They’d been a little friendly teasing. Was I just putting off heading east from Turkey, Georgia and the ’Stans’? Tough, dangerous riding? Delaying, actually yes, incidentally of course, but why not? I’d chosen Malta because it allowed me to get things done that simply weren’t possible in Turkey, all of which would make life back on the road a bit smoother. I’d all year to cross Asia – rush and you end up out of sync for the Alaska and southern South American weather windows – so could afford a brief interlude, provided, as it should, it helps achieve the aim. Which it will.

But tough and dangerous riding ahead? Yes and no. Semi-arid deserts and insane bureaucracy certainly, but Asia lacks a few things only Africa appears to offer – large, ferocious wild animals, drug-crazed child soldiers, civil wars. Much to look forward to.

[The author would like to congratulate Tim, Pete, Iain, Danny, Jon and Anton for correctly guessing the location of Ken’s temporary island home]

Ordinarily, I tended to avoid the tourist traps, all too often frequented by those wishing to help you part with generous sums of money, be that inflated prices or simple scams. Besides, museums, cathedrals, mosques and the like all begin to blur after a while. But this place was a bit different. A few years ago I’d devoured Jan Morris’ definitive trilogy on the rise and fall of the British Empire, so I knew a little of the history of the place and wanted to learn more. And it appeared safe. Very safe. The police didn’t seem to carry truncheons, never mind firearms.

Whilst it felt as if I was between continents in my temporary island home, politically and geographically this was firmly Europe. But it felt good nevertheless. And rather apt as an intermission from travelling across continents. I’d flown in the previous day, to be met by Simone who, together with her mother and sisters, ran a small hostel. It had been the family home, and still retained a great sense of homeliness. You felt more like a house guest than a hosteller.

The last dregs of coffee downed, it was time to make a few purchases in preparation for my time here. I’d already found a pair of trainers for about £10 – they only had to last a month or so – but feared the socks I’d need would cost me more. Decided to steer clear of Marks and Spencers, choosing instead British Home Stores in the hope of a bargain. About £8. Then some cheap towels from the market stall. £5. Job done.

[The author will reveal his location tomorrow. But, until then, please feel free to contact him with your suggestions, just for fun of course! By way of further hints, it’s not the Ukraine, Bulgaria, Georgia, the UK or Australia... or Cyprus, north or south]

I’d already exhausted the in-flight airline magazine, which I’d found to be quite a good source of information about my eventual destination. Admittedly this was, in part, due to my boarding with a pretty scant knowledge of the place. I’d a hand sketched map and little else. But I’d worked with less before, and, in any case, this time I knew I’d be fairly fluent in one of the local dialects, and that always made things much easier.

I was committed to the plan – we’d be taking off shortly, then a couple more hours in the air – but sought to reassure myself by reviewing the scribbled deductions I’d made in my notebook back in Turkey. There were a few unexpected matters I needed to attend to before heading further east, and it had come down to where best to deal with them.

I glanced down my list of considerations. Practical stuff like decent, affordable accommodation, the ability to self-cater and avoid a diet brimming with bad cholesterol, facilities to ensure I returned to the road fighting fit, and good communications. I’d also found somewhere which had a consulate for just about every country I needed a visa for in Asia, so there was a fighting chance I could machete my way through much of the oppressive bureaucracy whilst there. And in much nicer surroundings than some of the places further along my route.

An altercation with a shoe shiner hadn’t helped, left me feeling a bit jaded. He’d walked past me when I noticed that he’d seemingly dropped his brush a little way back up the street. Picking it up, I’d yelled after him. He seemed very grateful, quite insistent he give my boots a quick brush in return. Reluctantly I agreed. Then the patter. Four young children, another only yesterday. Could I make a donation? A scam after all. No, I said firmly, absolutely not. Told him I’d done him a big favour by picking up the brush, and promptly walked away. Tirade of abuse behind me. Quite good English though.

The journey from Trabzon had been uneventful enough. I’d flown back to Istanbul rather than travel by coach because, whilst the cost was about the same, eighteen hours on a bus lacked appeal. Emma, never keen on flying at the best of times, had agreed to remain with friends in Trabzon, and this had made travel arrangements quite a bit easier, and cheaper.

Over a quiet coffee, a pleasant change from the usual warm, sweet tea, I found myself mulling over my return to Istanbul. Simple necessity, the international airport a major regional hub, unavoidable if I was to enact the plan I’d devised for the next month or so. If the city made me feel weary, jaded even, it was only for a day. I’d a plane to catch early the next morning.

I knew exactly what I needed to do, which would take me a month or so, maybe a little bit more. But where best to do it? More jottings. I’d already resolved not to remain in Turkey, relishing the chance to experience a new country. Which was, after all, what it was really all about. The list of considerations was growing. Another sip of coffee and I weeded out the more trivial ones that had crept in. Sudden clarity. I’d the makings of a plan….