Istanbul to Jerusalem

Friday 29th January

Meeting in the early evening at the pier, we had to resist the temptation to turn around and go back into town because our route from here takes us to the south coast of Turkey where next ferry only goes on certain days of the week, Saturday being one of them. Reluctantly we peeled ourselves away from the Byzantine glories of Istanbul and watched the minarets recede as we crossed the Bosphorus.

Saturday 30th

We spent the night in Yalova, an pleasant enough modern city, and set out early this morning to find our route ran, again, along a narrow valley by way of a dual carriageway. We had visions of delays for accidents that we couldn't afford so we were lucky to run into a group of young Turks in the filling station who were, apparently, off on something similar to a Duke of Edinburgh's expedition. They led us cheerfully over the mountain tracks and brought us safely down onto the banks of the Iznik Gölü, a large lake where we hardly saw a soul, apart from some intrepid swimmers.

From here we made rapid progress over the wide open rolling plain, through settlements of concrete buildings and dusty vehicles that had enjoyed (if that is the right word) a long life of toil. Late afternoon brought us to a somewhat daunting mountain range that stood between us and the port of Mersin. However, we were well into our stride now and were soon looking down on the Mediterranean where the ferry was, we hoped, waiting for us. Over the blue horizon was the Middle East, the Holy Land and probably the most perilous part of our journey.

The ferry crew barely looked at us, barely looked at our passport. We found our cabins and reassembled in the cafeteria. We were tired and hungry and would have eaten anything, within reason, so were thankful to find the meal on offer was tasty and filling trucker food and it hit the spot.  We slept, lulled by the waves, all the way to Lebanon. Morning found us basking in warm sunshine with the cranes of the port of Tripoli dipping and waving at us, and the high rise buildings tumbling down the hillside. "Like Lego bricks'' someone remarked.

Southwards to Beirut, we enjoyed the views of the sea on our right, enjoyed delicious Lebanese food and felt generally as if we were now on holiday. Sidon, Tyre were left behind and then abruptly the atmosphere changed. As evening fell we came to Naqoura and were conscious of a considerable military presence. We were stared at but not stopped until, south of the town, a large, solid, menacing 4x4 came screeching up the road and blocked our way. The doors opened and out came soldiers in blue helmets, their weapons twitching in their hands. UN troops. Peacekeepers. We'd be all right. Surely?

The man who came towards us was a tall, heavily built European.

'Were are you going?' his accent was Scandinavian.

'Jerusalem,' we replied in chorus with more confidence than we felt.

'This way?' he asked incredulously.

'Yes? Israel is just there,' we pointed over his shoulder.

'Israel is there, yes. Crossing here: no.'

A female officer sidled up. Whatever it was she said to him made him look more closely at us.

'Why are you going to Jerusalem?'

We explained and as our nervously garbled tale unfolded his face softened. After a while he threw back his head and laughed.

'You English -'

'British,' came a chorus of Welsh voices. He laughed all the louder.

'You British are crazy. As mad as, what is the expression? A box of frogs? Stark staring bonkers. I love the English language, so expressive. Come with me.' He turned and led the way through a gate into the barracks. 

He introduced himself as Mikka Haraldsen, a Finn. 'You are lucky,' he said. 'It is Sunday. Wait there.'

In no time at all four military trucks drew up and we were ordered onto them. Blue helmeted soldiers got on behind us to sit by the tailgate and off we went into the night. The trucks stopped and started and stopped again and we sat very still and quiet.

Eventually the trucks stopped again, the soldiers jumped down and let the tailgates down. Our laughing Finn cried 'Welcome to Rosh Hanikra. The grottoes are world famous tourist sight in northern Israel. Please tell me,' he added in a more serious tone. 'Please tell me that you are flying home from Tel Aviv.'

'No, no, we're heading for Athens next and then Rome. It's all right, we'll take the ferry from Tel Aviv to Limassol.'

'No.

'No?'

'No. It no longer operates. We are in a war zone. Ferries don't run here.'

'That's all right, we'll walk to Alexandria and catch the ferry to Heraklion.'

'No. Nine years ago you might have done but not this year.' Mikka rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. 'Be here - why am I doing this? Be here at ten o'clock next Sunday evening. 22.00 hours. I might wait five minutes but no longer. Understood?' he scowled.

We began to thank him but he waved a hand and he and his men disappeared into the dark, back the way they'd come. We camped on the beach.

Sunday 31st

Southwards through Haifa, we turned left at Tel Aviv and arrived in Jerusalem in the late morning. None of us could quite believe it.

So what is the plan? We're stuck here until next Sunday, although 'stuck' is entirely the wrong word: there is so much to see and do and an enforced week of walking leisurely from one site to another will be a great pleasure. After that? Thanks to our laughing Finn, all being well, we'll go back north to our ferry from Tripoli, the Lebanese Lego port, and from there west along the Turkish coast to find a ferry to Piraeus then to Athens. We'll wend our way across to Italy, stop in Rome and, when we get to Marseilles, decide whether to turn north along the Rhône valley then hook up with the Loire, or carry on west into Spain and to Santiago de Compostela before heading back to the dear old familiar Caen-Ouistreham ferry to Portsmouth. England seems like a world away. In the meantime we have the Holy Land to discover.