Keşan looked hazy in the morning. The hotel breakfast was, I had been reliably informed, typically Turkish: olives, boiled eggs, fetta cheese, sliced tomatoes and cucumber, and grape juice. "Good breakfast!" I had been told the evening before. It was good, and surprisingly meatless. The bus to the Gallipoli Peninsula that I had been promised was not now running apparently. A few commanding shouts, however, from the hotel receptionist - directly possibly at me, possibly at a man standing outside, I wasn't sure - saw me bundled into a rattly old car and driven at high speed down the road. I was relieved to soon arrive at the bus station, and not find myself - well, you know how the imagination can be at times like this. I had an hour and a half before my
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