The weather had improved and a deep blue sky adorned the horizon. I headed to one of Bukhara's more unusual historical site - the Chor Minar - a tiny most constructed with 4 tiny, but picturesque blue minarets that replaced the normal large domes due to the fact that there was no space to build the mosque.

It was becoming hot as I ran into some Belgian's on tour who I'd met the day before in the internet cafe. We chatted a while before I headed off to another mosque, Maghoki-Attar, which claims to be Central Asia's oldest mosque, dating back to the 12th Century. More fascinating, and a real tribute to the heritage of the Silk Road's exchange of religious ideas, is the fact that the mosque is actually built on top of an earlier 5th Century Zoroastrian temple and on a Buddist temple. As if that wasn't enough, the town's Jews also have used the mosque in the past.

Nearby I climbed the 48m tall Kalon Minaret to admire the city's view before mistakenly entering the Mir-i-Arab madressa that dates back to the 16th century and still educates budding students mainly in theology.  Sadly this is not for tourists and before long a friendly old man came to gently inform me that I should leave - but not after shaking my hand and wishing me well.

It was prayer time and as I wondered to another nearby mosque (Bukhara is something of a religious centre) and the devout were busy doing their daily ritual outside. I was invited to sit and watch and it struck me that It was the first time I had been permitted to see the prayers. I watched, silently captivated as each person underwent the prayer routine, with the Mullah mumbling parts of the Koran.

The prayers lasted just under an hour and afterwards several people came over and offered us little buscuits to eat whilst trying to chat away and find out more about us. One man decided to spend a long time extracting every ounce of information he could from us, and we returned the favour finding out that he'd been in the Russian Army and had served all over the former USSR. He was typical to the locals here in that on hearing I spok a little Russian, badly, launched at great speed into his life story, little of which I could actually catch!

I had met Laurence here and we deicded that with all the religious mix in the town and indeed the different people present in Uzbekistan (the country has 128 different nationalities), we woudl explore the Jewish quarter and try to fin a tiny synagogue that had apparently been there over 400 years. AFter a while looking for the non-descript entrance we found it and were weklcomed by an old man who's breath stunk of booze. He showed us around, muttering away in Uzbek and then revealed that we should taste his wine (obviously the same one as he'd been tucking into all day), which in all fairness was delicious though more reminiscent of port than wine. We left feeling strangely honoured by his kindness.

That evening I had booked myself into the local Hammam bathhouse for a good massage and scrub to remove the dirt of the day before heading off with Laurence to find some supper in one of the local street cafes. We eventually found a tiny, but wonderfully atmospheric place with a barbeque and sat down. Halfway through our meal Yura, my guide from yesterday, dropped by with his wife and joined us making for a really enjoyable evening.