Day 37
Wednesday 3rd December
Srebrena, Bulgaria - Veliko Turnovo

A slightly foggy start to the day but after 2 days of holiday from their holiday it is time to move on again.  Looking at the map of Bulgaria and the time available they decide to miss out Sofia, now far west of them and head south instead for Veliko Turnovo. 

Here they try fruitlessly to park Gordon in the hotel car park.  He is just too tall for the underground car park.  In finding accommodation, Gordon's needs - ideally secure parking - frequently come before their own and on countless occasions the Child Bride will stoically pass over hotels with comely facilities such as saunas and pools in favour of those with a lockable garage or an attended lot.  Here Gordon sits in the street and the Child Bride peruses with delight the massage menu and beauty treatments, wondering what a Triangle wax is, but disinclined to find out.  The view from their room is over the hotel swimming pool and the medieval town clinging to the hills.  Not for the first time the thought, never voiced between the pair, lingers "this would be really nice in summer".

Day 38
Thursday 4th December
Veliko Turnovo, Bulgaria - Galabovo, Bulgaria

Veliko Turnovo sits in a valley in a confluence of 4 hills overlooking the Yantra River.  Settled since Neolithic times, it was of course the Romans who saw its valley view as strategic and first built a fortress on Tsaverets hill.  The fortress was in its heyday in the 3rdC capital of the Second Bulgarian Empire and its walls contained a developed citadel.  Sacked by the Turks in 1393 it was ultimately restored by the Russians. 

Grandpa Pete and the Child Bride enter across a viaduct leading to a path up the hill through the city gates where they are welcomed by the gate attendant, a clingy tabby cat.  Disengaging themselves they pick their way through the ruins and climb up high to the Church of the Blessed Saviour to see the modern murals inside and look back from height over the valley.  The castle keep is being restored and they climb up that and out onto a modern concert stage that has the whole valley as auditorium.

In a combination of doziness and lack of forward planning Grandpa Pete and the Child Bride have depleted their stock pile of Euros and Dollars.  The Great British pound is not much of a card to play any more. Now, as the pound tumbles against the Euro, Grandpa Pete and the Child Bride go through the ridiculous process of drawing out Bulgarian cash from ATMs to change into Euros in Bulgaria.  This is so stupid that local cashiers don't understand what they are trying to do and the manager is called.  He charmingly confirms to his staff that they really are trying to pay two lots of commission to his staff and he strikes up conversation with the pair.  Perhaps he is looking for future customers as talk turns to mortgages and the price of local properties.  It had not escaped their attention that estate agents were advertising 3 bedroom country villas for 10,000 Euros each.  Though, given the news they are getting from England, houses in Yorkshire and flats in Balham are probably going for much the same. 

Back on the road and they head into the middle of nowhere, to make their last night's stop before the Turkish border.  This is beyond the ken of the guidebook.  No one wants to go here and so they haven't bothered with the roads, the worst so far.  Gordon lurches from pothole to craterous pothole.  At every bridge there is a step in the tarmac, sometimes topped with a metal bar. The bridge itself will be covered in pristine tarmac before another lurch takes them back down onto the patchwork road. In Bulgaria, Bridge people clearly do not speak to Road people, or else some EU bureaucrat insisted that roads leading up to bridges were not included in the grant payout that funded the bridge shopping spree. 

They have trusted to finding a hotel on the road but as the country gets more and more rural this looks doubtful.  An uneasy feeling fills the car as it nears dusk, the night grows colder and the border approaches. On the approach to one of the last big settlements they pass a huge Alstom construction site, the beginnings of a major power plant and steel works.  The town does not look promising accommodation-wise.  But GP suggests coming off the main road to search as a last hope.  There, in the middle of a run down residential area, with more horses and carts than cars, is a shiny new hotel.  GP makes the link between the construction site and the incongruous hotel and sure enough soon the hotel is filling with French and German engineers with laptops.  Neon lights are lit up outside the Villa Verde and all the facilities for staff on secondment are there - including the requisite tacky nightclub.

At dinner most of the restaurant knows each other and there is a clear hierarchy in the seating arrangements, with groups arranged according to their role at the plant, including the head honcho sequestered in a discrete area at the back with a blonde.  A new boy with no place in the community yet, takes his seat at the end of their table and does not linger long. 

Day 39
Friday 5th December
Galabovo, Bulgaria - Istanbul, Turkey

There are many miles to cover in Turkey, but this will be something of a relief.  With no little shame, the rattle through Eastern Europe has left Grandpa Pete and the Child Bride confusing their Bratislavas with their Bucharests, their Brasovs with their Budapests.  Next time they will avoid visiting too many towns with the same initial letter in quick succession.  While they haven't felt pulled to stay longer, they are conscious that their visits have been superficial. The opportunity to be in one country for a while will be a welcome indulgence. Hopes are also high for a bit of sun. 

Drawing near the Turkey border the landscape turns arid, the sun shines. A white Land Rover darts past. It looks kitted out for expedition so GP and the CB pull forward to overtake and wave.  At the border they meet Thierry who is an old hand at this business.  This is his second long distance overland trip (www.voyage-aroundtheworld.com) and his experiences augur well "I have had no problems at all - everyone has been so sweet to me".  The only problem he had with the car was on his return to France when the cylinder head gasket blew, given the cost of fixing it he regrets that it didn't happen in China when offers of free Land Rover sponsorship were abundant.

This is Gordon's first non-EU border and it will take two hours to crawl between booths to process visas, green card insurance and to watch the customs man look in despair at the wealth of baggage in Gordon.  He makes a gesture towards thoroughness by pointing up to Gordon's roof rack at the tent and saying "What.  Is that?"  Insurance is sold by a man in lavender with a striking resemblance to Einstein in drag.  Carefully stroking down his flyaway fringe he tears off a flimsy form that will cover Gordon against third party 'incidents'.

Turkey's motorway resembles the M1 when first opened - the only thing it is lacking is cars.   Church spires in the towns are replaced by minarets, the bashed up retro cars of Eastern Europe are replaced by modern cars.  At the petrol station, the Turks break through the eastern European reticence with their curiosity, with big smiles they gather round to find out where GP and the CB have come from and what they are doing and to provide the first of many packets of complimentary petrol station tissues. 

They soon get their first glimpse of the sea since Genova and begin a fraught entry to Istanbul.  Drawing into the town the eccentric road map bears no relation to the signage and as they get more and more lost, the roads get narrower and narrower.  The Turks are as gregarious on the roads as they are in person; horns begin to blare as soon as traffic lights change.  This is intimidating for newcomers, by the end of Turkish leg, it will be part of the audio landscape and will have almost a cheery tone to their ears.  Right now, it just adds to the tension.   Everyone wants to help in the narrow alleyways, stopping traffic to wave Gordon through, a host of ringmasters leading the traffic circus. Ultimately Gordon gets stuck, facing down a narrow one way street that they have been waved down, with a stream of cars facing back at them.  With a new team of amateur traffic cops waving in contradictory directions, Grandpa Pete carries out the tightest three point turn Gordon has ever produced and unbelievably gets him out unscathed. 

It will be a while yet before they get to the Hotel Ibrahim Pasha and they are high on adrenaline when they take to the rooftop bar to drink beer like it is water and bombard the young barmaid with over-excited conversation while watching floodlit gulls circle the Aya Sophia.

Day 40
Saturday 6th December
Istanbul, Turkey

Hotel Ibrahim Pasha is worth the pain of finding it.  Restored with restraint the townhouse has a cosy lounge, tiny stylish shuttered rooms and a light central stairwell.  In the breakfast room a solicitous waiter shepherds guests through the fresh bread, fruits and yoghurts.  Gordon is safe in an adjacent parking lot guarded by a mute.  When the Child Bride goes down in the morning her heart lurches initially; his windows are so clean that she thinks they have been smashed right through.  His guardian has cleaned him. 

It is T-shirt weather as they hit the tourist trail, in a city that is part of the European tourist loop, they see Italians, Germans, Japanese for the first time since Bratislava.  There is clearly a middle class here, but most of all there is energy in the Turks on the street that is uplifting and sociable. 

The first stop is the Topkapi palace*, built by Mehmet the Conquerer in 1453 and home to sultans until the 19thC.   It is guarded by an enourmous domestic dog and a herd of cats, holding a forum in the sun.  A series of four tranquil courtyards draw you through the palace. The sequestered Harem is intricate and labyrinthine, an enclave of feminine manoeuvring and intrigue under the eye of the mother of the sultan, as each lady jockeyed to see their son succeed the sultan.  GP is disappointed to find the occupants not at home.  In the Treasury, the third finger on the CB's left hand twitches before the Spoonmaker's Diamond, an 86 carat rock.  A kaftan with arms reaching down to the skirt's hem makes them wonder at the prehensile arms of the ancient Turks.  After a lunch on the terrace overlooking the Bosphorus they wander around the fourth court and the pleasure pavilions and fountains overlooking the Golden Horn.  From these viewpoints Istanbul spreads out all around with huge traffic-filled spans reaching across the water to bring in the endless high rise suburbs as bulky ships plough underneath to dwarf it all.  Here is the Bosphorus, the divide between Europe and Asia and a significant way-marker on their journey.

The afternoon sees Grandpa Pete take to the bazaar and revel in the good natured banter of the shopkeepers. Even the hard sell in Istanbul is a fun game with none of the claustrophobic pressure of Morocco.  "Let me help you spend your money" "that shop for your wife, theeese shop for your secretary" and they are delighted to find in GP someone ready to play. Looking ahead to Iran and a future of modesty, the CB buys a black scarf to cover her head.
 
Supper brings them to Turkish cuisine and the light, fresh Mediterranean flavours, succulent meats, range and choice.  A relief to the vegetarian, and heaven for the carnivore.  They eat at a small Lokanti, canteen style where they can point and choose from what they see before them. 

*(in fact their first stop at the Topkapi palace had been the night before on one of the eccentric circles of the city that finally led to the hotel)

Day 41
Sunday 7th December
Istanbul, Turkey

Today they examine the tiled interior of the Blue Mosque whose minarets have been the backdrop to their evening beers.  They stand feeling very small in the cavernous prayer space looking up at the huge dome held aloft with four mighty elephant's feet pillars. Slight light falls on the rich carpet, weak light from the stained glass high up.  Aya Sofya has been both a church (Sancta Sophia, the Church of Divine wisdom) and a mosque.  Now deconsecrated, it is a good place for Catholics to pray for Muslims, and for Muslims to pray for Catholics.

Attaturk, the founding father of modern Turkey, established it as a museum in 1935, twelve hundred years after it was completed.  The dustiness of its grandeur comes not from its origins in 537 but from the scaffolding and continuing restoration work up high.  Above all rises an arching dome, which feels like the ceiling of the world it reaches so high, carried on 40 stone ribs.  Huge round placards bearing Islamic text and delicate crumbling mosaics on the first floor gallery are reached up a long cobbled ramp.  Back in the main hall they take in again the dome with eyes now adjusted to the light.

A few hundred metres north, the Basilica cistern is also dim, 65m x 143m of underground cavern supported by 336 columns, the water tank of the Byzantines.  It is atmospherically lit and good for a quiet 20 minute stroll in the dripping gloom.  They then cross the Golden Horn by tram and a furnicular to the Beyoglu district, past the bright pink railway station.  From Taksim  they walk back south down Istiklal Cad, Istanbul's Oxford Street, thronged with people, the ubiquitous international brands and fast food joints.

Their last night in Istanbul is over a ruinous, sumptuous feast of kebab and stuffed vegetables, with good scope for eavesdropping thanks to the large number of English speakers.  On reflecting that she has become accustomed to doner kebab for lunch, the CB realises that she has eaten her way through Europe in holiday mode and that this will not be sustainable for six months of travel rather than the usual two weeks a year.  She determines to live for the moment a little less, though had she been able to foresee the delights of Syrian cuisine, she would have done well to stock up while she could.  

In the evening they take to the leather sofas of the hotel lounge with laptop, maps and books to plan a path through Turkey.

Day 42
Monday 8th December
Istanbul, Turkey - Kutahaya, Turkey

Grandpa Pete goes to the car park to pack Gordon and allegedly finds him surrounded by armoured troop carriers, police and soldiers.  By the time he has summoned the Child Bride from her bed, the car park is empty, save for Gordon and his mute guardian.  Gordon is given a final wash down by his guardian and is ready to go, back over the huge bridges on quiet streets. 

In the suburbs there is blood on the streets.  It is the beginning of Kurban Bayrami, four or five days of holiday to commemorate Ibrahim's near-sacrifice of Ismail.  This is marked by the sacrifice of a beast and along the roadside many a cow is meeting its end and being divvied up, much blood, much plastic sheeting as neighbours come together to dispatch the spoils.  This week will give GP and the CB the opportunity to see Turks in repose as many have taken to the country; families pack estate cars with everything including the mother-in-law, headscarfed and suited they decamp at beauty spots to gaze or unpack picnics. 

The roads are quiet and much of Turkey is shut up.  With more wishful thinking than expectation they pull into a service station for a cup of çay.  As they are loitering by Gordon, the police approach.  The cop has no English, they have no Turkish but from the excited grin on his face, this is not an official enquiry.  He points them to café where he summons çay for three and begins in effusive Turkish a largely frustrated attempt to chat to them.  His longsuffering partner sits at a few tables away scrutinising his mobile and eventually gathers him up to put him back in the patrol car.  He embraces GP like his oldest friend and rubs their heads together in a fond adieu. The waiter refuses payment, the policeman has settled the bill. 

Their stop for the night is Kutahaya, chosen only because it is on the way and with not much more to offer than a concentration of ceramics factories and a very nice fountain on the central roundabout.  The Hotel Hotas is the first of many brown Turkish hotels they will stay in and dinner in a local café is problematic because of the language barrier.  The waiter finds a young Turkish customer who kindly translates the menu and finds the vegetarian option for them.

Day 43
Tuesday 9th December
Kutahaya, Turkey - Egidir, Turkey

The long trawl south continues across flat plains towards the Anatolian Lake District, paused only to buy diesel and collect complimentary packets of petrol station tissues, the Turkish loyalty reward.  On the way to Egidir, the pair make an attempt to learn Turkish.  

When the Turks run out of post-its they write on the hills but by the time they are slipping down a winding road to the lake past a military training base, GP and the CB cannot yet translate the words "We are strong.  We are brave.  We are ready." etched into the hill. 

The ice cold blue lake is their next view, backed by mountains, and a promontory stretches out before them.  A long thin road, lapped either side by the lake leads to an islet where guesthouses are clustered.  They stop at the Göll pension and are welcomed in to find the whole family gathered around the television watching a soap in what could be any family Christmas scene in England.  They are taken up the marble stairs to a simple bright room with a wonderful view over the lake with moorhens bobbing in a cluster, freezing their undercarriages.

A quick cold walk along the lake takes them to a town with a bank holiday feeling.  Right down to the teenage boys who have escaped the family prison to have a sheepish smoke in the park. 

For dinner they follow the crowds into a packed local restaurant full of families enjoying their time off.  Highlights of the translated menu include "regrettable marrow", regrettable presumably because the dish is off that night.  They retreat to the pension to watch The Man Who Knew Too Much on DVD.  Their Turkish has really not come on much in a day so they have to refer to the guide book to understand that the sign on the front door of their pension reads:  "Closed".