Author: Jack Scott

Imagine the absurdity of two openly gay, married, middle aged, middle class men escaping the liberal sanctuary of anonymous London to relocate to a Muslim country. I chronicled our exploits with the mad, the bad, the sad and the glad in a blog for the whole world to ignore. Then came the book which became a critically acclaimed best seller. Its success opened out a whole new career for me, firstly as an author, and now as an indie publisher. Who'd have thought it? Certainly not me. In June 2012, we ended our Anatolian affair and paddled back to Britain on the evening tide, washing up in Norwich, a surprising city in eastern England, then to the wilds of Norfolk as the only gays in the village. I’m sometimes nostalgic for our encounters with the hopeless, the hapless and, yes, the happy go lucky. They gave me an unexpected tale to tell and for this I thank them.

The Wedding

We watched the royal nuptials with friends surrounded by homespun bunting, Union flags lovingly coloured in felt tip pens and attached to straws, and photocopied mini-flags on cocktail sticks. We feasted on a celebratory spread of British fare with a Turkish twist – spicy Cornish pasties for the fellas, scones for the ladies, fairy cakes for the pansies. Intellectually I’m a republican but emotionally I’m a true blue royalist. It’s a contradiction I manage to fudge with typically British pragmatism.

We had a joyous time stuffing our faces, sipping Pimms, waving our patriotic pennants and whooping at the hotchpotch of heavenly and hideous frocks. Princess Bea’s head dress could pick up intelligent life on other planets and Anne wrapped herself in her granny’s tablecloth that she’d run up on a Singer. Her Maj, of course, is above fashion. Harry looked dapper in his uniform. He’s the best of the bunch even though he’s a ginger. I’ve forgiven his faux pas with Nazi party attire some years ago. I put it down to youthful exuberance and stupidity. The Windsor-Mountbattens aren’t blessed with much up top. The Abbey looked magnificent and the majestic pageant was delivered to perfection in a way only the British know how. It gladdened my heart to see Elton John and his Civil Partner, David Furnish, in attendance. The final nail in the coffin of bigotry? Well, perhaps.

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I’ve heard it said that the whole jamboree was a waste of time and money in these days of austerity and the terrible events occurring around the globe. What’s wrong with forgetting the woes of the world just for one day and enjoying the fairytale moment? I hope the dysfunctional Firm have learned the Diana lesson and gorgeous Kate will be allowed to flourish in a thoroughly modern way.

Any Port in a Storm

Bodrum is getting busier by the day as the town warms up with the weather. Works continues apace to complete the classy new streetscape before the summer rush. Contrary to my initial cynicism, a spacious new civic square is being laid out along the bar street rat run revealing a spectacular view of the crusader castle. It will be a place of sanctuary from the relentless hassle to come from the imported hawkers with their spring-loaded libidos. Whole villages in the East are being drained of their young men as they start their annual migration in search of casual employment and easy lays. We have a bird’s eye view of the caravan of young totty as they scamper past the house dragging their humble belongings behind them. The testosterone is palpable.

Rogue Traders

We refreshed the kitchen by hiring our very own Handy Hassan who did a lovely job with his magnificent power tools. He came highly recommended. Regrettably, his armpits were also in dire need of some refreshment. Smelly Hassan aside, our experience of Turkish workmen has so far been mixed. It seems all Turkish workers can turn their amateur hands to any job. Everyone is a master electrician/plumber/builder/plasterer/tiler/painter/architect/lover (delete according to need). Alas a jack of all trades is usually a master of none and the maxim is no better proven than in Turkey.

If At First You Don’t Succeed

Moving day arrived. We watched in amusement as the large removal van valiantly struggled to reverse up the steep road that leads to Tepe Houses. If at first you don’t succeed try, try again. And try, try our brave boys did. An hour of fevered debate, frantic gesticulation and trial and ample error later, the van finally made it onto the flat. Guided by four rowdy lads competing for attention the van gingerly manoeuvred backwards along the narrow access lane. Alas, a sharp bend was a bridge too far and the van became stubbornly stuck 50 metres from the house. Undeterred, our sweaty removers professionally stripped our house in record time, re-flatpacking our IKEA furniture, hand wrapping our knick-knacks and covering our delicates in protective blankets. The sight of a slight built young man hauling our fridge-freezer strapped to his back left us speechless. He returned to collect the washing machine. He’ll probably be crippled by the time he’s 40.

We moved from room to room saying our goodbyes in time honoured fashion and closed the door on Tepe House for the last time. Tariq the Toothed caretaker turned up to say farewell. He delivered one of his now infamous rib crushing bear hugs, picked me up and twirled me around. I swear I spotted a small tear in the corner of his eye.

Tuscan Turkey

Charlotte and Alan fancied a day trip and invited us along for the ride. We decided on a pilgrimage to The Virgin Mary’s House (or Meryemana – Mother Mary, in Turkish), near Ephesus followed by excursion to nearby Şirence. We travelled the now familiar Izmir road arriving at Selçuk for a tasty and inexpensive pide lunch. Replenished, we ascended the mountains to Meryemana (or Mary-enema, as Alan calls it).

Completed in 1950 in neo-Byzantine style on 7th century foundations, Mary’s gaff is a cute, unassuming little bungalow, now a consecrated church but with the character of a shrine. It’s the centre piece of well-tended park overlooking a pretty wooded valley.  We entered the house reverentially and gazed upon the small effigy of Our Lady. It felt contrived to me. I have little time for religion and give more credence to the tooth fairy. Outside in the courtyard Liam lit a candle as is required of a fallen Catholic.

There is scant biblical evidence that Jesus’ mum found her last resting place there (before her Assumption, of course). This hasn’t stopped the place becoming a side show on the bible tours circuit or various popes cashing in on the act with papal sponsorship. Naturally, there’s the obligatory tacky gift shop selling Chinese made plaster figurines and vials of holy water. Liam procured a small woodblock icon of the Madonna and child that is now proudly displayed on a shelf in the loo.

Onwards to Şirence, a small village perched high on the hills above Selçuk. Surrounded by vineyards and orchards set within a serene Italianate  landscape, Şirence had been a Greek populated settlement until 1923. During the exchange of populations between Greece and Turkey the inhabitants were told to pack their bags and leave for Athens. After being left to rot for decades, the village has re-emerged as a bolt hole for wealthy Turks attracted by the fine wood-framed stucco houses that clutch precariously to the hillside. Despite teeming hawkers serving the mob of tourists, both Turkish and foreign, the village retains a real appeal. We grazed at the stalls, drank beer, sampled wine and infused the charm.

We thought of  dropping in on fellow jobbing blogger and good egg Kirazli Karyn who lives only a spitting distance away but we didn’t want to descend unannounced and mob handed.

Love Seats and Leather Slings

We had a German in order to install lights and a put up a few pictures. I could have done it myself but we just don’t have the right equipment. My little girly cordless drill doesn’t leave even the smallest dent in the thick stone and concrete walls. The German is an interesting chap. Stocky and bald he wouldn’t look out of place in XXL (The huge London gay club for fat boys and chubby chasers). Even though he bats on the majority team he told us about his ménage à trois with his best (male) friend and the friend’s (female) partner. He didn’t elaborate on who did what to whom but there was no penetration involved, apparently. This information was volunteered with absolutely no prompting from me. As he screwed our pan rack to the kitchen ceiling he mentioned that he once constructed a love seat in his bedroom to spice up the sex life with the missus. I’ve seen a leather sling or two in my time, but I’m not too familiar with the love seat concept. Whatever it is it didn’t work. They’re now divorced.

Keys to the Door

We passed by the new house to have a hot water boiler installed. The house has solar heated water but this isn’t much cop during the cooler months when hot water is most needed to keep our important little places well sponged and in tip-top condition. Canny Hanife, our new matriarchal landlady, popped round with the front door keys and a tray of tea with fancies on the side. She was followed by dusky lad in cheap tight jeans with more than ample tools. The boiler was up in no time. The one drawback to this dual fuel solution is that one of us will have to use an old rickety ladder to climb onto the roof to turn the solar system on and off.

The Hills are Alive

Spring in Turkey is always a magical time of the year, nature-wise. The hills seem to blossom overnight with all manner of flamboyant and exotic flora blanketing the usually arid scrub. It is a brief respite before the unforgiving sun burns the landscape back to its usual two-tone hue of dull green and ochre. To take advantage of the display we took a pleasing stroll into the old köy of Sandima set in the foothills above Yalıkavak. The village is derelict save for a pretty house renovated by a local artist and a couple of centenarians. Sandima was abandoned when the villagers exchanged subsistence farming for the more lucrative trade of sponge diving. Thus Yalıkavak was born and Sandima left to decay into peaceful, overgrown oblivion. Nowadays most sponge gathering has stopped and the local economy is dependent on tourism (and the steady supply of gullible girls for the local gigolos).

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Blooming Bodrum

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We’ve found a gem of a dwelling right in the heart of Old Bodrum Town where charming white washed buildings huddle together cheek by jowl. Our new gaff is a newly constructed stone cottage built in fake traditional style with fine wooden floors and beamed ceilings. The thick caramel coloured stone walls shimmer in the evening sunshine. The well-stocked walled garden is putting in a flourishing spring performance that wouldn’t disgrace the Chelsea Flower Show. Our new lodgings are smaller, thicker set and less exposed than the old. We expect our winter bills to plummet.

Our new landlady is a tough broad from old Bodrum stock and bartered hard. After some robust bargaining we sealed the deal. She is delighted to have yabancılar as tenants. Apparently she doesn’t trust her compatriots to pay the rent.

Get the Madam

We suspect a couple of waiters at a local Yalıkavak hostelry are just a little bit gay. Jamal is in his forties and unconventionally unmarried. It is the custom for Turkish men to greet each other with a firm handshake and a gentle touching of cheeks, left and right. Jamal on the other hand, proffers a limp hand and purses his lips to land a big sloppy kiss on his male victims. Young Rasheed is a hirsute, handsome chap with bad teeth. He is a local boy who lives with his mum, wears high-waisted trousers and smokes a cigarette like Bette Davis. He is adamant that he will never get married. Get the madam.