I stocked up with a large bag of slightly soggy pistachio nuts, and two packets of cigarettes at a small market on route to the port, to prepare for the crossing.
On arriving at the passport and ticket control, the officials, who it appeared had not seen a tourist in some time, were most amused by the duo of Grettle, and Blue Flame. Blue Flame (Baptiste's bike) was massive, and appeared more massive still, due to the two spare wheels strapped to each side of it's engine, the large bags of all shapes and sizes, strung on to every spare inch of it, and the several litres of petrol, tucked inside the spare wheels, and under the outer netting. The result was really rather frightening, but when assessed next to Grettle, became in every sense, wonderfully ridiculous.  
One man was fascinated by my bracelets. I reeled off a list of countries, demonstrating they had been collected over the journey. It then occurred to me that I had forgotten to pick one up from Azerbaijan. The patriotic army officer was horrified about this, and so the search began to find a bracelet before the ferry was boarded. After some time had passed, and nothing had been found, I pointed at his shoe lace, strung up to a smartly polished army boot. I think he thought I was joking, and laughed, before holding up his index finger, and disappearing into his little box once again. He soon appeared holding a pendant, with small studded diamonds placed in a circle around a large capital A, standing for Allah. Baptiste found this all most amusing, and was busy trying to photograph the officer, struggling to find the space on my wrist, to place his gift, but due to the strict rules against photos of the officers,was sadly unable to capture the moment. I was overjoyed that I had my Azerbaijan bracelet, the army officer was thrilled he still had both shoe laces intact, and so the two of us sped on from the passport control to the customs office in high spirits.
Here, spirits dwindled ever so slightly, in being informed there would now be a 6 or 7 hour wait until boarding the cargo ship. So we settled in for the wait, during which Baptiste found his tool kit amidst the many waterproof bags on Blue Fame, and kindly set to work, mending my leather panniers for me.
During this time, one other vehicle arrived. It was a stunning work of art; a bright cerulean blue van, named Blue Moustique (Blue Mosquito), dating back to the 1940's, with stickers from all of the many countries it had travelled through, a spare wheel strapped to the bonnet, and a bed squeezed into the open boot. The Swiss couple driving it were very jolly, and rather like an owner tends to resemble their dog, the mismatch bunch of us at the ferry port, appeared to resemble very much, our beloved vehicles.
Blue Moustique, Grettle and Blue Flame, looked most fabulous all lined up one behind the other at the port,and I got stuck into some sketches of the trio to pass the time. We all became wildly over excited every time one of us witnessed a small speck appear on the distant horizon, until at long last, 10 hours later, the speck turned ship, and as the clock struck midnight, it was ready to board, and we good to go.
Filled with excitement, the four of us sped over the bridge and into the midst of several trains, secured to the ship by large metal chains. Having brought no rope to secure Grettle with, I asked the captain if  the sea got particularly rough over the two day crossing. He replied that the waves sometimes reached 30 foot in height, at which point my concerns for her security grew a little deeper, as  I imagined tsunami sized waves knocking her relentlessly back and forth. She looked more vulnerable than ever tucked up beneath the cargo, and so the captain, who it appeared had taken a liking to the two of us, promised he would keep a special eye over her.
Unfortunately, it turned out that he had also set his mind to keeping a special eye over my self, and as soon as it was time to be shown our cabins, I was taken aside for a special word. 'These passenger cabins, very bad' he said, 'no windows, very smelly, not clean'. I began to wonder why on earth he was telling me this, but it was made crystal clear after a moments pause. 'If you like, you can sleep in my cabin' he said happily, opening the door onto a deluxe room, with an open window, large bed, and a clean shower. Assuring him I would be just fine on my own, I was lead back to rejoin the group, who it appeared had all made bets in my absence, that the captain would be pronouncing his proposal the moment he had whisked me away, all finding the whole thing marginally more amusing than myself, it has to be said.
I had hoped that I would have one of the smelly, dirty rooms to myself, desperate to collapse onto the moth eaten pillows, and sleep in peace. The number of cabins did not suffice for this luxury however, and so I was bundled up with Baptiste for the night. He apologised in advance for his snoring, at which point my heart sank slightly, and dreams of a good nights sleep in silence seeped out of mind. The captain was delighted to see this look of disappointment, hastily sidling up to me once again, 'so what will you do Emma?' he whispered into my ear; a tone of sickening seductiveness, etched into his rasping voice. Faced with either the creepy captain's cabin, or the French man's snoring, I settled for the snoring, and collapsed into the passenger cabin.  I actually slept surprisingly well in the end; it was the first night in the entire trip, I had been submerged in total darkness, and I was surprised to wake up at 8.30 to Baptiste's breakfast alarm, as oppose to the usual 5 o'clock start, as the sun rises each morning, and the light seeps through the fabric of my tent.
Breakfast consisted of a type of feta cheese, butter, and bread. Lunch followed only a few hours later; a delicious vegetable soup to start, and chicken with rice to finish, washed down with some whisky from a jolly Georgian man sat next to me, and put to bed by some gaga, a highly alcoholic spirit, which sent me to sleep in seconds.
We watched the European games on television in the lounge area, I sat to sketch the ship out on deck during the day, and so despite the grimy cabins, the creepy captain, and the drunken Georgians, the crossing and its facilities exceeded expectations, and proved to be a nice, relaxing break from driving. I think it was also the first time I had looked out from a ship, and seen absolutely nothing but sea for several hundreds of miles. It was an exhilarating feeling, drifting further into the middle of the world, and It suddenly occurred to me how far Grettle and I had come....Kazakhstan! The idea of the cargo ship across the Caspian had always been a distant dream, and it filled me with a pleasant feeling somewhere inside, that we were living it that very second.
Dream turned nightmare all too quickly however, as we arrived at the port in Aktau, where we were to sit through another 7 hours of waiting, filling out forms, and receiving several stamps, from the customs office, the border control, and the military, before we were finally allowed to drive through those barriers, with 'HAVE A GOOD TRIP' written in large capital letters, marking freedom at long last! For a second, I thought I was going to be sent back to Baku, and my heart sank as the man said, 'no number, no travel', pointing back at the anchored ship. He was looking for the chassi number on Grettle. I had neither any idea what this was, nor any idea where it would be written, having never seen, or heard of it before. Finally, having unpacked all of my clothes once again, and panic starting to kick in, I lifted out the bucket under her seat, peered down into her engine, and found the small series of numbers, printed under a think layer of dust on a small piece of plastic. I whooped for joy, sailed through the gates, and back on the road at long last!I say road, but in hind sight, it would be best to replace this feeble description, with an erupted volcano, who's molten lava has since dried in wave-like formations, cracked severely over time, and seen the devastating effects of world war three; the catastrophic result, leaving nothing but craters so big, they could eat G and I alive!
Baptiste and I drove the first leg of the journey towards Beyneu together. The landscape was most definitely now desert, and my first sighting of a camel was all too exciting! We had planned to camp somewhere along the road that evening, and in sidling up to a small shop in one of the few villages we passed, asked the owner if there was anywhere decent to set up the tent. She pointed over our shoulders to a house behind us, and curious as to what this was, since there were certainly no hostels any where in sight, we scooted back along the road, and pulled up in front of the lodge. It turned out to be a fire station, where we were welcomed by big smiles, and many flustered fire men, who invited us to stay for the night. We accepted their offer, and absolutely filthy with dust from the desert, were led to a wooden shack in the corner of the yard, where one of the men, leapt up onto the roof, and began pouring cold buckets of water into the tank at the top. I never thought I would enjoy an icy bucket shower quite so much as I did, and after this moment of bliss, we were taken to the kitchens, to tuck into a feast of potato and veg for supper.
I was taken for several sight-seeing tours in the fire engines and around the station, during which I was given an army shirt as a souvenir, that I have now become rather fond of, and worn religiously ever since.
The chief fire man was due to arrive the following morning, and so we aimed to leave by six thirty. It was in fact a little later than this, by the time Baptiste had suited up in his leathers, packed and strapped up the hundreds of bags to Blue Flame, and I felt rather glad that G and I were travelling so light weight in comparison. Something I shall no doubt regret saying, when faced with the challenge of fixing a Vespa with paint tubes and Pritt-stick!
The road became nothing short of catastrophic, the further we scooted into the desert, so Grettle and I were forced to resort to snails pace. After a good few hours of waiting for me to meander around the many potholes, interspersed with desperate attempts to sketch every camel I passed, Baptiste sensibly decided to drive on ahead. Blue Flame could tackle the road with ease, and with it's sturdy tyres, cruise straight over the massive craters, and mounds of sand that made up the road.
After a good few exhausting hours of this god-awful track, unable to see any sign of the end to pot-holes, desperately needing some water in the strong heat, and beginning to realize I may never see signs of civilisation before dark at this rate, I flagged down a van pulling a trailer, and hitched a lift the next 20 kilometres to a small town. I was given a red neckerchief by one of the men in the van, in exchange for one of my bracelets, which I have become rather attached to since... what with that, and the new army shirt, my wardrobe was changing rapidly as I made my way through the desert. We all made firm friends by the time the truck ground to halt in Shetpe, and after a photo shoot of the team and I around G, I set off once again for Beyneu.  
A few hours later, I came across a section of volcanic eruption, that was even more devastating that the last. Again, concerned for time, darkness drawing in, and lack of food or water for a night's camping, I flagged down yet another vehicle. This one was towing two cars with flat tyres already, and Grettle was secured behind the second. The kind man bought me a beer, kitted me out with cigarettes, and plenty of ice cold water, before beginning the drive to Beyneu, some Kazakh music was playing from the radio.
About twenty minutes after setting off, we stopped at a little shrine in the middle of absolutely no where, where he promptly put on his white cap, and prayed for about 5 minutes, along side two other truck drivers, who it later transpired were his chums, and the three of them had been driving in convoy.
One of the fellow truck drivers encountered some kind of problem that I never quite got to the bottom of, half way through the journey, at which point we all parked in the middle of the desert, stripped the truck to pieces, and began fiddling about with the gear-stick, until finally we were good to go once again.  Not long after this, we stopped for supper where I was brought some kind of meet with onions, after which I decided it was time to relive G from the truck, beginning to feel it may well take longer with the truck driving rabble, than without. She had slipped down the side of the trailer, and looked horribly uncomfortable, her sides having been banged about something rotten, and the green paint work rapidly lifting from her bruises. So we drove in convoy after this, and Grettle had her own beefy, body-guard escorts, all the way to Beyneu...lucky Grettle!
Exhausted from the tiring drive, I stayed for two days to recuperate in a little hotel, before embarking on the next leg of my journey into Uzbekistan. My last map had stopped half way down the black sea coast line in Turkey, and Beyneu marked the beginning of my Central Asia map, so I was rather excited to be able to see where I was, for the first time in a  few thousand miles! The border was as little as 100 kilometres away, and I had hoped to reach it an hour or two after setting off. This ride, took me 6 painful and exhausting hours. The challenge of weaving in and out of hazards and obstacles, reminded me of a certain play station game I used to play in the Villiers attic in Corscombe, back in the school days; it was a race across a colourful rainbow in the sky, with lots of jumps, steps, gold coins to grab, holes to hop over, hoops to jump through, beams to duck under, and strange creatures to avoid. When I thought about it like this, I began to rather enjoy the challenge, listening to mario cart type music, and trying to out pace the trucks kicking dust in my eyes as they bellowed past, honking furiously.
I made it to a small village called Jaslyk, where I spent the night in a small hostel. I had just set up my tent on a small patch of concrete outside the café, when the owner took pity on me, and gave me a deluxe air-con room for free. I woke in the morning, to a fabulous view of several families of camels, lounging around in front of a stunning, fiery orange sun rise, and sketched for a few hours before setting off for Nukus.
I was wildly overexcited about Nukus, for it was the first town in Uzbekistan, that had actually made an appearance, not only on my map, but also in my lonely planet guide book, so you can imagine the disappointment, when I looked it up to find, and I quote 'The isolated, Soviet creation of Nukus is definitely one of Uzbekistan's least appealing cities.....there is actually no reason to come here, other than taking in the general sense of hopelessness and desolation'!
I came across several camels, many herds of horses, scorpions, camel spiders,  and three cyclists on my way to this hell hole. I had seen no tourists since leaving Baptiste on that god awful road in Kazakhstan, and so was thrilled to hear they too, were on route to hopelessness and desolation.
There was a couple from Switzerland, and a chap called John from Cardiff. We agreed to meet in a little chai spot they knew of, 15 kilometres up the road, and an hour or so later they turned up. What bliss it was to speak English at long last! We ate some food, and washed it down with a few shots of vodka offered to us by the adjacent table of jolly, red faced, and rather large bellied Uzbek men. The Swiss couple and John were due to arrive in Nukus after two nights of camping through the desert, so we all planned to reunite in Jipek Jolie Guest house a couple of days later.
So here I am, in a marvellous little yurt, set up in the courtyard of the guest house. Its a beautiful work of craftsmanship, built from long stretches of bamboo, that meet at the centre of a curved dome, pronouncing the ceiling, where light floods in through the embroidered fabric each morning. The bamboo is dressed with lots of finely woven tapestry, and colourful pieces of fabric, with plenty of tassels. The three beds, are covered in bright patchwork quilts, and wooden hobbit doors, behind a see through curtain, mark the opening to the yurt.
It even has Television and wifi inside it, and I have a large fan cooling me down....bliss! I have been waiting to find an idyllic little spot with space, such as this, to get some camel sketches polished off, and enter this post, so I may stay a couple more days here, and wait for a recent, and very uncomfortable bought of either food poisoning, or heat stroke, to pass, before setting off for Khiva. Waiting with much anticipation for the arrival of the cyclists, and a cold celebratory brew!
 
THE LOUNGE AND STARE POSITION- UZBEKISTAN- 10TH JULY 2015
The following entry was in fact written over a month ago, but due to lack of internet amongst other obstacles, I never quite got around to sending it, so here goes:
I am sitting in a small cafe somewhere between Bukhara and Samarkand, waiting for a kebab, and munching on some salad, while I wait for poor old G to be fixed next door. Exactly the same thing happened as about one month ago, in a little garage in Azerbaijan. I had been driving happily, and fast along the highway, pulled in to stop, in this case, for a cold bottle of water, and simply could not start again. Luckily there happened to be a small mechanics on the opposite side of the road....thank goodness that this had not happened in the desert, where I highly doubt I would have found a mechanic for good few hundred miles!
I am wearing a pair of highly uncomfortable, bright orange jelly shoes, with flowers on, brought for me by the cluster of curious bystanders at the water stall, because my already very worn flip flop, finally came to sticky end whilst trying to kick start Grettle.
A very large, loud, and slightly repulsive man, has just taken on a lounge and stare position from the opposite bench, so I am starin
g at this
screen rather harder than usual.
God I am fed up of eyes on me just all the time. I Suppose I only have myself to blame, for a single girl, riding a pistachio Green Vespa with Frog, is apparently something no one this far from home, has ever seen before, and so naturally, every time I stop, a mere minute ticks by, before the entire community has gathered around to observe this strange, and rare sighting,
Maybe it's because I'm feeling worn out, wishing I had company, and longing to understand or speak the Russian language, that I am no longer finding the constant stare, the urgent tapping on my shoulder, and the questions continuously yelled into my ear in Russian, funny anymore; they have become exhausting. The concept of personal space is not something that the locals appear to have grasped, or be in any way familiar with, in this part of the world. I think the heat of the desert has taken its toll over the past few days, the temperatures have been reaching 60+ Celsius, which probably makes matters a little worse, but it's the type of behavior, that with good company, or any company for that matter, that speaks your language, can be a manageable, and even an amusing challenge, but turns utterly exhausting when faced with alone.
Which brings me to how much I am missing my recently wed husband, and the team of cyclists I met in Nukus. If I remember rightly, I left you in my last post, waiting for them to arrive at Jipek Jolie Guest house, whilst taking refuge in my little yurt.
Well, my yurt was soon invaded by an old lady, who simply would not stop complaining about absolutely everything. She was furious because her book had told her the journey from Khiva would take an hour less than it did in reality. The constant whining in an awful Australian drawl, turned insufferable after about 10 minutes, and so John and I succeeded in drowning it out, and lightening the mood, over a few too many shots of vodka, and some more light-hearted conversation. We soon decided to take refuge in his spacious air-con room, and settle in for a movie.
Having just set up however, we heard a knock at the door. We answered, to find the hotel manager poised outside, looking nervous and rather flustered. He told me I must return to my yurt immediately.  A bit boggled by this unwarranted and out of the blue behavior, we attempted to explain we wanted to watch a film, but to no avail, the man was adamant. When we protested, he asked us for our marriage certificate. I hastily began to scrawl out a makeshift certificate. It read, 'John and Emma married today', with many balloons blowing randomly over the page. This clearly tipped the balance, and I was escorted back to my yurt, where I was kept rather too close an eye on, from that moment forward. And so, having got rather excited about the first film session of the trip, John and I agreed, we would wait until Khiva, the next stop, where we would pronounce our marital status rather firmly on arrival, and settle in for the movie marathon there.
Khiva was a lovely city, with an ancient inner town, surrounded by high, sandy colored castle walls, inside which, were many mosques, mausoleums, and one very tall pillar, with the Uzbek traditional blue tile work, embedded into the roof tops and doors of many of the monuments.
We had left the Swiss couple cooking up a meal on a patch of grass outside the hostel, and John, myself, and a British chap called Gary, who talked for Great Britain, and was growing a ridiculous ginger beard, as a result of a bet with his mates back home, set off to explore.  It was really rather magical by dusk; the shadows of the magnificent mosques, playing in the light of the moon, and the distant echoes of Uzbek melodic chants, from the odd cafe, bouncing off the walls of the illuminated buildings.
By the time we had all packed up to leave Khi
va, I was a little behind proposed schedule, having been travelling for the past week at cycle speed, and so sadly, I felt it time to move on, and bid farewell to fun bicycle bunch. I am now missing their company a great deal more than I thought I would, in particular, that of my husband, who I grew rather close to over our few happy days of marriage and movies.... he has those wonderful chimp-like ears that I have always been so fond of, a cheeky, witty and handsome look and manner, and life has suddenly became rather dull, and a little too quiet without him.
Anyway, vulgar man in lounge and stare position has now been joined by many fellow chums, following suit, and so I am hoping G will be good to go soon, and company will be found before too long...until then, adios....
ISKANDA KUL AND THE ROAD TO TAJIKISTAN- 20TH JULY 2015
I am sitting beside Grettle, perched at a height of 2195 meters, on the edge of a steep and rocky drop, descending into an opal blue lake, surrounded by snow-capped peaks, and blue sky. The fiery oranges, cadmium yellows, and deep reds, of the approaching sun set, play in the startlingly turquoise waters, and dance in the light of the early moon.
 
Iskanda Kul is the name of this mind-blowingly fabulous lake, and apart from the three Tajik men that took an entrance fee from me (cheeky bastards), there’s not a single soul in sight (tourist anyway). I’ve seen a couple of small shacks here and there, but other than that, it’s me, G, and travel frog, with this oasis to ourselves.
 
Having had a bit of a low period over the last few days, craving company, longing for cool air, and wishing I spoke Russian, I could not explain the rush of Tajikistan; the mountains; the lakes; the people; the air; the vast, wild, and crashing rivers, that snake their way beside the rugged mountain passes, spraying cool water over you, as you ride and swerve their serpent-like roads.
Having said this, it was a job to get in to, to say the least; I managed on my third border crossing attempt, somewhere near Tashkent in Uzbekistan, having tried and failed dismally, to pass two others, closer to Samarqand.
 
Not only that, but since I have been here, I have had nothing but problems with poor old G; I have seen her inside out, upside down, and well and truly, dissected part by part. The little mishap in my last post, marked the beginning of a long line of illnesses…
 
Having finally made it into Tajikistan, tiredness beginning to take its toll, and the idea of finding, and comprehending directions to a hostel, too daunting to face, I decided to find a spot to ca

The first border check point went surprisingly smoothly; smiles were exchanged, Grettle was introduced, and passports were stamped in no time at all.
The second was really rather bizarre. I was summoned over to a man, fully clad in army kit, and wearing a large rifle under his right arm. He looked unnervingly straight-faced as I ground to a halt in front of him, after which he demanded I got off Grettle, and handed her over. Not entirely sure what exactly the purpose of this particular encounter was, I was a little reluctant in handing him my baby. For all I knew, he would just hop on, and drive off! They looked a most peculiar pair, and I got out my camera, distracted him from what ever he was doing (which appeared to be absolutely nothing), and began to take snap shots. It was clear he rather fancied himself, and so titling his cap to one side, succumbing to a smile, and proudly holding Grettle by her handle bars, posed happily for the photo shoot. When satisfied with the results, he returned Grettle, said 'Welcome to Azerbaijan', and pointed me onto the next check point.
Here, it was time for me to explain my self. They found my whole story rather strange, eyeing me up suspiciously once I had finished. The fact that I had left England, and travelled on my own for two months in search of a job in Kyrgyzstan, was quite beyond them,
Meanwhile, Grettle was being inspected by several army officers. They were looking questioningly at her smashed up front. I said Istanbul, clapped my hands together, and made a large exploding noise. They seemed to get the gist, and despite the fact that I was badly hurt, found the whole thing most amusing. One of the men then pointed at Travel Frog. I squeezed him and made a 'Ribbit-Ribbit' noise, then made an explosion noise once again, demonstrating the loss of Frog's ribbit. Word was passed around about the mad English artist, the smashed up Vespa, and the ribbit-less frog, and by the time I was asked to reveal the contents of my deteriorating leather panniers, Grettle had gathered quite the crowd!
It reminded me of that fateful day in Newcastle airport, where I was asked to empty my hand luggage, and one by one, revealed all of the practical jokes mother had given me in my Christmas stocking. The water pistol had caused the suspicion as it sailed through the scanners, followed by the exploding nuts, stink bombs, whoopy cushions; the entire collection of jokes, found at Instant Redress in Bridport, it seemed. It took so long to get through security, explaining what they should and should not try to open, that I almost missed my flight.
On this occasion, it was the brass aeroplane in my toiletries bag that caused the first raised eyebrow. It is in fact a pencil sharpener, but this was proving extremely difficult to explain. I then produced the large brass frog, that I found in the Indian Himalayas two years ago; it is an ingenious padlock, but to the naked eye, or at least to the eyes of the army men, it looked most suspect indeed! Finally, I pulled out the leather scrap book from my travels on Grettle, at which point the entire army gathered around to look at my drawings, photographs, routes, and notes about the trip. They especially enjoyed the pictures of Grettle and I camping on Normandy beach, and those depicting Travel Monkey in the Alps.
Once they had had their fun, I was released from the check point, and cruised without trouble over the final gate, and into Azerbaijan at last!
I aimed to arrive in Baku that evening, where I would meet both my cousin, William, who lives and works there, and also my Uncle, who had come out for a visit, and it just so happened that we coincided.
As I was sailing happily down the highway, enjoying the good quality road surface, after the pot-hole and cow-covered Georgian roads, I noticed a police car in my wing mirror, flashing its indicator behind me. I hoped to God this was not in reference to my self, and so continued to drive. To my horror, they drove up beside me, and pulled me over. What on earth I had done, was unclear. They simply held out their hand, and said 'Money'. I Pretended at first simply not to understand, shrugging my shoulders, and playing dumb. They repeated angrily 'Money, Money' prodding my wallet, and pointing at Grettle's speedometer. The day that Grettle got done for speeding, I have to admit, I thought I would surely never see! But here we were, and there was no reasoning with these bastards. I opened my wallet, they saw a 50 Manat note, and took it. Then saw another, and took this; practically all the money I had withdrawn. I had only just been to the cash point, and had no idea what the exchange rate was, having only just arrived in Azerbaijan.
Outraged, and upset, feeling robbed, I pulled over to the next café I saw, sat down and had a beer. To my frustration, two men approached me immediately as I sat down to drink. 'We saw your bike, and followed you here' they said smiling happily. This was in every way, the last thing I wanted to hear, and desperate for some space, I told them to leave me alone, that I had just been robbed of all my money, and needed some time to relax. The man who spoke English, who's name I later learned to be Rashad, continued to talk to me, 'I am also biker, I have big bike' he said happily, as though this would change everything, and we would become best of friends. Eventually I gave up telling him to shove off, and asked him how much 100 Manat was.'100 Euros' he replied. My heart sank a little further; this was two weeks worth of money on my current budget! He asked me what it was for, and I replied that I didn't know, but that the officers had implied speeding. Laughing, he said 'This Vespa....for speeding?' Not yet finding the whole thing in the least bit amusing, I nodded, irritated by his jovial attitude.
He then told me Azerbaijan people were not like these 'Mother -fuckers' and that if I liked, we would go and find these two police men, and get my money back. I thought this whole plan highly unlikely, but deciding I had nothing to loose, went with him in a taxi to a police check point, about ten kilometres from the café. There followed many phone calls, during which they asked me to
try to describe the men. My memory appeared to have gone blank, and I could neither remember whether either had a moustache, which was apparently a key factor in the search, nor, where exactly I had been stopped. Nevertheless, the search and calls continued, and after about fifteen minutes, word was spread that the officers had been found. I was told 'These policemen have done wrong', and ushered into the kitchens where the nice woman cooked me up some lunch, and plenty of chai. Not long after this, the chief of police, handed me note by note, my 100 Manat back, I couldn’t believe it; I had been paid back! In fact, between the two of us, we even made a 50 Manat profit from the police encounter. Thewhole day was becoming quite extraordinary.
Rashad then insisted I sat and drank beers to celebrate the good news, and so my drive to Baku was rather delayed. Deciding to set off whilst the going was good, I declined his rather tempting offer, to smoke marijuana in a 2000 plus year old village, where the houses are made of bottles, and bid farewell to the nice bunch at the bar, before hitting the road once again, for Baku.
As the sun was beginning to set, I still had a good few hours of driving to go. The wind had gathered something rotten, and Grettle was being swept badly over the road, I thought it wouldn't be long until the two of us were swept over, and so in seeing two large dump trucks at a near by mechanics, I sidled in and asked the two men if the trucks were going to Baku. Eventually, after lots of miming wind, pointing at the vespa, and then at the large trucks, they understood that I wanted to hitch-hike. They also explained, through wild gesturing and body language, swirling their hands above their heads, and shouting Baku, that the wind was even worse nearer the city. A man turned up in a car a few moments later, and offered to give me the lift for 60 Manat. We communicated figures or sums, by drawing numbers in the sand. Deciding this was a little over my budget, I declined his offer, explaining as best I could, my journey, and the consequently small amount of money I had to spend. At this point, the two mechanics, who turned out to be father and son, gestured that I sleep the night there, and journey tomorrow morning when the whether would be calmer. We c
ommunicated the times of day, by cupping the sun in our hands, and either lifting them, for the sun rise, or lowering them, for the sun set. As they suggested this, they pointed at the car, presently being mended on a contraption lifting it high off the garage floor, so that it was suspended in the air. I thought they were suggesting I slept
in the car, and so nodded happily, and went to retrieve my bags. They laughed and shook their heads, saying 'Mumma, Pappa, Baby', and I soon caught on that we would be staying with the family. First however, they must finish mending the car.
I agreed, thanking them, and we left Grettle tucked up beneath the suspended car in the garage, before driving the three kilometres to the family house. After three kilometres had gone by at least eighteen times, I wondered where on earth we were going. It turned out they had decided I needed a shower, and we were on our way for 'Douche'. Two hours later, we arrived at a public shower type dungeon, where I was handed a towel and some soap, and lead into a small, dank, shower room. I had a fairly quick shower, after which, we drove the two hours back to the family house. The time it had taken these kind men to take me to the shower, we could have easily got to Baku and back twice already! They wanted no Manat for any of this, and when we arrived at the household, I was introduced to the many bambinos, sisters, brothers, parents and grand parents. It was such a large family, I found it a challenge to keep up! After some home cooked Azeri doughnuts, I was lead into my bedroom, where I shared with one of the women, and a small child, before waking early, and continuing my extremely delayed drive to Baku.
As the mechanics had told me, the weather was much calmer in the morning, and I arrived by about 9.30 am. I was soon found outside 'Megafun' by William, who tuned up in a taxi soon after I had arrived. He struggled on top of Grettle behind me, as I perched on the very edge of the seat, to try to make room, amongst the heap of bags now loaded on top of her. We found Will's flat, which lay amidst a bubble of sheik shops, high rise flats, smart hotels, and expensive, but eerily empty stores.
The European Games had commenced in Baku the previous day, and it appeared that the city had been some what glammed-up for the event. Having driven through the fabulous, almost desert-like Azeri landscape, of high golden cliffs, and baron, windy lands, it was most peculiar arriving into this bizarre little bubble of glamour and glitz.
We found D block, within the set of flats that Will is residing, and having unloaded the many bits and pieces from the bike, took the lift to the 15h floor. Here, I was shown my room, where Will had opened out the sofa bed for me, beside a little balcony, that overlooked the city. It was certainly the most deluxe place I had stayed for some time!
Will very kindly took me out for a delicious breakfast to celebrate my arrival, and we feasted on the buffet in the Marriot Hotel. A very grand place, where I must say, I looked a little under-dressed; still in my torn harems, flip-flops, and Indian head band, amidst a crowd of people, all breakfasting in their finest linens.
The day continued in a similar vein, and we went on to meet Uncle Hugh at the Hilton. My uncle was on a business trip of some kind, with Lord Risby, who I was promptly introd
uced to, after which Will had to depart, for some kind of work appointment with a client of his, and so Uncle Hugh, Lord Risby, and myself, proceeded to the roof of the Hilton, where we dined on Chinese.
Lord Risby lead most of the conversation, which revolved very much around all of the extremely wealthy people that he knew, I appear to have forgotten the names of the many lords, chancellors, advisers, deputy advisers, and highly intelligent people, that he was antiquated with, rather loosing thread of the conversation, as I caught eyes with a very handsome man sat on the opposite table.
Once Lord Risby and Uncle Hugh had finished their interviews on the roof top, I was told to stay put, in case William made it back from his meeting in time to polish off much of the Chinese that we couldn’t manage. Whilst the two of them descended to the sugar lounge,
I hopped out onto the roof top, took in the breathtaking view, and lit up a cigarette, where I was soon joined by the handsome man.
His name was Dan, and he turned out to be part of the flybe staff team. They had stopped for a few days in Baku, been treated to a room at the Hitlon, and tickets to see the games. I explained my own story, and how exactly I came to be dining with Lords, on the rooftop terrace of the Hilton Hotel, and we both found good humor our in our separate,  but equally strange predicaments.
Having reunited with Will, Lord Risby, and Uncle Hugh, we set off for the Hiatt hotel, where we spent the afternoon sunbathing and discussing business. My dress so far this day had already been most inappropriate, but it was made worse by the fact that during my crash in Istanbul, my bikini, which I had tied to the outside of the bike in order for it to dry, had been shredded badly, and drenched in oil. I thought it would in fact be worse to wear this, than my clothes, so I swam in my very worn and torn denim shorts, and a bright orange boob tube, which I wore over my electric pink bra. The whole attire stuck out like a saw thumb amidst the sea of see-through gowns, Dior shades, and bling bikinis.
I had not seen Uncle Hugh for agreat many years. Embarrassingly, I fear the last encounter we had, was at the wedding of my cousin Katy, where I struggled to cope the copious amounts of champagne, passed out in an adjacent field, and woke to the sounds of a search party. It was however, lovely to see him again, as it was unnervingly like seeing my dad. The two of them shared the same peculiar habits; the awkward accent put on when ordering food from a foreigner, the kind, gentle, smiling eyes, and the need to organize the day's activity with extremely precise timings. Uncle Hugh I noticed, sat in exactly the same way as my grandmother, and so seeing him, was rather like seeing the whole family, and I was sad to bid him farewell, when he and Lord Risby departed the Hiatt hotel, to catch their flight back to the UK that evening.I had a lot of things to organize in Baku, one of which was picking up my visa for Uzbekistan, which I had applied for in Istanbul. Another was to find out how, and when, I could board a cargo ship across the Caspian sea to Kazakhstan, and the last, was to register my bike in the country. On top of all this, I had a maximum of five days within the country on my transit visa, and so not at all long to get everything done. There was no schedule for the cargo ship, it simply leaves when full, and so crossing the Caspian sea, combined with visiting Azerbaijan on a transit visa, is rather a game for the gamblers. I had hoped to have time to get Grettle serviced, buy a visa with a helmet, and fix my camera, before heading into the desert, not to mention see all the sights, and get to some of the games!Will kindly put me in touch with a friend of his called Nurana, who was a work client, and had taken it upon her self, as a favor to Will, to help me with these challenges. So on my first day there, I was whisked off by her driver, to the port, where I was to register Grettle, The following few hours were spent with many Azeri port officials shouting things at me. I, in turn, would pass them on to Nurana, who was on the phone, and she would then translate back to me, what exactly was being said. Eventually, all phones were places back upon their receivers, and the main official nodded, pointing me to the door. Hoping this meant I was now registered, I hopped back in the car with the driver, and returned to Will's flat.Due to the police encounter, the beers with Rashad, and the delayed arrival to Baku, I had sadly missed the opening party for the European games, which my Uncle and cousin had hoped I would be able to make. The British Ambassador had attended the party, and had got to hear about my adventures with Grettle through Will. The next day, the Ambassador got in touch about the trip, and as long as I was willing, wanted to write a story on the adventure, spinning in it such a way, that I had traveled all the way from London to Baku, on a Vespa, to support Britain, in the European Games. I was overjoyed by such an opportunity, so Grettle, Travel Monkey, and myself, chugged along to the Embassy, where I parked scruffily outside the smart gates. The whole thing was most amusing, and the three of us were taken to a square outside the embassy, where a woman named Gunel. a professional photographer, and myself, heaved Grettle up the steps, so that we were perched beneath a grand statue in the centre of the square. After this I was asked to scoot in circles around the square, where many families were sitting, chatting, and picnicking, watching this performance curiously, whilst the photographer took videos and several photographs.
Both Gunel, and the photographer, then began pointing at various accessories, such as Travel Monkey, the collection of various key rings attached to Grettle's start key, the leather panniers, my arm clad in bracelets and bangles, the sprawled writing over my left hand, and I, in turn, explained the meaning and purpose of each item.
They then asked me if I had had any scrapes with the police (off camera), after which, they began filming again, as I recounted my recent encounter with the Azeri police force. The photographer could not stop laughing, and was struggling hopelessly to hold the camera still, and remain silent during the anecdote. Gunel asked me if it was all right to post the video that evening, clearly a little concerned for my safety post story-release! I explained I was leaving the country and so I was happy for her to go ahead.
I missed the opportunity to speak on a local TV channel about the trip, since I had been watching the men's Water Polo all day at the European Games, and had only received the message to get to the Ambassador ASAP by about 5pm that afternoon, which was sadly a few hours too late. Although, in witnessing the video posted on the Embassy website that evening, which played the crazy frog theme tune, as Grettle whizzed about the square, intermittently interrupted by my snippets, and very edited anecdotes from myself, I felt satisfied that we had made quite enough of a fool out of our selves for one afternoon! I was happy to see that she also featured in another Embassy Website named 'Human's of Baku', most amusingly, above David Cameron's message on Ramadan! Beside this, was a paragraph or two written in Azeri, which unfortunately Google Translate is making rather a mess of, and I have been unable to translate.
I went to collect my Uzbekistan visa, where I was told I must pay for it at the international bank, and only after this, could I return to collect it. As luck had it, that day was a national holiday, and so the international bank was closed until the following day. This was all very well, but the following day, the embassy was closed, and not open again until the next. So I finally managed to pick up the visa on Wednesday morning, the day after the interviews, which was the final day of my Azeri transit visa.
When I asked at the Uzbek embassy, to make a call to the migration office for me, and ask about the cost of extending the visa, I was told, 'Extension not possible, you must leave the country today'. I explained I was waiting for the ship to leave, but this, I was told, was not solid enough grounds for an extension. I was told the fine for overstaying the visa, was a horrific 300 Manat; the equivalent of around 300 Euros. After paying this, I would be granted 48 hours to leave the country! And so I found myself in rather a sticky wicket... I had been toldby Nurana that morning that there was no ferry leaving that day, and I certainly did not have 300 manat. I began to write in my mind, a letter to the Ambassador, hoping that he might be able to help out in some way.
I was just about to write the email, when I received an emergency text message from William, telling me to 'Call immediately'. When I did so, I was passed on to Nurana, who told me to pack my bags and go to the port straight away, I could be on a ship that evening! This was altogether fantastic news, so I decided not to trouble the Ambassador, packed my bags, grabbed some cold pasta from the fridge, that I had cooked up previously, and hurried down to the garage to find Grettle.
I followed a taxi to the port, since I had forgotten where it was, and had no map of Baku. On arriving there, I walked into the place I had registered once before, tried to explain I was here to register again, to leave on the ship that day. They laughed, shook their heads, and simply said 'no'. None of them spoke a word of English so I rang Nurana from one of their cell phones, and she explained they were having lunch, and to return at 2pm. There appeared to be no food in sight, but I did as I was was told, and went to perch on Grettle to tuck in to some of my cold pasta. About ten minutes later, a woman turned up in a car, who asked me where I was going, and told me to follow her. Finding this all a bit out of the blue, since we had neither met, nor spoken before, I followed her about 30 kilometers East to a different port, where I paid for my ticket for the ship. I couldn't quite believe my luck, since if I had not met this lady, I would surely have got absolutely nowhere at the previous port, would probably have missed the ship, and have to have the paid 300 manat for overstaying my visa.
I met a nice French man also buying his ticket for the crossing, named Baptiste, and the two of us headed for the final port, about an hours dive out of Baku, where the boat was scheduled to depart....
 
THE CROSSING OF THE CASPIAN AND INTO THE DESERT- 1ST JULY 2015
I stocked up with a large bag of slightly soggy pistachio nuts, and two packets of cigarettes at a small market on route to the port, to prepare for the crossing.
On arriving at the passport and ticket control, the officials, who it appeared had not seen a tourist in some time, were most amused by the duo of Grettle, and Blue Flame. Blue Flame (Baptiste's bike) was massive, and appeared more massive still, due to the two spare wheels strapped to each side of it's engine, the large bags of all shapes and sizes, strung on to every spare inch of it, and the several litres of petrol, tucked inside the spare wheels, and under the outer netting. The result was really rather frightening, but when assessed next to Grettle, became in every sense, wonderfully ridiculous.  
One man was fascinated by my bracelets. I reeled off a list of countries, demonstrating they had been collected over the journey. It then occurred to me that I had forgotten to pick one up from Azerbaijan. The patriotic army officer was horrified about this, and so the search began to find a bracelet before the ferry was boarded. After some time had passed, and nothing had been found, I pointed at his shoe lace, strung up to a smartly polished army boot. I think he thought I was joking, and laughed, before holding up his index finger, and disappearing into his little box once again. He soon appeared holding a pendant, with small studded diamonds placed in a circle around a large capital A, standing for Allah. Baptiste found

That day, as I had reached a very rocky, sandy, mountain pass, the rain broke out once again. I was worried Grettle and I would skid over, so I stopped to take shelter under a little tree, beside a house. In noticing a gaggle of girls laughing and peering out of their window at me, I scooted a little further down the road, and stopped again.
I was trying to lift Grettle onto her stand, but I was on such a steep slope, and she was so heavy with all my bags, that I was finding this extremely tough. The rack that my top box sits on was coming loose, so I could no longer use this to heave her onto the stand, instead trying to lift her from her side wings. Every time I did, they would come loose, and I would have to thump them back into place, before beginning the whole process again. It was one of those tasks that should in all normal circumstances be incredibly easy, which made the whole ordeal most frustrating.
A police car appeared behind me a few moments later, and looked at me curiously. 'Problem?' they asked. 'No no, no problem, thank you' I replied, flushed in the face, and still attempting to heave Grettle on to her bloody stand. I mimed rain, and pointed at Grettle's wheels, trying to explain I had stopped until he rain had finished. This only seemed to make matters worse, and they became even more curious as to what I was doing, as I struggled to heave her back and forth.
They asked me where I was from, and were I was going. Frustration mounting, I replied impatiently 'England to Kyrgyzstan'. A big mistake; this had clearly tipped the balance, and they were now convinced I had some kind of problem. I decided to forget about the rain, and move on swiftly, I waved good bye to the two officers, and hopped on Grettle to go. They got back in their car, and not wanting them following me down the steep hill at snails pace, I signalled for them to go first. Eventually, and rather reluctantly, they did so.
I arrived in a small village half an hour later, and to my horror, saw the same two officers standing outside the local police station, waving their hands for me to stop. I pulled into the station, where they then asked for my passport and driving license. I gave this to them, and decided the only way to get out of this situation unscathed, was to be overly jovial, happy, and generally act the over-excited tourist. I asked them many questions whilst they examined my papers, such as their names, and how far exactly it was to Abana; the next town on my map. They asked me if I was travelling alone, and considering it would be better to say I had friends waiting for me, I told them my friends were in Abana, and I was on my way there to meet them, still smiling goofily. Finally smiles began to replace their concentrated frowns, and tea offerings put a stop to their passport examinations. I thought it best to accept, before finally being released, after words of warning about 'dangerous roads', and bad drivers. I nodded, relieved to be free from the clutches of the Turkish authorities, and set off for Abana in high spirits.
Having polished off the chocolate spread, and packets of jam from the hostel breakfast buffet in Istanbul, I stocked up in Abana with cheese and bread for the evenings camping, before hopping back on Grettle, and continuing my journey East. The scenery became more spectacular as I headed back towards the coast line, and searching again for a place to
camp, I followed a small cobbled path down a steep hill, to find a beautiful little cove, with a small café on its shore line. Three men sat around a small table overlooking the cove, beneath a canopy of flowers and leaves. The first could not have been more than a few years my senior, and looked rather monkey-like and cheeky, his name was Serda. The next, I later learned was 93, and sat puffing on a cigarette, wearing a large turban, and was an extraordinarily fantastic victim. And the last, resembled a friendly and caring father figure, named Touran, who I approached to ask if I could camp beside
the café.
Post Sherrard performance, he understood what I was trying to say, and nodded, but pointed instead to the other side of the bar, where there was already one large chamber tent. Certainly an upgrade from my little shelter; it hosted two large beds, bed-side tables, and electricity. He warned me of rain in the night, and offered me one of the deluxe beds. I refused his offer, not entirely sure who I might be sharing this cosy cabin with, and keen to spend the night doing my scrap book, and reading in peace.
Touran kindly insisted on raking the long grass where I wanted to pitch the tent, after which I set up, pleased to have found such an idyllic little cove. I looked out to sea, to see a couple, a baby perched upon the Father's knee, paddling around the bay, in a little pink dolphin boat. There was mellow Turkish music playing in the back ground, and other than the three men, not a soul in sight; It was really very magical.
I spent three happy days in the cove, was taken for frequent morning and evening star lit paddles in the dolphin boat, cooked delicious grilled fish and veg on the house every evening, scrumptious eggs ,feta and olives every morning, listened to Touran play some kind of Turkish guitar until the sun rose, drank racki; a deadly Turkish spirit, with Serda, and idled away my hours reading up on the Middle East, and sketching the fabulous victim.One afternoon, when my pack of cigarettes had run dry, and beer was calling, Serda and I set off in the Audi, which was parked next to Grettle, to the near by village. After a brew had gone down, I pointed at myself, and acted out taking the wheel. Serda looked a little nervous, pointed at me, and asked 'Chauffeur?' Yes, yes, I said excitedly, 'Me , chauffeur!' Rather reluctantly it has to be said, Serda agreed I would be 'Chauffeur'. So we changed seats, and I took the wheel. For a long while, I couldn't find the clutch, and thought it most bizarre that the car only had two peddles. Serda began to look a little more nervous, but in locating all three peddles at last, and giggling at the look of terror that had appeared across Serda's face, we began zigzagging down the winding coastal road.I could not Seem to get used to driving on the right, and had not driven a car for some time, no doubt the beer and pumping tunes playing from the stereo were not helping matters. So the joy-turned-terror ride, ground to a halt rather sooner than I had hoped, and the two of us swapped seats once again, before stopping a little further down the road, at a small cove. We sat on a bench over looking the baron, fierce, but beautiful black sea, to drink a beer together before heading home. During the drive back, I realized I didn’t have my wallet with me, Shock and horror struck, as I began to remember what was in it; passport, emergency money, visas, insurance, Grettle's registration papers; pretty much everything that I needed!
I was convinced that this must have happened whilst we had changed seats, and so referring to'Chauffeur', 'First change' and 'Second change', we retraced our drive, searching in the bushes for the small wallet. Serda made me promise I would give him a kiss on the cheek if the wallet was found, and considering this highly unlikely, I agreed. Hearts sinking as we continued to find no sign of it, Serda sensibly took into account the alcohol that had been drunk, considered perhaps my memory was failing me, and that it might have been left where we had sat for our brew.
As we rolled into the spot, a man shouted out something in Turkish. Serda pointed cheekily at his cheek, and I knew the wallet had been found. Overjoyed, I leapt over the gear stick, gave him a big kiss on the cheek, and we sped on to the police station, where it had been handed in. I walked into the office to see the entire contents of my purse spread over the officer's table. Not a dime had been taken, and we returned back to the cove in high spirits.
This little hiccup seemed to announce the beginning a little romance between Serda and I, which we had to keep rather hush-hush in returning to the cove, since father -figure, Touran, would certainly not approve (Serda mimed this by wagging his finger and wrinkling his nose). I nodded and we kept things on the low.
The next day, I announced my departure. It was so sad saying good bye, that Serda decided to join me for the next leg of my journey, following Grettle and I in the Audi, a couple of hundred kilometres up the coast line. We had a super road trip, played three fantastic games of ping-pong, and went out for a delicious supper, before Serda sadly had to return to work at the cove, and explain his absence, and the absence of the Audi no doubt, to the disapproving father-figure.
So on I went alone, eventually drawing to halt in a small village named Fatsa, about half way down the black sea coat line. I stopped at a small market and asked a man walking by if there was anywhere near to camp. He shook his head, but after a moments deliberation, told me in cobbled together Tenglish, that his big sister had a large garden, and I could camp there for the night.
Delighted, I followed him in his car to his sisters house. The sister poked her head out of the window as we arrived and welcomed me with open arms, insisting once again, that I must sleep in the house. I followed her inside and bid goodbye to the kind man, who told me to be ready outside the house in two hours. For what, I was not entirely sure, but agreed happily all the same.
I was cooked up some sumptuous food by the sister, and introduced to her mother, who was ancient, and sat watching television in the sitting room. I went to join her after the meal, and we watched some kind o
f Turkish island 'Survival Of The Fittest' show, before the brother arrived as promised, two hours later.It turned out he had come to take me sight-seeing, and we drove for miles, in and around small sea side villages, looking at different sights, and taking photographs of one and other, until finally we had turned full circle and arrived back at the house. Here, we set up in front of the ends of the 'Survival' show, popped open a brew or two, and dug in to a bowl, full of assorted nuts, until tiredness not it's toll, and bed beckoned. I slept very well on an extendible sofa bed in the spare room, where I was given many gifts by the sister, including a lovely leather notebook and pen, a set of two fountain pens in a pouch, a yellow banana pen, (I think she had gathered that art was my thing, and therefore I must need many pens), a white strap top, a pair of tracksuit bottoms, a towel, a yellow T-shit about six sizes too large, with a face on the front saying 'hallooo' and a beautiful shawl.I felt so fond of the family by the time I left the following morning at 6am, that, once again, I was very sad to say goodbye. The brother cooked a huge breakfast, most of which I could not manage, and so the remaining boiled eggs, he handed out of the window to me before I set off for the final leg of my journey through Turkey.
I feasted on these for lunch, and arrived in Georgia at about 4pm. It turned from Burkas and Minarets, to Broad smiles, and Mini skirts in a flash, as I crossed the border that afternoon. With the exception of Istanbul, I had barely come across any alcoholic beverages being sold in cafe's, or any girls with out head scarves, and so it was a surprising and refreshing change, to be greeted with a brew, and many friendly faces on the Georgian side of the border.
I stayed in a city called Batum, where I found a lovely hotel, which I stayed in for a haggled down price of about ten pounds. I spent the evening drinking Georgian spirits, and filling up on a delicious mixture of cheese and potato, offered to me by the two girls and bunch of men that sat at the table outside. I later realized they were both prostitutes, as they informed me most casually, that if I wanted sex, these men would pay! At this point, I decided to hit the sack, and lock the door rather firmly!I am currently sitting on a roof top terrace in Waltzing Matilda hostel in Tbilisi, not far from the Azerbaijan border. I am hoping to pick up my Azeri visa today at 4 pm, before heading for Baku, where I will be boarding a cargo ship across the Caspian Sea, to Kazakhstan.
I spent my first two nights here, in a place called Budget Hostel. It only cost me £2.80 per night, but I have to admit, left much to be desired. I was sharing a dormitory with four other Georgian and Indian men, all with extremely large bellies, stares that followed me around every corner, snores that could shatter any pain of glass, and smells that were so overwhelming, one felt faint from noon till night! There were also two Georgian women, one with a child, who had taken a liking to me, or rather to my collection of bracelets and wrist bands, that she demanded I give to her continuously. I gave her one yesterday which she was over joyed with, until she saw another that she preferred, threatening to snap the first unless I gave her the second.. I had just been invited to drink, by the big bellies, at 9.15 am, when I decided it was time to move on, packing up my things, and following a taxi driver to Waltzing Matilda Hostel. I am staying in a 24 bed dorm, and since there is not another tourist in sight, have the entire dorm and roof top terrace to my self!
If I succeed in obtaining my Azeri visa today, I will head for Azerbaijan tomorrow, where I am happy to say, I will be meeting my cousin, William, who is living and working in Baku...
Until then...Adios!

I couldn't believe my ears when I was told the day after the crash, that Grettle would be ready to roll the following morning for £125. I was told that if I wanted her many missing parts replaced, then I would have to wait a great deal longer, and pay a considerable amount more. Budget being what it is presently, a shocking £8 per day, I eagerly accepted the first option, and began to wonder what on earth she would look like. The hostel manager who had translated the conversation with the menders for me, informed me that 'She would not look pretty' and furthermore, she would 'Have no Torpedo'. Having been oblivious to the fact that Grettle ever had a 'Torpedo' in the first place, and never quite getting to the bottom of what exactly this was, I decided it was not something to worry about; as long as her little wheels turned, and her engine purred, I was good to go.
 
I arrived at the garage to see Grettle parked outside, ready as promised by 2pm. She did look rather retro it has to be said! Her front appeared to have been hammered back into shape, the exposed wires wound in electric tape, and by some stroke of genius, the same tire that had been under the van, had been straightened out, and was alive and kicking! There was no glass over the lights but they flashed fine, no front guard, very little foot rest, and a key so bent, it was miraculous that it worked at all.
'Full test' the man demanded. I inspected Grettle closely, not entirely sure what I was suppose to be looking for, since I know very little about mechanics, and all of her parts were fairly smashed up as it was. I then hopped on board, and cautious of all the traffic whizzing by on the adjacent motorway, began to drive in small figures of eight on the pavement we were perched upon. The crowd of men watched this performance curiously, as I wobbled about, and attempted to maneuver through the many parked cars around us.
Eventually the man stood up, waved his hand at me impatiently, and repeated 'Full test'. Wondering what on earth else I could do on this tiny pavement, I followed his gaze to a near by motorbike. The young man on top of it, beckoned me to follow him. Before I knew what was happening, and with neither of us wearing helmets, we zoomed into the fast moving flow of traffic. I tried to keep up with his machine, which was now doing wheelies amidst the the chaotic rush of cars, hooting furiously and zigzagging over the road. Fully aware I was neither allowed on the motorway, nor wearing a helmet, and on top of it all, driving a bike which I had last seen crushed under a van, I have to admit I was rather relieved to make it back to the garage in one piece. On the up side, we had at least tested all that could possibly be tested it seemed; bends, brakes, acceleration, indicators and the lot.
'Super!' I exclaimed, smiling broadly, and hoping he was now satisfied with my 'Full test'. He shook my hand and I gave him the 500 lira. The man had truly worked wonders, and we sat and had a coffee together whilst my bags, clothes, and general bits and pieces, that I had left with him after the crash, were retrieved from the garage.
Driving in Turkey was both an amusing, and a terrifying experience; the people were so curious and friendly, that it was impossible to drive down the motorway without entering into a conversation with almost anyone that drew up beside us. One full car-load of chaps began passing me their business cards through the window, and another, driving a bike piled high with boxes, kept attempting to stop the other traffic to allow room for Grettle and I to drive by the side of his delivery bike, in order to continue our nonsensical conversation.
 
I finally arrived at the hostel, and settled down on the roof top terrace sofa, to finish off some sketches for mum's exhibition in June, which I planned to send home in a parcel the following day. I was soon retrieved from my snug spot, to be told that my friend had arrived. Curious as to who my friend was, I followed the manager down stairs to find Chris; the other mad Brit, driving by a motorbike from England to India, We had arranged to meet at some point in Istanbul, sort out a few visas together, and possibly join up for a leg of the trip. He was very jolly and we exchanged some amusing stories from our separate adventures over a brew or two on the roof top. The sight of The Yellow Peril, next to Grettle was most amusing, a fabulous colour combination of lemon yellow, and pistachio green, the two bikes looked quite ridiculous; one could have fit at least 4 of Grettle's wheels into his one
We managed to sort out the Tajikistan visa in one day, and in applying for the Uzbekistan visa, were told it would take 10 days to process, at which point we decided it would best best to pick it up in Baku, Azerbaijan, which was apparently a possibility. Estimating it would probably take at least 10 days to get to Baku, this in every way was ideal, and so with two visas pretty much under the belt, we aimed to leave Istanbul a couple of days later. Chris, myself, and a great German girl named Isobel, spent a happy few days in and around the hostel, puffing on shisha pipes, and transforming small cafe's into low lit disco rooms, waving fire sparklers about and and generally having a merry time.
I had refrained so far from visiting some of the main sights in Istanbul until the last day I was there. On finding out, it was not 30 pounds but 30 lira to see the Cistern, I immediately went to have a look around it. It was an absolutely splendid space under ground , and as I was weaving my way in and around the grand pillars that held the ancient building up, I was stopped by a guard who told me in hushed whispers that there was a documentary of some sort being shot behind him, so I couldn't go any further. The old English man behind me clearly misunderstood this reference to shooting, and replied furiously 'Shooting who?' The poor guard, who was trying desperately to keep voices to a minimum, began to explain no one was being shot, for his response only to fall on deaf ears, as the stubborn old man began to bellow louder still 'What? I said Shooting who?' I got a bad attack of the giggles at this point, and had to exit the scene, not wanting to disrupt the documentary any longer, the sounds of the old man still audible from where I now stood, echoing loudly off the the walls of the cistern.
I went on to have a look at the Aglia Sophia; again, an absolutely incredible work of craftsman ship; every inch painted in saturated colour, and marked with beautiful engravings. It had been a huge Christian Chuch, now transformed into a magnificent Mosque, and I spent long while walking around this fabulous building, enjoying the peace and quiet of it, after the hustle and bustle of outside.
 
My old leather panniers had been ripped in two during the crash, and one side of the bags had torn down the seam. I had no extra space anywhere on Grettle, who had now lost a lot of weight, and no longer had a glove box, so I set out to find either needle and thick thread, or someone who could do the job for me,. I came across an old man who polished shoes just outside the Blue Mosque, and he agreed kindly to take on the challenge, pulling out some thick thread from his golden set of brass drawers, and half an hour later, the panniers were ready to rumble. I spent the rest of the day trawling around the fabulous grand bizarre, where I tried to haggle for a particularly brilliant lighter. It took the form of a Lavatory, that when flushed, would spark a flame that lifted the loo seat and lit the cigarette; really rather marvellous I thought! After this, I picked up a few watercolour paints and pencils that I was running low on, had a wonder through the sensational spice markets, and generally got organised to hit the road once again.
The following day, I was to set off for the Black Sea coast line, and head for Georgia. I had little idea of the roads or the landscape in this part of the world, and little idea of the people. Chris was eager to head inland, and potentially had to travel back to Istanbul again a few days later, to sort out his visa for India, With itchy feet, having spent a long 10 days in the city by this point, and a desire to follow the back see coast line, we parted ways and agreed to try to meet later in the trip. This was not something I was planning on telling my mother, who was very worried about me travelling alone; being a blond haired and blue eyed English girl, travelling and camping through Eastern turkey alone, atop a beaten up green vespa, was not something many people advised, so I left the hostel a little anxious of what was to come.
The hostel owner advised against the route I had planned down the coast line, explaining that often 'there is not road' and that when there is road, they were so small, windy, and mountainous, that it would be better for me to follow the motorway in land towards Georgia. After my last horrific experience on the motorway, and dying to reach small, scenic, country paths, his warnings fell on deaf ears; for I could not think of anything worse than three days on Turkish motorways.
I reached the coast line and had a marvellous time scooting through lush landscape over high mountain passes. The weather was not quite so fabulous however, and as black clouds and wind began to mass and gather, I decided to find somewhere to camp. Although relieved that I was no longer passing warning signs for bears, I was still a little cautious of wild dogs, which were becoming more and more frequent. It appeared almost every house, and most fields with livestock, had a guard dog, so camping rough was getting a little more difficult. I decided I would ask a family If I could camp in their garden, and on arriving at a farm house, I hopped off Grettle, and carried out the usual sherrards act, pointing at the chicken paddock next door. I began barking, and then shaking my head, trying to decipher whether or not there were any dogs around. They looked at me as though I was a little mad, but got the gist about the camping, and led me to the family who's chicken paddock it belonged.
 
The father, mother, grandmother, and son, followed me out into the paddock where I got out my tent. They watched me curiously as I was setting it up, and it seemed, had never witnessed before, such a strange and amusing process, periodically pointing and giggling, as I fumbled around with the fabric. I drew out the final set of poles, only to find that the elastic cord had snapped in the crash. I tried to signal this to the family, who did not seem to understand that the pole was broken, and must have assumed that my efforts to thread the elastic back through the poles was simply part of the process of building my shelter. Instead, they continued to point at new patches of ground that I could put the tent, smiling happily. When they finally caught on that there was a problem however, they leapt into action.
The following hour was spent with the entire family trying different methods of fixing the tent. For a long while, we attempted to thread the cord back through the poles using wire, and tying knots where it had snapped. This failed dismally however, and so following a phone call made by the Father, the son ran off down the farm, to return five minutes later with a new elastic cord. It was exactly the correct width and length to fit the poles, and so we successfully completed our challenge, and put up the shelter at long last. At this point, the mother of the family insisted I must sleep in the guest room. Exhausted after the tent saga and rather longing for the peace and quiet of my shelter, but feeling too rude to decline her kind offer, I accepted, and was lead into the house.
 
There followed a huge feast of olives, cheese, egg, bread, delicious home cooked potato wedges, and a lot of Turkish tea to wash it all down with. We used the son's English-Turkish translation app on his phone to translate our conversations, since none of them spoke a word of English. One of the first things they asked was' Why are you doing this?' I replied 'Because I am a little mad'. They then asked 'Why does your family let you go?' I replied 'They are also a little mad'. I explained my mother was an artist, who sculpted 8 foot high hare-men doing gymnastics on hoops, my father was driving back from Scilly with many pots, and my brother was living and working in Sierra Leone. They found this all most amusing, and clearly had never heard anything like it before. They lead very different lives, and I imagine had never left their farm. The grandparents, parents, and children all lived in this one farm house, and it was rather lovely to observe their way of life. Everything was very clean, one always took off their shoes before entering the house, and each family member had their different roles around the farm They farmed cows and chickens as far as I could see, and had the sweetest little chicks, which were waddling around my deserted tent in the paddock.
 
I went to bed early, but was soon awoken by the entire family coming into my bed room and offering me chai (tea). They then noticed I was not wearing the pajamas they had left out for me, having collapsed into bed, still wearing my clothes. The big mumma of the family kept prodding me in my sleepy slumber, repeating 'pajama, pijama' rather manically, before feeling my forehead and patting my cheeks, perhaps worried I had a cold. After this ordeal had finally finished, the five family members departed my room and left me to sleep. I was very thank full about this as I was keen to wake early in the morning, having made little progress the day before.
 
They woke early especially, and insisted on cooking me breakfast before I left. Despite my attempts to offer help in the kitchen, the son directed me to the sitting room where we were to sit and watch television until the feast was ready, at which point it was wheeled in on a trolly, and the rest of the family came to join us, to sit down, and dig in. There were many photos and hugs before I left, and they told me how happy they were to have met me, and to make sure I came to visit them again,I assured them I would try, thanked them enormously for everything they had done, and bid them all farewell.

So it has been quite a trip, and rather a roller-coaster ride since I left you on my bird balcony in Split.
I spent a lovely day or two on Korcula Island, off the coast of Croatia with Chris, who came to visit me for a long weekend from Salzburg.
We were welcomed into a sweet guest house, run by a father and daughter, who appeared to be in the midst of a very colourful working project. The two of them were painting up the house for the Summer season, with beautiful shades of cobalt blues, cadmium yellows and light pythalio greens. Immediately attracted to the building, the colours, and the company, we soon reached an agreement, where by I would help the two of them paint up the house, and in return, they would let me stay in the house for free. This seemed in every way ideal for me since I was rather beginning to twiddle my thumbs, waiting to take the ferry from Split to Italy, where I was to start teaching in a summer camp in San Remo, a couple of weeks later.
The next morning however, I received an email from Rachael, who works at the Oxford International School in Bishkek, the capital of Kyrgyzstan; a beautiful country that lies in the high ground of central Asia, and neighbours China, Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan and Tajikistan. The landscape is said to be stunning, holding host to fabulous rolling hills, and magnificent mountains, dotted with turquoise lakes, and national parks
was filled with excitement in receiving the news that they needed an art teacher to start in August, as I envisaged myself galloping over the terrific terrain by horse back (apparently a must-do in the mountains), and scooting around the country side on Grettle during my holidays. Immediately my ideas changed, the boredom that was beginning to creep its way into my mind, disappeared in a flash, and a feeling of nervous excitement brimmed as I began to sketch out Grettle's biggest challenge yet; to travel through the Middle East, across the Capsium Sea by cargo ship, through the deserts of Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan, over the Pamir and Fan mountains, that range from Tajikistan and lead into Kyrgyzstan. I have noticed on my map that in areas, the mountains reach a height of over 7000 meters. With all this in mind, I packed my bags, explained the news to the pair at the guest house, who seemed to take this in their stride, smiling broadly, and hopped on the ferry back to Split, to begin my journey east, towards Istanbul.
The interview took place on the border of Croatia and Montenegro a day or two later; it was rather an unusual one to say the least. Rachael was on the west coast of India, on a beach in Goa, whilst I was in a small coffee spot, which was playing ear achingly loud music, just past the border check-point.
We began with a phone call which soon cut out when my credit ran out, at which point we continued the conversation by email, and ended it with a very poor signalled chat over Skype. I tried to sound as sane as I possibly could, when explaining I would not be flying, but arriving by Vespa, a little worried this may swing the balance, and I would be considered a little too eccentric to be teaching their primary school children. To my amazement, I was offered the job at the end of the interview, and wished the best of luck for my journey.
I sailed happily on through Montenegro, between fantastic, high climbing rock formations and mountains, and past the clearest water, and
most fabulous lakes yet, until I reached the Albanian border. Here, dark clouds began to mass, and a storm which seemed to announce the end of the world soon broke out. It was surreal, spooky, and magnificent simultaneously, I considered I was about to witness a tornado for the first time; as the clouds curled and spiralled in shape, all the rubbish that had been lying on the deserted street, suddenly came to life, and began rattling down the roads, and flying over head as the gale gathered speed.
As I was scooting along a very winding scenic road through high, red rock walls and tunnels, built into the cliffs, the thunder began, followed by flashes of lightning; huge strikes of electricity through the dark sky lit up the landscape as far as the eye could see, striking the ground a little too close for comfort, as Grettle and I cowered beneath the darkening sky. Not long after this, the heavens opened, and torrential rain began to pound down on the two of us, until we were forced to take refuge in a large supermarket, with a small café attached to one side, where we sat and watched this scene in awe, whilst the electricity flickered on and off over our heads.
I booked a hostel in Albania for the night to avoid camping in such extreme weather, and when the storm had finally come to an end, I set off, arriving rather late in the day, to find the small hobble named Mi Casa E Tu Casa. It was lovely and cosy, and I was welcomed in by the
hostel owner and Vespa lover, I told him of my journey and he became so over excited that he insisted I must accompany him to Vespa Club the following evening, where I would 'have a lot of explaining to do'. I agreed on the condition I could spend the second night for a discounted price, and he excepted with pleasure.
So the following evening we both hopped aboard our Vespas, he had a lovely older model in red, and the two of us scooted off into the darkness, a van full of other tourists followed in hot pursuit, intrigued as to what Vespa club might entail. The hostel owner informed me that I had missed by one day, the Vespa parade which took place through the streets of the town I was in, called Sukera. He showed me a video of thousands of Vespa's of all shapes and sizes, winding in and out of one and other, down the flag-filled road, it looked marvellous, and I was sad to have missed it. Perhaps the parade moves from country to country, and I will come across it in a darkened alley way of Azerbaijan!
Vespa club was not as quite as exciting as I had hoped, but we enjoyed some strong Albanian liker, and a delicious local meal, surrounded by large paintings and small sculptures of Vespas.
The following day, I set off for Macedonia, where, on reaching the border, I was asked to pay 50 Euros for insurance, at which point I decided to turn back, and try Greece. To my relief, I was asked for nothing at the Greek border, and so enjoyed a fabulous few days driving along the coast line, and camping on the beaches, until I reached Turkey.
On the road through Greece I saw three tortoises waddling slowly across the road. The first gave me such a shock, I stopped in the middle of the road to meet it personally, before placing it in a safe place away from the traffic. It even had a short ride on Grettle, the two of them looked rather splendid together. The second was managing well on its own and seemed to be gathering speed, and the third was the sweetest little baby, which I seriously considered taking on as my own. Sadly, I was not convinced I could look after it well whilst on the road, so I decided to wait until I was in one place for some length of time, when I might well adopt a little tortoise as my travel companion- they really were adorable!
Things became less adorable on reaching Turkey however, where I saw a horrific sight of a dead horse, lying frigid on the road side. After this, I came across a camel, which lightened my mood somewhat, until reaching the hectic highways leading into Istanbul, at which point my luck and light mood changed rapidly, as I collided head on with a fast moving van.
I had asked two men for directions, and in following their arm gesture to the left, clearly misinterpreted the road they had been signalling to, and found my self on a fast moving, one-way system. Before I knew it, I had rounded a corner, to collide head on with a large van. The next few minutes are a bit of a blur, many figures were standing over me, papers were being flapped over my head to cool me down, and heaps of smoke bellowed out from a few meters away. One horrible half glance to my left, revealed the damage to Grettle. My heart sank as I saw her lying under the front of the van, smashed to smithereens. Oil was leaking over the road, and poor travel monkey still clung to her wing mirror for dear life.
As I was carried onto a stretcher, and put in the ambulance, I insisted that the police take Grettle to a safe place where I could fix her. Every time I tried to move or protest in order to do this, I was pushed back down onto the stretcher, where a women was forcefully attempting to put a brace around my neck. I found this horribly intrusive and suffocating, and insisted she let me be. Eventually, she reluctantly removed the hard plastic from under my head and we set off.
I was driven to the local hospital, with a searing pain in my left knee. I was told my bags and bike would safe, and assured that the staff in the hospital would help me retrieve them. Having arrived, I was hoisted onto another trolley bed, at which point the ambulance pair left, and I was told someone would come.
I looked around some time later, to realize I was tucked into the wall of a long corridor, crowded with people, all yelling in Turkish, and bustling about; it did not look at all likely in this crazy place, that I would be seen to any time soon. Pain still throbbing up my leg, patience failing me, and frustration brewing that no one spoke English, I hobbled off my bed and limped across the hospital, desperately trying to find someone who could tell me where my bags, license, and Grettle had been taken, a large needle was still protruding from my right arm.
No one seemed to have any idea, and tears began to pour down my cheeks, as panic began to set in. A nice and helpful Turkish man with his wife and daughter, spoke English, and came to the rescue. I explained my worries, and to my relief, he rang the police force, who he said would arrive soon, and help me find my belongings. He gave me a bundle of cigarettes, and found a wheel chair for me to collapse in to, as the use of my legs was excruciatingly painful, and it seemed my trolley had been taken over by another patient in my absence.
The police arrived a few moments later, at which point the nice man, having found a surgeon to remove the needle from my arm, stuffed 50 Turkish lira into my hand, gave me his business card in case I had any trouble, and departed the hospital, leaving me with a team of helpers. It was rather an amusing team, thinking back on it now; I was being wheeled about by another civilian, who had a large plaster cast on his arm, and seemed to be the only one who spoke English, he must have been about 16 years old. He acted as translator, and the two police officers followed us around, as I was wheeled from room to room, finally reaching an X-Ray chamber, where I was told there 'is no broken bones'.
Relieved about this, but still hurting badly, I tried to signal for someone to cut the elastic from the bottoms of my hareems; I had not yet seen the damage. These signals received perplexed and empty expressions, so I drew the pen knife from around my neck, and cut the elastic, to find a mass of cuts criss-crossing my legs, and a pair of knees the size of Puffa Fish. The nice young boy helped me find someone who cleaned me up a little, and put a few bandages over the scrapes and bruises.
After this, the two police officers drove me in their car to a station near by, where my bags had been taken. Relieved to be out of the hospital, and to find nothing had been stolen, I entered into a small room, where I had to sit through a horribly tedious police report, and many hours of waiting, with a head banging like a breast thumping baboon.
A few hours later, everything was finally finished, and I was to be taken to an English speaking,civilian police officer, after hours, to the park in which Grettle had been trucked to. He kindly paid for my metro and helped me hobble on and off the trams, until we arrived at the park, to see poor Grettle, amidst a mass of broken cars, all piled on top of one and other.
She did not look happy, travel monkey still clung to her ear like a loyal companion, but her front was fairly non existent; the impact of the van had smashed her up fairly badly, but I was amazed to see both wheels were intact, a bit bent, hidden beneath the tangle of loose wires and plastic. My tent was hanging from her side, my jacked hung from the top box, and what seemed to be oil, was smeared all over the seat.
The nice police officers called a bike fixing man around the corner, who appeared at the scene a few moments later. Having been told Grettle was unfixable and not ridable at the scene of the accident, my heart skipped a beat, when the man said 'you want fix tonight?' I nodded eagerly and the four of us by this point, wheeled Grettle around the corner to his shop. We had a close shave in finding no key with Grettle. The last time I remembered seeing it, it had been placed in the key hole of the top box on the road where I had crashed. Word was spread that the key was missing, and a man appeared triumphantly a moment later, holding the wrong set of keys. My heart sank as I was told, 'no keys, no bike'. Thankfully, twenty minutes and many phone calls later, a different man appeared, clutching the colourful pile of key-rings, and I was filled with hope once again.
The idea of fixing the bike tonight however, had been slightly miss understood, but I was happy and hopeful in hearing that she could be mended, so long as all the parts were found, and if I could pay the price of course. I fear this will be rather large and extremely difficult considering my budget, but I am told it should be cheaper than a new bike. To my horror, Grettle in Istanbul costs around 10 000 dollars.
The policemen invited me to stay at their flat that night, and in accepting their kind offer, I was lead into a small sitting room, where three
other officers sat around the table. They all looked sightly perplexed by the disheveled looking English girl, hobbling into their living room.T
hey were a friendly bunch, and having been a little concerned about following the two men to their flat, after my last encounter, I was relieved to see no 'White Snake' inscription scribbled above their door.
We listened to Turkish music, and drank lots of wine, 'medicine' they said, smiling broadly. One of the police men was very proud of his personal concoction of red wine and sprite, which I have to admit, was delicious, and I promised him I would spread the word around England....so make sure you give it a go!
Food went down extremely well having not eaten anything since a small bun in Greece, and I gobbled down a bowl of pasta, cooked for me by one of the men, followed by a mixture of nuts, gherkins, apple, dried meat with lemon sauce, and other yummy nibbly-bits.
After this, I was shown my bed, and fell onto the comfy mattress, sinking into the soft pillows, and slipped into the world of nod. It felt fantastic to rest.
So I woke up this morning in the flat, and was cooked a sumptuous breakfast of boiled eggs, a type of parotha bread, olives, feta cheese, chocolate sauce, Turkish tea, fresh orange juice, and a mixed salad of tomatoes, cucumber, onions, and lettuce, until I had filled my stomach, and we sat down to watch the preparations for the upcoming Turkish elections on television.
The streets outside the flat were buzzing, and filled with flags, banners, and music for the election. I watched this from the balcony, puffing on a cigarette, and sipping on Turkish tea, as I considered what a peculiar predicament I appeared to be in.
I bid farewell to the five policemen, having exchanged Facebook addresses, and emails, thanking them hugely for all their help. I hope I will see them again when Grettle (if Grettle) is done up and ready to rumble once again.
They had been incredibly kind, brought my medicine and bandages, and made sure I had all the contact numbers I needed to sort out the Grettle saga, which it seemed, might last some time.
So, you are more or less up to date, I am currently in Istanbul hostel, a little sore and stiff and a bit of a hop-a-long. But it's very nice and cosy here, with a roof top terrace and a comfy lounge. I am outside on a small bench with a large shisha pipe next to me, listening to Turkish calls to prayer, and writing up the latest.
I am staying in a large dorm room and have haggled the price down to 6 squid per night, for the next week or two, while I get my visas for Uzbekistan and Tajikistan sorted, and wait for word on Grettle.
I have been told through various translators that it will take a week, if it is possible, and all her replacement parts can be found, so fingers crossed on this front, and I hope to know for sure by tomorrow. I will keep you all updated.
If worst comes to the worst, ideas are brewing for the purchase of an Arab horse, or a camel, to continue the journey with. In asking a rather perplexed looking police officer about the purchase of either of these however, I was informed that neither are sold in Turkey! So I may have to wait until I get a little further East if these ideas take flight. For now though, fingers crossed for Grettle's revival!
Until next time,
Adios!

Hello again, and Greetings from sunny Croatia!
Grettle has been on fantastic form, travel frog has been ribbiting happily by her side, and the three of us arrived in Croatia over a week ago, from the rocky mountain passes of Slovenia. What a spectacular drive it has been! One that has certainly rivaled that of the Grossglockner Pass, and which has embedded a broad and permanent smile across my face. From the snow capped peaks of the Alpine mountains, to the sun, sand, and sea of the Mediterranean; it has been an adventure to say the least, and one that has brought with it, some of the most stunning scenery I have ever witnessed.
If I remember correctly, I left you whilst snug in my tent, upon the Wurzen pass, of the Austria- Slovenia border, intrigued as to what I might find along the winding way. As it turned out, what lay ahead for me that day, was something almost more beautiful than Grettle herself (I realize this is hard to imagine!)
Just as I thought I had seen the best of the Pass, I arrived at a crossroads, with little idea of which way to turn. I took a right at random, and what fantastic luck that I did! The small road led me onto a separate pass altogether, that wound its way through yet another fabulous national park. The name of the this, I later learned, was the Potkoren Pass, where the photograph on my last post was taken.
 
I think it might have climbed higher even then the Grossglockner, although I cannot remember the height written on the final turn
of the pass. The gradient of the hill became so steep and serpent-like, that we slowed to a pace only marginally faster than Aunt Marge, until it became nothing more than a narrow, cobbled path, only just wide enough for a small truck to squeeze through. On the way to the top, there were in fact many small trucks; it was rather peculiar actually; each followed a cyclist, and played pumping tunes from a stereo, that
became louder and louder, supporting the groups of cyclists until they reached the top, where there followed a ceremonious celebration, and much clapping and cheering, as each exhausted rider reached the end.
Grettle, Travel Frog, and I, had reached the highest peak of the pass early in the morning, where there lay one small square of concrete; a flat view point over the mountains, that spread out beneath us, like a colourful and finely knit tapestry. I parked on this point, sat down to munch on a cheese sandwich, and attempted to paint a picture of the fabulous view.
I was soon joined by the usual team of beefy bikers. These turned out to be mainly Italian, all of which fell deeply in love with Grettle, grouping around her in admiration, and inspecting her closely. Watching this from afar, I took what I thought to be a very subtle snap shot of this amusing scene, but was caught red-handed by one of the men. He asked curiously if I was the owner. I nodded and laughed in
seeing their amazed expressions, and we soon got chatting.
One thing led to another, and a long photo shoot followed, during which each leather-clad biker stood with thumbs up and goofy expressions, beside, or on top of Grettle, who shone proudly in front of the magnificent back drop of the Alps. They then rather embarrassingly insisted on taking a video, asking me to promote Vespa mountain adventures, for their friend, who it turned out was also a Vespa owner, but had not had the balls to take the trip.
The crowds of cyclists peered over to this unusual scene, and I rather felt it was time to move on, for the photo shoot was blocking the entire viewpoint over the mountains. Having realized this, I hastily packed up my painting equipment, bid farewell to the Italians, and descended t
he pass, through Slovenia, and onwards towards Croatia.
I have since received word from the fellow bikers by email, and was rather chuffed and amused to find out that Grettle and I had become their idol! They sent me all of their photos from that sunny morning upon the Potkoren Pass, and I will try to share a few of them with you on the blog.
I drove on to Croatia that same day, and on seeing the ocean, whooped for joy, congratulating Grettle and Frog on their efforts. My
excitement was rather short-lived however, and having arrived in Rijeka; a city which lies at the top of the Croatian coast, I searched for the familiar Road 8, which takes one down the entire length of Croatian coastline, through some dramatic rocky scenery, down a marvelously swerving coastal road. It was getting dark and I must have taken one too many wrong turns, in search of the right one, finding my self in the dark, on a fast moving motorway, heading inland. Very tired and a little frustrated by this point, I took the first turning that I came across, and sidled into a near-by field to set up the tent.
I settled in a spot that seemed in every way to be ideal, considering the circumstances; out of sight of the road, on a flattish patch of grass, and where I assumed I would not be troubled.
Alas- no such luck!
I slept only for a short few hours, and stumbled sleepily out of my tent that morning to take in the view. I woke with a start as a loud and fierce bark sounded from behind me. Turning around, I saw a vicious looking dog, snarling maliciously at Grettle and I. For a few moments, we stared at each other. I was hoping desperately for a change from the bad atmosphere; to witness a wag in the tail, a tummy to rub, or a friendly greeting of some kind. After a moments pause, the barking began again, this time louder and more malicious, and before too long the dog was joined by another, larger and fiercer looking breed, that leaped out from behind the hedge row to join his buddy.
There was a house not far away, and it suddenly occurred to me, these were either guard dogs, or a wild dogs, neither of which sounded like the nice cup of tea I was hoping for that morning! I was longing for an owner to appear but no such sign did. The two of them began to circle the tent, and the barking became more ferocious still, as they began to hone in on me
I stood frozen to the spot, trying to think of a plan. I thought of Crocodile Dundee, and the scene in which he transforms two wild dogs into
soppy, friendly pups. If I remember correctly, he did so, by making some peculiar noise, resembling that which a buffalo in pain might let out, simultaneously doing something strange with his hands, pointed in the direction of the incoming beasts. Hoping there was some truth and method behind the madness, I considered attempting this myself, but as the dogs circled closer, I realized I was stretching to desperate, and deluded measures. Such behavior would only encourage the wild things, and excite them further.
I had no stick with me to fight off the dogs, and so there was nothing for it but to climb back inside the tent. My heart pumping fast, I waited, and leaving a small flap unzipped, watched ,as they paused for a second, assessing the new situation. The snarling ceased and I held my breath. At that moment, something must have taken their fancy more than myself, and they suddenly bounded off into the darkness.
Taking this opportunity, I crawled out hastily from the tent, and began to pack up my bags. In a flash, they were back, barking harder and louder than ever. I leaped back into the tent, and peered at them through the mosquito flap with my heart in my stomach.
Another ten minutes passed, the snarling ceased again, and once more, they bounded off into the darkness. Perhaps this was some kind of sick game, and they would just keep me here for ever!? I crept once again out of the tent, half expecting them to dart back as soon as they heard a noise, but thankfully, nothing hurtled in my direction. I hurriedly packed up my bits and pieces, threw my bags over Grettle, revved up the engine, and hurtled off into the distance, as fast as her little wheels could carry her, relieved to leave the sounds of snarls behind me, and escape once again into the darkness.
I lost my memory stick that morning, it must have fallen from my bags, as I hurriedly leaped on the bike. Since I had been totally lost in the first place, by the time I had found the familiar Road 8, and realized what I was missing in a little coffee spot, I had no idea where to go back to to find it. Although I had lost some super footage from the mountain passes, I was in fact rather relieved, to have an excuse to avoid the wild dogs, and a second terrifying encounter.
That day, I sailed on down the superb small road that hugs the Croatian coastline, and just as I was beginning to feel a little tired, I was approached by two men at a gas station, whilst sipping on an ice coffee. I only remember the name of the one who spoke English, and introduced himself as Marco; a local chap who had run some adventure biker's program, and told me of a beautiful camp that he would like to show me, if I had the time.
Debating for a second whether or not it would be wise for me to follow these two strangers, I considered the potential alternative, of wild dogs and lone camping, and took the two men up on their offer. I was then escorted, with a large adventure bike behind and in front of Grettle, to the middle of absolutely nowhere!
I began to consider that perhaps I had made an error in judgement, as we wiggled our way up and down tiny path ways, over the
mountains, and inland from the sea.
Eventually however, to my relief, my nervous imaginings of what could follow this escort ceased, in seeing a beautiful oasis of trees, green grass and an azure blue lake, which lay in the middle of a valley amidst the rocky, baron mountains.
Many Slovenian, Croatian, Italian and other men where camping here, and I was rather relieved to see one other girl among the crowds. I had a beer with the boys, and decided to camp one night before moving on to Dolac, which was my next destination. Marco filled my map with places I must go and see, and put me in touch with a friend of his, who lived in the adjacent town to Dolac, on the coast. I enjoyed a happy evening in the camp, found a group of younger hippies to enjoy a mellow smoke with , some delicious meat, (although it was too dark to decipher what exactly I was eating, I thought it best to keep it that way) and was treated to many beers to wash it all down with. I retired to bed before the party had reached its peak, and woke early in the morning with a banging head, rather eager to continue on my
I drove on to Dolac, where I held many happy memories, in a small bar called Boxer Bar, sadly to find it was closed as the season had not yet properly started. I hope to return there before my time in Croatia is up, to say hello once again to the lovely group of bar staff, who took me under their wing for a week, whilst I camped in the shade of some trees, in the small cove, which hosted the sweet little bar, perched on the rocky cliffs above the beach.
So in driving on to Primosten, I called Borko, the friend that Marco had put me in touch with, who invited me up to his lovely villa overlooking the beach. He turned out to be a diving instructor, and so I spent a wonderful few days out on the boat, snorkeling and sketching, putting my feet up, and generally having a marvelous time. This pleasantry stopped rather abruptly however, a few days after my arrival, at which point I somehow, and quite honestly hold no idea how, set a-light his dressing gown! I had smoked a cigarette earlier that morning, removed the dressing-gown, and returned to my room a few minutes later, to find smoke bellowing out from it's pocket. It had burned bad holes in both the gown, and the bed sheet it lay on, and I felt rather embarrassed having to explain the situation to Borko, when he returned from his early morning jog.This happened only shortly after I dropped and broke one of his best glasses, and so the
moment came where it became apparent I ought to move on. I think he was in agreement on this front, clearly a little concerned his villa might soon be burnt to the ground!
I left the diving spot and was soon approached an old hippy named Jure. He told me of some nice herbal substances in his place, and through muddled sign language and gesture (since he did not speak a work of English, and I, not a word of Croatian or German -excluding the line 'I wear leather underwear', taught to me by my dear friend Olivia, and which I later learned, was not the best line to come out with in this particular predicament!), agreed on taking Grettle a couple of minutes up the road, to his place, to listen to a bit of the Beatles, and enjoy a smoke.
I began to feel a little anxious on entering the run down looking place, through large iron gates, where a large padlock hung from the railings. We arrived at the door, above which there was an inscription scribbled in white paint. I looked at this curiously, and a broad smile stretched across Jure's face. 'The White Snake' he said smiling, as we entered through the door. Nervous laughter... But on we went....
In passing through a long narrow corridor, we entered into a kitchen area, where there were fur cones, plants, tinsel, hats, scissors, some sort of cutting equipment, rods, even a pair of heeled boots; there was really very little that was not hanging from string tied to the ceiling. Again, a quizzical look, and a mimed response of some kind that I could not decipher. I think he mistook my curious expression as I gazed at the pair of heeled boots hung to the ceiling, and thought I needed a new pair of shoes, offering these to me hastily. In actual fact, I was wondering what on earth happened to the poor woman who must have once been wearing them. I refused his offer, and tried to remain vaguely calm whilst this mad man began to mumble that wine, or, 'vine', vas his life!
Soon the spliff was lit, and my worries grew a little larger, as he began dancing and swooping around the dark chamber, now and then stopping to stroke my cheek, whispering 'Emmmmma...you are gooooood, i love you.' with a mad, obsessive, and manic look in his eyes. Bugger fuck! Time to go I thought! The doors were locked, and I worried for a long second he would not let me leave. A big error in judgement no doubt, agreeing with this mad old hippy to accompany him in the first
place.
I told him plainly and clearly I felt uncomfortable, that I must leave, and to unlock the doors immediately. I felt a little like Hermione Granger, when she attempts to tell Gwarp, Hagrid's Giant younger brother, to 'Put her down! Now!'. 'I don't knooooow Emma' was the response, repeated over and over, as bottles of wine where disappearing down his throat at the speed of light. Perhaps he had no idea what I was saying, but I think the gist was caught in the end, just at the point when I was getting seriously worried I might not see the light of
day again!
Finally I was outside the White Snake's house, at which point, he attempted to hoist him self on top of Grettle, behind me. I insisted I must go alone, and almost had to run the old man down, as he stood stubbornly in front of the bike, refusing to let me leave. Beside us, was the horrible, familiar sounds of a guard dog; a great black beast, chained to the bollard next to the entrance, yapping and barking furiously at this scene.
With one final rev of the engine, a little more power, we escaped the clutches of the mad man, and I was relieved to be free of the White Snake's abode, scooting as fast as I could to a small cove I knew a little further down the coast. I camped here for the night and tried with little luck, to regain a calm mind-set.
The next morning, I spent filling out application forms, and signing a contract for teaching English in Turkey. The semester will start in September, and end in June- rather a long stint but I am needing to top up the coppers a little, in order to afford the extortionately high costs of guides through China, and the spectacular Karakorum highway, leading from there to India.
I am now a little further down the coast line in a city called Split, waiting to catch the ferry tomorrow morning to Korcula island, where I hope to catch up on painting, and have a generally more relaxing time than I have done for the last few days!
I arrived in the center of the city, feeling rather flustered and wondering where on earth I could find a cheap hostel amidst the chaos. A young lady saw me looking about nervously, and asked me if I was looking for somewhere to stay. I nodded cautiously, wondering where I might be taken next, and any excited anticipation was soon lost in arriving at a towering set of grey, concrete flats. I followed her, and on our way up the many flights of stairs, she attempted to win my approval, by muttering words such as balcony, paintings, food, and so on, until we finally reached her layer, where she swung open the window in my room, singing 'Birds', as it opened onto a scape of high rise concrete flats and apartments; not a bird in sight!
My initial skepticism however, soon past, in seeing the rooms, the double beds, the televisions, and kitchen area, at which point she told me there was much salami in the fridge, to help myself to coffee and food, and to make myself at home. This swung the decision, and so here I am , chilling on my bird balcony, overlooking the city, sipping on coffee, and writing this entry.
I am soon to work in a summer camp in the Italian Alps, teaching English and art to young kids, and so will be setting off from Croatia in a week or so, to start the training. I am told this will go on for 5 days in San Remo, after which point I will be told where exactly in the Alps I will be teaching. All rather exciting, and I am looking forward to meeting some other young, and more normal characters, holding my breath that there will be no White Snake for a good few thousand miles!
Until then, Adios X

Diary Entry last night;

Well, I am snug in my tent, perched on the Austria-Slovenia border, in the Alpine mountains of the Wurzen Pass.
The distant peaks are spectacular; enveloped by effervescing, expansive, pearly white mist that swallows their snowy tops and sits in their valleys. A road snakes into the distance and disappears beyond the brow of the hill. I wonder what I will find on following its trail in the early hours of tomorrow morning- perhaps more marmots?!
I have just crossed the fabulous and snowy Grossglockner Alpine Pass, which winds its way over Austria's highest mountain, straight through the middle of a vast national park. What a fabulous day to glide over the Alps! The sun has been shining since leaving Salzburg this morning, and the views from the height of 2600 meters were more than words could do justice.
Grettle made many friends upon Biker's Point; being the only Vespa in sight, she received much spoiling behavior from the crowds of leather-clad bikers and families in their 4x4's. Lucky Grettle! One small boy belonging to a family that engaged me in interested conversation about the trip, ran up to me post farewells, and put ten euros in my hand, 'for good luck' he said, smiling, before dashing off into the distance to join his parents. I promised him the photograph of the two of us would feature in the next blog post, so here it is! Big smiles!
I listened to the Beatles full pitch as I soared (or rather snailed) over the Grossglockner Pass, singing happily to Grettle continuously.
As I was descending the Pass, there was a huge landslide that had completely blocked the road, so we waited for many scoop-trucks and the like to move the monumental pile of snow. I was a little concerned in witnessing the first rescue man appear at the scene with bright yellow, rather flimsy looking  spade, not dissimilar from the likes one finds in Pound Land, and considered that this saga might last some
time!
Thankfully, ten minutes later the way was clear, and I sped on down the pass to a cold celebratory brew awaiting me at the bottom, brought kindly for me by two admirers of Grettle that I had met on the pass.
The snow and ice faded quickly as I sunk once again into green pastures and pleasant lands, filled with cows and goats, and a rather beautiful scene of a man practicing Parelli (a type of Horse Whispering) with his long-maned Arab, in an adjacent field, filled with yellow flowers.
 
Salzburg has been super, I spent three days there; about the amount of time it took for my soaking clothes to dry! Poor Chris, as per usual, was met by a huge bin-liner of sopping clothes and a very disheveled looking me. The marathon had begun that day and the walk or hike back to the Prince's Palace was rather a strenuous one. I, as usual had arrived on the wrong side of the river, and after failing to wind my way on Grettle through the crowds of runners, Chris and bin-bag in tow, I succumbed to walking and wheeling her back, over the pedestrian bridge, past the many musicians, and finally arriving at Buddha palace some time later.
The prince, to my relief, was not present for the duration of my stay, I am sure this would have been received as tremendous news by him also, with our last encounter in mind. It turned out he had just returned from the Big Brother show, having suffered rather a public and brutal break-up whilst on television, and so naturally, appeared to be keeping a low profile.
Chris was very generous and we indulged in many delicious Austrian feasts, and spent one fabulous evening drinking cocktails on the roof terrace of a building that looked over the whole of Salzburg, it looked splendid at night, the many lights reflected in the glistening river, and
the distant echoes of music bouncing off the walls of the city. On the only sunny day in Salzburg, we took the bus to a beautiful lake in Germany, where I had an icy cold dip that relieved my hangover in a flash, and we gazed at the old building perched on top of a mountain, that towered over the lake, where it is said that Hitler had resided, in his Eagles' Nest during the war.
 
Going back a little further, my drive through Germany was a challenge to say the least. Absolutely fowl weather and no waterproofs. Sod's Law that I now have brought my self a very expensive waterproof jacket, and it refuses to rain! I spent two nights camping beside different lakes, and one night in 'Biker's Lodge'; rather extravagant but extremely necessary- I faintly resembled a water balloon with my many layers of sopping clothes. Having stumbled into the lodge, and haggled the price down from 45 to 40 euros, I then reappeared in my smartest, driest set of clothes, hoping to find a small table to myself, where I could catch up on grails, writing and art. The dining room was full, and so I was ushered, and rather forcefully directed to sit at the end of a long table of rowdy rock-bikers. I think they were probably as in-enthused as myself about this particular predicament, having witnessed my most inelegant entrance on Grettle, where I had parked scruffily next to the long line of huge black motorbikes, that shone smartly outside the lodge. Before too long however, we had all made firm friends; taking snap shots, exchanging email addresses and drinking the night away.
The Rock-Bikers who call themselves 'The Son's of Liberty' were so amused and impressed by Grettle's efforts,  that they insisted on buying me a huge mixed grill for supper. As I was ordering this, the waitress and lodge owner crouched beside me and asked 'may I have a word?'. A little confused and rather drunk by this point, I soon realized by her worried expression and words of concern, that she did not think I would be able to pay for this monumental feast (she had been the victim of my haggling an hour previously). I calmed her nerves by explaining The Son's of Liberty were treating me to supper, she looked almost as surprised as I was, but accepted this reluctantly and slunk off the kitchens rather sheepishly, to inform the chefs and prepare the feast. And what a feast it was!
Very full and very tired after the long day driving, I announced my departure to bed over the rowdy German jokes, and bid goodnight to the motley crew. The biggest and rockiest of the lot confirmed with me the number of my room and without thinking, I nodded, laughing nervously as he said 'I will see you there later'. Hoping this was a joke (he must have seen at least a half century), I hurried on up to bed. Sure enough, a few hours later, I heard the dreaded sound of knocking and the hushed whispers of 'Emma?' at my door. I lay still as a log and thankfully he soon gave up, retiring to his chamber next to mine.
The following morning I stuffed my bag with buns, cheese and salami from the buffet breakfast, surreptitiously wrapping them up in the damp pages of my ancient road map for lunch, and sidled out of the lodge rather hastily, to embark on the next leg of my journey to Austria.
I have promised The son's of Liberty a team drawing as a thank you for the supper, and am awaiting the email with attached photograph of the gang.
I also made an arrangement with the lady of a couple who sat at the table, named Hyder (wife of Hyker), to paint a picture of her beloved motorbike. They have promised in return a couple of nights in their villa in Croatia...rather looking forward to a few nights of such luxury!
 
Finally, we reach where I left you before, in Amersfoort, with Carien. I enjoyed a lovely stay as usual, and before departing, gave her a portrait of her beloved cat, Koshka, along with a huge jungle plant to add to her collection , as a thank you for having me and a very Happy 52nd Birthday. Carien had tears in her eyes as I presented Koshka to her, and parting ways was emotional as always- I shall miss her!
From Carien's, I scooted back down to Belgium to visit Yvette, a biking friend I had met at a gas station with Grettle in Normandy, having a
sked for her help in checking my oil. Yvette and her two sons live in Beringen, Berverlo, in South East Belgium. I drew cockerels by day, and smoked herbs by night; and all in all, had a tremendous time.
I think her sons, aged 13 and 16 considered this mad English woman residing in their house rather peculiar, splashing paint around with the chickens and intermittently whizzing about atop a green Vespa, I can't really blame them! I gave the best chicken to Yvette as a present and a thank you. Before I left, she commissioned one portrait of her boys, bringing home a huge canvas from work one day, with a wide grin across her face. All was a success and she seemed to love the drawing, thankfully.
So here we are, up to date, and in Slovenia, on the Wurzen Pass. I look forward to seeing what wonders this winding path will reveal tomorrow morning. Grettle only just made it up the first steeply graded hill of the Pass, and so fingers crossed we will make the journey to Croatia in one piece. Until then- Adios!

GRETTLE MAKES IT TO HOLLAND – 27TH APRIL

So i have little time before setting off for Brussels in Belgium, but i am pleased to announce that despite all expectation, Grettle did not breakdown in Dover, and the two of us (three including Travel Frog) have successfully made it from Calais to Amersfoort, in the north of Holland. I am staying with an old friend of mine, Carien, who i met in Srilanka at the age of 19. I arrived two days ago and met the family for Carien's 51st birthday celebrations. I will be setting off to Brussels in a jiffy to see an old school friend, Jutta.
It has taken rather a few too many hoots, wrong side of the road driving, and a fair few disapproving looks as Grettle battled the lorries on the French, Belgium, and Dutch motorways, but we have made it in one piece and live to tell the tale!
I spent the first night camping in a field on route to Dover, and plan to spend my second night somewhere between here and Brussels.
Grettle is in her element here, Holland is a super place to drive a scooter; mopeds are allowed on the bicycle routes, and riders need not wear a helmet...memories of India spring to mind, only with fewer cows and colder weather! When i tire of the motorway, i sidle off a slip road and scoot peacefully on walkways and cycle routes- fabulous fun!
Carien took one look at me and equipped me with a new pair of shoes and a jumper, so i am all set to go and will hopefully have a warmer drive for this next leg of the journey than i have done so far. I am heading for Austria to see a friend in Salzburg and hope to arrive there in a week or 2.
It is Kings day in Holland today so everyone is wearing bright orange and many festivals are happening through the streets, so i imagine i will have an interesting drive south!
Until next time, Adios X