It was an early start this morning, and that wasn't because my room had no curtains. I had organised to take a trip to the tiny village of Abyaneh, some 75km from Kashan. I had tried to look into what public transport there was to the village but was informed that there was none bar donkey s which were used by the villagers and only carried one passanger - the rider. So I called on a Mr Reza, who was able to drive me there and back for a few dollars.

 Most of the drive was through stunning desert mountain scenery. We stopped off on the way at a crumbling caravanserai just outside of Kashan but there really wasn't much left of it to explore. About 40km from Kashan we came to a 5km stretch of road on which cars were not allowed to park and there were signs indicating that one wasn't permitted to take photographs. Before I had a chance to ask Mr Reza why, we rounded  a corner and it became immediately clear why. This was a military zone and anti-aircraft guns were mounted on the top of small mounds while soldiers patrolled the grounds beneath. We passed the main entrance gate to this complex and I caught a glimpse of the buildings and a rather large and tall tower. It was clear that heavy construction was taking place as the lorry in front, loaded with metal girders, turned off into the site.

"Nuclear energy programme", Mr Reza pointed out, taking his eyes of the road and looking at me with a knowing smile.

 "But where's the reactor building", I replied, expecting to see the typical domed building that accompanies nuclear power plants.

"Underground", Mr Reza answered nd with an ever broadening smile decided it was time to look back at the road again.

We got back onto the non-restricted road and drove on. Soon after, some form of military officer hailed us to stop and asked us what we were doing here. Mr Reza did his best to explain, but the Officer shook his head. "Journalist?!" he enquired. I shook my head and smiled, raising my voice in a way that people do when the other person doesnt speak their language, and replied "tourist". He looked bemused, I repeated "tourist" and for some reason (though probably because I've been around too many Japanese here) I showed him my camera and simulated taking a picture. Almost as soon as I had done it, I knew it was a stupid thing, especially here, but it seemed the easiest way to explain my presence. Fortunately he got the gist when he saw that all I had was a small Pentax digital camera rather than a papparazi-sized lens that might be of use to a journalist or worse, a spy. We drove away. Mr Reza laughed and I breathed a sigh of relief.

Abyaneh was a wonderfully quiet and cool place and a welcome break from the heat of Kashan. Almost no cars were present, with the main transport being by Donkey. Just strolling around the village with its ochre-coloured houses and narrow streets was relaxing. All the villagers were friendly and were keen to engage me in conversation. One delightful old lady saw me and smiled, revealing a mouth with half her teeth missing, and offered me tea and some dried apples slices as a snack. Her daughter, who spok excellenty English acted as a translator as I explained my presence in the village.

Mr Reza drove me back to Kashan via another old Caravanserai at Hanjan. This time there were no checks and I slept the rest of the way back. It was getting incredibly hot by now and I had lunch in the Bazaar before heading off to explore the many historical merchant's houses that are situated in the old part of the town. On my way back I stopped off again at the bazaar to climb the roof and watch the disapointing sunset. Up on the roof I met a 16 year old boy, Mohamed, who ws trying to fix the air conditioning vent for his shop with his father. He spoke a little engilsh and with a combination of actions and pointing I understood that I was to be invited to their house for supper. I refused a couple of times as I have now become used to, but they insisted, so I obliged. They lived not far from the bazaar in an apartment with Mohamed's aunt. His sister had prepared Fesenjun, my favourite Iranian food, with another delicious, but unpronounceable, dish. Once again I had been shown such hospitality by complete strangers. After several cups of tea, the equivalent to after dinner Port I suppose,  I decided that it was time to leave. In many ways their hospitality made me feel inexplicably uncomfortable. I left them the only gift I had, a photo of me which I signed and dated. They seemed thrilled by the gesture, but I felt guitly that I could not offer more.