A Passage into Turkey
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VOICEOVER
VOICEOVER
Cycle Touring Turkey (3)
18 – 27 September 2025
853 Kilometres – 18 Days
Prologue — In Which I Pedal Into
Turkey With More Enthusiasm Than Sense
I didn’t plan to cycle into Turkey
looking like a woman who’d packed her panniers by playing Tetris blindfolded,
but there I was—rolling south from Batumi with optimism, questionable snacks,
and a raincoat made of plastic so thin it could double as clingfilm. The Black
Sea glimmered beside me, the border guards barely blinked, and suddenly I was
in a new country with a tent I hadn’t tested in months and a stomach that would
soon file a formal complaint.
But that’s the thing about bicycle
travel: you set off imagining cinematic vistas and profound revelations, and
instead you get headwinds, food poisoning, and strangers who hand you coffee
and kindness when you least deserve it. Turkey welcomed me exactly like
that—messy, generous, unpredictable. A place where history towered above me,
storms chased me, and people kept insisting I drink tea even when I was
pedalling uphill.
I should have known then: this journey
was going to be a riot.
Chapter 1 - Crossing
Borders and Finding Kindness
Batumi lingered behind me
as I pedalled south, the Georgian sun already high. My departure was unhurried,
almost reluctant, as if the road needed coaxing. Fifteen kilometres on, the
Gonio Fortress rose like a sentinel of time. Built by the Romans as a military
outpost between the 1st and 3rd centuries, its bones whispered tales of
Apsaros, of emperors and apostles. I wandered its perimeter, absorbing the
layered history: Roman theatres, Byzantine reinforcements, Ottoman trade, and
the hushed possibility that Saint Matthias might rest within its walls.
The Byzantines further
fortified the site during the 6th and 7th centuries. Still, it was captured by
the Ottomans in 1547 and remained under Ottoman control until 1878, when it was
ceded to the Russian Empire.
The stones whispered all of
it. I lingered longer than planned, then crossed the border into Turkey. The
transition was smooth, almost anticlimactic. A few stamps, a few questions, and
I was through. Just beyond the checkpoint, I spotted a campsite beside the
water. I hadn’t tested my gear in a while, and the spot felt right—quiet,
shaded, with a small restaurant nearby.
I pitched my tent, the
fabric taut against the breeze, and sat by the shore watching the light shift
across the small waves. The Black Sea was still with me, but the language had
changed, the signs had changed, and the road ahead was new.
There was something
satisfying about stopping so soon after crossing. No rush. No need to push
forward. Just a moment to breathe, to reflect, to recalibrate.
That evening, a campervan
rolled in—a family from Iran, their warmth immediate. We shared stories and
beer, and I was grateful for the company.
I was greeted with a warm
cup of coffee and a delightful breakfast, all thanks to my thoughtful
neighbours. It was the kind of kindness that lingers longer than the taste of the
food.
Just as I set off on my
ride, a gentle drizzle began to fall—a drizzle that would keep me company on
and off throughout the day. Thankfully, the air was warm, and with my trusty
plastic raincoat, I pedalled on, the Black Sea a constant companion. If it
weren’t for that pesky headwind, the ride would have felt downright blissful,
but, alas, a stubborn headwind is always a party pooper.
In a way, the grey skies
pushed me to keep moving, as there's little motivation to linger in such dreary
conditions. On the bright side, the road was a marvel—wide, smooth, and
forgiving, even as the wind played its tricks. Tunnels offered thrilling escapes,
even if a tad intimidating, and the cliffs above, impossibly steep, bore the
weight of tea plantations. I marvelled at the effort it must take to coax
leaves from those steep cliffs, towering majestically right above the gentle
waves.
As I rode on, I had my
sights set on the nearest campsite marked on my map. Just a few kilometres
before reaching my destination, I stumbled upon a town with a supermarket where
I could refuel for the night. Afterwards, I made my way to the campsite, where
I found a delightfully basic, yet perfectly positioned one right on the shores
of the Black Sea. To my relief, the reception had enough electricity to revive
my gadgets—thank goodness! So, I settled in for the evening, but my body had
other plans; food poisoning crept in, and the night unravelled into discomfort.
By morning, I started
packing up with all the enthusiasm of a new day ahead. But then, out of
nowhere, my legs decided to cramp up, reminding me of all the fluid I lost
during the night. After a moment of contemplation, I chose to stay put for the
day. Honestly, even if I had pushed through, I could tell I wouldn’t have had
the energy to truly enjoy the ride. Some days, it's just better to listen to
your body.
It was miserable weather,
so I stayed cooped up in the tent. The camp owner’s refusal to accept payment
for a Coke was a small act of grace on a grey day.
I could tell I was on the
classic Europe-to-Asia cycling route, as I have seldom come upon as many
cyclists, all drawn to this Europe-to-Asia artery. At camp I met a Chilean
cyclist with a dog and his German companion, and later a lone walker. We shared
stories, laughter, and the quiet understanding of those without fixed
destinations.
Chapter 2 - Rain, Ruins,
and the Road to Trabzon
Not
long after setting off, I spotted the Chilean cyclist and his German companion,
camped by the roadside. Their gear lay scattered, and the Chilean was visibly
unwell—food poisoning, perhaps from the same water that had felled me days
earlier. We shared concern, a few words, and then I pedalled on.
Rize
offered a brief reprieve, cash from an ATM. The sunshine broke through the
clouds, revealing a brilliant blue sky that coaxed a smile from me. The road
ahead rolled like a ribbon along the coast—not my favourite kind of road, too wide,
too fast but it carried me forward.
As
I rolled into the town of Of, I realised my trusty power bank had finally given
up the ghost. A quick replacement, and I was back on the saddle, chasing the
promise of a warm shower and clean clothes in Trabzon. With the sun shining and
my spirits high, I pressed on.
After
about 100 kilometres, I reached the city. Navigating its bustling streets was a
challenge, but eventually, I found my hotel. The shower was bliss, the laundry
a small triumph, and slipping into fresh clothes felt like a rebirth.
But
as seen from the photos, I lost myself for hours wandering through the
enchanting, narrow cobbled lanes of the old town. Each twist and turn revealed
a delightful surprise; all steeped in history.
Leaving my room, infested
with bedbugs, was a relief. But the road ahead was unforgiving. As I hit the
road, my legs lacked the strength, maybe from the lingering effects of my
ill-fated attempt to tackle those pesky bedbugs. Ugh! My legs wobbled beneath
me as I battled against the relentless wind. "Toughen up, woman!" I
muttered to myself.
I contemplated calling it a
day more than once, but good campsites seemed to elude me. Sure, there were
wild camping spots tucked away in nature, but the thought of no facilities—no
running water, or toilets wasn't what I needed that day. Twice I ventured into
nearby towns, hoping to find a hotel with a budget-friendly price tag, but luck
wasn’t on my side. Just when I was about to settle for camping in
less-than-ideal conditions, my fortune changed!
Tirebolu appeared like a
gift. The Ayana Otel was charming, clean, and just $25. To my delight, it
looked completely bedbug-free! What a relief! I knew I’d sleep like a baby.
After checking in, I went on
the hunt for food. Back in my room, I indulged in a refreshing shower and as I
stepped out of the shower, I was greeted by the sound of rain pouring down
outside. I couldn’t help but chuckle, happy to be in a room instead of a tent
by the roadside! The evening was turning out splendidly!
Chapter 3 - Hazelnuts,
Headwinds, and the Hunt for Shelter
I
set off along the stunning coastal route, feeling invigorated and alive. Before
long, I found myself deep in Hazelnut country, mesmerised by the sight of
farmers drying their bountiful harvest along the roadside, I had to snap a few
pics. Evidently, these folks were well-prepared for a solid season of work.
While
the Black Sea may not boast dramatic tides, it certainly has its share of
charming little wind-driven waves. This coastline is also dotted with
headlands, each adorned with its own castle, though I decided to save those
explorations for another day.
By
around 3 PM, I stumbled upon a gem of a campsite by the marina. This place was
a dream come true—lush green lawns, spotless restrooms, and a restaurant that
promised delicious meals. Even though I only cycled 80 kilometres, I couldn't
resist the urge to stay. Who knew when I’d encounter such a lovely spot again?
Just
as I parked my bike, a fellow camper approached me with a warm smile, offering
me a bottle of water, a sweet chocolate treat, and a fizzy drink. Their
kindness instantly filled me with gratitude.
Although
I paid 350 TL for my campsite, which is almost what I paid for a room in
Southeast Asia, having access to a toilet felt like pure luxury!
I
set up camp primarily to charge my devices, but the only electric point was at
the caravan section, so I had to make do with just charging my power bank.
When
I finally emerged from my sleeping bag, the sun was shining, and miraculously,
everything dried out quickly. As for my day ahead, it promised to be incredibly
beautiful. I chose the scenic route rather than the main road that veered
inland. It was hilly and challenging, but every climb was rewarded with
breathtaking views that made the effort worthwhile. I found myself struggling
up steep inclines before hurtling down the other side at breath-snatching
speeds. Villagers would call out “chai, chai!” as I sped past them, only
slowing down when I faced the next demanding ascent.
The
D010 highway once again turned inland, but I was determined to stick to the
coast. Later I arrived in the charming town of Unye and with a desperate need
for a shower, I caved in and booked a hotel. My choice was a lovely little
place that exuded charm, and I fell in love with its quaint, old-fashioned
setup. What a delightful way to end a day on the road!
As
I left the gate of my accommodation, I noticed a sign against the wall. It
turned out my lodging was indeed old.
The
dullness of the ride was due to the lack of smaller or coastal routes, so I
followed the main road. I ducked into a few towns, but they were busy, and
moving through them was a slow process.
The
wind picked up, and I had my head down most of the way. There's nothing worse
than a headwind. On the positive side, I found a perfect campsite at Samsun. It
had piping hot showers, clean toilets, electric points at each campsite and a
laundry! I may stay an extra day.
And so, I did. I stayed in my tent until the sun warmed the air. I did my laundry and then sauntered into town, where I found a Decathlon store. I stocked up on a few essentials, including leggings, as the nights were becoming cooler.
Chapter 4 - Storms, Statues, and Shifting Plans
As I pressed further down
the road, I caught sight of another camping area tucked among the trees, only
to be greeted with disappointment—closed. I was in a small beach village next
to an airfield; other than the A-frame bungalows catering to families, there
were no hotels or guesthouses in sight. The locals pointed me towards a hotel
just 2 km away. After battling the elements, I finally reached my destination.
Sure, it was pricey, but it was cosy and charming. I was desperate and booked a
room to rethink my plans, as cycling into the storm was clearly out of the
question—especially with the mountain climb still ahead.
Samsun
welcomed me with a reasonably priced hotel in the bustling centre.
I
booked two nights, determined to wait out the weather. I reminded myself I had
nothing to prove. The weather app—although it may not be the most reliable
source— promised three more days of rain before we were gifted with a glimpse
of sunshine.
I
stayed in Samsun, the symbolic starting point of Turkey's transformation, as it
is here that Mustafa Kemal (later known as Atatürk) landed on May 19, 1919, on
board the SS Bandırma to organise national resistance, marking the beginning of
the Turkish War of Independence. At the time, Turkey was under the rule of the
mighty Ottoman Empire. This vast empire, founded in 1299 by Osman I, endured
for over six centuries and, at its peak, controlled a significant portion of
Southeastern Europe, Western Asia, and North Africa. Hence, it was no mean
feat, and his statue stands proudly in the city park.
The
weather improved significantly on the third day, but it was too late to reach
Istanbul by bicycle, so I bought a bus ticket and planned to catch the night
bus to this mesmerising city the following evening. In the meantime, I wandered
the streets lined with shops, and although I don't have a sweet tooth, the
baklava was to die for. That evening, a call from my sister suggested we meet
in Cairo instead of Istanbul.
The road took a delightful turn inland, offering a lovely change of scenery as I rode through colourful farmlands. The lush green fields and golden landscapes stretched before me, creating a beautiful backdrop. Back on the coast, fishermen waved me over. One handed me a chocolate croissant. Fuelled by kindness and sugar, I biked the final few kilometres into Gerze.
Chapter 5 - Stone Walls and Shifting Horizons
My
first stop was the Sinop Castle and Fortress, its origins stretching back to
the 8th century BCE. Built by Miletian settlers, expanded by Romans,
Byzantines, Seljuqs, and Ottomans, the fortress stood as a palimpsest of power.
From its ramparts, I gazed over the harbour, imagining the sails of merchant
ships and the clang of armour.
Within
the castle walls, I stepped into the Sinop Cezaevi—once one of Turkey’s most
notorious prisons, now a museum of shadows. The cells echoed with silence,
their stories etched into stone.
I
tried to visit the Balatlar Church, said to house relics of early Christian
saints, but it was under renovation. Still, the city offered its charms freely:
men chatting on corners, vendors hawking fruit and nuts, the rhythm of daily
life unfolding against a backdrop of antiquity.
Sinop
held me for two days. I wandered, I lingered, I let the city seep into me. But
time pressed on, and I finally boarded the night bus to Istanbul.
Chapter 5 - Walls, Whispers, and the Weight of Time
The ride was long, and I
arrived in Istanbul bleary-eyed but buzzing. With a population nearing 16
million, the city was a living organism—sprawling, ancient, and alive. Cycling
the final 22 kilometres from the bus station to the city centre was a chaotic
ballet of dodging traffic and deciphering signs.
Istanbul is not only
massive but also ancient, with a history spanning over 2,600 years. Istanbul is
a city of names: Byzantium, Constantinople, Istanbul. It has worn the crowns of
three empires—Roman, Byzantine, and Ottoman—yet today, Ankara holds the title
of capital. Still, Istanbul reigns in spirit.
The allure of exploration
tugged at me, yet the crisp morning air kept me snuggled under the covers
longer than I’d planned. Eventually, I reluctantly emerged from my cocoon and
hopped on my bicycle, making my way to a nearby shop to have it boxed up for my
flight to Cairo. With that task complete, I meandered across the iconic Galata
Bridge, a vibrant artery that spans the Golden Horn and connects the historic
districts of Karaköy and Eminönü. Below, the lower level of the bridge was
alive with fishermen and bustling fish restaurants, while the upper level
thrummed with the energy of pedestrians and trams, all woven into the fabric of
this enchanting city.
I lost track of time in
Karaköy, one of Istanbul’s most dynamic neighbourhoods, pulsating with life and
rich history. Here, the old and new dance together in a captivating harmony
that’s impossible to resist.
The following day, I set
off in the opposite direction, wandering through Gülhane Park, where ancient
trees whisper stories of the past. I passed the crumbling ruins of the
Orphanage of Hagios Paulos and paused briefly at the awe-inspiring Column of
the Goths. However, many historic sites were cordoned off due to ongoing
renovations, and the queue snaking outside the Topkapı Palace and the Basilica
Cistern was daunting enough to deter me. Even the majestic Blue Mosque was
hidden behind an imposing wall, thwarting my attempts to capture its beauty in
a photograph.
Undeterred, I continued my
stroll past the enchanting Little Hagia Sophia Mosque and made my way to the
Grand Bazaar but it is closed on Sundays. Finally, I descended to the Golden
Horn and wandered into the bustling Egyptian Bazaar, where there are teas, bags
and fezzes for every taste. The market buzzed with activity, filled with a
kaleidoscope of colours and enticing aromas, while inviting corners offered a
warm and comfortable atmosphere to enjoy leisurely sessions with hookah pipes. It
was here that I surrendered to Turkey’s most beloved confections: the famous
Turkish Delight. These delightful sweets come in an array of shapes and flavours,
including Rosewater, Lemon, Orange, Mint, and Cinnamon, with Pomegranate adding
an intriguing twist. My favourites? The ones studded with pistachios,
hazelnuts, and walnuts. I may have overindulged. I regret nothing.
The morning greeted me with
a gentle drizzle, creating the perfect excuse to sink deeper into my cosy
blankets. Oh, how delightful it was to pull the covers over my head and savour
the luxury of staying put! I couldn’t help but chuckle as I turned over, surrendering
to another hour of blissful snoozing.
But eventually, duty
called, and I had some not-so-fun tasks on my to-do list. I reluctantly dragged
myself to the ATM, a chore that’s always been a thorn in my side—along with the
endless cycle of filling up the car with petrol. Does it ever end? After
wrestling with the machines, I made my way to the phone shop to tackle my
internet woes. The connection at my hotel was practically non-existent—a
frustrating situation.
With my stomach grumbling,
I figured breakfast couldn't wait any longer. I picked up a simit—those
delightful Turkish sesame bread rings—opting for the cheesy version this time.
It was a small treat that I could enjoy alongside a steaming cup of coffee once
I returned to the hotel.
Now, there was just one
last task to conquer: collecting my bicycle from the bike shop. The shop was
only 300 meters away, but carrying the bike through the narrow, winding,
cobbled lanes was out of the question. Taxis couldn’t navigate these tight
streets, so I enlisted the help of a guy with a hand trolley.
This turned out to be a
pretty comedic adventure! The moment he set off, his pace was so fast that I
had to jog to keep up. Off we went, a man with a trolley followed by a woman
jogging behind - past fancy restaurants where holidaymakers were having a
drink. I couldn’t stop laughing at the absurdity of it all. Picture this: me,
giggling like a child, trying to keep pace with a man hurrying to deliver a
bike through the winding streets. Before long, we arrived at my hotel, and I
was still chuckling as I imagined the whole scene as a cartoon.
Chapter 6 - Istanbul: Where
Empires Collide
The sun came out, and after
dropping my laundry, I joined the queue at the Basilica Cistern—finally
manageable now that the cruise liner had departed. The Basilica Cistern is most
likely one of Istanbul's most captivating historical marvels. Descending into
its cool depths felt like entering a forgotten palace. Built in the 6th century
to supply water to Constantinople’s Great Palace, the cistern stretched 140 by
70 meters, supported by 336 marble columns. Two bore Medusa heads—one upside down,
one sideways—silent sentinels of myth and mystery. After the Ottoman conquest
in 1453, it continued to supply water to the Topkapı Palace. However, it
gradually fell into disuse and was forgotten—except by local residents who
still drew water from it.
Above ground, I turned my
attention to the city’s skin—the Walls of Constantinople. Built by Constantine
the Great and expanded by Theodosius in the 5th century, they encircled the
city like a protective embrace. Double lines of stone, nearly impregnable in
their prime, had saved Byzantium from countless sieges. Even after the
introduction of gunpowder siege cannons, which contributed to the city's fall
to Ottoman forces in 1453, the walls remained effective.
These walls, which have
undergone numerous additions and modifications throughout history, represent
the last great fortification system of antiquity and one of the most complex
and elaborate systems ever constructed. Today, they stand in fragments,
weathered but defiant. Restoration cranes—what I jokingly called Turkey’s new
national bird—hovered overhead. My friend Margaret had named them perfectly,
the Yellow, Flightless, Featherless Turkish Crane. As I was writing, I felt the
tremors of an earthquake and realised that preserving history is not only
threatened by man but also by nature.
My sister postponed her
visit, meaning I had a few extra days in Istanbul. Fortunately, my budget hotel
was well-located and within walking distance to the Galata Tower, the
Dolmabahçe Palace, the Blue Mosque, the Grand Bazaar, and the Suleymaniye
Mosque. I spent quite some time at the Suleymaniye Mosque, which not only offers
a magnificent view over the city but is also an impressive architectural
landmark that serves as a powerful symbol of the Ottoman Empire at its height.
This magnificent structure was commissioned by Sultan Suleyman the Magnificent,
who ruled from 1520 to 1566.
With so much time on my
hands, I followed narrow gobbled lanes through residential areas to the
Aqueduct of Valens, a monumental aqueduct built by the Romans in the 4th
century & spanning a busy boulevard. In the afternoon, I hopped on a tourist boat along the Bosphorus and saw the
city from a different angle. On my return, I made my way to the Yeni Mosque on
Eminönü Square for my grilled corn and Ayran.
This was my last day in Istanbul and I realised it will always linger in
my bones—the scent of simit, the shimmer of the Bosphorus, the echo of
footsteps on cobbled lanes. My bicycle was boxed, my laundry folded, and my
heart both full and restless. The tremor I felt days earlier—subtle,
seismic—seemed to mirror something internal. A shift. A readiness. Now, the
road pointed south. Cairo awaited. My sister, too. The flight would be short,
but the transition felt vast—Turkey’s layered empires giving way to Egypt’s
ancient sands.
The road was never just about distance. It was about presence. About
being in the moment, even when that moment was muddy or mundane or magnificent.
And so, with Istanbul behind me and Cairo ahead, I whispered a thank you to the road. To the strangers who became companions. To the landscapes that became memories. To the wind, even when it pushed back.
The journey continues.
As my flight to Cairo was
at the ungodly hour of 3 in the morning, I organised a taxi for 23h00. Needless
to say, I never slept a wink all night as we landed in Cairo at around 5.30 –
6:00. By the time I collected my bicycle and bag and found a taxi to take me
into Cairo, it was already light. And just like that, I was back in Africa and
along the mighty Nile.
Epilogue
By the time I boxed my bicycle in Istanbul, I had survived bedbugs, storms, suspiciously enthusiastic lawn sprinklers, and enough headwinds to qualify for an honorary meteorology degree. I had also eaten my bodyweight in simit, discovered that Turkish Delight is a gateway drug, and learned that restoration cranes are, in fact, Turkey’s unofficial national bird.
Istanbul
shook me awake—literally, with an earthquake—and then wrapped me in its
impossible beauty. And just when I thought I had a plan, life did what it
always does: laughed, changed the script, and sent me to Cairo instead.
As
I boarded my 3 a.m. flight, sleepless and slightly sticky from too much
baklava, I realised the truth of it all: the road never gives you what you
expect. It gives you what you need—usually with a side of chaos, a sprinkle of
humour, and a stranger offering you tea at exactly the right moment.
Turkey
stayed behind, but it also stayed with me. In my bones. In my stories. In the
sand, still stuck in my panniers.
And
now, Africa waited. The Nile shimmered. The journey, as always, continued.
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