Category: Türkiye 2024

. . . and making the most of it. Mrs S is a renowned expert. She’s like the proverbial juggler. Able to keep any number of objects flying through the air at any given moment. AKA Mrs Multitask. She hates to occupy wasted time which could be utilised more effectively. In fact, she even hates to witness anyone else wasting time too (especially Mr S !) A job as a Trades Union time and motion manager would have been right up her street.

Beastie’s engine is a bit like Mrs S too. A co-ordinated multitude of tasks being executed at any given time. Intent on moving forward. Not standing still. Although most of his timing management is handled by a single timing belt. After seven years and 45,000 miles of being let loose on the open road, it came to light just a few days before leaving, that his should have been replaced two years ago! It’s not a small job, but not wanting to risk being caught out in the middle of Türkiye’s wilderness, we decide to bite the bullet. We get him back just in time, twenty-four hours before take off.

Day 1 – finds us pitched up at Camping La Chenaie, a 2K walk outside the old city wall of Laon, about 40K north of Reims famous Pommery Houses. Like many towns and cities en France its inner medievalness has been preserved. In those days everyday life was all about staving off marauders. As a consequence, they would build a town, or a city, on the highest lookout hill around. Erect a massively thick and tall outer wall and shout obscenities down to any passerby, who may be harbouring ill intention. Giving no thought to the passing visitor as to how they should reach the centre up-top, without falling into a severe state of apoplexy, from the sheer effort. Several hundred years later, we find ourselves hiking that one in three incline – like a couple of hillbilly goats intent on seeing what’s hiding behind those ancient walls. So we do. And see. The cathedral in particular, is spectacular.

During our walk around the centre we come across a number of Banksy look-alikes.

There’s nothing to fear, except fear itself – so the well known phrase tells us. The mind can create catastrophe out of thin air, where non exists. Like a magician it seemingly produces strange and worrying scenarios that never come to fruition. A can-load of worms buried deep underground in the subconscious. A multitude of wriggling and furtive ‘what if’s’. Ready and waiting to surface.

And so it was, that after reading up on the poor and rundown state of many camping facilities in Türkiye and the lack of a decent electric hook-up, we decided to invest in a larger than life battery pack. One with a 1500W built in inverter, for when we’re off grid. This mini-beast is capable of powering our toaster, Nespresso machine and most importantly Mrs S’s hairdryer!!!

We’re currently south of Metz, enjoying single figure temperatures on the beautiful Villey le Sec camp site, nestled alongside the very full Moselle.

It’s so easy to live in the future sometimes. Especially when the present is not as it should be and change is yearned for. When what seems like an interminable set of circumstances start to grind you down. Your mind fast-forwards. Desperate to shake off the heavy coat of pessimism. Imagines a softer, less harsh time. One where peace and tranquility abide.

Our minds are fast-forwarding. Set on the welcoming warmth further south and east. Focused on reaching that sunshine just as soon as we can. Winter back home has felt never-ending. However, the weatherman has other ideas.

Today we cross over into Germany. Heading for our one-nighter at Hohencamping, Langenbrand. A do-able 280K. With no autobahn charges, we break our own rule. Beastie’s no slouch on the motorway, but an Exocet he’s not, despite taking the quickest and most direct route.

The motorway services over here are like elaborate parking lots for the thousands and thousands of container trucks that ply the Shengen routes 24/7. Crammed in like huge sardines, their massive tin bodies create dirty coloured static shoals. Parked alongside, Beastie feels and looks like a minnow.

On site, our pre-dinner appetiser is a forty minute ping-pong session.

Every good story worth its salt has at least one main protagonist. A character that’s capable of driving the narrative in whichever way it chooses. Openly leading the reader one way, then the other, before deceitfully doubling back to cover tracks, or invent different possibilities. Clouding perceptions with conundrums. Confusing issues with inconsistences. One second telling the truth. The next a lie. Perhaps. Maybe.

The beauty of this morning’s white awakening is enhanced by the muffled silence. Stepping down, crunching and squeaking into freshly lain snow brings a feeling of joy to the spirit.

We’re currently pitched up on what is no more than an elaborate car park at Campingplatz Nord-West, Munich. Paying a pretty price of €59 for the privilege too. The most expensive overnighter in our experiences to date. But one in which we had no option. A question of third time lucky.

Touring on spec, as we do, always leaves open the possibility of a disappointment, or two, as proves the end of today’s journey. Campsite one at Langwieder See, resembles a cramped scrapyard of old and discarded caravans. Bunched up tightly together like fractal polytuplets. As if each depended on its neighbour to survive. A brief 360 and we’re out. Campsite two at Ampersee, according to our travellers’ bible should have opened on 1st April. But the entrance sign says “Sorry, but we’re closed”. Fortunately all three are within 20K.

France, Germany, Italy and Spain, for the main part, play the main protagonists for most MOHO travellers. Campsites throughout have so far steered under any EU bureaucratic regulations. It’s what gives every campsite its uniqueness. The ability to be either good, bad, or indifferent to the services it provides.

German campsites are free and liberal with hot water. But. You pay a price for that so seemed luxury.

One of our many impressions while touring, is that the grass this side of La Manche often seems greener. An appealing ambience exudes in many visited locations. Constantly bringing the thought to mind ‘Wouldn’t it be lovely to live here’.

And no more so than at today’s two-nighter – Camping Nord-Sam, Salzburg. A short bus journey from the Aldstadt. That awaits us tomorrow. We pitch up. Leave Beastie to cool down. Do likewise. Take a brisk walk, into a brisk finger-numbing wind. Blow away today’s mind and bottom numbing journey along the A8. A mix of cyclists pass. Some togged up, as if ready to move on from base camp, only eyes visible. Others pretend it really is spring. No gloves. Flimsy cotton tops. Hardy types. Women!!

We love the landscape that surrounds the local towns and villages here. The logical and thoughtful way metalled cycle/walk-ways connect one and all. Clearly signed. Simple and functional.

We pass gardens with wisteria, cornflowers, geraniums and their like, all in bloom. Well ahead of back home. Our path opens out. Leads us through oceans of buttercups, earnestly glowing in the gloom. Oblivious to the valley chill. Brighten our way.

Like Maria von Trapp, we’re walking free in the wind. No lonely goatherd in sight. Mrs S reckons if we lived here I’d want to climb every mountain. Yet for a mere €60 we could take the Sound of Music tour – some scenes filmed in these parts.

Our 2K touch n turn perfectly timed at Antonius von Padua Catholic Church. Small, circular, with amazing internal murals.

You can’t always feel at your best. Things happen that can change your mood. Sometimes there can be no apparent reason. You just don’t feel quite your normal self. A little lack-lustre. No energy. Or simply under the weather.

Eleven stops and the number 23 drops us into the heart of Salzburg’s Aldstadt district. The grey heavy cloud cover hangs threateningly overhead. Biding its time. Silently waiting, assassin-like, ready to strike its victims at any given moment.

It’s not the type of day Salzburg would really want to welcome visitors. It feels dull headed. Not looking its best i.e. picture postcard perfect. It hates to be seen in a bad light. “Send them away! I’m not in the mood. I’m feeling under the weather”.

We are too, but in a different way. In any event, all and sundry ignore its pleas. Nationalities from across the globe flock here. Eager to visit the birthplace of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. The museum, dedicated to the genius child and man, has been accepting visitors since 1880. Our first port of call.

Set within a labyrinth covering three floors, it details the great man’s family, birth, life and unexplained death, at the all too early age of thirty-five.

Mozart developed a passion for composing opera and the final room displays models of many sets used in those productions. Hugely inventive and intricate in their own right.

We move on into the impressive cathedral. Intricately ornate beyond belief, but not overtly garish.

We discover that it’s a working church taking its role seriously – good to see.

Before lunch we idle the streets centrally. Intentions to not spend. Just as well. Many streets interconnected by up-market alley arcades. Some touting only the best that money can buy.

In contrast, this busy shop is selling a product more to our taste . . .

A Nordsee lunch is walked off at Salzburg’s mighty Fortress, a fat sentinel that guarded the city for centuries. Now houses a fascinating city history.

The Puppetry rooms show how important and popular stringed puppetry was to the plebs of the day. Never more so than when poking fun at the elite.

Stepping out at the bottom of the almost perpendicular funicular, the heavens heave a sigh of release. Decide it’s time ‘to go’. The forecast lied. Mrs S is brolly-less. OMGA. We head for the nearest cafe for shelter. Sit it out with a cappuccino and cake, before twenty-threeing back to camp.

It’s how friendships are created. A moment of broken ice. A mutual warmth between. An unconditional acceptance. A desire to get to know the other. Forge a link. Have some fun.

Day 7 – A 299K squirt, finds us pitched up at Campsite Ljubljana Resort. A work in progress. Literally. Aiming to live up to its ‘Resort’ title. It’s almost there. High quality tiling and fixtures in the still to be completed shower block give a sense of ‘hotel’. However, with no doors in place yet, the wind inside spins around one’s exposed nether regions like Whirling Dervishes who’ve spent far too long lost in the Siberian Chara Desert.

Day 8 – With no sign of a change in the weather, we use the opportunity to continue our rush south. Like a couple of stoic starlings in search of warmer climes. Wings frantically flapping, just to keep warm. Happy to leave Slovenia’s capitol to its 4C and bone chilling rain. By the time Croatia looms, that Cs doubled and more than tripled upon reaching Campground Zelen-Gaj, Lonja. A small and perfectly pretty site of eight pitches, set within the Lonjsko Polje Nature Park.

The run in, and subsequent walkabout, has the feel of being in an open air museum. It turns out that this area is famous for its traditional timbered houses. Sadly, many barely standing, as one generation passes and the next head for the city, in search of euros and the 21stC. Even at €25,000 a pop, with acres of land, there are few homegrown takers.

There are hundreds of properties lying to waste with acres of land. Desperate for some TLC. Our leg stretch passes mostly deserted worn down types. All from another era. Romantic reminders. No longer viable. Who wants to work the land from dawn to dusk, when the local mini-market can supply everything?

One week on the road. It’s time Mrs S has a break from cooking. Restaurant Svratiste, a camp-site add-on, to the rescue. Nikolina and Josip cook up a storm. Home made food at its best. All downed to satisfaction with the largest glass of local fruity red ever. Mrs S can feel a ‘hic’ coming on . . .

Mrs S (& Mr) not impressed with Josip’s background music. The gentile jazz influenced piano-forte, has been replaced with a more traditional vibe. Is he trying to impress? Drum up an authentic ambiance? It’s a sound which hasn’t been heard since the days of the 60’s Eurovision Song Contests, when each eastern European country really did think that their homegrown music was top of the pops. We request a change from these Croat rhythms that are creating an offbeat feeling. He obliges. Calls up another playlist. Switches to Blues and some Pink Floyd – that’s more like it. Reveals he has a Fender in the back room.

Desserts and coffee are by-passed. Complimentary brandy and liqueur offered. We don’t mind if we do. Seconds follow. We don’t mind if we do. (Did I already shay that?) Spirits raise spirits. Banter flows. Smiles widen. Laughter loudens.

One cannot but associate bureaucracy with communism. An inner desire for complete control, without the use of a gun.

Day 9 – Camp Dunav, Belgrade welcomes us with 20C and blue skies. Arriving on spec, Beastie rolls onto one of the few remaining pitches. Slips in between a Slovenian and French MOHO, to enjoy a threesome. All other twenty MOHO spots taken by a touring group of Dutch. The doubling of temperature calls for Mr S to pack away his jeans. It’s shorty time.

Patiently waiting for admission into the EU since 2012, Serbia Border Control does its best to repay, despite the fact that Serbian citizens have been granted the freedom to travel the Shengen area visa free. Our early afternoon crossing passes five miles of lorries. Hemmed in. Lying in wait. Crying on the hard shoulder. Each driver preferring a game of Russian roulette no doubt. A living nightmare for them and their contractors. Each one subject to a mind-numbing process. Our sixty minute wait, a mere spec.

It makes you think about the time and human effort it takes to put those far flung ‘taken for granted’ products on our shelves.

Day 10 – With no EE roaming coverage in Serbia (an oversight by Mr S) we decide to exit left. Head into Bulgaria. Smaller A roads become our norm and favoured routes.

To find only a handful of vehicles in front at the border crossing, comes as a relief. Although it takes the best part of 45 minutes to get through. Strangely, on exiting Serbia, we’re asked to furnish Beastie’s registration documents. A bit late now. We’re also asked to back him up for an internal inspection. He doesn’t flinch. A tall uniformed good looking fresh faced and pleasant smelling whipper-snapper sheepishly climbs aboard. He ducks in. Officially pretends he knows what he’s looking for. Points to a cupboard. Food filled. Elongates his neck around into the bedroom. Emulates the water filled N-T-L from The Abyss. Finds a bed. Surprise, surprise . . . backs out. Non the wiser . . .

Misses Beastie’s wine cellar.

We cross into, what can only be described as a non-war zone gap of 100 metres. AKA Nomansland. Although no-one is playing footie. (Well, it’s not Christmas!) Stop at the Bulgarian western front. It’s then that Mr S realises he’s forgotten that all roads in Bulgaria require a digital vignette to be purchased. Luckily I can buy one here. I misunderstand instructions and find myself inside the large office. Screens everywhere. A silent quizzical look passes between the uniforms. “How the FCUK did that unauthorised person gain access and breach our security systems? Get him away from the screens”

“Can I buy a vignette here?” – “TAM. TAM” pointing to an ATM lookalike I’d walked past – on the outside! I open the unlocked door I’d just entered through. Buy a vignette with the assistance of one of the uniforms. He’s looking sheepish too. The steady stream of traffic had probably been particularly unwelcome and therefore dealt with more slowly than usual. The uniforms seemed to be spending more time behind glass than was necessary. It’s Saturday afternoon. “Who’s playing I ask” – “The equivalent of Man U vs Liverpool” – the two Sofia teams PFC and Levski going head to head – being watched live, intermittently, on a mobile phone.

Our journey ends at Camping Starite Porove. A secluded guest house with twelve camper spaces – all empty. Beastie chooses the flattest. It’s taken the owners twenty years to build from a dilapidated ruin. The shower facility is spa-like. We loves it.

Outside of human invention, its debatable as to whether time exists. Can the distance between life and death be measured? What exactly are these eight minutes and twenty seconds that it takes sunlight to reach the earth?

Rarely do things stay the same. They either improve, or get worse. Just maintaining a quid pro quo situation can take a huge amount of effort. Just ask any keen gardener.

We’re currently in a state of faut déjà vu. The fact is, we stayed in Camperstop Vrana on the southern outskirts of Sofia, in 2019, during our Greece trip. A forever memorable stop, mainly due to an ill-planned spontaneous walk by Mr S, that lead Mrs S on a merry dance, via a route she would rather have not travelled. But let’s not talk about that. Been there, blogged that.

However, inside this MOHO coop, time has brought on an improvement. The owner has installed a hi-tec German designed wash-up facility . . . obviously in the hope it will drum up extra business – BOOM BOOM!

Earlier in the day we take time off from scudding southwards. Don sunnies. Spend an hour or so going nowhere fast. Montana provides a perfect perambulation.

A couple of ice creams later, then it’s time to go wake Beastie from his shady spot. Then it’s onwards and downwards.

The first men on the moon must have needed fistfuls of faith. Trust too, in bucket loads. Plus an unquenchable thirst for adventure. Entering the unknown. Their journey planned and executed with a fraction of the onboard technology that’s inside Beastie.

Our leap of faith starts tomorrow. Into the unknown for us. A new country, in a new continent. Full of the interesting and different. Maybe the curious and curiouser. We’ve planned. Put everything in place. But . . . we’ll soon find out. Will we be venturing into the sun? Or the dark side of the moon?

At this precise moment, it’s hammering down. As if the king of all pop riveters is working Beastie’s roof. The time is 15.37 and 50, no, 51, no, 52 . . .seconds on Tuesday 30th April 2024. We’re on day two of our two-night stop-over at Sakar Hills Camping. 35K north of the Turkish border. Exactly on schedule. This English run site, along with its counterpart Camping Dragijevo, situated near the old capitol in Veliko Tarnovo, were the very first two camp sites to be officially set up in Bulgaria, sixteen years ago. They are part of a small group of sites that have been leading the way for MOHOmers and the like, to explore this beautiful country.

This site is the perfect location, but . . .

Yesterday afternoon hemmed us in too. Giving us the opportunity to master a new game – Mancala. On loan from our fab friends Sue & Dave. Looks simple, but it’s a thinking game of anticipation and preparation. One where you can never be sure whether you’ve won or not, right up to the very last move.

The near village of Biser provides our short walkabout this morning. A nose and mini shop. The housing a real mix of run down and on the way out; those just managing to sustain an equilibrium; those owned by hopefuls with something more elaborate in mind. How, or to whom they’d ever sell to in the future, a mystery.

It’s stopped raining. During the time it’s taken me to write up today’s post, Mrs S has been busy too. With a more artistic project.

Not quite the end. The rain stops. We decide to skip into town. It doesn’t have one of everything. But it does have one shop and one restaurant. We’re hungry. The waitress approaches. Ready to take our order. A young girl and her friend realise we’re English. Rush over from the far side of the room. Viki, a modern looking second grade student, is keen to practise her language skills. Exudes confidence as she acts as our translator.

We decide to have dessert. Then we decide not to. The table immediately behind becomes occupied by two men. Their wine arrives. Time to light up. Despite a no smoking law that’s been in place since 2012.

We walk back to camp in the rain.

[The next blog post may be some days away. We need to source Turkish sim cards, hopefully with enough coverage and data.]

When things don’t go according to plan and not in your favour, it’s so easy to let them drag you down. You can become angry, frustrated, manic even. We all have different levels of tolerance. Different ways of reacting to trying situations. Dealing with those associated emotions, overcoming and letting go of perceived ‘disasters’ is crucial in ridding yourself of negative energy. Easier said than done though.

Today we say goodbye to Bulgaria and say hello to Türkiye.

We’re mentally prepared for a four hour border crossing. Anything less will be a bonus. Unaware of a series of events that will test our coping strategies.

It’s one of those situations, like being pushed in at the deep end. We’ve all been there. A spot of on-the-job training. First day a confusing nightmare. Seven lanes. Full to the brim. No real signage to help first-timers. It’s a guessing game. Which lane? Beastie’s not a bus. He’s not a car. Does that mean he’s non-binary?

No other MOHOs to follow. I choose car.

All’s going well until we’re approached by an official. I think he’s saying we’re in the wrong lane and is asking me to reverse all the way back. The car immediately behind doesn’t fancy being butted in the face by Beastie’s backside, so slips through on the nearside as I start the ponderous manoeuvre. Which is where I continue looking, in case more decide to do the same. Don’t notice the bus trying to get through on my side. Until a huge blast of his desperate horn shakes my concentrated focus. My foot hits the brake pedal so hard it brings Beastie to a body shuddering full stop. Mrs S is jolted out of her seat and sure I’ve pranged the bus.

I’ve not! There’s at least three inches to spare.

We eventually move through All Passports – we’re now Brexiteers. Then head for D3. Auto Insurance required. They seem to love paperwork more than the French. We show all documents. Pay the fee. Move on to window two, where exactly the same process follows, but without the fee.

We’ve heard they sometimes X-Ray vehicles. Beastie gets herded into a RI-RO hangar. No electronics in sight. It’s going to be a personal hands-on search. A hatchback in front is loaded to the hilt with stuff. Some of it is brought out to aid inspection. One man passes with a dozen cans of beer and a couple of bottles of spirits. Confiscated no doubt. Then it’s Beastie’s turn. He’s inundated with alcoholic hiding places. We tell him to keep a straight face. Don’t give the game away.

She steps aboard. Looks in one food cupboard. Sees food. Steps down.

“How many glasses of alcohol do you have on board?” – A calculator is not at hand, so I lie and say eight bottles. I’m then asked for vehicle documents and escorted to another window, where once again Scoot’s and Beastie’s V5C details are keyed in. Nothing like having things done in triplicate.

The green light is given. We roll Beastie onwards very slowly, for fear the sound of clinking bottles may give the game away. Just over three hours. Two happy bunnies.

At Edirne, today’s destination, there’s a lot of road works on the go. We (I) become discombobulated when our route is supposed to take us through a pedestrian only thoroughfare, with a bollarded entrance. I turn left instead of right. End up in a narrow dead-end street. A couple of surprised military look on. During the course of my embarrassing twenty point turn I prang Beastie’s backside on a low lying (but not that low lying, bollard) His tender trim gets a split lip. BOLLARDS!#!$*

We back track and by chance see Otopark. A huge gravel carpark, overlooked by a new and massive raised section of motorway. There’s one other MOHO parked up. He’s moving on before mid-night. It’s his last day of ninety. He says it’s safe. We decide to stay for the night. Take a breather. Calm down. £5 – a no brainer. It has modern European style loos. Sorted.

It continues to be one of those Bizarre days. We head into town. In search of a couple of SIM cards. It’s an almost typical centre. One that you’ll find anywhere. But with it’s own unique peculiarities. Packed with shoppers. At Vodaphone we can buy 20GB for 1,000 TLira (£25) However, first we can only buy one card. Then, not even that. Their system is playing up.

Turkcell shop offer is 20GB 1,700TL, so we buy only one sim. Thinking that in Istanbul we can get a better deal. Come across a second Vodaphone shop, where 20GB is going for 2,000 TL. We go back to Turkcell.

Essentially Otopark is like wild camping in the middle of a city. The almost final straw comes when we discover a fault with Beastie’s onboard boiler. It won’t switch on. We need it for dish wash-up and wash/shower. An hour later, an internet search discovers an old thread, with a suggested cure. We turn on the engine and then the boiler – hey presto! We can go to bed clean.

Our sweet dreams come to a nightmare ending at 5am with the call for prayer.

We agree not to go . . .

We like to think we’re in control. It’s clear we’re not. Plans. Routes. SatNavs. Might just as well fly out of the window. There are too many other sources of influence that interfere with our deemed outcome.

Day 15 – In real terms, today’s journey to Kamp Rumelifeneri, of 248K, should be a doddle. It’s about 35K north of Istanbul. Situated at the north-east of the European side of Türkiye. It overlooks the Bosphorus Strait, just as it meets the Black Sea. We aim to arrive early afternoon. But don’t. 11K short, our route takes a turn for the worse. We’re not planning to go over the spectacular Yavuz Sultan Selim Bridge – one of the tallest suspension bridges in the world. We cut down right a hundred metres before. A barrier is down. We think it’s a small toll booth. Mrs S readies a note or two. We sidle up towards the window. It isn’t. It’s security. No way down. Police are in action on our chosen road. Because of the very hilly terrain we have only one option. Reverse and go over the bridge. Find a way (easier said than done, but we do), to come back over. 45K and some 90 minutes later we eventually arrive at camp.

We (i) chose this site because the online photo and associated blurb indicates it has the type of facility we like and are used to ‘in Europe’. Not so. Obviously a little self-flattery can drum up customers, like us, in droves. 85% static Turk caravans in permanent occupation.

Day 16 – With Istanbul and it’s famous delights beckoning, we leave early (for us). In fifteen minutes short of two hours, the 150 bus, then M2 Metro, ‘whisk’ us into the heart of tourist-land Istanbul, just before midday and just before we start to resemble a couple of Red Bottomed Baboons. Crowds are out in force – a mix of home grown and foreign. A couple of famous mosques and the Grand Bazaar feature as today’s Turkish Delights.

We gain free entry into the Blue Mosque. A basically circular inner hall means that in little short of a lap, we are in and out in less than twenty-five minutes.

Previously free, in January this year, they introduced charges for the Hagia Sophia. €25 each. It’s evident that some of the internal decor needs it. We suffer an hour’s queue. We’ve come this far, so why not. Then it’s another in and out in thirty minutes. Unlike a cathedral, there is little of interest to consider, other than the internal structure and elaborate paintwork. A scattering of QR codes supply the tech visitors with additional info.

We were pleased to see a couple of sections where some of the original Christian mosaics had been left untouched.

We anticipate more of a Moroccan Souk type of experience from the Grand Bazaar. But not so. It’s no more than an arcadian fantasy. A labyrinth of Jewelry outlets and Turkish Delight shops that predominate the myriad of tunnels. All compete for the cacophony of tourist dollars, as they slowly stream past each doorway.

We come across a couple of other delights of note . . .

It’s getting late. We decide to eat in town. Get drenched by a terrific thunderstorm on exiting the Metro. Made worse by two-ing and froing between our bus connection and the ticket machine, which was unfathomable. Eventually drop back into camp at 9.45pm. 22,000 + steps – a long day – shorter legs?

I imagine that to be good at gambling, you need to be able to recognise that precise moment when the odds are so stacked against you, there’s going to be no way you can win. It’s then, you make a calculated decision, based on fact, not emotion. Time to bite the bullet. Resist that contagous urge. Realise it’s better to quit while you’re ahead. Walk away.

We do just that. We rarely gamble. So we decide to cut short our stay north of Istanbul. Agree to move on. The weather is against us. The long trek to the city is against us. The number of mosques to visit is against us. Afterall, when you’ve see one, or two, you’ve seen them all; right? Apparently not. We stayed in Edirne on our first night. Seems we missed the forerunner and best of them all. A return visit may be on the cards – providing we don’t go bust.

Day 17 – Today’s dismal rainy journey south, takes us to beautiful Lake Iznik and its namesake town. Famously known within Christianity as Nicaea. It was here that in 325AD the Christian declaration of faith (Nicene Creed) was formed and then finalised in Constantinople (Istanbul), fifty-six years later. Since then and with its change of name, the town is more famous for its patterned ceramics.

Before pitching up at Doga Muhit Camping, family run by Tarkan and his wife, we stop off in town. Take a look inside the virtually brand new Iznik Museum. We’re lead chronologically along Iznik’s time-line; prehistory up to the establishment of Turkey the Republic in 1923.

So far, all information boards, not only here, include a full and very competent English translation. Make our enjoyment more satisfying.

There’s a change in the weather due. Our evening view from Beastie confirms.

Day 18 – Today is not quite a repeat performance. For one, the sun is out in full force. Doing its best to climb above the giddy 20C mark.

We minibus into town and go in search of as many ancient sites as possible. Which reminds me – Mrs S can be quite poetic at times. Bordering on the romantic even. An example – yesterday she said to me “I have to be very patient; now that you’re an ancient” – isn’t that kind and sweet? I journey with my very own RomCom.

We trip over, literally, the older, and to our eyes more aesthetic, other museum.

. . . then move on. Peruse what they’re renowned for.

It’s always good to step out of one’s comfort zone from time to time. Experience a new experience. We do just that.

We spend our third and final day dogging. Or to put it more clearly, enjoying the company of a couple of gorgeous ‘street dogs’. As previous cat owners we’ve always considered dogs as being so much more needy. Requiring so much more effort. All those walkies. All that sniffing. All that peeing. All those black bags . . .

Our stay here has given us a glimpse of what it’s like to own a dog, or two.

From the moment we pitch up, we’re befriended by a couple of ‘city dogs’. We name them Whitey and Browny, just to be original. Both tagged, signifying that they’ve been neutered. They live the life of Riley. Coming and going as they please. Their two favourite past-times are called “Chase the Tractor” (run behind, barking vicious abuse at the driver) & “Let’s See How Close I Can Get To Death” (overtake the tractor and run inches in front of its front wheel.) This area is awash with olive groves and the main drag awash with tractors pulling their spraying kit, so both dogs get plenty of exercise!

It doesn’t take much persuading before we enjoy having them around. We think it’s mutual. And this is before we’ve fed them a sausage. They are both placid and playful. Very territorial. Obedient too.

The local store stocks everything. It’s immaculate. And at just over a kilometre’s walk provides a perfect morning leg stretch. Whitey agrees. Tails us there and back. Like our very own companion guard dog. He ignores every bark, snarl and growl directed his way, from the multitude of chained dogs we pass. He remains calm, aloof and in control, when other like-type interlopers come sniffing his way. Tarkan is amazed. Tells us he’s never done this with any other visitor. We feel chuffed.

With still a couple of hours of the afternoon to kill, Mr S decides to take a hike. His suggestion, not Mrs S’s. She doesn’t fancy a grazed knee or two. His sights are set on the highest point around. The flag pole, the goal.

A young Turkish couple roll down onto site. Early evening. We hoped we’d keep this site to ourselves. They quickly set up their table and chairs for dinner. Only it’s not. He comes over. Carrying a small plate. It has a chocolate birthday cake on it. Offers us half. How hospitable is that! They are celebrating her 21st. He serenades her with some nifty guitar. We reciprocate with a bottle from Oz.

Random or meant to be? We all experience them from time to time. Whether a chance meeting, event, or circumstance, a series of actions have occurred to place certain parties at exactly the same place at exactly the same time.

A few days ago, we cut short our stay in Istanbul. A spur of the moment thing. During our onward journey we pull into a services next to a parked car. The driver, crouched down by his rear wheel. A few minutes later he’s expectantly holding up a tiny self-tapping screw to me and intimating “Do you have a pozi-screwdriver?” Silly question! Beastie used to be in the Boy Scouts, so he’s always packed with a set of tools. After several minutes, the young man (I can use that phrase, now that I’m ‘An Ancient’), is till crouching. I wander over. His back bumper is damaged and hanging on by a thread. Beastie has been in the same situation. He’s stacked to the hinges with Gaffa tape, for just such a circumstance. It’s almost the same colour as the car. Half a dozen strips do the trick – now what are the odds?

Later, that same day, the weather sets in for the worse. It’s tipping down. A young teenager is standing at the side of the road in dripping hope. Beastie does the right thing. 5K later, he’s nearer to home – a coincidence?

Today’s target is Bursa and its City Museum. Reaching it easier said than done. Not knowing it’s the fourth largest city in Türkiye, Beastie trundles in. And in. And in. Manic doesn’t come near. Unable to find a suitable car park, we pull up in a side road, behind a parked coach. Unsure if a non-domicile could be left there, Mr S goes in search of a clue. With the help of Google Translate he’s informed that it would be unwise, because “there are nearby thieving children who are always on the lookout for visitors’ vehicles”. However, the man suggests we use the free carpark behind the new museum ‘over there!’ – as in one hundred yards away! – now what are the chances?

Not where we had in mind, but what a spectacle. It’s the largest fully panoramic museum in the world, and depicts one day, April 6th 1326, when Bursa was eventually captured by the Ottomans.

We then go in search of the City Museum. When in doubt, always best to ask. We stop a young Turk woman. She speaks perfect English. She’s an English teacher. She directs us. She also takes Mr S’s telephone number. She wants information about language schools in Bournemouth – you can’t make this stuff up (although it has been known)

The museum frustrates. No English. A pity. It all looks really interesting. Our favourite section and needing no translation is dedicated to Zeki Müren – a Bursa born Turkish singing legend, who’s career spanned the second half of the twentieth century. His outfits were more than spectacular.

There is another couple walking the same round. We can hear English spoken. We engage. They have been on the road for eighteen months and aiming for Japan! Their green camper is parked two spaces away from Beastie. She is French/Peruvian. He lives in Boscombe, Bournemouth. Honest – I’m not making it up . . . and all because we left Istanbul one day earlier.

We all enjoy giving. Whether it be resources, energy, or time. It’s part of a human’s intrinsic nature. Simple acts of kindness are beneficial to one’s soul and spirit. The receiver and giver each receiving a double blessing.

Yesterday’s final run in, or rather run down, to Bursa Caravan Park ended after a bit of a runaround the houses. Often, at these critical moments our sat nav will throw a blue-looey. Toddler-like. Throw him-self down on the floor, with stiffening limbs. Go blue in the face. While we go red in the face. We never know what to expect. Sites can be found in the most unlikely of places. This one more so . . .

Day 21 – Of course, come this morning, what goes down, must go up . . .

From here we travel kilometre after kilometre along rutted dirt tracks. Pass through acre after acre of olive groves. Beastie bouncing along like a heavyweight balloon, filled with rubbery cement. Luckily we’re not wearing dentures. He’s aiming for the nearest highway, with a smooth black-top. He can’t wait. He’s decided to take the most direct route. We sit back. Enjoy. Pleased to have broken free of the site. At one point we’re so high we can see our motorway. There’s just a small town to negotiate. The dirt track empties us onto a back street, no doubt relieved as much as we. Our relief bursts as quickly as if we’d stuck a pin in Beastie’s backside. The seemingly only way out of this no-way-out-town is up for repair.

It’s customary at this point, for Mr S to also adopt the aforesaid pose of a toddler. He may go a little blue at first, audibly at least, then red in the face, as he confronts the fact he can’t have (in this case, go) his own way.

Google Translate has been a God-send this trip. So Mr S steps down, phone at the ready. Firstly to check out all route options. Secondly, to collar a friendly Turk. The first man collared, doesn’t understand. I ask my phone the obvious and indicate I need him to read and reply. He insists on ignoring the phone. Instead, gesticulates various directions along with verbal instructions. When he eventually realises what his part entails, instead of answering my question “Can you please tell me how I can get out of this town and onto the highway.”, he replies “Where you from? Where you going”. I thank him for his time . . . Argh!

The second man behaves as if he’s never seen a phone before. Treats it with suspicion. Afraid to get too close. He watches how I do it. After several attempts, the penny drops. I ask my question. Hooray, he speaks clearly. Mr Google translates for me “Where you from? Where you going” . . .

I spread my on-foot search for a way out, with no success. It seems we’ll have to go back up and across the olive groves. Find a different route from there.

Just at that moment, the first man reappears in his car. Indicates, follow me. We do.

Tonight’s stop-over at Atilgan Terapi Havuzlu Camping in Saricakaya, is not quite as warm as it was on August 15, 2023. On that day it reached 49.5 °C (121.1 °F) A new record for the highest temperature ever recorded in Türkiye.

Earlier, our mountainous route took us through some fascinating scenery.

Day 22 – After a 323K mountainous journey, we are now pitched up a short two minute walk from the UNESCO World Heritage town of Safranbolu – tomorrow’s looksee. Karavan Kamp Alani perches within the confines of a massive rock bowl. Beastie has to climb to the top of the site, just to find level ground.

There might be safety in numbers. Staying part of the herd. Following the leader. But if you’re stuck in the middle. What then? Might as well be wearing blinkers.

It’s one thing we’re good at. Breaking free. Going walkabout. Shying away from the crowds. Nothing more rewarding than having a place all to ourselves. Seeing something, others may not.

Entering into the labyrinth of Safranbolu’s haven of preserved Ottoman houses, we head around the perimeter. Search out the quiet and deserted lanes. If we ignore the scattering of lampposts and satellite dishes, we could almost be stepping back in time.

The building style is based around a brick, or stone base, with a wooden structure perched on top. The design must have something going for it as a previous earthquake did little to shake most of the towns’ foundations. We’re really curious to see the inside layout. We stop to admire, what looks like a hotel. A peeper peeps. Then pops out. Recognises our curiosity. Are our faces communicating we need somewhere to stay? He invites us in. Proudly shows us around each floor and room of his mum’s place. He’s the cook. Gedirli Yasam is a B&B with a beauty-spa & yoga element. It’s immaculate and tasteful. Four en-suite bedrooms lead off from the very large main landing. A traditional internal design for these three story dwellings. It’s hot outside, but pleasantly cave-like cool inside.

Two rumbling tums remind us that we can’t stay on the outside forever. We drop down. Get lost in the ‘made for tourist’ streets. Eat. Then get lost some more.

It’s easy to romanticise the ancient past. Put on rose tinted glasses. Imagine how it was. Think how incredible it would be to time-travel back. Just to see how it actually was. But then always with one eye on the now.

To a much lesser degree, we are all time travellers. No other option. All heading into the future. Whether we like it, or not. Forever creating ‘the good ‘ole days’.

So that’s what 2-Cheeses do. Constantly head into the future. One eye in the rear view mirror. Three looking forward.

Day 24 – Beastie boosts us into and through wide open never-ending landscapes. Snow still visible on some high-top ranges. Fertile valleys and plains overlooked and threatened by rugged rocky crags. Crops, fruit and vines all flourish. A designated mix of large and small. Some obviously under the hammer of twentieth century industry. Tractors rule OK? Yet, others we pass, have one or two bodies crouched, tenderly tending their livelihood, as if their very existence depends on it. Animal presence is minimal. When they do rear their heads, goats seem to be the chosen flavour, with sheep following close behind. Cows occasionally get a look in, yet oddly, not a pig in sight.

Hotel Asikoglu Camping at Boğazkale is our home for tonight. This area, for several hundred years, home of the Hittite Empire.

Day 25 – On leaving, we toy with visiting the nearby ancient site. Decide against it. Leave our friendly Nederlander campers to hike the 10K on our behalf. We head south towards Göreme in Central Anatolia. Famous for its fairy chimneys.

Türkiye is vast. The panoramas huge. The skies massive. It’s road network is good. Far better than expected. The extremely hilly terrain doesn’t always allow us to go from A to B in a straight, or flat line. Many a day so far, Beastie’s bounced well in excess of 300K. Fortunately fuel prices are low at £1.10 per litre.

Another unusual entry awaits us at Camping Panorama, Göreme. Beastie gets piloted in like a big ocean liner coming into port. Then marshalled into his lot, with an unexpected, and fortunate full stop.

Not many can afford the best seat in the house, regardless of cost. Able to obtain that envied place with mere pocket change. Most have to calculate their budget carefully. Stretch it out as far as it will reach.

No need for us to stretch our budget. Panorama Camping lives up to its name. Beastie gets the best seat in the house, at no extra cost. The fairytale valley below lights up our evening, like so many twinkling stars. Dinner-time eyes linger, delighting in the glow below.

4.30am. We either sleep through, or, in this morning’s case, not. Our brains still not fully accustomed to the bizarre and far too early call for prayer. By the time we’re nodding off back into cuckoo-land, excited chatter natters around Beastie’s outer skin. Irritating, like a mosquito’s drone around an ear. Sounds like an insomniacs’ convention. Our early morning fuzz gets fuzzier. An unwelcome dawn chorus. It’s aided and abetted by a whoosh and roar. Unfamiliar at first. Finally recognised. A flaming balloon passes directly overhead. Mr S bounces out of bed, Tigger-like. Grabs camera. Just in time.

These eroded rock formations are a wonder. So that’s just what we do – wander. Step down into this city from the Middle Ages. Go take a close up. Try and get a handle on how life could have been handled back then, within these hollowed out pointy turrets.

Many structures still utilised – either as personal living space or mini-hotels.

It seems each pointy tower had a distinct and unique finish on its roof. Perhaps, so that when little Jonny went out to play with his mates, he’d always be able to find his way back home.

The rock formations disguise the fact that this area is fertile. Eyes look up to their tall tops. Yet at ground level there is a myriad of small-holdings. Each with a variety of produce ‘on-the-grow’. Onions, mint (they drink a lot of tea), grapes and other-non familiars.

Many of the lower and more accessible rocks have been converted for modern living. Electricity and bottled gas on hand. At one point, Mrs S’s curiosity gets the better of her better-self. Hargreavesesque, she becomes Little Miss Nosey . . .

The daily treats keep piling up as we head away from one fairytale city, to another. From high rise living – to low rise living.

This morning’s treat is a miracle of what can be achieved without the use of modern technology, or tools. Derinkuyu’s underground city, set on five levels, to a depth of 280 feet, was capable of housing up to 20,000 people and their livestock. Also functioning as a sanctuary from persecution, to many throughout the ages, right up to the 20th century.

Situated on a lower level, the graveyard chamber and tunnel, give Mr S an opportunity to experience total black out.

Were these ancients, mini-giants with huge eyes? Or did they have tiny eyes and a good sense of smell? Were their spines permanently curved to cope with the low tunnels?

How on earth did they get to know their way around? How did they remove and carry the excavated materials up to street level – considering trousers with pockets had yet to be invented.

Fun over, we head straight (not the right word) for our overnighter. A freebee ‘wild’ camp at Suğul Kanyonu’s public carpark, just another 347K up the road. With perfect timing, we arrive just before the sun decides to turn in for the night.

All cobwebs are blown away as two pairs of walking boots later, 2 Cheeses explore as far as the track allows.

Are we there yet? How much longer is it? I’m bored? What can I do? I need the loo.

When travelling long distances daily, we have two priorities. Prevent bottoms from going numb. Keep brains from becoming dumber. Regular stops help to avoid the first. For Mrs S, Quordle (Wordle x four) and Classic Words (Scrabble) are her go-to mind bending apps. She loves nothing more than wiping the floor with ‘Droid’.

Meanwhile, Mr S keeps his hands on the wheel and snoopy eyes on the road ahead. When not occupied deep inside his ‘nothing’ box, there are few moments when something of interest doesn’t loom into view. The Jandarma seem to be everywhere. Cars and occupants randomly checked at mini road blocks. On sight of Beastie, we are waved through. We did get stopped on one occasion. The officer approaches. Passenger side. The usual mistake. We’re right-hand drive. Window winds down. Two innocent smiles beam silent protestations. “We ain’t dun nofin guv!” “Welcome” he says. Waves us on. Very random!

Mr S is constantly caught out by clever roadside lookalikes. Strategically positioned. Some have red and blue flashing lights for authenticity. Job done. Beastie’s speed halved.

Our journey has taken us past thousands upon thousands of minareted mosques. Mr S has a theory. Bush, Blair & Co have been blindsided. All hamlets, villages, towns and cities in the Middle East and Asia have been fitted out with the very latest air defense systems.

Today’s start was delayed. Mr S had to confront head on (au contraire) another looming fear. So far, the squat toilet has best been avoided. A cubicle too far. A single sit-down, often coming to his rescue. It was inevitable that sooner, or later, the axe was going to fall. Today it fell. So, in for a penny, in for a pound . . . thighs take the strain, as if preparing for a lift and jerk; knobbled knees groan as undercarriage is slowly lowered; cartilages creek and bulge as the point of possible no return is reached; an ungainly balancing act, Jenga-like and not for public viewing starts to take place behind the loo door; hands grasp ankles, as if preparing to do a tucked summersault from the five-metre board; thighs start to burn; knees scream; balance lost; body topples forward; head bangs against the door; perfect pinioned position attained; mission accomplished – that’s the easy bit – now for lift off.

We are now pitched up at Damlacik Garden Camping – 18km from Mount Nemrut, tomorrow’s main attraction. The highest and furthest east we’ll venture. The facilities here are immaculate – by far the best. With a restaurant terrace view that’ll take some beating.

When facing a severe test, we all hope and pray that we can rise to the occasion. Be brave enough to meet adversity head on. Have enough courage to persevere. Never give up.

To come so close and fail to reach a goal, can be one of the hardest things to come to terms with. When your mind, or heart, is set on a certain something, to be thwarted at the very last instant, can be a bitter pill to swallow.

Türkiye’s EU membership hopes have been hanging in suspended animation for a quarter of a century. The likelihood of achieving that goal is most certain to be another twenty-five year wait. In parts, the infrastructure is new and modern; in others old and dilapidated. Differences appear between rural and urban. More so than would be seen in ‘the west’. Culture, tradition, religion, lifestyle, expectations – all influence and govern a molasses movement towards western modernity.

Away from the cities, the countryside ‘holders’ still hold on to the old ways. Shepherds and farm labourers scatter the countryside like blown dandelion seeds. Unable to tell what time it is.

This morning we leave Damlacik’s herdsmen and head up Mount Nemrut. A fifteen kilometre climb to its summit at 7,000 ft. For vehicles and feet, the route is paved. It needs to be. Some of the inclines are uncomfortably steep. (We were warned by the site’s owner, who offered to drive us there.) At one point, with engine revving in first gear, like a demented hyena, Beastie stutters to a halt on a one-in-three section, just short of a hairpin bend. With foot and handbrake unable to counter the gravitational pull, he unnerves two cheeses. Slithers slowly back down, like a balloon letting go of air. Fortunately there’s no vehicle behind. Inside his cab, silence, relief and determination. We’ve come too far to give up now. A second and longer runup is called for. It works. Beastie gets a second wind. However, the remaining uphill 5k in second gear takes its toll. By the time Beastie comes to rest just below the summit, he’s about to gasp his last. His engine is fuming. The smell, that hot, oily precursor to smoke.

Although parking is free, we need to buy tickets. The parking attendant asks the proverbial “Where you from”. Then proceeds to imitate drinking from an imaginary carafe. Closed fist, extended thumb, head tilted backward. The hidden question being “Have you any alcohol on board?” – silly question!! A bottle of red is gratefully accepted.

Beastie’s done his bit. Now it’s our turn for a work out. The seated Englishman, just visible at the top of this first set of steps, is taking a breather. From where he’s sitting, he can see he’s only half way to heaven.

A long afternoon drive sees us end the day riverside at the bargain priced and ultra-smart Gaziantep Karavan Park.

The mind is so clever. As an outsider, it can fool you into believing you understand another’s feelings. Sympathy and empathy can reach only so far. Witness and shared experience the chief unifiers.

Each day’s travel is overwhelmed by the level of ongoing new build. Virtually all high rise. Every region we’ve passed through. No town or city exempt from the ceaseless towers. Vertical townships signifying a new beginning. A new hope of a better life.

Today’s run-in to Antakya more than typical. The reason? Hatay province took the brunt of last year’s devastating earthquake. Half of Antakya’s buildings flattened.

With half a million new homes required to house the 700,000+ homeless, the Turkish Government has a mammoth task on its hands. Its promise – to ‘give’ for free!

Earlier and as is becoming the norm on this trip, we find ourselves having lunch on a petrol station forecourt. Today no different. Only it is.

Mr S steps down for a leg stretch. A group of garage workers enjoy friendly banter over their shared lunch. Without hesitation and as one, they call me over. “Please sit, join us” – some sentences in no need of Google Translate. A large metal dish overflows with juicy water melon slices – bread and a hot paste dip as suitable ‘sides’. Mr S doesn’t need to be asked twice.

Our penultimate stop of the day finds us parked up below St Peter’s Cave Church. Just 101k from Aleppo – it offers a grandstand view over Antakya – not a pretty sight. Perched high up and cut into the rock face of Mount Starius, its more modern facade fronts what is now, no more than a wet and mouldy interior. Fragments of Roman mosaic offer little to satisfy. Yet this is the place where St Peter preached and helped build up the early Christian community, in what was then Antioch.

In the shady corner of the carpark, a young man, gestures to us. He indicates that many of the ancient rock relics had collapsed in the quake. On further discussion, we discover he lost his home and family. He, being the only survivor. He’s holding a band of prayer beads. Condolences offered – along with a can of Fanta and Turkish Delight. This sharing thing is catching.

Back at the MOHO, Beastie is approached by a visiting Arab couple. The woman is eating an apricot. With her other hand she offers six freely. Their way of saying “Stranger – You are welcome”

Just before leaving, we get boxed in by a mini-bus. The windscreen displays a CONCERN Worldwide sticker. It seems the CEO of this Belfast based aid charity has interrupted his schedule to visit the church. We learn from the local area rep more of the quake’s effects and how AFAD, the Turkish Disaster aid agency, is dealing with the situation.

With the afternoon running away before our eyes, we head for tonight’s camp. It’s high up on the other side of the city. It’s rush hour. A misnomer, if ever there was. An hour later we wished we’d stayed put. It’s clear the once camp site is no more. What remains just a rundown bit of scrubland.

We have no option but to soldier on. Hope to find a suitable and safe overnight space. Forty minutes later our luck holds. We pull into a Lukoil petrol station. Like ours, Beastie’s belly is rumbling. As at every other station, it’s manned. Self-serve has yet to arrive in Türkiye. Without exception, the homeland of this strange Beastie is requested. Further exchanges result in an offer to let us stay here for free.

Confronted by many types of physical stress, the human body is capable of supreme endurance. When all seems hopeless. When the painful agony becomes unbearable, a way forward can be found. The ability to find that little extra. An invisible and special type of focus can kick in. Mental strength, borne on a willing spirit. Defeat, not an option.

While away for extended periods, it’s easy to become disconnected from international and home events in general. Personal news another matter though. Today, we are deeply saddened to learn of the death of David Martin. A family member and friend. A man capable of extraordinary endurance. Someone who successfully rowed the Atlantic Race with three mates, during one of the roughest crossings ever experienced. It was 2006. (Ben Fogle & James Cracknell were fellow competitors). One year later he was at it again. Competing in an Extreme Marathon. Five consecutive days crossing the Kalahari Desert. Madness to most. Then, after the event, in an unexpected accident, his Land Rover overturned. Dave’s spinal cord severed. A life changing moment. His biggest challenge lay in front of him. Stoically faced head on. RIP Dave. Forever remembered.

We’re currently pitched up at Sokak Camping – beachside. If we squint, we can almost make out Cyprus. Described on the app as cute camping – it is not. Another owner shy of cleaning utensils. A two night stop. Time to catch breath. Plan next week’s route.

A new Browny and Whitey join us. Sense our in house stock of dog biscuits has not been exhausted. Although it appears that they’ve never come across them before. Browney adopts a very relaxed attitude. Reclines on his belly and occasionally leans forward and licks one or two up with a confused look. “Is this how you eat them?” Not fully decided if they’re to his taste.

Whitey has already decided. They’re not for her. “Anyway, I’m not hungry” she implies, as she rolls around unladylike, “Whatever they are”

During my early school years, swimming was never a strong point. An early fear of water, never allowed me to develop the confidence I now have. However, the anxiety that accompanied the weekly visit, was always compensated with a Horlicks and Wagon Wheel for afters.

My new after dinner coffee and bite – a daily reminder . . .

As we journey onwards, every horizon holds a promise. A golden store, filled with the unexpected. An endless linear line of surprises constantly drawn nearer. Items of interest. Curiosities. Things to consider. Talking points. All lined up on the conveyor belt, we call life.

Today, we’re on our way to Karatay Karavan Park, on the outskirts of Konya. It’s a recent municipal build, attached to a splendid new park facility. But first we have to get there. A slower than usual 320K is promised. No surprise there then.

Türkiye terrain is hilly. Occasionally flat. Often very mountainous. As a consequence, a direct route a rarity. There’s always a bump, or a lump, or two, or three, or four, to circumnavigate. Tunnels few and far between – thankfully. Far too boring . . . bends, therefore, ten a penny. Monumental inclines attempt to defy gravity. Beastie drags himself slowly up. Huffing and puffing. Like an old man, at the end of the day. Climbing bedtime stairs. Thankful on reaching the top. Dramatic descents turbo charge his weight. Increasing momentum, so he frantically clings to each curve, as if his very life (and ours) depend upon it. Brakes squeal. Engine roars.

Despite the bleak dry nature of the peaks, hidden fertile plateaux provide adequate conditions for growing a multitude of fruit and vegetables. Manually picked; part-mechanically sorted – as we discover at our lunchtime stop.

A little further on it’s time for another stop. The sifters and graders have done their bit. A mountain-road-side market, overflows with fruit and veg stores. Each, in turn, overflows with fresh perfectly presented produce.

We round the day off with a walk into Karatay Sehir Parki. 13p each to enter! It’s purpose built. BBQ & covered picnique gazebos everwhere. Lakes. Sports areas. An amusement park. Playgrounds. Paved throughout. Manicured lawns. A perfect piece of planning that wouldn’t be out of place in The Trueman Show.

It’s always a good idea to count your blessings. Even during difficult times. Remaining positive is a positive. Leaving no room for the negative. Contemplation and meditation help to balance soul, mind and spirit.

Today’s frenetic start is borne out of not knowing what to do. Our bus-bound city trip almost ends before it gets off the ground. A little info can take you far. As in 24 stops down the road. So, the bus stop is 100 meters from Beastie. We arrive, according to MAPS brilliant journeying system, two minutes before the number 41A. It sails past in the centre lane. Driver doesn’t give us a seconds glance. OK, we’ll get the 42A. Here it comes. We can see it stopping at the previous stop, a couple of hundred meters up the road. Then, likewise, it sails by. Did it miss Mrs S’s outstretched arm? Confused? Are we at the right stop? There is absolutely no info on it. Is MAPS’ GPS slightly out of kilter? We leg it up the road. MAPS turns us into twisted twisters. Indicates bus stop one is definitely correct. We do the return leg with rubber necks. After bus number three blind-sides us, a warrior-like state is developing on the pavement. The Turks are getting a verbal pasting. Mr S does the sensible. A diplomatic thing. Goes back to camp and asks the park security guard “Why?” He smiles. Then impersonates a one winged baby gosling attempting his first earth-bound flight. We flap down the next bus. Just how big is the Hokey Cokey in Türkiye?

Once in town we head for the free entry Mevlana Museum. The world famous Whirling Dervishes (no similarity) perform their weekly Sufi dance here. Today is not their day. Or ours. We make do. There’s plenty to see.

It’s the final resting place of Rumi, a Persian mystic and poet, from the 13thC. Now a place of pilgrimage. The grounds contain a mosque and a number of tombs – a lot like visiting a church and it’s cemetery, but a bit posher.

To become a dedicated follower of Rumi you had to undergo a time of suffering and isolation. Prove you were ready and capable of renouncing all worldly cravings. A bit like becoming a nun, but with a beard. Not for everyone – unless you’re ex-circus.

Although 99% of the information we read never sticks, it does help to give a feel of the times and people. Like the good little museum morons we are, we methodically read, enter, gawp, comment, forget, move on. A group of teenagers are visiting too. Like a sewn long-stitch they snake in, raise phones, snap, snap, snap, snake out. Facebook and X ready themselves. Far flung friends connect. Envious of screen shots. A constant ADHD life blog, perpetuates and infiltrates the airwaves. Just how much can the atmosphere take? Will it explode, or implode . . . ?

We add our pennyworth.

But – then there are the patterns. They’re like mesmerising optical illusions.

We finish our Konya visit with a leg stretch. Get a feel for the place. Like most inner cities, it’s two faced. Designer facades front the old and dilapidated inner back streets. Yet, here there are fewer. There’s a more prosperous feel.

We all need a reason to get up and out of bed each morning. Even more so when retired. Otherwise, it’s easy to fall into the same old, same old. Stagnate. Become satisfied with less, rather than with more.

Day 35 – Any thoughts of stagnation are left firmly on the pillow. Every MOHO day offers something fresh. Today, we head south, towards the coast and Camping Mavi Cennet. A tiny site, perched above an endless beach. It’s another up and over job. But before we leave Konya in our wake, we make a detour. Head north, to the city’s suburban limits. Go visit the Tropical Butterfly Garden. See what’s fluttering.

The noise level increases ten fold as a school group of excited ten year old’s enter the foray. Like lost particles in a Hadron Collider, they seem to be everywhere at once. A fever level fusion of confusion seemingly set to explode. Teachers unable to find the right switch. That’s discovered inside the small theatre. Like calmed bees under a smoke screen, they quieten. Eyes glued to the screen. Like ours. A brilliant French animated comedy, their new focus. It’s a race. A grasshopper, fly, bee, ladybird, damselfly and a millipede are on their starting blocks. But who will win?

Day 36 – A day of two halves. There’s only so far we can travel without finding a washing machine. It’s one thing that Beastie refuses to carry on-board. It’d do his back in. Three washes later and duly pegged out leaves us enough time to peg ourselves out, down at the water’s edge. The sand is that coarse brown grainy type, that feels rough underfoot, rather than the Bournemouth golden stuff us softies are used to. Entrance (and therefore exit) into the water is very steep. Drops away quickly and guarded by several meters of uncomfortable pebbles. On each exit Mr S resembles a drunken firewalker, who can’t find his way home.

Day 37 – Our itchy feet are itching to get going again. So today, we head for a two-nighter in Antalya, a short 100K coastal drive west. Perfectly planned so that we can stop off at the ancient city of Aspendos. Home to the most complete Roman theatre still in existence. The whole complex sits atop a series of hills. Many areas still undergoing archeological digs.

Not everyone is good at choosing. Making decisions. How many changes in governments occur because the chosen few, are equally poor at making decisions as those who chose them. Every sheep needs a shepherd. If that shepherd keeps it safe, fed and watered, should it be of concern whether the sheep gets a say in the matter?

With a binary onboard population of two, casting a vote has no meaning. Daily decisions are made by Mr, or Mrs, without consultation. The reasons for those decisions rarely challenged. One is good at this, the other at that. So answers to “What’s for dinner?” and “Where are we going today?” are simply accepted, with faith in the other.

Today, we keep faith with the local bus service. A consensus decision to walkabout Antalya Old Town is in order. Although if truth be known, the decision was already made for us, courtesy of the subliminal write up in our Eye Witness travel book.

Turns out to be a thoroughly good decision. Antalya is, to all intents and purposes, a modern European city. It’s Türkiye’s toe, firmly pointing west. Dragging with it the heels of the east. The old town streets, clean, tidy and smartly presented.

Like two cheese starved maze-bound mice, we go sniff out the Suna & İnan Kıraç Kaleiçi Museum, from within the warren of narrow lanes. It occupies a couple of restored Ottoman mansions that illustrate the culture and customs from the 19thC. Next door, in the former Greek Orthodox church of St George, there’s lots of money on display. Worldwide currencies depicting different animals, from turtle to butterfly.

Up on the balcony, another display takes our liking. Clay models and photographs from an era when you didn’t need to go to the shops. They came to you. More often than not, on the back of the seller. From cow’s liver, to ice-cream, they sold it all.

A little pre-lunch relief brings a surprise . . .

Getting back to camp by bus proves impossible. We get locked in. There’s a planned protest march. The route security controlled. Barriers block roads. Some pavements too. No traffic in, or out. Cars, buses, trams, taxis all brought to a standstill. It’s a protest calling for better pensions.

We sniff out a parallel escape route. Catch a taxi at the tail end of the march.

“I’m not in the mood” – an often repeated and clichéd phrase that’s been typecast for centuries – far less so than its uttered counterpart – “Not tonight Josephine”.

When you’re not in the mood, or don’t feel like doing something, it isn’t always easy to push that mood in the opposite direction. Say “shove off” and break free of its control. Yet, when you do do the very thing you don’t feel like doing, the swing becomes more dramatic and uplifting.

Despite there being so many daily points of interest, when it comes to putting them down ‘on paper’ at the end of each day, I’m not always in the mood. Yet, once the first few words are down, and toyed with, others flow. Then before I realise it, I’m feeling pleased with myself – again!

Day 39 – Ya Basta Camping, Kayakoy, just 9K south of Fethiye, is today’s destination. It’s another up and over entry. In doing so, we can be forgiven for thinking it’s snowed down below. In fact, it’s fruit and veg land.

Day 41 – AM One by one, our Türkiye hit list is diminishing by the day. Today’s a little different. We get to kill two birds with one stone.

It’s this trip’s first outing for Scoot. Like a Phoenix, he’s risen from the ashes. Reincarnated and virtually factory floor new. His unhappy kidnap and torture, just before our Northern Spain trip, a dim and distant memory.

A twenty minute up and over, Scoots us to the foot of the Lycean tomb of Amyntas, son of Hermagios. Laid to rest high up in the mountain rock face a mere 2,374 years ago! Not suprisingly, it looks a little worse for wear. Nevertheless, it’s still hugely impressive. Especially when viewed from close up.

Day 41 – PM – We’re pitched up about 400 meters from a previously Greek occupied town of Kayaköy. A ghost town of roofless ruined houses. The Greek/Turkish people/home exchange, after Türkiye was officially formed in 1923, was another event designed to create a fully Muslim state.

We can be saved in so many different ways. Saved from making a big mistake. Saved from buying an overpriced product. Saved from going in the wrong direction. Saved from doing a chore.

With the hope of being saved from disappointment, we read reviews for each site we’re considering, before making our choice. However, it’s not always easy. Each international reviewer has their own idea of what constitutes a good site. Some prefer this. Others that. Contradictions reign supreme. As a result, confusion. From One Star to Five Star within a twenty-four hour period. No doubt, ours, when added to the mix, will murky the water even further. Therefore gut feelings play a part.

Day 41 – Despite the very mixed reviews, Manzara Restaurant & Camping sways our choice, with its fabulous pool and location. A stunning backdrop of blue sky against the world famous Pamukkale Travertine greet us – it’s already receiving a mental five star thumbs up.

Day 42 – It’s 5am. Submerged in that dreamy state of mind. Unsure of what is real. What is not. Is somebody running some sort of motor? Why have I got oily hands? How does that fit in with the banana I’m eating? Have I left the car running? Careful of that skin! Too late . . . oooops – Phew – I’m awake . . . it’s not long since the call to prayer. Doesn’t anybody want to sleep around here? Apart from us? Our beauty slumber is interrupted, yet again. I need mine more than Mary-Ann. The noise gets louder and louder, as if a low flying squadron of Messerschmitts are about to create some sort of early morning manic mayhem. Payback time to those snoozy-heads for missing prayers. 5.29am – there’s nothing worse than not knowing. Mr S’s curiosity gets the better. Takes the plunge – gets up.

Not surprisingly, Mr & Mrs S spend a good portion of the day poolside, catching flies.

Day 43 – This morning, a repeat of a rude awakening is averted. Home made ear plugs to the rescue. Pamukkale Travertine is one of Türkiye’s ‘must do’s” – just over 2.5 million visitors per year can’t be wrong. Can they? That equates to seven thousand each day. We’re already mulling over that statistic, when the German couple next to us on site, return from their early morning visit. (They didn’t need to set an alarm). Give it a thumbs up and wish us an enjoyable visit.

Scoot, scoots us up to the top entrance car park. Its rammed. Over thirty tourist coaches. Drivers busy, dong nothing. Waiting on the return of their hoards. Surprisingly, a young couple approach us. Give us a contradictory review. Basically telling us “Don’t do it. It’s far too busy. It’s not worth it. Save your money”. At €30 each per pop, we pop our helmets back on and pop off further up the hill.

Back down at street level, we go search out our own private and free experience . . .

This camp site consists of a tiny allocation of space alongside the boundary wall. The owner tells us his hard luck story. Weddings and other family events their fortune. Catering for 500+ guests. Then came Covid. Then the financial crisis. We think he’s milking any campers that come his way. At 1,000 Turkish Lira per night, almost double the average that we’ve been used to paying. His saving grace, the magnificent pool.

Felling a little sorry for the owner and his family, we decide to try out their restaurant. Help their coffers. Our Sea Bream attracts a usual suspect. With difficulty, his tireless patience goes unrewarded. If he hadn’t developed a stiff neck, he’d have noticed his dinner tippy-toe silently behind him.

As expected, the restaurant facility is immaculate and huge – in direct contrast to the shower facility we suffer.

Most people would agree that you get what you pay for. Low price, low quality. With the reverse being true.

Two factors that can govern selling and buying prices, are demand and availability. In respect to camp sites, both of these are in short supply throughout Türkiye. Caravan and MOHO touring still in its infancy. Consequently, the number of ‘proper’ camp sites is tiny for a country of this vast size. As a result, touring numbers are very low. Retirees, like us, make up a huge proportion throughout the EU, but not everyone is prepared to rough it out over here, using car parks, quiet roads, petrol forecourts and the like, when nothing else is in distance.

Day 44 – Our last site felt like we’d been taken for somewhat of a ride. EU price, but not EU standard. However, on arrival at today’s Antique Lodge Camping, we turn up trumps. Beastie is given a front of house shaded seat, courtesy of a huge olive tree.

Day 45 – We’re here for one reason only. Its close proximity to the ancient city of Ephesus. One of St Paul’s many preaching grounds. His tireless efforts galvanised and encouraged the early Christian communities.

It’s a reasonable Scoot away. We choose to visit late afternoon. Hoping to miss the majority of the coached in hoards from China and Japan. It’s a good reason, as if we needed one, to pass the earlier part of the day with some sadly missed pool time.

Later, on arrival at Ephesus, Scoot does something silly. Something unexpected he’s not done before. His multi-purpose key system, includes the lockable petrol cap. Mr S opens it, instead of the seat. The cap mechanism jams open. Unsure whether to still visit and leave Scoot to breath out fumes, or return to base, we decide to risk it. Hope his tank contents don’t evaporate before we return. [much later and back at camp, there’s only one solution. Out with the Gaffa-Tape. Sorted. ]

We baulked at the Pamukkale fee of €30 each. Starting price here is €40! We’ve read that the Terraced Houses are a must. Even though they’re part of the site’s complex, they come at an extra €12 pp each. So, for €104 we enter, thinking we better get our money’s worth.

First stop, the magnificent theatre. As we approach, it appears impressive. Easily on a par with Aspendos. On closer inspection, it’s easy to see it’s a new build look-alike.

So, exactly what are we seeing here? Part replica? A 3D rendered impression? The photo below, taken of the theatre just over a century ago, reveals all . . . sort of!

Undeterred and still needing to justify our €104, we move on up the impressive massive marbled main street.

If only the Romans had stayed around and expanded their gift of city building worldwide. They really were the ultra-modernists of their time.

The Library of Celsus is the image every visitor comes with and leaves with. Only the facade remains. Re-erected just fifty years ago.

A couple of hours in and it’s time to take a look at that little bit of added value. The Terraced Houses. An upmarket apartment block. Constructed for seven of the most prominent families of the time. Fountains, private baths, central heating, mosaic floors, a grandstand view of the city, close to the shops!

Three hours comes and goes. Just like us. Scoot is still breathing. With enough umph to see us back.

At the end of a hot tiring day, it’s good to look forward to a relaxing sleep. Not in earshot of a call to prayer, we go to bed with high hopes. They get shattered at 3am. A short growl. A warning bark. A blood curdling howl. Have we been transported to Baskerville Hall? Are we to be forever cursed with interrupted nights? We turn. Then turn again. To get up, or not get up? That becomes the question. The barking reaches maniacal proportions. Mr S bounds up, down and out. Does a Sherlock. Torch in hand. Finds the fiendish hound. Tempts him closer with a handful of dog biscuits. Gently chastises. He’s happy. We’re happy. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzs

Day 46 – Sirince, a hilltop village about a 20k Scoot away, grabs our attention. Mr S imagines it will be a quiet Sunday afternoon trip. The universally used brown signage gives the game away. All of yesterday’s Ephesus visitors have the same idea. It’s jammed. And this is in the low season! People, cafes, bars, restaurants and shops. Hundreds of shops. All vie. Most sell bangles, beads and nick-nacks. Competition is fierce. But few buy. Haven’t they heard? Us westerners are trying to minimise. Maybe their sales hopes lie with the Easterners?

We let loose some Turkish Lira. Mrs S indulges in a hand finished top. Mr in a litre of concentrated Mulberry juice. Obviously contrasting needs.

For lunch, Can greets us with the usual. “Hello. Welcome. Where are you from?” “England. Where are you from? – he gets it, (Mrs S doesn’t) – Can plays along. “I’m from Brazil. No Mexico. Como esta usted? From Spain actually.”

We hit the pillows just after midnight. Hoping beyond hope. 1.29am. Barking starts. Much louder than last night. Growling, more fierce. Not just one dog. Two. Is it a competition? Who barks loudest wins? What the hell is going on? Mr S dons deerstalker. Steps down. The dogs continue to let rip. Not at one another. It’s pitch black. What on earth . . . then, my torch catches three dark shapes – wild boar. Surprised by the evening of numbers they turn tail and scarper.

No chastisement. Well done pats of approval. Licks of acknowledgement. “We did good didn’t we?” – Yes. Peace. Silence. Sleep.

Now that we’ve been MOHOers for seven years and toured most EU countries, one question I’m often asked is, “Which is your favourite place?” The answer is simple, “The one I’m currently in!”

Today is no exception. We’re pitched up at Cunda Mocamp, on Cunda Island. (Pronounced Chunda). A two-night break, as we slowly head north towards our ‘out’ via Gallipoli. Fifty metres from the water’s edge and sharing the site with four Turkish couples, we virtually have the sea and sand to ourselves.

It’s good to take time out, from taking time out. So we do just that. Today’s temperature is reaching for the mid-thirties, so we reach for our towels and cozzies. Find out if we’re capable of melting. We wait for our bodies to generate their own heat haze, then, like a couple of blacksmith’s horseshoes, we sizzle as we hit the water.

We extend the afternoon’s relaxations into the evening. Give the Master Cheffette a night off. We become totally bemused by the music that’s playing. It’s all 1940s/50s, very Vera Lynn’nglish. We’re the only ones in the restaurant. “How old do you think we are? Have you put this playlist on especially for us?” “No, my girlfriend likes these songs.” “Is that speaker bluetooth connectable?” . . . An all time first – we eat in a restaurant with one of our own Spotify playlists playing.

Earlier, this morning’s leg stretch, via a coastal path that didn’t exist, takes us onto private land. Gulay & Hunkar meet and greet us with friendly faces. Interrupt their work. They own this 6,000 square metre olive grove. They have over one hundred trees to tend. Utilising natural methods each tree produces about a gallon of the finest olive oil in the area. Selling mainly to friends, we learn their sales don’t cover their costs. “Why do you do it?” – “It brings us peace”. Hunkar works in the glass industry, his wife Gulay a banker. During our friendly banter it seems Gulay may be the main invester!!.

Gulay and Hunkar are currently busy adjusting the landscape. Introducing a series of walls that they hope will help to retain more water. We wish them both every blessing in their endeavours.

We can visit every town and city. Explore every bit of nature. Delve into the history of a country. Photo this, photo that. Yet, it’s always the people we meet that bring a country to life. Expose its soul. Release its spirit. Just as Gulay and Hunkar did today.

Eyes idealise many situations. Take in and feed the brain with an exponential amount of visual stimuli. Most gets trashed. Peripheral images get discarded. Yet sometimes the focus hones in. A sensitive nerve ending touches an inner emotion. Causes a reaction.

Day 49 – On Hunkar and Gulay’s recommendation, we go take a look at Cunda town, a short 8K drive from camp. It’s on our way north. A much earlier than usual, or ever planned walkabout. It’s a seaside/harbour resort. The narrow cobbled streets overflow with cafes, bars, hotels and shops. A marketing photographer’s delight. It borders on chic in places. Curiosity leads us on a random path. No plan other than to search and look. We wander. Inwardly wonder what it would be like to live here. Could we? Possibly.

Surprise, surprise. We find ourselves in the ex-Greek refurbished church of Michael and Gabriel, which now houses a fascinating museum of industrial items.

As we’re still swirling around the idea of whether we could live here . . . we receive an answer from the Almighty himself . . . NO!!!

Tonight’s one-nighter at Guzelyali Camlik Park Kamp finds us pitched up next to a rarity. A Yorkshire couple. They’ve been out on the road since January. Home rented out. No definite return date. A lucky find. An out of sight grub screw has come loose within Beastie’s chemical toilet housing. Mr S is unable to figure out why he can’t replace the cassette. Done it hundreds of times before. Fiddles around like a furtive Shylock. Hands getting grubbier and grubbier. Jim has been there, done that. So, after his nod and a wink, Mr S does likewise. Sorted. Pocket picked.

This site is situated high up in a pine forest. It has potential. But what kind is unclear.

Hatred. Revenge. Envy. Prejudice. Belief. Greed. Power. Control . . . the list of man’s warmongering traits is endless. Ultimately useless.

The Southern Loop – We’re not quite done with Türkiye. A little matter of the Gallipoli peninsular has been on our radar since day one. Another piece in our ever increasing WWI jigsaw puzzle of events. Our exit route set to take in as many of the memorial sites as possible.

The Peninsular, a protected National Park and in itself a monument, pays tribute to those on both sides who fought and died. 300,000 Allied (Empire, France, Australia & New Zealand [ANZAC]). 255,000 Turks (then Ottoman Empire)

First stop just south of Kilidülbahir, at the Mecidiye Coastal Battery, brings us face to face with the most famous Turkish gunner. Now an iconic hero for his actions in defending the Mediterranean entrance to Canakkale from the Allied Naval Fleet. Churchill & Co’s superior notions of taking the peninsular, suffered a series of embarrassing setbacks on land and sea.

Although at great loss, this successful defense of one small, but important part of the Ottoman Empire, lead on to the foundation in 1923, of what we now know as the Republic of Türkiye. Something that the nation feels rightly proud of.

Planning styles for the Turkish Gallipoli cemeteries can be totally different to the fully regimented and formal structure adopted by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission.

The cemetery is kept in immaculate order by a gang of women who work in pairs.

Do not ignore the ground on which you have walked,
It is not ordinary soil.
Reflect on the thousands of people, who lie beneath
Without a shroud.
You are the son of a martyr –
Do not hurt your ancestor,
Do not give away this beautiful motherland,
Even if you have the whole world.

The park is peppered with monuments, graves and cemeteries. All marking the death of those either found, or not found. Driving around within this beautiful landscape it’s impossible to imagine the tragedy of what a few ‘simple’ minds threw onto so many young innocents.

We overnight on a carpark in Gelibolu. There’s a nice looking restaurant opposite with a half decent menu. We tog up and step down. Order. In general, you don’t get much of a choice in what you can have ‘with’ in terms of vegetables. They like to serve bread (no butter option) and salad. The salad on a few previous occasions has arrived at the table cut so finely it was just shy of being liquidised. Other than that, they take one red onion. Slice it thickly. Layer it across one half of the plate. Add the fish, or meat and throw over three or four stalks of a herb we don’t recognise. With that in mind we order a plate of chips.

Eventually the bread arrives. Then sometime later the chips. Then we wait. And wait. With rumbling tums we reluctantly tuck into the chips, which are now getting cold. Mr S starts to simmer. Getting hotter than the chips were. Goes and enquires. Sometime later Mr S’s dish arrives. No sign of Mrs S’s. She encourages me to make a start. Ten minutes later a fresh plate of hot chips arrives – only. At this point Mr S confronts the manager, who’s excuse seems to rest on miscommunication, because he doesn’t speak English. Totally dissatisfied, we walk out. Without paying. An all time first. Fortunately we hadn’t drunk all of the wine . . .

Twenty-five minutes later and a little further up the street, we’re both tucking in to chicken curry and chips.

Heroes or Martyrs – words that hide the brutal fact that ultimately they were considered expendable. Sacrificial lambs providing cannon fodder – for each other.

Even so, unbelievable acts of friendship between warring parties were not unheard of. With some opposing trenches no more than a road width apart. During lulls, exchanges would occur – banter, sweets, beef, ciggies, dates and the like. Then they’d get back to killing one another.

On one occasion an Australian soldier was lying wounded in no man’s land. The firing was going on all around him until a Turkish soldier lifted a white flag. Fighting stopped. He picked up the wounded Australian. Carried him to the safety of the ANZAC trenches, before returning to his own.

Day 51 – (The northern loop) – Today’s first port of call is the Gallipoli Museum. A balanced presentation of the why’s and wherefores from both sides’ perspective is presented.

The route through the 80+ cemeteries and memorials is a long one way loop. Indicated wherever a red Turkish flag can be seen flying. Flags can be spotted at every turn. The peninsular is high. Very hilly and undulating. At this time of year and when the fight was on, extremely hot too. We gasp considering what it must have been like.

A couple of Turkish cemeteries use informal placements of memorial stones. Indicating the randomness of the fallen.

Lone Pine Memorial, one of five memorials on the peninsula which commemorate servicemen of the former British Empire killed in the campaign, but have no known grave.

We stop off at all of the major memorials and cemeteries; many smaller ones too. By the time we leave, we’re virtually the last visitors out of the park.

In 1934 Kemal Attaturk wrote this epitaph for those who fought and died at Gallipoli

Those heroes that shed their blood in the territory of this country, you are in the soil of a friendly country here. Therefore, rest in peace, you are lying together with the Mehmetcik; side by side in each other’s arms. You, the mothers, who sent their sons from far away countries. Wipe away your tears. Your sons are now lying in the bosom of ours. They are now in peace and will rest in peace here forever. After losing their lives on our land, they have become our sons as well.

Greed is self-perpetuating. It thrives on itself like a parasite. Inwardly eats away at the very thing it desires. Therefore never able to fully satisfy.

We gobble up what remains of our time in Türkiye. Greedy to spend our last day where it all began, in Edirne. Then, still finding our feet, SIM cards and somewhere to stay, misdirected our intentions. The Selimiye Mosque, high on our agenda, overlooked. We’re back to make amends.

As we approach, we see it’s in a state of repair. Not looking its best. Typical – and we’ve made such an effort. Undergoing works since 2021. No info on website indicating such. Completion date set for next year. Too late for us.

Inside, a mass of metal scaffolding cloaks its beauty. Looks more like an industrial unit than a house of prayer. Only one small area is open for viewing.

What we missed. Below, the central musalla seen from above – that isn’t a patterned carpet – it’s the backs of praying worshipers, knelt in prayer.

With eyes now focused on Gemmagos Leisure Camping in Boyanovo, Bulgaria, we say goodbye to Türkiye. Join, then overtake the five mile queue of HGVs.

Our overnighter is a quiet back garden. Guy & Janet moved to Bulgaria eighteen years ago. With electricity, water on tap and shower facility it’s perfect at just €10. We learn that many properties in the area are abandoned. Most set in large plots. £1,000 can get you a bargain!

There’s a thriving ex-pat group here. Not all Brits. Italians, Dutch, Germans – they all clubbed together to build a village pub. Obviously all having the same priority.

True friendships can last a lifetime. No matter the frequency of contact. Being able to pick up the relationship with ease, as if no time has passed. Liking, loving & respecting, maintain that invisible bond.

We last stayed on Camping Veliko Tarnovo exactly five years to the day, less one. An unexpected timing. So much did we enjoy our previous stay, that we made this a must do return. It’s not everyday we’re in this neck of the woods. And Bulgaria has lots of them.

Nicky & Nick bought this land in 2002, moved from the UK and built their house and site from scratch. As campers themselves, they ensure that every aspect of their guests requirements are catered for. Near perfection.

Situated in a beautiful countryside location, yet a short walk to the local village of Dragizhevo. There are few sites we’ve stayed on that match and enjoyed.

For weeks the temperatures have constantly hovered in the mid-thirties. Pools and swims few and far between. So it doesn’t take Mr S long to get reacquainted with an old friend . . .

Mrs S prefers to take a more gentile approach . . .

One acquaintance Mr S hadn’t had the privilege to meet on his last visit joined him for a shower . . .

Looking back on old photos it’s clear the onsite greenery has exploded into a wonderful wildlife habitat. Lizards (also a very bright green), nightingales, tiny loud-mouthed frogs, unusual butterflies (& spiders) and at dusk a proliferation of tiny beetles, AKA fireflies, illuminate our walk to the showers like a New Year’s Eve fireworks party.

Then there’s the swallows. Constantly on flight. Unable to sit still for five seconds. As if they’re a flock of ADHD infected hang-gliders. Like a skilled team of swooping and diving stunt kites, they wait until the pool is free (mostly); skim the surface at break-neck speed and accuracy. Rehydrate. They don’t realise they could save all of that energy by just sitting quietly in the shade. It seems it’s more than that. A fun game they love to play together.

Our three night, two day stop isn’t all about relaxing. Three washes, plus a Beastie clean isn’t so much about what the doctor ordered, as Mrs S ordered . . . she’s forever bemused at what a mucky puppy Beastie is, compared to his compatriots. I tell her it’s his way of showing how adventurous and daring he is. Like displaying his medals of valour. She has none of it, so it’s out with the bucket and sponge. Two make light work though.

Morning two and our pre-pool paradise is kept waiting. We go walkabout in Dragizhevo. It’s bigger than we thought. But typically Bulgarian in so much that there’s a mix of deserted, dilapidated and seemingly up-market properties, with many undergoing renovation too.

We all do things without a second thought. Tasks we’ve done so many times before, we can do them in our sleep, given half the chance. We switch into autopilot. Switch our minds off. Switch them back on again once the task is completed. Having no real memory of actually doing it.

Each morning Mr S’s usual job is to do the breakfast wash-up. This morning is no different. A pleasant five minute chore, washing, drying and chatting to another camper. The loo is next door. So, I leave the bowl and contents on the floor outside. Go and do what’s necessary before getting back to Beastie, to prepare for our off. Today we move on.

Our planned journey is not too long. After an hour we stop and do a small LIDL shop. A further hour up the road, we’re making good time. 100K+ under our belts. Lunchtime beckons. We pull over. Mrs S opens the cupboard. “Brian, where’s my lunchtime plate?” “Isn’t it there?”And my coffee cup?“Where’ve you put it?” I don’t know, isn’t it in it’s normal place?” “And my egg saucepan? And the rest of the items you took to the wash-up this morning, including the bowl?” . . .

200K later and we’re back in the same spot, having gone back to retrieve the bowl and it’s full contents. How or why my brain hadn’t re-engaged a mystery. I usually put those items away in the cupboards too! Doh!! Just didn’t register. Early signs? . . . .

So, it’s after six by the time we roll on to our pitch at Camping Green Lawn, Skravena. A journey of 387K. Our longest in one day to date.

We’re warmly welcomed with the assistance of Google Translate, by Georgi whose large back garden we’ll be staying in. It’s a calm sunny evening. Perfect for a bit of al fresco.

In the near eastern distance, Mr S notices an unusual cloud formation has started a series of intentional manoeuvres. Like a gathering cross border army flexing its muscles before the big push. A silent intimidating language designed to strike fear. A single lightning flash gives the all clear. Attack. A yell of thunder follows suit as the potency of its built up energy gets released. A few rain drops the size of fried egg yolks are hurled forward, like grenades clearing the path forward. Now it’s full force gathers pace. Then suddenly explodes across Georgi’s back garden like a supersonic low flying jet. A cyclonic rush follows its path. Demonstrates its strength. Howling out “Gang way – we’re coming through!”

Fifteen minutes later, it’s past and like an army of soldier ants has moved on to torment its next victim.

The sun never stops shining, so al fresco it is. Ellen our green campervan neighbour is from Norway. But not for long. She, and her two rescue dogs are due to pick up the keys to her new home tomorrow. She’s an ex singer in a rock band. Now a kind of philosopher, who helps people deal with certain life issues. What it’s all for and about.

This morning we leave and wish her a good life.

MOHO journeys to an extent, mirror a life. On a mini scale. There’s an exciting birth. A sad end. And an in between of forgettable and memorable moments – presented as a series of unconnected synaptic snap-shots.

Travelling takes a lot of time. It’s not always easy to fit everything in. Stuff happens along the way. You miss places, or hear about some ‘must see’ that you camped near to and didn’t know it existed, until you’d moved on.

Occasionally, the opposite happens. By chance, you come across a nugget, or two. Today we visit two.

Today’s route takes us within one hundred metres of Bobuka’s Waterfall. Beastie gets reversed into a bit of rough ground. About as wide and long as his torso. We can hear it. But can’t see it. It’s neatly hidden behind dense undergrowth. A very narrow thinning gives the track away. It’s steep. Mrs S becomes an onlooker. Creepers help balance and support. It’s not a particularly high fall, but would be if you did! It’s beauty lies in its secluded spot and the knowledge that not too many may find it, or even bother to search for it.

We’re taking this north-western route out of Bulgaria because Mila, from Camping Veliko Tarnovo, told us Belogradchik Fortress is one of those must sees. So here we are. Its hill-top position proves a little tricky for Beastie and his onboard screwed crew.

This Balcan Mountainous region is filled with really weird, yet beautiful natural rock formations and outcrops. Typically, the Romans were the first to realise its potential.

We end the day in the bosom of an old friend – Camping Madona Inn Falkovets, a previous one-nighter on the way down to Greece in 2019. Unbeknown to us then, just how close we had been to Belogradchik Fortress!

Circumstances can skew your perspective. What can be acceptable one minute, can be unacceptable the next. One minute you’re Dr Jekyl. The next Mr Hyde.

Time plays tricks. Having all the time in the world to get from A to B causes no stress. Yet, squeeze that time frame down. Add a deadline. Throw a slow moving vehicle, or two, into the mix and those stress levels can rise faster than a boiling pan of milk.

Being a relatively slow moving vehicle, Beastie has got used to sharing the roads and by-ways with others of the same ilk. Lorries, tractors, trailers and the like are all treated with the same respect. When he’s the front man, he’s often been known to briefly pull over. Release the stopper. Prevent a further build up of steam. Toots and flashes of appreciation always worth the consideration.

Day 58 – We overnight at Camping Zornica Kuca. A large hotel complex with an equestrian centre and children’s farm. Nicola the manager welcomes us with a Serbian favourite – Rakia. Plum flavoured rocket fuel. Even though the quantity wouldn’t fill a thimble, it’s one of those drinks where the after-burner kicks in at the back of your throat, as your feet slowly start to lift off the ground.

Day 59 – We move into Croatia and onto Kamp Odmoriste Zlatni Lug, another been here before stop. Though this time a little more convoluted. We arrive at 5.55pm. The facilities are all locked up. The keyless entry card has to be picked up from Zlatni Lug Restaurant, down in the village, which we’ve just passed through, 2K back. Today is Saturday. Croatia are playing their first Euro match. A ‘biggy’ – it’s against Spain. Cars and people togged up in their famous red and white check. Proud flags fly from most houses. Respective national anthems stream from every household. An optimistic buzz fills the air. Humming out a call to victory. No doubt with high hopes of causing another upset – as they did against England in the World Cup semi of 2018. The restaurant is heaving. Car park full. They have a huge outside screen set up to show the match. Plus, there’s a birthday event going on. Though it seems most are more interested in the match, including the birthday girl. The manager eventually drags himself away to deal with the unexpected shorts and flip-flop gatecrasher. Passports photocopied. Card gets issued.

By the time we sit down to dinner, all is as quiet as a funeral wake. We have the airwaves to ourselves. Spain must be winning.

Our earlier border crossing a dim and distant memory . . .

There’s a gap between the two country borders. A sort of no man’s land. A slow moving car park. Oddly, no one is interested in a game of footie.

A lorry gets pulled over for inspection. Driver interrogated. Obviously his answers and documents don’t satisfy. He obligingly unwraps the whole of one side of his trailer. The officer wants proof of the shrink-wrapped contents. With only a large screwdriver to hand he can’t get into any of the packaging. He feebly stabs at one pile. Like a reluctant assassin assigned to kill his granny. His shoulders shrug, “I just can’t do it”. She doesn’t believe him. Insists. He shakes his head. Then brings a ladder. Hands over the screwdriver. She pokes, rather than stabs. More in a threatening manner, than one which will do any real harm. Perhaps worried, in case a pile stabs back. It’s no use, the shrink wrap wins the day. More dissatisfaction. More shoulder shrugging. She reluctantly relents. Lets him through.

Day 60 – and onto Camping Slapic for a two night stop to catch breath. It’s a beautiful location alongside the Mreznica River. A game of table tennis and swim ease away today’s journey.

Day 61 – A day of rest and refresh. We still have about 2,000K to clock, so we’re taking some deep breaths before the long push for home. A short bike ride into town. Lunch by the river. Sun bathe. Swim. Al fresco. There is good there is.

A fixed penalty fine, is what it says – fixed. Written in stone. Immovable. Without one almighty indisputable reason, or cause. Regardless of the mitigating circumstances, it’s useless to argue your case. Even if you only want a sympathetic ear. An understanding of how, or why.

Overstep the mark by the length of your big toe, or the whole length of your foot, results in the same fine. Five minutes over, or thirty-five minutes over, it makes no difference to the regulation, the regulation setter, or the regulation enforcer. The line’s been crossed.

Day 62 – This trip we’ve broken our golden rule of not using motorways, or toll roads, more than ever. In many cases no other sensible option; in others, a question of time management. Some simple maths tells us we need to keep an eye on kilometres to Calais. Divide by the number of days left. So today we make use of the most direct route into Italy from Croatia. Cut across a small 30K corner of Slovenia using the E61 motorway – which extends from its Croatian neighbour.

300 metres from the border into Italy, Beastie gets pulled over. Strange we think. Two officers ‘in wait’. Saw our dust in the distance. Knew we were bound to show up. Trip wire tripped. We’re in the Shengen area – there should be none? Is Beastie going to be searched? No. Slovenia motorways require a vignette. Mr S forgot. Realised going. Bought a seven day pass on 24th April. Didn’t plan to come back through Slovenia.

In Bulgaria where you can’t drive for more than five minutes without seeing a roadside reminder, it’s impossible to forget. Also they have reminders at the border crossings, where they have vignette issuing machines set up.

Crossing from Croatia, the Slovenian customs officer waves us through. No ‘Get Your Vignette Here’ signs visible.

Mr S is summoned into the hi-tec surveillance vehicle. Gets shown multiple images of Beastie’s number plate. “Are you the driver? Is this your MOHO? Your seven day vignette has expired!” The atmosphere inside changes when a fixed penalty of €150 is issued. Plus a further €16 for a vignette. The Slovenian officers imply we (I) were trying to pull a fast one. Not interested in lending a listening ear to the frustration. Mr S believes that if their sophisticated system is capable of immediately recognising whether a vehicle has a vignette, or not, then the border crossing is where it should be implemented.

Sometimes, it’s difficult not to feel aggrieved, even knowing you are in the wrong.

We end the day pitched up in the ancient Roman city of Aquileia – at Camping Aquileia, where the pool cools away the feelings of earlier frustrations.

Day 63 – In Roman times Aquileia was an important thriving inland port. So before we set off, we go take a look at what remains.

We don’t have time to visit the Basilica di Santa Maria Assunta complex, so make do with a quick outer looksee.

Situated at the southern tip of Lago di Caldonazzo, Camping al Pescatore provides today’s destination.

We get to stay free of charge. A man and his mower throw a wobbly. Chew away some of our awning mat.

There can be few more joyful sights than the combination of a lake surrounded by mountains. A gift from nature. Solace for the soul.

Not wanting to simply double back on our outward route, we continue our left turn. Head west. Take a ‘long cut’. The Dolomites and Alps get pushed into the static sidelines. Like a couple of ancient smoothed flat stones, we’re aiming to tippy-toe our way across the lakes of Northern Italy. One down. Next please . . .

We by-pass the obvious Garda. Look for something less busy. Smaller. Lago d’Idro and Camping Pilù, tick all boxes. The same family-run camp site, since 1959. Gates onto the lake, fine facilities and a great swimming pool. The only thing that’s missing is the sun . . .

The misleading information about La Rocca d’Anfo leads us on a wild goose chase. It’s the largest Napoleonic fortress in Italy. Typically Italian, it’s built on the side of a mountain. More suited to a roaming herd of goats, than the garrison of four hundred soldiers it was constructed for.

Street level entrance is a fifteen minute walk along the lake. We arrive 11.40. It’s closed for lunch from noon until 1.30pm. We do likewise. Return 2pm. Discover the full site can only be viewed with a guide. The next one is due in seventy-two hours. We won’t be here. However, we are allowed free access to one lower section only, the Batteria Tirolo. It’s all about health and safety. We sign disclaimer forms. Get issued with ID lanyards. Given ninety minutes max. If we’re not back by then, presumably a helicopter search will commence.

A twenty minute hike and a fifteen minute peek is all it takes. Just as well it’s free.

Our leisurely meander back to camp passes a rare sight. Ponders the question . . .

An evening of rolling thunder, high winds and heavy rain deters any chance of al fresco dining. That clears the air perfectly for a welcomed sunny start to today . . . but we’re leaving.

It’s easy to get used to this nomadic life on the road. Having no fixed abode. It brings with it a strange feeling of freedom. At any given moment you decide where to go and how far. When to stay and when to move. It’s like getting lost every day and being the only person in the world, who knows where you are.

Even now, nearing the end of this trip, when the choices becomes more limited there’s no escaping that perception of liberty.

Day 66 – Our penultimate skip plops us lakeside at Italia Lido Castelletto, Lago Maggiore. A tourist hotspot. The site’s famous for its ‘exclusive’ floating pool. It’s rammed. Sessions in place. It doesn’t float our boat. We’re tourists, of a kind. We prefer to stay clear of other herds. Roam freely. Seek more open pastures to graze on. So we stay for one night. Move on.

Day 67 – With the weather set hot and sunny we pre-book another hotspot on the banks of Lake Annecy, at Camping de L’Aloua. It seems a long time since we set foot in France. Hope we can remember a semblance of a sentence or two. Hope our French acson still functions.

Other than distance and estimated time of arrival, just to make sure it’s doable in a day, Mr S never double checks a planned route. Today is no exception. He makes no exception. Hoo-Ha Henry does likewise. Not interested in road types. As long as Beastie can fit, he’ll direct. With parameters still set to allow motorway use, his blue route seems straight forward.

After paying one hefty toll of €42 to cover just over 100K, Mr S is surprised (though he wouldn’t have been if he’d have done his homework) to discover our route is taking us through Mt Blanc, rather than around it. Cost for this privilege? €72.

The entry system is strictly governed. Whilst in the tunnel there’s no overtaking allowed, plus a set minimum speed of 50kph and a set maximum speed of 70kph. We pay, then wait our turn. Like bike time-trialists each vehicle sets off at a set distance from the previous. Once inside, a series of speed cameras lie in wait, eager to flash any deviators. Beastie’s cruise control spoils their day.

Day 68 – Lake Annecy must be one of our all time favourite locations. The shared walking and biking lane provides this morning’s preamble amble. We haven’t gone far when we’re stopped by a young day-glo woman on a bike. She operates as a pedestrian predator. Seeks out any wayward walkers. As in those that are walking two abreast. Hands out a safety information leaflet. Instructs us to walk single file along the gravel section at the side of the metalled bike route. Trunks in front, tails behind.

Back at camp, we have options, Sun, or swim. We do both. Poolside.

After time has passed and you look back, try to relive moments in your mind; recreate people, places and events, it often feels like another life. Even one lived by another person.

Going through old photographs can have the same effect. You look at yourself then. Compare that image to the now and wonder “Is that really me?” Of course, every second of every day brings on a subtle, unseen change. Not only of the exterior, but interior too. We are never the same person twice.

The days on the road have the same affect. Never the same. A new day takes us further away from the ‘Türkiye experience’. Without videos, photographs, this blog and Mary-Ann’s journal we’d already be hard pressed to recall many places and events. Nomadic movements constantly focus on the future. Blur the past.

Day 69 – Tonight’s stopover at Camping du Sevron à Saint-Étienne-du-Bois, revives a memory. Buried deep within our archaic archives. It’s a cute little site with its boundary lines dictated by a snakelike Rivière le Sevron. We recall from when, we have no idea, of staying here when the bank overflowed. One caravan was saved from launching in headfirst by the expertise of the owner and his rocking quad.

It now has new young owners; a table tennis table and a swimming pool – no better way for a couple of nomads to end the day.

Day 70 – We break our journey to tonight’s Camping Municipal, Rives de Marne, Vouécourt. Like a couple of robotic lawnmowers, we go bump about the small town of Gray. Bounce around its narrow streets, with no idea where each leads. Blindly taking a short cut here, or there.

On the way back to Beastie, I stop and snap this rock fountain. Need to get something off my chest – again. Hopefully will. Must be an ‘old fogey’ thing. In almost every town we have ever visited there is at least one fountain pumping day and night. Gray is no exception. Energy crisis? What energy crisis?

Beastie spends the evening with a bunch of lookalikes a few feet from the Marne. As our after dinner walk reveals.

At 7am, this peaceful looking church, turns deceitful. For a solid three minutes it announces the start of a new day. Fine if you’re already up. We’re not. But we are awake – NOW!

The curious nature of man constantly searches out the new, the different, or the unexplained. A never-ending quest of investigation. To fathom; to reason; to create; to recreate.

That same curiosity helps fuel tourism. A stream of global border hoppers, scatter themselves to the four winds. Just to find out ‘What it’s like over there’.

Camping Corny Metz-Sud, 16K south of historic Metz, is perfectly positioned. A thirty minute Scoot from the old town, along quiet country lanes. On the city outskirts, L’église Sainte-Thérèse-de-l’Enfant-Jésus, brings Scoot to a sudden stop. A church like no other. A futuristic masterpiece.

Many of the historic buildings are constructed using Jaumont stone. The yellow sandstone hue exudes a familiar Cotswold warmth.

This Alsace–Lorraine region has been to-ing and fro-ing between France and Germany for centuries. After WWII Metz was given the right to keep both feet firmly planted in France. To this day there still remains a German presence – within its local laws and some of its historical sites. We spot the most famous on MAPS. Follow the blue triangle. It’s a 13thC relic. Serving no real purpose other than to sit pretty and smile for the camera. We click. Click our heels. Turn and head across town for the next shot.

We pick up Scoot. Make one last stop before heading back to camp. A strange looking building that houses a large collection of modern art – not to our taste. Neither is the building.

Doing something in a particular way over a long period of time, can make that something, feel absolutely normal. Right even. Make it seem the only way it can be done. Leaving no room for an alternative.

It’s now our 8th year of retirement. 7th in Beastie (allowing for COVID) With over 50,000 miles on Beastie’s clock, [more than double my UK miles in that time] it now feels much more natural to drive on the right. I now have to readjust back home, rather than here.

Today, we leave Metz. Head 240k north, to our penultimate one-nighter. Camping de la Valise de l’Oise, in Guise. (try saying that without moving your lips). This large Metz site is like a Dutch distribution hub. Each afternoon gets packed with new arrivals. We get hemmed in on all sides. By 10am each morning, the site is virtually empty. Some going home, some aiming for warmth. The Dutch, in general are a very tall nation . . . this site panders to that characteristic.

At Guise, we stop off at the local Intermarché. All shoppers, bar one, oblivious to the incredible cloud structure forming above . . .

Adrenaline seekers can’t help themselves. That supreme rush of almost overwhelming excitement, becomes highly addictive. Everyday routine and calm normality a boring reality that’s to be avoided like the plague.

There’s no comparison to the above, but after our too short tour of Türkiye, the EU seems a little bland. Predictable even. Dare I say boring? Or is it that over these travelling years we’ve been getting used to too much of a good thing? Or perhaps as no longer newbies on the block, we now have everything sussed. Nothing new to learn, or experience. No surprises that can’t be dealt, coped with, or ignored.

With less than twenty-four hours to go before we land back on terra-firma, we decide to make one last visit. Like a couple of kids being called in for the day, we want to stay outside, playing until it gets dark, or rains.

We head for Dunkerque War Museum. It details the story of the Battle of Dunkirk and Operation Dynamo, which in May-June 1940, became the largest evacuation effort in military history.

Northern France is peppered with memorials and cemeteries from both world wars. Earlier, we pass through Fromelles.

WWI Australian armed forces suffered greatly at the Battle of Fromelles and their memory is honoured at the site of the fight lines.

And now it’s all over. With the Euros in full force, it’s a miracle this blog has kept up to date. We’ve spent almost as much time getting to and from Türkiye, as we did there. But we wouldn’t do it any other way.

Thanks for being with us every K of the way.

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