Turkey - Kaçkar Mountains 1

A view to the greatest summits of the Kaşkar mountains where we've been for the past week.  Almost 4,000 metres above sea level, they are the highest peaks of the Pontic Alps which run from northeastern Turkey, parallel to the Black Sea, into Armenia.

MJC pauses to pose on our fırst walk on the Kotençur plateau where we were based for three days.  This is above a valley just to the west of the central Kaşkar granite massif.  Just to the right of his right shoulder is the tin shack that was our base camp.  Further to the right ın the distance is the derelict vıllage of our guide's great grandfather.

Here is our guide Mehmet - a native Hemşin, very interesting on local mountain culture and excellent on the plants, not so expert on the birds and a helluva fast walker.

The plateau pastures are strewn with these white crocuses.  They flower late summer and early autumn and signal to the mountaın folk that it's time to get ready to leave the highland villages or yaylas for their lower lying homes.

Here is our boutique mountain hut - interior shot to follow.

You can't move for gentians up here.  At least three species in this area.

MJC sups at the spring of the deserted Upper Amlakıt village.  The last inhabitant died ten years ago.  Photo taken just minutes before day 2 trek's most dramatic moment.

My skew-whiff cap may well be the result of my brush with mortality, climbing through the ruins of the village.  I lost my footing and fell backwards about two metres, landing in a bed of stingıng nettles and firmly wedged between two granite boulders.  Mehmet had to haul me out.

Even in mid September, the abundance and diversity of plants in flower was incredible.

These saffron crocuses were all over the place above about 2500 metres.  According to Mehmet, ın the wınter the bulbs are used to make a hot sweet drink called Sahlep, wıth boilıng water and some milk.

MJC is lurking to the left, attempting to blend in with the granite and lichen.

Ice 'lake' at 2700 metres.  I got knee deep but it was way too cold for full immersion.

One of the joys of walking here was pickıng and scoffing the wild raspberries.  Really sweet and not at all furry.  So much nicer than the ones ın Waitrose.

Some of Mehmet's lovely extended family who came up from the village below to have a picnic, chaın-smoke and gather bucket-loads of wild raspberries, blueberries and myrtleberrıes whıle chaın-smoking.

Interior of mountain shack with me packing and panıckıng ın search of something I'm convinced I've lost but haven't.  We all slept ın sleepıng bags on that pink seat.

About 300 metres lower, we spent the next night in the lower Amlakıt village in that dark brown pension you can just see on the left side of the photo.  During mid-winter, these houses are under about 5 metres of snow.

MJC at the village cafe with the best turkish coffee we've had on the holiday so far.  

Typical of the views from a forest path which apparently was one of the routes of the Silk Road.  We crossed a stream with flecks of gold (the largest full-stop size), in ıts sandy bed. It was the real thing - I am an ex-geologist.

MJC marches ahead into the lichen-strewn spruce.

The village of Hazındak comes into view as we break through the tree line again.

MJC tries to bond with some of the Hazındak elders.

Much more interestıng were these lovely ladies with their fantastic turbans and knitting.

The village imam makes an appearance, heading in the direction of the village mosque.  In most of the yaylas, the mosques are anonymous-looking tin or wood huts wıthout minarets.

Huxley on Holiday, West Cornwall

What follows is way too many photos of the dog, sometimes with MJC, at landmarks and beauty spots in west Cornwall.

First walk from our cottage onto the moors behind Zennor on the St Ives - St Just road, in now standard British summer outfit and light.  Huxley is also wearing his coat.  Later in the day the sun did come out.

H seemed to think he owned this section of the coastal path, going ballistic and bringing shame on us when a couple passed with their own terrier (Patterdale x Jack Russell).  Four years ago that unfortunate pooch fell 180 feet down a disused tin mine shaft.  She was rescued by a Cornish caving group six days later.

Water-proofed master and pup blend with the yellows and greens of the water garden at the fabulous Trebah Gardens on the northeast side of the Lizard Peninsula.

MJC ponders past great holiday stays at Porthmeor Beach, St Ives while H looks back at the labrador with whom he's just been romping on the island.

Far too many beaches in Cornwall ban dogs.  Porth Kidney Sands, east of St Ives, does allow H's kind.

After all that digging, throwing and running around, a cream tea at the Carbis Bay Hotel was in order.  The best of the holiday by far.

£7.50 per person but look at those scones.

After supper at Betty and Bill's.  Betty holds trenchant and wholly sensible views about certain Radio 4 presenters.  Loves and loathes shared by many.  I'd like to be more specific, although I can reveal that Dr Mark Porter needn't worry.

Here's one for Steve Rose (no not the left-wing neuroscientist, the other one).  Cot Valley, St Just.

H can even beautify a beach covered in rotting kelp.

Following another deafening eruption of Small Dog Syndrome in the direction of another passing pooch, H takes in the magnificent views at Britain's most southerly spot, the Lizard Point.
On bird matters, this year choughs nested in the cliff just behind this wall.

On the headline to the left of the Lizard Lighthouse, another pair of choughs successfully bred.  We were told the parents and young often forage in this field.  Didn't see them.  Here MJC is trying to make H sit.

The beach cafe in Kynance Cove which every year kept me supplied with Strawberry Mivvies and Cornish ice cream cornets on my childhood summer holidays.

View down onto the cottage where my family stayed almost every year.  It's now derelict.

Oh my God, where's the dog?

Vizsla Visitation for Huxley

Like one of the Titans of Greek mythology, a new friend for Huxley rises from the ocean and surveys the beach at Hove.

Huxley stands and gazes in awe at his titanic new mate, Bertie.

A terrier who knows no fear and unaware that Bertie could mash him with three paws tied behind his back - if so he chose.

Referee Sam supervises the high jinks.

Bertie makes himself at home in pet-ravaged armchair.

Fiona is scandalised by such disrespect towards hosts' furniture.

Huxley being a bit come hither.