MOTORHOME TRAVELLERS' DIARY FOR JULY 2003

GREECE, TURKEY AND BULGARIA

Barry and Margaret Williamson

01 JULY 2003 GR SERVICE STATION N OF SALONICA

A long hot hilly drive past the north end of Lake Vegoritida (no access) and through the fruit-growing district to Edessa, pausing to buy cherries and apricots at the roadside stalls. Edessa is on an escarpment, well watered by mountain streams and known for its waterfall, ravine and caves. But it is not known for wide streets or accessible car parks and we had to be content to weave our way through the town, seeing only a sign down a narrow street to the Cataracts. We ate lunch and got some diesel and our water tank filled at the garage on the far side run by a German-speaker (he loved his time in Frankfurt), then continued towards Thessalonika, the heavy traffic and industry telling us we were getting nearer.

Turned off at Pella, the first true capital of Greece. This was home to the Macedonian court, birthplace of Alexander the Great and his father, Philip who unified the country in 338 BC. Here Euripides wrote his plays, Aristotle tutored young Alex, a large city was linked to the sea by a river which later silted up. Strangely, it was destroyed by the Romans in 146 BC and only discovered by chance in 1957! Excavation continues.

The museum had a large empty car park and we asked if we might stay overnight if we paid the fee to visit site and museum. They refused, losing e18.00, and we drove on! A short-sighted policy, since there are no campsites or other parking possibilities nearby.

Another 25 miles to Thessalonika, modern Greece's 2nd city, rivalling Athens for traffic chaos and pollution. We could have bypassed it but wanted to fill our LPG tank, last done in Italy at the end of March and only possible in a very few Greek cities. After asking directions several times and confusing 28th October Street (which has a Shell Autogas station) with 26th October Street (which doesn't), we were rescued by an employee at the Shell Autogas Depot on the waterfront. He kindly led us to the right place in his car (perhaps a good excuse to get off work early). It was a relief to get back on the Ring Road and head north following signs for Kilkis. Still no campsites (they are mostly along the coast in northern Greece, with virtually none inland), so we stopped for the night near the village of Drimos behind a petrol station, with the permission of the owner and his (male) dog. This mutt surprised us by sharing its kennel, food and water with a kitten it had adopted and carried in its mouth like a mother cat! We felt bad about shooing it away earlier.

130 miles. Free parking.

A fast main road north, with a lunch break at Kilkis. We made the long hot walk up the wooded hill to the church of St George which was locked but gave a good view of the town below. Bought a roast chicken, hot off the spit, for later and continued on our way. We passed the turning for the easternmost of the 3 crossing points into FYROM at Doirani, by a small lake split by the border. Then the road veered east, parallelling the mountainous Bulgarian border and the single track railway line. We turned off at Livadia, over the railway line and 4 miles south to the village of Kerkini, on the lake/bird sanctuary we'd read about in the 'Athens News'. Since our Rough Guide gave it no mention, we hoped it was 'undiscovered' and we weren't disappointed. The village was a delight, with storks nesting on the church, the school, and virtually every lamp or telegraph post. Most had 3 or 4 young, looking ready to fly the crowded nests.

The 'ecotourist' hotel, where the Athens News travel writer had stayed, spoke no English and very little German and had no camping space. They directed us to the lakeside, where the French-speaking boatman offered bird-watching trips but nowhere to park or camp. He advised us to try said hotel! After visiting the Lake Kerkini Info Centre, declaring itself an EU Protected Area and Wetland of International Importance (nice pictures of wildlife but no other info), we drove 10 miles along the western shore on a narrow but good road to the bottom of the lake and found a large empty car park, complete with tap, by the dam at Lithotopos near another hotel. A perfect place, home to pelicans, many little egrets, all kinds of grebes, great white herons, grey herons, and what we finally identified as a pair of night heron. (Never seen these before, like a penguin crossed with an egret.) They did indeed come to life as night fell, taking over their niche in the pecking (or fishing) order.

73 miles. Free parking.

In which we cycle 30 miles along the lake, spotting birds and dung beetles, and make apricot jam

A wonderful ride back along the recently surfaced lakeside road (only one landslide) to Kerkini village, stopping frequently with the binoculars and bird-book. Huge black flocks of pygmy cormorants were sweeping across the lake, from their night roosts to the far side - the smallest European variety, preferring freshwater to the coast and now a threatened species. We also recognised a few little squacco herons (we'd met those in Morocco) and even a pair of spoonbill, along with plenty of egrets, grebe and grey heron. There were no ducks or geese to be seen, they will come down from the frozen north in winter (the info centre claimed the rare lesser white-fronted goose as a visitor.)

A tortoise crossed the road, but we were stopped in our tracks by a much more unusual phenomenon - a piece of cow-dung was rolling along the asphalt, propelled by a large dung beetle! They take it to make a nest in which to lay their eggs - we'd heard of them in S Africa (Addo Elephant Park) but never seen one: today we observed two.

In Kerkini a funeral cortège was arriving at the church, the priests walking in front of the hearse and the whole village on foot behind it, watched by storks from every rooftop. We also watched them as they went inside, then we turned for home after eating our biscuits and drinking our drinks in the small park. After lunch we cycled a short distance along the levee in the other direction, but trees blocked the view of the lake, the dogs were unfriendly and the track was rough. So back to base, where we made jam with a kilo of apricots, using the camping stove outside to avoid making the inside any hotter than it already was (up to 38C, 100F). There is no shade here, no power for the air-con and the flies are a nuisance, but we do have the car park and the lake to ourselves. We're getting to know the night herons and their habits well and observed a grey heron bullying his smaller cousin to drop its catch at his feet - a tasty frog.

Rode Alf up to the Bulgarian border crossing at Promahonas, following the Strimonas River, which feeds Lake Kerkini, up the valley it cuts through the Rhodopi Mountains. A couple of miles along country lanes near the frontier is the incongruous Procom duty-free shopping centre, literally in the middle of nowhere: a huge and featureless mall of clothes and shoes with a separate one for electrical goods. Many of the units were empty, a handful of cars in the vast car park, an idea that clearly isn't working. We just bought icecreams in the cafe and turned back, calling at the Roupel Tunnel on the way. We'd read about this 6 km long underground city built by Metaxas in the 1930's, part of the Metaxas Line to defend against Bulgarian invasion (it lasted a few days when the Germans came at it from behind, as they do). The modern soldier on guard duty blocked our way: it's only open to visitors (now including Germans) on Saturday and Sunday mornings. We returned to Lithotopos following tracks along the river bank and round the east side of the lake, passing Greece's only herds of water buffalo, grazing and wallowing to keep cool. The herdsman we spoke with was Bulgarian. We added one more new bird to our list, a purple heron flying over the lake, completing all the herons in the Birds of Europe book. This lake is deeper and less reedy than those at Prespa, with much more wildlife, and the local crops are corn and tobacco rather than beans. The tobacco leaves are strung on low wooden racks in the farmyards to dry in the open sun - it's 100 degrees again today!

After lunch we drove off in Rosie, leaving the waterland to the villagers - there were no tourists at all, despite the weekend festival starting in Kerkini. The main road east bypassed Seres, but no such luck at Drama, where the ring road is not yet finished and all traffic goes through the busy centre. We shopped at Lidl but the non-English-speaking manager wouldn't let us park overnight, not understanding that we're their best international customers! The nearest campsite is down on the beach at Kavala, 25 miles south, but we'd followed the coastal highway before and wanted to take the inland route through the hills. After another 15 miles at the little village of Platania we saw a taverna/petrol station with a big shady parking area under the trees. We asked if we could stay - No Problem, the magic words. While cooking a late supper, we were visited by 2 little lads learning English at school and by a black granny who spoke a bit of Italian. As darkness brought an end to the day's haymaking, 2 combine harvesters were parked alongside us.

83 miles. Free parking.

After buying 30 Euros' worth of Europa diesel, we had a lovely slow drive through wooded mountains to Paranesti, over the Nestos River and into Thrace, Greece's easternmost region, sad to leave the northern reaches of Macedonia. Stavroupoli was a very quiet town, Xanthi just the opposite, in need of a bypass and a few signs. Having fallen over the edge of our 'Greece and the Islands' map, which ignores anyone east of Kavala, we were at the mercy of the 1999 Michelin Atlas of Europe, which doesn't show the new motorway from Xanthi to Alexandroupolis, sections of which are actually finished! Bemused, we found ourselves heading west to Kavala but soon got oriented and U-turned east eventually onto the motorway, soon leaving it to go down to Porto Lagos and Lake Vistonida. We had fond memories of herons and pelicans there and a pleasant campsite at Fanari, by a lagoon full of flamingo. We were quickly disillusioned.

We parked by the lake to make coffee and walk over the bridge to the little island with its modern monastery, but the only birds to be seen were seagulls, despite the signs about the 'Heronry: Monument to Nature'. Should read 'Monument to Greek Nature'. We guess that a combination of pollution (fertilisers on the surrounding cotton fields), shrinking water levels (irrigation schemes), shooting and increasing numbers of visitors drawn by the new motorway account for the disappearance of birds.

At the campsite we were also disappointed after 10 nights of free camping, often in peaceful and isolated surroundings. This being the weekend and by a beach, it was packed with noisy Greek extended families; the washing machine was not available because 'the electrician has gone off duty for the weekend' and only he can switch it on; the nearby lagoon was also devoid of birdlife; water was scarce and the electricity a mere trickle. We wished we had gone with the birds, wherever they are, given the noise and general disturbance into the early hours! But we found a pitch under the trees as far from the sands and crowds as possible, got the TV aerial up after pruning a few branches and made a cherry pie. After dark an extremely sudden and violent hailstorm bombarded the campsite with icy marbles and it was quite satisfying to watch the barbecues, radios and sing-songs brought to an abrupt but sadly temporary end as flimsy awnings and shelters came tumbling down!

49 miles. £9.57 inc Camp Carnet discount. (No charge for elec after complaining that it wouldn't run the microwave or even recharge our batteries!)

Left Fanari with relief and continued to Alex'poli, the last town before the Turkish border, partly on the new motorway which bypasses Komotini. Camping Evros (named after the river which forms the border with Turkey) is on the beach next to the public park about a mile before the town - a splendid roomy site, big enough to take its Greek holidaymakers and any international travellers. Here at last we could empty and fill our tanks, recharge the batteries and ourselves and prepare for the next country. But still no washing machine on the site!

There were a lot less tourists/travellers than on our previous visit, though. We remembered the excitement of meeting Bec & Kev from Queensland, fresh out of Bulgaria in their Kombi; Ernest & Muriel, old hands at Turkey; the Dutch cyclists on their way to Istanbul ... Today, the only non-Greeks were a middle-aged couple in a new Pilote, Ian & Alison from Swindon, who had left the UK in May following redundancy on a hurried 4-month European tour. They intended reaching Istanbul tomorrow, then returning via Eastern Europe, with no experience of either. We gave them what info we had to spare and invited them round for coffee and advice in the evening. It was our first English conversation in 2 months.

53 miles. £11.42 inc 6-amp elec and Camp Carnet discount.

After waving off Ian and Alison, we Alfed into town to the familiar waterfront post office (this was our fourth visit to the border town). The insurance policy and green card for Turkey and Eastern Europe had arrived direct from Comfort and eventually a package from Brownhills (the new arm for the cycle rack) was unearthed. They had addressed it 'F.A.O. Margret (sic) Gorrie', so of course it was filed under F and therefore couldn't be for Gorrie (that was 'G').!

We also shopped at the Champion Supermarket and found an excellent Internet Cafe near the railway station, in a converted mill. Charging only e1.50 an hour (others in Greece were between e3.50 and e6), we treated ourselves to coffee while we browsed. There was an Email from Bill & Ruby in Australia and we sent thanks to Comfort and a query about oil changing to TB Turbo, then surfed for info on Bulgaria/Romania a bit. Finally, and with considerable difficulty in a rabbit warren of one-way backstreets, we located the laundry/dry cleaners just as it was closing for the afternoon siesta. The friendly woman and daughter team said, in effect, 'Bring it when we re-open at 6 pm and it will be ready tomorrow', so we did, 2 loads.

Watched 'Robin of Sherwood' on TV, with an overweight Kevin Costner as an effete Robin and Alan Rickman as a brilliantly wicked Sheriff of Nottingham, while doing some mending.

145 miles. £4.80 inc 4-amp elec.

We wrote a letter to Brownhill's on the subject of postage and other costs and a postcard to Bec & Kev, then back into town to post them, photocopy Rosie's new insurance policy, buy stationery and stock up at Lidl. We collected the laundry (clean, dry and neatly folded), the mail which had just arrived from both Mum and an Email reply from TB Turbo, which we acknowledged. Also thanked Mum by phone, learning that the 2 water filters had arrived from Steve.

With nothing else to delay us, we spent the afternoon opening and sorting the mail and preparing for an early start tomorrow. Tyre pressures checked all round and the suspension pumped up. The 6 engine levels (battery, oil, water, brake, transmission and power steering fluid) all remain steady not having been topped up since the January service. The post contained the health insurance policy from Endsleigh, together with a 'Rough News' and the usual bank statements and stuff. Turkey, here we come!

An early start, through Alexandroupoli and onto the new motorway to Turkey and Bulgaria. We used the southernmost of the 2 Turkish border crossings, through the Greek checkpoint, across the 1-km long no-man's land and Evros River, with crops and storks on both sides. Then a complicated hour getting Turkish currency, 10 packets of duy-free cigs for backhanders, and puzzling out the required sequence for obtaining visas (£10 each for 3 months), police passport stamp and 2 vehicle customs clearances (8 Euros for 6 months for Rosie, nothing for Alf who became a footnote). No searches or interrogation, welcome to Turkey, along the somewhat rougher road with a gravel hard-shoulder for the horse-drawn carts. Many more restaurants, tea-gardens and simple motels had appeared along the next 25 miles of highway since our last visit, when there was just a petrol station between the border and the Kesan crossroads - north to Edirne, straight on to Istanbul or south to Gallipoli.

Before turning south, we stopped at another innovation at the junction - a large MM Migros supermarket and a Burger King. For 14½ million Turkish Lire, we had a lunch (about 2.3 million to the £1) and browsed the supermarket to get hold of the prices (and a tub of ice cream).

Then down past Gelibolu (from the Greek name, Kalopolis, to which English Gallipoli is closer), stopping by the shore of the Dardanelles to look across to Asia over a pot of tea. A mile before Eceabat we turned right and crossed the Gallipoli Peninsula at its narrowest lowest point (as the Allies had failed to do, from the opposite direction). Past Kabatepe war museum to the little ferry port, then south through sunflowers and wheat to Kum Motel & Camping on the Aegean shore.

On our last brief visit in Nov 1997, returning to Greece from a 2-month tour of Turkey, the motel was still under construction and the workers let us park in the field and gave us a couple of loaves. Now it's all up and running, complete with restaurant, cafe/bar and swimming pool, and the field is busy with Turkish caravans and tents. We are still welcome to stay but now have to pay 20 million a night (double rooms in the motel are 90 million, dinner 18 million per head!) and half a million for a loaf (just over 20p). But what a splendid location, under shady pine trees, and Turks are certainly quieter than Greeks. We settled in, the only foreigners, walked along the beach, crossing a stream with turtles in, and were pleased to find we could still get Greek TV, with its news, weather and entertainment. NET are showing the last series of ER at 8 pm every weekday evening, plus the odd film on Star or Mega - so we needn't learn Turkish yet. Bulgarian TV also appeared on occasion.

127 miles. £8.70 inc 5-amp elec.

Still very hot, but eased by a wind from the north and sea breezes. We rode south for 8 miles to the crossroads at Alçitepe, then round a loop road, the first stop being 12 Tree Copse Cemetery and NZ Memorial. This commemorates 2,703 Sailors, Soldiers and Marines of the British Empire: 477 in known graves, 657 others 'known to be buried in this cemetery', the rest in graves 'known only to God'. A sober introduction to the 8-month Gallipoli Campaign which cost half a million dead or wounded, from 25 April 1915 until the survivors were withdrawn in December - many going on to fight or die in France.

We did not have far to cycle between the Commonwealth War Graves sites, the next at Pink Farm Cemetery with 602 men. Each little headstone bears a name, rank and age, and often a poignant epitaph from the family, maybe simply 'Our Fred'. Some are becoming illegible after nearly 90 years but the Commonwealth War Graves upkeep of the 31 white-walled tree-shaded graveyards here, always below a large cross and altar with the words 'Their Name Liveth for Evermore', is impressive. A couple of gardeners with a tractor towing a water tank were at work and we came across them regularly. Lancashire Landing Cemetery at the western tip of the peninsula is on a cliff overlooking the beach where the 1st Lancs Fusiliers landed on 25 April (now Anzac Day down under) and 1,225 men lie there, including Corporal Watson of the Argyll & Sutherland Highlanders, aged 24: 'One of the best, was Sandy'. At the southern tip, overlooking the shipping on the calm straits and a lighthouse, stands the Cape Helles British Memorial, to 20,763 men lost in unknown graves or at sea. Then, just past a Turkish memorial, came the little V Beach Cemetery, near a bathing beach and small motel. We were outraged to find a Turkish couple sunbathing on the wall and steps of this cemetery and remonstrated with them until they moved their towels and joined their friends on the sand. (It is a crime in this country to insult the Turkish flag or defame the memory of the national hero, Ataturk, who led them at Gallipoli).

Now we reached the village of Seddülbahir, with a ruined Ottoman fortress which guarded the entrance to the Dardanelles in a former age. A nice restaurant overlooked the tiny fishing harbour and we sampled their chicken kebabs with rice and salad (and a side order of chips). We needed a break from the ghosts and memories.

Then we cycled on, past the unloved French Cemetery (just a sign in Turkish and not even a flag) to the huge Turkish Martyrs' Memorial at the eastern tip of the peninsula, known as Abide. Up a wooded hill, past busy cafes, picnic areas and a coach park, stands the huge 4-legged stone table above a small war museum. Visible from Troy, it is a statement to all shipping entering the Dardanelles. A small Turkish cemetery there has new marble headstones for the few known men.

On the ride back to the village of Alçitepe we passed 2 more CWG sites: Skew Bridge Cemetery whose 606 men include Pte Anderson, age 19, of the Army Cyclist Corps - his epitaph reads 'From the ground there blossoms Red life that shall endless be' - and Redoubt Cemetery with another 2,027 buried. The numbers begin to blur the vision.

Back at Kum Camping we rehydrated with lots of tea and a swim in the salty pool. Also rang Turners on the mobile, in response to a message from Denise. Nothing urgent - more broken furniture.

Seeing our interest, the man at Reception gave us copies of 2 precious publications. First, the Orders of Service from this year's Anzac Day, for the Dawn Service and those at Lone Pine and Chunuk Bair, produced by the Dept of Veterans' Affairs in Canberra, with some familiar government names in attendance - NZ's Jim Anderton and Australia's Peter Costello - and moving excerpts from modern poems 'The Anzac Graves of Gallipoli' and 'On Chunuk Bair'. We could almost hear the Band of the Royal Military College of Australia playing 'Advance Australia Fair'.

The second gift was a splendid booklet 'North Beach, Gallipoli 1915', produced to commemorate Australia's Centenary of Federation in 2001. Beautifully illustrated with a sample of the notebook drawings and watercolours made by Major Leslie Hore (who survived to serve in France and lived till 1935), with a text by modern historian Dr Richard Reid, full of quotations from the diaries and letters of the Anzac troops. This supplemented our knowledge of the campaign, of the birth of nationhood in those lands at the other end of the earth.

We motorbiked up to the ferry quay at Kabatepe to enquire about the ferry across to the island of Gökçeada, which hovers on our horizon - the only Aegean isle now belonging to Turkey. Discovered the private ferry goes at 10 am, returning 3 pm, and the state boat leaves at 11 am, back at 6 pm. The crossing takes 1¾ hours and both boats take vehicles, so a day visit on Alf is feasible, probably after the weekend.

M started work on updating the diary (which always seems to be 10 days behind) and B cleaned and greased Alf and the bicycles, dusty and dry, like us. After dark, the campsite was thoroughly sprayed for mozzies, which seems to work: it's virtually pest-free.

A longer circuit, cycling north up the coast of Anzac Cove and Suvla Bay, returning along the ridge where the stalemate of trench warfare filled so many cemeteries in that Great War.

A couple of miles past Kabatepe, through peaceful pine forest where modern Turks have picnics, we reached the beaches of Anzac Cove. An ill wind blew the fateful Allied landing craft here in the early darkness; instead of Kabatepe harbour and a low route across the peninsula, they faced the Ariburnu cliffs, steep hillsides of dense scrub and fierce resistance from the Turks led, among other, by Mustafa Kemal (Ataturk).

Our first stop, at the southern end of Anzac Cove, was Beach Cemetery, right by the landing beach known as Hell Spit. Of 391 men buried here, 317 are Anzac troops, with 50 UK, 3 from Ceylon, the rest unidentified. (Small numbers from the subcontinent formed the Indian Mule Cart Transport Unit, carting food, water, ammo and stores from the landing beaches to the scattered depots closer to the front line trenches. Britain used her Empire.)

Past a Turkish memorial (bearing Ataturk's famous speech of 1934 'Those heroes that shed their blood and lost their lives ... you are now lying in the soil of a friendly country. Therefore rest in peace ...' - the date is significant.) Next to it lies another CWG overlooking the shore, Ari Burnu Cemetery at the north end of Anzac Cove, where 36 rowing boats landed the very first Australian soldiers at 4 am on 25 April 1915. By nightfall, 2000 men were dead, Allies and Turks. They remained deadlocked on a front that hardly moved until withdrawal on 20 December. Here, among 253 dead, we met a cyclist (the only man we spoke with all day): Val, a Russian sailor whose family now live in Sydney. Currently working a contract based in his native Odessa, he was having a short cycling holiday, via a Black Sea ferry to Istanbul. He, too, was trying to come to terms with the history, having witnessed the Anzac legend in Australia.

Just north of these 2 cemeteries is a new memorial, the Anzac Peace Park, opened for the Dawn Service on 25 April 2000 by Helen Clark and John Howard (2 Prime Ministers we came to respect in our time Down Under). Very simple, it has a large grassed area on both sides of the road overlooking Anzac Cove, a low wall along the beach, with the single word ANZAC, and another wall with a series of 10 photographs whose texts tell the story of the campaign. The undergrowth has been cleared to provide the lawns, sprinklers running today watched by the gardeners - a splash of green in the dusty scrub. It is just below the NZ Memorial on Walker's Ridge (which we visit later, appropriately, on foot), under the cliff promontory known to the troops as the Sphinx.

Immediately to the north, Canterbury Cemetery contains just 26 named New Zealanders of the Canterbury Mounted Rifles and one unidentified. How far they had come to Anzac Cove and what a pitiable distance from it.

Riding on, we came to another pair of Commonwealth War Graveyards, named No 2 Outpost Cemetery and New Zealand No 2 Outpost Cemetery holding a total of 335 killed in August 1915, 212 of them unidentified. Here lay the oldest casualty we saw, Col Manders of the Army Medical Service, age 55. (It was not till after the Armistice that most cemeteries and burials were completed, by which time many men were unidentifiable - an amazing task, undertaken for the first time on the battlefields of WWI. Before that, the fallen would be swept into mass graves with perhaps a single memorial.)

At the northernmost end of Anzac Cove came Embarkation Pier Cemetery on Ocean Beach. The pier was built to evacuate the wounded but came under too much fire to use. More figures lie there: 189 Anzacs, 93 UK and 662 unidentified. The road divides now, the bitumen turning inland past the 7th Field Ambulance Cemetery and the Hill 60 NZ Memorial, but we followed the sandy track for about 3 miles along the coast to Suvla Bay.

Lala Baba Cemetery, right on the headland at Suvla Bay, where the British 9th Army Corps landed on 6-7 August 1915, has 216 UK graves. Little visited, accessible only by track, its gate staring out to sea, we ate our picnic lunch below the cross and spoke very little. Another 3 miles of dirt track, along the edge of a salt lake, returned us to a sealed road at the tiny hamlet of Anafarta, where we were glad to buy bottled water (having emptied our 4 bike bottles of squash).

A steep rough climb followed, past a turning for Farm Cemetery, mounting the ridge which the Allies never crossed, to Chunuk Bair, the vantage point overlooking the scrubby slopes of Allied troops. We had the sudden shock of meeting groups of people (all Turks), parked coaches and stalls selling souvenirs, as we'd reached the end of the bitumen road from Kabatepe: Turks having a Saturday outing, come to have their photos taken by the giant statue of Ataturk, reputedly on the spot where his pocket watch stopped shrapnel hitting his heart. Nearby 5 huge stone tablets record the progress of the August battle in Turkish and some of the trenches can be seen, newly lined with timbers. We alone visited the New Zealand Memorial alongside, recording the regiments, from Auckland, Wellington, Canterbury, Otago - even a Maori contingent. 'From the uttermost ends of the earth'. Indeed.

Cycling south along the narrow ridge road, the demarcation line between the opposing trenches, we passed another Turkish memorial (they are all very militaristic and inappropriately victorious) and more trench cuttings, before Baby 700 Cemetery (on a 700 ft hill), with 493 members of the Australian Light Horse, mostly unidentified. Just off to the right, the cemetery called The Nek, above Walker's Ridge, held another 326, mainly Australians, including 20 year old Pte Stanley whose family had struggled with an original epitaph 'Another Hero's Part is Done, Another Soul Gone West'. Continuing along the ridge came Quinn's Post, Courtney's Post and Steele's Post, three cemeteries with a total of 473 buried, commemorating 3 Australian Officers whose posts, gained the first day, became the furthest Anzac ever got and were held right through until evacuation. Past another Turkish Memorial to the Unknown Soldier (bayonet rampant), then Johnston's Jolly (where officer Johnston used to be known for jollying up his men, of whom 181 lie buried).

The last call on today's ride, the name known to every Australian, was the huge cemetery and memorial of Lone Pine, where 1,167 men rest. Among them, Australian Pte Bright, aged 20: 'He has changed his faded coat of brown, For one of glorious white'. Only by believing this could they have done what they did. That's the way it was in those days, as Leonard might have said.

We rode back to Kum Camping, hot, throughtful and very thirsty (enough to stop by the harbour at Kabatepe to buy a bottle of water for half a million).

Rode Alf about 12 miles round extremely narrow twisty lanes to the little harbour of Kilitbahir on the east side of the peninsula, directly opposite Çannakale on the Asian side of the 'The Narrows'. We ate a picnic at the foot of the huge 14thC castle which dominates the village and has a corresponding fortress across the water, built by Mehmet the Conqueror (Kale = Castle). Then a small ferry boat took us and a few cars across the Dardanelles to Çannakale in 15 minutes. The busy port's tourist office by the Ottoman clock tower was open (an improvement on Greece), but the elderly gentleman inside spoke only Turkish. Still, we double-checked the timetable for ferries to Gökçeada. M was keen to see the film 'Gallipoli' starring a young Mel Gibson (we'd seen the beach in Australia which stood in for Anzac Cove) but the Anzac House hostel shows it daily at 7.30 pm and we didn't want to return so late in the evening. We gave the Military and Naval Museum a miss, content to explore the back streets and waterfront before taking the half-hourly ferry back to Kilitbahir. Home via Eceabat, the main (small) town on Gallipoli where we checked the location of post office and internet cafe.

Using Alf, we explored another Greek Island (Imbros), though this one has belonged to Turkey since 1923, taking the title of largest and most westerly Turkish isle. We took the 10 am private 'Feribot' from Kabatepe, sat on deck in the sunshine for 1¾ hrs and landed at Kuzu Limani. Nearly 10 miles inland we came to the eponymous 'capital' town, once called Imbros, now simply 'Center' on all the signs, passing the only petrol station on the way. A further 3 miles north on one of the few sealed roads brought us to the beach, fishing harbour and army post at Kaleköy. The (very) ruined castle stands on a hill high above the shore and we walked and scrambled up, to admire the view and get an appetite for lunch in one of the little fish restaurants - though we played it safe with lamb and chicken kebabs, salad and rice.

Then back to wander in the main town before riding south, through the hills past a little fresh lake and another of salt, to the south coast at Aydincik. Here was a ramshackle collection of cafes and simple camping on this undeveloped holiday island. The original Greek villages lie in the island's interior, and we just had time to visit Zeytinli, a couple of miles west of Center, with its typical village square, Greek church and graveyard (locked), and an assortment of old houses, some restored into charming hotels, some sadly falling down. Chickens scuttled everywhere and a tethered horse blocked the main thoroughfare.

We returned on the larger state ferry (the last of the day) at 6 pm, slightly less expensive than the outward journey, at about £3.20 all-in (except you had to buy a ticket to use the WC, costing 300,000 TL, just over 10p, which is the going rate in city conveniences too!) We read about the island's long history - mentioned in Homer's Iliad, taken by the Ottomans in 1456, occupied by Italians in 1911, by the British during WWI (when it supplied the Allies at Gallipoli), finally Turkish under the Treaty of Lausanne, to the chagrin of the Greeks.

Home before dark, another island 'bagged' and a very different one.

M gathered bunches of rosemary to dry (it forms thick hedges round the campsite), did some dhobi (by hand - washing machines are uncommon in this country, where labour comes cheap) and swam a few lengths in the pool (round which Turks on holiday sunbathe - an odd habit for the darker-skinned, and hardly Islamic!) B filled and emptied our tanks, no easy matter with all the services on the far side of the campground. We also worked on the diary, finishing and printing June, and wrote to Turners following the phone call from Denise, expressing our dismay over the writing-off of more of our goods and chattels.

Another bright breezy day, we enjoyed the ride to Eceabat, past the Kabatepe War Museum and then through fields of tomatoes and corn. We posted Turners' letter, photocopied our insurance documents and the June diary, and found a little Internet Cafe opposite TJ's Hostel (for young antipodeans). An hour, including 2 coffees, cost 5 million (£2 or so), with a view of the Dardanelles! Emails had arrived from Andrew Hague and Keith Durham. Replied briefly to Keith (who wants advice on buying a motorhome or caravan to take to the road for an indefinite period), promising a fuller answer by letter, and also emailed Dick & Audrey.

On the way home we stopped at one of the roadside stalls to buy plums, so the afternoon was spent in the camp kitchen using their ancient gas ring to make jam. Rosie's microwave produced an apple cake. We keep indoor gas cooking to the minimum in this heat, which shows no sign of relenting.

Another bright breezy day, we enjoyed the ride to Eceabat, past the Kabatepe War Museum and then through fields of tomatoes and corn. We posted Turners' letter, photocopied our insurance documents and the June diary, and found a little Internet Cafe opposite TJ's Hostel (for young antipodeans). An hour, including 2 coffees, cost 5 million (£2 or so), with a view of the Dardanelles! Emails had arrived from Andrew Hague and Keith Durham. Replied briefly to Keith (who wants advice on buying a motorhome or caravan to take to the road for an indefinite period), promising a fuller answer by letter, and also emailed Dick & Audrey.

On the way home we stopped at one of the roadside stalls to buy plums, so the afternoon was spent in the camp kitchen using their ancient gas ring to make jam. Rosie's microwave produced an apple cake. We keep indoor gas cooking to the minimum in this heat, which shows no sign of relenting.

After searching for the start of a track reputed to lead up from Anzac Cove to Walker's Ridge, we left Alf parked by the Canterbury Cemetery and set off on foot following a steep path along a ridge which quickly became practically impassable with the thorniest and prickliest of low and high bushes. Hand-holds in clumps of holly-oak did not make for an easy ascent (we still have the splinters), but the views back over the cove were splendid. Unsure whether this had been a footpath or just an animal track, we persevered until it became too dangerous, the land ahead having slipped away, perhaps after a fire stripped it bare. Without a rope, this was no way to the top of the ridge and we scrambled back to Alf, with a welcome flask of coffee in his box.

Returning, opposite the Ari Burnu cemetery, we turned off to visit 2 more CWG's. Shrapnel Valley Cemetery, now so peaceful inside its white walls and shady trees, is just inland from Anzac Cove at the start of Monash Valley which leads up to Johnston's Jolly and Quinn's Post on the ridge. Dugouts along this valley sheltered thousands of men from snipers on the Turkish-held Baby 700 hill above. 683 of them are buried here, mostly Anzacs: 527 Australian and 56 NZ.

A sign indicated a steep 750m-long walk to Plugge's Plateau Cemetery, named after another officer, on top of a hill overlooking Anzac Cove 100m below and Anzac HQ on its seaward slope. Just 21 men lie here. We walked further, with views all round, until again the path petered out at a landslip. Back for a late lunch and an afternoon of reading and diary-writing.

Thoughts turning to next winter, we motorbiked into Eceabat for a long session in the Internet Cafe. Visited all the websites we found for round-the-world flights, itineraries and airline alliances and found a good agency address: The Traveller in Morecambe. The 'World Discovery' ticket from Travelbag has limited us to BA/Qantas flights, but 'One World' or 'Star Alliance' allow more flexibility and more stopovers, so we could include India, the Far East and/or South America. No incoming Emails; checked bank balances.

After lunch M wrote to Mum, enclosing copies of the diary for May and June, a pile of stamps, reply-paid envelopes for the Prudential and HSBC (non-urgent enquiries) and a Saga leaflet on their telephone services.

B finished a few odd jobs, such as mending an overhead locker catch and tightening the others before they gave way. We also cleared the overcab to spray it with ant-killer, having seen a few up there. It should repel them - it forced us outside for fresh air for a while!

Leaving Alf at Shrapnel Valley cemetery we explored another overgrown track Barry had spotted on the previous walk, leading up the ridge. We again got scratched by thorns and prickles (far too hot for trousers or sleeves). This time though we were rewarded not only with the view back over the turquoise water of Anzac Cove, the shore studded with memorials and Gökçeada island shimmering on the horizon, but by finding a route. We suddenly came on yet another CWG, the 4th Battalion Parade Ground, well hidden in the scrub on the original track from the cove to Wire Gully (the front line). Here 37 Australians were buried by their comrades, to be joined later by 79 more. This little cemetery is currently being restored and replanted and a brand new stepped path took us up to the bitumen ridge road. We emerged right by Courtney's and Steele's Post Cemeteries and paused to wonder yet again at how far these soldiers came to fight and die: Pte George Long from Broken Hill 'Duty Done', and Lt Hooper of the 10th Battalion Australian Infantry, age 20, 'He Died like a Britisher'.

Below us to the south we could see the memorial at Lone Pine, from where a good path drops to the shore, but we walked north past Quinn's Post, through the Turkish crowds and buses parked at the hideous Turkish memorial which dominates this section of the ridge, and so to the cemetery at The Nek. We'd visited this on our bicycles a week ago, but hadn't continued to today's objective, Walker's Ridge Cemetery, named after the NZ Infantry Brigade Commander. 91 graves shared our view over Anzac Cove and Suvla Bay, among them Australian Trooper Rush, age 23: 'His last words, Goodbye Cobber, God Bless You'. And him.

We still had to find a way down the ridge, to avoid backtracking to Lone Pine, and after several forays into the bush and one U-turn at an abrupt cliff, Barry forced a steep and prickly way down to the bottom of a gully from where we followed a dry stream along Shrapnel Valley and back to Alf, left there 2½ hours earlier, with his life-saving drinks on board. Only now did we really understand the lie of the land, the relationship between the beaches and the ridge, the pathetically short distances between landing, fighting, falling or withdrawing in that disastrous campaign.

Back to Kum Hotel & Camping, both busier now it's weekend, but we remain the only foreigners.

After lunch we defrosted the fridge/freezer, which quickly ices up in the continuing heat, and worked on the diary.

After 12 days of excellent cycling, walking and motorbiking we've finished exploring the ridges and beaches, cemeteries and battlefields of Gallipoli. We just need a good book now to tell the whole truth about the campaign and the part the Germans must have played.

We had an easy day getting ready to leave. M did some cleaning and baking, followed by a swim to cool off. B wrote an enquiry to The Traveller in Morecambe (later copied to 4 other travel agents) and a long letter to Ian & Nina in response to their Email, with various enclosures and diary extracts to keep them motivated to 'get off the treadmill'.

Walked down to the campsite beach to photograph the turtles in the stream - dozens of them, long necks craning upwards to breathe, resembling tortoises which have fallen in. They look too heavy to float. A truly awful film on Mega about King Arthur (Sean Connery) and Sir Lancelot (Richard Gere) - they should be ashamed of it! Both 'acted' as if they'd rather be somewhere else.

After manoeuvring Rosie to the camp Mutfak (kitchen) to fill and empty her tanks, we drove the now very familiar 10-mile route to Eceabat. Parked by the ferry quay, we walked along the muddy unpaved main street for the last time, to post letters to Mum, Ian & Nina and The Traveller. Then we drove north, with a coffee break by the shore of the Dardanelles. We soon had to stop again to fix the awning which was starting to unfurl in the gale-force headwind. The local farmer pushed past in his tractor as if he saw someone perched on a ladder battling with canvas at the entrance to his lane every day! Another break at Kesan Crossroads to shop at MMMigros, lunch at Burger King and check the awning - the extra strap Barry added was holding.

Due north, through fields of sunflowers and grains and small impoverished villages, to the busy town of Uzunköpru (= Long Bridge), where it was market day with horse-&-carts aplenty. Here we crossed a river on the Ottoman bridge with 173 low arches, supposedly the longest stone bridge in the world, though narrow and none too picturesque, passing a grim oil factory. And so to the old Edirne-Istanbul road (now paralleled by a motorway), stopping 6 miles before Edirne at the motel-restaurant-camping we knew from our last visit. Pleased to find the campsite empty we settled in before dark. No-one spoke other than Turkish, but the price was clear - e15, no Turkish money, no credit cards!

The TV here continues to get some Greek channels (so we can still follow ER on NET!) but tonight we watched a Turkish channel showing the film about the Madness of King George III - a good performance by Nigel Hawthorne, the original soundtrack subtitled for the Turks (hope they don't see that as a representation of England today!)

143 miles. £9.52 inc elec.

We are in the eastern part of the Roman province of Thrace (also covering part of Greece and Bulgaria). Edirne's historic name is Hadrianopolis, after its founder in the 2ndC AD, when it was a defence post on the Via Egnatia to Byzantium.The Ottomans took Edirne and made it their capital from 1363, until Constantinople fell to Mehmet the Conqueror in 1453 and was renamed Istanbul. So, it has lots of fine Ottoman architecture, which made a huge impression when we first arrived in Turkey, fresh over the border from Bulgaria on our bicycles in 1989. On a later visit we had discovered most of the historic buildings and mosques. But none of this describes the thronged streets, the countless shops, the smells and sights of a busy Turkish city as we rode Alf into the centre, jostling for position with the minibuses, taxis, carts and (very few) private cars. Motorbikes are a rarity and have no place in the hierarchy here. We parked him and explored on foot.

Past the Eski Mosque (1414, using Roman columns at the front, like early Greek churches did), by the cinema, we found an internet cafe for only 1 million (about 40p) an hour. We read and replied to another Email from Keith Durham, did a little more round-the-world research, and tried to check the HSBC accounts. After 3 failed attempts to get in (perhaps due to a Turkish keyboard) our access was blocked. Annoying.

We climbed the low hill on which the superb Selimiye Mosque crowns the city, its 4 minarets and huge dome visible from every approach. Sitting on a bench in front of it we were immediately the centre of attention - tourists are truly conspicuous here, we saw none. We bought a set of 12 postcards of the mosques for 2 million lire from one happy hawker who started at 5 million and came down on his own; declined to buy a trinket from another hopeful, but gave him twice its price anyway; and talked with a gentle old man who had a smattering of long-forgotten German from his young Gastarbeiter days. He led us through the Arasta (the shops beneath the mosque, whose rents help with its upkeep and whose traders pray there daily, promising honest business), then up the stairs, through the courtyards and into the mosque itself, the finest work of the great Ottoman architect, Sinan (who went on to the larger Süleymaniye in Istanbul).

Shoes removed, Margaret clad in skirt and headscarf (freely available), we followed our host round on the thick carpets, sipped water at the central fountain, gazed in wonder at the lofty dome, the coloured glass windows, the decorated tiling - such a light airy space, cool in this heat, no service or music is needed to feel harmony and peace here. The entry sign said No Photographs, but our man encouraged us to ignore it and Allah didn't seem to be offended. We put some coins in a box, with no pressure, no demands, no-one checking. Much more comfortable than visiting cathedrals in Ely or Seville! Outside again, our host was fascinated by the mobile phone and the idea that he could ring London (no, he couldn't)!

Returning to Camping Fifi we passed a new one, Camping Ömür, and checked it out. It had better facilities for a similar price but was smaller and busier, so not worth the trouble of moving. Maybe try it next time(?)

B began writing a fuller reply to Keith Durham.

B finished Keith's letter, together with a summary entitled 'Caravans vs Motorhomes, or, Is it a Contest?' in answer to his plea, to be sent with a copy of our 'A to Z of Full-timing', 'Camping Karpouzi' and assorted extracts, MMM cuttings and photocopies. That'll teach him to ask for advice! Seriously, it was good to hear from him again and nice to be able to repay last Feb's hospitality in some way.

Meanwhile, M had a swim, made a chocolate cake and tackled the mounting dhobi. The handyman-gardener finally understood the question about a washing machine (at first he offered us a hosepipe) and unlocked the motel laundry. This contained 2 ancient single-tub washers, with wringers that didn't work. He filled them with a pipe and emptied them by baling out with a plastic jug made from a pop-bottle. There was no drain, the water simply being chucked out of the door onto the path, a pint at a time! He repeated this procedure for a second wash, then the cleaning woman took over to do the rinsing (in a leaking plastic baby-bath) and pegging out. Neither of them let M help nor asked any payment, but they seemed pleased with a packet of Marlboro cigs each (virtually all adults smoke here). And the dhobi, dry in no time, was very clean and fresh.

Turks seem genuinely simple, friendly people - the man approached us later, indicating he had a headache, and was delighted with 3 aspirin. Next to the campsite is an exclusive housing estate with a couple of Jandarma (police) guarding it. Their duty-hut is right behind us over the fence and we lent them a brush and cloth as they tried to clean it out. Human contact doesn't require language.

In which we complete some repairs, read and write

Filling and emptying the tanks, B noticed that two of the metal straps supporting the sewage outlet pipe had corroded and broken. He managed to crawl underneath and fix it with a new strap at each end of the wastepipe, glad that we carry so many spares.

M tackled easier repairs with needle and superglue (shoes, sandals, pens, clothes) and descaled the kettles after the ravages of Greek limestone.

We also wrote many of the postcards, to: Mike Guggenheim, John Covell, Andrew Hague, Jeff Mason, Barney, Paul Hewitt, Dionysos, Angela, Charley and Gordon at Happy Valley Cycles.

A short thunderstorm in the evening brought heavy rain, briefly flooding the field, but by morning it had dried out again. Most of N Europe is now suffering from drought, according to the TV.

Alf took us into Edirne again, busy as ever but no signs of the irate gathering after Friday Prayers which we once saw closing the streets in Istanbul. We found the PTT to mail Keith's packet and the postcards (strangely, the same price of 700,000 whether to Greece - just 5 miles away - or to New Zealand!) M returned from the stamp queue to find Barry having his sandals polished by the shoeshine man, carefully working the black and white bits with little brushes. The nearby taxi-man brought a stool across for M to sit on - B had already been given an up-ended brick. The man with the bread cart just stared. None had seen a motorbike with GB on the back before.

We looked quickly round the bazaar and went on to try a different Internet Cafe, but the HSBC still had us locked out and the Hotmail wasn't working.

Before returning, we paused at the Ücserefeli Mosque (= mosque with 3 galleries, 1447), remarkable for its 4 different minarets and garden where the old lads gather. It was closed for restoration when we last came and now looks splendid inside, the dome beautifully and colourfully decorated, the floors thickly carpeted. It was very quiet and peaceful: one old man sat cross-legged reading the Koran on a low table, in another area a mother was showing her young son how to pray.

After lunch we rang the Internet Banking Helpline and got the block lifted, after various security questions. Then back on Alf towards Edirne, turning off at the Oto (=car) Bazaar, in search of oil to top up Rosie, primer for repainting Alf's rack, and spray grease. Eventually found 2 out of 3 (no grease) after going round the many workshops, where we'd once had Rosie's cab mirror reglazed. We also shopped at MMMigros, opposite the entrance to the Oto-Bazaar, treating ourselves to some good steak and half a kilo of Turkish Delight (called Lokum, hence the Greek name Loukoumi).

Last night a couple of mature (ie 60's) Dutch cyclists had arrived, putting their tent up in the dark, so this morning we had a long talk with them. Out came our maps of Romania/Bulgaria (they had come that way and had advice for us, including 2 new Dutch-run campsites in Romania near Sibiu) and Turkey (their first time here, so we had some for them). We were sorry to see them leave before lunch, pointing them to Gelibolu and the ferry across the Dardanelles. They left Holland for 3 months on 1 June, renting their house out for the summer as they do each year. They've ridden across the USA and we recommended NZ. Serious long-distance cyclists, but on the usual overloaded Dutch cycles which are hard to take seriously!

We wrote Mick & Flo a long letter, enclosing 'Camping Karpouzi', a place they know well. Also one to Pat & Brian (motorbiker) Anderson, with a photo of Alf and a reply to his quest for philosophy books ('Sophie's Choice' by Jostein Gaarder recommended).

M had a swim and then put in a solid afternoon of diary updating, while B began work on the motorbike rack which is starting to rust, wirebrushing it and putting on the first coat of primer, lying on his back for the most part.

The Fifi restaurant had a wedding party in the evening, the music and fireworks more entertaining than the TV, except that we can switch that off before 2 am! A huge reception, extra waiters hired, a truckload of white plastic chairs delivered earlier, guests in their best finery, taxis and minibuses bringing them out from town.

Spoke briefly with 2 French couples who'd arrived with caravan and campervan. Though widely travelled (Syria, Jordan, N Africa, Macedonia - and no Green Card problems, why can continental Europeans get better cheaper insurance cover?) they had little to say: about to return via Bulgaria/Romania of which they had no bad reports. By contrast, a conversation with a Romanian couple staying at the Fifi Motel was full of foreboding about Bulgaria, reflecting the traditional hostility and suspicion between the 2 neighbours. They recommended driving straight through without stopping, up the Black Sea coast (which will be heaving in August!) - Romania, on the other hand, is apparently very peaceful and safe and you can stop overnight at petrol stations and hotels as well as many campsites. They did dispel the myth that Bulgaria now charges a road tax of US$1 per 10 km, as listed in our Lonely Planet - at least, they'd never paid it.

We wrote the remaining postcards, to Karsten & Agata (who sent us a text today) and to the Wardles and the Murcotts in New Zealand, telling of Gallipoli. Also copied the letter with a draft round-the-world itinerary to 4 more travel agents (STA in Preston; Global Village in London; Travel Nation in Hove; Bridge the World in Camden Town).

Another long session of diary-writing finally got it up to date, while B gave Alf's rack a second coat of primer and then a layer of black silk finish Hammerite paint which we had carried with us for years. The hot weather continues, good drying conditions.

An old film with Turkish subtitles passed the evening - a very young Richard Chamberlain as the Count of Monte Cristo.

In which we shop and Email in Edirne, visit the Mosque of Beyazit II and meet Ian & Judit

Alfed into Edirne (what would we do without him), to post yesterday's letters and cards, raid the bank for a few more million and revisit the Internet Cafe. Success with the Internet Banking checks and balances and 5 incoming Emails with some nice surprises. Audrey & Dick sent a long letter which we printed to reply later. A short note from Keith, to whom we've just written. We answered Emails from Ian & Alison Parsons, who we met at Alexandroupolis (about their journey through Romania) and from Karsten & Agata, who plan travels in S America and Mongolia next year and are busy bus-driving round Frankfurt to pay for it. And a reply from The Traveller in Morecambe with a suggested itinerary and fare from 'Worldspan', which we acknowledged and printed, to peruse and compare. A good 2-hour session.

Then we rode out through the Byzantine quarter and across the old bridge over the Tunca River to the Beyazit II Mosque (both completed in 1488). The complex of outbuildings, originally a hospital, hostel, bakery, etc, was completely restored in the 1970's and houses the Faculties of Art and Medicine of the University of Thrace. Restoration of the mosque itself, though, looks no further on than when we last came, 6 years ago. The doors are shuttered, the windows broken, grass growing between the crumbling stones, and piles of boarding and scaffolding abandoned inside. Restoration of the 2 main mosques in the city has probably drained the coffers.

Back to base, calling at MMMigros for food and petrol.

B finished Alf's rack, with a final coat of black silk-finish, and we updated accounts and diary.

Early evening, a British Landrover arrived and the 2 occupants put up a tent. So we met Yorkshireman Ian Shires and his Hungarian partner, Judit Dobos, who came in and told us their story over coffee and digestives. In fact, Ian kept going till gone 2 am - they live in Budapest and he doesn't often get to speak English, let alone Tyke.

A fascinating morning with Ian and Judit, who now run a graphic design office (marketing and publicity) from their flat in Budapest and also have a share in a camping/expedition shop called Timbuktu Gold. This sells GPS navigation equipment and Ian gave Barry a thorough demonstration, then set him a test to find a banana hidden in a remote corner of the campsite. He passed and is now enthusiastic about getting one. Ian (age nearly 60) was made redundant a few years ago from his career as a medical rep for Smith-Kline when Beecham took them over - he had become an expert on malaria treatment and covered Darkest Africa, etc. Judit worked in advertising for the same company, so they moved to her native Budapest to set up their own business. They had driven to Edirne in 2 days flat (one night in Romania) and are meeting Hungarian friends (father and son, also in the 4-WD Club) for a 3-week tour of Turkey - as far as its eastern borders, which would take us about 6 months!

After lunch they went to explore the city and we prepared to move on to Bulgaria tomorrow, made a fruit cake and persuaded the campsite to give us a 10% discount (whether for staying over a week, for having a Camping Carnet or because the site is way overpriced anyway, we're not sure, they speak only Turkish). A short downpour, didn't last.

Our new friends joined us for the evening, bringing beer and cookies to go with our Turkish Delight, and we were exchanging travellers' tales when their friends arrived, put up their tent and came in (they'd driven from Budapest in 24 hours!), bearing a truly Hungarian gift of a bottle of 40% proof Unicum to share. This is just what you need if you've been riding a horse across the Gt Hungarian Plain in winter when it's minus 20 degrees, but we weren't in need of a warm glow in the sultry summer temperatures and it tasted like the worst cough medicine we could remember. Obviously an acquired taste, though the bottle is a nice shape!

A leisurely start, waving the 2 intrepid 4-wheel-drivers off (today it's Istanbul or bust!), then a short drive on the Edirne bypass to the Turkish-Bulgarian border. The battery wasn't charging as we drove but B found and fixed the problem (a cut-out) while M stocked up on delicious Turkish bread at the Ekmek Fabrikasi (bread factory), with huge wood-fired ovens. For less than £1 we had 2 huge white loaves, one brown and a bag of rolls, all still warm.

The border, between Kapikule and Svilengrad, took about 2½ hours and plenty of patience and coffee. Exiting Turkey, we drove down the narrow channel indicated, wheels skimming the curbs, but were too wide to get between the 2 cabins where passports had to be stamped and documents scrutinised. A policeman moved the traffic behind so that B could reverse out and go round with the buses. We eventually cleared customs without being searched and crossed into Bulgaria.

Here all was chaos. Some lanes were labelled BUS, but were blocked with a queue of cars; some were labelled EU, but had a queue of all nationalities; we headed for one labelled EU BUS, which looked promising, but an unofficial official (none had a badge, uniform, languages, manners) insisted we should go through a different channel. We refused, not wishing to reverse into a queue going forward and getting stuck again, but took our papers on foot to the place directed. The official ignored us and we passed the first hurdle. Next we wanted insurance for the motorbike (for the first time in its life, this is a country known for police-checks and fines) and got 10 days' 3rd-party cover for e19 (of course, they had no change so it cost e20). The same office was supposed to be a bank, but they had no money! Welcome to Bulgaria. Now we only had to pay the Disinfection Tax of e5 (for driving through a trough of muddy water - we remembered having to do this when crossing by bicycle!) and the Road Tax of e18 and we were free to fight our way into the queue for half-price hard-currency fuel. Diesel at e0.30 a litre! You no longer have to buy petrol coupons, but we should have been given a fuel chitty at one of the control points (we hadn't). M persuaded the young lady we had indeed come through the border, how else could we be there, and we filled the tank. The rules appear to change so regularly that the border guards must lose interest and know that one fine EU day they'll all be out of a job

Breaking free, we headed west, turning back after travelling east for months, through countryside and villages which looked even poorer than Turkey. The crops included tobacco, sunflowers, vines, cotton and the inevitable watermelons, on sale at the roadside. We saw plums being gleaned, storks in their nests on electricity pylon and many donkeys and donkey-carts, immediately distinguishing Bulgaria from its horse-drawn neighbours.

We pulled over for lunch in a scruffy layby, then continued along the E80. About half way to Plovdiv we passed the first large town, Haskovo, where our book listed Camping Istok, next to the Motel Klokotniza. Eventually found it, down a side road, completely overgrown and empty but with an aged guardian in Reception. A low concrete arch over the entrance made negotiation pointless and we left, just as it began to rain with thunder rolling and fork lightning splitting the sky. The storm didn't last, but was refreshing. A few miles before Plovdiv, after the village of Sadovo, we noticed another semi-derelict campsite with another impossibly low entrance - camping in this country means on-site huts or tents.

We bypassed the centre of Plovdiv on the new A1, then looked for the 'Complex 4-ty Km' (cabins and camping), 4 km west on the old Sofia road, vaguely guided by Lonely Planet and instructions from a petrol station. Again, the entrance was narrow and low, the complex itself had no space and low trees, but there was an open car park outside next to the bar. By now it was 7.30 pm and time to stop. The barman gave up insisting we drive inside and was persuaded (with the help of a friendlier Turk) that we could spend the night on the car park, free of charge. About 2.30 am we were joined by 2 young men who slept in their car under our bedroom window and we counted our blessings.

137 miles. Free parking.

After only one further enquiry at a garage, we found the 'Camping Motel Deveti' listed in our (7 year old) Caravan Club book. Discovered that Deveti simply means 9, and the full title is now Motel Complex 9-ty Km (that is 9-th km from town) and so it was simply another 5 km west of Complex 4-ty Km. Obvious.

But the long blonde girl in Reception insisted it was no longer camping, only motel apartments or 'bungalows', so Go Away! And the manageress insisted ditto, adding that camping was at Complex 4-ty Km, deaf to M's pleas that we'd tried there, that we really wanted to visit Plovidiv, that there was nowhere else, etc. The 'bungalows' were shabby little huts among the trees, good old Communist Worker Recreation style, but at least the gate didn't have a low roof. Brainwave - How much is the cheapest hut? 20 Leva (= £7.40) including soap, towels and sheets. Can we park by one? Yes, problem solved!

We manoeuvred alongside the hut (a sagging double bed, table, 2 wobbly chairs, a musty bathroom) and a cleaner was summoned. Once she'd gone we plugged our mains cable in and made coffee. We'd no intention of sleeping in the hut, but it provided hot water and a toilet/shower and, most importantly, a safe place to leave Rosie. Adjoining the grounds was 'Aquateka', a new outdoor swimming pool and bar, of which more later!

Barry bravely steered Alf round the potholes inside potholes, avoiding trolleybuses and donkeycarts, for 6 miles or so back down the road, across the Maritsa River and into the centre of Plovdiv's cobbled streets on the south banks. Struggling with the signs in Cyrillic Script (what on earth was St Cyril thinking of?), we managed to decipher the shorter names, finding ourselves on Bulevard Ruski below the Hill of the Liberators, with its massive Monument to the Soviet Army (who helped rid them of 500 years of Turkish occupation, in 1878). We asked a policeman if we could park Alf by his cabin - certainly not, try the Maritsa Hotel (largest in town, complete with casino!) - but had more luck asking at a car radio fitter's. Seems much like the old days, so far, but getting cash was easier with several ATM's.

We walked towards the single minaret and entered the 15thC Djoumaya (= Friday) Mosque, built when part of the Ottoman Empire and still in use by the city's small Moslem population, though its glory has faded and its walls cracked. Across Djoumaya Square the street overlooks a section of the small 2ndC AD Roman theatre (wrongly labelled Stadium), excavated from under a busy crossroads (now pedestrianised) and partly covered by some recent concrete. Steps lead down to a modern bar, built right up against the arc of stone seats.

From here the pedestrian mall runs south to the central square on the site of the Roman Forum. Pausing only at McDonald's to eat and get a free Coca Cola glass, we walked down to view a few ruins of the forum buildings, to be seen below street level, uncovered by road works. The Greeks were here first (Philip II of Macedonia named the town Philipopolis) but left little trace once the Romans conquered and renamed the city Trimontium (3 hills). We wandered round the huge public gardens next to the square, with plenty of modern sculptures and tall shady deciduous trees (getting away from the Mediterranean climate at last, though still very warm).

Then we walked up to Plovdiv's (in fact, Bulgaria's) finest Roman site, a 3,000-seat amphitheatre built into the steep hillside directly above a modern road tunnel. Partially restored, it is used for special performances, including an August Folk Festival. After trying the overgrown padlocked backstage entrance we eventually found our way in, past 2 guards with an important chess game who waved us on. A remarkable theatre (and we've seen a few!), with the view across to the distant Rodopi mountains beyond the stage and the restored seats so steeply raked that climbing the aisle steps felt dangerous. Below us, St Marina orthodox church with its quaint wooden tower, above us the Old Town of Bulgarian Baroque mansions and churches, but we left these for tomorrow and went to find Alf.

Back at our Complex, we made tea and took showers (the ancient boiler threatening to explode and high-pressure water squirting out of every join in the pipes). What a nice quiet place - until the disco music from the swimming pool/bar next door was turned up to its highest volume and the very ground throbbed to the moronic electronic drumbeat - until 2.30 am. No wonder we are the only ones here, apart from a pair of green woodpeckers making a gentler thrumming!