"This is the room of heavenly pleasures", Abbas, my guide, told me as we entered the peephole shaped cave that cut right through the mountain. A panorama of the Shah Rud Valley, legendary home of the Assassins, spread out below us the sandy red Elborz Mountains contrasting with the green irrigated fields on the valley floor. We were at Alamut castle, formally the headquarters of Al Shaikh al Jabal, the 11th century founder of the Assassins. Although the Assassins were the Defeated by the Mongols in the 13th century, the Assassins their murdering methods using clever stealth tactics means that there ensured that their name lives on. This once majestic castle, built on the most naturally protected rock outcrop in the region, was a difficult target for any army with each side protected by cliffs hundreds of feet tall. Natural ambience and a few crumbling walls were all that the Assassins had left here in the cave that was the central to their power. Thankfully the chaos of Teheran seemed a world away.

Teheran: Tents, Taxis and Traffic Jams, the tents being the literal translation for the black clothing that covered every women wore from head to toe. These first impressions of the capital, never really left me, only on closer inspection did I discover the 'Death to the USA' murals and the underground culture. As a result of Teheran's speedy growth the city now spreads as far as the eye can see, in the north only ceasing where the mountains become too steep. Abbas, a resident of Teheran, guide and accomplished mountaineer shared my feelings of relief as we finally bumped our way out of the city in a trusty old Mercedes van. Ahead lay the Shah Rud valley and the Elborz Mountains, which we hoped to cross on foot. Freya Stark, the adventurous 1930's female travel writer had made a similar journey, her book 'The Valleys of the Assassins' was our only written guide.

To be a tourist in Iran is refreshingly unusual, coach-loads of westerners armed to the teeth with cameras are nowhere to be seen. As a consequence there is no 'hard sell' which is often encountered in the countries (and carpet shops!) of the Middle East. Our green merc was the nearest thing to a tourist bus, the air-conditioning supplied from a large block of ice in a slowly growing puddle on the floor. Perhaps more reassuringly the driver was the spitting image of Saddam Hussein, never the less his skills behind the wheel where remarkable, where the track resembled the aftermath of Saddam's army he would find a safe line whilst lighting his next cigarette.

Nine windy, bumpy, dusty hours after leaving Teheran we reached Siadisht in the Shah Rud valley. Siadisht is one of the small villages in the valley, surviving on subsistence farming, irrigation channels as old as the Assassins themselves providing the village with the necessary water for their fields. My interest lay in the castle of Lamminsar high above the village, but the welcome we received on arrival was quite extraordinary. Within minutes the local English teacher was found from within one of the mud constructed houses, it was the first time that the Teacher had spoken to a native English speaker and the conversation darted about from subject to subject so fast I lost focus on why I had come. Slowly the conversation came round to Lamminsar and luckily the Teacher volunteered to show me around.

" This is the easiest entrance.", the Teacher said as we scrambled up through a steep hole in the wall that used to be the southern gate. Unfortunately for me this villager had been a shepherd in his younger years and thought nothing of free climbing up a shear cliff. ' We will exit from the northern entrance, it's steeper but more interesting.', he shouted down to me, which finished off the little confidence I had in my impromptu guide. Once through the gate the site of the castle opened out in front of us, stretching uphill for over 300m, there were a dozen water tanks cut into solid rock and one or two buildings left standing. For times of siege there was a secret passage down through the cliff to the river below, historians believe that when water supplies were low sheep were loaded with skins full of water and chased up by a wolf! Decent back to Siadisht via the northern gate was straight forward, to my relief, but now my thoughts were on Alamut, the next castle on route.

Progression up the Shah Rud valley in our van was torturous as the tracks got worse. Abbas, ever the happy-to-do-anything guide, took me everywhere interesting on the way. Camping at Avon lake was one of these off the track side excursion, it looks about as Iranian as its sounds. Water from the mountains above drain down and form this small lake. The ancient salt farms of the Shah Rud sent their traders past here on their way to the markets on the coast. Higher up the valley one of these farms still produces salt using the traditional methods. Underground a stream passes through a seam of salt becoming saturated, it comes out of the ground at the farm and is directed into a number of shallow pools, the salt crystallises as the water is driven off by the sun.

Abbas's guiding methods at times left me in the dark, on occasions he would disappear for an eternity and reappear on top of a cliff having found the way up. One such time was on the castle of Alamut, built on a huge rock, Abbas left meplodding up he scaled another cliff and scrambled out of sight. On return he took me up by far the safest and easiestroute to the top of the Assassins most naturally defended castle.

We sat in the cylindrical cave which cut straight through the rock, this was the room to which the successful Assassins returned after their deadly missions. The Old Man of the Mountains, Al Shaikh al Jabal, directed operations from here and it is believed that in 35 years he only left the castle on two occasions to walk on the roof! The story goes that this man had gained the respect of his followers by drugging them and leading them in a confused state into a room full of sensual pleasures, the Assassins, or Hashishin, thus believed that he possessed the key to heaven so followed his every command. Perhaps this formidable rock had helped inspire the Assassins with great confidence in their leader, Abbas had certainly shone through.

Garmerud marked the end of the jeep track and the start of my five day journey by foot across the Elbruz mountains to the Caspian Sea. We swapped the merc for mules and transferred the baggage into panniers. Abbas negotiated the arrangements with the muleteers, they would only accompany us to Darijan, over the main ridge of the Elbruz, there we could hire some others. Here in the heart of the Elbruz the villagers have been living the same traditional way as they have for centuries, to travel more than two days away from their village was out of the question.

Many of the villages in this mountain range are isolated by snow for up to five months of the year, Pichban was one of these villages high up on a fertile plateau, I expected a reluctant welcome. An hour before Pichban five people cutting firewood from the scrubs confronted us on the path. "They wont let us pass...", my stomach dropped.
"...until we drink tea with them.", Abbas finished his sentence off. The youngest looking villager was about sixteen years old but his harsh lifestyle made him look ten years older, he pulled a blackened kettle out of pocket. Sucking the tea through lumps of sugar held in our teeth we listened to their stories, they were out gathering fuel for the long winter months. Now it was September and last week the first snow had already fallen, although it had only settled for two days. We would have to travel quickly to cross the Salambar Pass.

Thus cautioned, we quickened the pace and crossed on to the northern slopes that rise up from the Caspian Sea. On the pass the bitterly strong wind could not distract from the magnificent views towards Takht-e-Soilemen (the Throne of Soileman ) rising up to nearly five thousand meters. We descended through the high scrub land down to Salambar village and found a large flat terrace to camp on. At sun set the clouds departed and the cold started to set in for the night. All the talk of snow had the muleteers making special sleeping arrangements, each one was digging a grave like trench. Surely it couldn't get that cold? Gloved hands threw hot coals into the trenches and large flat rocks covered the top, no chance that they would be cold with under floor heating like that.

Next morning we set off on the last stage of the journey down the Seh Hizar valley towards the coast. What was to be an easy day soon had our knees crying for mercy, descending over a thousand meters in the first two hours. Abbas marched on, non-abating, with the promise of eggs and cheese at a rest house he knew where the 'jungle' started. The trail was now wide enough for two laden mules to pass, it cut it's way hundreds of meters above the river along a natural fault in the cliff, the vista changing at every corner. Abbas was at the front leading the mules.
"The jungle starts here", he exclaimed and pointed to the thick deciduous forest below.
Not exactly jungle I thought, but the rest house couldn't be far now.

The mules tied to the wooden bar at the front of the rest house made it look more western American than Persian. Smelling fried eggs we hurried in, tea was immediately shoved into our hands followed by the mandatory lump of sugar. Only after eating a typically Iranian meal of ebab, rice, bread, eggs and yoghurt, did I wonder why indeed there was a rest house here at all, surely it could never get busy? Abbas questioned the old Patron about the apparent lack of business.
"We get many traders from the villages above passing through on their way to market. and of course there are the foreigners too", the Patron said glancing his tired eyes towards me. My curiosity sparkled and I encouraged Abbas to ask him more.
"Well, let me remember, there were two English army officers in my time and my father always talked of an middle aged lady passing through on her own", the Patron replied.
Beaming with delight, I realised he was talking about Freya Stark.

Text and photos by Jack Campbell

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