181 EGYPT (3)

 A Visit to Egypt - A Sisterly Adventure 

PDF

VOICEOVER

 

Chapter 1 - Whispers of Stone and Sand

Cairo, Egypt

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.

We landed in Cairo around 5.30 – 6:00. By the time I collected my bicycle and bag and found a taxi to take me into the city, it was already light. And just like that, I was back in Africa and along the mighty Nile.

Cairo didn’t welcome me so much as it engulfed me—an unrelenting tide of horns, heat, and hustle. Giza, in particular, felt like a fever dream: tuk-tuks zigzagging through clouds of dust, camels lurching past neon-lit souvenir stalls, and touts with eyes like hawks and tongues like honey. Everyone had something to sell, and every transaction felt like a performance. I wasn’t just a tourist—I was a mark, a character in a play I hadn’t auditioned for.

Even the simplest tasks—finding a hotel, buying a bottle of water—became quests worthy of myth. I was exhausted, amused, and slightly exasperated. But beneath the chaos, something ancient pulsed. I could feel it in the stones, in the sand, in the way the light hit the horizon at dusk. Egypt wasn’t going to make this easy. But it was going to make it unforgettable.

 

The Sphinx and the Pyramid of Khufu

Amanda arrived the following day, and the Great Sphinx of Giza was our first stop. It stands as a mesmerising testament to ancient Egyptian ingenuity, captivating all who lay eyes upon it. Carved from the limestone bedrock of the Giza Plateau around 2500 BCE, likely during the reign of Pharaoh Khafre, this iconic monument is a riddle in stone—part lion, part man, all mystery and adorned with a regal headdress that hints at its connection to royalty.

Most historians agree that the Sphinx was crafted between 2558 and 2532 BCE. Its impressive dimensions—73 meters long, 20 meters high, and 6 meters wide—make it a true marvel of the ancient world, embodying the dual qualities of strength and wisdom. Many believe the face represents Pharaoh Khafre himself, watching over his nearby monumental pyramid. Some even speculate that the Sphinx may predate the Fourth Dynasty altogether, although these claims often lack solid archaeological backing. The absence of the Sphinx's nose adds an air of intrigue, ripe for speculation.

Contrary to the popular myth that Napoleon's troops destroyed it, historical records from the 15th century already depict it missing. Restoration efforts have been ongoing since the time of Thutmose (1400–1390 BCE), who famously erected the Dream Stele between the Sphinx’s paws, claiming divine promise of kingship if he could clear it of the sand that had buried it. Today, it faces persistent threats of erosion and pollution that continue to challenge its stability.

We ambled along to the Great Pyramid of Khufu, built around 2600 BCE It is the oldest and largest of the Giza pyramids and the only surviving Wonder of the Ancient World. It served as the tomb of Pharaoh Khufu, who reigned during a period marked by a peak in pyramid construction and centralised power.

Built over approximately 20–26 years, the pyramid originally stood 146.6 meters tall, making it the tallest human-made structure for nearly 4,000 years. It consists of an estimated 2.3 million limestone and granite blocks, some weighing up to 15 tons, with a total mass of about 6 million tonnes. The outer casing was made of white Tura limestone, polished to a dazzling finish. A golden capstone may have once crowned the top. Its base spans 230.3 meters on each side, and the precision of its alignment—within centimetres—is astonishing, even by modern standards. No wonder it remains the only intact Wonder of the Ancient World. Standing before this monument felt like touching the heartbeat of ancient civilisation.

 

Cairo – The Grand Egyptian Museum

The Grand Egyptian Museum wasn’t officially open, but we ventured there to see what secrets it held. It was a most fascinating experience, as it has over 100,000 artefacts. Unfortunately, the Tutankhamun collection wasn’t on display while the final touches were being put in place before the opening in two weeks. Fortunately, I had the opportunity to witness these magnificent items during a previous visit. Still, we spent most of the day at the Museum.

 

Memphis and the Step Pyramid

As we dove into the wonders of Egypt, I was reminded that discussing this incredible land without mentioning Memphis is akin to discussing Italy without mentioning Rome. Memphis, a remarkable UNESCO World Heritage site, was the cradle of ancient Egyptian civilisation, established by the visionary King Meni (or Menes), who unified both Upper and Lower Egypt. Once known as Inbu-hedj—translated as the "White Walls"—the city was not just a capital; it was the very heartbeat of ancient culture and power.

As the centuries passed, the mighty Nile shifted its course, forcing the city’s centre to migrate northward and paving the way for Fustat, Egypt's new Islamic capital, which eventually sowed the seeds of today's bustling Cairo. Just as modern-day Cairo thrived, Memphis was a vibrant metropolis filled with grand temples, rich settlements, and imposing palaces. Many of these awe-inspiring remnants date back to the reign of King Ramesses II—a master builder whose legacy continues to captivate the imagination today.

Eager to explore, Amanda and I set off for Memphis. Our first destination? The astonishing Step Pyramid of Djoser located just a stone's throw away in Saqqara. This architectural marvel marks a pivotal moment in history—it’s the first pyramid ever constructed in Egypt, a monumental leap into architectural innovation. But it wasn’t just a tomb; it was a grand stage for Djoser’s anticipated journey into the afterlife, framed within a sprawling mortuary complex.

As we approached the Step Pyramid, I was struck by the towering wall surrounding Djoser’s Complex. Rising impressively to 10.5 meters, its façade is adorned with intricate recessed panels spanning a massive 544 meters by 277 meters. This was more than a burial site; it was envisioned as an eternal home, a lasting testament to the belief in life beyond death.

One of the highlights of our exploration was at the Mastaba of Princess Idut, where we witnessed a mesmerising scene depicted in ancient art—an evocative moment of nature, with a hippopotamus giving birth while a crocodile lurks nearby. It’s a striking reminder of the delicate balance of life in the Nile’s ecosystem and a glimpse into the artistic expressions of a civilisation that flourished thousands of years ago.

Still in Dahshur, we ventured to one of Egypt’s most captivating architectural wonders: the Bent Pyramid. Built by the innovative Pharaoh Sneferu around 2600 BCE, this structure represents a bold leap in pyramid design. It was Sneferu's second pyramid, a daring experiment following the unfortunate collapse of the Meidum Pyramid and preceding the triumph of the nearby Red Pyramid.

What sets the Bent Pyramid apart is its fascinating silhouette. Starting with a steep 54-degree incline, it suddenly transitions to a gentler 43-degree angle at about 47 meters, creating its intriguing “bent” appearance. This unique design decision likely arose from the lessons learned during the construction of earlier pyramids—perhaps a response to the structural challenges they presented.

Ultimately, the Bent Pyramid marks a crucial turning point in the evolution of pyramid design, bridging the gap between the stepped and the smooth-sided structures.

Just as I thought I had witnessed it all, the Serapeum of Saqqara appeared, which captivates the imagination as one of Egypt’s most mysterious and breathtaking ancient sites. Imagine a sprawling underground burial complex dedicated to the revered Apis bulls, believed to be earthly embodiments of the god Ptah. Upon their death, these magnificent creatures were thought to transcend into the divine realm of Osiris-Apis.

Established around 1400 BCE and expanded extensively during the reign of Ramses II, the Serapeum was a sacred site in continuous use until the Ptolemaic period, which wrapped up around 30 BCE. But this marvel of engineering lay hidden from the world until its rediscovery in 1850.

As you step into the Serapeum, you'll find yourself enveloped in a hauntingly beautiful labyrinth of massive underground galleries and chambers. Each Apis bull was laid to rest in colossal granite sarcophagi, some weighing an astonishing 70 tons! The intricate technique used to lower these monolithic tombs into their resting places—filling the chambers with sand and then removing it—showcases the remarkable ingenuity of ancient Egyptian craftsmanship.

The burial rituals themselves were nothing short of elaborate, featuring intricate mummification processes, offerings, and commemorative stelae that tell the stories of these sacred creatures. As I wandered through the vaults of the Serapeum, where dimly lit tunnels lined with gigantic sarcophagi create a surreal experience, I was transported you back in time to an era of profound reverence and mystery. Exploring this extraordinary site felt like stepping into the pages of history, where the echoes of ancient rituals still whisper through the corridors of time.

 

Old Cairo and the Nile

The next day, my sister and I slipped into the quiet reverence of Old Cairo, where narrow alleys whispered stories from centuries past. Roman fortresses, Coptic churches, ancient synagogues—all layered like sediment in a riverbed of faith. We wandered through its narrow, cobbled alleyways, captivated by the towering stone walls that have witnessed centuries of history. Each turn revealed ancient churches, monasteries, and synagogues, all whispering stories from eras long past. Did you know that traces of a settlement dating back to the 6th century BC have been uncovered right here? It’s incredible! As we meandered through the streets, I learned that in the 2nd century, the Romans built a mighty fortress on this very site. This stronghold became a beacon of early Christianity, fostering a flourishing faith that led to the construction of numerous churches and monasteries from the 3rd to the 7th centuries. One of the most touching legends surrounding Coptic Cairo is that right here, it’s said, the Holy Family once found refuge. The air felt thick with devotion, history, and resilience.

The area is also home to the country’s oldest synagogue, a sanctuary that dates back to at least the 8th century, predating the establishment of other religious structures in the 11th century. It’s a poignant reminder of the rich tapestry of faith that has existed here. Even after the Islamic conquest of Egypt in 641 AD, the resilient Coptic community continued to flourish and was permitted to build churches within the old fortress walls.

Today, Coptic Cairo stands as a vibrant heritage site—a living testament to the rich history and enduring spirit of Egypt's indigenous Christian community.

Right in the heart of Cairo, we found the vibrant Khan El-Khalili market, a treasure trove of history and culture, believed to have been established between 1382 and 1389 on sacred ground. Known initially as Souq al-Juma, or Friday Market, it served as a gathering place for traders and locals alike. Over the centuries, this bazaar evolved from a simple caravanserai into a sprawling marketplace that pulses with life, drawing merchants from every corner of the Islamic world.

As we wander through its winding alleys, we discover a dazzling array of traditional crafts. The market is a sensory delight, filled with the glimmer of exquisite jewellery, the warm glow of intricate brassware, the rich hues of vibrant fabrics, and the aroma of exotic spices. Each stall tells a story of artistry and heritage, making it a true melting pot of creativity and commerce.

Today, Khan El-Khalili is more than just a marketplace—it's a living museum that embodies the social and artistic spirit of Cairo. Among its many gems is El-Fishawi Café, established in 1797, where locals and visitors alike gather over steaming cups of mint tea. This café was a favourite haunt of literary giants, including Nobel Prize winner Naguib Mahfouz, whose beloved novel Midaq Alley beautifully captures the essence of this iconic area.

By evening, we booked a dinner on the Nile and were entertained by the "twirling men" of Egypt, known as the Tanoura dance, a traditional folk dance based on Sufi whirling. Performed by men wearing brightly coloured, multi-layered skirts. I believe the dance symbolises the connection between the land and sky, and man and God. The continuous spinning can be hypnotic, and I understand each colour on the skirt has a different meaning.

 

Chapter 2 - Southbound Through the Sahara

Onto Luxor

Finally, we bid farewell to Cairo—an exciting moment, as there was so much more to explore in this captivating country. By 9 a.m., we eagerly left our hotel and made our way to the bus station for our 10-hour journey to Luxor, a route that would take us straight through the vast expanse of the Sahara Desert.

The desert stretched endlessly, a sea of silence and sand. At a roadside stop, we ate lunch surrounded by nothing but dunes and sky. It was stark, surreal, and oddly serene.

 

Temples of Luxor and Karnak

In Luxor, we woke to the sight of the Luxor Temple, which rose before us like a dream in stone. Built around 1400 BCE, it wasn’t just a place of worship—it was a stage for kingship, a place where pharaohs were reborn. Over time, it evolved into a Roman fortress, a Christian church, and, ultimately, a mosque that still stands today. History here doesn’t erase its layers.

We followed the Avenue of Sphinxes to Karnak, where colossal columns reached skyward like petrified trees. The scale was staggering. I felt small, and yet somehow part of something vast and eternal.

 

Valley of the Kings

Egypt tests your patience. Our Uber driver tried to charge us £900 for a £130 ride. We ditched him, took the ferry, and found a taxi for a tenth of the price. Victory.

After a bit of a circus to get there, we finally arrived at the Valley of the Kings, a site that feels like stepping into a living history book. This extraordinary necropolis served as the final resting place for the pharaohs of the New Kingdom from 1550 to 1070 BCE, and it exudes an aura of mystery and reverence. Here, powerful rulers such as Tutankhamun, Ramses II, Seti I, and Thutmose III were laid to rest, their tombs intricately carved deep into the limestone cliffs, hidden from view to thwart potential looters.

We skipped Tutankhamun’s tomb due to budget constraints and déjà vu—but the others were no less magical. Here, the dead were guided through the afterlife by sacred texts and celestial maps. It felt like walking through a dream of death and rebirth.

 

Flight Over Pharaohs

We rose with the first light of dawn, filled with excitement for our hot air balloon adventure. We set off on a short ferry ride across the Nile, gliding toward the West Bank where minivans whisked us away to the launch site. The sight that greeted us was nothing short of magical. Dozens of colourful balloons dotted the sky, painting a brilliant canvas as the sun began to rise.

As we ascended, the world below transformed. Below us, the Nile shimmered, and temples basked in golden light. We floated over the Mortuary Temple of Hatshepsut, nestled against the cliffs like a secret and over lush farmlands and ancient temples that have stood the test of time for millennia.

After our flight, we journeyed to the Temple of Hatshepsut, which we spotted from above. It is a stunning structure against the cliffs of Deir El-Bahari on Luxor's western bank. This temple was built to honour one of Egypt’s exceptional pharaohs, Hatshepsut, who ruled from 1479 to 1458 BCE. It was both awe-inspiring and sobering to learn that her legacy was erased after her death, as her successor, Thutmose III, ordered her images and cartouches defaced. Still, it was an honour to stand in a temple of a woman who once ruled so powerfully in a male-dominated society. It was a day filled with wonder and reflection, as history came alive beneath us.

 

Chapter 3 - Granite Dreams and Desert Gods: Aswan

Aswan: Granite and Gods

In Aswan’s northern quarries, an area renowned for its stunning pink granite, Amanda and I stumbled upon the legendary Unfinished Obelisk, 42 meters long, cracked and abandoned. It was meant for Karnak, perhaps commissioned by Hatshepsut herself. Just imagine if it had been completed! Towering at a staggering 42 meters (138 feet) and weighing around 1,200 tons, it would have been the largest known ancient obelisk. This awe-inspiring sight would have stood proudly against the Egyptian skyline. Standing there, gazing at the immense stone, I couldn't help but marvel at what was achieved so many millennia ago.

 

Abu Simbel

We rose at 3 a.m. for our day trip to Abu Simbel—a true marvel of ancient engineering and one of Egypt’s most breathtaking legacies. It was here that Ramesses II’s colossal statues stared down at us, eternal and unblinking. Located in the southern reaches of Egypt, just a stone's throw from the Sudanese border, Abu Simbel graces the western bank of Lake Nasser, about 230 km southwest of Aswan. This incredible complex was commissioned by none other than Pharaoh Ramesses II around 1264 BC and took a staggering 20 years to complete!

The Great Temple, dedicated to Ramesses II himself and the mighty gods Ra-Horakhty, Ptah, and Amun, is nothing short of awe-inspiring. It boasts four colossal seated statues of Ramesses II, each 20 meters tall, at its entrance—an unmatched proclamation of divine kingship and military might that left us absolutely spellbound.

Then there’s the Small Temple, a gem dedicated to Queen Nefertari and the goddess Hathor. This temple is particularly special, as it portrays a queen at (nearly) the same scale as the pharaoh. This rare distinction highlights the significant role of women in ancient Egyptian society.

What’s even more incredible is the story of the temples' survival. In the 1960s, they faced the threat of submersion as the Aswan High Dam was being built. However, thanks to an extraordinary UNESCO-led effort, these ancient treasures were meticulously cut into massive blocks and reassembled within an artificial hill, a monumental achievement in archaeological preservation that ensures they can be admired for generations to come.

 

Philae: Beauty and Bureaucracy

We spent our final day in Aswan exploring the nearby Philae Temple, a gem among Egypt’s relocated wonders. Once precariously perched on the edge of submersion, this magnificent island sanctuary found new life on Agilkia. The temple was exquisite, but the journey there was maddening. Haggling, misinformation, inflated prices. I remembered a traveller’s quip: “The best way to visit Egypt is not to visit it at all.” In that moment, I understood. And yet, standing before the temple, I also understood why we came. Because beauty, even when buried in bureaucracy, still shines.

 

Kom Ombo and Edfu: Gods of Crocodile and Falcon

We left Aswan behind, tracing the Nile northward toward Luxor, with two sacred stops along the way.

At Kom Ombo, the temple rose like a mirage on the riverbank—half dedicated to Sobek, the crocodile god of fertility and chaos, and half to Horus the Elder, the falcon-headed god of protection. The symmetry was striking; a duality carved in stone. In the nearby Crocodile Museum, mummified reptiles lay in glass cases, their ancient forms curled in eternal stillness. It was eerie and oddly reverent. In Kom Ombo, the crocodile god Sobek reigned. To honour him, priests raised crocodiles in sacred pools, mummified them in death, and buried them like royalty.

I came here chasing stories. But I found something more—a glimpse into a world where danger was divine, and even death was wrapped in reverence.

Further along, we reached Edfu, home to the best-preserved temple in Egypt. Dedicated to Horus, it stood proud and imposing, its towering pylons etched with scenes of divine battles. The hieroglyphs felt freshly carved, as if the priests had just stepped away. We wandered through its hypostyle halls, dwarfed by columns and shadows, the air thick with incense of centuries past.

 

Chapter 4 - Hurghada and the Return to Cairo

Hurghada and the Return to Cairo

After weeks of dust and stone, Hurghada was a shock to the senses. The Red Sea shimmered in hues of turquoise and sapphire, and the air smelled of salt instead of sand. We traded temples for tidepools, tombs for coral reefs. It was a pause, a breath, a chance to let the whirlwind of Egypt settle in our bones.

But even paradise has its limits. On October 21, we returned to Cairo, looping back to where it all began. The city hadn’t changed—but we had. We’d stood in the shadows of pharaohs, floated above the Nile, argued with taxi drivers, and traced the footsteps of gods and queens. Egypt had tested us, dazzled us, and left us breathless.

It was maddening. It was magnificent. It was unforgettable. And with a day to spare, we decided to make one final pilgrimage to the vibrant Khan el-Khalili bazaar. The air was filled with the enticing aroma of spices and the sounds of bustling market life as we meandered through the colourful stalls. We couldn’t resist stopping by the legendary El Fishawy Cafe, where we settled down with steaming cups of fragrant mint tea. The atmosphere buzzed with chatter and music, the perfect backdrop for reflecting on our adventures in Egypt.

Egypt didn’t offer comfort. It offered confrontation—with history, with chaos, with my own expectations. But in that friction, something shifted. I learned to let go of control, to laugh at the absurd, to marvel without needing to understand. In the land of gods and ghosts, I found a strange kind of clarity: that beauty and frustration often walk hand in hand, and that wonder is rarely tidy.

180 CYCLE TOURING TURKEY (3)

 

A Passage into Turkey

PDF

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.

179 Cycle Touring Georgia (2)

 

BETWEEN CONTINENTS

PDF

VOICEOVER

 
179 Cycle Touring Georgia (2)
23 August – 8 September 2025
15 Days – 448 km

 

 

Pattaya, Thailand to Tbilisi, Georgia

The journey to Georgia began not with a bang, but with a blur—two back-to-back four-hour flights, a seven-hour layover in Mumbai, and the kind of sleep deprivation that turns airports into surreal dreamscapes. I had left behind the humid embrace of Pattaya, Thailand, and landed in Tbilisi, Georgia—a city that once welcomed me in 2008 and now stood waiting, changed and yet familiar.

Tbilisi, the ancient caravan town at the crossroads of Eastern Europe and Western Asia, has always been more than a dot on the map. It’s a place where empires collided, where trade routes braided cultures together, and where history clings to the stones like moss. I arrived groggy and disoriented, but the moment I stepped into my guesthouse—a humble gem tucked away in the folds of the old city—I felt as if I’d been gently transported back in time. The walls whispered stories. The air held a kind of quiet reverence.

Despite my declaration that I was venturing into a new continent, Asia hadn’t quite let go. As I looked around, I knew I’d be staying in this vibrant region for a while longer, as there is too much to see, too much to feel.

That first night, sleep came like a balm. Airports may be where dreams go to die, but Tbilisi offered resurrection. I collapsed into bed and woke before dawn, the time difference working in my favour. At 5:30 a.m., I brewed a cup of coffee that filled the room with its rich aroma and stepped into the streets, ready to meet the city.

Tbilisi is a city of layers. Established in the fifth century, its buildings wear their history like patchwork coats—crumbling facades held together by timber supports and memory. The cobbled streets twisted and turned, revealing sagging clotheslines and faded balconies. I wandered through the old town, chasing echoes of my younger self, seventeen years removed. The city had changed, but its soul remained intact.

Modernity pulses through Tbilisi now. Renovation projects hum along, scaffolding clings to buildings like exoskeletons, and yet, the old rhythms persist. Elderly women in black shuffle to markets, exchanging quiet words with neighbours. Their presence is a gentle reminder that life here moves at its own pace—unhurried, deliberate, dignified.

One of the first cultural nuances I encountered was the Georgian demeanour. Aloofness, at first glance. Serious expressions. Smiles reserved for familiarity. It’s not coldness—it’s custom. In Georgia, casual banter with strangers can feel insincere, a relic of Soviet restraint. Public cheerfulness was once discouraged, and the echoes of that era still shape social norms. I found it fascinating, even comforting in its honesty. It fascinated me as it reminded me that travel isn’t just about seeing new places—it’s about learning new ways of being.

And then, there was the food. Oh, the food. Khachapuri, Georgia’s beloved cheese bread, is comfort incarnate. That morning, I devoured a Penovani khachapuri—flaky pastry wrapped around molten cheese, topped with a golden egg. Each bite was a revelation. Later, I savoured pelmeni in a clay pot, dumplings swimming in broth and sour cream, sealed with a baked dough lid. It was hearty, humble, and deeply satisfying.

Tbilisi had welcomed me with open arms and full plates. It was a city that didn’t rush to impress but quietly revealed its magic to those willing to linger. And linger I did, knowing that the road ahead would be long, but that this—this moment of stillness and warmth—was the perfect beginning.

The following morning I again woke before the city did. I stood in the little courtyard of my guesthouse, cradling a steaming cup of coffee, the aroma curling into the quiet like incense.

Outside, the city stirred slowly. I stepped into the streets, camera slung over one shoulder, heart wide open. The morning light in Tbilisi has a way of slipping through the cracks—between shutters, over rooftops, across cobbled lanes—like a whispered invitation.

Tbilisi, with its fifth-century bones and twenty-first-century heartbeat, unfolded before me like a palimpsest—layer upon layer of history, memory, and reinvention.

The old town was a living museum. Twisting alleyways led me past buildings that leaned into each other like old friends, their facades faded but proud. I remembered these streets from seventeen years ago, but they felt different now—more worn, more alive, more urgent in their beauty.

There was a quiet dignity in the decay. A kind of resilience. And amidst it all, signs of renewal: scaffolding, fresh plaster, the hum of restoration. Tbilisi was not frozen in time—it was evolving, but carefully, like someone rearranging heirlooms on a shelf.

Again, I passed elderly women dressed in black, their movements deliberate, their faces unreadable. They shuffled to markets with cloth bags and quiet purpose, pausing to exchange murmured greetings. In a world obsessed with speed, their pace felt radical. Sacred, even.

That night, I wandered the streets again, the city now glowing under amber lights. Musicians played on corners, their melodies weaving through the air like smoke. I felt both foreign and at home, a visitor and a witness. Tbilisi had opened its arms not with fanfare, but with quiet grace.

I returned to my guesthouse and sat beneath the flickering light of a single bulb, scribbling notes into my journal. Outside, the city exhaled. I listened to its breath and thought: this is why I travel—not just to move, but to be moved.

 

Leaving Tbilisi felt like tearing a page from a beloved book before finishing the chapter. The city had wrapped itself around me—its crumbling balconies, its quiet dignity, its cheese-filled bread—and I wasn’t quite ready to let go. But the road was calling, and I had promised myself I’d listen.

I set off just after eight, which, for me, counts as an early start. The city was still stretching its limbs; shops remained shuttered, and the streets were hushed. I coasted downhill toward the Mtkvari River, the morning air cool against my cheeks, the city slowly receding behind me.

Then—disaster. A screw from my front luggage rack vanished somewhere along the cobbles. I cursed under my breath, suspecting the bike shop hadn’t tightened it properly. But cable ties, those unsung heroes of the road, came to my rescue. I patched things up, made a mental note to find a proper fix, and pedalled on.

The landscape began to shift. Mist clung to the hills like a secret. Waterfalls spilled from hidden ravines. Ancient castles crowned distant ridgelines, their silhouettes softened by the morning haze. It felt like cycling through a medieval dream.

And then, rising above the valley like a sentinel, stood the Jvari Monastery. Perched atop a rocky cliff, it commanded the confluence of the Mtkvari and Aragvi rivers. Legend says a wooden cross was erected here in the fourth century by Saint Nino, marking the dawn of Christianity in Georgia. The current stone church, built between 585 and 605 AD, is a masterpiece of early Georgian architecture—simple, solemn, and utterly majestic.

As I stood there, wind tugging at my sleeves, I felt the weight of centuries settle around me. The stones beneath my feet had borne witness to empires rising and falling to prayers whispered in candlelight, to the quiet persistence of faith. It was humbling.

Just beyond the bend, Mtskheta revealed itself like a secret garden. Once the capital of the ancient Kingdom of Iberia, it’s one of the world's oldest continuously inhabited cities. The village unfolded in soft hues—stone walls, terracotta roofs, pomegranate trees heavy with fruit.

I found a guesthouse tucked behind a wooden gate, its courtyard dappled with shade. The owner, a kind-eyed man, offered to drive me back up to Jvari. I accepted without hesitation.

That evening, I wandered the cobbled lanes of Mtskheta, eventually arriving at the Svetitskhoveli Cathedral. Built between 1010 and 1129, it’s said to house the robe of Christ, buried beneath its foundations. Whether legend or truth, the cathedral radiated a quiet power. I sat on a bench in its shadow, watching the light fade, feeling the hush of history settle around me.

Later, I sipped a cold beer in the courtyard of the guesthouse, the air thick with the scent of ripe pomegranates. The sky turned lavender, then indigo. I thought of the morning’s chaos, the lost screw, the misty hills, the ancient stones. This, I realised, was the rhythm of cycle touring: the unexpected, the sublime, the small victories. A day that began with frustration had ended in stillness and awe.

 

The following morning, I lingered in Mtskheta longer than planned, lulled by the rustle of pomegranate leaves and the slow rhythm of village life. But eventually, the road called again—not with urgency, but with a gentle nudge. I packed my panniers, sipped one last coffee in the courtyard, and pedalled into the morning.

The road out of Mtskheta was hilly, winding through valleys that seemed to fold in on themselves. I had no fixed destination—just a vague sense of westward movement. I called it the road to nowhere, though in truth, it was leading me deeper into Georgia’s heart.

The landscape was a painter’s dream: mist curling through the trees, golden fields being harvested under a soft sun, and ancient fortresses perched like sentinels on distant hills. The air smelled of earth and late summer. I rode slowly, savouring the silence between villages, the crunch of gravel beneath my tyres, the occasional bark of a dog or call of a bird.

Then, a flicker of movement on the horizon—a cyclist, loaded with panniers, heading my way. We slowed as we approached, the unspoken camaraderie of cycle tourers drawing us together. His name was Alex, a German nearing the end of a four-month journey. We stood by the roadside, bikes leaning against a tree, swapping stories like old friends. There’s something about meeting another traveller on the road that collapses time. You skip the small talk. You speak in shorthand—kilometres, gradients, border crossings, breakdowns, kindnesses.

We parted with a wave and a shared smile, each of us carrying a little more than we had before.

Seventy-five kilometres later, just as the road dipped toward the Kyra River, I spotted something carved into the mountainside. Curiosity tugged at me, and I veered off course to investigate. What I found took my breath away.

On closer inspection, it revealed itself as Uplistsikhe—a city carved from stone, older than memory. The cave complex dates back to the second millennium BCE, a pagan stronghold long before Christianity swept through the region. Temples, dwellings, tunnels, and streets—all hewn from rock, all whispering of lives once lived. I wandered through the ruins, running my fingers along ancient walls, imagining the rituals, the markets, the quiet moments of a civilisation now vanished.

The northern approach had once been fortified with ten-meter-high rock walls, a natural defence against invaders. Now, it was open to the sky, the wind, and the occasional wide-eyed traveller. I stood at the edge of a cliff, looking out over the valley, and felt the weight of millennia settle around me. I was not the first to pass this way. I would not be the last.

That night, I found a room in a timber house with a vine-covered pergola. My host, a woman with kind eyes and strong hands, served me a mountain of khinkali—dumplings bursting with flavour—alongside slices of watermelon and a cold Georgian beer. We didn’t share a language, but we shared a table, and that was enough.

I sat beneath the vines, the sky darkening, the air thick with the scent of grapes and earth. The day had begun with no plan, no destination. It ended with ancient stones, unexpected friendship, and a full belly.

This, I thought, is the magic of the road: not knowing where you’ll end up, but arriving exactly where you need to be.

 

The way out of Uplistikhe began with a gentle descent, the kind that lulls you into a false sense of ease. Just twelve kilometres from my timber guesthouse, nestled among vines and dumpling memories, lay Gori—a town with a name that echoes through history, heavy with implication.

I arrived in Gori, the birthplace of Joseph Stalin, with curiosity, not reverence. The statue that once loomed over the town square had been removed, its absence more telling than its presence ever was. But the museum remained, a relic of Soviet pride and post-Soviet reckoning. As I approached, I crossed paths with two Chinese women and their English-speaking guide. They invited me to join them, and I gratefully accepted. Some places demand interpretation.

Inside, the guide spoke with clarity and candour. There was no attempt to soften the edges of Stalin’s legacy. Instead, she offered facts—meticulously researched, quietly devastating. We moved through rooms filled with artefacts, photographs, and contradictions. I found myself unsettled by the parallels between Stalin’s behaviour and the bravado of certain modern leaders. History, it seemed, was not content to stay buried.

Outside, the sun was high, the air thick with silence. I cycled to the Gori Fortress, perched on a rocky hill overlooking the town. Its origins stretch back to the final centuries BCE, though written records only begin in the 13th century. I climbed the ancient stairs, each step a reminder of the layers beneath my tyres, beneath my feet, beneath my thoughts.

By the time I left Gori, it was well past midday. The road to Surami was quiet, winding through sleepy villages and sun-drenched fields. After seventy-five kilometres, I arrived content and happy to find a guesthouse with a veranda, a kitchen, and a spacious room. It was the kind of place that doesn’t try to impress—it simply offers comfort.

That evening, I sat on the veranda, watching the light fade. The weight of the day lingered—not just the kilometres, but the stories. Stalin’s childhood home. The fortress. The quiet dignity of Surami. I thought about power, about memory, about the strange intimacy of standing in places where history happened.

 

Surami – Kutaisi

Georgia isn’t flat. That much I knew. But the road from Surami to Kutaisi reminded me just how dramatic its contours could be. Hills rolled like waves, each one steeper than the last, and just when I thought I’d reached the crest, another climb appeared. I pedalled steadily, breath syncing with the rhythm of the land, legs burning, heart open.

Then came the freeway. A sign flashed “prohibited,” warning cyclists to stay clear. But the road workers, grinning and waving, ushered me through like an honoured guest. I hesitated, then followed their lead. Suddenly, I was gliding along a pristine stretch of highway, tunnels swallowing the hills, the ride transformed from gruelling to effortless. The tunnels were eerie—long, dim, echoing—but they carried me through the Rikoti Pass like a secret passage carved into the mountains.

Emerging on the other side felt like a rebirth. The air was different. Softer. The descent into Kutaisi was swift, and with it came a sense of arrival—not just in place, but in rhythm.

Kutaisi, Georgia’s third-largest city, greeted me with cobbled streets and steep inclines. I had booked a night at Friends Hostel, drawn by its proximity to the iconic Bagrati Cathedral. What I hadn’t anticipated was the final ascent—a punishing climb up a narrow, cobbled road that tested every ounce of my resolve. I wheezed, cursed, and dragged my bike upward, questioning my sanity with every step.

Still, the hostel was worth it. Budget-friendly, buzzing, and brimming with travellers from every corner of the globe. I arrived sweaty and breathless, expecting solitude, only to find a vibrant community. Among them was a South African artist now living in Russia; his stories were as layered and textured as the paintings he described. We swapped tales over laundry and tea, each conversation a thread in the tapestry of shared experience.

That night, I sat around the communal table, surrounded by laughter, languages, and the quiet hum of connection. Kutaisi had offered me more than shelter—it had offered belonging.

Cycle touring is often solitary. You ride alone, think alone, eat alone. But sometimes, you arrive at a place where the walls are thin and the stories spill over. Friends Hostel was one of those places. A pause in the journey. A reminder that even on the loneliest roads, you’re never alone.

 

I extended my stay in Kutaisi, drawn not just by the comfort of Friends Hostel but by the promise of something strange and beautiful just beyond the city limits. Tskaltubo. A name that sounded like a whisper from another time.

I set out early, pedalling through crisp morning air, the road quiet, the sky pale with promise. Tskaltubo was once a jewel in the Soviet crown—a balneological resort famed for its radon-carbonate mineral springs. But I wasn’t chasing wellness. I was chasing ghosts.

The town unfolded slowly, its grandeur faded but unmistakable. Neoclassical facades stood cracked and crumbling, their columns chipped, their windows hollow. Sanatoriums lined the streets like sleeping giants, each one a monument to a vanished era. I wandered among them, camera in hand, heart thudding with curiosity.

In the 1950s, Tskaltubo welcomed over 125,000 visitors a year. It was a scientifically planned resort, its bathhouses and sanatoriums arranged in an amphitheatre-like formation amidst lush greenery. Stalin himself bathed here. The architecture was bold, theatrical—a blend of Stalinist ambition and classical grace.

But the fall of the USSR changed everything. The buildings were abandoned, repurposed, forgotten. Some now housed families displaced by conflict. Others stood empty, their staircases crumbling, their ballrooms silent.

I couldn’t resist. I climbed walls, ducked through broken doorways, and tiptoed across sagging floors. Inside, the air was thick with dust and memory. Faded murals, rusted fixtures, echoes of laughter and pain. It was exhilarating and eerie, like walking through a dream that had been left out in the rain.

Each building told a story—not just of healing, but of hubris, of collapse, of resilience. I imagined the patients who once soaked in mineral baths, the doctors who prescribed treatments, the architects who believed in beauty as therapy. And now, silence.

In 2022, the Georgian government began auctioning off these properties, hoping to revive the town’s legacy. There’s talk of restoration, of renewal. But for now, Tskaltubo remains suspended—between past and future, ruin and rebirth.

I returned to Kutaisi that evening, my mind buzzing with images: cracked tiles, vine-covered balconies, the soft echo of footsteps in empty halls. I sat on the hostel’s veranda, sipping tea, listening to the chatter of fellow travellers. Some of them had not been to Tskaltubo. I tried to describe it, but words felt inadequate.

Some places aren’t meant to be explained. They’re meant to be felt.

I stayed another day to explore the region as just outside the city, nestled within the Sataphlia-Tskaltubo karst massif, lies Prometheus Cave. I had heard whispers of its beauty, its scale, its ancient secrets. But nothing prepared me for the awe that awaited.

The cave stretches over eleven kilometres, though only 1.8 kilometres are open to visitors. Still, each step felt like entering a cathedral carved by time itself. I moved slowly, reverently, through six caverns, each one more surreal than the last. Stalactites dripped from the ceiling like frozen rain. Stalagmites rose from the ground like silent sentinels. Helictites twisted in impossible directions, defying gravity. Needle-like anthodites shimmered like stars caught in stone.

It was quiet. Not the silence of absence, but the silence of presence—of something vast and ancient watching from the shadows.

Prometheus Cave is estimated to be 60 to 70 million years old. That number is impossible to grasp. But as I walked, I felt it—not as math, but as memory. Fossils of cave bears, starfish, and molluscs from the Cretaceous period have been found here. The walls themselves seemed to breathe history.

I paused often, placing my hand on cool stone, imagining the millennia that shaped it. Water, pressure, time. The slow alchemy of nature. It made my own journey feel small.

The lighting inside the cave was subtle, theatrical. Blues, greens, and golds illuminated the formations, casting shadows that danced like spirits. It was beautiful, yes—but also humbling. A reminder that the earth holds wonders we barely understand.

When I emerged, blinking into daylight, the world felt louder. Brighter. Faster.

That evening, back in Kutaisi, I sat with fellow travellers and tried to describe what I’d seen. Words failed. Photos helped, but only a little. Prometheus Cave wasn’t just a place—it was a feeling. A descent into deep time.

And so, I added it to my growing collection of moments. The kind you carry long after the journey ends.

 

I woke in Kutaisi to the soft patter of rain on canvas, cocooned in the spacious tent pitched behind the hostel. The drizzle was gentle, rhythmic, almost meditative. I lay there for a while, tempted to stay another day among the laughter and stories of fellow travellers. But the road tugged at me—not urgently, but insistently. I packed up, waved goodbye, and pedalled into the mist.

The ride to Ureki was 100 kilometres of shifting terrain, narrow roads, and unexpected detours. Road closures funnelled traffic into tight corridors, turning quiet lanes into chaotic bottlenecks. It wasn’t the leisurely ride I’d imagined, but the warmth in the air and the lush, green landscapes kept my spirits buoyant. Villages passed in a blur of stone houses and roadside stalls.

Ureki greeted me with a burst of energy. A holiday village pulsing with vacationers, beach umbrellas, and the scent of grilled corn. I found a snug; affordable room tucked away from the noise—a pocket of calm in the summer buzz. That evening, I wandered the shoreline, watching the tiny waves lap against the stony beach. The sea was quiet, almost shy. I felt a strange mix of arrival and anticipation.

 

The next morning, I set off for Batumi, 63 kilometres down the drag. It's Georgia’s second-largest city and its only harbour. The ride hugged the coast, the sea a constant companion. I lost track of time, caught up in the rhythm of the pedals and the salt-kissed breeze. I forgot to drink water. I forgot to stop. It was foolish, but exhilarating.

Batumi rose from the horizon like a mirage—modern, vibrant, layered. I checked into the Surf Hostel, oddly named for a place with no waves, but perfectly located in the old part of town. It was inexpensive, welcoming, and full of character.

I spent the following day doing the usual housekeeping—laundry, errands, wandering the boardwalk. The Black Sea stretched endlessly, its surface calm, its depths mysterious. I learned that beneath its placid exterior lies an anoxic layer saturated with hydrogen sulphide. Ninety per cent of the sea is oxygen-depleted, a perfect preservative for organic material. Ancient ships sleep in its depths, untouched by time. In 2018, scientists discovered the world’s oldest sunken ship here, dating back 2,400 years.

The Black Sea was once a freshwater lake. Then, around 7,600 years ago, a catastrophic flood poured saltwater in from the Mediterranean, transforming it forever. I stood at the edge of that history, toes in the water, mind adrift.

But not everything was poetic. My financial lifeline—Wise—had failed me. It had worked flawlessly in Asia, but now I was stranded, unable to transfer money from my South African bank to my Thai account. Vulnerability crept in. I felt exposed, floating without a safety net. In a moment of desperation, I messaged my sister, hoping she could help. I crossed my fingers, willing the funds to appear.

I wasn’t in a rush, but I needed resolution. The road to Turkey loomed, and with it, the need for a sleeping bag—something I’d discarded long ago in the heat of Asia. Camping was my only affordable option now, and I had to prepare.

Batumi became a pause. A place to problem-solve, to breathe. The sea whispered reassurance. The hostel offered warmth. And I, once again, found my footing.

 

A Passage into Turkey

The road south from Batumi was quiet, the sea to my right, the hills to my left, and the border drawing closer with every turn of the wheel. Fifteen kilometres out, I came upon the Gonio Fortress—a massive stone structure that seemed to rise from the earth itself, its walls thick with centuries.

I parked my bike and wandered inside, eager to learn more. Gonio, once known as Apsaros or Apsyrtus, was built by the Romans between the first and third centuries as a military outpost. But it was more than a garrison. Archaeologists have uncovered remnants of a theatre and hippodrome, water and sewerage canals, and two Roman baths with underfloor heating—boiler rooms connected by narrow tunnels. It was a town, a hub, a place of life.

Some believe the grave of Saint Matthias, one of the twelve apostles, lies within the fortress walls. Excavation near the site is restricted, the mystery preserved. I stood near the centre, imagining Roman soldiers, traders, priests, and pilgrims. The Byzantines fortified it further in the sixth and seventh centuries. The Ottomans captured it in 1547, transforming it into a trade centre and slave market. It remained under their control until the Treaty of San Stefano in 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 nestled 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 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.

I thought about Georgia—its mountains, its monasteries, its dumplings and ruins. I thought about the people I’d met, the stories I’d gathered, the quiet strength of a country still stitching itself together.

 

That night, I lay in my tent listening to the water lap against the shore. The stars above were the same, but everything else had shifted. Borders are strange things—lines on maps, gates in fences. But the journey doesn’t stop. It just changes shape.

 

The border crossing into Turkey marked the end of one chapter, but not the end of the story. Georgia had offered me more than landscapes and landmarks. I had arrived sleep-deprived and left with a heart full of stories: the quiet dignity of Tbilisi’s old town, the spiritual hush of Jvari Monastery, the carved silence of Uplistsikhe, the unsettling truths of Gori, the architectural ghosts of Tskaltubo, the glittering depths of Prometheus Cave, and the salt-kissed shores of the Black Sea.

I had met strangers who felt like family, hosts who offered dumplings and kindness, and fellow travellers who reminded me that the road is never truly solitary. I had faced mechanical mishaps, financial uncertainty, and the occasional steep climb that tested my resolve.

 

The journey continues, and I will keep on pedalling—forward, inward, onward.