So there we were: rooted to the spot by our 20kg packs as the dust settled from the minibus' departure. Slowly, the view revealled the enormity of Ararat ahead of us; its volcanic cone rises to over 5137m in perfect isolation from the surrounding grassy plateaus. Today, the clouds had parted and we could see the peak for the first time, deceptively close when you fail to appreciate the effort involved in ascending three kilometers. The trek began gently and we were surprised to reach the first camp by mid-morning. After hours of sunbathing, we began diligently to collect snow and melt it in preparation for a gourmet lunch. Having watched our campcraft demonstration idly, our guide rummaged behind a rock and produced a tea pot and a bundle of logs (though presumably not the ribs of the ark). Helpfully he had neglected to mention the convenient spring nearby or the local cooking facilities, however the resulting beverage was most welcome. The holiday camp atmosphere soon vanished as the skies closed in with a biblical sense of impending doom. That evening, we were treated to a fantastic, eye-level view of a thunderstorm over Dogubayazit, before the three of us tessellated into the two man tent to avoid being pummeled by an onslaught of hail and highwinds.

The following day dawned clear and, as we trekked on upwards, the meadows became rocky islands amid ever deeper snow. Around 3800m the altitude was more noticeable, though months of cycling and an abstinence from chain smoking meant we could enjoy the frequent breaks without the guide's prolonged wheezing. Camping was somewhat more hectic here as we meticulously engineered snow defences for our tent, ascended further to aid aclimitisation and laboured over snow melting to prepare more soupy-pasta sustinence. In contrast to us, our guide based his diet around chay brewed fortuitously by another (Anglo-Swiss) group and a pack of cheap Turkish cigarettes. Hence, he concluded emergency rations were unnecessary for the summit attempt (as indeed were extra clothes, water or first aid).

Needless to say, we made our own preparations and rose eagerly at 6am, keen to make it to the top. We donned crampons to tackle the steep, icy slope up to 4200m and then took a breathless hour and half to reach the top of a decepively high, boulder-strewn ridge which leads to the summit. We had ascended to 4500m by 9am without feeling any significant effects of the altitude. However, our confident progress was soon halted by the freezing gusts ripping over the ridge with an extreme -27C wind chill. The summit was unreachable despite the fact that it looked agonisingly clear. At least the descent provided some consolatory fun after the careful clamber up; we slid down snowy gullies back to camp in less than an hour and arrived back in Dogubayazit by mid afternoon.

On its outward appearances Dogubayazit encompasses all we have come to expect from Turksih architecture. Unpainted concrete boxes, which manage to look dilapidated immediately upon their apparent completion, are scattered with little regard for asthetics or planning regulations along major arterial routes. However, the town does possess a warm vibe amidst its dusty streets. Everyone knows everyone else and especially the mountain guides. We couldn't walk down the street without bumping into rival Ararat guides, though they always wanted a friendly chat (even once we'd chosen a tour) instead of presenting us with the hostile gauntlet of salesmanship we had faced in Istanbul. In true smalltown style, barely had we heard rumour of someone truely crazier than us, when a slightly jaded sounding German sporting a shaggy beard appeared in our hotel. He had taken it upon himself to walk from his homeland to China, a feat he claimed was possible without money! He had been blagging his way around the world for nearly a year, but whether he could talk his way out of the fact his Turkish visa was three months overdue we do not know. Maximum respect to him though!

To deal with our own visas we boarded the bus to Erzurum and began an expectant wait for confirmation from Iran. Despite being a student town, any vibrancy or warmth seems to have been dispelled by the harsh climate. For the first time this trip we were at a loose end: we had exhausted everything the guide recommended (even the deserted Mongul museum) and were left stranded in the hotel room staring at hour after hour of European football. Our visa agency strang this saga out for four days, reflecting little of the urgency we had paid so dearly for. After resolving to camp in a phone box until we had an answer, we finally received the bad news: unless we wanted to be accompanied by a guide the Alien Affairs Bureau stated that we could not dang diddily dang well darn diddily doodily travel to Iran. In retrospect, perhaps stating our occupation as nuclear technician and describing our reason for visiting as colonialism was a touch bold; though it was the months of waiting that frustrated us more than the actual decision. If the pace of this governmnet department is anything to go by, I don't think advanced uranium enrichment is an immediate worry even if it is given urgent priority.

Even though we are disappointed to miss out on some incredible Islamic architecture and the chance to experience the friendless of an often mis-protrayed country, we can now look forward to exploring more of central Asia, being able to sleep beyond the 5am call of the Imam and greater beer consumption. After all, we no function beer well without. Plan B takes us northwards through Georgia and Azerbaijan, across the Caspian by ferry to Kazakhstan and on into Kyrgzstan and Uzbekistan. More than anything, we are excited to be back on the road again and I am sure that by the time we enter Georgia the tribulations of the Iranian visa application will be well behind us.