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The Iranian border. What the hell was I doing here? Now would have been a good point to turn around. It had been a great trip so far...Eastern Europe. The sweeping plains of Hungary...The misty mountains of Transylvania.. The Black Sea coast and Istanbul...The bizarre landscapes of Cappadocia and the wide open spaces of Kurdestan. A great trip. Why go further? I thought as I rolled up to the barriers. This was where the adventure really began....

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I'd engaged the services of a local to get me through the process. It was worth it. My passport was put on the top of piles and the 'where is green card?' insurance queries were smoothed over. Within an hour I'd legally left Turkey and was coasting down a wide and dusty valley towards Maku, the first large town in Iran.

Another country. Another culture. Another language to grapple with. Was that a Hillman Hunter in my rear view mirror....?

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The previous week had seen me riding through an increasingly arid yet spectacular landscape stopping over in Sanliurfa, near the Syrian border, Tatvan and Van on the side of Lake Van. The further east I rode the fewer western travelers I encountered. The atmosphere was taking on a more Middle Eastern feel - which I liked - and I found myself becoming more comfortable with solo travel. Men in road cafes invited me to join them and were always curious as to my route and plans. I'd bought a small scale map of the whole route with me and was marking on it the roads I'd taken so far. Great ice breaker. That and photos in the 'Istanbul to Kathmandu' guide book.

I finally rejoined the beaten track at Dogubayzit (also known as 'Dog biscuit') - about 35kms from the border - where I'd planned to stay for a couple of days before the 'big push' to Iran. I particularly wanted to see the Ishak Pasa Sarayi - a stunning palace/fortress high above the town - a picture of which I'd looked at wistfully years ago on an old 'Turkey' guide book.

I rode the steep and rough track to the fortress and pulled over to take in the spectacular.....smell? Coffee?! I followed my (well trained) nostrils to the campfire of Arlette and Marc from Bern, where they were brewing fresh coffee. Exquisite! Ah, you can always rely on ze Swiss.

I'd also hoped to tie up with other Overlanders who, according to the guidebook, '...throng to the campsite beneath the fortress where the food is excellent and the bar rocks in the evening with travelers sinking their last beers before entering Iran'. I had to be there. That night I sat on my own in a large bar, empty but for one man playing an electronic keyboard and what sounded like Turkey's entry for the Eurovision song contest circa 1977. Rocked? I wasn't. Seemed like nobody was heading for Iran these days. I had a restless night's sleep.

I left the next day. Somewhat quicker than planned due to being attacked by the 'Beast of Dogbiscuit' - the largest dog/hyena I've ever seen - as I cautiously descended the rough track down to the main road. A sign that it was time to leave Turkey? I took it as one and rode east to the border...