Traditional Kurdish attire, Duhok, Iraqi Kurdistan

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Within twenty minutes of waking up this morning, I was in a share-taxi pelting away from Erbil to the northern town of Duhok, the best stepping stone back to Turkey.

Considering this, I was too tired, really, to start getting properly anxious about the prospect of skirting the hinterlands of Mosul. This is by far the fastest route, but it involves roads under the control of the central Iraqi army and is a no-go zone for big, softy westerners like me... not that being kidnapped or shot makes you a hard man. Anyway, thankfully the taxi driver decided to stick the Kurdish controlled areas, which meant military checkpoint after military checkpoint.

It was nice to actually arrive somewhere while the sun was still up, for once. I had time to browse the accommodation and barter for better prices. And after settling in, I did what anyone with a yearning for cultural experiences would do and headed to the kebap shop to catch the Chelsea match.

It was here, stood outside, squinting at the television, where I met a young guy my age who could speak good English. I forget his name now, but he told me had served five years working with the U.S army during the invasion (which most Kurds see as a good thing- which is why I'm made so welcome here, being British and all). He offered to show me around, which I gratefully accepted.

It got off to an awkward start as he asked my religion, to which I replied Christian, as it's better to claim to be 'of the Book', even if you aren't. He said that was okay, and then listed off an other religion and some nationalities that he hated- I bet you can't guess which ones?! My uncomfortableness eased slightly as I directed the conversation onto Kurdistan and local traditions.

Earlier in the day I had approached a few traditionally dressed men to ask for a portrait, I was knocked back each time. I found a new opportunity now, though. As we walked through the bazaar I pointed one of the old chaps out and said something akin to "I love the traditional clothes that the men wear around here, I tried to get a picture earlier but it didn't work..." *nudge nudge*. "Yes, yes, no problem, I'll take you to a place". Success!

And so he took me down a large back alley which backed onto a hill. On the left tables and attractively upholstered chairs were shaded by a woven reeds. My new pal told me to take a seat opposite this man in the photograph and said "don't stand up" before he darted off. "Don't stand up?" I thought, "what does he mean? What happens if I stand up?". I looked around, offering my typical, glaikit, 'hello everyone' smile. I took in my surroundings and noticed, quite suddenly, that lots of people were holding, and inspecting handguns, before tucking them back into their waist-belt.

"Oh Jesus, is this something to do with 'don't stand up?!'"

It turns out that this is a place where men, such as you see in the background, come to drink tea, chat and trade firearms. Unfortunately, I didn't bring my own bag of guns, so my time there was limited to drinking tea- courtesy of my moustachioed subject- and chatting through my temporary translator. Although, the questioning ended up taking the form of everybody asking me, one by one, "where are you from?".

It was nice to get a unanimous thumbs up when I told them, though!