It was lovely to drift into Armenia after the wonderful and inspiring time I had in Georgia. One thing I noticed pretty quickly was that Armenia seems a little more Russia leaning than Georgia. It’s the most “Soviet” style place I’ve encountered so far. Cold War era concrete brutalism abounds, as does 70s Russian lettering on crumbling buildings. It has a certain kind of kitsch interest for me, though for its residents I’m guessing it’s more about the grind.

I’d decided that my first night would be a wild camp in the far West of the country right up to the Turkish border. It always comes as a surprise to me, but shouldn’t, when a country’s borders are heavily fortified with only a few main crossing points. I guess travelling across the borderless Schengen Zone helps us to forget what it’s like in most of the rest of the world. Armenia has a troubled history with Türkiye not least due to the infamous Armenian Genocide so you can’t really blame them for being somewhat fearful of the massive regional power on their doorstep. Not that they should only be looking West. The long running Nagorno Karabakh conflict has brought much death and destruction to their East. A factor driven home to me when I passed the biggest cemetery I’ve ever seen in my life, on the edge of a small Armenian town. The gravestones brand new and all-too realistic with their intricate portrait marble etchings or colour photo representations of young men in military uniforms. No wonder then that Armenia seems keen to hang onto what little support it can still count on from mother Russia. It certainly looks likely to be one of the losers in the power grab that seems to dominate the region at the moment.

Camping

The route to the camping spot took me along some lovely deserted roads, across plains and hills in weather which, for just about the first time on the trip, was kind. For me it’s always a bit of a sketchy time to find a suitable wild camping spot, there needs to be some kind of half decent road or track to nurse a fully laden Badger down. Sadly my off-road skills can be most generously described as “limited”. The spot also has to be away from any dwellings our transport routes. The best outcome is to remain undisturbed. I imagine if I did more or it, it would become easier but I always feel uneasy setting up camp, waiting for some stranger (or wild animal!) to come along and disturb the peace. I would definitely be at their mercy.

The spot turned out to be lovely, albeit bitingly cold in the night. The best part of a wild camp is always to wake up at dawn to a nice sunny day, get a brew on and congratulate yourself for getting at least a little bit of sleep. Mount Ararat provided a lovely view in the distance, I guess we should all be grateful that Noah’s Ark managed to settle there, presumably before god started to hide all these fossil type things to confuse us.

Dogs

Now a brief word about our canine friends. As a dog lover (hello Stan and Ruby!) I would ordinarily say hello to any friendly canine I came across. Not so when travelling. I learned quickly in Argentina and Chile that there is something very different between someone’s beloved pet and a psychologically damaged street dog that has had to scrap for every part of its precarious life. In some places I saw stray dog packs roaming the streets with an obvious hierarchy and little fear of humans. But more dangerous than that for a biker are those dogs that think, for whatever reason, that motorbikes are some kind of imminent threat that need to be chased off as aggressively as possible. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been concentrating hard to avoid potholes and murderous cars and trucks only to be side-swiped by a vicious dog attacking my ankles from the side. They’ve had no success yet, but I bet there’s plenty of biker stories of coming off due to a dog attack. That sounds bad, and it is, but spare a thought for the surprisingly numerous long-distance cyclists I’ve passed on my travels. When speaking to a hostel owner in Georgia about this, he told me about a couple of cyclists who turned up on the edge of a mental breakdown due to relentless dog attacks over the course of several miles. I can always speed up, but even Chris Hoy couldn’t outrun a dog on a badly surfaced dirt road.

And to probably one of the funniest moments of the trip. I decided to explore a bit closer to the Turkish border on deserted roads and came over the brow of a hill to spot a field full of sheep to the right of the road, complete with 2 shepherds and maybe 3 or 4 sheep dogs corralling the sheep. Now when I say sheep dogs, you’re probably thinking of the intelligent and cute black and white collies of one man and his dog fame. Oh No. Armenian sheep dogs are a different breed (see what I did there?). Let’s just say if Oleksandr Usyk is the Rottweiler, Tyson Fury is the Armenian Gampr.

Whenever I spot wildlife near the road I always slow right down, not only because it’s less likely to spook the animal but it gives more safety options. If you’re going 20 mph you have the possibility to turn left, right, speed up or even stop and turnaround. If you merrily carry on at 60 mph you remove two of those options. It didn’t help me that day.

Rumbling along at 20mph as innocuously as possible had the desired effect on the sheep and the humans, they weren’t bothered by my presence. Oh but one of the Gamprs certainly didn’t see it that way. From the furthest corner of the field 400m away, he started to bound towards the road scattering the sheep in the process, with the shepherd squealing at the top of his voice to call him back. At this point, I considered my options. The road was deserted in both directions so I could have quite easily hit the throttle and be out of there, but I thought that just might make things worse. Instead, I continued at my leisurely pace hoping the shepherd would regain control or uncle Gamprs would lose interest. He didn’t. As the shepherd’s calls became more and more hysterical as he frantically chased behind the dog “Gamps” was not for quitting. For such a gangly, ungainly runner he seemed to cover that 400m alarmingly quickly. I thought I’d better do something here, so increased my speed to about 40mph which brought me past the field and the sheep. That just made him angry.

I looked in the mirror and could see Gamps charging down the road followed by a flailing shepherd doing his best to recall an oblivious dog (I know how he feels). By now I was well beyond the field and had turned a corner so it wasn’t even in sight of it. I picked up the speed to 50mph and cast a final confirmatory glance in the mirror only to see Gamps, Terminator like, still bounding down the road after me a full mile from the field! He’s probably still looking for me now.

Yerevan

The Armenian capital is the most modern part of the country I’ve encountered so far, though not what would appear modern to western eyes. In fact it’s probably the most rough around the edges crumbling capital I’ve been through on this trip. The arrival at my accommodation is slowed by a protest march through town, I think over the fact that the government has given back parts of Nagorno Karabakh to Azerbaijan. No doubt wondering if all those full cemeteries was worth it. Quite.

Out of my hotel and walking into town, the air is annoyingly dust-filled. Catching in my eyes and back of the throat. It’s clear once I get to the very city centre that some money has been spent. There are nice plazas and fountains, the remnants of some glitzy cultural event and the fledgling dawn of up-market bars around a square (for better or worse). I take in the impressive art gallery and have a spot of over-priced lunch nearby. I can see what Yerevan is trying to do, it could possibly be a worthwhile city break destination and is nice enough for the region. It’s hard to see which audience it might attract though, given its geographical neighbours and lack of transport links. No doubt the gaudy oil drunk neighbour to the East is sweeping up the Dubai style tourists who want the marble shopping malls.

I spend the evening in a lovely little bar making new friends watching the Eurovision Song Contest. The super-friendly bar man has more than a bit of the Omid Djalili about him and much merriment is had. The streets seem safe enough so I make the short walk home.