Castles In The Sky

Another day In Pamukkale (Turkish for "cloud castle") and an early morning walk along the highway to the Roman city of Hierapolis. This place was fairly sizeable and was constructed to feed people's mineral bathing fetish.

It turns out to be a real people day today. I meet Sachel, one of the onsite shop workers, and spend a morning talking with him and observing a day in the life. It's a highly illuminating experience- an ordinary day in the extraordinary life of a Turkish tourism worker. A confused Japanese tourist stumbles in to the shop, asking for directions. My new friend gives him a lift to wherever his intended destination is, leaving me in charge. During my promotion from plain old tourist, I manage to sell three postcards to some Koreans and almost wrap up a significant water bottle sale, but the language barrier proves too much. Safely back in control of his shop, Satchel feeds me some soup, bread and yogurt, all carefully prepared in the middle of the shop floor.

Pre-occupied with seeing some more of the Calcium terraces, I bid my farewell, and wander back towards Pumakkale. There are some truly incredible overtaking techniques on these roads today, but they're all ultimately successful, sometimes only just. Walking to places is great when you are travelling. Just like life, you never really forget the experiences that you have to put that little bit more effort into.

I leave the interesting spectacles of the roadside, and walk off up towards the less visited area of the mineral rich cliff faces. I ascend up a small ridge line, assuming the chiseled out channel to be some sort of pathway. It isn't, of course, more a sort of causeway for rainwater that is better confined into smaller areas. I carefully bank off to the lower ground, and re-attempt a climb further over towards the main heights. I pass some farmers harvesting cut vines, placing an abundant amount into an already overloaded trailer. They shoot a comment at me, which may or may not be "get orf my land", but it's said with a smile, and they don't send their marauding dog on me.

I make my climb up a very barren sparsely covered hillock. I wander a little further in from my ascent, and, before I know it, I'm right in the official park area of the attraction. In a matter of seconds, the shrill of whistles fill the air, and I'm accosted by two very concerned looking security guards. I plead my innocence through ignorance, as I'm led onto the designated wooden walkways (to avoid louts damaging the landscape). As they do so, several of the tourists present give me absolute daggers and one of them films the whole ignominious episode. The shame! If any of them say anything to me, I'll start talking in almost incomprehensible french accent, defiantly claiming "Zeeez eesn't what appens in Parees". Lesson clearly not learnt, I attempt to avoid the ridiculously long and windy walk down the road. Several walls, fences and one impenetrable ravine later, I find myself walking back up to where I started my bid for freedom from. I follow the ridiculously long and windy road downwards, as the skies open up.

I arrive back at the hostel a little soggy, but not entirely dispirited. A quick change of clothes heightens my mood further. I wander off and book my onward travel with a very genuine ticket agent called Sherif. I tell him I NEED to find the Premiership football this afternoon, and he kindly directs me to his local (and the only place in town with Satellite soccer). Sherif informs me he'll be over as soon as he closes up for the day, and, with that, he hands me his umbrella, as the rain hammers down outside once again. Arsenal v Man Yoo kicks off just as I approach the bar. "What do you have?, I enquire. "Everything", comes the reply. "Ok, I'll take a beer please". I'm met with a very definite: "We don't sell Alcohol here". So, the town's mosque is right across the street. I probably should have figured that out already.

I only get the first 45 minutes of an exhilarating contest. The bar fills up just as half time approaches. Everybody except myself and another tourist are here for the main event. Galatassaray are playing today, and just for a little extra spice, they play the local side from nearby Denizli. Sherif joins me and we enjoy our small cups of tea, in the middle of a packed venue. It's not the usual football experience for me. My drinking chum expresses his annoyance at how many Galatassaray fans surround us when, people should clearly be cheering for his team, the nearby Denizlispor. Turkey's answer to Manchester United win a very enjoyable contest, and I walk back along the quiet streets for some food and an early night.

No Petting, No Smoking, No Wrestling, No Bombing

It's market day in town today, and the central streets are closed from day break onwards, as people congregate to prepare the stalls for a prospective day's trade. Walking past all the clothes, produce and household goods stands towards the station, I kind of wish I was staying another night, but another day, another destination. The whole square bristles to the sounds of shouting, tractor engines, and laden boxes hitting the ground. I'll miss Selcuk.

The bus pulls out on time and I contemplate the generous, welcoming nature of a lot of these pension hotels. Essentially, they are often people's homes, guests and owners living in the same building, sharing breakfast and sitting room,and everyone gets on just fine. I suppose it's part of an overall observation I've made of this intriguing country- people don't necessarily need to make a distinction between work and private life. Pensions are often homes, Restaurateurs eat with their families at a spare table, and shop keepers sit at their counter, and play cards and drink coffee with a friend. Nobody appears to get stressed. I'm not saying it's an ideal situation, but people are content enough. I think that when you are more satisfied in what you do for a living, there is far less of a desire to flee from it at any given moment.

It's time for me to finally leave the coastal regions today and head east, inland. We randomly pick up passengers at gas stations and roundabouts. We collect a mother and her two young sons, who clearly don't want to leave their granny behind, but the tears soon dry. Eventually I become involved in what is known as a "service transfer", whereby the big bus leaves you at roadside, watching the traffic roar past you, as you wait for a (usually ) smaller bus to collect you and take you to a (usually) less popular destination. It runs like clockwork and, within minutes, I'm speeding onwards once more. Four hours later, I find myself in Pamukkale on a gorgeous sunny afternoon. I pleasantly ignore all the speculative shouts of all the restaurant and shop owners offering me a room at their "cousin's place".

Attempting to find the Information centre, I approach a soldier manning the town's security office. The said soldier informs me that I can't because there isn't one. Hakir is a very friendly individual. Usually, he's an english teacher, but for the next five months he will undertake his mandatory national service. We chat for a long time in the pleasant afternoon glow. It's all a bit surreal as his guard duty ends and he hands over his radio and automatic machine gun to his colleague. Hakir provides a tremendous insights into life here and the everyday thoughts of a Turkish man. I also receive the lowdown on the the area's attractions, before I reluctantly say "gule gule" to him - I still haven't seen anything yet.

I certainly don't have to walk too far to the main attraction, which is located right next to the town itself. This town is famous for it's calcium terrace formations, that cover several of the hillocks, giving the place a wonderful winter like shine. Looking at them, you feel that you could be back in the wintry chill of the north. There's a lovely little lake at the bottom of the formations, where adults walk their children and throw bits of bread at the lethargic ducks and geese. Every so often, guards in uniform break the serenity with a blow of the whistle, beckoning down visitors who may damage the site by venturing too high up onto the terrace. There is a real effervescent smell, with cool, clear streams running down the mineral faced earth into the flat calm pond itself. I can't help but have a little paddle, and, as nobody blows the whistle, I figure all is ok. The Romans loved paddling here so much that they built a grand city called Hireapolis just along, what is now, the modern day highway. I'll visit it tomorrow.

Today has been a very tranquil day, far away from from facts and figures and all things crafted from stone. I enjoy a cup of tea back at the hostel, in front of a very welcoming stove heater. Turkey's equivalent to "The X factor" is on (minus the humiliation), and I probably look slightly bemused, being drawn to one of the hopefuls singing a song about Facebook, whilst I attempt to read my book.

Efes, As In The Beer

The lady at the pension gives myself and two others a lift to ancient Greco- Roman city of Ephesus this Morning. I had to laugh, as a small group of Germans were already making their exit as I arrived- it's 9.20am. They probably needed to get back to the beach and reclaim the towels from the sun loungers. The morale is to get here early, even if it's just to see see the look of consternation from our northern neighbours, as you beat them in to the queue. It's certainly busy. Within the first 20 minutes, we have a profusion of tour groups crawling all over the site.

Even amongst all the crowds, it still difficult not to admire what the eyes are seeing. The place is tremendous. You really get a feel for the city, walking along the avenues past mosaics, statues and buildings. One of the best places to visit is the library, where ,rumour has it, an underground tunnel ran to a nearby brothel. Some things never change. Well, maybe today's excuse would be more "I'm just off to watch the match", rather than "I need to see if Bill Oddie's latest book on Reed Warblers is back in stock." The city was once the capital of the Roman empire, pre- Constantinople days, and, even looking at it now, you feel it would have lived up to it's billing. Only the very wealthy actually lived in the centre, with the riff raff confined to the periphery.

The emperors certainly lived here and erected their fair share of statues (some for themselves). Walking down from the top entrance, you get a sweeping view of the main avenues and its' easy to connotate what things might have been like. Towards the lower main gate there is an open theatre that would have seated almost 30,000 people. The acoustics there are amazing as one tour leader inadvertently demonstrates. He begins talking to one of his group and I can just about make out what is said from the highest, and furthest away, seat in the house.

Walking back to the nearby town, I make a slight detour for another heavyweight of world history. Just slightly off the highway stands the remains of one of the former ancient wonders of the world- The Temple Of Artemis. The Temple was built to worship a deity that was temporarily fashionable at the time. It was rumoured to be more than a match for any of the other six wonders, even the Statue of Zeus, but time has not been kind to it, and there is very little to see these days. A large, solitary column has been resurrected from the ruins, and upon it irreverently sits the largest bird's nest I have ever seen. In fact it looks like it could be a pterodactyl's. At the other end of site lies what looks like a section of the old building itself. It's walls do nothing more than hold some casual water that ducks and geese are nonchalantly feeding in. I pretty much have the place to myself with only a tiny overspill of the many tourists from nearby Ephesus bothering to attend. Despite the fact you have to use your imagination here, I can't help thinking that an ancient wonder site should never be passed up on, even though I managed to do it once myself. Still haven't given up on the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, either.

The final historical stop of today is St. John's Cathedral. According to popular religious belief, the gospel St John came to these parts sometime after Jesus' death to avoid persecution. It is also alleged that The Virgin Mary accompanied him, having been entrusted her by Jesus. It is around these parts that John supposedly penned his contribution to the Bible, before dying on a mountain top at the ripe old age of 100 years. He was buried on a hillock, where, eventually, the newly converted Roman Emperor Constantine subsequently built a great cathedral in John's honour. Like many other constructions in this area, a series of earthquakes destroyed what had been created, as well as what replaced it. There isn't much of the basilica standing now, but if it was erect in its entirety, it would be the seventh largest cathedral in the world today.

Looking down from the important basilica, onto the city and it's surrounds, I take in the area of ancient Ephesus city, the remains of an ancient wonder, and a famous mosque next door. I don't imagine I will ever be surrounded by such a variety and richness of history ever again.

Fully back in an evening of the 21st century, I wander along the streets of Selcuk. I meet three strikingly similar middle aged brothers and a former carpet salesmans out walking his young daughter. All are keen to approach me and say a warm welcome to their country. Today has been a special day. All I need to do now is find out the name of that scrabble like game. This place is incredible. All most people seem to do is play games, and drink tea.

Buckaroo, Anyone??

Back on the road today after two absorbing days on the shores of The Dardenelles. I drift asleep as the bus cautiously negotiates the icy roads, driving past a series of promotional roadside Trojan horses, sitting outside numerous cafes and shops. A full 80 minutes of drifting later, and I awake fully to see all the snow has completely gone. The bus temperature display sits at 8 degrees celsius- tropical! The dark, heavy clouds of the Gallipoli peninsula have gone and are replaced by a sky that is a whiter shade of grey. We make our way along the shores of a more inviting Aegean Sea. The mountains persist, but, in turn, finally give way to gentler foothills of agriculture and orchard. The terracotta tiled roofs of European houses return. All I survey has a more Mediterranean feel to it. Has the snow been left permanently behind?

The bus is definitely king when it comes to transporting people along the highway. There is a tremendous network of coaches and buses carrying people all over the country in comfort and style. You can enjoy served food and drink as you watch the world go by. If you get bored with nature, some of these buses have their own personal LCD screens on every seat back. People would be surprised if they came here and caught the X37 from Istanbul. Stopping in at one of the frequent highway diners, I observe a man furiously cleaning a line of buses with a hose strapped on to his brush. There's a real national pride here when it comes to transport.

Driving across a particularly stretched Izmir city, I can't help thinking I'm glad the only thing I will undertake here is to change my bus- It doesn't look all that picturesque to say the least. I grab the last seat on the Dolmus (mini-bus), squeeze my bag in front of me (people on these compact buses must wince when they see backpackers rumbling towards them) and we're instantly off to Selcuk.

Travelling without a guidebook- naked travelling I tell anyone who will listen-requires the tourist information to be the first place I visit on arrival. Todays, this is followed by a short tootle to my nearby pension hotel ( no, this doesn't mean a place for old people). My arrival provides the perfect opportunity to shed about 5kgs of clothes that have been worn out of necessity since I arrived in this country. Now I feel like I'm on holiday. Selcuk nestles under what appears like 360 degrees of low level mountains. It immediately strikes me as having a very relaxed feel, not that it is a small place. However, it is assuredly different to the places I have seen so far, and I like it instantly. We passed a high speed donkey and cart as we entered the city limits; people sell walnuts and oranges out of the back of cars parked around the market square; farmers acknowledge friends and acquaintances as they rattle through the town on their tractors.

When it comes to businesses, the town is the epitome of what I have already observed. There are a huge number of cafes, bars and eateries. Though some have a customary clientele of old men sitting in solitude, reading and thinking whilst they sip their coffees. Most do have a newer, more sociable feel to them. Men play all kind of games here- chess, checkers, Backgammon, cards and a curious looking one rather like scrabble.

I choose a busy looking place for my dinner tonight and end up seated with a very dark skinned local, with a huge, proud moustache, stained by years of smoking. He looks all intense as I sit down, yet a simple hello changes his demeanour. . He doesn't speak a word of English. He pours me a glass of his Raki and we sit in a comfortable silence. I start to make my plans for tomorrow.

A Tenner On The Wooden One

A change of historical direction. Leaving behind the horrors of a World War One battlefield, I return to the more distant realms of antiquity. Truva, or Troy as it is more famously renown lies a short distance from Cannakale. Just time for a spot of breakfast in a friendly looking cafe. The owner Khazeem is a supremely amiable and generous man. I promise to return this evening to chat some more.

After locating the tiny bus station (who hid it under that bridge?) Amongst all the old village people squeezed onboard, I converse with Mikum- a Korean girl- and the only other tourist on the mini-bus. We drive past a succession of very small villages old fashioned villages before we reach the gates of our destination. It's a fair claim to say that Troy is deserted. We're the only other tourists there, heavily outnumbered by the gaggle of cats and dogs belonging to the caretakers and custodians. During a series of excavations, it was established that the famous place went through nine different phases, each one dating from a different,though consecutive, period in history.

Most of it overlaps to a greater extent. All of it has had to be uncovered as Mother nature left nothing standing above the surface. Troy VI is the golden age of the stronghold. This involved the Greek legends of Paris, Helen, Achilles and "that horse". No sign of them all today, though. No sign of anybody. The story of these mythical characters is masterfully retold by the ancient wordsmith Homer in his epic Poem The Illiad. Straining to imagine all of this from what little you can see, Mikum has her own thoughts of how to visualise the glories from days gone past. Instead of sitting and connecting, she buzzes around the area, miaowing at cats, mimicking opera singers and generally jumping up and down. It makes for a bewildering side show.

Back in Cannakale, I take Mikum to Khazeem's for dinner and a nice cup of tea. We take in the 6.45 horse race from Istanbul on the TV with a friend of the owner. He happens to have placed a nice little wager on the Number 6 ("Jackboot"), who hits the jackpot by romping home by several lengths. Walking back from the cafe, it's noticeable just how cold my Korean friend looks. She is one of several visitors I have encountered who appear to have made mo provision for the extraordinary winter's chill that has enveloped all of Europe. I think this coupled with the perception that Turkey is a Middle Eastern country has caught a few packers out. I surmise that for a number of these travellers it will be the first time they have actually seen snow. I give her my jacket as we negotiate the deadly streets. It's rather like walking across an ice rink in a pair of slippers.

Even The Nightingales Ceased Their Song

I make my way back across the channel this morning to battlegrounds of World War One and the ghosts of history. It was calculated that approximately 50,000 large vessels plied there trade along this throughfare last year, mostly to and from Russia. I can see four huge cargo ships right now, as we sail past. They all appear as if they could topple over at any moment, their cargoes looking ridiculously overstacked, like Lego bricks on a flashdrive.

This gateway to Russia is the reason I'm here today (and not just to look at the traffic). During the Great War almost 95 years ago the Allied powers determined that this area had to be captured in order to defeat the Ottoman Empire and relieve a faltering Russian ally. The offensive became known as the "Gallipoli Campaign". Envisaged by a young Winston Spencer Churchill, the idea was simple in concept- land troops on the peninsula's shores, capture the inland, and consequently control the shipping lanes.

My attempts to reach back into history by solo navigation don't quite prove successful- a frigid day and an apparently sporadic bus timetable beat me before I even get going. I do get a bus quite early on, but the driver seems intent on stopping every two minutes (literally) for no visible reason. I finally stomp off when he stops off at a restaurant, leaving all his passengers sitting in their seats gazing at the great beyond. It's 10.30am. I strike it lucky with my first hitch hike attempt- A talkative doctor transports me back to my starting point.

I start again. Beaten and bloodied, I book a tour at a nearby hotel. Turks 1 Backpackers 1. Our guide Bulent escorts our group along the various landing points and trenches, and the mass graves and many monuments that bear a lasting testament to the efforts of those who fell.

We move from shore landing points to craggy ridge lines, and up further to strategic hill top viewpoints, tracing a timeline of events and a catalogue of disasters. The events of Gallipoli took place over eight painfully long months. Soldiers fought against one another, as well as the heat, the cold, the flies and the disease. It was carnage. Unable to effectively breach the furious Turkish defenders, the allies finally withdrew to the sea in January 1916. The mission had been a disaster. The retreat saw the only miracle of the campaign- in the depths of the darkness one winter's eve, the entire attacking force managed to withdrew without a single fatality. It's hardly possible to conceive the look on the defender's faces the following morning as the first rays of light witnessed shores without guards.

Officially (and approximately), 42,000 Commonwealth troops died in the conflict- 8000 Australians, 3000 New Zealanders, 2000 Indians, and 29,000 Britains. 10,000 French soldiers also perished. 68,000 Turks are officially listed as dead, though most estimates place the number much, much higher. These figures are very hard to establish, and are almost arbitrary. It is impossible to accurately assess (or even comprehend) a total today. I feel like even mentioning numbers is an attempt at quantifying the human suffering that these slopes bore witness to. This is clearly impossible.

Despite the multi- national task force, Gallipoli will, to the majority, forever be remembered as the time that ANZAC (Australian an New Zealand Army Corps) stepped forward and offered of the pride of its youth for the greater good of the Empire. The distinct "down under" feeling remains to this day, and not just on the commemorative ANZAC Day on the 25 April each year (which signifies the very first landings). Indeed, my tour commenced at The Crowded House Hotel, and Bulent spoke his English with a distinctly Australian twang.

Some people may express curiosity at the strength of Antipodean interest that persists to this day in the events that occurred here all those years ago. Amongst all the unquestionable respect and remembrance for those who fell, maybe there is something extra, an addition to the reverence. Perhaps what I'm trying to say is better put by the narrator of a documentary at one of the tourist centres I visited: "Gallipoli is a foothold in the history of Europe. A space that is theirs (Australians and New Zealanders), always available to be walked into." This area helped to shape the identity of two nations we see today. At the same time, it robbed many a town and village of a generation. Somewhere in the corner of a foreign field, lies a place that is forever ANZAC.

Today has been a day of sombre education and reflection. We should never forget events such as Gallipoli.

"Those heroes who shed their blood and lost their lives...

You are now lying in the soil of a friendly country.

Therefore rest in peace.

There is no difference between the Johnnies

and the Memmets to us where they lie side by side

Here in this country of ours...

You the mothers, who sent your sons from far away countries

Wipe away your tears;

Your sons are now lying in our bosom

And are in peace.

After having lost their lives on this land

They have become our sons as well."

Mustafa Ataturk (Turkish Gallipoli Commander and First President of Turkish Republic)

Go West

The woodcutter in the room isn't Japanese. In actual fact, he's Morrocan. The reason I know this is his pals decided to come into his room and proceeded to have a picnic, whilst he laid prostrate on the bed, sawing down an entire forest. I then became involved in one of those ridiculous sign language conversations with the picnic people where neither person adequately speaks the other person's language. The Moroccans asked me ( I think) how I was travelling, and I did my best to explain, stopping just short of "me fly in big iron bird (arms outstretched), from far away land (motions off into the distance). It was all quite daft.

This morning, I find time for a few final shots of the city's attractions in the snow. The town of Cannakkale beckons today. My lift takes me some distance away from the Istanbul's "peninsular of history", which has been my home for the last few days. Taking the bypass out of the city, It's always interesting to see see so many new parts of the city, just as you happen to be leaving. The city sprawls, large scale housing schemes dominating the vista.

The sky turns blue, almost instantly upon leaving the suburbs. Through the ice splattered windows, the overall effect is dazzling as a fierce sun beats down on the white. On the one side of the bus, we witness the shimmering waters of the Marmaris Sea, whilst on the other, there are wonderful snow covered mountains, which are difficult to appropriate from the distant clouds overhead.

A neatly attired steward expertly serves tea and biscuits on board as we make our way west. He's a nice fellow, and completely overlooks the fact that my ticket does not entitle me to reach my intended destination. There is a real sense of travelling through history when our bus rejoins the coastline, and for some reason, I just know that this is the Dardanelles. We reach the small port of Eceabet, and the bus immediately pulls onto the ferry which will take us across the straits to Canakkale . The water is a very strong aqua marine colour, suggesting the chill in the afternoon air.

On the other side, I'm upgraded to a hotel as my hostel is temporarily out of action. I meet my Canadian room mate, and one of his travel buddies. We decide the best course of action is a few beers in the very quiet looking watering holes of the town. Canakkale is a university city with several big institutions, but tonight is not student night. We do, however, meet a few university employees and their friends, and it's a very enjoyable, if slightly wacky evening discussing a vairety of topics, particularly Mel Gibson war films. I just can't escape Braveheart. If I had a penny for every incredulous look I get when I mention that a lot of it is complete nonsense...

Sick Note

Ok, there's a chain snorer in the room and it isn't the Japanese guy. This is when hostelling can get quite tough going.

I wearily decide to take the coastal path along the solid wall of the Topkapi Palace, which I visited yesterday. I can see why this fortress was only breached twice in it's extensive history- once by the Crusaders, and once by the Ottomans who were to rule until modern day Turkey was created in 1923. Whereas Athens was the city of dog, Istanbul is very much the city of the cat. Nobody, however, has told this to the pooch who has been following me about this morning. I have no words of wisdom for it, or even a doggy snack. Instead, Rover has to make do with a bourbon biscuit. He doesn't look too overwhelmed by it all.

I take the short ferry trip, crossing the Bosphorus Strait over to Asia. There's a host of ferries plying their trade from a number of piers, cutting their way through the uninviting, icy waters on a day when the sun is being bashful. Sitting in a cafe near the pier, I observe the rows of shipping containers and the squalls of seagulls coasting noisily overhead. An extremely large cargo ship makes its way south to the Mediterranean, and onwards to larger waters.

My cursory glance of Asia over, I taxi back across to the west. Taking the boat across is definitely one of the things you should do here, even if it's just to tick it off the to do list. It certainly has given me a greater appreciation and perspective of this unique city. Taking the boat back, I get a great waterside view of The Blue Mosque, Agia Sophia and Topkapi Palace, all lined up in dramatic effect. The thaw of snow has already began, leaving that annoying slushy residue everywhere. The air is still cold, with the biting westerly wind continuing to penetrate. The streets are subdued today. I chat to a sweet shop owner who tells me that Sundays are much quieter throughout the year. He also mentions the new type of Turkish Delight (made in long rolls) popular with the tourists as it's easier to eat. Unsurprisingly, it has yet to catch on with the locals.

I finally observe some men gritting (you think it's bad in the UK) one of the main squares, shovelling great spades of it out of the back of a lorry. I take a picture and walk towards the steps. SPLAT!! One of them catches me with a shovel full on the back. They come across all apologetic through their collectively cheeky veneer. A local street seller dusts me off, and the funny side is observed. Things could be worse- the first Scottish voice of the trip is heard outside a bank ATM informing someone that his card has just been swallowed. On a Sunday too.

Today witnesses a great cultural coming together, a mixture of ideologies and opinions. Yes, you've guessed it: a trip to the barbers. It most surely is one of my favourite events of a foreign sojourn. Always educational, always good fun, and usually bally successful to boot. There's a few of us in today and we all enjoy the usual manly chat about football. Amongst the crowd, there is one Fenerbahce fan. The rest are all supporters of the other Istanbul powerhouse (and arch rivals) Galatasaray. The hairdresser pulls out the newspaper with the team news for this evening's game in mid cut. We discuss the team lines as he puts the finishing touches to my Arabic quiff, before finally burning the wispy hairs on my ear with his cigarette lighter. Nice touch. There's the usual quick massage and a swift couple of neck cricks. The job is complete. "Come on Galatasaray", I shout as I make my way out into the cold once more. Now I just need the game to not be cancelled.

The game is not cancelled. After negotiating a tram, the funicular train, and the Metro, I make it to the stadium and acquire my match ticket for the cheaper uncovered section of the ground, where I join a few hundred hardy souls. Just before kickoff, the authorities take pity on us and upgrade us to the warmer, more populated (and importantly) covered main stand, where it's a grab what you can stampede. The limited crowd, by its very nature, is the the committed few, and the atmosphere, like you can imagine, is very vibrant. Rumour has it the loudest ever noise recorded at a football game was a Galatasaray- Fenerbahce game a few seasons ago.

I use my seat to stand on due to it's thick covering of snow, and every one else doing likewise in front of me. Considering the conditions, there is no shortage of skill on display. An early sending off for the visitors results in a fairly one sided match, yet a Galatasaray victory is only sealed in the latter stages of the game, after a missed penalty and innumerable other chances. Jo, formerly of Manchester City, makes his debut, and, surprise surprise, Harry Kewell is injured.

It was a great experience to come here tonight. The conditions made it an unforgettable (and frankly very cold) adventure. The snowball sub game was pretty humorous as the opposition Number 29 and club mascot experienced a volley of missiles throughout the night. However, my favourite moment was just before kick-off when Native American war drum music kicked in, and everybody started doing the "nodding donkey". A champagne moment on a fine evening.

Bull Of The Bosphorus

It rained all day yesterday from the moment I awoke until the time I went to bed. A non-stop downpour. The good news is that it has stopped raining. The bad news is that it has gotten a lot colder and the rain is now snow. It does make for a different outlook- all these exotic sounding locations in a blanket and flurries of white.

First stop is Topkapi Palace, the imposing strong hold fortress on the European side. It houses a wonderfully eclectic collection of treasures from around the world, some of it stolen, some of it gifted, and most of it Ottoman created over the last 800 years of their rule. It's an incredible assemblage. We have jewellery,thrones, costumes, ceremonial pieces,and even more jewellery. Bling is the thing and it adorns everything. Such opulence usually leaves things looking very gaudy or kitch, but for the most part, the priceless item actually look priceless too. The precious (often huge) stones and other decorations are expertly weaved in to the goods using production and design techniques honed over the centuries.

In the final room- The Room of the Sacred Relic -the treasures are of a very different nature. Amongst the religious artifacts collection we have a tooth, part of the beard, and a footprint of the prophet Mohammed. The footprint is said to be the very one from his ascension to heaven, chiseled out the rock in Jerusalem. Part of the skull and an arm of John The Baptist is also allegedly housed here too. It always hard to ascertain what is what in these situation. I'm sure that I will encounter more of John The Baptist's arms and heads along the way. One clear thing is that it is amazing to learn just how interlinked Judaism, Christianity and Islam is. They share the same people and same events over time. Maybe, naively, It's hard to imagine what the problem is really.

The snow falls thicker outside and I take up the offer of a lonely looking rug (I mean finely woven artistic carpet) seller in the square. He invites me in for a coffee and a "chat". I inform him I'm as poor as a church mouse, and that he shouldn't bet his life savings on a sale from me. The hot apple tea served in a very stylish and traditional small tulip glass is a welcome relief to the cold of the day. As the cup empties and the conversations dries, out come the carpets (why didn't he show me the really nice ones?). I resist and the medium priced carpets are followed by the smaller cheaper ones. I hold firm. Then the cushion covers appear. No good. Just before the handkerchiefs are shown, I ask If he'll take newspaper coupons. This is the point where he accepts defeat. Turks 0 Backpackers 1. I thank him for the tea and make good my escape.

My afternoon is spent in the modern area of the city known as Taksim. Here you will find all the stores and high street brands. There's not a carpet seller in sight, just lots of unsteady shoppers crawling along the treacherously icy streets.

Coming out of Levis', a very large human wave of several thousand people march past me standing in the shop door way, completely overunning the main street. What they're protesting about I'll never know, but they're clearly disatisified about something and they wave their signs and chant slogans of disaffection. I have to wait for them to pass before I can move in the opposite direction.

I get a couple to take my picture in the snow. It transpires that the fellow is a British Indian living in Istanbul with his Turkish wife. The woman's brother is an eminent local artist who just so happens to be holding an exhibiton of his latest creations later on this evening. Judging by the invitation card in my hand, it will be quite an affair, but I have to gracefully decline due to an important date- Besiktas are playing at home tonight.

I take the funicular metro back down to the waterfront and then manfully trudge through the wind, snow and darkness to the Imononu Stadium not so far away, only to dicover that the game has been cancelled due to the adverse conditions. Magic. This doesn't stop one of the black and white clad fans trying to sell me all his tickets as I try to get a glimpse of the stadium. The said bounder looks a bit sheepish when I inform him that we both know the game is already cancelled.

Deciding not to quaff Turkish coffee with the city's artisans, I make my way back to the hostel. Give me the neanderthal charlatan masses of the football stadium any day. Staring out of the tram that takes me homewards, I gaze out of the window towards the shimmering lights of the metropolis, and observe the three favourite hobbies of the passersby: drinking tea, smoking cigarettes and throwing snowballs.

Departures

It's an indoor type of day today- outside is gloomy with the rain streaming down, and the wind freshening. After viewing a fine Obelisk sneakily taken from Karnak, and the base of a huge ancient cauldron (cauldron bit nowhere in sight), it's off to see what the Romans did best- plumbing.

The Basilica Cistern is a remarkable example of engineering dating from the 6th century. Designed to provide the water supply of ancient Constantinople, it comprises of 337 underground pillars, covering an area of 140 metres by 70 metres. The whole cavern is lit up with ambient colours and accompanying orchestral music. It's easy to imagine you're in another world, as the rain water drips down into the carp filled ponds below.

Back up in the (slightly) less gloomy streets, I make my way through the weather to the National Museum. The show piece stuff are Ye Olde Sarcophagi, the main one once considered to have been for the legendary Alexander The Great. This theory has largely been dispelled, but the craftsmanship would have done the great man proud. Tantalisingly, it does also retell parts of his life. The stone coffin manages to be both exquisite and grand simultaneously, and is one of the most extraordinary museum pieces I have ever seen.

In amongst all the extravagance lies what is, for very different reasons, an extraordinary glimpse into the mists of time. There are a number of gravestones of everyday people who expired more than 2000 years ago. Each one has an individual scene involving the deceased and family members, and a final message of goodbye. Here are two:

"I have been exiled from this life, Zothios, son of Milos."
He has lived for 25 years and 11 months. We his parents, Milos and Eia,
have erected this gravestone in his memory.
Farewell, passer-by!

It's owner has buried the dog Parthenope, in gratitude of their happiness,
(mutual) love is rewarding, like the one for this dog:
"Having been a friend to my owner. I have deserved this grave."
Looking at this, find yourself a worthy friend who is both ready to
love you when you are alive, and take care of your body (when you die).

Back in a warm hostel room, Den, a middle aged Malaysian crew member of a berthed tanker, greets me as I enter. He's a real comical and genial character, his energy and countenance belie his age. We enjoy a humorous conversation before I turn the light out. I notice he's trying to sleep in the most ridiculous position. "Why are you doing that, Den?", I enquire, with great curiosity. He replies: " Well, I didn't want to point my feet at you as I slept." Some people can be incredibly considerate.

Never The Twain Shall Meet (Except Here)

Our train drifts it's way through the suburbs of Istanbul, and by the time we reach the central station, I have a pretty decent idea just how big the city actually is. We exit the terminus and the two former inhabitants of Coach F, Cabin 25 exchange brief goodbyes, Grieg off to meet his girlfriend at the airport, me to find a tram. I never did get a full account of the windsurf ordeal, which leads me to believe it was true, and he's a very lucky fellow indeed.

It's a dull, cool, grey day as I hope on board my tram after finally establishing I need to get a connect four style token from the nearest newspaper shop to proceed through the barriers. I wander around the area of my Hostel, attempting to pinpoint it's location. This is where a guide book infinitely assists matters. I locate Hotel Cordial after numerous directions, and counter directions. A young Brazilian called Fabio greets me as I enter a, thankfully, warm room. He tells me about his large stash of duty free booze in his backpack, as he picks the damp insulating newspaper from his socks. I think a number of people will not be prepared for the cold of this area. I predict pain. Fabio's changing hostels so we make loose plans to meet up- Brazilians love a good party-and with that, he's gone, chinking off down the corridor.

I'm already on a mission to take in the sites, and freshly armed with a map from the Tourist Bureau, I hit the nearby Agia Sophia, and Blue Mosque, just in time for one of Islam's five a day. Sitting out in the peaceful gardens between the two giant buildings, the call to prayer suddenly booms out from the Mosque, breaking the tranquility. Fortunately, the guy is good at holding a note, but I figure this is to be expected, as this must surely be the top job in the land. I finally enjoy some shelter inside the place of worship after waiting for prayer time to end. It is very grand and very large. The ceiling seems an impossibly long way away, and locals and tourists marvel at what they are seeing.

Boots back on feet, I stroll back up towards my hostel and then past it to the Grand Bazaar. It is officially the worlds largest single collection of covered shops in the world (reputedly over 4000). It's been reshaped and redesigned over the years, but the overall purpose has remained the same- take pots of cash off the visitors. The bazaar is a spectacular place, and an almost overwhelming one, too. Art shops, butchers, clothiers and many, many more fight it out to make a living in all the hustle and bustle. The jewellery avenue is particularly memorable, it's view awash with the golden gleam emanating from shop windows stuffed full of bracelets, rings and necklaces.

I appear to end up choosing the only shop where no-one is willing to serve me. The reason becomes clear as the owner emerges from the sister shop next door with three middle aged American women ( as a seller, who would you focus on - Scots guy with disheveled appearance and scruffy boots, or three yanks immaculately made up and attired. "How much are these beauties?", one enquires in a southern drawl, pointing at some small paintings. "300 Lira", comes the reply (not cheap). "So they should be, they're beautiful" she inconsiderately retorts. Well thanks for ruining my chances of getting a fair price for them, darlin', I think as I head for the exit. But they are beautiful- Arabic scripture in black, red and gold, in the shape of a rose.

My mood is immediately lifted on walking past another shop near one of the bazaar's main gates. The salesman quips to a potential customer: "Come in and take a look. We won't rip you off as much as the other places will." Impassively, the lady walks off, the joke seemingly lost on her, but it's not lost on me. I'm still laughing when I make it back to the hostel.

A Wind Of Change And A Hope For A Brighter Future

"A city stranded in the shining path of time, sparkling restlessness in the shadow of eternity. Colours pervade. A mesmerising red ribbon gets carried away in a frantic race. From Vassilissus Sophia to Syntagma Square. The countdown reaches zero on restless sources with euphoric bursts and drunken dawns. The dreams fade and with the first light of day they return."

EB

I have been in Greece such a ridiculously short time, it's hard to draw full conclusions on the country. Besides, I've only experienced Athens. What I can say about the city is that there is a tangible feeling of history everywhere you gaze. There are fully and partially excavated sites all over the place, giving a clear reminder of what's gone before, and the role it has played, and continues to play, in modern day society. When you step out tomorrow, you will walk in antiquity.

Athens outwardly appears glamorous, slick and efficient, but, like many places right now, it's immediate future remains unclear. Even in my limited time here, there has been civil unrest, the police required in force. These are not the only disturbances recently. I was slightly enlightened by Katherina, a retiree, and volunteer at the National Museum. She pre-emptively offered me help at a nameless subway station, as I stared at my map, and then off into the distance. I took the opportunity to cagily enquire about the social climate. She lowered her voice and informed me that people are losing their jobs, and beginning to struggle. Even those still fortunate to work are suffering, as prices continue to rise. There are worrying times ahead.

The help and friendliness I received from the city's inhabitants is possibly my most abiding memory from the time I've spent here, perhaps even rivaling the great rock itself. People here told me that they worry friendliness is becoming rare, that smiles are dissipating. I never experienced this. I met Dimitri, from Kos, Jamie from Athens, formerly of Melbourne for many years and many others. All took the time to offer this traveller a helping hand. Any number of school children approached me to say hello and practice their English. Such interaction always reaffirms to me the belief in the human spirit and the kindness of strangers.

Good luck to you Greece....

Winter Hits the Ground

I only have this morning to take in the rest of the Athens Experience. My overnight train to Turkey leaves at 13.21 this afternoon. The morning sees me strolling over to Monastikiri, an ethnically mixed area very near to Plaka. Here you will find all kinds of stores, and the local flea market on a Sunday. It's an intriguing area with a small square, where I sit with a drink, and people watch.

Bag firmly on back once more, I make my way to the train station. Greece has one of the smallest rail networks in Europe, partly due to its mountainous nature, and mostly due to the under investment of successive governments. In a European capital of several million people, the train station has two platforms. You have a 50/ 50 chance of getting on the right train, and given that there probably won't be a train on the other side, not even the unluckiest of travellers can screw this up. We leave platform 1 pretty much on time.

The train is modern, albeit with a Victorian style lay out where separate cabins are linked by a continuous corridor. It's a bit cramped, but this makes it cosy too. I chat to a lady from the coastal city of Thessaloniki, where, incidentally, I must change trains. I had considered staying a day there, but there are few things in life more depressing than an out of season seaside town- I once went to Morecambe in November. Come to think of it, I once went to Blackpool in July....

It's a beautiful January afternoon,as the sun shines down from an almost cloudless sky. We pass snow covered hills, and wooded ravines, before travelling across a small plateau, looking down on the valley below. There's a real patchwork of orchards, fields and red roofed houses. All that can be seen is laced with an ever so faint wintral grey as we make our way north. It is a little after 6pm when we arrive in Thessaloniki. I indulge in a bit of leg stretching around the station, before hopping on board the sleeper train. I'm delighted to be confronted by convertible couchettes in a two man berth. Wasn't sure whether I was going to get to lie down when I booked.

It's not long before the second man appears, and he's quite a character. His name is Grieg and he's from Greece, but university educated in St. Petersburg. He's travelling to meet his Russian girlfriend for her birthday weekend, and we get on quite famously. We swap beer, his mother's sandwiches and travel stories. Grieg enlightens me on the world of a scuba dive instructor on the Greek islands. Anybody from Essex? Good. He tells me to remind him later of the full story of him being swept out to sea on a windsurf, only to be rescued in the pitch black in the nick of time. We enjoy a toast of the excellent Metaxanah before a relatively early night. The train rocks me in my slumber. The air begins to get cooler.

We're woken at the Greek border point at 2am. It transpires that Grieg didn't just take sandwiches from his mother- he also mistakenly took her passport as well. Fortunately for him, his ID card is enough to see him through. A full 40 minutes of travelling later, (must be the widest border in the world), we arrive at the Turkish side. I'm instructed to disembark, and pay my 15 Euros at the Police desk. I jump out of the train and land with a scrunch on a very thick blanket of white. I can't help but laugh at a huge neon duty free sign that flickers on over a tiny duty free shop right next to the security checkpoint. Formalities complete once again, I swap my new Ukranian passport for my actual one, and we're off!

Istanbul awaits...

A Window To A Different World

First stop today is the much vaunted Archaeological Museum of Greece. It is said that this place is the finest of it's kind anywhere in the world. I can categorically say that if it isn't, then it can't be too far behind. It houses a tremendous collection of artifacts from the classical period. The museum also include several pre-classical eras, and eventual Roman subjugation. There's even a great Egyptian section where, if you look closely, you will observe a half eaten loaf of bread.

I have to say just how incredibly exquisite many of the items on display appear. The craftsmanship is staggering (particularly for its time) and they managed to avoid the all too real threat of making something made entirely from gold look like its worth a couple of euros. There is an interesting cachet of weapons, a lifetime's worth of pottery, and some beautifully sculptured statues and artwork. One piece of a full size horse in mid gallop, with a small boy on his back is a scene stealer. Brilliant, brilliant things.

It's already my last full day in the capital, so, consequentially, there is rather a lot to get through. I vi st the closely situated buildings of the National Library, the Modern day University and The Athens Akademy of Science and Research. All have a layout and influence from original buildings and concepts dating from centuries ago. They look great- a variation on an older theme. I visit the National Military Museum in order to achieve a grasp on the wars that have shaped the country through the millenia, but sadly, yet unsurprisingly, an hour (the place closes early) isn't quite enough to properly oversee: The Greek Leagues, Alexander the Great, Persian wars, The Crusades, Ottoman domination, Balkan disputes, both World Wars, and the continuously delicate relationship with Turkey. Phew!

My next stop is Lykavittos Hill for the best (and highest) views in town. The climb for the summit begins immediately at the steps of the Museum, and takes about 45 minutes, zigzagging my way past people out walking their hounds. The reward is a great view of all the ancient attractions, placed into the context of an off- white coloured, craggy city. Its well worth a look, regardless of a haze that has persisted since I arrived. Whatever your mood- happy, pensive, romantic, or sad- there is something to take from what you look down on. There's a wonderful wee church at the exact summit, and I enter its small confines before descending down one of the many paths on the other side of th hill.

The wintry botanic gardens next, followed by Hadrian's Arch on the way to the, once again, reconstructed Panthenion Stadium. Its first accurate rebuilding was conducted in order to accommodate the first modern Olympic games of 1896, and the current creation hosted the Archery in 2004. The black elongated track with it's trademark sharp bends was also the finish line for the marathons of that year, though famously Paula Radcliffe didn't quite make it this far. Unfortunately, the gates to the stadium remain close, (you still get a good view from the open end), so no chance to relive the glory moments from days gone by. I forgot my crossbow, so no matter.

A short hop, skip and a jump see me back at the hostel, for some relaxation time (read Alpha beer). The evening is spent with a leisurely walk around the central neighbourhood of Plaka. It is a popular tourist area, though not in an overpowering sense, especially at this time of year. Locals frequent in numbers here, also. Things are beginning to draw to a close for the day. The shopkeepers begin to take in their postcards, t-shirts and paintings. Store lights are extinguished. The pretty little tavernas are practically empty, seats remaining unused outside. Over the shoulders of small pockets of customers, the owners look on, tired and resigned, dreaming of the busier summer months. Some zither music drifts through the air.

I begin to make my way along a once famous street known as "The Avenue of The Tripods". I walk up a darkened side street, where tarmac gives way to stone and step. It winds off into the darkness, and, standing amongst the potted plants and shuttered windows, you could be forgiven for thinking you were in a quiet village in Thassos or Crete. Only the faint rush of traffic, and the occasional glimpse of the towering Parthenon pulls you out of the surreal bubble, reminding you that you're surrounded by 5 million people. Making my way home I walk along a three laned running track, right in the middle of the winding, uneven street, and i just know that this is just another example of historical significance. It is everywhere.

I near my hotel, and happen upon something which I really hoped to see. The smell gives everything away before I actually witness it. Turning the corner, I chance upon three hooded youths spray painting the side of a house, as another keeps lookout. My appearance startles them before they realise I'm just a tourist, and not a policeman or resident. Graffiti is endemic in Athens. I don't recall anywhere else like it. It covers nearly everything, except archaeological buildings and the metro. I suppose it's part of modern day Athens, just like the glowing Acropolis behind our scene resonates from its past.

Harbour Lights

A great night's sleep (they have beds, and everything here), followed by breakfast with my new Korean roomie. We get on splendidly from the start, mainly because he hasn't a clue what I'm saying to him. The metro journey today takes me down to the port area of the city- Pirraeus. I contemplate just how immaculate these trains and stations are. It's a continuing legacy from the Olympics, and, at any station, you can view offerings of the city's historical worth by observing giant friezes and other artwork along the walls, and encased priceless jewellery and pottery.

Pirraeus is Athens' lively gateway to the country's islands, and beyond. It's the final, most southernly stop on the line which yesterday took me north to the Olympic Stadium. Today, my tingling football senses lead me to the George Karaiskakis Stadium, home of Olympiakos F.C, suitably located near the train line. I engage in conversation with Dimitris, a friendly resident, originally from an old haunt of mine- the Greek island of Kos. I always laugh at the very mention of Kos. It was my first holiday destination (independent of the parents), and I went with my girlfriend of the time for a break from things. We'd been there five minutes when two of her university course mates rocked up and checked into the room below us. Unbelievable. They say it's a small world.... Anyhow, I digress. Dimitris point me the short walk to the ground, and I enter.

There's nothing happening here (it's the middle of the day), but I'm directed into the stadium and upstairs to the cafe, where I get a brilliant panoramic view of a highly impressive, yet compact arena. I'm not alone as I take in the scene- a visiting delegation of Greek Orthodox priests are enjoying frappuccinos and some sugary buns. Maybe they're present to bless the goalmouths. Football is serious stuff here, I tell thee.

The harbour area itself is bustling affair, and not the quaint place I somehow imagined. There's a busy coastal road running through it, and this highway allows the crowds of people and rows of vehicles access to the succession of multi-coloured ferries stretching off in both directions, waiting to take the world and his wife to any number of destinations. I can only imagine just how seriously busy this place must be in the peak summer months. Some people have even set up camp in the host of waiting rooms, with pots and pans, and sleeping bags and rugs scattered on the seats and the ground.

I determine that taking the seaside tram back along the shore and then into the centre will be a pleasant change to my perspective of the city. I leave industry and transport alone as I pass along the Aegean lapped suburbs of the city. It's a very picturesque stretch. We pass white washed churches, sandy coves and windswept lovers. There are also a couple of lunatics braving the chilly sea for a quick dip. A sharp lurch left and we leave the grey waters, and begin rolling towards the centre.

On arrival there, I amble towards the Greek parliament building, which is fronted by the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, where traditionally dressed soldier stand guard, occasionally marching in a rather unorthodox fashion. Their style of marching is very much from the Ministry of Silly Walks, but it's perfect for someone like me, who has a limited ability with a camera. The slow symmetrical motion is quite beholding, and even I manage to get a couple of good photos. Still not convinced by the pom poms on the footwear. Kilts- fine. Pom Poms- not fine. Rumour has it that the kilts have 400 pleats in them- one for every year of occupation by a foreign power.

The evening is spent making the short walk with my two new room mates to the Acropolis for some night time photographs of an impressively illuminated Temple of Athena Nike and The Parthenon. Our vantage point is a perch of stone more commonly known as The Aerios Pagos Rock- the scene of the first democratic trials, and judicial assessments. The view is brilliant and the sound of a bell tolling in a nearby church gently emphasises the perpetual meeting of the ancient and modern worlds.

The Alpha Beat

So Christmas came and went, and as the magic dust settled and the inflatable Santa and fairy lights were fiendishly hidden in the loft once more, I was left with the question: what now? It was January and the days were gloomy. People looked distressed. They gave an impression that they'd just been shot in the buttocks by a blunt arrow, with an enormous credit card bill attached to it, and it was everyone else's fault.

"I know", I said, as I collected up the nut shells and the expired Radio Times bumper edition, "I'll go to Greece."

One of the challenges of starting an international journey from a small rock wedged between the Atlantic and the North Sea is that journeys are longer and arrivals are inevitably later. I make my now customary night-time arrival in an empty, yet gleaming Athens airport, a sliver after midnight on Sunday morning. The other passengers all confidentally strive off towards the darkness and their comfortable houses and hotel rooms. I hesitatingly rumble towards the nearest and longest bench I can find, which just happens to be right next to the main entrance. Bags off, boots off and (hopefully) sleep.

Operation Shut-eye is a resounding success and, too my relief, my possessions are still there when I awake, including the footwear. By the time I shake off sleep and swap some hard Euros for a bus ticket, the light begins to revisit us and it's intensity increases as the bus hurtles along the empty suburban streets. We pass a variety of shops, and organisations, some familiar, some more localised. The small tavernas and stores are squeezed between the giants such as H.S.B.O and B.P. Its a sort of menagerie of the unavoidables and the unpronouncables. The alphabet is different here, and it's all Greek to me.

I make it to my hostel, which is ideally located in the original part of the city, surrounded by the all things famous, and miles away from the hip bars and clubs that appeal to the youth of the place, but it's the old stuff I'm here to see, and I waste no time exchanging my bags for a map and a spring in my stride. I don't have to bounce too far to get my first glimpse of the magnificent Parthenon. Just for the record (or for those confused), the Acropolis is the natural prominent hill in the centre of the city, which forms the platform for the building of the Parthenon itself. It is a resplendent relic in an incredible position.

It's not hard to understand how inconceivable Athens would be without it. It is the marble jewel in the nation's crown, and a very imposing one at that. Back through the centuries, it would have been tastefully painted in dark blues and brilliant reds, and surrounded by statues and other lesser buildings, most of which now lie in frequent inconsolable piles of rubble around the area. Explosions, war and conflicting religious ideologies have taken their toll. However make no mistake- this place is incredible.

After a choice of paths to the top, you enter through the only admission point- The Propyla gate, passing the small Athena Nike Temple, before you arrive at the Athena Temple. It's big, white and grand, despite the considerable amounts of modern day scaffolding that now supports it. Completed in 438 B.C, it's primary function was worship and you can believe ancient Grecians looking up to it in wonder and reverence- "Doom to those who do not tremble below me!"

Sunday is free day and all the barriers along the various entrance paths remain up. It certainly gives the site a more local feel as numerous Greeks take advantage of the offer. Couples, families and dog walkers all flock in and join the throng of international jet setters. The company is very relaxed and you don't feel hemmed in in any sense. I loiter for a while taking pictures (sometimes with my own camera) and taking in the view of the capital before wandering down the walkway on a gorgeous, fresh winter's morning. At the bottom, on the south side, there are a number of other well preserved or reconstructed buildings, such as odeums, theatres and sanctuaries. I find it very easy to drift back in time and see the proclamations and plays, the verve of the toga attired crowds.

The nearby (and clearly new) Parthenon Museum is another fine piece of architecture. It houses a lot of the small objects and relics found on the site over the years. On the top floor, there is a clever designed wall display, which is the exact dimensions of the main temple. On this are all the available pieces of the Bas relief frieze that ran originally ran around the temple itself. You get a wonderful window into how it would have looked to 2000 year old eyes. Sadly, international archaeological theft helps ensure you can't see it all. Fortunately, one of the biggest perpetrators-Thomas Bruce, or Lord Elgin-doesn't sound too Scottish, does he??

Back at the hostel, I meet a couple of Finnish guys who are in Athens for the beer and the thrash metal concerts. The bigger of the two is a thrash metal singer/screamer and absolutely looks the part with the beard and the hair. Tho other is a very meek looking librarian- quite a combination. They're good company and, as we both had plans for the football tonight, we go together. Panathinaikos are currently playing in the Olympic Stadium, and even though football should never be played in non- football stadiums, we get a great look at the athletics venue from 2004. My European curse of always backing the losing home team is lifted, as the Athenians record a comfortable win in front of a very empty looking arena. The guy selling the nuts looks exactly like Joe Pesci, so I comfortably resist the temptation to shout "Hey, go get your shoeshine box."

The long, yet ultra smooth Metro trip ultimately sees things concluded with a beer at the hostel bar. A very good first day.