Morning prayer is waking us up, before dawn. I sit up in the tent and look around. The fire brigade behind us, who we had asked last night in the dark, if we could camp in their yard. Of course they had accepted and invited us for tea, which we had to refuse, couldn’t we barely hold our eyes open at that stage. I rub my eyes now, and try to remember where I was yesterday at this time in the morning. Not easy! Where will I be tonight? I don’t know, but I know it will be in a bed and behind a door and that’s what I am looking forward to.

One more day, one more 100km and we would finally arrive somewhere!

As a shy light starts to announce the beginning of the day we pack up our camp and leave.

We pass through the same mountains as we have for the last few days, but this time we are getting closer to the sea. Yes, as we climb our last peak, we can see the endless line, the horizon, blue water.

All we have in mind today, is to finally arrive. And every bit brings us closer to that.

At first we are excited to reach the sea, reach the flat. Until we feel what that means. Coming from steep but quiet and empty mountain roads, we now have to share our way with the coastline highway.

And this is when the real torture starts. Endless. It is burning hot, but we don’t want to stop. Apart from an occasional fresh drink in a little market at the side of the road.

Eventually we start to cross one huge holiday beach resort after the other. Loud music, a lot of plastic, cars, consuming. Awfully huge buildings, separated from the sea through the highway, never stopping. And us dusty and tired cycling endless hours on the footpath or the emergency lane, only one thing in mind: “Arriving”

How did we get here?

As so many times on this trip I felt a complete incidence must have pushed me to the place where I was. In which other reality would I visit such a holiday resort filled place? And what would await us after those last kilometres?

“A renovated ruin on a hill.” That’s the vague description we where imagining around for the last few days.

When we reach the cycling lane along the beach, almost there. The contrast between us and everyone around makes us laugh. We are dusty and dirty, sweat not to mention, making our way through clean cut people on their holidays enjoying the beach. We just got out of the wild, back into civilisation, familiar with fighting wild dogs and searching for a camp-spot in the bushes but not with the consumerism all around us. Confused we make our way through the crowds, meanwhile the occasional person looking at us seams as puzzled by our appearance.

Arriving on a car park we wait, not yet knowing who for.

We are welcomed by a wonderful person, opening her home to us as if we had always been part of the family.

That’s where we rest for a while, park the bikes in the garden and walk around on our two feet. Close the door behind us, a key in our pockets, a shower and breakfasts unending.

Once more we can not believe how we got there. Unknowingly started to cycle somewhere in France until we are now here, somewhere in Turkey. Closer to Syria and Iran than to every bit of earth we know.

But we did.