'In all other parts of the world light descends upon earth. From holy Bukhara it ascends...' Central Asian saying.

22.6 to 23.6 The road to Buchara

Cass writes...

Crossing our third border, we emerge into Uzbekistan, looking initially very much similar to its neighbour. Negotiating a small swarm of moneychangers, we look out upon the same arid, uneventful surroundings, the same ruthless headwind, the same searing sun and same marzipan road for our tyres to sink into.

Except, that is, for the profusion of 'Doppis', the traditional hat of the Uzbek people. Beautifully embroidered with delicate motifs, these four peaked skullcaps seem understated compared with the outlandish ' Bokhokhi', the bundle of fur that sits like a stuffed pet on many an old, wizened Turkmen head. As part of the region's diverse hat collection, along with the 'Kalpak', Kyrgyzstan's black and white felt top hat, Central Asians can surely pride themselves on wearing the coolest headgear around.

We stop to change a little money with a man who keeps his cash in a broken fridge; a twenty dollar bill amounts to three fat wads of dog- eared local currency, the cym, which bulge in our pockets. Lunch is a delicious bowl of Lagman, the noodle dish we first tasted last year in North West China. We hungrily gulp it down, along with fresh salad, sesame sprinkled bread and a few prerequisite skewers of fatty shashlyk kebab, the ultimate jaw workout.

Our plan to push on to Buchara, the ancient walled city once renowned throughout the Muslim world, is curtailed once more by our Brooks saddles. Strips of hardened leather, they refuse to be broken in, like a stubborn shoe, leaving us blistered and tender behind. Instead, we limp to the small town of Karakul and track down a simple room - just a pound for the two of us - to rest our backsides. Dusk falls and we entertain a small stream of visitors, including a local English teacher rich with his own distinctive idioms. 'As you know, I am a propagandist of your country,' he greets us enigmatically, before embarking upon various legends of the land.

Rising early to beat the wind, we resume the road to Buchara, tailgating tractors to ease our day, stopping for ice creams and gazli su - shots of carbonated local water sold from random booths. The tandem is met with smiles, waves and handfuls of apples, freshly shaken off trees. Women, a mouth full of gold teeth glinting in the sun, wear colourful headscarves and clothes, standing out against the haze of the afternoon sun. Like the Uyghurs in China, Uzbek family homes are beautifully maintained, centred around the shade of a grape trellised courtyard, enclosed by heavy but ornate wooden doors, alive with droves of shrieking children.

Finally, the blue domes of Buchara's mosques and medressa's are visible on the skyline, rising dramatically from the cotton fields around. After our long haul from Ashgabat, we imagine ourselves as eager to reach to this fabled city as the caravans of traders who travelled this historic road before us. Wheeling our way through its narrow streets, awesomely shadowed by intricate archways and cobalt blue domes, we ponder the days when power crazy Emir's threw victims from towers, when Turkmen desert raiders sold Russian slaves to the Bucharans, when these same streets bustled with silk laden camels, and the city's caravansarais teemed with traders exchanging their well-traveled wares.

We find a room in a traditional house in the midst of renovation, like much of the city, run by dynamic 'Mobinjohn', an ex soviet Olympic sprinter. 'You sportsmen!' he bellows, making us feel at home straight away, before delightedly launching into family tales of marauding Bolsheviks in these very courtyards.

Buchara has been a long time coming. A pot of green tea later, it's time to take lock up the bike, take a break and enjoy the feeling of having arrived...