Category: Historic Sites

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.

Islamic Chic

Islamic Chic

Our second day in Istanbul was spent meandering through the piazzas and pavilions of the splendid Topkapı Palace, epicentre of the imperial Ottoman court for 400 years. The unheralded highlight was chancing upon relics of the Prophet (yes, The Prophet). We gazed incredulously upon bits of His beard, tooth, sword, bow, a heap of soil used for ritual ablution and a clay impression of His foot – all allegedly genuine. Slightly less credible are the rod of Moses (of the plagues of Egypt fame), King David’s skull, Abraham’s cookware, and Joseph’s turban (though sadly not his coat of many colours). We were most disappointed not to see the Ark of the Covenant and a charred twig from the Burning Bush. Naturally we remained suitably deferential to avoid stoning by the Faithful. I suppose it’s no less fantastic than the implausible holy artefacts revered by the old ladies of Christendom.

In the extensive grounds we encountered the phenomenon known as ‘Islamic Chic’. Gaggles of giggling girls wandering about their Ottoman heritage adorned in exquisitely tailored dark hued, figure-hugging maxi coats garnished with sumptuous silk scarves of vivid primary colours. The head coverings, moulded at the forehead into a shallow peek as if hiding a baseball cap beneath, framed their painted faces. Modest and modern, I suspect the look is more a sign of wealth and status than of piety. We finished the day with a flourish by ambling around the excellent archeological museum.

Ol’ Constantinople is simply sublime and just gets better each time I visit. We travelled home that evening wanting more and vowing to return.

My Golden Horn

My Golden Horn

We took an all too brief trip to Istanbul to celebrate our anniversary. We did the usual whistle-stop tour of Sultanahmet (the old city). Haghia Sophia still leaves me in speechless awe every time I gaze up towards the magnificent dome that seems to float effortlessly above. Onwards to the curvaceous Blue Mosque built a millennium later. Better outside than in, the seductive silhouette of mosque and minarets defines the famous city skyline. Domed out, we rested outside in the lovingly tended park and endured the call to prayer in thunderous surround sound.

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We spent the evening in Beyoğlu, the increasingly hip shopping and entertainment district that looks proudly down on the old city from across the Golden Horn. We expensively dined along Istiklal Caddesi, the broad pedestrianised boulevard that runs like a spine through the area. After settling the extortionate hesap, we ventured out into the night in search of a minority interest inn to quench our thirsts and assess the locals. Unsurprisingly, the Byzantine gay scene is infinitely superior to any other in Turkey. We supped in a couple of minor league joints before ending the night in the appropriately named Tekyön (One Way), a large pulsating dance bar. It might have been London or Paris, except the disco tits on display were attached to young carefree Turks rather than cute Colombians. Discouragingly, you know you’re getting old when, like policemen, the competition is getting ever younger. We left the boys to their play and headed back to our hotel for a cocoa.

Have You Been?

I was acquainted with a squat toilet from a very early age. As an army brat I lived some of my childhood in Malaysia and our house came with an extension for the Chinese maid. We weren’t posh, Dad was a regimental sergeant major, and every family had a maid courtesy of Her Majesty, even lowly squaddies. It was time before the rise of the Asian Tigers and the reawakening of the Middle Kingdom when Britain still had a blue water fleet. The maid’s quarters were equipped with a squat toilet whereas our family convenience was of the pedestal variety. She used her facility and we used ours. ‘East is east and west is west and never the twain shall meet’ as Rudyard Kipling wrote.

Caught Short

We were wandering through Gümüslük Bay, a beguiling little harbour set among the meagre ruins of ancient Mindos. As a protected archaeological site, the bay has been saved from the relentless march of little white boxes that afflicts that part of the Bodrum peninsula. Unfortunately I got caught short. I darted into the public convenience for relief. I gazed in utter horror at the flush ceramic pan. Oh shit, how does it work? My mother trained me to sit not to squat. How do I hover precariously over the hole with my drawers round my ankles without tipping over? I gingerly and carefully pulled my jeans and Calvins over my trainers, first one leg then the other, contorting my body to avoid contact with the wet floor. I almost fell onto my backside in a vain attempt to maintain my dignity. It was like a game of twister but with only one player. The moral of the story? Go before you leave.

According to Wikipedia an alternative name for a squat WC is an Alaturca from the Italian Alla Turca – as the Turks do. Fancy that!

Bodrum Blues

We rushed Clive around the peninsula to provide a tasty titbit of our foster home. He took to Bodrum even in mid makeover mode and adored the castle, camera-clicking like a man possessed. Unhappily, despite the glorious, cloudless skies, the rest of the midwinter yarımada is distinctly unprepossessing – scruffy, neglected and vacant. I think he finds Turkey’s rough, ramshackle patina rather unappealing. As man of certain age, cultivated habits and mature sensibilities, Clive is more drawn to the coiffured charm of the Home Counties.

It wasn’t always so. Clive’s salad days were filled with audacious spirit as he criss-crossed the globe in search of adventure and discovery; even floating up the Irrawaddy on a Sampan to smoke opium in the jungle with the natives (I know a sampan is a Chinese flat bottom boat so highly unlikely to be found in Burmese waters, but no matter). Alas, we must all grow up eventually and get a sensible job in sensible shoes. These days Clive’s favourite holiday destination is refined Madeira – Surrey with a little more sun.

Rubble, Rubble, Toil and Trouble

Dig for Bodrum

As a much needed contrast from our sleeping village beauty, we rode the dolly into Bodrum for a walkabout. We found the town in frantic refashion mode with mechanical diggers in full destructive swing. The Town Hall has been utterly gutted, the promenade hassle cafés have been demolished and the crazy paving beneath is being excavated. All along the narrow pedestrianised ‘bar street’ the cobbles have been ripped up leaving a multi-puddled dirt track and entire buildings have been razed revealing views of the Aegean not seen since Mausolus was on the throne. A chic new civic square overlooking the crusader castle would be a spectacular urban statement. I suspect it’s not to be. Doubtless, short sighted, short term commercial considerations will prevail.

As befits the town’s reputation as the summer playground for the Turkish urban elite, I sincerely hope that sufficient time, money and imagination will be spent on the finished product.

In a vain effort to raise its game, Bodrum’s ill-favoured ugly sister, Gümbet, had its own makeover last year. But still the roads leading into the tacky resort remain grimly uninviting, marred by dereliction and casual building debris. The meagre improvements to the central townscape look cheap, rushed and unfinished. You can’t polish a turd.

Vorsprung Durch Technik

We took breakfast at the hotel, a predictable and unadventurous spread with cereal that looked and tasted like ‘Go Cat’. The only other guests were a troupe of Teutonic trekkers dressed in sturdy sensible shoes and beige pack-a-macs preparing for the day’s hike. I watched in silent awe as lunches were deftly packed into tuppaware with all the efficiency of a BMW production line. Vorsprung Durch Technik.

The Birds

Our final jaunt was to Miletos, located in an altogether more agreeable stretch of terrain. We meandered through the Menderes delta passing through cotton fields and jobbing agro-köys arriving at the remains in time for a late lunch. Regrettably, Liam and I were rather ruined-out, so we took tea in a rickety café to admire the imposing amphitheatre from afar leaving the muscle boys to scramble alone. Their stay was prematurely curtailed by a scourge of ravenous mosquitos. They took fright from the site frantically flailing their arms around like Tippi Hedren in ‘The Birds’.

Rutting Reptiles

Rutting Reptiles

With the weather set fair, we accompanied semigrey hedonistas Greg and Sam on a road trip to reconnoitre some of the tumble down sites north of Bodrum, establishing ourselves at a secluded hotel on gorgeous Lake Bafa. We wanted a cute log cabin with charming rustic fittings. We got a Spartan concrete bunker decorated with blood red squashed mosquitos, a lumpy hard bed and stiff, thin towels. The entire complex is shabby chic but without the chic. However, the views across the lake are spectacular and the genial proprietor, Wilhelmina the beefy, bearded lady, is welcoming and helpful. She attempted to persuade us to participate on a five hour eco-trail walk. Not unless there’s an organic bar at the end, I thought.

Our first excursion took in Euromos where there’s little to see apart from the well preserved Temple of Zeus so a five minute stopover is enough for most. Onwards we drove to Didyma in search of the Temple of Apollo. We journeyed across miles of tedious, treeless, tatty flatlands broken only by occasional heaps of building rubble and skeletal erections. This is not the best of Asia Minor and provides an unappealing gateway to the truckloads of tourists who flock to Altinkum during the summer scurries. Now I know why Thomas Cook prefer to ferry their clients after dark. We passed through dire Didim, an ugly and unfinished urban sprawl, and arrived at the temple to find it fenced in by a shanty town of scruffy establishments. Despite this encroachment and the vandalism of Christian fanaticism, earthquakes and frequent plunder, the vast shrine is an impressive pile and well worth the entrance fee.

The hilarious highlight of our visit was tripping over a pair of horny tortoises. The smaller, younger male pursued his ardour with all the steely determination of a spring-loaded waiter chasing a VOMIT, banging his head on the rear of her shell until she relented. Typically, the no nonsense, no foreplay intercourse ended as soon as it started and the old broad looked bored throughout.

After a couple of hours surveying the ruins we travelled onwards to Altinkum, the playground of choice for those on a budget. We expected little and the resort lived down to our expectations. Few seaside towns look appealing out of season (and Southend looks unappealing in any season) but the pretty beach is utterly wrecked by the paltry parade of trashy hassle bars lining the frayed promenade. I don’t mind down market resorts for those on a fixed budget. I’m partial to a full English and a tuneless, tanked-up karaoke myself from time to time. Nevertheless, Spain does it so much better. It’s small wonder that a holiday home in Altinkum is cheaper than a Bournmouth beach hut.

We returned to the woods to drink the night away, star gaze and UFO spot. The frequency of alien sightings rose as the wine bottles drained.

Cappuccinos and Rent Boys

IzmirOur hotel is equidistant between the city centre proper and a trendy, Sohoesque district called Alsancak. No one would describe Izmir as beautiful. Much of it was burned to the ground in 1922 during the Greco-Turkish War, and the city was unsympathically rebuilt with block upon block of mediocre concrete box architecture that surely wouldn’t withstand even the slightest tremor. However, the place does have a certain appeal and Alsancak, in particular, has a real buzz, all trendy shops and pavement cafés.
We decided on a trip to the Roman agora, the largest market place ever excavated from the period. We strolled through the modern pazar and delighted in confounding the catcalling hawkers by responding in German, French, Spanish, and a little Turkish, anything but English. We found the agora remains on the wrong side of the tracks and gazed through the railings. Having been spoilt by the glory of Ephesus, I’m afraid an enormous hole on the ground with a few old stones randomly scattered about looking like London after the Blitz really didn’t impress. We didn’t bother going in.

Alsancak is where the few gay bars are to be found. We had done our internet research and went in pursuit of the twilight world of Turkish deviants. It was hopeless. We found only one dismal little bar down some dark alley. It was a tawdry, dirty dive, virtually empty and pounded by deafening techno. The drinks were absurdly expensive and even the ‘free’ bar snacks came at a price with a specially prepared bill. The bar staff were so bored they poured alcohol on the bar and set it alight for a laugh. Taking a leak was a surreal experience as the entrance to the toilet was guarded by a head-scarfed granny in pantaloons demanding a lira to spend a penny. The few punters were rough rent boys in cheap shell suits looking for punters of their own. As they began to circle us like a pack of hyenas, we knew it was time to leave. We sprinted to the entrance fully expecting it to be locked. Thankfully, it wasn’t. That was Izmir.

Blissful Bodrum

It was a magnificent day, so we ventured out to Bodrum for a light lunch and a beer on the beach. The town was in jolly mood and filled with laid back holidaying Turks strolling along the promenade. The sweaty bother of the summer months has been displaced by a more agreeable autumnal tone. We settled at a modest watering hole opposite the town beach which proudly displays a rainbow flag alongside the usual pennants.  The bar has been a constant during our many holidays to Bodrum as the prices are reasonable and the easy on the eye staff are attentive without being fawning.  The clientele has completely changed from tattooed tourist to Turk and is much the better for it. We watched the sun set over the castle and were reminded, as if a reminder was needed, why we are here.