As the only tourist on the Iran-bound train, I had plenty of help with getting my bike on and buying a ticket. The train had seen much better days, but the staff were all helpful and spoke some English. The Immigration official had to be woken for his sole foreign visitor that evening, but he was none the surlier for that, a great improvement over the uniformed jobsworthies who prowl European trains looking at passports in the dead of night. I was starting to like Iran and I hadn’t even crossed the border yet!

I woke five hours or so later, slightly confused by an hour and a half’s time change, to scruffy desert and small towns on the approach to Tabriz. A glorious desert sunrise marred by a tumbleweed of black plastic bags blowing across fields scratched out of the sand. The Iranians were plastic bag farmers like the Syrians, with pale and undersized crops growing here and there amid the rubbish. At Tabriz station there was a customs inspection waiting for the train, but I was waved through as if I were a foreign VIP and while I stood outside sorting out my bike and bags, a few people came over to welcome me to Iran (the first of many hundreds of welcomes) and I set off to find a hotel.

It was a Friday, almost everything was closed and I couldn’t change money either. I walked round for a few hours hoping to change some money. Someone at an internet gaming place changed $5 for me as a favour as I told him I couldn’t afford dinner without a few Rials, but I was wrong there, food is pretty cheap in Iran and I found a tasteless wonder-bread sandwich for $1.50 for lunch. Tabriz looked boring, but religious holidays in Iran could be expected to be pretty boring, especially as far as shop hours go. Just outside my hotel, a car pulled over and someone was calling to me in English. At that time I was far from jaded at people calling out to me in English, and this guy spoke it well. I had an idea that this was how people in Iran made contact with foreigners, that conversations or encounters might come out of the blue. I went over to talk and jumped in Ali’s car, an Iranian Paykan, the old Hillman Hunter built under licence. Ali is of Russian descent and regards himself as neither Iranian nor Muslim. He was on his way to a picnic with friends and family and did I want to come, as Fridays in Tabriz were none too exciting? Yes I did, what better way to find out about Iran than through someone used to foreigners and who lived for making contacts with the outside world. Family picnics are very much an Iranian activity, and there’s little else to do anyway. Orchards are a popular spot, and picnics in public parks are very common on Fridays, with large foldaway tents set up to give a little privacy. We went to the biggest park in Tabriz afterwards for a little people-watching. The black chadors and frumpy raincoats stand out. If white is such a practical colour for the heat that Arabs wear it, why do Iranian women have to dress in black? It’s a strange form of imprisonment, a sort of house arrest under those horrid black tents, and is enforced by the police.

Next morning everything was open and the noise levels were up much higher. It’s deafening, in fact, and crossing the road is a skilled art as the traffic stops only for rare traffic lights, if then. You have to find a local and cross with them till you learn how to do it on your own, but you pick your moment and then walk slowly and steadily across so that vehicles can decide whether to pass behind you or in front of you. Running would be very dangerous and standing still means you get ignored and drivers won’t slow down at all. Why did they let it get to this?

I went to the Tourist Office and the man there took me to where the money-changers operate, mosty from offices. It’s all very open and safe, nothing like Asian money-sharks (with the exception of Singapore, which is dead straight). I told the Tourist-wallah I wanted to go up into the hills, but with all the traffic, could I get a bus out of town? He said he had met a Spanish cyclist who was headed the same way and told me where to find him, so a few hours later I met Salva at his guest house. He quickly dismissed the idea of a bus: “but you have a bike, you don’t need a bus!” and instantly my faith in cycling was restored. I came over to his place next morning ready to take off. In the meantime, two Austrian guys and a Swiss girl had arrived and were to join us. A cyclist from the bike shop Salva had just got replacement gears from offered to show us the way out of town, which was about 15km of uphill freeway. In a group, it felt far safer and our guide stopped to buy us all banana milkshakes before showing us the last junction where he would turn back. And then it was open roads again, cars and trucks flying by but far less honking than in Turkey, one car sounding like a buzz-saw as it rode on one shredded tyre that was now down to bare rim against the road. A gas station stop for lunch in the shade.

I noticed Salva had an excellent eye for good camping spots. He had been on the road for two and a half years, riding first down the west side of Africa, then back up the east side. He thought he had better do the hardest part of his world trip first, then everything else would seem easy. I’m sure he’s right, he took little troubles in his stride. He found us a great camping place that nobody else could see just a hundred yards from a village and he knew we would likely find water there. Some women were washing clothes in a stream near where we wanted to camp, but didn’t seem friendly or positive about us camping. We later learned that women can’t give the OK for anything, that has to come from men. Sadly there’s often little to gain in talking to women (unless you are a woman) as they may feel ill at ease talking to you and it could be viewed in a poor light by any men watching, but Iranian women are for the most part more liberated than other Middle-Eastern women, and the headscarf is far more common than in the Arab world, which typically insists on more ‘modesty’, ie only eyes visible, if that even. That’s modern Iran – a more advanced society than its Arab neighbours, but held back by a government that thinks it’s still the Middle Ages.

The campspot was too good for us to give up despite the uncertain reaction of the villagers, but it was not long before some men came over on a motorbike to welcome us and have a chat, first asking us if we would sleep in the village, then offering to bring us bread. They are so kind and hospitable, you have to be gentle and persistent in saying you would prefer to sleep in your tent, as that’s the thing they do not understand, why anyone, especially from a rich country, would prefer to do that. And you have to be extra welcoming to people who come to your campsite, especially when they come laden with gifts.

The next day we rode on over a pass and down a long straight hill where several of us set personal records for speed. I usually brake if my bike gets over 50km/h (30mph in old money) but I let it run up to 70 on this road. I learned not to ride too close behind Salva, things have a habit of flying off his bike at any time. We stopped to buy food in a town but quickly a small crowd gathered. Someone offered us tea and before we knew it we were led off the road and into a school where we sat for tea in the headmaster’s office, though it was a holiday and no children were there. Unable to explain that it was a perfect cycling day with a strong tailwind, they insisted we stay for lunch and we left our bikes there to be taken by car to the headmaster’s home, where we met his family and he offered us every refreshment he could find and let us all take showers in turn. Sparsely furnished and looking as though the last details of decorating and electricals might never be finished, it was a comfortable place for its thick rugs. For some reason you have to duck to get into an Iranian bathroom. They never think to put the plumbing below the floor, so the floor is raised to accommodate the squat toilet and you bump your head on the door frame. The shower is often next to the loo in what we would call a wet bathroom, so you have to be careful you don’t slip into the toilet. After an hour or so we were whisked off to lunch in the best place the town could offer, and we were invited to stay for a night or three. I find this sort of overdone hospitality to be too much. There’s never any thought given to your needs and you seem to be put there for your host’s entertainment and to impress the neighbours. After an hour more at our new friends’ house I started to make demands that we be released. I wasn’t the only one, it was a wonderful day, a day for riding and not for sitting around. With great reluctance, we were allowed to go but then our host decided to get in his car and take the whole family with him, escorting us out of town and stopping to beg us to come back and stay, then offering to carry our bikes (all five of them) in his car to the next town. This episode seemed never-ending. I thought we’d shaken him off and we rode on, hoping to run into a Spanish cyclist Salva had corresponded with coming the other way. This we did and as it was getting later in the day and the winds were strong, we decided to look for a camping place nearby.

We should have tried a little harder. We picked an industrial estate with some grassy hills behind it, all closed for the holidays that week. The man at the gate gave us an equivocal response and we went ahead and set up camp. Several visits from the police followed, adroitly handled by Alvaro, a professional clown turned world cyclist. I don’t know if his tricks impressed them or nearly got us in jail, but at 10pm the police gave up on us. It was another holiday tomorrow and not worth their while messing with. We huddled round Alvaro’s small computer to watch a DVD Salva had made of his last world biking trip. Five cyclists watching this 9″ screen, with sound to match. Wonderful.

We only had one night camping with Alvaro but it was inspiring, a great boost to the spirits. Alvaro has been on the road for three years, also going down and then up through Africa. We were the first group of cyclists he had met, as there were very few individuals cycling Africa. Alvaro is travelling from 2004-2014 (I thought of Michael Palin’s cry as the leper in Life of Brian: “Ten years behind the bell!”), he’s a giant of a character. He has one sponsor, a benefactor cyclists other impoverished riders can only dream of. This sponsor has given him a top-class bike, in fact he built the bike and flew out to Egypt with it to give it to Alvaro. Alvaro carries his clown gear with him and has given a lot of free shows in refugee camps in Africa. So far, the reception to a clown in the Islamic world is a lot less clear; it’s not an art form they readily understand the way that most people immediately laugh at a clown.

On we rode, through beautiful hilly country skirting round the back of a 5000m mountain for several days. There were small crowds and sometimes large ones wherever we stopped. One little shop where we sat on the steps outside for lunch, asked us in to sit there, then refused to let us pay for anything. We felt so bad about his giving us food that the two Austrians, Andy and Jannis, sneaked off to another shop where they were allowed to pay for their food. In other towns, we caused traffic jams when we stopped to buy bread. People were desperate to help us, whether they spoke English or not. We fled one such town and dreamed of finding an ideal campspot well hidden from the road, and a few bends in the road later we saw a low hill with a fast flowing stream coming our from behind it and pulled over to investigate before anyone saw what we were doing. It was perfect, the hill hid us completely and with running water for a wash too. Next morning we woke up to find the stream had dried up, it had come from a storm over the mountain a day or two before, but had been there just when we needed it.

To Ardebil, a town as ugly as its name, where the five of us shared a room for three, all we could find that holiday week. Someone took us to a hamam nearby, much the cheapest one I visited at less than a Euro, a bit small but it had a steam room and a hot bath and was certainly old. A little silly having to wear underwear while showering. And then Salva and I went south into the mountains and the other three headed straight to the Caspian Sea. It’s a lovely part of the country, a getaway region for Tehranis as it is scenic, not too hot and less humid and cloudy than the Caspian region. We saw a village just half a kilometre off the road and headed down a rough road past well cared for small fields and beehives to find a bridge over the shallow river to a village of mud-brick houses. Cows and sheep had muddied the river banks and rubbish was dumped at the foot of the village, but otherwise it was a scene worthy of Constable’s attention. I asked the first person I met if we might camp nearby and he offered me water from his house nearby while Salva looked around for a good site. As we sat and washed by the river, our new friend came over with a tray full of food, all from his own pantry and home made, honeycomb and a pot of honey flavoured with flower petals, a baked yoghurt dish, a flask of fermented yoghurt drink, more bread than we could eat in a couple of days. It was overwhelming, this generosity. Later half a dozen women came over with a flask of tea and we stood talking to them. They too had all but ignored us till they got the OK from the men of the village, now they were all smiles. And then a quiet evening with a few more visitors, it seemed the whole village came down to take a look.

In the morning a water pump started up at 6am so there was no lie-in for us, but there’s nearly always some disturbance if you camp anywhere near people. We had a great day riding, marred only by the police coming in to the restaurant while we ate lunch to demand passports. The officer wanted to take our passports away to photocopy; we took an instant dislike to him. No ID, no uniform, he just pointed to his car sitting outside as proof of who he was, and we were eating lunch. The restaurant owner pleaded with him to go, guests were disturbed, we dug our heels in. We decided we weren’t going anywhere for an hour anyway, so we refused to let him take away the passports. After we had eaten, we went outside, a crowd of some 30 people gathered. Why wouldn’t we give him our passports, they were asking us but after a while opinion seemed to swing in our favour. In Iran, people must go along with whatever the police want, or face the consequences. If the public realises that the police do not have unlimited legal powers, they will realise that they themselves have rights. And in fact the police do not have the authority to take your passport away in Iran, so our standing up to him was hopefully a good example to those watching. But it wasn’t getting us anywhere, besides being faintly amusing seeing the officer get more and more angry. He tried to start anew by offering a hand to shake. I refused. Then he knew it was personal. More officers arrived, then the young guys with trousers tucked into their socks, billy clubs and machine guns. Salva gave him his passport, went to the car door to argue some more, and slammed the door as the cop drove off. He knew that was the limit as the one with the stick moved forward. Ten minutes later he came back and demanded mine. My bit of theatrics was to try and get in the car with him and go to the station, but he threw my passport down on the floor of his car and put his foot down with the door still open and me holding the door. The other policeman standing by said to us in English “he is very tired” which gave us a laugh and defused the whole thing.

Afterwards we rode off to sit in a park to let our food go down. We thought we might have a nap but a few men surrounded us and someone wanted to sit next to me on the bench I hoped to sleep on. More inane questions. More borrowed phrases from me in response:

What do you think of of George Bush?
I don’t do politics.
What do you think of Ahmadinejad?
I couldn’t possibly comment.
What about homosexuals?
In this country, that’s politics, and I don’t do politics.

I looked around and wondered if it was a gay park. After a short while, we got back on our bikes. One more checkpoint, one more easy pass and we were out of that valley and into another and a long downhill and more fabulous riverside camping next to a family picnic, which meant more food offered and we nearly had to sing and dance for that too. Next day we had a long ride up and over an unpaved pass to the Caspian side. A long , four hour climb and then plunge into another weather system altogether, the humid rice-growing land by the Caspian Sea. Two nights in the mountain tourist village of Masouleh, then on to the coast. The rice paddies and backdrop of forested mountains were beautiful, the roaring traffic on the only east-west road far less so. In the evening , with hopes of

camping fading (we forgot the possibility of beach camping), we turned off the main road to try and find something on the back roads. After a few hundred metres the houses thinned out and there was nothing but rice fields. We turned round to have another look. A side road led to some open land that wasn’t flooded for rice, so we asked around there. No luck, but at least people were friendly and interested in helping us. We kept them talking, hoping some ideas might come to mind. Phone calls were made, and in a few minutes Theo came on his motorbike to pick us up, wearing his dairyman’s outfit.

Theo is half German and lived overseas, in Germany and the USA for most of his life, returning only five years ago to marry and resettle in his homeland. He told us he was a priest and conducts services in his home. He had a large cross on the wall and an equally large and prominent picture of Khomeini in case of unwanted visitors. He and his wife live very frugally on the milk from three cows he keeps behind his home along with some chickens and numerous cats. He spoke good English, though he claimed he had not spoken a word of it for more than five years. He was so excited to meet us he wanted to play us some DVDs of pop concerts straight away – Kenny Rogers and a concert by Pink Floyd’s Roger Waters were his favourites. We had a great evening with him and his wife, like the earlier nights we had with Christians, it felt like a night off from Islam, a time with like-minded people, though Theo’s wife was a Muslim. She was one of the few Iranians who removed her scarf in front of us.

We cycled on another day but Salva left his bike at a camping place on the beach and took the bus to Tehran with me. The road through the mountains looked terrifying but we met the Austrians and Swiss in Tehran and they made it OK. Tehran is a tough place to spend more than a few days, hot and terrifically noisy. The roads are difficult and dangerous to cross by foot, though of course there is no choice. Although culturally it can feel like a liberal place to most Iranians, the food there was limited to the same dreary kebabs and rice we had eaten everywhere else. We spent most of our time hanging around the hotel and staying out of the heat and noise. I went to Esfehan by train for two nights. More police checks at the station each way. The journey was beautiful, Esfehan is an improvement on Tehran but I wasn’t hooked on the place. The Armenian church (the architectural style is that of a mosque, though) had beautiful murals on all its walls and a fine museum, but the mosques, much as I appreciate them, are empty and one gets through them in about half an hour or so. I was sorry to see traffic running through one end of the famous square that is ‘half the world’ and motorbikes running up and down the covered bazaar. There was no escape, except by bike to Turkmenistan or plane to London. I chose BMI over Iran Air for the alcohol. As expected, the headscarves came off as soon as the women got on board. Nearly everyone had a drink before breakfast was served; all were relieved to be out of that mental prison for a while. Wonderfully friendly but demoralized and ill at ease as a nation, it was the worst luck that Iran should be stuck with the government they’ve got, a government that makes Syria’s look benign. Of all the countries I have visited, this one really seemed like a bad dream. By the time we arrived in London, everyone on the plane had come back to life, London looked vivid and colourful, with vast acres of flesh on display, bottom cleavage, tattoed boobs, the lot. Dreadful bad taste, but to feel free and enjoy the treats of an English summer, that’s hard to beat.