China to the UK by bike: Georgia and Turkey

You can’t run and you can’t hide

Not my own photo - I was always too busy pedaling as fast as possible to get away!

Dogs. While I have never been the biggest pet lover, I could always see the attraction of the unconditional love a dog can provide. But one thing was for sure - I received nothing that resembled even the tiniest bit of love from dogs from the point I left China, to the traditional point of crossing into Western Europe, Vienna. I had been knocked off my bike into heavy traffic by a dog in Uzbekistan, chased by guard dogs across Central Asia, and would later count myself lucky to survive a pack of particularly vicious farm dogs in Türkiye. But Georgia was something else again.

As soon as I crossed the border, I saw up close a phenomenon that Georgia has become infamous for: a pack of wild dogs. It was the lame dog within the group that saw me first - whipping himself into a frenzy of desperate barking, he quickly alerted a large pack of 20 or more dogs to my presence. My stomach filled with dread, as this time they had caught me on a climb, with no possibility of a fast descent escape. Furthermore, I had no option but to continue through them - this was the only road into Georgia from the border crossing I had taken, and with no local currency or SIM card yet, I had to make it to the first town before nightfall. So I ploughed on through the baying horde, hoping that with every leaping lunge of a dastardly hound I would not feel the sharp pain of their teeth sinking into my leg. Luckily with this pack, their bark was worse than their bite, and after a few minutes of screaming and hollering and desperate pedalling on my part, I made it through physically, if not emotionally, unscathed.

The wine-producing valleys north of Tbilisi

It’s a shame that this became one of my most vivid memories of the country, as there was beauty to see everywhere. Tbilisi was a gorgeous capital city ringed by lovely hills, the wine-producing valleys were idyllic and many of the people incredibly welcoming. But when you fear for you life travelling on smaller, remote roads because of the high chance of being alone with a pack of wild animals loudly expressing their wish to tear your throat out, it makes the journey incredibly dangerous. You end up riding on larger highways which, while safe from dogs, are probably statistically much more dangerous as you are side-by-side with fast moving cars and trucks. There were times when I was whistling through dark tunnels on highways over mountain passes with the threat of death by truck a very real possibility, but despite knowing the peril of my situation, I still didn’t have the courage to go back to the safer country roads and face the dogs.

Luckily I was still on a roll, and fuelled by Khachapuri, the Georgian pizza smothered in cheese, butter and egg, I made it through to the Turkish border in three days. After a brief and harrowing interlude in Europe, I was about to have my final experience of Asia.

Rustic Georgian fare featuring Khachapuri. Delicious, but so heavy.

Dreaming of a summer reunion

I had read mixed reviews about cycle touring in Türkiye. The country is obviously beautiful, but scorching heat and some dangerous areas make a southern route across difficult in summer, and the Black Sea Coast to the north is very hilly and rains even more than Britain! But straight away I had a positive feeling as soon as I crossed the border. Looking back, it probably had a lot to do with this being the country where I had agreed to meet Turan at the end of my trip: everything I did here, I could imagine doing with her a month or two down the line.

The north is also the more devout Muslim area of the country. This amused me no end when I recorded the call to prayer and sent to Turan to show how loud it was at 9pm at night - I must say I am normally very supportive of her religion, and as the ear-splitting rendition in Trabzon really was something to behold I thought it important she have the chance to listen as well. It was less funny the next morning at 4:45am, as my hotel window was no match for this most special of dawn choruses.

The food and hospitality was a highlight wherever I went in Turkiye.

It was a shame I wasn’t able to spend longer exploring every nook, cranny and mountain village of the Black Sea Coast. In the essence of time, I instead chose to follow bigger roads and the most direct route to Istanbul. In general, I still really enjoyed the experience: again, the friendliness towards travellers was still ever-present, and the cheap cost of hotels with extravagant Turkish breakfasts provided something to look forward to during long days in the saddle.

As I approached Istanbul however, things started to change. The traffic got heavier, the cities more crowded, and as I made my final approach I realised the larger roads in were no longer an option if I wanted to live to tell the tale. I was forced to wind through the backstreets, up some of the steepest inclines I have ever attempted, and managed to make it to a hotel around 40km short of the Bosporous Straight, the body of water separating Europe and Asia. With the experience of Istanbul traffic fresh in my mind, and knowing there was no legal way to cycle across the Bosporous, both the bridge and tunnel being forbidden for cyclists, I concocted what I thought was the safest and smartest plan of setting off the next day at 2:30am. The logic was that this would avoid the traffic and also any security guards or police, allowing me to sneak through the tunnel unhindered.

Fighting my way through Istanbul. If the traffic didn’t get me, the steep streets would.

For the first hour and a half the plan worked. High on copious amounts of coffee, I sped through the 40km to the tunnel, arriving just after 4am. However, as I hurtled past the police check towards the mouth of the tunnel, I heard the angry shouts behind me, and my heart sank. I reluctantly came to a stop, and was soon surrounded by a big group of police. Cursing my luck that the Turkish police were so awake and aware at this hour, I produced my passport, signed some forms to admit criminal liability, and then luckily they sent me on my way. Not through the tunnel though of course - instead they insisted that I take the metro under the Bosporous. The metro didn’t start until 6am, so I spent a melancholy hour or so watching night fisherman by the water’s edge while eating borek, a type of savoury pastry, from a local cafe. I took the metro, but trying to set off again on the other side at nearly 7am was a nightmare: the Istanbul traffic was in full swing, and I once again feared for my life as cars whizzed within inches of me. My plans of taking a direct route along highways to the Bulgarian border in tatters, I took the first possible exit, and began the process of winding my way through the labyrinth of Istanbul streets north towards the countryside and quieter roads.

It did turn out to be the right decision - the countryside roads were far more picturesque, and I still made good time towards Bulgaria. A cycling-friendly hotel halfway to the border also helped to create some positivity that night, and I set of the next day for the Bulgarian border happy with the fact that I had navigated the longest country of the trip in nine action-packed days.