Tea or Beer? - Wednesday, February 17th

In the morning I decided to go for a run up the hill that I had seen when we arrived yesterday. Night time’s inky cloak had somewhat obscured the sheer size of the thing. The hill was in fact a 2000m high mountain called Sofhe and there was absolutely no way I was going to scale it on my morning constitutional.

I decided instead to get about a quarter of the way up the foot. Even this was a bit of a slog as the road from the house was two miles up a steep hill. Once at the foot I was presented with another slight impediment- a six lane motorway. No matter, for there was an underpass that helpfully reduced the crossing to four lanes of traffic.

Once across, there was a three metre high concrete wall that was pretty much impossible to scale. My only option was to run on a microscopic path that sat alongside the motorway and hope that there was a break in the wall. Mercifully, it came after less than a km. Enough time for the oncoming traffic to let me know what their sentiments were.

Once above the wall there was a barbed wire fence blocking access to the hill. I had the feeling that someone up there didn’t want me climb it. But, lo and behold, there was soon a hole in the fence and I could finally ascend. It was worth the hassle. After only a few minutes of scaling the uneven rock and rubble, I was gifted a view of the whole city and beyond. The landscape was so flat that you could see for at least 50 miles.

Once that was done I made a beeline back to the hole in the fence and prayed that this site wasn’t of military significance. There was a military base at the foot of the mountain and I doubt they take too kindly to trespassing joggers. Especially ones carrying a gopro.

When I got back, Masoud had prepared a hearty Iranian breakfast. I was already feeling spoilt beyond measure. I had been told that this would happen a lot and that the best response is to lie back and take it. In fact, it’s ruder not to accept Iranian hospitality. I could live with that.

Normally Masoud would be working as a manager in his father’s steel business but had been given the day off specifically to look after us. I could just imagine the blood draining from my manager’s face as I asked him for a day off work to look after an Iranian house guest.

We began by walking along the Zayandeh river and criss crossing its ancient bridges. The scenery is not unlike the banks of the Seine in Paris, with wide promenades on both sides at the water’s edge, presided over by flanks of well pruned trees.

Masoud had originally wanted to be a doctor, but the pressure from his father was such that his arm was twisted into the family steel business. He said that it was fortunate in some ways as the lifting of sanctions means that global demand for one of his country’s chief exports will only grow.

I warned him against trying his luck in England. A large number of my banking colleagues were engineers by training due to a lack of engineering jobs. “And you really don’t want to become a banker Masoud, trust me. Everyone thinks you’re a dick.”

Rokas and I both seemed to have unique characteristics that drew unusual amounts of attention. Obviously his height drew a few bemuesed looks and comments here and there. Not many people here are above 6ft, let alone 6"8.

The fact that I was from Britain was mine. A number of people I had spoken to here hadn’t encountered British travellers before. I can imagine friends shaking their heads while reading this knowing that for some people I am the first Brit many Iranians will ever meet. I hope more come here quickly to dilute the effect.

Masoud and the many beautiful bridges of Esfahan

We made tracks to the Naqshe Jahan, the third biggest square on the planet after Tienanmen and Red Square . Here, thankfully, there were no associations with past atrocities- namely, the massacre in Tienanmen and Rod Stewart’s famous live show.

It was eye wateringly large space. Enough to easily fit in 15 full sized football pitches. Unlike the frenetic atmosphere Jemaa El Fnaa in Marrakech, this has a much more measured pace to it. No one here appears to be in a rush for anything.

At no point were we hawked in the Bazaar either. The lack of attention was perplexing. It seems that there simply hadn’t been a volume of tourists around here for at least 30 years. It was more like a supermarket than a Bazaar.

We were joined by Masoud’s brother in law, who ran a gold distribution business from the Bazaar. After a quick chat with Masoud we were offered two choices for a pre-lunch drink. “Tea or beer?”
Having assumed that it was the local 0% beer we initially said tea. Just to be sure I asked “you mean, real beer?”
“Yes, real beer.” Came the response with an impish smile.
“Well in that case, yes please!”

We were hurried into the back warren of the Bazaar. Some of these passages were many hundreds or even a thousand years old and I pondered at the unknowable secrets they had been privvy to. We were ushered into an upstairs office where we could spy on the goings on of the Bazaar below.

The office had a London speaksesy feel as there wasn’t enough room to swing a Persian cat. There was also a small TV screening Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland dubbed into Farsi. The hipsters would bloody love that, I thought.

To Roka’s and my surprise, some paper cups with little pink butterflies on them and two 50cl cans of Tuborg Special Brew were produced from under the counter. They were accompanied by a plate of pistachios. Now we’re talking!

Grappa, wine and now 8% beer. Not quite the detox holiday I’d imagined. A pleasant surprise nonetheless. We talked politics and after a few more drinks the guys pulled out an Iranian gold ingut from the safe for us to play with. It weighed more than my weekly shop and was a little worried about dropping it. This being pre-midday, the Special Brew had made swift business of me.

“What happens if the police catch us?”
“Tourists will have no problem, but we would go to prison.”
Again I was amazed at the lengths that people would go to in order to give us a good time. We quickly finished our beer and went to get a spot of lunch to soak it up.

The dining hall next to the Bazaar looked like it hasn’t changed in 500 years. The windows were intricate patterns of blue and red stained glass and the meals were all taken sitting on a raised platform. Once again my food came with the delicious, thick yellow sauce known as Horosh Mas. I remembered that it had saffron and yoghurt but there was more to it. “What’s the other ingredient Masoud?”
“Meat.”
“I see.”

We offered to pay for Masoud’s lunch but he took it as a grave insult that we had even been seen touching our wallets in his company. “You are my guests. Please.” And promptly paid for all of us. It was heart warming and I wished there were another way to thank him beyond my outdated London post cards.

We then went to the Masjed e-Jameh, the largest mosque in Iran. It’s 800 years of history makes it a real pinnacle of Islamic architecture. Masoud insisted on paying for our tickets and even our audio guide. The guide was actually an old non-smart phone that had some dodgy recordings on them. Rokas and I did our best not to crack a smile for fear of offence.

The most astounding thing about the place, aside from unspeakable beauty, was the total lack of tourists. We were completely alone for for the whole day. We spied two chirping older ladies who looked European and asked where they were from.
“Denmark.”
“Small world! My mother is Danish and Roka has spent the last 11 years working in Copenhagen.”

As if by magic only the second set of tourists we’d seen all day (after the Danish ladies) appeared from nowhere.
“I’m from Aarhus” said a heavily bearded man. (Aarhus is Denmark’s second city). We all shared a slightly bemused giggle and went our separate ways.

This was indeed a very small world. Smaller still for those with links to Denmark, it seemed.