1. Tuesday morning we cross the Yedigöl Plateau towards Direktaş, where the trekking companies have a permanent camp. The last water was from a tarn the previous afternoon, and we could do with filling up. From above, we can see that there are only three tents there - individual walkers, not organised groups, and the trekking companies' sites are empty. We approach a man about our age (Turkish) and after the usual greetings ask about water. (The trekking companies usually pipe it in from a snow bank. In this low snow year, we've seen no sign of snow on the plateau.) "There is no water." We won't reach our next water source until the middle of the afternoon. We have enough to survive but it's going to be hot and we're going to go very thirsty. He notices me glance at a five litre plastic bottle of water at his feet. "I brought that from Çelikbuyduran." Çelikbuyduran is a spring on one of the passes to the plateau. He must have hauled it several kilometres and several hundred metres up and down over the pass. "I'm heading back out that way today. I can give you some if you like. I promised some to them," he tips his head towards a group of younger Turks at two nearby tents, "so I could give you half." He passes us a paper cup of tea and invites us to share his breakfast (bread, cheese, olives - Turkish hikers are often fanatic about sticking to their traditional meals, regardless of the weight). But we've already eaten and have a long day planned, so we decline and move on, grateful for the water. 2. Wednesday afternoon we're walking out from the mountains. The route is down a dirt road in a narrow, forested valley. Only one vehicle has passed us and that was a couple of hours ago. It starts to hail, then the rain starts to belt it down. After about twenty minutes, we hear a car approaching. It stops. "Get in; I'll take you the rest of the way." He has to shout to be heard above the noise of the rain. We have about another thirty kilometres to go but the temperature is pleasant and we've already decided not to accept any lifts. "It's OK, we'd prefer to walk." "In this? At least, sit in the car for a while." We're sopping wet and our shoes are balls of mud. If I owned a car, I wouldn't let us anywhere near it. But we're insistent. We're actually quite enjoying it; it's been a long hot summer and this is the first real rain we've seen since a trip to the Kaçkar six weeks ago - gixer would probably understand. Eventually he relents: "Well, I've got two loaves of bread here, at least let me give you one. Here, you keep the plastic bag they're in to keep it dry." (As he drives off, we notice that the boot is up and it's full of bee hives. How do they do that? How do they keep the bees in the hive while they're being transported?) The place where we live is going through troubling times and it is easy to start to feel pessimistic. But the generosity of people met can be inspiring, and, to be honest, a little shaming. I hope it doesn't come off as trite or pretentious, but I wanted to share this and I would be interested in hearing the experiences of others.