For those of us who haven't done much running since the 1970s/80s and may be a bit biomechanically challenged (wonky and/or creaky) the idea of starting running again in mid life may seem like an appealing but daunting idea. Running's bad for you isn't it? Damaging to knees and lower back?
But I wanted to do it and was delighted to discover that there had been an outbreak of sanity in parts of the running world; people who weren't willing to accept injury as part of the process.
Runners and authors such as Malcolm Baulk and Danny Dreyer have made use of the principles in the Alexander Technique and Tai Chi to to explore stress free running forms that improve efficiency and speed as well as eliminating or at least reducing the potentiality for injury.
In addition yoga teacher and marathon runner, Laura Denham Jones, amongst others have discovered many that many of the movement principles in yoga, as well as the conditioning and stretching of the yoga postures, are beneficial to runners.
As a yoga teacher and Thai massage therapist myself, putting the ideas of the above authors into practice hasn't been too difficult for me. But it is work in progress and I really consider myself as a student of running with no doubt still much to learn.
Many of us do not consider that we need to learn how to run, or that we need to condition ourselves to run both mentally and physically. Whilst on some level we do know how to run, if we want to make it something we can enjoy recreationally or competitively for the long term there are forms of running that we may have got away with as kids which will not serve us for long as adults before problems arise.
There are a number of mistakes many of us make when we (re)start running as adults:
1. Assuming that we know how to run.
2. Not realistically assessing our current physical conditioning.
3. Not allowing for the fact (and it is unfortunately a fact) that by age 30 (and sometimes younger) most of us have developed hidden imbalances in the body resulting from some combination of postural or movement habits and/or old unresolved and currently masked injuries.
I've been running again for about a year now, injury free. Starting slowly and treating each run as a practice of stress free running principles I've been amazed at what has been possible. More details to follow on my next running post, but until then here are some sites to explore.
Malcolm Baulk - Canadian running coach and Alexander technique teacher who comes to the UK each year.
The US site of Chi Running.
A UK based Chi running instructor.
Monday, 7 February 2011
Wednesday, 6 October 2010
How to choose a yoga holiday.
A yoga holiday is a great opportunity to enhance your yoga practice or immerse yourself in it for the first time. There are, though, some questions you need to ask yourself to make sure you end up in the right place, with the right teacher, at the right level of practice.
Holiday or retreat?
A yoga holiday is essentially an activity holiday with 2 – 4 hours yoga a day and plenty of free time as opposed to a yoga retreat where most of the day will be organised around yoga practices. It is wise to check what the typical daily schedule is and that it accords with how much yoga you want in relation to how much holiday.
Who to book with ?
Small specialist yoga centres generally understand yoga student’s requirements better than large holiday companies – you probably don’t want to end up staying next to a large outdoor nightclub. There are plenty of these smaller operations around the world and they ought to be happy to talk to you directly if their website doesn’t answer all your questions.
Accommodation and food
Standards of accommodation will be reflected in the price. Food is usually vegetarian. If you have specific accommodation or dietary requirements then check this thoroughly in advance.
Choosing a teacher
It is also important that you find out about the teacher leading the holiday as one or two weeks is a long time to be practicing something you don’t like or is at the wrong level for you.
If you are going with your regular teacher then you know what you will be getting. Otherwise a personal recommendation is always good when possible, though this can of course depend on how well you know the person doing the recommending. Alternatively you could start by checking teacher's websites and give them a ring with your questions, they should be happy to talk to you. If at all possible take a class or workshop with them.
Style and level
If you are unfamiliar with the style of yoga on offer then it is wise to check that out and make sure that you understand what it involves. Some styles of yoga are very demanding while others are more accomodating of individual student needs.
It is also important to check that the teaching on the course is appropriate for your level of experience, you don’t want to feel either out of your depth, or under challenged. Again, teachers ought to be happy to talk to you on the phone about your interests and experience and what they teach.
Travel alone or with a friend/partner?
Many people come alone to yoga courses and of course you will automatically be introduced to a group of like-minded people. You would need to check the accomodation situation if you don't want to share a room. Coming with friends, family, partner or spouse probably works best if you are both interested in yoga.
What to bring
Yoga mat, loose clothes/shorts as appropriate to the climate and an open mind!
Getting started with your research
There are a huge range of yoga holidays available these days often but not always tied in with seasonality.
I run courses in Devon, Turkey and India every year, see www.nevyogamassage.co.uk
A reliable and experienced travel agent dealing mainly in yoga holidays is Free Spirit Travel www.freespirituk.com
Monday, 29 March 2010
Kids love India
India can feel like a white-knuckle ride for the uninitiated (and sometimes the initiated). Most of the western rulebook regarding social intercourse, personal space, financial transactions, health and safety go out of the window. It can seem like anarchy; this is of course also why those who ride the initial bumps often grow to love its kaleidoscopic range of experiences. Most kids' sense of fun includes the upturning of social convention, so with some extra planning the dynamics of kids in India ought to work, oughtn’t it?
An inauspicious start en route to Heathrow from Devon when Fergus (5) slipped on an escalator (hanging from the moving rubber banister)and then gave himself a nosebleed on the tube luckily proved the exception.
After an overnight train ride to Goa (Indian railways blankets utilised for dens on the top bunk) from Mumbai we finally stepped out onto Palolem beach in Goa. Flip flops in hand, sand between toes, the children awestruck, a long exhale ensued. Kids love the beach anywhere, but Palolem is exceptionally family friendly with safe shallow waters, acres of space and a prevailing wind of relaxed ease.
A successful wild elephant spotting trip to Wayanad wildlife reserve in the Northern Kerelan hills was followed a short visit to the hilly Coorg capital of Madikeiri with its clanky toy train and stunning views. Christmas in plantain cottage at the nearby jungle home-stay ‘Rainforest Retreat’ seemed like anything but, none the less a small range of Indian bought gifts maintained and expanded the Santa mythology for another year. (His special helpers deal with the Indian Sub continent...)
The lively Jain Pilgrimage town of Dharmastala, reputedly hosting and feeding 10,000 pilgrims a day, with the central attraction the eclectic nondenominational Manjunatha temple and its temple elephants proved a popular stop off on route to the Karnataka coast. Inside the temple men are required to remove their shirts to circumambulate the deities and the inner sanctum; this was one of the few times that Kit looked at me and said “Dad, what are we doing here?”
We were in luck when we discovered that the Krishna temple in the pilgrimage town of Udupi was mid festival; in addition the town was only a 4 km bus ride from a palm fringed beach almost entirely devoid of development. The town’s evening festivities centred around the main temple were a riot of colour and noise: think Glastonbury Festival combined with a Gay Pride march plus elephants and Sadhus (Indian holy men). Dancers, palanquins, giant puppets, luminous lighting and tinselly floats all added to a South Indian scene that locals were clearly enjoying as much as we were.
From Wayanad onwards we were off the beaten track; the welcomes and warmth we received along the way have left an indelible mark on the children who I know have expanded and opened in response to their Indian experience.
Tuesday, 23 March 2010
Massage at festivals?
Feeling a bit lost in the healing field? A guide to finding a decent massage this summer.
A long drive or train journey; hoiking heavy rucksacks or trolleys or wheelbarrows; setting up camp, sleeping in a tent, sitting on the ground, or standing up all the time if it’s muddy, dancing all night? We love it, but it’s not surprising that many of us ache at festivals. It’s also not surprising that there is a burgeoning mini industry in massage at festivals.
In many ways it’s potentially a perfect marriage of people enjoying a weekend away, and available massage therapists standing there right in front of them ready to go. How, though, do you know what to have? Or whether the person standing before you in flip flops and spangly make up is reliable?
The questions for the massage virgin, the mildly skeptical or indeed anyone befuddled by the range of complementary therapies available, can be how to decide what is the right treatment for your needs and whether you can be sure the person in front of you is properly qualified and experienced.
Despite our best efforts, many of us working at festivals might not look as neat and clean as in our usual clinic environment, and there may well be the odd spider dangling from our internal tent poles.
Abi Norman, who organises the therapy field at the Larmer Tree Gardens festival in Wiltshire says: “We work very hard at ensuring all our therapists are well qualified and have a minimum of two years experience. We always gather and check qualifications and professional insurance policies, and we don’t take everyone who applies. The Secret Garden, our healing field is an important part of our event and many people look forward to having a professional massage whilst at the festival.”
Other big festivals that run a healing field, such as Womad and The Big Chill, also employ similar rigour in their selection process.
So whether you ache, just want a rest from sound systems and people, or want somewhere quiet to take your hangover, the healing field is a place you can head with confidence. Festivals make a big effort to make the healing field environment as pleasant as possible for sitting, lying around or having a quiet wander. So, once there, you fancy a treatment? How do you know what to have?
One of the great advantages of trying a massage at a festival is that in most cases it will be possible to watch therapists in action first and probably get to chat to them, all of which helps to demystify the unknown. Some fields also provide an information tent where knowledgeable staff can tell you about what is available.
Thai massage and shiatsu are perennially popular as they are clothed massages; what you are wearing maybe fine or therapists will offer you an easy change of clothes if necessary. Reflexology is great to relax and ease tired feet, therapists will always have something to wash your feet if needed. If you prefer something oily; holistic, remedial and sports massage is generally available with the therapists appropriately equipped.
If you are in acute pain, whilst most kinds of massage can help, many festivals endeavour to employ an osteopath or physiotherapist. They may be wearing pixie ears, but will likely be the best place to go if you are experiencing a lot of discomfort and want a more medically qualified professional.
With luck, you already feel great and just fancy a bit of relaxing time out, or are feeling experimental and want to try something new.
Healing fields often have a little culture of their own within the festival, there maybe yoga or tai chi classes in the morning and perhaps a health food cafe or mini stage offering a programme of events. Costs for a complementary health treatment at a festival will generally be between £20 and £40
Istanbul in Ramadan.
There was a heightened buzz in the air as the sun dropped on my first afternoon in Istanbul. People marched with purpose, gripped by the energy of hunger, waiters supported large trays of mezze, and aromas from freshly cooked food lingered in the street as restaurateurs and cafe owners hovered around their entrances.
I had known my visit to Istanbul coincided with Ramadan, but I had not really appreciated how much that this Islamic holy month would colour the mood of the city and illustrate some of its paradoxes.
“Tourists, children, pregnant women and olden people not need to keep fast in Ramadan,” Mehmet, my local café owner told me. I was glad to hear it, being a fan of lazy slow breakfasts given the opportunity. The sunrise to sunset fast is the most superficially obvious observance that Muslims follow during Ramadan, the ninth month of the Islamic lunar calendar that commemorates the period the arch angel Gabriel revealed the Koran to the Prophet Mohammed.
The wider intention of the fast is that in abstaining from food and other sensual pleasures during daylight hours and being generally moderate during the period, Muslims can refocus their attention to Allah. Many people reaffirm their Muslim identities by making social events of the fast breaking; they attend mosques more and offer food or money to the poor. Wealthy people set up large tents round Istanbul in Ramadan to provide food for the poor.
Istanbul is, though, in many respects as cosmopolitan and modern a city as many Western European ones. During that first evening I began wondering whether how Istanbullus did or didn’t observe Ramadan might tell me something about Turkishness or at least Istanbulness.
Orhan Pamuk, an Istanbul resident all his life, describes Istanbullus in his memoir on the city as having Western minds but Eastern hearts. He suggests this has created a crisis of identity amongst some people; a not knowing whether to look right or left across the Bosphorus for their inspiration.
Later that evening, en route back from a travel stress relieving Turkish bath at the Cemberlitas hammam, a refreshing ancient secular institution I can recommend, I walked down to touristy Sultenhamet where the architecturally impressive Blue Mosque and the Haghia Sophia are situated. Having begun to wander if I might have found the city in an austere mood I was more than pleased to find a bit of a party going on.
An open air stage in the park by the mosque revealed a tuxedoed singer, his intonations accompanied by three perfectly spinning whirling dervishes in stunning white. This enjoyable popularized ancient/modern fusion had me transfixed for nearly an hour before I wandered on among corn on the cob munching families and groups of all ages until I reached the outer gardens of the Sultan Ahmet Mosque, the Blue Mosque.
Warning - those with a penchant for baubles and trinkets, take care here - neon Arabic calligraphy? Clockwork whirling dervishes? A flashing mosque? - walk on quick if this is you.
I made it past and found myself near one of the entrances to the mosque. It was so full inside that the surrounding gardens were also packed with hundreds of people bobbing up and down in graceful, synchronized prayer.
Back in the bar and communal area of the hostel, music videos were playing on a large screen, the gyrating bodies seeming somewhat out of synch with Islamic values. The young hostel workers twiddled on their laptops in the bar and travellers reclined with beers.
I was spontaneously given some delicious baklava and ice cream by one of the staff which typified the hospitality I generally experience in Istanbul. “We are keeping our Ramadan fast so we are allowed an extra treat at night," Ibrahim, tall and moustachioed behind the bar told me. Who was I to argue?
The following morning, on board the efficient, cheap and easy to use Bosphorus ferries, I felt my senses waking up to an enhanced sense of the city. The expansive views, the hills dotted with domes and minarets rising from the urban jumble, and the calls to prayer hanging and echoing above the water, held me in a sense of the exotic Orient.
Not being generally given to romanticism I was somewhat taken aback. Somehow this experience, away from the bustle and traffic, seemed to make sense of the city’s history and geography in a way that all the reading I had done could never do.
The busy ferries and terminals also provided an animated overview of Istanbul’s position as an Asian/European, genetic/cultural spaghetti junction. Wide flat faces, aquiline faces, freckly faces, big noses, small noses, black eyes, green eyes, black hair and red hair in any combination you like. Women’s clothing: tight jeans and flowing hair; flappy jeans, long shirt and tie dye headscarf with sunglasses on top; or, the full Islamic covering of the chador with only the upper face visible, told another story of the city.
Curious about the whirling dervishes I had booked myself in for a supposedly authentic performance, at the railway station of all places.The striking high ceilinged and stained glassed windowed room next door to the ticket office, though, more than explained the choice of venue. Banned by the newly sensitive secular government of the 1920s, the Dervishes endured as an underground movement before resurfacing again in recent decades, partly in response to tourism, but perhaps also because they represent a rich seam of Islam holding a place in the hearts of many people, as was testified by the large crowds at Sultenhamet for the popularized version.
After a very young Turkish boy had completed his impromptu unadvertised version of the whirling - I liked that he was allowed to do this without being pulled away by an annoyed or embarrassed adult - musicians started up and the Dervishes appeared enshrouded in black bat-like cloaks and sporting tall cylindrical hats, (symbolising tombstones – the death of the ego).
After ritualistic preliminaries, the black cloaks were removed to reveal single colour swishy outfits held round the waist by a broad belt. The spinning began slowly with the music waxing and waning in volume and intensity. The Dervishes’ arms were raised at angles, the right palm held up to heaven and the left palm downward to earth.
With one foot on the ground, the other effortlessly gave repeated deft pushes in an anti clockwise direction creating a mesmerizing grace and ease to the whirling. I felt I gained some appreciation of their meditative state of mind by watching at close quarters, but had to admit to myself, that as entertainment (which traditionally it isn’t) I had enjoyed the bastardised version at Sultenhamet more.
Last day, and after a delicious breakfast of olives, sliced tomato, feta cheese and bread, I set off walking. By the Galata Bridge a row of men with fishing rods were hauling out silvery fish wriggling for their lives in the bright sunlight, and a group of students munched kebabs from a nearby kiosk.
Having confirmed that he was “not really doing Ramadan” one of them with a pierced face and punky hair told me to take a walk in the western districts and go to Eyup for a different perspective on the city. Following his directions, I passed the impressive Bulgarian Orthodox Church of St. Stephen of the Bulgars, which symbolized to me another impenetrable layer of Istanbul’s historical and cultural complexity.
Gasping with the gradient as I climbed up through densely packed terraced housing and a small villagey shopping area I arrived at the Fatih Camii mosque, resting place of Mehmet the Conqueror, and one of the most sacred mosques in the city. Sunday has no significance in Islam, but as a secular day off, the Mosque and gardens were heaving with rows and rows of devotees.
Further meandering took me past impressive remains of the old Byzantine city walls that sheltered canoodling couples on one side and pigeon fanciers on the other along with an enormous unmanned pile of watermelons; I eventually arrived at Eyup.
The Eyup Sultan Mosque, dating back to 1459, was built on the warrior grave of Abu Ayyub al-Ansari, a companion of Prophet Muhammed who had died in battle. Shuffling past the Mosque and stalls selling Korans and other Islamic paraphernalia, I was squashed by pilgrims almost to being lifted up.
Although it was an easygoing enough atmosphere, the crowds sent me up a pine forested hill in search of air and space at the Pierre Loti cafe, named after the French writer and Turkophile.
Sipping tea in the airy pine shaded garden of the cafe amongst fasting refusniks, I was joined by a middle aged Turkish couple. Inci, sporting a blond bob and indulging in a bowl of ice cream, was clearly of the opinion that, culturally, this was a city of two halves. “Many of the practising Muslims are conservative immigrants from Anatolia; I find many of their ways unacceptable in this day and age. But I have fasted during some of Ramadan, it’s good for your health you know......”
Back near the hostel the light was disappearing and Mehmet was pacing at his door – “more stuffed peppers?.......”
Istanbul Information box
Turkish Airlines from London – from around £160. Some budget airlines also now go.
The cheapest from the UK is Pegasus.
Ramadan dates shift through the year, currently mid summer period
Accommodation I stayed at Cordial house – the cheapest hostel in Istanbul at about 10 Euros a night.
Public transport – excellent and easy to understand metro, tram and ferry systems.
Attractions – Sultenhamet at night, Whirling Dervishes, The Bosphorus, The Haghia Sophia, the Blue Mosque, the Pierre Loti Cafe and walking.
Cost of meals 1.50 L at a kiosk up to 30L plus
Visas – 1 month for £10 for UK citizens.
I had known my visit to Istanbul coincided with Ramadan, but I had not really appreciated how much that this Islamic holy month would colour the mood of the city and illustrate some of its paradoxes.
“Tourists, children, pregnant women and olden people not need to keep fast in Ramadan,” Mehmet, my local café owner told me. I was glad to hear it, being a fan of lazy slow breakfasts given the opportunity. The sunrise to sunset fast is the most superficially obvious observance that Muslims follow during Ramadan, the ninth month of the Islamic lunar calendar that commemorates the period the arch angel Gabriel revealed the Koran to the Prophet Mohammed.
The wider intention of the fast is that in abstaining from food and other sensual pleasures during daylight hours and being generally moderate during the period, Muslims can refocus their attention to Allah. Many people reaffirm their Muslim identities by making social events of the fast breaking; they attend mosques more and offer food or money to the poor. Wealthy people set up large tents round Istanbul in Ramadan to provide food for the poor.
Istanbul is, though, in many respects as cosmopolitan and modern a city as many Western European ones. During that first evening I began wondering whether how Istanbullus did or didn’t observe Ramadan might tell me something about Turkishness or at least Istanbulness.
Orhan Pamuk, an Istanbul resident all his life, describes Istanbullus in his memoir on the city as having Western minds but Eastern hearts. He suggests this has created a crisis of identity amongst some people; a not knowing whether to look right or left across the Bosphorus for their inspiration.
Later that evening, en route back from a travel stress relieving Turkish bath at the Cemberlitas hammam, a refreshing ancient secular institution I can recommend, I walked down to touristy Sultenhamet where the architecturally impressive Blue Mosque and the Haghia Sophia are situated. Having begun to wander if I might have found the city in an austere mood I was more than pleased to find a bit of a party going on.
An open air stage in the park by the mosque revealed a tuxedoed singer, his intonations accompanied by three perfectly spinning whirling dervishes in stunning white. This enjoyable popularized ancient/modern fusion had me transfixed for nearly an hour before I wandered on among corn on the cob munching families and groups of all ages until I reached the outer gardens of the Sultan Ahmet Mosque, the Blue Mosque.
Warning - those with a penchant for baubles and trinkets, take care here - neon Arabic calligraphy? Clockwork whirling dervishes? A flashing mosque? - walk on quick if this is you.
I made it past and found myself near one of the entrances to the mosque. It was so full inside that the surrounding gardens were also packed with hundreds of people bobbing up and down in graceful, synchronized prayer.
Back in the bar and communal area of the hostel, music videos were playing on a large screen, the gyrating bodies seeming somewhat out of synch with Islamic values. The young hostel workers twiddled on their laptops in the bar and travellers reclined with beers.
I was spontaneously given some delicious baklava and ice cream by one of the staff which typified the hospitality I generally experience in Istanbul. “We are keeping our Ramadan fast so we are allowed an extra treat at night," Ibrahim, tall and moustachioed behind the bar told me. Who was I to argue?
The following morning, on board the efficient, cheap and easy to use Bosphorus ferries, I felt my senses waking up to an enhanced sense of the city. The expansive views, the hills dotted with domes and minarets rising from the urban jumble, and the calls to prayer hanging and echoing above the water, held me in a sense of the exotic Orient.
Not being generally given to romanticism I was somewhat taken aback. Somehow this experience, away from the bustle and traffic, seemed to make sense of the city’s history and geography in a way that all the reading I had done could never do.
The busy ferries and terminals also provided an animated overview of Istanbul’s position as an Asian/European, genetic/cultural spaghetti junction. Wide flat faces, aquiline faces, freckly faces, big noses, small noses, black eyes, green eyes, black hair and red hair in any combination you like. Women’s clothing: tight jeans and flowing hair; flappy jeans, long shirt and tie dye headscarf with sunglasses on top; or, the full Islamic covering of the chador with only the upper face visible, told another story of the city.
Curious about the whirling dervishes I had booked myself in for a supposedly authentic performance, at the railway station of all places.The striking high ceilinged and stained glassed windowed room next door to the ticket office, though, more than explained the choice of venue. Banned by the newly sensitive secular government of the 1920s, the Dervishes endured as an underground movement before resurfacing again in recent decades, partly in response to tourism, but perhaps also because they represent a rich seam of Islam holding a place in the hearts of many people, as was testified by the large crowds at Sultenhamet for the popularized version.
After a very young Turkish boy had completed his impromptu unadvertised version of the whirling - I liked that he was allowed to do this without being pulled away by an annoyed or embarrassed adult - musicians started up and the Dervishes appeared enshrouded in black bat-like cloaks and sporting tall cylindrical hats, (symbolising tombstones – the death of the ego).
After ritualistic preliminaries, the black cloaks were removed to reveal single colour swishy outfits held round the waist by a broad belt. The spinning began slowly with the music waxing and waning in volume and intensity. The Dervishes’ arms were raised at angles, the right palm held up to heaven and the left palm downward to earth.
With one foot on the ground, the other effortlessly gave repeated deft pushes in an anti clockwise direction creating a mesmerizing grace and ease to the whirling. I felt I gained some appreciation of their meditative state of mind by watching at close quarters, but had to admit to myself, that as entertainment (which traditionally it isn’t) I had enjoyed the bastardised version at Sultenhamet more.
Last day, and after a delicious breakfast of olives, sliced tomato, feta cheese and bread, I set off walking. By the Galata Bridge a row of men with fishing rods were hauling out silvery fish wriggling for their lives in the bright sunlight, and a group of students munched kebabs from a nearby kiosk.
Having confirmed that he was “not really doing Ramadan” one of them with a pierced face and punky hair told me to take a walk in the western districts and go to Eyup for a different perspective on the city. Following his directions, I passed the impressive Bulgarian Orthodox Church of St. Stephen of the Bulgars, which symbolized to me another impenetrable layer of Istanbul’s historical and cultural complexity.
Gasping with the gradient as I climbed up through densely packed terraced housing and a small villagey shopping area I arrived at the Fatih Camii mosque, resting place of Mehmet the Conqueror, and one of the most sacred mosques in the city. Sunday has no significance in Islam, but as a secular day off, the Mosque and gardens were heaving with rows and rows of devotees.
Further meandering took me past impressive remains of the old Byzantine city walls that sheltered canoodling couples on one side and pigeon fanciers on the other along with an enormous unmanned pile of watermelons; I eventually arrived at Eyup.
The Eyup Sultan Mosque, dating back to 1459, was built on the warrior grave of Abu Ayyub al-Ansari, a companion of Prophet Muhammed who had died in battle. Shuffling past the Mosque and stalls selling Korans and other Islamic paraphernalia, I was squashed by pilgrims almost to being lifted up.
Although it was an easygoing enough atmosphere, the crowds sent me up a pine forested hill in search of air and space at the Pierre Loti cafe, named after the French writer and Turkophile.
Sipping tea in the airy pine shaded garden of the cafe amongst fasting refusniks, I was joined by a middle aged Turkish couple. Inci, sporting a blond bob and indulging in a bowl of ice cream, was clearly of the opinion that, culturally, this was a city of two halves. “Many of the practising Muslims are conservative immigrants from Anatolia; I find many of their ways unacceptable in this day and age. But I have fasted during some of Ramadan, it’s good for your health you know......”
Back near the hostel the light was disappearing and Mehmet was pacing at his door – “more stuffed peppers?.......”
Istanbul Information box
Turkish Airlines from London – from around £160. Some budget airlines also now go.
The cheapest from the UK is Pegasus.
Ramadan dates shift through the year, currently mid summer period
Accommodation I stayed at Cordial house – the cheapest hostel in Istanbul at about 10 Euros a night.
Public transport – excellent and easy to understand metro, tram and ferry systems.
Attractions – Sultenhamet at night, Whirling Dervishes, The Bosphorus, The Haghia Sophia, the Blue Mosque, the Pierre Loti Cafe and walking.
Cost of meals 1.50 L at a kiosk up to 30L plus
Visas – 1 month for £10 for UK citizens.
