homestay in Vieng Phouka.

We make it. Of course we do, but you do not know that at the time and you do not know that there is room at the third place you try. It has been a hard day and not to be repeated too often. 1955m of climbing and 122Km, and we end the day with muesli and banana with a  bottle of ‘ Lao beer ‘ to make it feel a bit more like an occasion.

The hut is made from wood, except from the bits where there is no wood and I can see straight out. It is basic, made from material that elsewhere would be used for kindling. It is comfortable enough, and there is a mosquito net of sorts. It looks far enough away from the main road to be quiet, but is a great place for the local youth to move unseen and to race around on their mopeds to impress girls. Another bad nights sleep in Laos. I would hate to be a librarian here, they have no concept of quiet please.

Winding through the mountains.

Next morning the village PA is turned up to 11, and trying to drown out the chant of the monks. Lao F.M. or whatever the party is broadcasting is going to make quite sure you do not sleep late. We are on the road to China.

Flat road.

It is a fertile valley with deep dark coloured soil. Lorries are being packed with cardboard boxes of water melons bound for China. The road squeezes between rock plugs and we climb and descend all day. Luckily, today the ups are more constrained and we make the 60Km before the full sun hits.

River crossing.

Today is a ‘ once in a lifetime ‘ experience for the keen entomologist in the family. Butterflies are everywhere, from flocks of small blue ones to flamboyant singles ( collective noun butterflies kaleidoscope, rabble, swarm). Of course there will always be one more big hill. Up and over, and then down into the town of Luang Namtha and the promise of a quiet night and good food. The Chinese border is just a few kilometres further on,  a new country for us and this one is huge.

Roof material for the house, gathered in the jungle.

Bit of a hill.

Last bit to Luang Namtha.

Chiang Khong, across the Mekong from Laos.

Tags

Chiang Khong, Chiang Mai, cycle touring Thailand, Mekong, Phayao, route 1020, route 1021

Monk sweeping in evening light

I have pointed out before, my theory that a country with deeply held religious beliefs and concepts of some sort of afterlife, is a sure-fire certainty to have appalling road manners. The Catholic hot spot of Spain had its moments, and if you ever want to travel to Poland you should check your insurance details with some care.

Thailand appears to have no understanding of even a basic concept of ‘ mirror, signal, manoeuver ‘. Self-preservation, or something else in the Darwinian genetic soup should make you look before you pull out from a minor road into oncoming speeding traffic. Not here it doesn’t.

Tins of biscuits.

I even started to wonder if the highway code here was different, and they had the right of way. Of course not. There is also every possibility that they will hit a vehicle driving on the wrong side of the road. If you are only going to the next village you can drive on the side that is most convenient.

It all looks harmless enough, with lots of big smiles, babies held under one arm and steering with the other, and lots of shouting on mobile phones. Then I was trying to look up on the WWW how many of the people here actually have a driving licence. There were quite  a few sites offering forged documents, but nothing I was after. Then, ‘ average daily road deaths on mopeds ‘, caught my attention. It is forty per day here!

Typical Thai BBQ Chicken; available along the roads of Thailand.

We are heading North East, away from Chiang Mai. We have our usual ‘ first day at school ‘ nerves after a few days off the bikes. We pick up the 118, which we will be on all day. From our first pedal stroke it is the madness of city riding. It can be exhilarating in a familiar city, to be on a bike and ride at the very limits of common sense. This morning it is tense and adds to the slightly sick feeling in our stomachs.

Morning Traffic in Chiang Mai.

After 25Km, things start to calm a little. It is still a dual carriageway, but traffic has turned left and right at the cities outskirts. We have other things on our mind, the first major hills for some time. They kick off with 12%, and I think I can feel the 2Kg that I have put on with good food in Chiang Mai. Up we go, through what is now dense forest on both sides disappearing into a thick blue tinged murk.

Family photo at a cafe stop.

Esther is having a poor day. There are days when you do not ‘ have the legs ‘ and it can happen to the cycling legends of the peloton just as easily to you or I. Luckily for us, we do not have a pro contract and some explaining to do on Bastille day when you trail in, off the pace in a tour stage you were meant to win for your French team. This does not make the feeling any better, just different. It is a bad day.

43′c and steep uphill.

Now, I know some of you are getting a bit fed up with me going on about the heat here in Asia. Northern Europe is under a deep blanket of snow and the only happy person we know is our friend ‘ Doggy Allan ‘, who owns the sled dog centre in Aviemore. Here, the heat starts to kick in and becomes, ‘ the limiting factor ‘.

At least the water did not taste bad – Klean Kanteen alloy bottles!

It is 43′c, and Esther can no longer ride with her head spinning. It is time to stop and find shade or risk a fall. I put here Rapha cycling top in a stream and she puts it back on wringing wet. We sit and wait for her to cool down and stop looking so gothically pale.

Descending at last.

What Thai-English dictionary had been used here?

Tough cookie that she is, she manages to put in a quality ride to take advantage of the 24Km descent, that ends the day. We are still high up, having lost just 400m in height on the way down. The next morning, it is gloriously cool. On with the gillets for the first few kilometres as the sun struggles to clear the horizons haze.

A rare gillet morning – with arm warmers as well.

A completely unexpected and leg numbing climb comes out of nowhere. We had got a bit sloppy and not looked up this bit of the road up on the profile app. The flat land had inexplicably been smelling of moth balls. Climbing, it now had the earthy warm compost smell of a garden centre green house. It is a vividly clear smell of childhood summer days, and the very pinnacle of human existence for my mother. A  drive to a garden centre was pure joy for her,  and not one had been missed in a 500 mile radius of home. Once every year or so she may even buy a plant.

Road side shrine.

As night follows day Here comes the down.

Every climb will have its yin and yang, the ascent and descent. This one was a white knuckle 67.5 Kph, in a green tinged corridor of joy. There are times when I hope for a less vivid imagination, and dentistry is the other. As usual, the forest is being cleared, bit by bit, with random curls of smoke rising all around us. Many are unattended, and some close enough to hear crackling and feel the heat. It is a sort of sensual oxymoron. It is clearly a bad thing, but it does smell fantastic.

Forrest and road.

There is the sound of running water from close to the left of the road. It is so long ago since we have heard this that it is a distant memory. It catches our attention immediately. The sound of  fast running water tumbling over and between rocks is quickly followed by the sight of a huge high waterfall. Tan Tong falls drops from the canopy into a cool pool.

Tan Tong falls.

10.00 o’clock now, and warm enough for cicadas to find their voice. In half an hour it is almost painfully loud. The road climbs for a further 9Km or so beyond the falls and is steep enough and hot enough to make you wish you had started even earlier. Then it is down and here a strange thing happens. My meter says 39′c , but at every sharp turn, where we scrub off speed to make the corner, there is an intense burst of heat. I look to see if one of the fires is close to the road. I am not sure what is happening, but some how the hill is holding in the heat, trapping it down on the road.

Even where it flattens, it is still bakingly hot.

It feels like trying to ride a bike with your head stuck in one of those bowl hair dryers. You are facing the wrong way, into the hood of the dryer and it is on high heat. Thank god we did not climb this. There is a flattish ride into Phayao to end the day, for which we are very grateful.

Still happy from the decent.

The little town of Phayao has more nice cafes than you would guess that it should. It has a good feel about it, and we take a cheap hotel and sit at one of the cafes to watch the world go by. That was a couple of hard days. It has been a while since my cycling kit has ended the day in tie-dye patterns of crusted salt rings.

The lake at Phayao.

Beautiful old wooden house in Phayao.

Early start as ever and we pass a temple with a surprisingly cheerful and frankly fat buddha. He is dressed in a silver cape which makes him look as if he may be considering a bout of Mexican Wrestling. We pull in and the monks offer us water, the traditional gift to touring cyclists and civilians alike. Our ride today has a slightly flatter parcour that allows us time and senses to savour the first Cherry blossom.

Fat Buddha in silver gown.

Chinese Burial mount.

How to sculpt an elephant.

The pinkest bike belonged to the leader of the gang.

We have no choice of hotel at the end of the day. It looks as if it may have been an industrial unit or a garage for buses at one time. Now, it has been sectioned off into units and looks as if sound proofing was not one of the criteria when this was done. One bad nights sleep will not kill you. Which is a very good thing indeed. There are no Geckos in our room and we conclude that they perhaps prefer somewhere quieter.

Another Buddhist temple being built.

Scarecrow with wide brimmed hat in rice field.

Back in Chiang Mai, for no other reason than I could, I had put new chains on both bikes. At just 4,500Km it is a bit ahead of schedule, but now they are worn in lubed, and as we ride away next morning they are virtually silent. Man, and women, and heavily laden Dave Yate’s touring bike are in perfect harmony. It feels good.

Morning haze and rice paddies.

We turn right, leaving the 1021 and picking up the 1020. To our right are what the Lonley Planet  describes as, ‘ some of the finest mountains in Thailand, with a quite breath taking road that is one of the finest in Asia ‘. The 1020 is the flat alternative and we feel not a single pang of guilt at picking it instead.

The weaving center.

Flat road, the 1020.

Single tree in rice field, 1020.

We make good progress and cover the 100Km to Chiang Khong without tears. The Mekong that we left almost 1,500Km is there to greet us and in the haze on the far bank is Laos. We are going to take a rest day here and prepare our route ahead. Chiang Khong is peaceful and we sit at a river front cafe watching the long tail boats fight the strong flow. The bank is dotted with well used shrines, a sign of the dangerous waters. We watch as rice and offerings are placed and incense lit. They look like bird tables and Mynah Birds consider them as such, fighting over the offerings before flying off noislily with the treats. There is almost constantly the sound of music from poor quality speakers turned up to max, comes across the river from Laos. That is just a few kilometres shy of 5,000Km done in Asia so far.

Personal shrine, or bird table.

Towards the hotel, down to the Mekong.

Vegetable plots along the Mekong, Chiang Khong.

A visa for China in Chiang Mai Thailand.

Tags

2 months China Visa, 60 day China visa, Applying for a China Visa, Chiang Mai, cycle touring China, cycle touring Thailand, How to apply for a China visa, Where to get a China Visa in Thailand

Bicycle Rickshaw.

I thought I would put up a post, ‘ just for information ‘ for anyone wishing to pick up a China Visa in Thailand. You could drive yourself completely mad as you try to get things in order for a visa application. I had read somewhere that there was a possibility of getting a two month visa if we came to the China Consulate in Chiang Mai. Which is why we have cycled very nearly two sides of a triangle to end up here.

Printing off three copies of the application form from the WWW. means that you have a ‘ stunt application form’, on which you can make all your mistakes and learn how to spell the Chinese town names and get them to fit in the rather small boxes on the form. Nowhere on the WWW. does anyone make any suggestion to say anything about cycling. There is a get-out that will allow you to tell just a very small white lie.

Recycling.

Use the words ‘ over land ‘, when asked how you are going to travel. This gets less of a surprised look than you may imagine. We calculated that our proposed route is more than 5,000Km in length. Pull off he internet a hotel within a day of the point where you will cross into China. You will have to actually book this, so make sure the hotel has a free refunds policy. Print out the booking and put it with the rest of what will shortly become a bulging plastic folder.

Statues on the old library.

Divide your route into five other stages, in as close to equal measure along your planned passage through China. Look up hotels in each place and print them off without booking. We asked if we could assume that we had 60 days and were told that we could.

Terracotta storage.

Add those printed bits of paper with exotic sounding hotel names in far away places to your bundle. This is what is called an ‘ itinerary ‘ and is a work of the most exquisite fiction. The FAC on the consulate’s web site says very little or nothing about needing this, but it is the price you pay for going ‘ overland ‘ and not having a return air ticket. We had to go away and do this.

Roschi_Dan, Zen Buddhist.

Nowhere on the WWW. does it say anything about not being able to apply for an express or single day application if you hold a German passport. I am fairly sure that they made this rule up on the spot to get a longer look at our passports once we asked for 60 days. You have just saved yourself a wedge of cash, but are going to be spending four days in Chiang Mai.

Hairdresser with unhappy lap-dog.

There are many worse places to be forced to spend time. You will probably need it if you are trying to organise even the simplest of other tasks. We needed a bike shop to do some stuff. we checked for the best places on the WWW. and mostly had to go to them as they do not pick up the phone. Checking that they are open is not enough, you have to ask if they have a mechanic who will be turning up for work on that day. Check again if they are sure about that.

You are now in the position of going to the consulate with your application. I had read that it is a good idea to wear your ‘ Sunday Best ‘ for this visit. Looking smart may actually help and can do no harm.

Moped companions.

Put the receipt from the consulate in a very safe place but somewhere you will still remember in four days time. You have been asked why you need 60 days and have said ” it is a very long way “. They will be a bit concerned that you have never been to China before to which you have replied, ” It is a once in a lifetime trip to have this time to travel such a huge country “.

Old Merc.

There is no booking of times to hand in or pick up the documents. You could be there for hours or a few minutes. Give yourself enough time to dash away to an internet cafe or copy shop to recover from any small errors. You are again smartly dressed. All the visas that sit in your passports tell a compelling tale of exotic travel undertaken at a snail’s pace. Your story looks good.

Golden Buddha on a shrine.

There in your hands is your passport. On a page near the back is a rather unremarkable visa from the Peoples Republic of China, with 60 days clearly marked. Now why did you not try for 90?

All of the companies that the WWW. says offer a China visa agent no longer do as they have got more than a little bit fed up with the hassle. We got them on a good day. To be honest everything they ask for is par for the course and actually a lot less than the USA asked for when we got our 6 month visa. What worked today has little hope of being true in a weeks time, so very best of luck.

Happy Esther.