BRADFORD WHITE WATER HEATERS

Masuleh village is beautiful; after the brutalist ugliness of Tehran and the humdrum towns of Rasht and Fuman, it's a real delight to be surrounded by forests, mountains and snow. Masuleh is situated at the end of a steep-sided bowl-shaped
valley. The buses stop at the lower end of the town. From there, the town's streets are a network of stone steps and walkways snaking around and between
the houses. Each of the buildings are finished in a toffee-coloured plaster
and are flat-roofed. All have wooden windows and some have balconies. What's remarkable about Masuleh is that the roofs of lower houses form the pathway in front of higher houses. Everything is covered in a substantial layer of fresh snow.

We met Nima; he led us up through the town, smiling and chatting and sometimes helping to lug Aisling's suitcase up steep, icy stone steps. After a few minutes we arrived at his parent's house, perched above a steep drop down to a ruined house below. After we'd stepped indoors and shed our shoes, Nima's mum led us upstairs via a short, carpeted passage with whitewashed walls and up a steep stone staircase into a large, bright room with high ceilings, no furniture, overlapping Persian rugs on the floor and stunning views over the valley and the town. A kerosene heater kept the room at a snug temperature, despite the gaps in the window frame. It only took us a moment to decide to stay. We curled up on the floor and while Nima's mum prepared us a light lunch of wholemeal naan, chunky deep-red marmalade and chay, Nima pestered us for "game, empee thuree" until I gave him my phone. I only got it back an hour or two later, stone dead, the battery utterly flat. He never got a go of Aisling's phone, but I'm now the happy owner of some great candid snaps of Nima, his family, shots of the town and gurning videos.

Moments after we'd arrived in Masuleh, we met Nima; he led us up through the town, smiling and chatting and sometimes helping to lug Aisling's suitcase up steep, icy stone steps. After a few minutes we arrived at his parent's house, perched above a steep drop down to a ruined house below. After we'd stepped indoors and shed our shoes, Nima's mum led us upstairs via a short, carpeted passage with whitewashed walls and up a steep stone staircase into a large, bright room with high ceilings, no furniture, overlapping Persian rugs on the floor and stunning views over the valley and the town. A kerosene heater kept the room at a snug temperature, despite the gaps in the window frame. It only took us a moment to decide to stay. We curled up on the floor and while Nima's mum prepared us a light lunch of wholemeal naan, chunky deep-red marmalade and chay, Nima pestered us for "game, empee thuree" until I gave him my phone. I only got it back an hour or two later, stone dead, the battery utterly flat. He never got a go of Aisling's phone, but I'm now the happy owner of some great candid snaps of Nima, his family, shots of the town and gurning videos.