A truly treasured week in Turkey, I'd drunk the salty coffee of matrimonial bliss without flinching, as my father's stumbling but valiant attempt at a turkish proposal somehow managed to get the important business of the day done. A greater family bonding session in Bodrum followed, which seemed to motivate both sets of parents to learn the other's language - a good sign of having so much to say, and to listen, from the other, the latter a real rarity for my father - something must have registered... I hope it wasn't just the chance to discuss Brexit in another language.
The journey back to Sofia was a trial I failed, I have a strong suspicion Ryanair design their online check-in and other aspects of their service to actively prevent clients from catching their flights. I'm sure it makes sense for ower Michael O'Leary and allows him to invest in Grand National winnners. The extra hours wait for the next flight were mostly spent reading 'scripture' and meditating in the interfaith prayer room; certainly a life hack if you can persuade airport security it's not just for muslims. Later than expected I had another night cooped up in a bike shop - a suitable bedroom now if ever. The target for the next few days was a 'jaunt' over the Rhodope range to get the body back in shape after similar mountains of baklava.