My friend, Clive, desperate for grey-haired or, in his case, bald, adventure has invited me to join him Istanbul in mid January. This will be the last of my posts relating the story of our autumn jaunt. There will be more to come as we research the route from Istanbul to Edirne in the chill of next month.
Gatwick is flying again and so Christmas can be kick-started, we hope, for the poor blighters affected by Dronegate. Well done to Laurence (MasterChef winner) and Neil (Popmaster champion) for fabulous displays of skill, knowledge and humility in two vital areas of life: food and music. Add the appointment of Ole Gunner and things have been looking up since I started looking away from Parliament.
Back to where I left off – in Edirne in northern Turkey. Our lovely taxi driver dropped us a couple of hundred yards from the majestic Selimiye Mosque. English was spoken by our charming host at the Selimiye Hotel. He had a Celtic look about him, light-skinned and fair-to-ginger hair. I’m not sure what I expected of a Turkish hotelier but he was certainly unlike his more swarthy compatriots wandering around this lovely city.
We wandered to the mosque and the vibrant bazaar in its curtilage. Spices, sweets and clothing and colour. The displays were stunning in their sensual appeal and extraordinary neatness. On we went into the pedestrianized centre. Late afternoon and dusk was imminent. We waited for the call to prayer, expecting the happy throng of Turks to set a course for the mosque. The call came, loud and clear. Not a flicker of response. The cafes and shops remained buzzing as the prayer call echoed from the minarets and the city speakers.
We wandered past an inspiring, exciting fish market in the middle of town. We were searching for a much-needed beer after our border experiences. On and on we trotted. Plenty of coffee and hookahs about…but after twenty minutes hard searching, no beer. We were contemplating the strangeness of a soft drink when a small sign which, unlike most, was immediately recognizable: Bar.
We wandered in to this little gem and, as the only customers were greeted with some adulation. Another swarthy guy and his charming (and less swarthy) daughter smiled uncomprehendingly as we chirruped our one-word question, “Beer?” After a worrying pause I spied a large fridge stuffed with a variety of local and international brands of the amber nectar. A rapid and euphoric pointing at the fridge secured the required response. Big smiles all round and two giant bottles of a lovely chilled brew were on their way. We conducted a brilliant conversation with our hosts during which a good deal was said and almost nothing understood. Laughter abounded and the nibbles plate was regularly replenished, as were the beers. We will return.
That evening in Edirne confirmed that it would be a fine resting place on our pan European journey, whenever that may be. The following morning our trusty taxi man arrived on cue to whisk us back to the border. Clive’s passport was barely scrutinized as we wandered out of Turkey. Mine, however was taken away for further analysis by a young, unshaven chappie, more guerilla than border-force, I thought. He returned and grudgingly gave me back my identity.
We remained unsure as to whether our car would be waiting for us in the lorry bay on the other side. An additional problem was our concern as to how we could cross the central reservation at the border to make our getaway back through Bulgaria. As we walked through immigration we saw a gap in the border fence which would take us towards where we left the car on the other side. We looked around and all seemed well to nip through. As we marched towards freedom a gruff voice shouted. We assumed the translation would have been close to ‘Oi, where the bloody hell do you think you’re going?’
About turn. A beckoning finger from a large, aggressive man. Cars were being routinely stopped and their contents rifled. It was clear that plenty of trafficking or other illegal stuff goes on at this gateway to Europe. When Mr Big opened our holdalls, the look of disappointment, indeed almost disgust, at our boring underwear, shaving gear and smelly socks, was comical. With a dismissive wave of his arm he indicated that he wasn’t paid to bother with this trivia. He and the dogs went off to fry bigger fish.
And so through the fence and, glory be, our car was there. Not only that but a gateway allowed us to traverse the motorway and leave the border without further ado. Joy – and a fast road back to Sofia.
For the thirty six hours we were in we were relaxed tourists. The city has a great deal to offer with wonderful Roman ruins revealed in the city centre merged imaginatively with a new metro system. The market area is typically vibrant and the horse chestnut trees abound. They are a health and safety wonder as most pavements have risen and ripped as the root systems of the great trees wreak havoc. Wonderful.
A Balkan country shaped by Ottoman, Russian, Greek, Slavic and Persian influences is bound to throw up cultural variety, inconsistency and extremes of fortune over the centuries. Lenin’s statue was replaced in 2000 by Sveta Sofia’s enormous monument, in the city centre. The pedestal alone is 48ft tall.
There’s much to see, of course, for the culture vultures. It’s always intriguing as to how nations report their own history in their national history museums. We went to a charming national art galley, the stunning Nevsky cathedral, the ancient Church of St. George. Gardens abound and the city is green and lovely. A large crowd was gathered in a corner of the central park as we wandered through. What were they gawping at? A game of chess.
simplysorro 
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