Christof was pretty eager to see if anything had changed on this border crossing. Twenty something years had passed since he last saw it, he recalled a badly kept road, a bridge over the dividing the river with armed Greek and Turkish soldiers on each side respectively. It was exactly the same.

I had to pay for the privilege though. Apparently things have changed as of late, I was told to go buy a €25 visa stamp to get me through, the first in the passport, before they’d let me pass. Germans and French can wander straight in, gratis, though. Maybe we’ve pissed off the Turks over the last few years. Never mind, eh?

They love their flags in Turkey.

They love their flags in Turkey.

It was a long, straight 400km road ahead of us towards Istanbul. Everything seems a more chaotic in Turkey, cars beep more, drive more recklessly, shopkeepers and waiters are pushier, people shout more, people litter more, which all pisses me off more. Imagine if all this was hooked up to a dial you were twisting, and the closer you got to Istanbul, the more you twisted that dial, and all these things increased. Well that’s not possible, not because this is a bullshit analogy, but because it’s not physically possible to twist your arm that much.

Some roadworks provided a break from the traffic.

Some roadworks provided a break from the traffic.

Waking up on the grounds of a Town Hall, a place Christof scouted out.

Waking up on the grounds of a Town Hall, a place Christof scouted out.

This was beautifully illustrated in a place called Tekirdag. We stopped for something to eat at restaurant next to a huge, busy roundabout where there were more waiters than punters, a usual thing in Turkey due to cheap labour. Ordering anything descended into people shouting, pointing, gesturing and pissing about. They got it all wrong, but never mind, and it was generally shit food in comparison with the price tag. The whole experience made me seethe from start to finish, which Christof noticed and told me to try and ignore everything. Easier said than done.

Gypsy kids: Round two. We went to sit in a nearby park, which was relatively calm until I heard Christof shouting. Some kids were arsing about with the French lads stuff, who were sleeping at the time. They bolted up, and the next ten minutes consisted of the gypsy kids making as much annoyance as possible; chucking the crate off the back of Pierre’s bike, twisting his gears, trying to steal stuff from Christof’s panniers and pushing over Cyril’s bike. They’re like a swarm of chaos, and they’re genuinely pleased when they cause it. I knew the only option was to bike away, but Pierre and Cyril eventually kicked off, and when they did, the main kid’s hand slipped behind his back, ready to pull a knife. At this point shitloads of guys from a nearby cafe bolted out and chased them off, the gypsy kids split, giggling as they ran, delighted with their carnage, and the cafe guys invited us over, a refuge from any little bastards.

To polish this day off, we ended up camping in the shittest ‘campsite’ I’ve ever known. Wild camping at this point was out of the question, there’s no free space within 150km of Istanbul, especially so close to the coast, and this was our best shot. The campsite was covered in rubble and glass, the beach was no better, lined with a stretch of sea that made the Humber look like the Adriatic. Sorry looking graffiti was scrawled on every available space, and looked like it was sprayed by a dyslexic seven year old. We slept on the top of a row of shacks. We were offered one, but the inside was so depressingly bleak we declined, in one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. The campsite owner made it clear that anything that happened to our bikes wasn’t his responsibility, which didn’t do my paranoia any favours and probably meant this was a genuine threat, so we surrounded them with our Thermarests and got some kip after a couple of beers and a game of cards.

This camera has a habit of making things look far better than they actually were.

This camera has a habit of making things look far better than they actually were.

Rooftop boozin'

Rooftop boozin’

Game of cards. I never actually grasped the rules.

Game of cards. I never actually grasped the rules.

If I could give one word of advice to someone who wanted to ride into Istanbul, it would be —

‘Don’t.’

It’s a shit idea, at least on the D110/100 we took. The last 30km are trouser-shreddingly dangerous on a bike, and the Turks drive as though they wouldn’t give a shit about a cyclist shaped dent in the side of their knackered old banger. Which they don’t. Buses are the main offender, the white Transit vans masquerading as buses being the worst, they sweep right into your path as they pull over, you might get some hazard lights if you’re lucky, which means knack all as it happens so quickly.

Once you break through the ring road it becomes a bit easier, by that I mean the traffic is slower and less likely to hurt if the inevitable happens. The cars impatiently squeeze together though, making it harder to pass through on a bike that’s two foot wide, and you can almost feel the envious eyes of the drivers burning a hole in the back of your head, don’t worry, it’s a nice feeling.

Pierre and Cyril managed to sort out an Airbnb for when we finally got into Istanbul. This turned out to be a pokey place about twenty minutes from Fatih, and was hosted by Ehram, who then slept on the couch all day and night. Bit weird. Apparently this was stated in the listing, but to me it just felt like we’d just muscled ourselves into his flat, and then turned him into the couchsurfer. One even weirder thing, is that on the last night, Christof asked Ehram about the recent bombings on the embassies. He denied it happened, flat out, quite bluntly. I suppose for some people, if they close their eyes, it’s not there.

The was a big wedding outside as we arrived. Yup, you guessed it, lots of noise.

The was a big wedding outside as we arrived. Yup, you guessed it, lots of noise.

I had a couple of rest days in Istanbul before I headed out. Wandering around I noticed that people seemed to be attracted towards the things that make the most noise. Pushy waiters will wander around and clap, I watched this actually bring people into his restaurant. We were walking past another when a bunch of waiters set off loads of little fireworks on and around some family’s table as they ate, then shouted ‘Photo! Photo! Video! Video!’. Pierre turned to me and said –

‘That’s amazing’

‘It’s tacky’ I replied.

‘Come on, it’s fun’

‘It’s not. It’s mental’

It’s all part of the hundreds of battling restaurants. Whoever makes the most commotion wins.

Maybe I’m far too cynical for the place, but there’s nowhere to relax, there’s no escape. Every park is rammed full of people sat around in litter to a background of traffic. Don’t get me wrong, there’s some beautiful sights, but getting there to see them is hard work. The Blue Mosque, yeah, nice, religious monument though, and I think I’ve covered that. One place I didn’t go was the Grand Bazaar. People told me about amazing sights, sounds, smells. You’re not fooling me. I don’t even need anything anyway. It’s just going to be mental, pushy shopkeepers pedalling shite and haggling and all that bollocks. I’ve been down Wonderland market mate, I know the score.

Istanbul. The gateway to Asia.

Let’s hope it gets better, eh?