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“Know, O king, that the law of the Medes and the Persians is; that no decree nor statute which the king establisheth may be changed.”

So writes Daniel in the Old Testament, of the time of the Achaemenian Dynasty that existed over two thousand, five hundred years ago.

The Medes and the Persians were two groups of the first Aryan people who settled in Iran after a great migration southwards in about 2,000 BC. Cyrus the Great, a descendant of the tribal leader Achaemenes, rose to become the founder of the first and greatest empire that the world had known. His dominion became so vast that it was no idle boast when his son said:

“My father’s kingdom extends far to the south where man cannot live because of the heat, and northward to where he cannot live because of the extreme cold.”

Cyrus had his capital at Susa, but he also created a new residence at Pasargadae. Whenever he captured new territories, they were not sacked into ruins or destroyed by fire, for he reasoned that they would be useful when incorporated into his empire. He built and conserved, ruled wisely and well, and contributed much to an age held in high regard in Persian history.

His unpopular son Cambyses ruled for eight years, and as he left no heir, there was some concern as to the choice of a suitable successor. According to Herodotus, Darius and six other conspirators decided to support the one whose horse neighed first after sunrise. Darius’ groom, Oebares, found an ingenious way of ensuring that this occurred for his master on time. He took a mare, which Darius’ horse was particularly fond of, and tied her up, at a carefully chosen place on the outskirts of the city. Then he brought Darius’ horse to her and gradually allowed it to get closer and eventually to mount her. When the six men and their horses reached this spot at daybreak the following morning, Darius’ horse at once started forward and neighed. In this way Darius became King and it was he who founded the Royal residence at Persepolis and constructed the Royal Road from Susa to Ephesus in Asia Minor.

Following his defeat in the epic battle of Marathon in 490 BC. the empire steadily declined until Alexander the Great of Macedon invaded and brought about its total collapse. When Alexander died, his vast empire was divided and ruled over by his generals. Seleucid and his descendants ruled Persia, until the Parthian nomads, in a series of revolts, reclaimed some of the old Achaemenian Empire. After a national uprising in Fars, the Persians, under Ardashir, grandson of Sasan founder of the Sassanian Dynasty, experienced a time of glory after having been under foreign rule for so long. It lasted for four centuries ending in AD 642, when Islam swept across Asia.

After a period of Turkish Seljuk rule, Mongols invaded the country under their leader Genghis Khan, and later his son, Hulagu. They conquered Persia and established their rule for over a century. The next invasion from Central Asia was that of Timur, or Tamerlane, one of Hulagu’s ministers, who became renowned for his conquests and butchery. He and his descendants ruled up to the middle of the 15th century.

The great Safavid period, originally founded by Shah Isma’il I in 1501, owes much to the inspired rule of Shah Abbas the Great between 1506 and 1628. He was a devout Shi’a Mos1em, tolerant towards Christians, yet his cruelty was extreme in matters of small account, even judging him by other terrorising rulers of the time. However, the arts of his reign are among the most beautiful in Persia.

After the collapse of the Safavid Dynasty in 1736, an ex-bandit named Nadir Shah conducted a campaign in India, after which he brought back many riches to Persia, including the famous Peacock Throne. He made Meshed the capital and favoured the Sunni faith heedless of Shi’ism.Probably as a result of this he was murdered in 1747.

From 1787 until 1925 the Qajars reigned. Their dynasty began well, laying the foundations for peace with neighbouring countries as well as with France, England and India. The later Qajars, however, did little to enable Persia to compete in the modern world, and eventually their rule ended in the early 20th Century. This was when Reza Shah, the founder of the present Pahlavi Dynasty, took over the throne, and who in 1935 changed Persia’s name to that of Iran.

We had been waiting at the border some time for the barrier to be raised. Nothing happened. A man began making signs at us, and we realised that we must sound our horn. Unfortunately, it had failed a few days earlier, and we were not able to give even a subdued beep. I should mention that our modest English hooter was no match for the ear-splitting, two-tone bugles attached to most Iranian vehicles. A few more minutes elapsed before someone came over to raise the barrier and escort us into the customs house. We tried to understand the forms written in Arabic, but it was an impossible task.

Eventually an official translated the questions for us, pointing at the Arabic, which read from the right hand side of the page to the left.

“Name?”

“Peter Frank Culling”.

There was some delay while the letters were formed in a script that he was unused to, and I spelt my name out slowly.

“Wife’s name?”

“Audrey Olive Culling”. There was another short delay.

“Father’s name?

“John William Culling”. We were getting along much better now.

“Occupation?”

“Mine, or my father’s” – I asked, not being quite sure whose he really wanted. There was no answer. He continued writing, so I can only assume that my occupation was recorded as a miner. The questions went on, and particulars of various items, such as our tape recorder and radio were entered in Arabic on our passport before it was finally stamped. Glancing up at the time, we realised that we must put our clocks on by another hour and a half.

A poor surfaced, dusty road led to Maku, twenty kilometres from the border. We decided to stay in this small town for the night, and soon found a hotel where we were offered a room with four beds. The cost, per bed, was thirty rials, equivalent to half-a-crown. Either we could pay for all the beds and have a room to ourselves, or accept two extra travellers who would share the room with us. We opted to pay for four beds.

Asking for a meal, there appeared to be no alternative to shish kebab, so we ordered. There were tables and chairs in the room so we presumed that we should eat there. Some time latter there was a loud crash on the stone steps outside and, after a short delay, our kebabs arrived having, we imagined, been hurriedly scraped off the floor.

The great mound of rice, surmounted by a few pieces of meat topped with melting butter, was a forbidding pile to wade through, even though we felt hungry. On a separate plate were two large raw onions. We also made our acquaintance with Persian bread: two large sheets of it about eighteen square inches and a sixteenth of an inch thick. It was edible, even if not too enjoyable.Finally, came a glass of chai.

Our beds were of a standard iron frame construction and moderately comfortable. Just as we were contemplating turning in for the night, the hotel owner entered, saying that as we did not need the extra beds he would put them in another room. We did not argue, but guessed that we would still be expected to pay for four beds.

We were up early in the morning, anxious to see more of Persia, but as we drove out of the courtyard and along the road, we heard several people shouting. Looking into the driving mirror, I could see a crowd chasing us. One young boy jumped up at the door and clung on until I stopped. Amongst the confused shouting we heard the words “Toman”[4] and “hotel”. We returned to the hotel and found that we had not paid the necessary parking fee. As soon as we had paid up and were out of the town we came across our first camels, which were moving slowly in single file across the dry land. Mud built houses predominated in the scattered villages, though many seemed deserted. The mud-plastered surfaces gave a pleasing smooth effect, and, as a rule, buildings merged in with the colour of the soil. At one village the women, gathered by the stream, were busily doing their washing. A young lad stood close by them, possibly to keep a watchful eye on all that was happening, whilst the men were attending to the sheep.

Soon after passing a hundred or more old millstones, abandoned by the side of the road, we came to a diversion. Looking at the Arabic signs we felt quite mesmerised and not at all sure about the direction we should take. We had been told that a new road existed in this vicinity, but the one that was signposted to Khoy seemed to lead off to nowhere. Luckily, just at that moment a jeep pulled up behind us, and the occupant, seeing our dilemma, told us to follow him. After driving over a poorly surfaced working area we were once again on the right road. Along parts of it there were very bad stretches of transverse corrugations, which certainly gave us a rough ride. Remembering our experiences of potholes in Turkey, we travelled at forty miles per hour, so as to ride over the top of the ruts. This resulted in a more comfortable ride, although the dust gathered very quickly. There was always a great cloud stretching behind any moving vehicle, which made passing almost impossible. Yet to keep behind such a dust cloud was a choking and dangerous experience. The only alternative was to take one’s life into one’s hands, lean on the hooter, and attempt to pass. But we had no hooter!

During our midday stop, a boy coming along the road with two bullocks decided to look over the rubbish that we had put in a bowl by the side of the Land Rover. We gave him something to eat and drink, but he still took some of our stale bread as he walked away.

From our position we looked over the Araxes valley towards the Caucasus Mountains in the distance, and we noted what a deep blue the sky was. Had we ever seen it as blue in England?

We booked in at another cheap hotel in Khoy, before going out into the cold evening air to see the town. By using these hotels we found that the cost was well repaid by the time that we gained in being able to get away earlier in the morning, and also by the fact that we had much more time to look around the town in the evening.

Dressed in our sheepskin jackets, we must have appeared very wealthy to the inhabitants and it was not long before a policeman joined us and offered to show us the bazaar. He pointed out the many colourful materials for sale, and we were surprised to be shown some Scottish and Japanese lengths of silk and brocade. Walking back we noticed the gruesome sight of an animal’s skull being heated over a bunsen flame.

From Khoy we continued our journey to Tabriz, the second largest city in Iran, which is unique in being the only city ever to have been reclaimed from behind the Iron Curtain. It is the capital of the province of Azerbaijahn, which is politically unsettled and has been occupied twice this century, both by the Turks and the Russians. During the Second World War, a Russian withdrawal from Azerbaijahn should have been carried out as a result of the Tripartite Treaty of Roosevelt, Churchill and Stalin, which was made in Tehran in December 1943. Two years passed during which no action took place. After much bloodshed, a puppet regime, known as the Democratic Republic of Azerbaijahn, was formed. It lasted for only a year, as on the twenty-first of Azar, in our month of December, the Imperial Iranian Army entered Tabriz and re-occupied the province. The people were glad to be under Persian rule once more, and since then Azerbaijahn Day has been a public holiday, a day of festivities and an opportunity for making stirring and patriotic speeches.

After three attempts to find a hotel, we stopped at one in Pahlavi Avenue. It was a little more expensive than we had previously paid, being thirteen shillings and sixpence for the two of us. As Audrey had a sore throat and was not feeling so well, we decided to stay another night. This allowed us to catch up with some letter writing and to complete a tape recording that was to be sent back to England. There was a place to park the Land Rover for less than a shilling a night though, unfortunately, we could not see it from our window. We were always a little uneasy when it was out of sight and hoped that it would be safe.

The drive from Tabriz to Zanjan represented a distance of two hundred miles and during this journey we witnessed some exciting scenery, which included the snow-capped mountains of the Elburz range. I think what impressed us most was the multitude of colours in the rocks and the vividly blue sky. Just south of Mianeh we came across a broken bridge over the Qizil Uzun. It is a tributary of the great Sefid Rud or White River, which flows into the Caspian Sea. The central arch had been carried away by flood, but we were still able to appreciate the fine construction said to have dated from the 15th Century.

On this day, as on others, we were forced to drive through fairly deep water. Tracks of other vehicles showed the general direction, but gave no indication of the depth. Keeping a steady pressure on the accelerator, we slowly pushed our way out towards the middle. It was a strange experience to look past the bow wave and around at the expanse of water. Although it seemed as if we were afloat, should the riverbed take a sudden dip, we would inevitably stall and be stranded for some time.

Heavily laden donkeys picked their way along the uneven gravel road. How they manage to transport such loads over any distance is remarkable. A passing lorry frightened one of them so badly that it fell beneath its great bundle of hay. We stopped and with a couple of other men tried to help it to its feet. It was not until one of them twisted the donkey’s hind leg that it managed to raise itself.

Then we were unlucky enough to have a puncture, our first. To make matters worse, a spring retaining clip came off the jack just as I was halfway through jacking-up. Fortunately, a couple of lorry drivers came to our aid and, seeing what had happened, they got their jack and were soon busily trying to complete the job for us. In no time at all the spare wheel was fixed in place and we were ready to set off again. The man would not accept anything from us, which seemed to suggest that one of the unwritten rules of the road in Persia, was that a driver should always stop and assist if he saw someone in difficulty.

Unfortunately, another unwritten rule was to play ‘chicken’ along certain stretches of road. This game really needs two contestants driving towards each other at breakneck speed along the centre of the road, but the game may still be played even if one driver is somewhat unwilling to take part. At the last possible instant the weakest contestant will give way and swerve to one side. The winner drives on to terrorise the next unfortunate traveller.

We stopped at the next small village to have the puncture repaired. The places that do the tyre repairs are well advertised, with huge inner tubes distributed over the complete shop front and also hanging from nearby trees. The work was done with quite a crowd surrounding us and it seemed that this was the most active work that the village had seen during the day. Then the bargaining for the cost of the repair was carried out before the uninvited audience, and this finished somewhere around thirty rials (under three shillings) which, no doubt, the man was very pleased to receive.

Nearby some other men were loading one of the single deck buses that travel the tortuous roads. A ladder permanently fixed to the back of the bus gives access to the roof where all manner of sacks, baskets and belongings were being hauled into place, the men giving friendly grins towards us as the passengers crammed inside.

It was dark as we entered Zanjan. The sunset had been most beautiful, and just as the last pinks dissolved into the night, the huge lorries switched on their lights. These were of different colours and festooned over the entire front of the vehicle and above the cab. The impression we had was of enormous moving Christmas trees coming towards us.

An added difficulty of night driving is that of dazzle. Even if the lorries have dipping facilities for their lights, the drivers do not seem to use them. Headlamps are switched on at the instant that lights from the oncoming vehicle are switched off, and vice-versa. This constant switching avoids a certain amount of dazzle, but also is thwart with hazards, owing to yet another ‘game’ which allows both parties to switch of their headlamps at the most critical time.

Our arrival at the next town was amidst quite a commotion as a horse had bolted along the main street, scattering aside people who tried to catch it. But the incident was quickly over and the horse disappeared into the blackness of the night. I walked into the nearest hotel to enquire the price of a room. “From three hundred rials” was the answer. I returned to the Land Rover aware of shouts asking me back to reconsider. As I got into the vehicle, the proprietor was right behind me and the price had dropped to two hundred rials. When I started the engine, it dropped again to one hundred rials. We decided to have a look at the rooms.

Throughout the night our sleep was disturbed by lorry drivers who played prolonged tunes on their horns as they drove through the town.

The next day we saw, from the road at Sultaniyeh, the highest dome in Persia, which was built in 1307 for the Mongol ruler Oljeitu. One hundred and eighty feet high, like an egg above an eggcup, it surmounts an octagonal base, from the corners of which eight partially broken minarets are still visible. The turquoise tiles, formerly covering both the dome and the minarets, are badly weathered and only give a guide to its original grandeur.

Kasvin is a very old city. It has been the capital of Persia on several occasions, particularly during the Safavid period. Today it boasts but a depleted part of its previous prosperity. Dilapidated in parts, an aurora of indifference pervaded the confused, topsy-turvy jumble of two-storied houses that precariously support long wooden balconies over the main street. It was from one of these balconies that we were able to get a birds eye view of all that happened below. In the general free-for-all, hoards of men walk to and fro past shuffling beggars, and wandered into the road bringing traffic to a complete standstill. Coloured lights adorned some shop-fronts and the wail of some eastern music floated up to our ears.

Just to the north-east of Kasvin, in the remote Alamut Valley, amidst the Elburz mountains, there stands a castle where Hassan-i-Sabbah, known as the ‘old man of the mountains’, founded the Ismaili[5] branch of the Sh’ite religion. Hassan devoted much of his life to the cause of Ismailism and had been summoned to Isfahan and then to Cairo, where he was able to study and further his cause. On his return to his own country, as a powerful messenger, backed by his religious superiors and by his own dominating personality, he took over the castle of Alamut with a group of his followers. These disciples would serve him under any circumstances, and would even murder or torture people at his command. They became known as ‘The Assassins’.

There is a good story, probably true, of how Hassan created a secret garden in the castle and used a drug called hashish, (from which the word assassin derives), to overcome his captives’ senses. The captive would then be allowed to experience all the desires of a paradise that Hassan would lavishly provide. The poor victim never knew how they came to be in the garden, or how they left, but the experience was so real that they would go to any lengths for the opportunity to return. In this way Hassan was able to spread his teaching and to do away with anyone who stood in his path.

Once an insignificant place, Tehran has risen to become a modern city. In the 18th Century the Agha Mohammed Shah proclaimed the city the capital of Persia. This was mainly because of its proximity to his native province of Mazanderan. It is situated at the foot of Tuchal, a 13,000 ft. mountain in the Elburz range. The name Tehran means ‘warm place’, as opposed to Shemran, which means ‘cool place’. Shemran – a suburb some six miles to the north – is very popular with the wealthier, particularly during the hot, dry summer. The summer palaces of the Shah and the Royal Family were there also.

There is a saying in Tehran that: ‘You’re either quick or dead’. And it was as well to remember this for everywhere was a hive of activity and quite a contrast with the uninhabited country we had just driven through. Lorries, cars, taxis and red, double-decker buses weaved in and out in an attempt to pass amongst the donkeys, bullocks, horses and carts, and even flocks of sheep, which were being led across the road. We did not know whether to close our windows to reduce the foul smell wafting in from the gutters, or to open them because of the stifling heat. Women were doing their washing in the roadside water channels, and nearer to the centre of the town we noticed the amazing variation in dress. Beggars in tattered rags, and women in chadur with enormous bundles wrapped in coloured silk cloth on their heads, walked side by side with men, in smart western suits and girls in fashionable dresses.

We stopped at the Hotel Commodore, but discovered that it was a first-class hotel and far too expensive for our needs. Later, we found the Hotel Atlantic in Takht-e-Jamshid Avenue, and booked in, knowing that we should have to find something cheaper if we intended staying in the capital for any length of time. The sound of mice nibbling at our provisions in the bedroom that night, and a subsequent realisation that they must have climbed the table legs to get into the bag and then eaten through several layers of paper to get to some bread, did nothing to keep us at this particular hotel.

Whilst refilling at a petrol pump one day on our way to Tehran we had met a young Iranian called Anush. He had been returning to his father’s home in Tehran, after spending six years in Germany as a student. We recalled how during our short conversation, he had suggested that we should visit him at his home and have coffee. So we decided to renew our acquaintance.

The day that we arrived happened to be Anush’s birthday, and we all sat round talking and eating iced cake. After a while his father, Dr. Niknafs, suggested that we should stay with them whilst in Tehran. They showed us an empty room that we could use as we wished. We were extremely grateful for this kind offer. After one more night at the Hotel Atlantic we returned to find that each member of the family had contributed something to decorate the room that had been set aside for our use. Previously bare, it now had carpets on the floor, some small items of furniture, a table, chairs and some gorgeous pictures of ‘pin-up girls’ stuck to the walls.

Dr. General Niknafs had five sons and one daughter, but his wife had died. We gathered that he was an important and respected figure in Tehran, being the Chief Lecturer in Anatomy at the Tehran University and the author of fourteen books on medicine. Anush was the eldest son then came Darius, who was plump, serious and artistic, and very often he made fun of by the rest of the family. Farhad, aged twenty, was enthusiastic and very interested in his work as an architect. Kyvan was still at school, and forever playing ‘pop’ records, whilst Khosrow, named after an illustrious Sassanian king, delighted everyone with his cheeky grin. Their sister Sherin was a gentle, quiet, sixteen year old girl, who apart from her school work was probably kept quite busy in the home, even though there were a couple of servants.

After we had established ourselves, Farhad announced that he would like to show us an Exhibition of Progress that evening. He showed us plans that he had drawn up as a project for a proposed school and told us that he had also designed a stand at the exhibition. He was rightly proud of this achievement and hoped it might win First Prize. We were suitably impressed when we saw his design which been carried out in various coloured marbles quarried in Iran.

Later in the evening we met several more friends of the family, including a policeman, (what a job in Tehran!), a teacher of English and Geography at a nearby High School, and an uncle married to an English woman. The teacher was very quick to ask us if we would give a talk to his class about our journey and we agreed to do so. It went off quite well.

We told them of our adventures during the time since we had left England until arriving in Tehran, and of our future plans. The boys, all up to the age of nineteen, were very interested, and when we had finished speaking I asked if there were any questions. Several enquired about life in Russia and the other Communist Countries. They also wanted to know what we thought of Iran, and we tried to explain the differences in our respective ways of life. Inevitably, we were questioned about the Beatles, and learned that they were very popular in Iran, too. Judging by the boys’ applause, we think that they were pleased at the opportunity of discussing and hearing about life in England.

The uncle, whom we had already met, offered to show us one or two places of interest in Tehran. He invited us to his home for lunch and there we met his English wife and their two children. A young servant girl, not more than twelve years old, served us with aash, a soup made from meat dripping and milk, with diced green vegetables, beans and herbs. We were quite surprised that his wife showed no apparent interest in the fact that we had so recently left her homeland, which she had not visited for several years, neither did she enjoy living felt this to be a great pity, because she did not seem to be getting any enjoyment from her life, nor, indeed, did she show any interest in her husband’s conversation about Persia.

After lunch we went with the uncle, his young son and Khosrow, to the bazaar, the largest covered one in the Orient. Similar in some ways to the great bazaar in Istanbul, it has various alleys along which goods of every conceivable kind are for sale. Picking up his young son, the uncle warned us to take great care for fear of pickpockets, so taking Khosrow by the hand, we began to wander among the throng of people jostling about us. Deformed beggars propelled themselves on small trolleys using shoes on their hands. In some open shop-fronts men sat cross-legged on heaps of silks and padding, deftly stitching at eiderdowns. Amidst the multitude of other things for sale, we noticed that very young lamb’s skins were used in making the fine Persian lamb coats. We were told that for the best and most expensive fur, the lambs were taken from the ewes before birth.

The main reason for going to the bazaar was to see the Persian carpets. The uncle advised us to look, but not to buy. We imagined that we may have been able to afford a small mat, but as we were shown through great piles of carpets from Tabriz, Kashan, Isfahan and other towns, we realised that the cheapest in this quality would be far beyond our pocket. The finest sold for about a hundred pounds per square yard, and were easily recognisable from the clarity of the design on the back indicating close knotting.

Leaving the bazaar, we walked up Ferdowsi Avenue to the Bank Markazi, or Central Bank, which houses in its vaults the Crown Jewels of Iran. Passing through an immensely thick door, the lock of which was made by Chubb of England and has a million combinations, we came to the vault, a large room containing a fabulous, dazzling collection of riches such as we had never set eyes on before. Many of these treasures were amassed during the Safavid times, some having been passed on from previous generations. Other precious stones were mined at Khorasan and Turkestan, whilst the pearls were obtained from the Persian Gulf. There were many gifts from foreign monarchs, spoils of war and jewels, which had been procured from the markets of India, Constantinople and Venice by traders and envoys of the Shah. Iran was invaded by the Afghans during the later Safavid dynasty, and as a result many of the jewels found their way to the courts of the Mongol kings in Delhi. However, Nadir Shah invaded India in 1739, and returned with a vast treasury of gems, which forms the nucleus of the present collection. Amongst them is the Daria-I-Nur, or Sea of Light diamond. Together with the Koh-i-Nur, or Mountain of Light diamond, it was owned by the first Mongol ruler of India. Weighing one hundred and eighty-two carats, it measures an inch and a half long, is one inch wide, and three eighths of an inch thick. It is said that at one time it adorned the crown of Cyrus the Great. Today, it is set in a frame, studded with over four hundred and fifty diamonds and four rubies, and surmounted by the sun and lion. The Koh-i-Nur, which weighed one hundred and eighty-one carats before being cut, passed into the possession of the East India Company, and was presented to Queen Victoria in 1850. Used in the crown made for the Coronation of Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother in 1937, it now forms part of the British Crown Jewels.

We also saw the Nadir Throne, popularly known as the Peacock Throne. The entire structure is covered with a sheet of gold, enamelled and encrusted with 26,733 precious stones. It was used in the Coronation of Reza Shah the Great in 1925, and also in the recent Coronation of Mohammed Reza Shah Pahlavi. Is it necessary to mention the Globe of Jewels, weighing seventy-five pounds, set with fifty-one thousand precious stones and weighing eighteen thousand two hundred carats? The mind boggles at such figures.

Next on the agenda was a visit to the Djafari Sports Club to see the Zurkaneh or ‘House of Strength’, in which some of the ancient Persian exercises are still carried out. Primarily these sports were introduced in early Islamic times as preliminary training for battles. Shaaban Djafari was born in 1921 and became an enthusiastic sportsman; his modern club is now well known in all parts of Iran. The interior is reminiscent of a mosque, due to extensive use of blue tiles. In addition, mirror mosaics and a bas-relief portraying an old legend adorn the walls. There is only room for a few spectators who sit on raised steps, or in alcoves at a higher level around a central arena. All of the exercises are carried out in this arena, which is an octagonal-shaped pit, two feet deep and called a gowd. At first there were ‘push up, rise and dive’ movements, before the athletes, bare to the waist and wearing tight, embroidered, leather trousers, put to one side their red and black towels and picked up the clubs. The men’s ages varied considerably, the oldest being over sixty. One, named Lofti, was nearly seven feet tall, but they were not all visibly strong and muscular as one might expect. To the accompaniment of rhythmic drumbeats and stirring recitations from Ferdowsi’s epic poem, the Shah-Nameh, or Book of Kings, they swung the fifty-pound clubs into the air with an ease and perfection attained only by constant practice. The drum beating increased in tempo, and now, well and truly limbered up, the men were able to throw their clubs higher and higher. Without fail each one was caught, as it returned from near the roof. Ferdowsi’s heroic words were chanted in changing rhythm and seemed to induce great pride into the performers.

Below is an example of Ferdowsi’s work:

Preparing for the shock,
Each binds his Charger to a neighbouring rock
And girds his loins, and rubs his wrists, and tries
Their suppleness and force, with angry eyes;
And now they meet – now rise, and now ascend,
Wrestling with all their strength they grasp and strain,
And blood and sweat flow copious on the plain.
Like raging elephants they furiously close.
Commuted wounds are given, and wrenching blows.
Sohrab now claps his hands, and forward springs
Impatiently, and round the champion he clings.
He seizes his girdle-belt with power to tear.
The very earth asunder in despair
Rustam, defeated, feels his nerves give way,
And thundering he falls.[6]

The clubs were put down, and the men began throwing and catching heavy stones, and wielding shields consisting of large boards. Then the Kabbadehs, bow-like instruments with heavy metal chains in place of a string, were moved from side to side above each athlete’s head, while he moved from one position to another.

By now we had seen many of the sights of Tehran, and were becoming quite used to being part of the Niknaf family. The servants – Ali Akbar and his wife – lived in the house too and it was only with the greatest difficulty that we got used to the idea of being waited on hand and foot.

On one occasion Audrey was washing out a few things when Ali’s wife happened to come upstairs. Immediately she took the clothes away from her, with a look that suggested that it was unheard of that Audrey should do such a thing. If we wanted a glass of chai, this had to be brought up several flights of stairs, and although Ali’s wife was pregnant, her duties were not lessened in any way.

The largest mosque in the capital is the Sepah Salar Mosque, built in 1831. There were many students in the pleasant courtyard, either sitting reading beneath the silver chinar[7] trees or strolling by the edge of a pool, looking as though they were trying to commit words to memory.

One of them walked over to us and, after introducing himself, offered to show us some of the extensive restoration work that was in progress. A few men working with small hammers, chipped away at colourful pieces of tile and then fitted them into place on a former in a mosaic pattern. Later, this would be placed in its position on the main dome. One wizened old man, sitting cross-legged on the dusty floor, greeted us with a smile and showed us the colours of the tiles that he was using; yellows, blues, greens and turquoises. He gave us one or two pieces to keep, before reaching for a large wooden narghile or hubble-bubble from which he had been inhaling.

The student, anxious to return to the limelight, suggested that we might like to go up onto the roof of the mosque. We agreed, and followed him up the dark and winding steps to the top of one of the minarets. When we had regained our breath, we were able to enjoy a splendid view of the capital and, in the distance, the majestic but dormant white cone of Demavand, 18,600 feet high. Immediately below us we could see our Land Rover parked in the street in front of the Majlis, or old Parliament building.

The original Parliament was disbanded in 1960, after it had brought the country to the verge of bankruptcy. The Shah, with the help of his army, took direct rule himself and chose his own ministers. Now there are two houses, the National Consultative Assembly and the Senate. The former had a hundred and thirty-six members, and of these, the Shah nominates thirty and thirty elected by the people. The Shah governs through his ministers, and is the supreme head, with the power to appoint and dismiss the Prime Minister. Without the Shah’s signature no bill can become law.

The well-known Gulestan Palace, not far from the bazaar in the southern part of the capital, is used mainly for Imperial receptions and lavish banquets, but in a pleasant area to the west of Khiaban Pahlavi is one of the Shah’s official residences, known as Kakh-e-Marmar or Marble Palace. It was built in 1930 for his father, Reza Shah. Approaching it by way of a shaded, tree-lined road, we were surprised to see a number of policemen wearing large silver crash helmets, standing beside their motorcycles. We asked one of them if we could take a photograph of the palace through the gateway, but he shook his head and politely asked us to move on. Apparently a visit from the princess of Afghanistan was imminent.

A visit to the National Arts Museum, gave us the opportunity to see craftsmen engaged in making carpets, pottery, mosaic tiles, enamelware, and khatam, which is inlaid work. The individual pieces that make up the khatam may be much smaller than one sixteenth of an inch in size, each being triangular in shape. They are grouped together forming an artistic pattern not unlike the mosaic work seen on a large scale in tile-work in some of the mosques. To produce the various groupings of inlaid pieces, lengths of about six to eight inches are accurately filed to their triangular cross-section from materials such as ebony, ivory, brass, and coloured woods. These are then gathered together in a bundle and glued. Slices are then cut from each bundle and stuck in patterns on a flat base before the article is smoothed and polished. Large areas can be made up in this way, and we understand that a whole room in the Shah’s palace in Tehran is completely covered with khatam.

In another workshop several huge looms, both horizontal and vertical were set up and operated by elderly men. They were weaving brilliant gold, turquoise, and ruby-coloured silks. Pottery was being made by hand on a simple wheel and we watched some of the patterns being painted on the finished articles. Similarly, with endless patience, intricate designs were painted on enamelled dishes, bowls and vases.

It had been recommended that we should visit the Mardom Shenesi, or Ethnological museum and, although when we arrived it was officially closed, we were allowed to look around. There were displays depicting every aspect of Persian life, with wax figures dressed in traditional costumes. One tableau showed how, during the cold weather, families would sit on cushions, their legs and feet under a low table called a cosi. The table was completely covered with rugs, which could also be tucked round to keep out draughts.

As we looked up at paintings of bloodthirsty battles, and collections of swords, shields and armour, our guide went to some trouble to explain, with suitable actions of drawing his finger across his throat and making the action to chop of a hand, the killing of Hussein and the subsequent mortification of the people.

We have already seen how Mohammed’s visions were recorded and how he gathered support in Medina before his teachings were to spread into Asia. It is, however, the identity of his true successors that is of interest as far as Iran is concerned. When Mohammed died in 632 AD, the next to take his place were Abu Bakr, Omar and Othman. Some Moslems were known as Sunni and believed that these three caliphs were rightfully elected. Others were called Shi’ists and followed Ali, a son-in-law of the prophet whom they believed to be the rightful successor. Another distant relation of Mohammed, named Mu’awiya, proclaimed caliph in Jerusalem, also opposed Ali and the Shi’ist sect. Even after Ali’s assassination the feud continued. Ali’s eldest son, Hussein, led a small army of men into a terrible battle against Mu’awiya’s successor, Yazd, during which Hussein’s corpse was beheaded and thirty-three supporters of the Sunni thrust their lances into his body.

The split in the world of Islam was thus complete. On the one side the Shi’s, or followers of Ali, and on the other the orthodox Sunni, who acknowledge the first caliphs. Today, ninety percent of all Moslems follow the Sunni sect, but Iran alone has Shi’ism as its official religion. There are complexities in the study of Shi’ism, in its growth as well as in relation to its continuance in modern Iran, which are difficult to understand. Let it suffice to say that the cruel way in which Hussein was killed at Kerbala resulted in martyrdom on a vast scale in Persia. The whole of the month of Moharram is regarded as a period of mourning, and the tenth day of the month, the day on which Hussein died, has been celebrated in the most frightening way. After a period of fasting and lamentation, the parade often turned into a riot. Self-mortification was carried out, people slashing their backs with their own swords. A number of people always died, but direct passage to paradise was guaranteed to all who lost their lives on this day. Some even went so far as to dig holes and bury themselves up to their necks, covering their heads with old pots. Others ran naked through the streets, their bodies painted red or black, contorting themselves into odd shapes whilst shouting the names of Hassan and Hussein.

Our days in Tehran gradually took on a pattern as we got to know our way around. We had discovered a small, clean restaurant, where we could obtain a good midday meal for as little as two shillings, and only once did we have cause to complain. The waiter, agreeing with us that our meat was very tough, disappeared into the kitchen. We thought he would replace our meal with something better, but he reappeared carrying an enormous knife and, to our amazement, began to cut our meat into small pieces. Needless to say, we only paid half what was asked; there was no question of bargaining on that occasion.

One afternoon we had arranged to meet Darius and, while waiting, we walked to the Park-e-Shah, or City Park. Although the main gates were kept closed, they were opened when we asked to go in. Inside were avenues of huge, exotic palm trees and a large pool and fountains. It was pleasant to sit in the shade and a young man who greatly appreciated being able to practice his English soon joined us.

Darius had decided to take us first to see some of the larger shops, and then to the Archaeological Museum, which we thoroughly enjoyed browsing around. Although anxious to accompany us, Darius was ahead most of the time and showed little interest in the exhibits, but possibly he had seen them all many times before.

Not far from the Museum was the main Post Office, so we decided to take the opportunity to collect any mail that might have arrived for us. Outside, men were selling paper, envelopes, biros and pencils, and there were at least half a dozen letter-writers sitting at small tables along the pavement. For some of the poor women, confidentially whispering from beneath their chadur, the charge made by these modern-day scribes would be all that they could afford.

When we arrived back at the Niknaf’s home, we learned that an aunt was having a birthday party and that we were invited along with the family. Somehow we managed to find room in the Land Rover for Sherin and all the brothers, except Anush, who was busy elsewhere, and drove them to another part of the town. I was not driving fast, but Farhard continually implored me to drive carefully. There seemed to be an inherent fear of any accident happening. Whether this was due to there being considerable difficulties with the police and with regard to compensation, or just nervousness at being in our vehicle, we were not sure at the time, but we had heard of some difficult situations. In fact, when we left Tehran, we were told that if we were ever unlucky enough to run anyone over during our journey south, on no account should we stop. This seemed rather drastic, but when we heard that it was not unknown for villagers to throw their baby daughters in the path of an oncoming vehicle, in order to collect some money as a result of the ‘accident’, we felt that the point had been made.

We met an American couple who had experienced considerable trouble after hitting a man with their car as he jumped off his lorry. They stopped and the American, being a doctor, started to render first-aid treatment. The villagers who had quickly gathered around appeared very annoyed, and some of them tried to take one of the American’s young daughters as a hostage. There was an angry scene before the police eventually arrived, and promptly told the Americans to get out of the area as quickly as possible.

Arriving at the aunt’s house, we managed to park the Land Rover in a narrow alley, which had a jube, or water channel, running through the middle. A door in a high brick wall was opened for us and we entered into a large courtyard with the familiar central pool. Inside the house we were introduced to various members of the family. A record player was on the table and Kyvan and Sherin soon had a popular tune spinning. There were also some national Iranian dances, which gave a really oriental atmosphere to the evening. Darius, who was of large build and no lightweight, borrowed a chadur from one of the older women, and dressing himself in it, danced provocatively in time with the music. He then went on to give an imitation of grandmother who, it appeared, was always complaining of different ailments. He apparently had her off to a tee, complete with anguished expressions. The impersonation was taken in good part and everyone howled with laughter. There were several young children in the company, including the servant’s wide-eyed daughter, who was the centre of attention and completely mesmerised by the evening’s entertainment. Some of the children began to dance to the rhythm of a small drum, which they took turns in playing. Most of the adults were wearing western dress and the only difference that we noticed between a party at home in England and this one in Tehran was the type of food we ate which included a small plate of black caviar, the first we had ever eaten.

Pomegranate seeds were passed around in small white dishes and served with pepper. Everyone enjoyed salted melon seeds, although we did not have the knack of cracking them apart with our teeth.

Farhard and Darius were both anxious that we should see the new Mehrabad airport, so the next evening we set off, Darius hoping that we would be able to meet a friend of his, who worked in the control tower. Unfortunately, when we arrived we discovered that he was not on duty but nevertheless we had a good look around the splendid modern marble halls of which the Iranians are justly proud.

Our stay in Tehran was rapidly drawing to a close and we still had not visited the British Embassy. Built about 1870 by Indian army engineers, it is situated in a large garden at a junction where Avenue Churchill meets Avenue Ferdowsi. We found the staff very helpful with information regarding the India/Pakistan dispute and, as we had anticipated, they confirmed that the borders were still closed. We, therefore, decided that we must definitely change our plans and immediately resolved to spend some extra time in Persia, and to look into the possibilities of shipping to Egypt. On further enquiry, we found that this would, in all probability, cost about a hundred pounds, should we want to ship from Beirut to Port Said and back.

Along the pavements outside the Embassy, barbers were busily cutting hair and shaving customers, who were shrouded in long white capes and looking into small mirrors fixed to the railings. Children, with wide brown eyes, ran alongside us urgently pleading for baksheesh. They followed us for some distance and only returned to their mothers when we issued forth an aggressive borro – ‘go away’. Some men were walking along arm in arm, and we noticed a few others carrying a single flower in their hand. It was not unusual to see these somewhat effeminate mannerisms in public, although we never noticed such affection shown between opposite sexes. In the better class areas of the city, we learned that the women would gather in the beauty parlours, where they could enjoy chatting to their friends. I suppose there would be very little else for them to do, as they would undoubtedly be in a position to have servants to look after the duties of the house.

On our last morning in Tehran, before leaving for the Caspian Sea, we decided to have our Land Rover serviced, as there was an oil seal on the front wheel swivel-pin bearing that needed replacing. We also bought a loud twin-tone horn that was more suitable for these Asian countries. The price for the service, including the oils, came to eight pounds ten shillings and, with three pounds ten shillings for the horn, was only a third of the cost in England. It had been suggested that I should watch the work being carried out, as there was so much of value lying loose in the back of the vehicle, so while I waited I talked to some of the mechanics that were from Azerbaijan. Many of the White Russians of this area now live and work in Tehran.

In the afternoon, we visited a hamam, or bathhouse, which had been recommended by the family as being quite modern, and unlike the hamams of the smaller towns that we had identified by the red and black towels fluttering from the rooftops. We set off, with rolled towels under our arms as though we were going to the local swimming pool. Inside we obtained a ticket and waited our turn with others seated around a miniature pool. As there was nothing else to do, and no one spoke, all eyes were focused onto a fountain, which splashed into the pool. There were several bath cubicles on each side of a central corridor; women’s on the left and men’s on the right. I moved in as one became vacant, declining the offers of a masseur. Each cubicle contained a conventional shower and low bath, with a tiled slab where any pummelling could take place.

Later, we both met outside, suitably cleaner and ready to be taken out for a meal that evening by Darius, Farhard, Kyvan and their cousin. We went to a restaurant where we ate the first really good and enjoyable shish kebab that we had been offered. We even managed to down the whole pile of long-grained Caspian rice.

After several weeks in dry and dusty conditions, we looked forward to the chance of seeing a large expanse of water again. The drive over the Elburz Mountains to the Caspian Sea was exhilarating and, on the Karaj to Chalus road that we took, we experienced a most impressive change of climate in a distance of a few miles.

Before fully realising that Tehran was behind us, we began to climb between gigantic rock formations until, looking over the edge of the road into a valley on the right, we saw a dam hundreds of feet below us. It looked too small to be the main Karaj Dam, and we found out later that it was the regulating dam, which is about a hundred feet in height. Soon afterwards we were confronted by the massive concrete structure of the main dam, solidly blocking the valley behind. It was completed in 1961, and its importance in terms of Tehran’s supply of water and electric power cannot be stressed too highly. The great arch, spanning almost vertical rock faces, is six hundred feet high, and holds back more than seven thousand million cubic feet of water. Being just below the top of the dam we did not immediately see the reservoir, but when it did come into view we were surprised at its most vivid sea-green colour. The fluctuations in the level of the water could be seen where the surrounding rock had been marked, as well as the different strata and how it had folded into hills and valleys. The lake itself is some fourteen miles long and affords an ideal retreat from Tehran for those who are able to indulge in the sport of water skiing.

Continuing the steep climb we passed through small tunnels constructed over the road where either avalanches were frequent, or snow blocks occurred. We then came to a tunnel entrance where we were stopped, and had to wait for some minutes before a lorry emerged, as there was one-way traffic only. After the brilliant sunshine it was like entering pitch-black chasm, even the headlights did not seem to illuminate the irregular rocks on either side. On and on we bumped and the tunnel seemed never to end. Occasionally water splashed down over the windscreen where a stream had penetrated through the rock. It was certainly an awesome experience and, just as we were beginning to wonder what would happen if anyone broke down, we saw a pinhole of light ahead. Gradually it grew in size as we drove with our eyes transfixed upon it. Then it burst around us as we passed beneath another gush of water into the intensely dazzling world of light again. Although the sun was shining, at the height of over eight thousand feet, it was cold and some of the streams had caused huge clusters of icicles to form at the roadside. We stopped and broke off one icicle, which measured about five feet long and had a base of about nine inches in diameter.

A few miles after we had passed the road’s highest point, we came upon some of the most terrifying, steep, hairpin bends that we had ever encountered. The road almost literally fell away beneath us. Audrey gasped as she looked at the drop over the edge on her side and watched the loose stones from beneath the wheels go tumbling into the void. Again and again I swung the steering wheel on full lock, first one way and then the other. It was fortunate that the road was mainly of tarmacadam and in a reasonable condition. It was only after this part of the descent was completed that we were able to get our breath back, but the road continued to wind its way beneath impressive over-hanging boulders. We realised that we were gradually descending into a different world. After the cold mountain air, we could feel the warmth again as we drove alongside a clear river, bubbling over colourful rocks and stones through a valley.

Now we were in the province of Mazanderan and, from time to time, were able to look down upon the patchwork quilt of rice paddies below us. The rice is the long-grained Caspian variety, renowned for its good quality. Hayricks, or granaries, in this area were supported on stilts and looked like houses with steeply gabled roofs. In fact, all the wooden houses had steeply inclined roofs. Mud bricks, prevalent in the rest of the country, are not used here. This is as good an indication as any of the extremely high rainfall experienced in this area. Anything in excess of fifty inches a year is not uncommon, and makes an interesting comparison with the two to three inches per year to be expected over the rest of the country. All of this heavy rainfall is on the northern slopes of the mountains, where cotton, tea and tobacco are grown.

The Persians know the dense forests in this area as jangal, from which our word jungle is derived. Tiger, leopard, cheetah, bear and wild boar abound in these forests, as well as much other wild life. As we rounded one corner, a large bull-like animal, with horns and a hump, stood squarely and defiantly in the road. We didn’t know what it was, but it looked like a bison. Here and there we could see simply built shacks that were used by the farmers when they kept vigil at night, in order to protect their fields and other property from marauding animals.

As we neared the coast the atmosphere became most oppressive, a certain malarial trap, and such a contrast to the high central plateau of the rest of the country. The sweet scent of orange blossom reached us as we turned to drive eastward along the southern coast, having passed through the town of Chalus.

The Caspian is the largest inland sea in the world, but it is known to Iranis as the ‘Little Sea’. Its surface is about eighty-five feet below true sea level. Sturgeon and sterlet are the most prized fish, as the expensive caviar is made from their roes. We were told that Iranian caviar was far superior and, I presume, more plentiful than the Russian variety, due to the fact that the water is warmer.

We made enquiries about accommodation, and a dark-haired girl of about ten offered to accompany us to her friend’s home, where she thought we could stay. When we arrived she found that the friend was out but unperturbed, she jumped back into the Land Rover and directed us to Chalus. Here, although she tried to find her by systematically enquiring at various shops, she had no success, so we thought that we had better stay at a hotel. Our irrepressible young friend, however, had yet another idea; taking us to the school she asked her teacher, who could speak English, to help us. Unfortunately she was unable to assist in any way either, so at this stage we told the child that we would take her home and then look for ourselves. It was a pity that such initiative, in one so young, did not have a more rewarding end.

Finally we stopped at a newly built chalet by the sea. The owner, who spoke English, immediately gave us the impression that his only interest in life was to make money. The room he offered us was not ready and the price was high. We accepted it on the understanding that he would have the beds made up. The evening passed and as no effort had been made to provide either sheets or pillows, I had another word with him. To our annoyance he revealed that there was no bedding available after all. We had an argument and I told him that he certainly would not get the price he had asked and suggested a lower figure.Finally, we got out our sleeping bags and settled down, determined not to stay in such a disagreeable place for a minute longer than necessary the following day.

I awoke in the morning feeling horribly sick and with no energy. With a tremendous effort we drove about a mile or so to another chalet. After booking in, I collapsed on the bed not really wanting to know about anything, except the remarkable, unexpected, almost unbelievable news, that there was a western-style toilet adjoining our room. It was a great relief to know we had something better than the usual hole in the floor, which was to be found in most places, dirty and without any light. Thinking how an ill man’s needs are so small, I gulped down a dose of chlorodyne and, between excruciating stomach pains, moved between bed and toilet. With diarrhoea and sickness at the same time, I thought my end was near. Audrey spoke with the owner of the chalet and, as evening fell, he brought an oil stove –Aladdin – along to keep us warm. We were also very glad of our hot water bottles. Surprisingly, the next morning all the pain had gone and, although I felt somewhat washed out, I realised that the worst was over.

Our chalet was covered with brilliant red creeper, which clambered up to the roof. There was a pool in the garden nearby and, just by the window, a banana tree with clusters of small green fruit. Beneath the leaves was an enormous fat bud that, apparently, can be cooked and eaten as a sweet. There was also a tree with a fruit that we had not seen before, like large tomatoes. One name that we were given for them was ormalu, but they looked much like, persimmons.

Wandering freely amongst the orange and mandarin groves we came to the white pebble beach of the Caspian. For a while we sat looking out to where the blue sea and sky met. Far away, towards the horizon, I noticed something resembling a flickering red flame. We sat watching, not realising what it was, but as the flame moved towards us it occurred to us that there was only one thing that it could be: a flock of pink flamingos. The birds producing this unusual spectacle slowly swept backwards and then forwards across the sky, until after a few minutes they disappeared from our view.

The heavy, moisture-laden air was hot and tiring during the first few miles of our return journey to Tehran but, as we gained height, a fresh breeze blew in through the windows. At the village of Karaj there was a great crowd of people congregating around a special stand of golden objects set up in the centre of a roundabout. An air of excitement prevailed as police moved to allocated positions along the road. Driving on towards Tehran, we found people lining both sides of the way, waiting with their sheep, camels, goats and charcoal fires, as if preparing for a feast. The traffic approaching us had headlights blazing and we thought that perhaps we were going to be lucky to see the Shah driving past. Eventually, we came to a road junction where two roads led into the capital, one for light traffic, and the other for heavy lorries. Here the congestion was so great that we just had to pull in and wait. Joining the crowds we were able to see a procession of several lorries, each brightly decorated, and one, obviously the most important, carrying a huge gold and silver panel. From a policeman we learned that this was for the shrine of a Shia martyr and hero, son of Ali, and brother of the Imam Hussein. This shrine cover, made by Isfahani craftsmen, was being taken to the shrine in Kerbala in Iraq.

The reactions of the crowd as the procession appeared were electrifying. The sheep, goats and camels in the vicinity were instantly slaughtered, and shouts of “La Illah-e-Illahah. Ya Hazrat Abbas” filled the air. Some people showered the lorries with rose water and candles; others burnt incense and prayed that the journey to Kerbala should be a safe one. Many of the devout attempted to touch the vehicle and lifted their children to touch the panel in the hope that they, too, would be blessed. Some had tied pieces of coloured cloth to the lorries, in the belief that when the saint untied the knots their problems would be solved. Men standing in the back waved green flags, green being the colour associated with Mohammed. Upon each man’s face was a fixed enraptured expression. The people showered them with flowers and pressed money into their hands. Several coaches followed with some three hundred pilgrims and craftsmen who had helped to build the panel and, wherever possible, the crowd tried to shake hands with them through the open windows. We later read that the panel had taken about two years to complete and cost twenty million rials or about £95,000.

On the last stage of our journey into Tehran, we noticed that the crowds had split up into parties for the feast. Dead animals lay in pools of blood where they had been killed and flowers were strewn across the road.

We left the city by the pitifully poor, southern suburbs. Here there was filth, shacks for houses, and people living in holes in the ground.

From Tehran to Isfahan it was a long drive, our longest so far, a total distance of two hundred and ninety-four miles. Over most of the way we were looking across sparsely inhabited country, the sand whitened in places by the salt deposits of the Dasht-e-Kavir, the Great Salt Desert. We passed several camel trains laden with heavy rugs and people’s belongings, their plodding pace emphasizing the feeling of long distances between centres of habitation.

We often came across a series of small rocks and stones that had been placed on the road to indicate the existence of a broken down vehicle. When it had been repaired, the owner drove off leaving his stones behind. This was one of the most dangerous driving hazards, particularly if one was travelling at night.

At one point on the long, straight road, a lorry had overturned and was blocking the way. One of the tyres must have burst as we had seen several chunks of rubber nearby. Luckily, the sand around was fairly hard-packed, so we skirted round the obstruction and continued our journey.

For pure oriental architectural splendour, Isfahan surely can have no rival. Wonderfully preserved and unspoilt, it is a city of infinite pleasure. The vivid turquoise domes and artistically designed minarets of the mosques, endow it with a grace, elegance and beauty that is specifically Persian. Most of what can be seen today was created during the reign of Shah Abbas the Great, in a time of unparalleled prosperity, often regarded as the ‘Golden Age’ in Persian history. It was an age that inspired a Persian poet to write, ‘Isfahan is half the World’. This was not such an exaggeration as one may imagine, for Shah Abbas had moved his capital from Kasvin to Isfahan in 1598, when the Safavid dynasty was at its zenith. At that time Isfahan equalled London in size and had gained importance as a centre for trade.

We intended to stay there for at least a fortnight, and were determined to see as much as possible. In order that we should do so economically, and to avoid staying in hotels, we visited the Department of Information and Broadcasting, where we met the head of the Information Service, Mr. Modarres. We told him that we had facilities for camping anticipating that he could suggest a suitable place, but he was aghast at the idea and said that it was far too cold. We glanced through the window of his office and the brilliant blue sky outside and could even feel the warmth of the sun, but we did not comment, as we knew that the temperature would fall quite low at night. Even though we would have been quite happy camping, we sensed that he would have an alternative suggestion. He looked through a few papers then after a moment’s thought, he mentioned the Youth Hostel and the name of an insurance group who had rooms for tourists and who, sometimes, were able to arrange for visitors to stay in private homes. Telephoning the hostel first he was told that we could stay there, at half the normal price, for five shillings a night. This seemed very reasonable, so we went with him in his car to have a look at the accommodation. We were shown a large room containing four single beds, table and chairs, with a French door leading out to a courtyard and pool. A large kitchen with cooker, sink and various utensils was at our disposal, also a toilet and shower. We decided that these facilities would suit our purposes admirably. Before Mr. Modarres left us he said that if he could be of assistance at any time, should we need information, or wish to visit any particular place he would try to help. We thanked him, saying that we would certainly take advantage of his offer. He gave the impression that he thought we must be reporters, as he answered a few general questions that we put to him in rather an official manner, probably this was because we had said we would like to write about Isfahan.

The Youth Hostel was situated in Khiaban Abbas Abbad, a turning off the main Chahar Bagh, along which we often walked. Although quite busy with traffic, one can still get some idea of the original splendour of this great promenade from the double row of silver-barked chinars. It is said that Shah Abbas buried a gold and silver coin under each tree as they were planted. Heads of roses used to float on the surface of pools that dropped in a series of cascades along the avenue.

Today there are water channels on either side of a central pavement and, along each side of the double road there were various souvenir shops, hotels, barbers, a cinema and cake shops selling sticky green nougat called gaz. Trade seemed to flourish and the pavements were always thronged with people. Each morning as we turned into this great avenue, we gazed up at the noble, blue-tiled dome of the Madrasseh-i-Madar-i-Shah, the College of the Mother of the Shah. The name comes from the fact that Shah Sultan Hussein’s mother paid for this theological school to be built. It was completed in 1714 and was the last building of the Safavid era. Next to the college was a caravanserai, which was constructed at the same time, and the revenue obtained from the travellers helped with the upkeep of the school. Today the caravanserai is a garden and part of the New Shah Abbas Hotel.

We passed between the heavy wooden doors of the Madrasseh. There was no indication that the wood covered by magnificent embossed silver work, from which the gates are made. Once inside, we experienced a peace and quietness difficult to describe. There was not a single ripple on the pool in the centre of the courtyard, nor a breath of wind through the trees. The huge arches of the four iwans, or porticoes, were covered with gloriously coloured tiles and mosaics, outlined with a wide lapis-lazuli band containing Arabic writings from the Koran. Some students wandered in the courtyard, most of them reading, or trying to commit words to memory.

Only six years after the completion of this college, Isfahan was over-run by the Afghans. Luckily the building was left unscathed, but Shah Sultan Hussein was not so fortunate, he was beheaded in one of the hundred and thirty-four rooms. We were shown the very room, which still contains the original carpet. Then, treading the steep, stone, spiral steps into the darkness of one of the slender minarets we were able to see, on reaching the top, the dome and the other minaret at relatively close quarters. The ornamental woodwork forming the balcony of the minaret, contrasted well with the glazed finish of the magnificent curving sweep of the blue dome patterned with arabesques in yellow, white and deep blue. We looked down into the courtyard surrounded by two levels of vaulted arcades, behind which the students’ rooms were situated. Groping our way downward, we returned to the activity of the street.

Turning right into Khiaban Sepah, we made our way towards the main square of the city, stopping only for a while to visit the Chehel Sotoon, or Hall of Forty Columns. It is fascinating to think that it is called this, because the twenty wooden pillars are reflected in a pool so as to give the impression of forty. However, the old Persian word chihil means an indefinite number and seems to suggest a different origin to the name. Restoration work was being carried out, but it did not stop us from admiring the carved wooden ceiling at the entrance. Part of it is constructed with mirrors so that it reflects the patterned floor. Now used as a museum, one can see many different exhibits there, as well as some of the wall figure paintings, many of which were covered with plaster by the Afghans, whose puritanical ways were offended by scenes of luxurious living and portrayal of the human form.

The Khiaban Sepah leads directly into the Maidan-e-Shah, or Square of the Shah. Even before actually arriving in the Square, one is conscious of the constant sound of hammering from the metal workers, who sit all day beating copper and brass, fashioning it into pots and pans, cauldrons and trays. At first it was a harsh, clanging sound, but as we visited the Maidan on successive occasions, it became more and more musical to our ears. It was so much a part of the throb of life in the heart of Isfahan, and seemed to symbolise all the old crafts, just as they were carried out in ages past.

Originally the Maidan was a huge open square, surrounded by coffee houses and brothels, and used as a caravanserai. In contrast to those days, when it was knee deep in mud during the winter and a dust bowl in the summer, today it is pleasantly laid out with gardens, trees and pools. Its length of over a quarter of a mile is twice its breadth and it is almost completely surrounded by double-storied arcades, the bottom level being shops. The clean line of the top storey is broken only once on each side by a major architectural work. These four buildings are the Bazaar to the north, the Sheikh Lutfollah Mosque to the east, the Shah Mosque to the south, and the Ali Qapu to the west.

In front of the bazaar, various merchants were selling their wares. We discovered, to our surprise, that the lemons piled high on a painted cart were sweet and juicy and could be eaten as one would oranges. We certainly must have eaten pounds of them whilst in Isfahan. Spread on the ground, under the shade of fir trees, were melons of all shapes and sizes, and next to them huge, red pomegranates. Two men, squatting in the dust, were trying on the round felt ‘Median’ hats from a large pile on the ground. We stopped to buy pistachio nuts from the nut vendor, but decided against the sticky clusters of dates. Amongst the crowds of men, dressed mostly in a mixture of untidy semi-western clothing, we occasionally spotted a mullah, or priest from the mosque wearing a long gown and turban, and a few women, who glided from stall to stall wearing black polka-dotted chadurs, which they pulled closely over the lower part of their faces. If their hands were not free they sometimes kept the chadur in place by holding the edge between their teeth. Beneath the chadur western dress was often worn. Some people were quite content to do absolutely nothing, sitting in the sun, leaning against whatever happened to be available.

We passed beneath the main the main portal into the cool shadows of the bazaar. Shafts of sunlight fell through openings in the brick vaulted roof, spotlighting highly coloured fabrics, shoes, leather goods and jars of spices. Our attention was immediately absorbed by the activities of young boys and men, sitting on low stools, or crouched over charcoal braziers, who, without stopping their work, asked us to buy. There was not the insistence that we had experienced in other bazaars, they were too busy fashioning all manner of things from metal and producing intricate designs in filigree.

Wandering from one alley to another, we completely lost our sense of direction, but what did it matter? A young student joined us and offered to take us to see the old oil press. It so happened that we had been looking for this ourselves. We went with him through the narrow streets and alleys of the bazaar, where the smells of leather, spices, cooking meat and oils, combined to accentuate the kaleidoscope of wares. On the way, we went into a workshop where tiles were being glazed. We were shown several and were able to compare the Haft Rangi, or seven-coloured tile, with the individual coloured tiles used in the mosaic patterns, known as Kashi. As we were making our way out through a rear door, we could hardly believe our eyes when we saw a small old man sitting cross-legged on top of a huge mound of broken glass. His job seemed to be simply to break up hundreds of bottles as part of the tile-glazing process.

Bustling along narrow alleys and squeezing past loaded donkeys, we eventually came to a low doorway. Bowing our heads to enter, we found ourselves in a dimly lit room. When our eyes became accustomed to the darkness, we saw that everything, including the two men present, was covered with a deep yellow powder. A camel, blindfolded with thick eye-pads, trudged round in a never-ending circle turning an old millstone, which must have weighed several tons. This was the press that was used to grind millet seeds, in order to obtain oil. But, on this particular day turmeric roots (used also as a spice) were being ground to make a yellow dye. As we stood in these claustrophobic conditions, our thoughts turned to the camels that we had recently seen making their way across vast expanses of desert, their natural habitat. This ‘ship of the desert’, looked a most pathetic sight as it walked in utter darkness.

From this room, smelling of warm straw and camel dung, we climbed a small staircase to emerge onto the roof of the four hundred-year old bazaar. We were confronted by a blaze of colour. Colour everywhere. Long wooden poles were covered with great skeins of wool that had been dyed and were hanging to dry in the sun. Their brilliant shades stood out vividly against the neutral mud-plastered roof on which we were standing, like paint that had been freshly squeezed onto an artist’s palette. We could have gazed at this sight for longer, but Behzad, our student guide, was exclaiming that there was still more to see if we had time. So we followed him to an old caravanserai within the bazaar.In one of the rooms were three men who were hand printing tablecloths. This work is known as Qalamkar and is a speciality of Isfahan. The men worked, as most Persians seem to, sitting cross-legged on the stone floor. Over their knees was a wide board or table on which the material was spread. Large vats and pots of various coloured dyes were beside them and Behzad told us that the colours were made from madder root, walnut peel, grape leaves, spurge, dyers weed, pomegranate peel and gall nuts. Apparently the better cloths had a pattern that used seven colours. Some of the hardwood printing blocks that we were shown were very old, and produced designs depicting old Persian sports and pastimes, in particular the game of polo.

From the balcony outside we were able to look down into a courtyard where, in the past, travellers from eastern trade routes would have left their animals to be fed and watered, whilst they rested in a room such as the one into which we had just been.

In the same caravanserai was the workroom of Fakhr Emami, the best miniaturist in Isfahan. He had come from a well-known family; his great-grandfather had designed the front portal of the bazaar and his father had also painted miniatures. Intent upon his work, he sat quietly painting a scene that was no more than three inches high, using a paintbrush made from the single whisker of a cat. After watching him for a while, and examining some of the delicate work that he had produced, we could not resist buying one of his paintings, which showed a hunting scene. The prices of his work were dependent, to some extent, on the material used, namely ivory, compressed ivory, camel bone and plastic.

The introduction of miniature painting into Persia is attributed to Mani, who was born of Persian parentage about AD 216. He spent some time in China and, as a result, was greatly influenced by Chinese art. The paintings generally illustrate the epic or romantic poems of Persian history, and the artist makes no attempt to conform to perspective, avoiding completely any three dimensional representation. This type of painting reached a high standard during the Safavid period in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, but subsequently declined. It has been revived in recent times through the Fine Arts Department.

The morning had passed and Behzad took leave of us, as he had to attend to his studies. Out in the large square once again we passed some boys who were selling hot, green soup from a huge cauldron to the passers by. They seemed to enjoy it, but to us it looked a really sickly concoction, so we refused their offer with what must have been a pained expression on our faces. The boys grinned, presumably guessing that we did not like the look of it.

By now we had come to the Lutfollah Mosque, a unique work of art that Shah Abbas built in honour of his father-in-law, between the years 1603 and 1618. Not only is this a mosque without a minaret, it has the most beautiful cream dome, whereas all others that we saw in Persia were of varying shades of blue. Originally this was a ladies’ mosque and the preacher was a Sheikh Lutfollah, whom the Great Shah Abbas venerated and in whose name the mosque was dedicated. The entrance portal is decorated with the most fantastic clusters of hanging cornices, and inside is a corridor that leads directly in to the main hall beneath the dome. There is no courtyard and no iwan. Light is afforded through double latticed windows and, although it is not bright inside, one can easily see the excellent quality of the delicate turquoise, white and blue mosaic tiles on the inside of the dome.

At the southern end of the Square, the great Royal Mosque, the Masjid-e-Shah, embodies the awe-inspiring dignity and reverence of the eventful reign of Shah Abbas. The mosque was not completed until after his death, but during the construction work he was continually harassing the architects and builders to complete it quickly. The story is often told how Abul Qasin, the architect, could foresee the dangers of subsidence of the foundations if the work was hurried. He could not convince the Shah of this, so felt the only course open to him was to take measurements and then to disappear for a number of years. On his return he was able to prove that a displacement had taken place. His life was spared.

This mosque is a good place to compare side by side the Haft-rangi, or seven-coloured tile, with the mosaic. In the rush to complete the mosque, the use of Haft-rangi tiles, which are usually square and combine several colours at a single firing, represented a considerable saving in time. However, they are generally regarded to lack the lustre that can be obtained using the more laborious, yet artistic method of Kashi mosaic tiling, in which tiles are individually cut to shape and fitted together to form the design.

The style of the mosque is ingenious, because the great entrance portal faces directly onto the square, whereas the main part of the building is at an angle of forty-five degrees to it in order to align the prayer niche with the direction of Mecca. This has been executed without any bizarre effect on the symmetry when viewed from the square. In fact, it allows one to see the dome and minarets that would otherwise be obscured by the tall entrance portal. To give some idea of the majestic proportions, this arch, containing a mass of turquoise cornices, is a huge rectangle ninety feet high. A deep blue hand containing white Arabic characters spelling out quotations from the Koran outlines it. Two minarets on each side rise to a hundred and fifty seven feet above ground level.

Standing beside the pool within the great courtyard, it is easy to become almost hypnotised by the prevailing abundance of light, colour and space. We felt an air of overpowering enchantment as we gazed at the reflection of two archways through which the sun streamed. Blue tiles, and glowing marble were all perfectly mirrored in the still water. The minarets in front of the dome that has a diameter of two hundred and seventy-five feet are twenty feet higher than those at the entrance, and from them a wonderful view of Isfahan is obtained. There was also a good view of the Royal Harem, which probably accounts for the fact that only blind muezzins were employed in this particular mosque.

A guide approached us and offered to show us around, so we went with him to the colonnaded winter prayer halls built on each side of the sanctuary under the main dome. He pointed out enormous bowls, which have been carved from one piece of stone. Legend tells that these were idols that a conqueror brought back from India centuries ago. We also saw inscriptions from the Koran on polished marble, which had been brought from Ardistan a hundred miles away. Just before we were about to leave, he surreptitiously gave us a small, circular, flat prayer stone of the type used by Moslems who press their heads to them when they prostrate themselves to the ground.

Outside a shop, off the main square, we saw a man melting black pitch from a tall silver vessel which had just had the designs beaten onto it. He played a blowlamp on the discoloured silver, and the pitch slowly spread, from a hole in the base of the vase, over the dust. In the shop two young boys, probably apprentices sat on upturned paint tins hammering with blunt nails an elaborate design onto a circular silver tray. We would dearly have loved to buy one of these trays, but we could not afford it, even though the price was very low. One about three feet in diameter, and representing ten days’ work cost only about five pounds sterling.

From here we went to the next shop selling various glazed, patterned and figured tiles, before looking at the fourth important architectural monument in the square, the Ali Qapu. This peculiar building, to which certain sanctity was attached, is sometimes known as the Sublime Portal. It was a gateway leading to the palace grounds in which the Chehel Sotoon is situated. No one was allowed to walk over the threshold and even the Shah dismounted before passing through. Shah Abbas, who entertained his guests with lavish banquets, whilst they watched the game of polo and other tournaments in the square below, used it as a grandstand. The Shah himself was a keen player, and each time that he hit the ball trumpeters would issue a fanfare from the gallery of the bazaar. The original, marble, polo goal posts are still in existence in front of the Royal Mosque. On some occasions there would be archery practise. A single mast was erected in the centre of the square and a small melon or apple placed on the top as a target. On special occasions a golden cup was used in place of the fruit and would be ceremoniously handed to the winner by the Shah. Other sports included running races, and a cross-country race which started and finished in the square. There was also animal fighting between lions, bears, bulls, rams and cocks provided from the zoo in the palace grounds.

Our new-found friend and adviser, Mr. Modarres, ‘phoned one evening to invite us to a restaurant in the south of Isfahan, where we would be able to see some national dancing. This invitation necessitated crossing the wonderful Khwaju Bridge, yet another of Shah Abbas’s creations. It was built over the Zayandeh Rud, a river upon whose irrigation Isfahan is dependent. The functional aspect of linking the suburb on the south bank with the town is only one attribute of the bridge, for it is also a dam controlled by sluice gates. There are no less than fifty-one rooms on each side of the bridge, which were used as rest rooms for travellers, and these were places where entertainments such as juggling and singing could be enjoyed. The great Safavid kings would watch regattas on the river, and people made merry in the rooms, with wedding celebrations and banquets.

The restaurant was situated overlooking the Zayandeh Rud. The furnishings were simple, but we were served with an enjoyable meal. Gradually the room became filled with men. The band, a group of doubtful looking characters, with clarinet, drums, violin and an accordion, struck up with some pseudo-western music which continued until Mr. Mondarres asked if they would include some local songs. This they did, but we were not able to understand the meaning of the words.

A girl wearing a short dress stepped up to the stage to howls of delight from the audience. She did a few provocative dances to eastern music, lifting her long hair away from her shoulders. This seemed to give the evening more spice than all her finger clicking or belly waggling, judging by the banging on the tables. Mr. Modarres did not seem keen on this type of thing and said that it was not artistic.

Two women, obviously prostitutes, judging by their gaudily painted faces, walked in and disappeared through the heavy cigarette smoke to the back of the room. We finished our meal and sat back, as the girl with the long hair repeated the same dance routine for every tune. The rhythm, to us, was exciting, but the sight of this young woman seemed to breathe fire into the crowd of men, and uproar resulted at the end of each sequence.Then, in the middle of a dance, a tall, weedy-looking soldier, with a mournful expression and a drooping moustache, walked across the front of the stage with a rifle slung over one shoulder, and took up a position in the corner. It was so amusing that it looked as though it was all part of the evening’s entertainment. But no, this was the real thing. No doubt a riot was a possibility during the latter stages of the evening, but we did not stop to see. We made our way back over the deserted Khwaju Bridge – our night of revelry been complete.

One of the lesser tourist attractions is the ‘shaking minarets’ of a small Mongol mosque to the west of Isfahan. As we stepped out on to the roof of the building, a man climbed one of the two brick minarets and vigorously bounced himself back and forth, whereupon it was possible to detect a vibration from the other minaret. It was said the phenomena to be caused by the Sufi Sheikh who was still alive in his tomb below. Some time after his death in 1338 the tomb was opened and the body was officially proclaimed to be dead. We handed out the appropriate baksheesh for the experience of having seen these minarets shaking, before deciding to visit the huge mound that was visible in the distance: the site of a Zoroastrian fire temple known as Atashgah.

Very little is known of Zoroaster or Zarathustra, as the Persians call him, yet he cannot be regarded as a mere legendary figure. In all probability he was born in the present province of Azerbaijan to the northwest corner of the country about 600 BC. It seems that as a young man he led a solitary existence, wandering from place to place. Then, quite suddenly, he had visions in which the god Mazda, later known as Ahura Mazda, told him that he had been chosen as a prophet. At first he gained only a few converts and became very disheartened. “In ten years I have only converted one man”– he said, and by all accounts this was one of his own sympathetic relatives. Consequently Zoroaster tended to remain alone. Things took a better standing when he was able to convert a certain King Vishtaspa who ruled the area of Ancient Bactria. When one considers how close the descendants of the Aryan tribes were in their existence to the fundamental natural elements of earth, fire and water, it is perhaps surprising that Zoroaster did not gain more support, because to him fire was the most sacred element. It was derived from the sun, the symbol of light, personified in the figure of Ahura Mazda, Lord of Wisdom, who created all, that was good in the world.

Ahura Mazda was supreme, yet he had to share his power with an evil spirit, Ahriman, who was hostile to everything that Ahura Mazda stood for. This struggle between Ahura Mazda and Ahriman represented the struggle for the soul of man. It is believed that a complete record is kept in heaven of all the actions of every man, woman and child on earth and that on the third night after death, the soul would arrive at the ‘accountant’s bridge’ where the good would be weighed against evil. Over the bridge lay the road to heaven. If the good outweighed the evil, the bridge was wide and easy to cross; if not, it was as sharp as a razor’s edge and the sinners would plunge headlong into the pit of hell.

The later Zoroastrians had a cult of exposing their dead on ‘towers of silence’ to be devoured by birds of prey, rather than defile the sacred elements, which burning, burying or drowning would. This was very similar to the custom of the priests, magicians and soothsayers before the time of Zoroaster.

These men were the Magi, commonly known as the wise men from the east, who traditionally came from Persia to visit the infant Christian child in Bethlehem. The Zoroastrian holy teachings are contained in the Avesta. This book is divided into the Yasna, which includes seventeen hymns or poems, supposedly written by Zoroaster himself, the Yashta which contains sacrificial hymns, and the Videvdat, a ‘law against Demons’.

Atashgah means ‘place of fire’, and there was without doubt a fire temple here of Zoroastrian origin dating from Sassanian times. Fire temples used to be sited over vents in the ground where petroleum gas escaped, so there was always a constant supply of fuel. The sacred fire was continually kept alight and fed with sandalwood.Today, only the ruin of a small, circular, brick-built chamber remains on the summit – merely a reminder. Yet Zoroastrianism is still a living religion. Most worshippers live in Yazd, others in Kerman and Tehran, where they are tolerated along with other minorities. No longer are they heavily taxed or persecuted, as when they had to refrain from riding in towns and even dismount if they met a Moslem on the road. At that time the area around the outside of their doors had to be painted white, and they were required to wear special shoes with upturned toes. Zoroastrians of today are often known as Parsees, as they were from Pars, the old name for Persia. Some travelled to Bombay to establish the faith in India, and it is interesting to note that in a corner of Brookwood cemetery in Surrey England there are some Parsee graves. On the stones the winged figure of Ahura Mazda may be seen, with the words Humata Hukhta Hvarshta inscribed beneath, meaning Good Thoughts, Good Words, Good Deeds.

From the top of Atashgah, we looked across the well-irrigated lush green fields veiled by tall, slender plane trees. Just below was one of the many pigeon towers. Looking like a castle-keep its only function was a home for the birds that flocked to it. These towers, of which at one time there were over three thousand, were constructed to provide pigeon manure in large quantities for the surrounding melon fields. Beyond lay the dust and scooped up folds of the Kuh-i-Suffeh Mountain.

Our journey back to the Youth Hostel took us through Julfa, the Christian quarter of Isfahan. This area was created in the early 17th Century, when Shah Abbas forcibly transplanted the whole of the Armenian population from the original town of Julfa in Azerbaijan. He needed the people in his new city to promote trade and although his methods, which included cutting off their water supply, seemed rather drastic, he did give them the right to build churches and practise Christianity in their new town on the south bank of the Zayandeh Rud. There are thirteen churches there, and we visited the most important one called Vang, which contained a colourful mixture of oriental and Christian designs.

By now we had become quite settled in our room at the Youth Hostel. The only other people staying there were a Swiss fellow, who was with a European Working Group for a period of two years, and an American couple, who were travelling by air from Nepal to England. Talking with them, we felt that perhaps we may in the future reach Nepal even though for now it was an unattainable destination.

Audrey was able to make good use of the kitchen and was often in the company of the caretaker’s wife, a young girl of sixteen years, just half the age of her husband. She was very interested in the various dishes that Audrey prepared and would spend a long time talking over the respective names of meats and vegetables in Farsi and in English. From our window we sometimes saw her squatting on her haunches by the pool, singing quietly to herself as she scrubbed at heaps of washing.

We decided our vehicle needed a thorough clean, as it had accumulated a great deal of dust in the cupboards and recesses during the last few weeks of travelling. It lay thick in some places and had penetrated into all our spare clothing. We had quite a surprise when we unpacked our valuable four-pound stock of coffee and realised, that at some time when we had driven through a river, it had been completely submerged. It was now quite useless, having solidified into a brittle chunk. Altogether our cleaning up process took much longer than we had anticipated.

Sometimes we ate in a small cheap restaurant at the end of our road. We would be sure to pass some young children playing on the pavement, as we walked along, and they always waved and said “Hello” to us. It was impossible to get them to say “Goodbye” as we left. Always it was “Hello, you Alman”? (Hello, are you German?).

“No, English”– we would reply, as we continued along the dusty path which was covered with the large brown leaves from the chinar trees. It was December and the last leaves were falling, blowing into little heaps in the dry jubes, the water channels, which ran the length of the road. There was a good class of houses along the street, but we could not see much of them as high walls protected them. Only on the rare occasion would gates be left open to allow a view of the clear blue pool in the courtyard.

One day I called in at a small hairdresser’s shop, which was next to the restaurant. Audrey said that I looked about ten years younger when I came out with my hair groomed and reeking of perfume. On the sign above the door was a picture of a woman as well as a man, so Audrey decided that she might as well take the opportunity of having her hair cut too. Apparently the hairdresser seemed very excited. His hands trembled as he lifted and cut her hair, and after a while he even broke out into a sweat. Audrey surmised that he had probably never cut a woman’s hair before, and remembering the girl who had danced in the restaurant a few evenings before, realised that a woman’s hair was obviously high on the list of sexual attractions. Moslem custom says that women between the ages of twelve and forty-five must have their hair covered, Much to our amusement, Audrey returned looking just like a boy, with her hair parted and smarted down with water, in the same style as my own.

We had asked Mr. Modarres if we could see something of the educational facilities in the country. To this end he arranged that we should meet the head of the Literacy Corps scheme in Isfahan. In his office we were told how the Literacy Corps was introduced and approved by parliament on 26th January 1963. It is an admirable scheme where by seven thousand national servicemen, with suitable qualifications, are taken from the army each year after a four-month training period to work in the remote villages, educating children who would not otherwise have the opportunity of going to school. During a fourteen-month term in the village, the conscript will generally help with family and farming life, often becoming a key figure among the inhabitants as a result of his work.

Arrangements were made for us to visit a village school some distance from Isfahan, and we set off straight away. As we turned off the main road, it was explained how the smaller road had been constructed by the Literacy Corps. We pulled up at a small brick building, where the green, white and red flag of Iran fluttered from a tall mast. This was the school. Inside we met the young teacher, who was most alert and interested in his task. He had, with the help of villagers, built the school that had two classrooms, and a room in which he lived. With Mr. Modarres acting as interpreter, he told us how the young children were completely illiterate when he first arrived, and how he talked to them with the aid of pictures that he had placed around the walls. We went into the classroom where children, aged from five to ten years, were seated four in a row, the young boys in front, the girls at the back dressed in chadur. As we entered, it was strange to see such young girls draw the cotton material across their faces. It was explained to us how important it was that the village folk should respect the teacher, for their religion did not generally allow young girls to be in the company of an unmarried man. This was one of the difficulties that had to be overcome before the scheme was acceptable to the village folk.

The second classroom was for the older boys, both classes being run by the teacher simultaneously. Immediately we went in, the boys, dressed in khaki tunics and trousers, sprang smartly to attention. The teacher asked them some questions and they did a few sums on the blackboard.

This teacher had not only introduced a scout group, in the evenings he held classes for adults, who were taught in exactly the same way as the children. They each had their own problems and did not pay as much attention as he would have liked. This made the work more troublesome for him. Apart from all these lessons he had set up a post-box and took the mail to and from Isfahan himself. He had also provided facilities for sport and encouraged the children to grow wheat and other crops on a small scale.

Arriving back in Isfahan, we were taken to a large secondary school where we were able to watch an English lesson. The children were using the same textbooks that we had seen at the High School in Tehran, which suggested that the course was rather stereotyped over the country. The boys, aged between seventeen and eighteen, were not very well behaved, but did some reading for our benefit. We were then taken to view the new library, which had only been open a week. Before a boy could borrow books, he had to provide one new book for the collection.

Another feature of education in Isfahan were the adult classes held each evening in a school. These are similar to those held in the villages, but are not run by the Literacy Corps. The four classes that we visited were for women and girls, although classes were held for men and boys too. We were told that these children were not able to attend the primary school as they were working. We were able to sit for a short while in each room while the lessons were in progress. Everyone, except the staff, wore chadur, and we were surprised to find young girls of about six or seven years of age sitting alongside women of forty or fifty who had never had any education at school The conditions seemed cramped in all the rooms, and the lighting very poor.

Being an electrical engineer, I was interested to see the high voltage distribution and generation system. Without fail, Mr. Modarres made the necessary arrangements. Only a few weeks prior to our visit, the Area Electrical Company of Isfahan Province had been nationalised and was now known as the Ministry of Power and Water.

In the power station there were five steam and two diesel generating sets. The water used for the steam sets had a very high lime content, which consequently had to be removed by a chemical process. This resulted in problems in producing sufficient steam, and the sets had to run below their rated capacity. Current was supplied to approximately fifty thousand consumers on a twelve-mile radius, but there were plans to increase this to thirty miles over a period of two and a half years. Nearly all the equipment was imported either from the United Kingdom or from Germany.

Another afternoon resulted in a visit to a carpet factory with Mr. Modarres and a journalist, who was from Germany. It was a great surprise to find that the factory was just a single room. When our eyes had become accustomed to the rather dim lighting, we saw that at each loom were six children, some not more than six or seven years of age. They sat cross-legged on wooden planks across the width of vertically suspended carpets. It was just as if we had been transported into a scene from one of Dickens’ stories. One woman was in charge of each group of girls, and gave them instructions regarding the pattern and coloured wools. There was also a white-haired, middle-aged man, who seemed to be the supervisor. We asked him, through Mr. Modarres, why these children were employed at such a young age, and learned that it was only when they were in their early years that their fingers were small enough to do the very fine knotting required for the best quality carpets. Each carpet took about one year to complete and would sell for about six hundred pounds.

The girls worked long hours for five and a half days a week. We were told by the supervisor that they could earn up to a pound a week, but from other sources we gathered that an adult is paid five tomans a day, whereas a child earns, perhaps, half a toman, which is next to nothing. These are the children who will remain illiterate if they do not attend the adult education classes in the evening. How they manage to keep awake to study I just do not know.

I wanted to take a photograph and asked if a light could be switched on above one of the looms. A switch was pressed and a glimmer of no more than twenty-five watts emanated from a solitary bulb that hardly cast a shadow. Since we had entered the factory, we had heard the muffled cry of a baby, but nowhere could one be seen. Endeavouring to find it, by trying to follow the sound, we saw a woman, presumably the mother, unwrap a small sniffing child from a suffocating bundle of wool and rags, and prop it up in a more dignified position. The sweets and nuts that Audrey handed round to the children were eagerly taken, yet with pleading, brown, almond-shaped eyes, they pitifully whispered “baksheesh”.

By this time, the German journalist was incensed by what he had seen. He vowed that he would write of the terrible way that these children were being treated. It was indeed disconcerting to find that such young children lack the necessary freedom and education, but at least we had seen that the continuing policies of the Shah were leading to a more literate society and higher living standards for all.

That some of the finest carpets in existence today are of Persian origin is yet another reminder of the perfection of artistic expression which was attained in the ‘golden age’. Carpets have been woven and used as floor coverings for some twenty-five centuries. In 1948, Rodonkov, a Russian archaeologist, unearthed a piece of carpet in Central Asia dating from the Achaemenian era, and suggested that pile carpets may have been used in the palaces of Cyrus and Darius. Since the earliest times, wandering tribes have covered the ground in their tents with felt, or carpets made by the womenfolk on their own primitive looms, using the wool cut from their flocks, and coloured with dyes made from the plants they gathered. A fault would always be woven into the edge, as perfection attracted the evil eye.

There is an old Persian proverb that says:

‘Where lies thy carpet, there is thine home.’

Even the simplest homes of today possess a rug or carpet of some sort. In fact, a common Farsi expression is to ‘rug a home’ rather than furnish it. Each devout Moslem has his own prayer mat, in the best quality that he can afford, that he uses for his prostrations towards Mecca, and some of the loveliest carpets can be seen inside mosques. People in Iran invest in rugs, and deposit them at the government bank which has hermetically sealed vaults specifically for the purpose of their storage. Money can be withdrawn on them, and they may be used in payment of accounts.

When Shah Abbas was rebuilding in Isfahan, he is known to have brought three hundred Chinese potters to the city. This influence certainly affected the designs on porcelain in many ways, and no doubt similar influences were experienced in the carpet trade. The ‘vase’ carpets that show a stylised design made up of graceful interlocking leaf and vase motif, are certainly Chinese in style.

By the town or district in which they have been woven are known the Persian carpets. The best quality, originate from Tabriz, Kerman, Kashan, Ramadan, Isfahan and Meshed. The wool, which is often shorn by hand, is washed, dried, carded, and combed before being spun. It is then dyed with both vegetable and animal-dyes, washed again, and then hung out to dry. Chemicals are used to make the dyes fast.

The designer will have drawn up and coloured a pattern that the operator keeps in front of his loom. The method of knotting is most important with regard to the value of the carpet, and two types are used, the Turkish and the Persian, or Farsi knot. With the Turkish knot, two warp threads are bound side by side with the aid of a hooked needle. The result is a fabric durable in texture, but with an uneven reverse side.

The Persian knot, however, is tied entirely by hand on a single warp thread, and although there may be an equal number of knots to the square inch, as in a Turkish carpet, the back is much smoother, and has a finer texture. When one row of knots is complete across the width of the carpet, a cotton weft thread is threaded through and pushed firmly down against the knots, with a metal comb, giving strength and firmness to the material. Close knotting enhances the design, so that it shows with the clarity of a painting. A machine woven pattern will appear hazy and dull by comparison. When the pile is complete, it is sheared and trimmed to the required length.

By the early 1930’s, the carpet industry in Persia had declined as a result of the use of poor quality chemical dyes, which quickly faded, or ran when the carpets were washed. Reza Shah formed the Iranian Carpet Company, which revived the traditional methods of dying to regain some of the prestige lost in previous centuries. Today Isfahan has an expanding textile industry that is of great importance in the export trade. According to one publication it is ‘bent on becoming the Manchester of Persia’. The two places just did not seem comparable.

We thought that we had seen all the most important mosques in Isfahan, but Mr. Modarres pointed out that we still had not visited the Friday Mosque. The Masjid-i-Jami, is the oldest mosque in Isfahan, dating from Seljuk and Mongol times, and is quite different in form to those of the Shah Abbas period. It also bears the marks of Arab, Persian and Afghan workmanship. In particular, the Seljuk brickwork in the vaulted arches is both complex and masterful in execution. The iwans, which are broad in aspect, contain smaller arches in the quenches, which give grandeur to the large courtyard. Under the northern dome are bold decorative lines of Kufic script. This type of calligraphy, which accentuates the vertical strokes, was used extensively for about five centuries after Mohammed, but although it reached a high standard towards the twelfth century. The Nashki script gradually replaced it. If one must mention any particular aspect of the interior, I think that the Mihrab of Oljaitu, dated 1310, would take pride of place. It is a superb example of Mongol stuccowork and shows a maze of twisting vine leaves and Arabic text.

On our last day in Isfahan, we invited Mr. Modarres and a friend of his for an evening meal. Mr. Modarres had been so helpful that we felt this was the least we could do to show our appreciation. As we were preparing the meal, a sudden thought crossed our minds, - we were cooking pork! Surely, if our guests were Moslems they would not be able to eat it, but it was too late to make any last minute changes, so we decided to go ahead and hope for the best. As it was, everything turned out all right, except for the rice, which had been cooked for too long and had become a soggy mess.

“Hmmm – said Mr. Modarres’s friend, quite innocently – is this what you call rice pudding in England?”

We tried to explain, but what could we say in this country where the long-grained rice formed the basis for practically every meal.

We showed our friends some of the souvenirs that we had bought in Isfahan. One was a large, deeply cupped, broad handled spoon and we asked Mr. Modarres if he would translate the Arabic script on the handle. Rather coyly he told us that it meant.

“The juice in this spoon, which is full of design, is good, but it desires the beautiful lips of my darling”.

Telling them of our future plans we mentioned that we would endeavour to be in Jerusalem for Christmas and the New Year. This led Mr. Modarres to explain that the Persian New Year was not until the Spring Equinox, the 21st March, or the first day of the Moslem month of Moharram. It is called Nau Ruz, which means new light, or new day.

Two or three weeks before Nau Ruz, everyone is busy, shopping for their gifts for friends and relations and for new clothes for themselves.The women in the family plant some wheat in a bowl and water it carefully, so that on Nau Ruz day there will be fresh green shoots to decorate the table. On the Wednesday before Nau Ruz, bonfires are lit in gardens and public parks. Everyone is supposed to jump over the fire, reciting.

“Take away this pale face, and in return give me thy glowing pink colour”.

Fireworks, singing and national dancing often accompany these occasions.

By Nau Ruz day, there must be some very special things ready for the table. All of them must begin with the letter ‘s’, the first letter of the word sol, meaning year. The most usual things that one might see are, sieb, serkeh, sabze, senjed and samanco, which are the names for apple, vinegar, herbs, olives and wheat stems. There will also be a copy of the Koran, candles, yoghurt, a mirror and rosewater on the table. These are symbolic in the same manner as holly, mistletoe and the fir tree are at our Christmas Day ceremonies. Amongst all these various objects, will be a goldfish in a bowl, because of the ancient belief that the world was balanced on the horn of a bull. When the New Year arrives, the bull tosses the world from one horn to the other. At the moment when this occurs, the goldfish will turn towards Mecca. The family, who are watching and waiting for the fish to move, will then say their prayers.

The New Year is announced by the firing of cannons and the Shahanshah makes a speech from the Golestan Palace in Tehran. The ceremony there, known as the Imperial Salaam, dates back over two thousand, five hundred years.

Diplomats and Cabinet Ministers bring their tributes to the Shah, in the same way that subjects would bring their gifts to the Achaemenian kings.

Nau Ruz ceremonies continue for a further twelve days. On the thirteenth day, everyone goes to the nearest quiet spot for a picnic. There is an old superstition that it is not wise to be at home on this day, so for this reason, no one returns until after sunset, when any ill fortune will have passed through their home. At dusk, lettuce leaves are eaten, in the hope that the New Year will be green and plentiful. Fortunately, people in Isfahan retain a great many of these customs, and the celebrations are always colourful.

As the evening drew to a close, we tried with our visitors to learn a few words of Farsi. Soon we were talking of the difficulties arising from the fact that in order to say “Yes”, one must shake the head from side to side, the exact opposite of our natural nod for the affirmative. To make matters worse, for “No”, one clicks the tongue and raises the eyebrows.

“Perhaps we will meet again one day”– we said, shaking their hands.

“Khoda hafez”– God preserve, came the reply as they left.

The following morning while we were stopping in Isfahan, we met a couple of New Zealand girls, Eleanor and Noel, who asked if we could give them a lift to the ruins of Persepolis. It would be a bit of a squeeze, as they had quite a lot of luggage, but we agreed and the next morning we all set off on our journey southward.

It was a brilliant day. The sun burned incessantly from a cloudless sky. Expanses of parched desert swept by as we drummed along, becoming increasingly more uncomfortable in the heat. We needed frequent refreshment, and relied completely on pounds of succulent sweet lemons, recently bought in Isfahan, that we could quickly cut and press to our dry lips. We passed several, heavily-laden donkeys, picking their way over a seemingly endless road, led by men wearing round, white felt caps.

Sometimes we saw straight lines of what appeared to be bomb craters at regular intervals stretching far away into the distance. These were the qanats, a system of underground water channels, which for centuries have been used for bringing water from its source to the plains and villages. The method has one advantage, namely that the water can be transported, without evaporation, over long distances, which can be as great as twenty miles. Outweighing this advantage are numerous disadvantages, particularly with regard to their construction.

The men engaged in this hazardous occupation are professional diggers called muganni. They work underground with one or two men on the surface to hoist the excavated material up through vertical shafts dug at intervals along the tunnel route. We went to have a look at one of the shafts, which also acted as a ventilator. A primitive, wooden windlass remained above the hole: no doubt someone had been down recently for some repair, as falls often occur as the water erodes the tunnel below.

In the construction of a complete, qanat, a ‘mother well’ is first dug to water that may be found from one hundred to five hundred feet below ground level. The main channel, which is usually about four feet high and two feet wide, is then dug using intermediate shafts, which are about fifty yards apart. The muganni, using a short-handled pick with a single blade, shovels the loosened material into a bull-hide bucket. An assistant drags this to the nearest shaft opening and places it on a hook at the end of a rope. The third man, operating a windlass on the surface, then raises it. The ‘spoil’ produces the bomb crater effect. Naturally, as the man below gradually approaches the source, small mounts of water begin to seep from all surfaces, and his work is hampered. He must continue until he completes the irrigation stream, digging upward to the ‘mother well’.

That the calculations made in this work are so consistently accurate is remarkable, for the only aids to direction finding below ground are a plumb bob, and a small lamp. A complete qanat takes many years to construct, and represents a considerable expense to the owner, without considering all the maintenance work. The man who is able to finance the irrigation owns the land that is served by it. He has the power of life or death of the village. The water supply emerging from the main channel of the qanat at the village is often dammed by primitive weirs that, at specific times, allow the water flow to be distributed to different places along the surface channels known as jubes.

There are some fascinating tales of blind white fish, that are said to exist in the qanats, and a whole village was terrorised on one occasion by a creature, possibly an otter, that emerged from below. The possibility of animals living in an area seemingly so remote from their natural habitat is an extraordinary phenomenon.

The dazzling brightness of the day had given way to the soft delicate hues of evening. We had been looking out for Persepolis for a long while, and were just beginning to think that it would be dark by the time we arrived, when we saw it. A group of tall columns silhouetted against the sky. We stopped at the nearest hotel, the Apadana, but on enquiry found that the cost for a double room was nine hundred rials. This was exorbitant, and as we had paid less than a hundred rials at other hotels we drove on to Marvdasht, a small village a few kilometres away, in the hope that we would find something cheaper.

Entering the Darius Hotel, with Eleanor and Noel behind us, we found ourselves in a smoke-laden room, where men sat motionless at old wooden tables, puffing at antiquated, bubbling narghiles. The owner must have thought that Audrey and the two girls were my three wives. Confusion is not quite the right word to describe the result of my trying to explain that I wanted two rooms, with two beds in each. It seemed logical to move two beds out of a room containing four into an empty room. I started to draw little sketches of what we wanted, but the blank expression on the owner’s face gave me no encouragement. He just could not understand why we should not all sleep together. The argument continued and we had not even started to bargain for the cost of each bed, then to make matters worse, Audrey began to draw little pictures, too. Women did not usually enter into this sort of discussion.

Eleanor and Noel suddenly decided that they did not like the look of the place anyway, so we helped them to order a taxi to Shiraz, and then returned to the Darius Hotel, to make fresh negotiations for the two of us. The owner was completely baffled at the disappearance of two of my ‘wives’, but we finally fixed a price: ten shillings for three beds. Although we asked for fresh sheets and pillowcases, as those on the beds were dirty, the change was not for the better.

Inevitably, Audrey wanted to use the toilet in the middle of the night. Stepping over men who were sleeping in the now darkened eating room, she made her way to the courtyard which was in total darkness. The owner appeared from nowhere and filled an aftabe with water from the pool. He then politely held open the door of the toilet for Audrey to enter. Toilet is really far too civilised a word for what there was. Complete darkness prevailed and one had no idea where the hole in the floor was situated, that is unless one was unlucky enough to put a foot in it. The whole procedure was sheer guesswork, and as is common to all Arab countries, there was no toilet paper, hence the use of the aftabe or water jug.

Early in the morning we drove until we were within sight of Persepolis, then pulled in at the side of the road for our usual breakfast: tea without milk, porridge and bread and jam. This caused a small group of onlookers to gather. It seemed as though one of them felt that we should not have stopped there, but the rest obviously decided that we looked harmless enough, for after a while they wandered off. Breakfast was quickly consumed, as we were very eager to explore the ruins, for which we had set aside the entire day. Surprisingly for such an important place the entrance fee was negligible, only ten rials, less than a shilling each.

Persepolis, known as Takht-e-Jamshid, or Throne of Jamshid, comprises a group of palaces built by the Achaemenian King, Darius I, and later extended by his son, Xerxes. It is positioned at the foot of the Mountain of Mercy, the fertile plain of Marvdasht extending before it into the distance. We were immediately impressed by the massive platform that towered above us, upon which all the palaces were built. As we ascended the two flights of the Great Staircase, we sensed the grandeur of what we were about to see. This staircase had been so constructed that processional cavalcades of horses could mount the shallow steps with ease, to arrive at the entrance hall and the Porch of Xerxes. Four, square portals and the fallen stones of palaces could still be seen.

There was no sound, save the gentle grinding of our heels into the loose gravel as we passed through the porch to the Apadana Palace. This has two large staircases leading to it, and we made our way to the eastern one, which is the best preserved as, fortunately, it had been buried beneath soil and rubble for many centuries. Scenes portraying some great procession, probably the occasion of Nau Ruz have been preserved on this staircase for over two thousand years. We would be able to witness the events of this great celebration during the time of an earlier civilisation. From our position the figures stood out clearly, but moving closer we were able to inspect the finely detailed work. A wealth of activity is shown here; people of all the subject nations are portrayed, each bringing their offerings to the king. All the figures are about fifteen inches high, and in three distinct rows. The top row of three on one side shows Medes bringing vases, Elamites offering bows, daggers and a lioness with her two cubs, and Parthians and Sogdians giving camels with two humps. A panel depicting Egyptians offering a bull is nearly all missing, but the next one shows Bactrians who also present a two-humped camel. In the middle row, Armenians can be seen, bringing a horse and a vase. Babylonians, distinguished by their pointed hats with tassels, offer vessels full of gold and silver, and a bison. Cilicians follow, with two rams and clothing. Scythians with long pointed hats, present a horse and golden bracelets. Assyrians come with a bison, shield and spears. Another panel of Scythians from Samarkand, shows them with their gifts: daggers, bracelets and a horse. The bottom row shows Phoenicians with a chariot, Cappadocians with a horse, Lydians carrying vessels and cloth, and Aracosians from Afghanistan bearing many precious objects, together with a camel. Finally came Indians, one carrying articles placed in baskets suspended on a pole across his shoulders, followed by others with axes and a donkey. Each nationality is divided from the next by a symbolic cypress tree of the type known to have been planted by Darius on the Plain of Marvdasht. Near each end of the staircase is a tablet inscribed with Cuneiform writing, a translation of which reads:

“A great god is Ahuramazda, who created this earth, who created yonder heaven, who created man, who created welfare for man, who made Xerxes king, one king of many, one lord of many.

I am Xerxes the great king, King of Kings, king of countries having many kinds of people, king of this great earth, far and wide, the son of Darius the king, the Achaemenian.”

Says Xerxes the great king: “What was done by me here, and what was done by me elsewhere, all what I did, I did by the will of Ahuramazda. May Ahuramazda with the gods protect me and both my kingdom and what was don