From Ankara

I ride slowly past the tufts of grey rock that rise from the grasslands flanking the road east to Avanos. I pass the cave church at Cavusin; ochre in the morning sunlight, and soon the strange Cappadocian chimneys are behind me. I climb steadily as I head north and a thick blanket of grey cloud forms and sits heavily above the highlands. The land plateaus, and far off I can see tips of black mountains protruding dimly through the fog. By the road a farmer is burning the remnants of his wheat; smoke rises in thin wisps from the fields and the black circles slowly grow as the low flames lap at the retreating stuble.

I stare out at the band of tar reaching out across the plains and look up at the gloomy sky. I hope it doesn’t rain. I see little villages tucked in the hollows of distant hills, and nothing but fields between me and them. I think I would like to follow one of the little tracks that runs off between the fields and camp, but the nights are too cold, and I must reach Kirsehir by dark. I fınd a hotel in town and take a cold shower and put on a big warm jacket and go to a park to write. It is a few hours before dusk and beneath the grey sky the town seems bleak. An old man sits on the bench besides me, and stares at the ground, and runs his prayer beads between his fingers over and over.

The clouds above are black as I ride out of Kirsehir and I know it will rain. Out on the plateau the air rushes in powerful gusts across the highway. I pedal slowly through it, up the shallow hills, and as I race downwards the wheels shake in the wind. I feel unsteady and when the wind bursts across me I think I will fall, and I brake and roll slowly to where the road rises again. And then the climb is harder. Rain begins to trickle from the sky and the square heads of petrol-station signs stand tall and strange between the fields and the clouds. I am forty kilometres from Kirkkale and the rain starts to fall heavily and the wheels kick up streams of murky highway water and the wind drives the spray into my face. The brakes barely hold the wheels now and I must squint to keep the water from my eyes.

The fields sweep across the shallow valleys either side of the road and the sky seems to be sinking; burying the moors in dark. My fingers start to tingle and then I feel them no more, and I pedal on. I look to the side and see an old lady running and stumbling between two big square tents on the roadside. It is strange to see here; I haven’t seen people living this way for a long time. I turn off into town and people raise their heads and stare, huddled beneath gloomy bus shelters. There is a cheap hotel here and I am glad to be inside.

In the morning the rain is pouring down and the wind billows across the treeless moors. I should be racing downwards but the wind holds me back and I must pedal. Ahead I see the road rise up, and curve around a long hill, and disappear above. I clamber up and heavy lorries trundle past and blast their horns and spray gritty water across me. I climb for over an hour and stop to rest and then feel cold and carry on. When the road flattens I stop at a cafeteria and the owner brings me a glass of tea, and then another.

The hillsides outside Ankara are crowded with terracotta-roofed houses, some falling down. Smoke rises from the chimneys and drifts into the streaming rain. In the city pools of water two inches thick sit over the road and hide groves in the tar that I bump heavily over. Cars rush past and send waves lapping against my wheels. As I leave the ringroad the rain stops and faint rays of sunshine pierce the block of grey that has sat above for days. I stop and take off my jacket and head towards Kızılay. There are chain stores and metro stations and new yellow taxis and everyone is dressed for the city. I stop and wheel the bike along the pavement, looking for somewhere to stay. Everyone stares and I look down and see I am wearing swimming trunks and I am covered in grime.