And that's my favourite joke in The Simpsons...

And then Smithers says to Mr Burns ‘Women and Sea-men don’t mix’, and that’s my favourite joke in The Simpsons. Because that’s what they’re doing. They’re sat at home eating their TV dinners, sitting on their sofas and their watching the f*cking Simpsons.

My favourite line from my favourite movie, but I can guarantee that whilst most of you reading this have seen the film, not many of you will be able to recall where it’s from.
It’s delivered with subtlety, the focus drawn to more important characters and if you do watch the film but don’t hear this line, it really makes no difference to the story, but to those of us who do notice it, sometimes the small touches of genius can really make a massive difference - and for me this is the perfect way to describe my time in Georgia. If I had been more organised I almost definitely wouldn’t have taken myself through this wonderful country, but I can’t describe how glad I am that I came.

Due to having to wait for a parcel in Trabson I had ended up spending 6 nights there and previously I’d found that when I’d got settled like that, motivating myself to get back on the bike was one of the harder things to do – not from Trabson it wasn’t. In Austria I’d been told the local joke that Austrian diplomacy’s greatest achievement was getting the world to believe that Hitler was German and Mozart was Austrian; in line with this Turkish diplomacy’s greatest achievement is getting the outside world to think Trabson is a tourist destination. The Trabsonians I had spoken to had told me things along the lines of ‘ah yes, Trabson is the best place in Turkey; we have beautiful beaches, the best fish restaurants and of course the spectacular Sumela Monastery.’ Not strictly true though, is it my Turkish friends? The beaches are 6km out of town one way, the restaurants 4km out of town the other way and the Sumela Monastery is 44km or an hour and a half bus ride away from Trabson, tucked high up in the mountains. So whilst the town itself is nice enough, there’s very little you wouldn’t be able to find in any Turkish town and as a result it’s no surprise that on my first day out of Trabson I was only to happy to get away.

A day and a half later and I arrived at the Georgian border. I was sad to see the end of my time in Turkey, it had been a good home to me for the previous month and the excitement of seeing a football team actually winning had left the country with a feel good factor that had lasted long after the European Championships but as I approached the border, I can’t lie, I was looking forward to a change of scenery.

And boy, was it a different culture. The further east I’d traveled in Turkey the more religiously conservative it had become. One of the more bizarre memories I’ll have of my trip is always going to be that of a lady swimming in full Muslim dress with only her face showing as she struggled desperately against the sea whilst trying to teach her baby son to swim, so I found it somewhat amusing that the first thing you come to in Georgia, just 3km into the country and still just about in view of Turkey, is a beach which was home to hundreds of Georgian girls in scantily clad bikinis, an equal number of macho guys and a big party atmosphere with a barbecue on the beach, party music on the stereo and even jet ski races going on out at sea – situated so close to the border the first impression was that Georgia wanted to be fun, and it wanted Turkey to see it was fun.

But I wasn’t here for the beach, and 15 km into the country I turned in land and started towards the mountains and my target of the Goderdzi Pass, located not just 100km away but also 2 vertical kilometers up at an altitude of 2025m. The climb was long and difficult. My map had told me I was on a main road, however what my map didn’t tell me was that after 60 km the road was made of dirt and stones and that even the trucks were struggling. With the road changing it meant time to change my tyres from the ones that had done me so well from England, to the new mountain bike tyres I’d had sent to me in Trabson. As I was sat carrying out the changes in what I thought was a quiet spot away from civilization it soon became apparent I wasn’t in as quieter spot as I thought I was and I was soon surrounded by a local family, who after watching me finish working ushered me into their home for dinner, not to mention several shots of Chacha – homemade vodka served from an old Fanta bottle.

Their home, my first experience of a Georgian mountain house, was perhaps as you might expect: The house was made almost entirely of wood, there were large holes in the wall, no glass in the windows – just an empty frame instead, and upstairs (which you got to by a ladder from the outside of the house) there were 2 bedrooms, one for the parents and one for the 6 children I met. The downstairs had 2 rooms; one was a kitchen which had the women preparing food in, the other, the living/dining room, consisted of one table and 6 chairs.

Oh, and a flat screen TV.

A flat screen TV showing MTV Base.

I stayed for an hour, enjoyed their company, thanked them for their hospitality and left grinning as in my mind I pictured a traditional Georgian family, high up in the mountains huddled together on a cold snowy night, the heat escaping through their glassless windows as they all gather round to watch Dizzee Rascal perform on their flat screen TV. A truly heartwarming image.

My new Georgian friends: I was offered the hand of all 3 daughters!

The pass was a couple of hours further up the mountain and as I was nearing it darkness began to set in. I asked a passing driver how far away I was and he said 3 km. I traveled 8 and still hadn’t found it but by this time not only was it getting dark, but I was in thick cloud and visibility was pretty much zero so reluctantly I admitted defeat for the day and pulled off to side of the road and set up camp.

After such a climb falling asleep wasn’t too difficult, but I was woken up at 6 am by the sound of something going through my panniers. A thief? No, it was too heavy footed, and besides, it sounded like it was eating. Startled and still half asleep I put some clothes on, stuck my head out the tent and what did I see? A cow making off with my breakfast, that’s what I saw.

Without thinking I jumped out to shoo it off – this was a stupid thing to do and the scared animal ran straight over the bike, the clumsy feet of a heavy animal kicking poor Tullulah all over the place. I was worried – my confidence in being a bicycle mechanic was growing slowly but the thought of what the weight of a fully grown cow could do with the combination of being in the middle of nowhere at the top of the mountain meant that if there was some serious damage I’d be in serious trouble.

Thankfully after a couple of tests it seemed the only damage was that the cow had kicked the front derailleur out of place and after this had been carefully fixed I was free to enjoy the spectacular view. I didn’t have an altimeter with me but I knew that 2025m was higher than I’d been on the tour so far and if you ever want to feel truly free, there aren’t many better ways to do it than to wake up and be able to look down on the clouds. The fresh mountain air filling my lungs combined with stunning views made up for the reduced breakfast I was left with.

Not a bad view to wake up to!

It turned out the pass was just 500 metres further on from where I’d camped and after sailing over I was left to enjoy a day of descent. This would have been even more enjoyable if the rest of the day hadn’t gone as badly as it started: a puncture whilst flying downhill at 30mph almost killing me and then, far worse I would spend the next two days recovering from eating out-of-date sardines – I had been lucky in not suffering any illness up to this point, but the first bout of illness came from the worst possible cause: rancid fish.

A couple of days later and after an afternoon in Gori, the birthplace of a certain Josef Stalin, I arrived in Tbilisi in the pouring rain with my mind away in the clouds hoping that my mountain families TV would survive the storm.

For what it’s worth Tbilisi is a beautiful city, but at the same time is a massive misrepresentation of what Georgia is like. The city does its best to give off a European vibe, and with a lot of the locals asking if I think Georgia should be in the EU (seriously, what the hell am I going to say to that?) there is a strong desire in the culture to become as ‘European’ as possible. The architecture is beautiful in places and by night I have been to fewer more picturesque cities – so in contrast to some of the eyesores I saw on my way in it made a pleasant change.

I was in the city for 5 days whilst my Azeri visa was processed and during this time I aimed to do as little as possible, which I achieved quite nicely and the only other events to report were that I met 2 other cyclists: Andy, who had cycled to Georgia and had been living here for 6 months, but was due to set off again in September, and Danny, a Swiss cyclist who was about 5 days ahead of me on near enough the same route – whilst he’s headed for Turkmenistan, I’ll be in Kazakhstan, but we will be in China about the same time on the same route and I’m personally looking forward to hopefully bumping into him again (and steeling his spare supplies).

Finally, on Monday 21st I left Tbilisi with a shiny new Azeri stamp in my passport and made the border the same evening.

Baku was 600 km away - all you need to know about the ride is that it was long, hot (35 degree average in the day), flat and very, very boring; so instead of the details of the ride I would like to talk about my experiences of the Azeri people.

I have to be honest – everything Georgia was, Azerbaijan was not and my week on Azeri roads has been the hardest week mentally so far.

The main pleasure I find in cycling is the solitude, the time to think, the chance to be getting by independently and most of all the quiet that the countryside can offer: In Azerbaijan it has been impossible to get any of these things.

On the roads the drivers were bad enough. On my second day in the country, sick of the constant sound of horns I did an experiment to see how long it would take to hear 100 car horns - 11 minutes later I’d lost count. Off the road life has been just as tough. Every time I stop for a break at the side of a road I had to make sure I couldn’t be seen or else within minutes several cars would have stopped and wouldn’t leave again until I had gone. Worse still the overwhelming majority of Azeri’s seem to have no concept whatsoever of ‘personal space’. Every town, every shop, every cafe I stopped in I would come out to find people poking through my bags, playing with my brakes trying to push buttons on my odometer: We’re not talking children here either, these are adults. The worst case was in the town of Agsu, where after stopping to ask for directions from a policeman (whilst still straddling my bike) his friend started going through my bar bag, took out my wallet and started going through my cards. I wrenched the wallet out of his hands and said something which made my anger clear. The policeman (who spoke good English) apologised for his friend and ushered him away, but as he left I could see the look on his face told me he still had absolutely no clue as to what he’d done wrong.

Of course, as a Muslim country, there was still a large emphasis on hospitality and making your guest feel welcome but even this became tedious as it soon became apparent just how much of a money obsessed, materialistic country Azerbaijan is. In Turkey and Georgia the questions had been ‘Where are you from?’, ‘Where are you going?’, ‘Do you like my country?’. In Azerbaijan the first question I was asked before any of these was ‘How much does your bicycle cost?’ usually followed by ‘How much money do you have?’ and then more of ‘How much does your watch/ glasses/ shoes cost?’. This materialistic nature is reflected heavily in the arrogance of many of the young-men of Azerbaijan. The fake designer-clothes trade appears to be roaring and the overwhelming attitude, especially to a cyclist was one of ‘look at that guy, why would anyone ever need to ride a bike when I can be the mutts-nuts driving a Vauxhall Opel wearing a t-shirt that had Armani written on it around 300 times?’.

In hindsight I feel like I've been harsh on Azerbaijan - there were some good views!

I spent the entire week being the butt of jokes, avoiding maniac drivers and after 2 days, doing my best to avoid all social situations before arriving in Baku on the Sunday morning.

Baku, like Tbilisi before it but on a bigger scale, is a mass misrepresentation of how the majority of people in Azerbaijan live. The oil trade has pumped money into the rich part of the city and made it visually stunning. Unlike the majority of the country the streets are clean, well maintained and the housing is of good quality with further improvements still ongoing. I’m staying with a host out here and when I mentioned how nice it was in Baku to one of his friends I was promptly told ‘You haven’t seen the rest of the country’.

Unfortunately I had – the gap between rich and poor in the country is growing and with seemingly few plans in place for what to do when the oil runs out (estimated to be in about 10-15 years) the future for a country who’s inhabitants revolve around money could be very interesting indeed.

As for me, I’m here till the boat for Kazakhstan turns up. Thanks for reading and the blog for Kazakhstan will hopefully be up in about a month.

My second night in Baku - The picture is with Ali, my host, who's been nothing short of a saviour for me out here!

A Big Contrast In Asia Minor

My time in Istanbul can be simply divided into two parts: My time as a tourist and my time as a guest.

I had arrived tired, stressed and in need of a break - and it soon became spectacularly clear that the tourist centre of Istanbul was the last place I needed to be.
"Hey my friend, where you from? England? Come to my restaurant, lovely jubbly", "You come with me, I have best shop in Istanbul" and perhaps best of all "I shine your shoes, only 25 lira, money goes to childrens hospital" were all phrases I got used to hearing repeatedly as desperate street sellers would repeatedly grab my arm to try to get me to buy things I had no interest in; the hassle was constant, the decibel level high and the stress levels for simply walking down a street were just to much and pretty soon I'd given up with being a tourist. Istanbul's famous sites; the Blue Mosque, Dolmabahce Palace and the Saint Sophia all looked fantastic from the outside but ask me what they were like to see and I wouldn't be able to tell you and instead I was more than happy to spend the next 3 days playing chess with the receptionist at the hostel, setting up a self-indulgent Facebook group and hiding away from the hassle of the outside world.

But then my luck changed.

My Dad had originally put me into contact with Ozhan, one of his co-workers from their companies Istanbul office, with the aim of getting some help with Turkish translation and little did I know I would spend the next 3 nights with him and his friends getting an insiders view of Istanbul. The moment I was with a local the hassle stopped, the prices I was paying for things lowered and best of all by being in an office I got to get a glimpse of what everyday life was like again. Whilst seemingly every other tourist in Istanbul was outside in the places I didn't want to be, I was at my happiest in an underground car park with 3 grown men who had stayed behind after work to play with a remote control miniature truck, getting it to jump as high as possible over my panniers - a rare glimpse of normality!

The sharper of you reading this blog may ask why I stayed 6 nights in a city where I clearly had no interest in seeing any of the sights. Well there's a simple answer for this; my final night in Istanbul coincided with the Turkey v Croatia game.
For the previos week every television in Turkey had shown nothing else other than repeated highlights of the Turkish comeback against the Czech Republic and with a semi-final place at stake the atmosphere in Istanbul was electric. Better still I was with Ozhan in a residential suburb, watching the game in a local cafe, able to get a feel for what the game really meant to the locals.

It was certainly an experience. Watching a game in an alcohol free environment is a bizarre experience for any English sports fan and as for the game itself,well, lets be honest, if Turkey had lost there really could have been no complaints. But for those of you who don't know Croatia scored in the last minute of extra time to seemingly win the game, only for Turkey to score 30 seconds later with the last kick of the game and then win on penalties. The depressing low followed by the dizzying high, which peaked when an Ozhan bear-hug nearly broke my glasses, soon swept out onto the streets. Cars driving at 100kph down main roads tooting their horns as loudly as possible, 40ft flags hastily being hung down every street and within 10 minutes a marching mob of what must have been around 2,000 forming chanting the nations football anthem 'TURKİYEEE - TURKİYEEE' before turning to their attentions to bouncing cars and vans from side to side. I struggle to do justice to the scenes I saw that night (although there are videos on the Facebook group for the members on there) but the atmosphere was something I'll savour for a long time - I certainly won't be holding my breath for an England penalty shoot-out victory, thats for sure.

The following morning, with the city still buzzing, the curtain came down on my time in Istanbul and with new friends and warm memories I got the boat to the Asian side of the city (I still haven't forgiven Turkey for not letting cyclists ride across the bridge) and set about finding the road to the Black Sea Coast where I would spend the next 2 weeks with the aim of getting to Trabzon for my birthday on the 5th of July. To give a rough indication of the size of Istanbul on my way in to the city after crossing the city border I had stopped for a chat with a local cyclist who has asked where I was going etc and told me that from where we were on the edge of the Istanbul to my hostel was 40 km - he hadn't been wrong and leaving was no different as it was a further 17 miles before I eventually got out to the countryside.

The scenery was fantastic and it was good to see that a week sat around had refreshed my body rather than lost too much fitness, a fact made even more important when the following day I did some maths and realised that I had stupidly got my distances wrong and left myself with just 12 days to cover the 1,200 kilometres to Trabzon.

This was my first time riding a coast line and if I'm honest there was definetely an aspect to it I did not enjoy. The scenery was beautiful, the roads were good and although I was struggling to get my 100km a day in even the hills were fun. But the aspect I did not enjoy was the predictability; when riding a coast line constantly at the back of your mind is that you know whats coming up and when. The next 3 days were spent as follows; climb 4 miles, descend 4 miles. Climb another 6 miles, descend another 6 miles. A steady climb for 12 miles, a steady descent for 12 miles. The variation depressingly lacking as each descent left me dejected at sea level, knowing that in the 30 degree heat the only way I could look was up.

Of course there were distractions: Cows on the road when your in the middle of a 30mph descent is always entertaining and even more dangerously on the 3rd day as I hit the middle of another descent a child 100 metres or so in front ran out in the road waving his arms for me to stop. This had happened before for me with children wanting me to stop to look at the strange man and his stranger bicycle and if I had stopped everytime I had been shouted to I'd still be somewhere near Istanbul so I didn't feel to bad that I had no intention of slowing down. He, on the otherhand had a different idea and no matter which side of the road I moved to he jumped in front of the bike. I slowed down to pass but he jumped out in front of me; if I hadn't stopped he wouldn't have got out of the way and as I stopped about a metre from a collision, completely unfazed that I had nearly run him over he stuck out his hand and said 'Lira'. Great. I had been stopped by a beggar child. I moved round him and tried to ride off except now his new plan was to try to climb onto the back of my bike. I tried to ride off before he got on but instead of letting go he chose to hold onto the rack 'water ski' style. This was extremely dangerous for all of 2 metres and I had no choice but stop again, remove him and then as I tried to leave again he jumped back on and before I eventually managed to get rid of him his mother had shown up to also ask for money. A new foe on my trip it would seem - the suicidal child.

With that obstacle conquered I moved on and was happy to make it to Bartin 2 days later for the semi-final of the football. The whole town had shown up to watch on a big screen placed in the town centre and whilst the atmosphere was no 'Istanbul' the mood was good but its at this point, if I may, that I'd like to raise an issue.

My attitude since leaving home has been that 'I am here to see the world, not to change it' but something really needs to be done about the ammount of people in parts of Eastern Europe and Turkey wearing Man Utd and Chelsea shirts. I could understand if I was in a 3rd world country and these were clothes that people in the UK had bought, realised their tragic error and then donated to charity instead, but whilst my blog has mentioned beggars a couple of times, Turkey really is not that poor of a country (and from speaking to locals they can't see any reason why they won't be able to join the EU shortly) and depressingly these shirts are being worn through choice. Something needs to be done, and if anyone has anyway we can start to change the world for the better on this issue then please don't hesitate to contact me - theres something very depressing about seeing a 10 year old Turkish boy with the name 'Ronaldo' on his back.

Of course the game didn't quite go to plan, so even though the performance was good the result meant that the town centre emptied within 5 minutes of the final whistle and for the first time in 2 weeks something other than football was on the television sets in the shop windows that I was passing.

The next two days with yet more tough riding took me through the beautiful town of Amasra before a gruelling day left me absolutely shattered on the fringes of a small village called Buyukduz. Its worth saying that in 2 months not once had I beed removed from a camping site and only on a couple of occasions had I even been noticed, but tonight was not my night and as I started cooking a man in the only house within view came over, realised I spoke no Turkish and as such got the landowner to come along and move me along. Now normally this would have been no problem, except that at this moment in time I was toast. I simply could not move and after finishing eating I kept my word and left the place I had hoped to camp only to move to a side road about 50 metres further on. I really couldn't manage much more and I got out my sleeping bag and roll mat (too tired and late to bother with a tent) and crawled up under a gate to try to get to sleep. At the bottom of the road there was 1 house with a light on, so in my mind if they were home and it was late at night I was safe to stay there. So on that basis, I was a bit surprised when the exact same man who had thrown me off of his field turned down to where I was sleeping, which turned out to be his front driveway. I don't know many Turkish swear words but I get a feeling a few were used as he stood by his car ushering me away. He told me there was a hotel 10 km down the road - not a chance of me making that and after leaving I ended up just 30 metres down the road and collapsed into long grass where thankfully I wasn't bothered again.

Every cloud has a silver lining though and the positive of sleeping outdoors is waking up when the sun rises, at around 4 am in Turkey, means that I can get up and out before the 30degree plus heat of the day, and whats more today was a special day.

The 29th of June marked 2 months on the road for me and I have to admit it felt satisfying to watch my Odometer tick over 3,000 miles and then demoralising after blowing up my inflatable globe to see how far I still had left to travel. And of course to celebrate the anniversary, after 3 weeks of solid sunshine I got a storm. Thunder, lightning and heavy rain left me soaking and after having already turned down the offer of a free camping place because I'd needed to get more miles in I ended up camping on top of a hill, cold, wet, without a shower in 8 days and in dirty clothes. For the first time in a while I was missing home and I already felt dejected when, with full waterproofs on I was carrying my bags up a hill only to slip and fall in the mud covering myself in clay like mud. My name is not Margot, being covered head to toe in filth is not my idea of The Good Lıfe and I'm man enough to admit that being so close to my birthday and yet so far from home, a tear came to my eye. However I'm not man enough to admit what I did next.

The next morning I woke to find the sun back cutting a lone figure in the sky and was a lot happier after having had quick swim-wash and even happier to find that despite being 360 miles away from my destination with 3 days left of riding, the rest of my journey would be along a flat ground.The next day began to show me just how fit I was and as I managed a 95 mile day without breaking sweat I was safe in the knowledge that my body would not be the thing that would stop me from getting to Trabzon.

However there were still dangers. My pump, which had been secured to the back of the bike for the duration of my trip had dissapeared 2 days previously, I'm guessing on one of the white knuckle descents, so whilst I hadn't had a puncture since Germany one now and I'd be in trouble.

And then of course there was the Turkish drivers. As I write this blog which has reflected badly on beggars and will now go on to slate bad drivers, I feel that it's worth mentioning how much I have enjoyed being with the overwhelming majority of Turkish people. They have shown me unrivalled levels of hospitality, have done their utmost to ensure I'm having an enjoyable stay whilst I have been in their country and I've lost count of the ammounts of roadside cups of tea I have enjoyed with new Turkish friends over the last few weeks, so please, I recommend Turkey to anyone who's reading this (and if you do go to Turkey make sure you go to at least 1 place that isn't in Istanbul) and I can guarantee you will leave being glad you came.

Which brings me to my point - I'm pretty sure the Turkish highway code stipulates that to drive a car you can't have a mental capacity higher than that of a 7 year old and that when behind a wheel you must act as though you've never been allowed to use a car horn before.

Upon entering Istanbul I had cycled down the motorway simply because it was safer. In the country roads, particularly on hills if I had heard a car I had found it simpler just to stop and move away from the road than to risk it. The number of near misses I had seen I had lost count of and it's a small miracle that I had only seen 2 accidents.

The first I had seen was on a steep hill in the first week of Turkey. To give an idea of the genius methods behind much of Turkish driving I learned quickly that if a car wanted to cut a blind corner it would simply toot his horn several times as he approaches the corner - if he hears no horn in return then its safe to cut the corner. This method of course suddenly comes unstuck if the other driver is listening to music, doesn't hear the horn, is going fast himself or is not a local, and so not surprisingly I saw one accident at one such corner as 2 cars both going to fast came round and grazed each others bonnets together before smashing off each others wing mirrors.

The last example is a good one because nobody was hurt, however just over 80 miles from Trabzon I was at a traffic light when a lorry came screeching down the town's high street and ploughed straight into the back of the car in front at what must have been close to 40 mph, with me stood on Tullula not 5 metres away. This was serious. The car in front was written off and although the driver limped out he had the luck to be the only Turk I'd seen wearing a seatbelt since I arrived it was a shocking crash made all the more crazy that this road wasn't a highway, it was a small town centre road so for a lorry to have built up that kind of speed was ridiculous. The driver of the lorry didn't seem to bothered, checking the front of his lorry before checking on the driver he had hit and after everything had calmed down I rode away feeling all the more vulnerable on the roads in a country where speed limits are minimums and traffic lights are for the best part ignored.

Of course though I was fine and my journey continued (managing to pick up a spare pump from the worlds worst bike shop) before I stopped just 60 miles short of Trabzon, and with one day to spare I had timed it perfectly - what followed gives an example of the ups and downs of being a cycling tourist and also offers a 1 day microcosm that demonstrates the difference of being a tourist and a guest in Turkey.

I woke up to complete the last leg to a puncture. It was my first in 7 weeks and I soon learned just how useless the temporary pump I'd bought was. Despite my best efforts I couldn't get any kind of pressure, the pump wouldn't have pumped up a football (the guy in the shop who sold it to me had never heard of a presta valve) and after an hour of trying I let my anger out on the thing, snapping it into 4 pieces before dragging the bike back 1 mile to a car repair shop where I was helped out with an electric tyre pump and 2 hours later than planned I was on my way only to encounter more problems, this time with my rear cassette. But none-the-less I made it to Akcaabat, a town 6 miles short of Trabzon where the plan had been to get some dinner before finding somewhere to sleep. Dinner took care of itself as I met two Belgian twins who were of Turkish descent and were on holiday insisted on taking me for a meal and were even more insistent that I didn't pay anything.

With faith in kindness restored the next plan was to go to the beach to wash myself and fix my bicycle but on my arrival I heard a shout I'd come to dread - 'Turist!'. This had happened to me a lot over my journey through Turkey - the moment that I heard these words I knew the one thing I wouldn't get was peace and quiet. The moment your seen as a tourist your no longer seen as 'normal' in the eyes of the locals, your seen as someone who should answer all their questions, has money to spend on things for the local children and who should pose for pictures with them. I've never wanted to be, and to be fair, never will be a celebrity but if you want a sample of what its like ride a bicycle through Turkey. The constant hassle from children, having to make sure your somewhere you can't be seen to get some quiet and bizarrely small children with camera phones taking your picture were all things I wasn't quite prepared for.

After an hour of being pestered I turned to leave the beach, tired and dejected but on my way out was asked for tea by some locals. Not having anywhere to be there was no way I could refuse and soon we were all talking and joking away like old friends and after a while the conversation turned and I was asked what, as a Christian, I thought of Muslims. This was a situation I had been in many times over the last few weeks and one that always frustrated me.

Me labelling myself Christian is an insult to Christianity and not something I was not prepared to do, but worse still without the lingual skills to correct people I was stuck with it. In Bartin I had been treated to a conversation with a local Kebab shop owner who had told me 'Muslim - Christian - No problem' before reinacting Jesus on the cross accompanied by repeatedly saying 'Jesus dying, bad, bad, bad' and tonight, again, I was stuck with the label although at least my new friends put it to good use, offering me language lessons with the aim of tricking me into becoming a Muslim!

But with the label, much like with Muslims in England came the misguided stereotypes. As a Christian, in their eyes I would spend my birthday drinking beer until I couldn't walk and spending the rest of my money on 'Natashas' - Russian prostitutes who were common in Trabzon. It was strange; the conversation was jovial but in their mind this is what a Christian did on his birthday. And to think they were only half right.

With darkness setting in we talked on, becoming firm friends and it soon turned out that they were students at the local university (within the exception of 1 who was pro-boxer) and asked if I wanted to stay the night. Did I want to stay?! Of couse I did! And just like, after the day which had started with a puncture my last night for this leg of the journey was spent as a guest on the 8th floor of Akcaabat Universities student halls, enjoying my first shower for 2 weeks, free hamburgers and even a kickboxing display from my new, slightly macho friends!

And that, my friends, is that! I sauntered into Trabzon the next morning to the hotel my parents had got me as a birthday present (thank you!), got the bike fixed, cleaned myself up and after opening the birthday cards I'd bought with me from home enjoyed a birthday talking to people at home and having my first beer in 2 weeks. Then just when I was off to bed I bumped into my student friends who I'd stayed with in Akcaabat who, once again, asked if I was 'for Natasha' and were surprised when I said I was actually off to bed at 11 o'clock on my birthday. A lots changed this year it would seem, and bumping into people I knew in Trabzon really is starting to emphasise that it really is a small world after all.


Up next - Georgia and Azerbaijan

Just a quick message to say thanks for all the birthday messages and the repeated support for the site from friends, family and if there are any out there, Banbury Guardian readers!

Pictures

The celebrations after football






The first pictures from Asia - of Europe



The students I stayed with: I was told that this was the Turkish symbol - ofcourse I later found out what it really meant.



The problem of having a hotel room thats 6ft by 8ft