A cruise on the Bosphorus is one of the best ways to appreciate Istanbul's skyline. I decided to combine it with a trip to Uskadar on the Asian shore and escape the clutches of the Sultanahmet carpet sellers for an afternoon.

Istanbul's ferry terminal clung limpet-like to the northeastern fringe of Eminonu. From here, one could see across the Golden Horn to the district south of Taksim Square - the commercial hub of modern Istanbul - and east across the Bosphorus to the neighborhoods of Beylerbeyi, Guzcuncuk and Uskadar. Behind them, a low ridge of barren hills sweated beneath a hazy belt of brown smog that glowed like molten steel where it merged with the bluer swathes of sky. Beyond these hills stretched north-central Anatolia, and further south Cappadocia, where I would be several days from now.

The ferry terminal was also the scene of some of Istanbul's most frenetic market activity. Fishermen patrolled the Bosphorus on fragile-looking dinghies that swirled like leaves as they crested the choppier waves. When they had filled their nets, they returned to shore and displayed their catches like exhibits in an art gallery. Hordes of men, women and children surged forward in riotous fashion, scrabbling to reach the front of this constricting mass and lay claim to the choicest specimens. Naturally, the crowds had drawn other traders. Strewn across the mud-splashed pavements were wooden crates of molding fruit, tattered sacks overflowing with bundles of intricately woven carpets, piles of second-hand clothes wrapped in torn bin liners, open boxes of leather sandals scattered over sheets of mushy cardboard, rain-soaked mounds of dog-eared books, clusters of nargileh pipes, their snake-like necks floating in puddles of brown water, and much, much more. If it existed, it was available here in Eminonu. And through this sea of merchandise, like tiny cargo boats negotiating a path between rocky straits, coursed the hot-food vendors with their glass-paneled handcarts. I bought a hunk of warm bread from one before boarding and munched away contentedly as we pulled away from the docks.

Before too long, Eminonu swung back into view below the lip of the upper deck. There was the fabulous Suleymaniye Mosque, encamped like a small army atop the highest hill in the city, with its evenly spaced minarets resembling a defensive formation of lances, guarding the smooth, vulnerable dome. The mosque was built by the legendary architect Sinan during the reign of Suleiman the Magnificent - the greatest of all Ottoman sultans - and is revered by Muslims worldwide for the symmetry of its design, the harmony of its styles.

As we rounded the shoulder of Sultanahmet the sea walls rose up to obscure the waterfront hotels and restaurants from view, but by then my attention had been diverted to the opposite shore, where Uskadar slowly eased into focus. The town was stacked in layers up the side of a grassy hill, like a step pyramid, each slab slightly smaller than the one immediately below. At the bottom, behind the docks and the otogar, sprawled the Iskele, another of Sinan's mosques. It was lunchtime, and the midday call to prayer was ringing out across the water as we docked, shepherding the faithful into the enclosure and admonishing those who chose to ignore its music. Not that there were many in Uskadar. The residents are known for their religious conservatism, and as if to prove the point another muezzin from the nearby Yeni Valide Camii joined in the chorus, the two voices challenging each other, competing for the attention of the townsfolk like rival salesmen at a farmers' market.

I wanted to visit a mosque when prayers were in progress, but not to stick out as an eavesdropping tourist, so I made for the Yeni Valide Camii, which seemed to be losing the battle for business. Leaving my boots outside, I entered through the same door as the penitent - a broad archway hung with a moss-green canvas drape - and shuffled nervously to one side as a stream of men wearing Islamic skullcaps and women clad in black chadors poured past. The women remained at the back of the mosque, in my vicinity, but the men tiptoed to the front of the building, to the left of the mimber. A bespectacled imam sat cross-legged on a raised dais, reading a Surah from the Qu'ran to a small congregation of worshippers, their heads pressed to the floor, backs humped like tortoise shells.

On my way back to Sultanahmet, later that afternoon, I took a detour and stopped by the Suleymaniye complex. As well as a functional mosque, the grounds played host to the mausoleum of Suleiman the Magnificent. Housed in a hexagonal stone structure crowned with what appeared to be an enormous turban, the coffin of Suleiman rested on a waist-high marble plinth, covered in fine, richly decorated silks. A small placard at the foot of the coffin informed visitors that Suleiman was also known as the Lawgiver during his reign for his introduction of a sophisticated legal system. It is said that Henry VIII dispatched an envoy to Turkey to learn as much as possible about this code, and that on his return to England many of Suleiman's ideas were incorporated into Tudor law.

The mausoleum was clearly venerated by Turks as a site of great holiness. A cluster of men and women gathered before the coffin and stood in respectful silence, their arms extended, palms turned towards heaven, like Italian footballers shrugging their innocence to the referee. They remained in this posture for several minutes before gently bowing to the coffin and filing out.

On the outside, one of the men I had seen paying his respects to Suleiman beckoned me over. He was a pale-skinned Turk, with reddish hair and light-brown eyes.

"Come, come. Look here," He pointed to a small, bell-shaped stone above the entrance. It was pine green. "This is sacred stone - some say from paradise. You know paradise, yes?"

Not as well as I would have liked, I thought, nodding in assent.

"You are English?" he inquired.

"Yes," I said.

"It is good that you come here. I come here often now, but when I was a young man it was all work and chasing girls. Now I am older I understand what is important and what is not. Please, can I help you with anything?"

I told him that I planned to visit the mosque proper and then head back to my hostel, but thanked him anyway. He wished me well, inshallah, and said he was sure I would learn much during my time in Turkey.

Later, I thought to myself how unlikely this scenario was in reverse: a Turkish sightseer in London visiting Southwark Cathedral and being warmly greeted in his own language by an English stranger, and then offered assistance. Sometimes, travel is a shaming experience.

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