MOTORHOME TRAVELLERS' DIARY FOR SEPTEMBER 1997

GREECE AND TURKEY

Barry and Margaret Williamson 

01 SEPTEMBER 1997 GR CAMPING ALEXANDROUPOLI, ALEX'POLI

Drove to Alexandroupoli, bypassing Komotini. Settled on the good campsite between beach and main road just a mile before the town. The Dutch cyclists we first met at Kavala, Eva and Duco Dekinga, had arrived yesterday and we invited them to join us in the evening. After lunch, we cycled into town to explore and check ferry times to the island of Samothrace. As we were reading the timetable in the office of the Port Police, we met the amazing Dieter Bachter, aged 59, who had cycled alone from his Bavarian home in Augsburg via Austria, Hungary, Romania, Bulgaria and Turkey in 3 weeks. He now planned a short holiday on Samothrace before flying home from Thessaloniki, as he still works until hoped-for early retirement next year, then a life of travel. We joined him for a drink at a taverna, watching him eat and listening to him talk, both of which he performed with great skill and enthusiasm. His English was excellent, Margaret helping with the odd word, but we were even more impressed when he addressed the waiter in fluent Greek. He also spoke French and was learning Chinese (he had 2,000 characters and thought 2,500 would be enough to read a newspaper).

He'd cycled in China (and in Israel, India, the States and most of Europe) and wanted to return. Three hours flew past as we explored each other's lives and he talked very frankly about his early childhood in the war, the poverty in his Bavarian village devoid of men, 2 grounded British airmen walking through the streets and surrendering at the railway station (to the only uniformed men they could find), the loss of his father (an SS officer) at Stalingrad, the arrival of the Americans, with their chewing gum and chocolate, and his younger brother approaching every soldier to ask if he was their father. He had puzzled long and hard over what had happened to the Jews and how it had been possible, his grandmother and others telling him simply "Sie sind weggekommen". He explained that his father, a cheesemaker, had been a good man who believed the Nazis were a socialist party working for the people but had been so appalled by what he saw in Poland that he changed completely, and his mother knew he would never wish to return alive. Powerful stories. A very different kind of German, with whom we felt very much at ease. We invited him back to Rosie but he was keen to find a room, wash and crash out, after several nights of sleeping rough, or as he called it 'in a 2,000 star hotel' - he carried no tent or stove, just a bivvy bag and mosquito net. We felt sad our paths had crossed so briefly, but we have his address and an invitation to call.

Back at the camping we had the Dutch cyclists round for coffee and more talk, of monsoons, bicycle maintenance and culture shock. We don't know how they'll handle Turkey and India, as they're already stressed by the different nature of Italy and Greece, compared with the orderliness of Holland (who could compete with that?) They gave us a good spray can of chain oil for Alf, bought by mistake for their cycles. Obsessed with chains, they even carry a spare each to change every 5,000 km, no wonder they look heavily laden and travel slowly. But, really, we envy their youth, their vitality, their travel-naivety and their cycling (but not their Dutch bikes)! 60 miles. £8.00 inc elec.

Into Alexandroupoli for the Poste Restante: letter from mum, a packet and a letter from Alan and the Green Cards for Turkey direct from Comfort Insurance. Also an invitation to lan Inglis's wedding party (in August) and a letter from Jeff Mason. There was nothing from Roger Jeynes so we rang Peter Underwood to push him (again). Also tried to ring Abbey National who were making threatening noises over an unpaid bill of £130 of which we have no knowledge at all. Didn't make contact, except with a recorded message and a long telephone queue we couldn't afford to wait in, so wrote to them and Turners and hope they'll sort it out between them. Also rang Alan who confirmed that a second packet of mail is on its way.

Met a young couple in a VW Combi on the site, Kevin (from Leicester) and Rebecca (from Australia) Watts, and gave them an evening of coffee, talk and digestives. They'd driven here via Hungary, Romania and Bulgaria and would leave tomorrow to explore Greece and Crete, then hope to sell the van and fly to Australia where they will settle. They were keen scuba-divers, on which we were no help at all, but we did give them a (very) 'Rough Guide to Greece' and the Camping In Greece booklet. Bulgaria is now visa-free, but they were charged a disinfectant tax, a bridge tax and an environment tax (all in US$). Romania still demands a transit visa. They reported no problems other than the primitive campsite facilities and bumpy roads and said they felt safe there (as did Dieter).

Day on the island of Samothrace, leaving on the 10 am ferry for a good 2.5 hour crossing with Alf. The island looms out of the sea, Mt Fengari (= Moon Mountain) (1611 m or 5,300') being the highest on any Aegean island except Crete. We went straight from the harbour at Kamariotissa to Paleopoli, 5 miles along the north coast, a place of pilgrimage for thousands of years to the Sanctuary of the Great Gods (pre-Greek to early Christian), tucked into a wooded ravine. An excellent site for a picnic and a scramble round the ruins, with an interesting museum. A student was sketching the copy of the famous 'Samothraki Nike' or 'Victory of Samothrace', a huge marble statue of a winged Nike (minus head, looking like a prototype angel), the original being in the Louvre, though other sculptures on show had been returned from Paris. Remains of a complex of buildings for use in the initiation ceremonies, sacrifices and mysteries, from the 4thC BC onwards, had been uncovered, including the 285 BC Arsinoeion, the largest rotunda in Greece, 65 ft in diameter. Alexander the Great's parents are said to have met and fallen in love here.

The road did not run right round the island, the south coast being too sheer into the sea, and with no accessible beaches it was very quiet. We ventured inland to the tiny 'capital' of Hora, climbing up to its Kastro and the village of Profitis Ilias, before returning for the 6 pm boat back and a Goody's meal on the waterfront in Alexandroupoli. We were sorry we didn't have longer, to walk up to the waterfalls above the Fonias Gorge, or even attempt the route up Fengari from the little spa of Therma, but maybe another visit. Alf hadn't wanted to leave: running downhill, he oiled up his sparking plug on 4 occasions until finally persuaded that such tricks wouldn't make us miss the ferry.

The morning was spent talking to Ernest and Muriel Barry from Sutton Coldfield, who had arrived on the campsite in our absence yesterday in a G-reg C-class Pilote on their way to see friends in Ankara. They'd travelled in Turkey before (albeit 10 years ago) and said we would love it - friendly, inexpensive, beautiful. Kevin and Rebecca also came to say farewell and gave us their new Lonely Planet 'Eastern Europe on a Shoestring' so we can give away our ancient Iron Curtain edition. It seems the further we get from Britain, the more fellow travellers we meet.

Finished the diary for August and took it to photocopy. Also shopped for food (in case they don't eat in Turkey!) and spare sparkling plugs for Alf after yesterday's protest. Barry posted his small camera to Minolta for an estimate for repair. Alan's second packet had still not arrived so we may have to wait till Monday to leave. (Our Green Cards are valid from midnight tonight.)

The post has come, so no further excuse to linger in Greece! (It is hard to leave after 9 months). The packet included letters from Bill and Heather, with 3 photos taken on the boat from Gavdos. Rosie had just got us all out of Alexandroupolis onto the main road for Turkey when the offside wing mirror dropped out and smashed on the road (this was the mirror that hit a passing lamp post back in Salerno and was repaired in Brindisi). Was this a sign to turn back - or stop looking backwards? As Barry worked at the roadside, putting the nearside mirror in its place, Margaret talked to a dear old woman selling melons from her cart, and of course bought a couple.

Half way to Kastanies we turned off to the 'Ecotourist Dadia Forest Reserve', though passing several trucks loaded with felled tree trunks along the country lane we wondered if the conservationists were too late. There was a small visitor centre run by the WWF with a display and video about the flora and fauna of the forest in general and the birds of prey in particular (36 of the 38 species in Europe are all present, with rare eagles and vultures, on a reserve shared with nearby Bulgaria over the intervening Rodopi mountains). We'd have liked to walk through the woods to the observatory post but, for once, we had a deadline, to make the border before darkness fell.

We drove on, through Soufli and Orestiada, reversing the route we'd cycled in the summer of 1989 (when we rode from Edirne down to Alexandroupoli in a day, riding back into Turkey at Ipsala, the more southerly of the 2 Greek/Turkish border crossings, the following morning). We were glad not to be cycling it today, with a strong head wind, and thought of Eva and Duco also on their way to Istanbul. Seeing nowhere to camp or park, we reached the border village of Kastanies and settled on some spare ground near the centre, after checking that tomorrow wasn't market day! We knew the frontier was only open here from 9 am to 1 pm daily, and 9 to 11 am at weekends. Rang mum to say goodbye from Greece. 98 miles. Free night.

The border crossing from Yunanistan (as the Turks call Greece) was straightforward - a short queue when it opened at 9 am, mainly taxis taking Greeks across to shop, plus a Dutch couple in a small camper with whom we passed the time. This is a border with a proper 'no-man's land', nearly a kilometre of nature reserve between checking out of Greece and checking into Turkey. A 3-month visa on the Turkish side cost £10 each, another official checked the vehicle papers for Rosie and Alf and a customs man took a brief look inside (out of curiosity), then we were through, squeezing past the horses and carts round the back end of the railway sidings, finally emerging into the town centre of Edirne. Camping Fifi was about 5 miles along the Istanbul road and we shared it with a Dutch Caravan Club tour, who had come through Hungary, Romania and Bulgaria, and who leave tomorrow for Istanbul before returning via Greece and a ferry to Italy. A little more intrepid than the usual British Club Rallies! The campsite owner was very friendly, spoke German and preferred their currency (19 DM a night).

Once settled, we used Alf to go back into Edirne in search of a new wing mirror, in the amazingly extensive car repair and accessories bazaar on the edge of town, suggested by Mr Fifi. The first man we asked shook us warmly by the hand, jumped onto his scooter and led us round the maze of workshops to a windscreen fitter, who cut a bit of mirror to fit and glued it in the frame we'd taken, all for less than £2. Our first friend had disappeared, just pleased to help. In town we changed our surplus Greek drachmas into a few million Turkish Lira. Inflation has gone crazy, with 270,000 = £1, which meant that using a public WC cost 25,000 each and a McDonald's lunch for 2 was over a million! Thus fortified we wandered round the narrow streets, full of life and atmosphere in the sunshine, all seeming to lead to the Selimiye Mosque, the town's beautiful focal point. Greeks call Edirne Adrianopole, after Emperor Hadrian who built and named it. For almost 100 years it was the Ottoman capital (after Bursa and before Constantinople) and in the 18th century it was one of the 7 largest cities in Europe.

A television set running in the bazaar reminded us of the events in Westminster Abbey and we returned to Rosie to watch and hear the majestically sad pageant of the funeral of Diana, Princess of Wales, which was well covered on both Greek and Turkish TV and the BBC World Service. Elton John moved us to tears, performing so professionally on such an unrehearsed occasion. 12 miles. £6.50 inc elec.

Suitably dressed (socks and trousers, and a headscarf for the one with offensive hair) we visited the historic mosques and the archaeological museum and (unintentionally) the gipsy quarter. A day full of rich impressions, in a town surprisingly devoid of tourists, who all make straight for Istanbul and miss the harmony and history of the Selimiye Mosque, Sinan's masterpiece of 1575, smaller but more elegant than the one he built for Suleyman the Magnificent in Istanbul. Visible from every direction across the Thracian plain, it crowns the town, and was equally breathtaking inside - a huge, light, airy space. Then over the road into the museum of history and archaeology, an interesting mixture of stone age, ancient Greek and Roman finds and more recent Ottoman costumes and household effects. Walked through the old town, past the 16thC caravanserai built for the camel caravans and now a smart hotel, and took lunch at the Sultan Ahmet restaurant -delicious chicken kebabs, rice, salad and drinks - £3.50 for 2 and less than yesterday's McDonalds.

Then a tour of the older, less famous mosques. The Seljuk-style Ucserefeli Cami (pronounced 'Jamee' = Mosque) of 1447, famous for its 4 varied minarets, was closed for restoration but the contemporary Hamam (Turkish baths) opposite were still in use. The Eski Cami of 1414, by the covered market and caravanserai, was very much in use and the huge black calligraphic inscriptions inside and out looked threatening. A devout door-keeper pressed a booklet into our hands, 'Islam, the pathway to happiness', but no contribution was expected. Just out of town we were lucky to find the Muradiye Cami of 1436, associated with the Whirling Dervishes, open for prayer-time and admired the beautiful blue Iznik tiles. Finally our search for the mosque of Sultan Beyazit II, by the Tunca River, took us through the gipsy quarter, medieval in every sense, helped by an unofficial guide who warned us not to go through on our own. The Beyazit mosque was locked, but the whole complex, from 1488, included a hostel, bakery, soup kitchen, hospital and insane asylum. Some of the many-domed buildings now house the University of Thrace's Faculty of Medicine.

Returning to the campsite we shopped at MM Migros, an excellent supermarket (the only national chain) with all the essentials at very reasonable prices (but we did miss the pig and its many products). What a mixture of impressions, from the men dancing and playing their drums and instruments outside corner cafes, to the woman collecting the money and dispensing the paper outside the WC, with knitting in one hand and a mobile phone in the other!

Easy fast driving on a good, new and empty motorway from Edirne to Istanbul with plenty of services and parking areas, very quiet and worth the toll (£2.50). Found diesel ('Motorin') is 33p a litre, cash is available (20 notes at a time, each worth 1,000,000) at bank machines with Visa, and the traffic much more orderly than in Greece, due to a very much heavier police force. We drove through empty rolling countryside, with sunflowers and grains until Istanbul's industrial outskirts began to intrude, 25 miles out. Took the airport turn-off by mistake and circled back round 'International Departures' (from where we left in 1989 after cycling to Istanbul) and eventually found the campsite by heading for the coast and asking at the marina (no signs).

The campsite was quite busy, some of them old friends. First we met the Dutchman with whom we'd crossed the border, just leaving, and then spotted Muriel and Ernest who insisted we park alongside them. The Dutch Caravan Club had also arrived from Edirne yesterday and, to our surprise, Eva and Duco, the Dutch round-the-world cyclists, were already here, despite the strong winds, coming yesterday on the Bandirma ferry following our recommended route. We also talked to middle-English Sandra and Bernard from Welwyn Garden City, the first genuine Over-landers we've met, going to India in a Unimog (ex-German Army jeep) which certainly looked the part (lorry wheels, 1-2-3- or 4-wheel drive, 3 gearboxes, locking differentials). Bernard had converted it himself, keeping the steel body but raising the roof and fitting out the rear 'box' with bed, cooker, fridge, toilet, shower, etc. The only negative we could see was that they couldn't get into the cab from inside the living bit - having to go outside would be a disadvantage if they needed to drive off in a hurry. They hope to get to Calcutta for their son's wedding in December. Along with a gang of Kiwis and Ozzies in their usual Bedfords and Kombis and a busload or two of Czechs and Poles (even a coach of Iranians), this is a real international meeting place, though few intend going further. 149 miles. £6.00 inc elec (1,6 mill).

First priority being to search out a place to service Rosie (coming up to 30,000 miles), we asked the advice of the campsite man, who sold us a good map of Istanbul for a million and suggested the Topkapi industrial estate on the way into the city. This was fruitless, but did introduce Alf to the choking city traffic. Returning, the police pulled us up and threatened to fine Barry 3.6 million for not wearing a helmet and impound Alf while he got a bus or taxi to fetch it, then lost interest and let us go on payment of 2 million (no receipt). Collected said helmet and comforted ourselves with coffee and biscuits before heading out again for a Ford Truck Service place we'd noticed by the airport. They were very friendly and gave us a free lunch in the workers' canteen, despite not speaking any common language and being unable to help, except with the address of the main Ford agency in the city.

Lunch was a huge stainless steel platter each of thin soup, chickpea stew and rice, with a generous helping of plain yogurt and bread and water, served by 2 smiling Bulgarian women, the scraps going to the works cat. Very filling and quite tasty, like an Indian meal without the hot spices. Sated with experiences, we returned to talk to Ernest and Muriel, who leave tomorrow for Ankara, the Dutch cyclists, who are excited that Eva's brother arrives tomorrow by plane to join them for a week, and Sandra and Bernard, who also leave tomorrow towards Iran. We asked them in for coffee, gave them a guidebook to India which we had 'liberated' from an abandoned magic bus in Crete, and learnt more about the practicalities of visas and carnets, but think they've underestimated the problems and dangers. We wished them luck, with a tinge of envy.

Into Istanbul and across the Golden Horn to the gridlocked business area in search of the main Ford agency, where a woman with good English (she'd worked in London and couldn't wait to get back there) said they couldn't help either, but suggested a place on the new industrial estate on the northern edge of the city at Maslak, though her directions were of the vaguest. We eventually found it and checked out the Ford garage, and another one offering 'American Service', but neither seemed at all familiar with our model. Both were keen for us to bring it round for them to see but we were unconvinced that it would be worth the trouble. We also found the Tourist Information Office by the harbour on the Golden Horn, where the man was 'so sorry about your Princess Diana', and the Turkish Maritime Lines office where we learnt that their Izmir-Brindisi ferry only runs till the end of September, but there's a weekly service to Venice, taking 3 nights. That's a good one to know about in emergency.

The city has grown far too fast to cope, the population having trebled to 15 million since we were last here in '89. Their model for growth is American, with a McDonalds on every corner, as well as Burger King, Wendy's, KFC and Pizza Hut. Of course, we took refuge in a McDonalds for some familiar comfort.

A much needed rest day at Atakoy, doing the washing and mending (M patching B's shorts, B fixing the toilet door handle which had just come off in M's hand). We walked across to the local shopping centre for supplies. The bread is lovely and at 55p for a total of 6 rolls, 2 white loaves and 2 brown is even cheaper than Greece. A different campsite manager, who spoke German, offered to get his mate from the local garage round to look at Rosie. We all conversed, Barry telling Margaret (in English), who told the campsite manager (in German), who told the mechanic (in Turkish) what we needed, like Chinese whispers, but we finally settled on an oil and filter change on Monday morning, if we provided the filter.

Talked to our new neighbours, Dean and Julia, young Australians in an old Bedford who have been on the road from London for 4 weeks, hoping to get to Lebanon, though they'll probably have to leave the van in Turkey and back-pack via Syria. This was our very first experience of a 'hard' conversation. At last, the age, culture or education gap has caught up with us and we found it really difficult to sustain a coherent dialogue. They did too! And Julia passed on her flu to Barry (and thence later to Margaret - thanks!)

Into the old city on Alf, along the coast road we'd cycled in 1989. We remembered open country and goats but now it's built up the whole way. We left Alf on the Otopark ('Oto' = car) by the Suleymaniye Cami (Mosque of Sultan Suleyman the Magnificent) and revisited what is Istanbul's largest mosque, again by the architect Sinan (1577). The stained glass windows were like jewels in the sunshine, and we went round to the cemetery (still in use) to see the elaborate tombs of Suleyman and his wife and other rulers, very elaborate with Iznik tiles. No entry fees but a 'contribution' was in order. Sitting in the mosque gardens with our flask of coffee, watching the gaily dressed water-sellers and a few old lads resting on the grass and feeding the beautiful Turkish cats, provided a peaceful oasis before walking down to explore the Grand Bazaar, where we managed to see plenty and buy nothing (both an achievement). The men going into the mosque adjoining the book bazaar were being frisked by a guard, so we walked on to see an astonishing army of police (men, women, dogs and vehicles all in riot gear and well armed) gathering in the square outside. We realised they were ready for a confrontation with the Muslim Fundamentalists after Friday prayers, so beat a hasty retreat to rescue Alf and return home.

Later we made plum ('Erik') jam and watched the police quelling the riots in Istanbul and Ankara on the television. It seems to be a regular Friday event.

A morning of writing for M, and fixing the water pump to refill the tank for B. Then back into the old city, 10 miles along the coast road, to visit Sancta Sophia, built in the reign of Justinian, the greatest Byzantine Emperor, in the year 548. (St Peter's in Rome is bigger, but came 1,000 years later, after Constantinople had fallen to the Turks.) Externally it looks cluttered with buttresses and the incongruous Moslem additions, especially an ugly minaret at each corner, but inside the domes, stained glass and what remain of the mosaics are astonishing, especially the sheer size of a church nearly 1500 years old. The massive pillars supporting the central dome (made of light hollow bricks) are hidden in the interior walls and the space is amazing. Succeeding emperors and sultans had to have the dome rebuilt and buttresses added because of earthquakes. It served for 9 centuries as the greatest church in Christendom, until Mehmet the Conqueror claimed it for Islam in 1453, then as a mosque for another 500 years until Ataturk wisely proclaimed it a museum in 1935. (Entrance fee and metal detectors now greet you.) Ottoman chandeliers, a Sultan's Lodge and large black and gilt boards of Arabic calligraphy desecrate the sanctity, but the dome is being restored and the plaster covering removed from the mosaics. The best overview was from the gallery, up a spiral ramp.

After a break in the lovely park with a huge fountain (the site of the Hippodrome through 1400 years of Byzantine and Ottoman rule), we visited the Sultan Ahmet Cami (known as the Blue Mosque). This was built by the Sultan on the site of the Byzantine emperors' palace in 1616, to surpass nearby Sancta Sofia, and it does rival it in beauty, its 6 minarets and many domes being the most famous silhouette on the Istanbul skyline. Full of marble latticework, light from the stained glass windows and colour from the blue Iznik tiles lining the walls and gallery, it still has 4 massive pillars supporting the dome, recalling what an architectural triumph Sofia's was 1,000 years earlier. The number of tourists (and the scent of their feet) did detract a little from that sense of wonder we'd felt in Edirne's main mosque. Returned to cook, rest and write to mum.

A day riding along the European edge of the Bosphorus Strait to its end in the Black Sea. Early morning was quiet and sunny. The Galata Bridge across the Golden Horn, lined with fishermen, led to genteel leafy suburbs with Ottoman summer palaces. We followed the European shore, through seaside towns with interesting old 'Yali' (shorefront wooden villas) to the northernmost village of Rumeli Kavagi, and beyond, skirting the military zone by going inland, to the harbour and lighthouse at the corner where the Black Sea opens out. An excellent place for our picnic lunch. As the ferries to the Asian side wouldn't take motorbikes, we returned on the west bank until the Fatih (new suspension) Bridge, then crossed over to Asia for a small fee. This was our first time out of Europe in 30 months of continuous travel. We returned on the Bosphorus Bridge (no toll in this direction), which we'd illegally cycled over in 1989. No cyclists on it today (nor motorbikes - they are quite rare here and we keep attracting attention, though the policemen only wanted to say 'Bravo' today!) The parks were thronged with families having picnics and cooking kebabs in the sunshine, or buying snacks from the many vendors (corn-on-the-cobs, nuts, fruit, sesame buns). And everyone was fishing, using mussels for bait.

Called at the garage next to the campsite where we'd arranged a service for Rosie but our man was not to be found and we understood (?) that it was closed tomorrow. Continued along the coast road on Alf into the old city for the last time, past the hotel we'd used in 1989, now in the middle of much development but then it was the only one we saw along the route out to the airport. Joined the throngs of Americans and Japanese on shore leave from their cruise ships to see the Topkapi Palace, but we had no chance of capturing its atmosphere among the crowds. It was a maze of buildings and gardens from the 15th-19th centuries, residence of the Sultans from Mehmet the Conqueror, who took Constantinople in 1453, until Mahmut II, who died in 1839. The kitchens, which once fed 5,000, had endless displays of porcelain, silver and crystal; the imperial treasuries were stuffed with priceless jewels, costumes and golden thrones.

The Holy Relics of the Prophet Muhammed (died 632 AD) were in the 'Pavilion of the Holy Mantle', which had been entered only by the imperial family once a year, during Ramadan, to worship. Now the holiest relics were on view in an inner sanctum behind a glass screen, guarded by a priest chanting from the Koran: a gold casket said to contain the prophet's cloak, his sword and other items. There were also display cases with several hairs from the holy beard, set in glass, his footprints in marble (presumably he walked on it before it set), a box said to contain a tooth, and fragments of his handwriting. Impressed? We skipped the Harem, which involved a separate ticket and an hour's wait for the next tour. The gardens, with their pavilions and views over the Bosphorus and Golden Horn, were the best memory and a place to linger.

Then an exciting ride on Alf following the massive 7 km-long city walls, as far as we were able, round to the 'Kariye Museum' (really the 11th century Byzantine church of St Savior). Smaller than St Sophia, but famous for the 14thC frescoes and mosaics, which have been better preserved or restored - but they didn't resemble those we had seen so very often in Greece. The church was in a gentrified area within the hectic Old City, with restored wooden houses (now cafes or hotels), surrounded by humbler dwellings.

Back in Atakoy we ate at the Pizza Hut in the shopping centre, hidden among the high-rise flats across from the campsite.

After packing up, we said a sad farewell to Eveline and Duco, who are hoping to fly Gulf Air to Delhi via Bahrain next weekend. We had a long drive towards Ankara, with Barry beginning to develop the symptoms of flu. We skirted the city by using the outer ring road and the Fatih toll bridge, then the excellent toll motorway to Ankara, 300 miles away. It was at least 40 miles before we felt we had left Istanbul, which sprawled along the Sea of Marmara, with industry and development as far as the port of Izmit. Gradually the road cleared, with many big empty parking areas and service stations, climbing steadily onto the Anatolian Plateau which averages 3,000 to 4,000 ft, vast, empty rolling 'steppes' of grass, wheat and sunflowers, with the occasional flock of woolly sheep.

A 20 km stretch of old and congested road slowed our progress, where the motorway had not been completed through difficult mountainous country around Bolu. Instead, a hazardous 3-lane road in poor condition climbed very steeply for 8 miles, twisting and turning, choked with lorries and buses struggling to climb the hill or control their flight down it, fighting for control of the centre lane. This was challenging driving. Suddenly, the traffic cleared and the road transformed into another beautifully empty motorway high on the boundless Anatolian plateau. A memorable night at a splendid service station at 5,000 ft, the temperature falling sharply outside but increasing inside as we pan-fried chicken breast and apples. Barry changed into winter cycling clothes as his temperature rose, the seriousness of his condition being emphasised when he went as far as taking 2 aspirins. 231 miles. Free night.

Continued on the motorway tb Ankara with Barry's temperature gradually returning to normal. We eventually found a way through the modern capital (population 5.5 million) and onto the Samsun road, despite a complete absence of signposts (heading east, we confidently steered by the sun but nevertheless found ourselves leaving the centre heading south). Rosie rose to the occasion, circled high in the suburban hills and dropped us neatly back on the road to Istanbul.

Filled up the LPG at a gas station (we saw at least 3 in the city) and finally continued east for 10 miles to the only campsite near Ankara, in a lovely green wooded haven below the Bayindir Dam and owned by the water company. (There was a tap labelled 'Drinking Water' to prove it, though the plumbing in the toilets and showers did not exceed the Turkish norm.) It was very peaceful, with a security guard on the gate who came to collect the nominal charge each evening. The only other campers were a Turkish couple in a French Pilote (who live and work in Provence and were back visiting family). Able to converse in French, we exchanged our map of Istanbul, where they were heading, for theirs of Ankara. 98 miles. £1.50 inc elec (400,000)!

Rest and shopping day. Went into the nearby village of Kayas (pronounced 'Chaos') to buy food and post the letter with the August diary to mum, having carried it since Atakoy where there was no PTT. Bought Alf some petrol and 2-stroke oil at the garage next to the campsite, and were again nicely surprised at the low cost of everything (eg 11 pence for a lovely loaf of bread; the oil at £1 per litre). Television here dubs anything foreign into Turkish, so our viewing is now limited to the weather forecast, puzzling over the news and enjoying our video collection, although Barry is slowly developing a taste for traditional Turkish music and bellies.

A day in Ankara: Roman Angora (from the local goat-hair industry) and the capital city since Ataturk moved it from Istanbul in 1923, wanting to get away from the seat of the Ottoman Empire and from any naval threat. At 3,000 ft high, it sits in a depression among the hills with a visible pollution haze sealing it in but it was slightly less congested than Istanbul. We got some good maps and campsite lists from Tourist Information, found the foreign language bookshop but bought nothing as they had doubled all the original marked prices, and got a nice lunch of chicken sandwiches, chips and ayran (a drink of yogurt and water, a new taste and quite refreshing).

Then to the highlight: the Museum of Anatolian civilisation, below the Citadel, in a restored 15thC 'Bedesten' (covered market and warehouses). This had won the European Museum of the Year Award for 1997, despite being in Asia! A whole set of new civilisations awaited us, such as the Urartians, Hittites, Phrygians and Assyrians, as well as Greeks and Romans, with monumental sculptures and delicate artefacts. The Hittite Empire (1900-1300 BC) used hieroglyphic writing similar to Egyptian, and there were letters and documents on tablets. Their little bronze cult objects, sun symbols and graceful statuettes of animals, above all deer and stags, were lovely. The museum buildings were lively, with groups of many nationalities and a corner to sit and drink a glass of Cay (Turkish tea, the national drink, with optional sugar lumps but never milk).

Back at the campsite the new Boots kettle (bought last summer as a spare) blew up, finally and rather alarmingly. This was after only a few weeks' use, with a year left on the guarantee - dangerous and annoying, as a low wattage one will be hard to replace here. Fortunately, we had with us our tiny 'travelling kettle': big enough to boil one mug-full of water or two boilings per teapot. A bus party of Poles had arrived on the site and were busy setting up their tents and cooking their supper. Such groups seem to keep the campsites going. Margaret talked to them in German and found they were on a 4-week whistle-stop tour of ancient sites in Greece and Turkey, coming via Austria and Italy. When she asked if they were returning by the Bulgarian route they were indignant: 'No, we've come to see the west'! Picked a bag of apples, at the warden's invitation, for an apple cake and a crumble.

Tried the nearby garage and service station at Kayas for an oil change for Rosie, but no mechanic appeared by 10.15 am so we pushed on to the Goreme Valley National Park, in the region the Romans called Cappadocia. The road was good and fairly quiet, the countryside vast and empty, as Rosie descended from Ankara, then climbed high again onto the Central Anatolian Platea to Nevsehir (new city) and along the Urgup road, past several campsites which looked deserted, to an excellent site just along the Goreme turn-off. We had a sweeping view across the moonscape of soft tuffa, caused by the eruption of two nearby volcanoes 3 million years ago that covered the region in soft porous stone, which then weathered into fantastic shapes of rock cones, pinnacles and 'fairy chimneys'. Dwellings were hewn from the soft rock from 4,000 BC onwards, and chapels and monasteries were carved out by the Byzantines. Although it looked a strange and barren region, the volcanic soil is rich and we were surrounded by fruit orchards and vineyards, with black grapes laid out on cloths to dry in the sun for raisins, and the inevitable melon fields. Our few neighbours were German, in motorhomes and caravans, and we felt the stark contrast with the local people travelling by donkey cart, the women with covered heads and faces, averting their eyes as East meets West. 171 miles. £4.50 inc elec (1.3 mill).

Explored the immediate area, past the Open Air Museum of Goreme and into the village, backtracking on sandy paths through the fields. Then, unusually, it rained so it was time for reading, writing, and phoning mum (who was out). Watched memorable video of the 'The Mission', with Jeremy Irons and Robert de Niro.

Rest day, Margaret developing the symptoms of flu just as Barry recovered. Gave the campsite 'library' some books we'd finished and received everything they had in English in exchange, including old Reader's Digests, a Private Eye, an MMM from 1995 and the Daily Telegraph from the day of Diana's funeral. A varied collection!

Shopping in Nevsehir on Alf, now wrapped up in trousers and gloves as the wind has a distinctly Siberian edge to it, but the sun shines, the sky is clear and blue, and after the pollution in Istanbul and Ankara it is magnificent to breathe such pure air. No luck in finding a small kettle, but we did get a hot roast chicken from a take-away rotisserie as compensation, and found a garage which might manage Rosie's oil change (sounds familiar?)

After lunch we explored further afield, into the potters' town of Avanos on the Kizilirmak (Red River, the longest in Turkey) and along the Zelve Valley of Fairy Chimneys to Urgup. This is at the foot of a rock honey-combed with old dwellings built into it and we climbed up 'Wish Hill' for a panorama. The many carpet sellers leave us in peace, we must look too poor or too well seasoned (what old India-hand Barry calls 'old hands'). The main hazard remains the erratic driving style of the Turks. Their cars, buses and trucks usually bear the words 'Allah Korusun' (May God Protect Me), but what about us infidels?

To Goreme village for vegetables at the weekly market: a couple of stalls with local produce. Then B wrote letters (lan Inglis, Jeff Mason and Barclaycard - the non-listening bank) while M picked some sweet black grapes from the campsite vine and curried the remains of yesterday's chicken. The cold wind has dropped and we have perfect autumn weather, around 70°F.

After lunch we did the tourist circuit of Goreme and Zelve 'Open Air Museums'. Goreme had a monastery, a convent and several churches hollowed out of the rock in the 10-13th C, some with ochre-painted frescoes, but most had been defaced (literally). The lack of respect, candles, incense, icons or atmosphere made us yearn for true Greek Orthodoxy. The 'Dark Church', where the best frescoes are found, cost an extra million apiece, so we left it unseen on learning they'd been restored over the last 2 years by Italians and Turks (not Greeks!). But we were impressed by the 'Buckle Church' a bit further down the valley. It had a crypt with tombs cut in the floor, and some lovely frescoes of New Testament scenes painted too high for vandalism. Then along to Zelve Open Air Museum, the road lined with Fairy Chimneys, some double or triple capped. Here was a much more extensive community built into the rock faces of 3 valleys, where the cave-dwellers had developed a flour mill, churches, living quarters, stores and pigeon houses (using their droppings as fertiliser for fruit and vegetable-growing). It proved quite breathtaking, scrambling through tunnels and climbing old iron ladders, some entrances closed because of dangerous erosion. The backdrop was truly fantastic and surreal, with a marvellous evening light for photography.

Into Nevsehir on Alf to post letters and another 20 miles along the Nigde road, through the fields of potatoes now being picked by swaddled women bent double, to Kaymakli and Derinkuyu. These small unattractive farming villages are famous for the 'underground cities' beneath them but had not attracted much tourist development. In Derinkuyu we found a tea room opposite the entrance, having searched in vain for a place to eat, but the man kindly sent out for bread and cheese and made us a 'Tost'. The route down into the underground city was well lit, with red arrows guiding you in and blue ones out, through surprisingly dry, cool and airy rooms and linking tunnels on many levels. There was a communal kitchen, blackened with smoke, a winery, a deep well (which is what 'Derinkuyu' means), shafts for air and light, and round stones which could be rolled across to block access in times of danger.

The 'city' had obviously been extended over centuries, since pre-Christian times, but information was vague as to when and why it was inhabited. Tunnels may have linked with Kaymakli, 5 miles away. On emerging we bought a pair of dolls from a woman making them as she sat on the ground in the car park. Flo would not like it here! Returning, we climbed up to the citadel overlooking Nevsehir for a flask of coffee with a view, watched by the local ragamuffins. In the east the old quarters of town are always the poorest, with unpaved alleys and hovels, unlike the western 'Conservation Area' approach with the most expensive property in the historic parts.

Cleaning and maintenance day, and wrote letters to Mick and Flo, and Alan. In the late afternoon sunshine we walked over to the cave church opposite the campsite entrance and were amazed at the extent of the complex, crawling through tunnels and up stairs by dim torchlight (borrowed from the 'keeper') and praying that the stones which roll across to seal the passages did not move (as in 'Raiders of the Lost Ark'). It resembled yesterday's underground city, except that the layers were carved upwards in the cliff face rather than downwards into the ground. M talked to a young German couple with 2 motorbikes and a tent, who had been on the road for over a year and were now returning from exploring as far as Pakistan and North Africa. Their favourite countries were Iran and Libya - challenging but fascinating - which set us thinking . . .

Postponed moving on, as the rain poured all night, all day, and into the night again. The strange cat-litter ground soaked it all up, with scarcely a puddle. Instead we wrote (the Diary and letters to Martin Wiltshire and Sue & Sam Sykes) and microwaved a big chocolate and almond cake.

A surprisingly easy drive crossing the Taurus mountain range to reach the Mediterranean. First to the more extensive underground city at Kaymakli, again well lit with red and blue arrows to lead us round, though a guide tried to persuade us to hire him to see 'secret tunnels'. One large room with alcoves all round had been furnished with carpets, cushions and wall-hangings and served drinks – an authentic touch and we enjoyed glasses of Apple Cay (deliciously fruity) sitting in claustrophobic splendour. After half an hour exploring the inside of a Swiss cheese, we emerged feeling like mice! The car park attendant classed Rosie as a bus and required half a million TL, but was so gentle, offering us tea and some rose water to freshen our hands and faces, that we couldn't object.

Driving on we by-passed Nigde, the road lined with stalls selling local apples and monster cabbages, and then climbed steadily to the 1584 m (5,200 ft) pass at Caykavak and twisted down again, taking a break in a sudden downpour on a lorry park at Pozanti before a stretch of toll motorway, through the wooded gorge cut by the River Tarsus. No sevice stations were yet ready and the motorway itself, sketched in as far as Mersin, dumped us onto an unpaved, unsignposted cart-track on the western edge of St Paul's native city of Tarsus.

We headed west, hoping to reach the sea and find a place for the night. In fact the busy road was built up with industrial and urban development all the way to the port of Mersin (pop 750,000) and beyond, with glimpses of the sea between blocks of flats. After Erdemli, holiday villages and beaches appeared and, as dusk fell, a campsite at Kizkalesi (Maiden's Castle) on the beach below an O'Pet garage (which had replaced the BP Mocamp in our book). The off-shore castle looked romantic, floodlit in the water, built in the 11th century and later used by Crusaders. Another, more ruined, castle on the mainland had once been linked to it by a defensive wall. The campers in caravans were week-enders from Mersin, including a doctor's family, and very forthright in their questions! 223 miles. £7.40 inc elec (2 mill, too much).

Rode 15 miles along the coast on Alf to Silifke, a town below a medieval fortress, where we posted letters and bought 10 litres of excellent Mobil oil for Rosie (exactly right API CD4/SG) from an oil specialist, who may be able to change it for us. Then another 5 miles to the port of Tasucu to check on ferries to Girne in northern Cyprus. Out of a confusion of mis-information we finally found that Alf could only go on the 'big ship' at midnight each night, a 5-hour crossing with no cabins, but without him we could take the daily 'sea-bus' and be there in 2 or 3 hours, but it could not be booked ahead and cost much more! We found a smaller but cheaper campsite (half the price) just beyond Tasucu, which we may move to, and then had a chicken kebab lunch overlooking the harbour. Back at Kizkalesi B fixed Rosie's brake lights at long last and we gave her a bath to celebrate.

Rosie's oil and filter changed at last! We returned to the oil and filter specialist in Silifke, who was there, open, expecting us and did an excellent job over the oily inspection pit outside his shop, assisted by a lad who crawled lovingly underneath with a grease gun. A super man, he cut the cloth Barry gave him to use in half and returned a piece, as he didn't need it all. Finally he proudly stamped her service record and shared the tip we gave him with the lad, a nice touch. Then we drove on past Tasucu to the small beach-side campsite and filled up with water. No easy task that, as a tractor towing a tank arrived to deliver it (but only after we'd insisted we couldn't stay if there was no drinking water). Rain set in for the afternoon so further exploration was postponed. 25 miles. £3.70 inc (intermittent) elec (1 mill).