Leaving Nafplion (Hippy Attention Seeking With The Breakfast Tray)

Crossing the Bosphurus (Selling Receipts for a quid a time)

Turkish Delight (Top Tip: Don't Try Pulling With Wife in Earshot)

Departing for the Middle East (Ferry Strait-Forward)

We met a lovely guy in Nafplion. Kaz had traveled from Japan via Canada, North America, South America and Europe. We exchanged many hours of advice and pleasantries and during our chatting it became clear that he had a fairly sensible approach to this biking thing. He was aiming to leave his bike for the winter in Turkey and travel by other means.

We discussed various methods of getting to Turkey. During the discussions Helen and I saw, on TV, the snow falling in Thessaloniki. Our separate but similar plans were for Kaz to go to Athens and island hop to Antalya and for us to dash to Istanbul by way of Thessaloniki as fast as possible. Kaz made some comments that he may regret later. For instance he almost guaranteed free accommodation for as long as we want it in Japan. We may well take up the generous offer that his fine country has vicariously made to us. But seriously we would love to go to Japan but the costs seem a little daunting and any help in that direction sounds great.

His tales of his countrymen's efforts to round the globe by bike were excellent. One guy is currently in Argentina having made the length of the Americas on a 50-cc monkey bike. Rather him than us. Maybe were a bit soft.

The journey from Nafplion to Istanbul was without incident and uninteresting as the blur of scenery passed monotonously. Although the snow topped mountains on our left and the Med on our right were both nice they lined the route for the whole of the 650 miles.

The stops en route of Larissa and Alexandropoulis could not come soon enough each day and we were so pleased to get the comfort of hotel rooms. Poor Helen was on the receiving end of the only anecdote. As she manfully (a little unfair maybe) negotiated some swing doors with our breakfast in Larissa the doors were caught by the wind rendering both our breakfast and Helen covered in hot coffee. The management gamely presented us with fresh spanakopita and coffee but Helen continues to emit a midmorning odour every time she heats up. Strange.

The border with Turkey was our first red tape nightmare of the journey. We stood in several queues to be issued with bits of paper to take to the next queue. Each piece of paper cost about one pound. When we asked for the reason for the piece of paper we were told it was a receipt for one pound. Nice business if you can get it. More frustratingly was the need to pay for visas in sterling and each of two other charges in US dollars and local currency respectively. The UK cash is concealed carefully in the bowels of the motorbike and retrieving it without attracting too much attention at a border was not easy. Our attempts to get insurance got nowhere so we carry on once again trusting in our good fortune.

The route planner for Turkish road D100 did not take his ruler off the map for at least 100 miles. Maybe that's where the route number comes from. Hitting Istanbul was our usual city nightmare. This time it was compounded by the desire to stay off the toll road. If you build a toll road you make more money if you make it impossible to not be on it. Our intention was simply following the coastline until we hit recognisable features. The plan went up in smoke and we ended up getting assistance from a garage forecourt attendant. He gave us precise details even though we initially seemed to be going in the opposite direction. We persevered and got to our cheap and cheerful hostel with no further grief apart from avoiding the gung-ho local drivers that is.

At the hostel Pat engaged in conversation a young Ossie. She was saying that there was another Brit round the worlder in residence. What Pat fails to point out is that this girl was quite clearly chatting him up. Unknown to them I was able to eavesdrop from the confines of the room. Suddenly there was a change in tone when it was obvious that Pat had a wife in tow. Anyway this did wonders for Pats ego. We did meet up with Sculley. [Editor's note: Why do so many bikers have daft names like Sculley? Where are the biking Ruperts and Justins? I think it is all to do with a much-underrated work of literature "Chopper" published by NEL circa 1973.] Sculley was in fact Irish not a Brit at all. He's travelling and working his way round the world on a FZR 250 but he admits he knows f...k all about bikes. Currently awaiting his replacement visa card is entertaining us with his Ballymort banter. Seems to have had an interesting life working in Brazil and on contraband boats in Columbia.

The main reason for the trip to Istanbul is to pick up the visa for Syria. We have been told that it should be no problem but is expensive. the greatest part of the expense is the need for a letter of introduction from the British Consulate. This costs 35 pounds for a wordprocessed letter of standard form on plain paper. Something of a rip off. We felt that our passage through Istanbul had been dangerous enough and so took to taxis to take the strain. The first one was extremely cheap and so we arrived at the Consulate full of confidence. After being screened for offensive weapons (like were going to shoot up our own embassy) we met a charming lady who arranged to get our letters done by 11:30. Regrettably the Syrian Consulate closes at 11 and so another day passes. Still we did have a lovely walk back over from Galatasaray to Sultanahmet in glorious sunshine. There is a wealth of old stuff in Istanbul including an aqueduct that is inaccessible to tourists but does a fine job of splitting up the lanes of cars with its many arches.

Next day the weather had taken a turn for the worse and so the planned route march was replaced with another taxi ride to see the very nice people at the Syrian embassy. I have been keeping a mental note of the looks of the various young ladies of the world so that I can feed back to the ever bachelor Andy Smith. Helen likes to contribute to the analysis indeed the best bloke so far are apparently Czechs. I confess in the Syrian embassy to have been looking down at my boots in deference in order to avoid any possible problems. It was only after we had left that Helen pointed out the beauty of the girl that had served us. I decided that I would return alone to collect the visas in order to be objective.

In the consulate we met a charming couple who are venturing around the world or as far as they get in about a year. Harvey and Lisa (http://www.chasingthesun.org) set off at about the same time as us and hot tailed it to Turkey. They spent a month here before they had the sad news of Harvey's father's death. Helen had a bit of a strange day following this meeting with thoughts of her father's death so fresh in her mind. Having flown to England and back leaves them at about the same stage of their journey as us. They are aiming to get to Goa for Christmas. Their choice of bikes: BMW of course! We sorted out the visa thing without any problems other than taxi drivers aiming to earn their yearly profits of us.