180 CYCLE TOURING TURKEY (3)

 

A Passage into Turkey

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VOICEOVER

Cycle Touring Turkey (3)

18 – 27 September 2025

853 Kilometres – 18 Days

  

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

 

The morning began with a promise—a dry tent and the soft hush of dawn. But by 7 a.m., the rain returned, tapping gently on the canvas like a persistent reminder. I emerged reluctantly, greeted the drizzle, and packed my gear with practised hands. Over coffee, I exchanged stories with the walking traveller. His pace was slower, his path less defined, but his presence was grounding, and soon enough, I was off, heading towards 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.

 

The next day, I wandered around and visited the Trabzon Castle, perched high on a rocky cliff. Its layered history unfolded with every step: Roman foundations, Byzantine walls, Ottoman echoes. The Upper Town held the acropolis, the Middle Town bustled with workshops and markets, and the Lower Town kissed the sea. It wasn’t just a fortress—it was a living city, a Silk Road waypoint, a testament to imperial ambition.

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 hesitated momentarily to leave my bedbug-free haven, but the promise of a hearty breakfast lured me out of bed. As I savoured the delightful spread of a traditional Turkish breakfast—olives, juicy tomatoes, crisp cucumbers, perfectly boiled eggs, freshly baked bread, and a diverse array of cheese —it was right up my alley.

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.

 

I slept well, but then came the unexpected wake-up call at three in the morning, when the caretakers decided it was the perfect time to water the lawn. I jolted awake, thinking I was in the middle of some torrential downpour! After a few moments of confusion, I figured out what was going on, but by then, my tent was already drenched.

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!

 

I was somewhat reluctant to leave my comfortable digs and lingered in bed well past my usual time. The sun streamed in through the windows, the bed was comfy, and I could have easily stayed there the rest of the day. Eventually, I dragged myself out of bed, and it was late in the morning before I set out on a rather dull 90 km ride to Samsun.

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

 

I packed my clean laundry and set off, but it quickly became clear that nature had other plans. The wind howled, and rain poured. I crawled along at 10 km/h, soaked and shivering! Still, I forged ahead, determined to press on. But knew I had to find shelter. Soaking wet I stumbled upon a picnic area that welcomed campers. However, it was too exposed for my liking, and the thought of pitching a tent in that tempest seemed utterly ridiculous.

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.

 

The storm was relentless. Rain lashed the coast, and the wind howled like a warning. I weighed my options and chose retreat—back to Samsun, where shelter and sanity awaited. I pedalled into the tempest, grateful for the tailwind that carried me swiftly along the main road. But even that gift turned on me, nearly blowing me off my bike when I changed direction.

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 next morning, the sun rose in splendour. I couldn’t resist. I ditched the bus and set off for Gerze—a 125-kilometre ride that reminded me why I travel this way. I never knew what I would do the next day. Still, I should have cancelled the ticket, as the bus company phoned me at least five times asking where I was.

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

 

I arrived in Sinop with salt in my hair and curiosity in my bones. The city, perched on a peninsula that juts into the Black Sea, feels like a forgotten jewel—its cobbled streets and ancient walls whispering stories of empires past.

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.