Vers Ispahan

Imagine setting out on a slow, deliberate pilgrimage toward the legendary rose season of Isfahan. The invitation is simple: walk beside a curious traveler through medieval‑like paths, endure the danger of rugged trails, and share cramped nights in caravanserais where flies and vermin are constant companions. Along the way, ancient ruins rise from the dust—blue domes and minarets gleam against a boundless sky, while silent stone giants, half bull, half man, watch over the endless plains of pale flowers and distant, crumbling villages.

The journey truly begins when the party leaves Bombay, crossing hot seas before touching the scorching shore of the Persian Gulf. A grueling quarantine on a swampy island, relentless sandstorms, and swarms of insects test their resolve, while the heat of the desert presses like an oven. Finally, they arrive at the desolate gateway of Bender‑Bouchir, where rag‑clad locals linger on ruined walls, and a handful of half‑naked boatmen negotiate the final stretch toward the mysterious plateau that promises the scent of roses.