We had butterflies in our stomachs this morning as we headed back out on the road after a lengthy break. It’s funny how the pause in our routine made us feel like we were taking those first steps out our door in London all over again. Now that our life is usually on the move, we get attached to places very quickly and it was hard to leave the comfort of the hotel in Yazd.

It was difficult cycling for most of the day, not because of the terrain (mostly flat) or the weather (sunny and about 25 degrees) but more because our muscles have also gotten used to relaxing. A lunchtime snooze under our tarp, perfectly tied onto the metal poles of a high tension power line, gave us the energy we needed to carry on.

By the time we reached Kharanaq, the only town of size in a long desolate stretch, we just wanted to scarf down our supper and go to sleep. The police manning the station we camped beside though had other ideas and six different officers wandered over at various points in the evening to say hello, ask questions, bring us nuts and check our passports. They, along with plenty of other people today, have been telling us how dangerous it is to cycle in the desert, although mostly these claims of danger are quite vague, rather like the warnings we’ve received in just about every country we’ve been to so far. The Canadians warned us about having our things stolen in Europe. The Europeans found various countries in their own union to label as the scariest and the Turks couldn’t believe we were going to such a frightening place as Iran. On and on it goes but we aren’t worried. We’ll keep our wits about us as always, tuck our tent away in a hidden spot for the night in the really isolated stretches and that probably leaves us as safe if not safer from danger than walking in some parts of London.