Category: Türkiye 2024

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?

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 . . .

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 Bisar 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.]

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

. . . 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.