The final leg of our budget trip was four nights at Pontin’s, Pakefield – seventy quid each, half board. Both Liam and I are well-acquainted with the holiday camp experience from our proletarian childhoods and, more recently, from my mother’s 80th birthday bash at Butlin’s. Whereas Butlin’s has raised its game to compete with the costas, Pontin’s has remained faithful to its Hi-Di-Hi roots. There have been some concessions to the modern era – our bunker in Pirouette Park came with hot water and electricity – but the rest of the offer was distinctly old hat. Accommodation came in terraced rows of jerry-built chalets reminiscent of a prisoner of war camp or a sleazy middle America motel. We felt like fugitives on the run from the Feds. Higgledy-piggledy pebble-dashed facilities were battered and tattered. Canteen times were fixed and uncompromising. Food was hearty rather than wholesome with a strong whiff of time-honoured old school dinners. There was a floppy salad bar and a sign warning the punters that “these trays may contain traces of food.” Or was that nuts? We avoided the healthy option and headed straight for the stodge slopped up onto mini plates by fiercesome-looking dinner ladies. On day two, I was unceremoniously ram-raided by a blue rinse armed with a killer Zimmer trying to get to the jelly before anyone else. In the interests of personal safety, we didn’t dare go for seconds. Oh, happy days.
The minor inconvenience of existing tenants meant that we had to wait a while for our medieval Weaver’s cottage in Norwich. To avoid continual sofa-hopping, we decided on a budget tour of east East Anglia. Our first stop was Lowestoft, England’s most easterly town. We were greeted by blustery squalls blowing in from the North Sea and a large ugly concrete water tower (can someone tell me what they’re for?). Lowestoft itself is a neat but empty little place. The population seemed to have died off from terminal boredom. The only person we noticed strolling along the prom was a bottle-blond Norfolk broad, subtly bedecked in hoop ear-rings, stars-and-stripes lycra leggings and a bubble jacket. We booked a cheap night in a Winelodge. The solitary person on duty was a thin, tattooed boy with retreating hair. He acted as concierge, waiter and barman. It was just as well there was nobody to serve. Our room was a designer postage stamp overlooking the bins. Making a cuppa was a delicate operation: the mini-kettle was so close to the mini-flat screen TV, I thought the steam might blow it up. The only excitement was a power cut at 7am. I had to dump and douche in the dark. The first person on duty fed the meter and lo, let there be light.
We took a drive through Great Yarmouth, a sad and rusty little place with a magnificent beach but its greatness firmly behind it. Despite being Liam’s playground of choice as a slip of a lad, we decided against stopping for a windy trip down memory lane. Apparently, Yarmouth is one of the most deprived areas of East Anglia. The great and good of the county have decided that granting a licence for a super casino will provide the answer to a fed-up seaside resort on its knees. Las Vegas-on-Sea? The entire concept reminded me of Edmonton Green Shopping Centre near Liam’s folks, a tired little enclave where the betting shop is next to the pawnbrokers.
After viewings that ranged from the dreary to the dreadful, we found our Norwich city centre loft in appropriately named Queen’s Street. It’s a newly converted top-floor, top drawer flat with skylights, down lights and grey appliances with real feel-appeal. Yes, we are that shallow. The apartment is above a trendy bar with a student clientele. We’d rather hoped it would be a seedy clip joint to cement the sanitised neo-Bohemian garret theme we were looking for. Back at the letting agents, we paid our fee for our credit assessment. Without being prompted, the nice young man processed our application as a married couple which gave us a bit of a discount.
On the last evening of our exploratory week, we celebrated our continued good fortune at the Premier Inn restaurant where the fare was surprisingly good and wine surprisingly fine. As we raised our glasses, we watched the smart suits with smart phones file in two by two. It sent a visible shudder down Liam’s spine as he was rudely reminded of his old laboured life. “Never again,” he muttered. Our young waiter was a busy walker who darted about dispensing friendly but unobtrusive service to his charges. Now we’ve left Turkish airspace, my gaydar is fully-functional and we exchanged sly we-both-know-what-we-are glances. At the end of his shift, he joined us for a large glass of red and a little casual conversation. He’d recently moved from Devon to Norwich to be with his new partner and gave us the low down on the low life of the Norwich gay scene. Apparently, times were tough when he first got off the bus. It took him three months to find a job. He said:
“I was the assistant manager of a motorway service station. It had a Burger King and a Costa Coffee. I was trained in both. They said I was over-qualified.”
Blazing June in Blighty is a damp squib. As Bodrum hit the low forties, we were welcomed home by angry black skies and our first walkabout around Norwich was blasted by blustery showers. We didn’t let it dampen our spirits. Norwich’s cobbled medieval quarter was classy, if somewhat ghostly. Perhaps the inclement weather conspired to keep the crowds at bay. Norwich people are a fruity cocktail – fake Burberry chavs, silver-studded hippies, scruffy students, chalky professors, smart-tailored henrys, well-appointed pensioners and middle England mothers in Barbour jackets and sensible shoes. We meandered casually through the smart shops without being dragged in by the scuff of the neck and browsed the shelves without being stalked by the retail police. English politeness reigned supreme; we overdosed on thank you, excuse me and after you.
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We ended a hassle-free day by feasting on Thai, toasting to our safe arrival and the adventures to come. We observed city street life from the warmth of the elegant linen-tabled restaurant. Norwich at night was strangely sleepy. Perhaps the deep recession has imposed a financial curfew on the worried masses. Squiffy and sated, we wandered back to our lodgings at a Premier Inn – the best in show of the low cost boarding-houses – to splash about in the reviving waters of a deep bath and canoodle in the comfy bed. We still need to find a roof over our heads. That’s for another day.
As we munched on our hearty treat at the Yeni Bodrum Ocakbaşı, we gazed across at the Istanköy Hotel. I felt a shudder down my spine. Back in 2008, a couple of months before we finally paddled ashore with all our worldly goods, we spent a week in the hotel courtesy of Thomas Cook. When we arrived we were escorted to a dingy sunken room the size of a broom cupboard. Natural light was supplied by a caged slit. It was not a good start. I complained and we were moved to a better room. I say ‘better’ purely in the comparative sense. Our stay was challenging. The over-familiar staff greeted us with ‘yes, mate’ or ‘hello Jimmy’ and it was impossible to get round the rowdy pool for tattooed honey monsters with their brats in caps (despite being in term time). To top it all, we were sure that something dodgy was going on with our safety deposit box.
We had booked cheap and cheerful because it was only a bed for the night. The purpose of our trip was to dolly-hop across the peninsula trying on the towns and villages for size. Early readers will know that we settled on Yalıkavak, a pretty coastal village, about 20 kilometres northwest of Bodrum.
The town of Bodrum is not well-served with good budget hotels. There’s a real gap in the market for the cheap and chirpy rather than the cheap and nasty.
I’ve started a little shop to add a few coppers to our coffers. It takes me back to the distant days of my misspent youth when I was a store boy on Chelsea’s trendy King’s Road. Days on the tills and nights on the tiles were the best probation for a young gay boy about town. My shop is stocked with a few hand-picked items that you never knew you couldn’t do without. Naturally, my book takes centre stage in the window display. So, if you’re looking for great deals on hotels, flights, books or anything on Amazon then visit Jack’s shop. It costs you nothing and I need the money. No pressure.
Our stone cottage is a little too small to lodge visitors, particularly those who prefer en-suite facilities for those ‘private’ moments. It’s a dilemma. Considering Bodrum’s popularity with the Turkish well-heeled, it’s odd that quality hotels in the centre of town are as rare as a bottle of so-so wine for under 50 lira in a restaurant. There’s no point relying on the star rating. It means little. Our usual recommendation is the Marina Vista. It’s close by and the location – on the promenade opposite the smart marina – can’t be equalled (hence the name, obviously). The top-notch Turkish breakfast served on the roof top restaurant is quite an experience, the foyer and communal areas are lavish and the pool is as inviting as it should be. Nothing is perfect, of course. The hotel isn’t cheap (though less expensive out of season), the rooms are cramped and have next to useless Juliet balconies, and the staff can be surly and unhelpful. I suppose you can’t have everything.
Today’s guest is gorgeous Kym who is the author of Turkeywithstuffin’s Blog and the pretty brain behind On the Ege, the monthly online magazine about Turkey’s Aegean coast. Kym is married to dusky Murat, her hunky Turk. When veteran expat Kym wears a headscarf, she wants to look like Sophia Loren but thinks she looks more like Hilda Ogden. Personally, I think she resembles a darker version of Gynneth Paltrow in the Talented Mr Ripley.
Kym
It’s a Thursday in November 2008 and I am on my first road trip to Sanliurfa, my husband’s birth town. When we first arrived in Urfa late at night, the electricity was off and the city was in darkness. Perhaps because I was tired from the long journey, I felt uneasy and had commented more than once that I’d been kidnapped and taken to Beirut. I did for a moment consider taken a plane home the following day. As we stood in the dark alley I was moaning, but once the large iron gate opened things could not have looked more different. We walked into a beautiful stone courtyard with mosaic tiles, Ottoman seating, potted plants and a small fountain.
The Manager at the Beyzade Konak Hotel is Murat’s cousin’s husband, Omer. He shows us to our room and once I have the internet and some coffee (they have a generator), I’m quite happy to chuck Murat out for an hour or so to allow him to play with his cousin Mehmet. I have a boiling hot shower, get my pajamas on and send a few quick “I’ve landed” emails. Then it’s lights out and a sleep so deep I could be in the cemetery.
Urfa
Day breaks and I realise the hotel is between two mosques. I open my eyes to the dual call to prayer, one a heartbeat behind the other. I doze for a bit then remember I’m actually on holiday and there are shops out there.
After breakfast, I nip back to our room and cover my locks with a headscarf. It’s a simple gesture of respect while I’m here and among the more traditional rellies. Well, that and I don’t really want to get stoned in the street! Mu of course thinks this is great and off we trot, out through the iron gate and onto the streets of Sanliurfa.
Once we leave the cobbled alley and get onto the main drag, its bustling; busses hog the road, cars fight for space beside them, scooters weave in and out of the traffic and pedestrians narrowly avoid being run over. The air is filled with BBQ spices, pungent & smoky and the smell is everywhere. Small eateries and kebab houses jostle for space alongside clothes shops and jewelers who have 24 karat rays shining from their windows.
Stunning
There are a few glances my way naturally. It could be the pale skin and the green eyes, or it could be the flip flops and bright red toenails that don’t quite go with the rest of my ensemble. Still, that’s a great excuse to buy shoes isn’t it?
First things first, I need a new camera. We wander across to the maze of connecting alleyways that make up one of the eight covered bazars, to the collection of electronic shops. The salesman shows us his wares and converses with Murat: “Senin Esin mı?”(your wife), “Yabanci” (a foreigner), “Alman?” (German). Mu confirms the first two and I answer the last. “English” I say, not realising at the time that we will have this conversation many times during our stay. I guess it’s due to my height and build and of course, my great Grandparents, Mr & Mrs Shram!
I end up with an Olympus, a compact professional the man says. We will see.
Leaving the shop we are met by Cousin Mehmet and Hassan Amca. Their first words to me are “Kym, Beirut Nasil?” Very funny! The four of us then continue around the bazaar which contains a veritable Aladdin’s Cave full of treasure. There is even a street full of workshops where workmen batter copper and solder iron.
Heading into the Balikigol area toward the cay bache, we pass through the ‘Sipahi Bazar’ and the ‘Kazzaz Bazaar’, the oldest covered Bazaars of Urfa. These were built by the Ottoman Emperor, Suleiman the Magnificent in 1562. It really is like stepping back in time and I watch ancient shalvar wearing salesmen sitting cross legged in their little tented alcoves, bathed in rich colour and drinking tea while customers peruse their antique carpets, kilims and hand woven head dresses.
Feed Me!
During our small shopping excursion, I’d picked up some elastic hair bands that I needed and watched as three pairs of hands reach into theirpockets to pay for them. Oooooo I like shopping here. I wonder if it works in shoe shops? A few minutes’ walk and we reach the cave of Abraham. Legend has it that the Babylonian King, Nemrud, had Abraham captured and thrown into fire. His crime? Calling upon the people to worship the real god and not the icons of celestial objects, as was the religion of the time. Of course, God was watching and on seeing this, he turned the fire into water, saving Abraham from certain death. Not content with that, he then turned the surrounding woods into the sacred fish, the ancestors of which we see today at the site of the “Halil ur Rahmen” Mosque in the centre of Urfa.
I buy a dish of fish pellets and watch the fat feisty fish fight each other for each tiny morsel, after which we take a rest in the cay bachesi. I sit sipping hot sweet tea and take a look at my photos so far. The photos are amazing; sneaky zoom shots of men at prayer and performing the abtest, plus the usual tourist shots of minarets and domes. It’s getting late now and as dusk settles over the city, we head back to the hotel.
Nemrud
So far so good, my first day in Urfa was wonderful and I am hungry for more. We have decided to use Urfa as a base for a few road trips. On my list are: Harran, Nemrut, and Hasenkeyf, then, a stop at Cappadocia on the way home. I had no idea at the time but this journey would also encompass, Mardin, Midyat, Batman & Siirt. My Anatolian adventure continues.
Old Bodrum Town has hit the season running. In the heat of the day people slowly amble along the promenade, gorge on gossip in the cafés, browse and graze in the posh shops or relax under cooling shade of a tall palm tree. By night the prom sizzles to the heavy beat of Turkopop and a madding crowd of the weird, the wonderful and the well-to-do. This is my rapid round up of what’s hot and what’s not along Bodrum’s celebrated promenade.
Musto’s – Great food, great prices, great host and popular with the biker’s fraternityZazu – Nice food, pricey wine, good ambienceHong Kong – Cross the street to avoid the relentless hassle from the waitersGood old M&S – Older Turkish men just love their Blue Harbour rangeSünger Pizza. An old Bodrum stalwart. Unpretentious. Try and get a table on the roof terraceKahve Dünyası – Great coffee, pretty waiters and a chocolate spoon with every cupMarina Vista – Lovely hotel in a great location. Pity about the surly serviceTango – So, so steaks, astronomic wine prices, arrogant waiters.The Yacht Club – Cool place with live musicFink – You’d need a second mortgage to drink in hereHelva – I spy a lady of the nightIs there anywhere in the world without a Starbucks?
A pansy flasher from Los Angeles prompted me to do a bit of digging about and I think I’ve just exceeded my 15,000th American hit. I can’t be completely certain as WordPress doesn’t do geographical stats so I cobbled the figures together from other sources. However, what is clear is that around a fifth of pansy fans now come from across the pond. I’m at a complete loss as to why this is. Perking the Pansies is about expat life in a faraway land written in a peculiarly British camp Carry On style with a side of extra bite. I never imagined my irreverent drivel would appeal to our Yankee cousins who’ve developed a different brand of humour since independence. I hoped I might capture a few punters in New York and San Francisco but it seems that the pansies have penetrated every single state in the Union. I feel like a minor American Idol.
Talking of the City of Angels, I have many fun memories of my whirlwind tour of southern California way back in 1991. I was rendered speechless by the sheer scale of the larger than life city, fell head over heels for the charm of Laguna Beach, got gloriously drenched at SeaWorld*, screamed like a girl at Disneyland, leered lasciviously at the muscle marys pumping iron on Venice Beach and laughed out loud at the absurdity of Palm Springs. The final part of my all too brief break saw me tripping the light fantastic in seedy West Hollywood, epicentre of gay life in LA LA Land. I lodged at the San Vincente Inn, a delightful gay hotel back in the day. Alas it now appears the place has degenerated into a cesspit of shameless debauchery. None of that happened to me, more’s the pity.
*I don’t really approve of performing animals these days even when it’s done which such care as is the case with SeaWorld.
The final leg of our budget trip was four nights at Pontin’s, Pakefield – seventy quid each, half board. Both Liam and I are well-acquainted with the holiday camp experience from our proletarian childhoods and, more recently, from my mother’s 80th birthday bash at Butlin’s. Whereas Butlin’s has raised its game to compete with the costas, Pontin’s has remained faithful to its Hi-Di-Hi roots. There have been some concessions to the modern era – our bunker in Pirouette Park came with hot water and electricity – but the rest of the offer was distinctly old hat. Accommodation came in terraced rows of jerry-built chalets reminiscent of a prisoner of war camp or a sleazy middle America motel. We felt like fugitives on the run from the Feds. Higgledy-piggledy pebble-dashed facilities were battered and tattered. Canteen times were fixed and uncompromising. Food was hearty rather than wholesome with a strong whiff of time-honoured old school dinners. There was a floppy salad bar and a sign warning the punters that “these trays may contain traces of food.” Or was that nuts? We avoided the healthy option and headed straight for the stodge slopped up onto mini plates by fiercesome-looking dinner ladies. On day two, I was unceremoniously ram-raided by a blue rinse armed with a killer Zimmer trying to get to the jelly before anyone else. In the interests of personal safety, we didn’t dare go for seconds. Oh, happy days.
Perking the Pansies 