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Why Turkey? That’s often the initial response from someone when they hear that you are going to Turkey on Holiday. It’s a huge country littered with interesting artefacts and populated by some of the friendliest people on earth. Flowers seem to burst from every crevice, the sun shines endlessly, transport systems are efficient Scenery ranges from dull to mind-boggling, beaches are fair, prices are low and shopping is excellent, especially leatherware in Istanbul. Driving is suprisingly safe, apart from mad Istanbul taxi drivers and night driving.

Knocking at Europe’s door yet on the threshold of Asia, Turkey is truly a land of contrasts. Vibrant Istanbul, straddling the blue waters of the Bosphorus separating Europe from Asia, beckons with its skyline pierced by countless minarets, chaotic bazaars and a history redolent with harem intrigue and despotic Sultans. In Turkey, you can also cruise along more than 1000km (620 miles) of Mediterranean coastline, past secluded coves, rocky headlands and pretty fishing villages, or explore a hinterland rich in the wonderfully preserved remains of Graeco-Roman cities such as Ephesus.

Turkey Villas are abundent all along the Aegean and Mediterranean coasts and many are luxurious, spacious and with pricate pools.  The combination of a rental care and a beautiful Turkey Villas makes for a great Turkey Holiday.

While struggling with the side of the open car door to leave the suitcases and a backpack in the back seat, I heard the door creaking sound of footsteps, voices and the familiar aroma of toast, coffee and salt filling Porag morning air. I will load quickly and end exchange kisses, hugs and handshakes. In the end, I return to the machine where the coordinator of this place is great anticipation to take me to my first destination. When the car moves away, the loose stones of the gravel from the car accident – a drum for the final farewell of love to my fans.

A mile and a half later, Crowmarsh Gifford and the bus stop red. The coordinator of the horn sounds and coughing from the exhaust pipe disappears into the background. I take out my walkman and a tape of Bob Marley and waiting for the bus while listening to “One Love, One Heart.”

The coach gets up and opens the door plumbing. The driver asks my destination to which I replied Warrington. Take my luggage and after a little while back for my ticket to trivially cry off the page, putting the rest in the hand. Find an empty seat, avoiding the eyes of the faces of strangers, how should I proceed down the hall. Bus travel…

The road is upset and does not take long before my stomach is resonant on the engine healthy pace. Ashtray stand out grotesquely, has definitely changed from previous trips. The landscape, however, compensates me green cloth fields of cattle and sheep grazing, with trees and bushes bursting with the promise of spring. Come together in peace until you drift into sleep.

I wanted to see a pterodactyl alarm screeching bus brakes are a setback. With half the collected thoughts I look out the window. Fields once green cloth is replaced by the dark gray bridges, skyscrapers and back to back terraced houses. The somber mood of the city is reflected in the sky that is increasingly black, traffic noise and jostling echoes concerns that pedestrians can seek refuge under umbrellas and store entries. I put the light on the fingers and comb the hair. The light turns green and begins the flood. Within minutes, the streets are flooded with heavy rain, racing along small streams, to the ditches, carrying the filth of the city.

Inside the bus station, the sounds of engines waiting for the resonance you can hear the screams and the voice of public address announcements. The smells of the side bar threatens to overwhelm the diesel gas, my stomach growls in waiting. I’ll be back on the bus to take my place and settle beef sandwiches with horseradish sauce, while I hope the driver has his usual strong cigarette and talking to other riders suspended.

An elderly woman with red hair took the seat next to me. Ten minutes later, finally leaving the city of Birmingham the street behind a procession of heavy electrical cables hangs like lianas. The woman next to me started talking, the first time and then … we reached the road.

Stoke-on-Trent bus station. I turn around to see that the woman has taken her place beside me. A flash of light from heaven, heavy presses.

We pulled into service for the storage of Stoke Bus Station, the engine overheats. “I can help take some of their bags. Other clouds have dissipated, but the gray masses are still evident, reflecting the state of the square below, with its pools of oil stains, grease and oil. We step carefully between them, weaving toward the new coach and clean waiting for us. Twenty minutes later, the driver releases the brake and the death throws the cigarette out the window, which sizzles on the ramp to fall, throwing a last breath of smoke.

I remember very little, but I realize that the changes were there. The area has been built over and the city has expanded the market. My mentor and coach is in place under the glass canopy to the bus station illuminated by the sun.

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