Category: Property

Buyers Beware

I stumbled upon the Horizon Sky Owner’s site* on Facebook where it seems some investors are in rebellious mood, railing against prolonged delays and rising costs. It was a chilly blast from the past. I had considered buying into the development about 4 years ago when I had a proper job, a decent wage, and a few pennies in the piggy bank. It was at a time when the prospect of moving to the sun was but a faraway fantasy so we fancied a part time slice of paradise as the next best thing. The development was heavily promoted in the London Evening Standard property supplement and I was seduced by Galliard Homes’ first-rate reputation for top-drawer builds. Liam and I attended a slick presentation in a swish West End hotel and talked at length to one of the persuasive, pretty reps. I was dangerously close to signing on the dotted line but, at the critical moment of my madness, I stepped outside, lit a reflective cigarette, regained my sanity and walked away. It was not to be.

I know little of the development these days except that it seems colossal in scale and ambition, located on an isolated slope near Iassos and late. Now we live in Turkey we know so much more. Our lives and means are utterly altered as is the dire economic landscape we all now inhabit. We rent and are thankful for the freedom to move as we please and when the mood takes us. We have been mercifully released from that inbred notion to own that Brits nurture in the womb. “There’s nothing safer than houses” my father used to say. Alas, this has a hollow ring nowadays.

Investing in Turkey no longer offers the rapid return it once did, nowhere does. We travel the length and breadth of the Bodrum Peninsula past half-built developments of little white boxes marching up hill and down dale. No-one seems to be buying and few are renting outside the height of summer. And yet the developers carry on regardless, promising pie in the sky, depressing the market and killing the goose.

* July 2011. The Horizon Sky Owner’s site on Facebook is no longer public.

* February 2013. Horizon Sky now has an open Facebook page that anyone can join.

Boutique Living in the Heart of Ionia

The Artist's House

Charismatic Vetpat and ex-biker babe, Kirazli Karyn, has fashioned a unique Anatolian Arcadia at the beating heart of old Ionia. Authentic thick stone walls embrace chic but unpretentious modern living within a neo-biblical eco-setting. The enchanting private courtyard garden comes with a pretty plunge pool and a handy vaulted roof extension for flexible hire. Karyn began her bold and ambitious build with her late husband, Phil. Tragically, Phil died before the dream was realised though his signature is inscribed on every stone. Karyn’s heartbreak adds to the poignant poetry of their beguiling labour of love.

Karyn and instantly likeable, soulful Nick were warm and liberal hosts. I sensed wise young owls of depth and sincerity. Unlike the Bodrum ‘Come Dine with Me‘ set, Karyn’s scrumptious spreads require no fuss or fanfare to big them up. We effortlessly nattered for endless hours as if we were rediscovered old friends lamenting lost years. I completely forgot about my cunning stunt to sabotage my superior rival. I was far too busy gassing and guzzling.

Pansy Pioneers

We semi-addressed the great heating debate with the procurement of an ugly infrared monster heater on a tripod,  colour-matched to the drawing room décor. There is much discussion about the effectiveness and cost of running such a unit. I don’t care. My feet are warm for the first time in weeks. Besides, they were flying off the shelves. As they say, when in Rome…

It’s a lazy day of pottering and laundering in brilliant, blinding sunshine. I’m cautioned that exposing our damp pants to passing locals is considered very poor taste. I’ve no wish to unwittingly offend but nor do I desire to display dripping knickers about the place like an exhibit from Tate Modern. In any case, passing traffic is rare and effective interior drying is all but impossible in a stubbornly nippy, nipple hardening abode. Daintily scented linens with real feel appeal turn to a stale musk and contribute to the inevitable condensation crisis we all endure during the mould season. In a determined effort to show uncharacteristic cultural sensitivity and to avoid inflaming Tariq the Toothless Caretaker’s bubbling ardour, I stealthily hung out our genuine designer pants in a neat row sandwiched between a t-shirt and a pillow case. Sorted.

While the undies were happily flapping away in the wind, the main fusebox switch tripped and resolutely refused to be reset. Clearly, the underpowered circuit designed only to run a couple of light bulbs struggles to cope with all our decadent fancy electricals. It was a relief that after a few anxious attempts power was restored. Such is the leisurely life of a pansy pioneer in the Wild East.

Thermal Knickers

New Year’s Day was spent nursing a hangover and basking on the balcony in the gorgeous warming winter sunshine. The benevolent sun enabled me to break the back of the Christmas laundry that was languishing in a suitcase. Our fabric conditioned knicker supply has been replenished just in the nick of time.

The house remains relentlessly chilly. We have yet to find an effective heating solution and so thermal pants are a must-wear. If only it were possible to construct a dwelling on a turntable to follow the passage of the Sun. After dusk we watched Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince on Digiturk. Liam is a huge fan and bought all the books (with the adult covers, of course). He watched silently mesmerised wearing the strangely sexy ‘Dennis the Menace’ jim jams my sister bought him for Christmas.

Whore’s Drawers

The pitiless Turkish winter is suddenly upon us and we are woefully unprepared. We are being mugged by a posse of violent electric storms processing across the horizon, a savage spectacle that crashes ashore trapping us inside. Generally, Turkish houses leak, have no insulation and precious little heating; and ours is no exception. Our double height living room is like a drafty village hall with a blazing open grate that only warms a few square yards. Towels are strategically placed against every crack and crevice to keep the water at bay. The power is up and down like whore’s drawers. I fail to see Turkey emerging as an economic powerhouse if the electricity company can’t keep the lights on. Fearing frostbite, we recline in double coated socks, mummified in a duvet and vie for possession of the hot water bottle.

It’s a striking reminder of my pre-central heating childhood days, when the bed was too cold to get into at night but too warm to get out of in the morning. We sprint to the loo for a morning pee, wear sexless layers and have reverted to copulating under cover.

The Semigreys

The final clutch of exiles I’ve observed are the semigreys, people too young to retire in the conventional sense, who are living the vida loca on the proceeds of property sales. Plunging interest rates present quite a fiscal test to those trying to maintain a hedonistic lifestyle on dwindling assets while waiting for the pensions to kick in, assuming there will be a pension to kick in given the parlous position of the British public purse. That’ll be us then.

Burning Rubber

We said our goodbyes to Marina the Shitting Kitten and closed the door on the holiday let for the last time. Weighed down by heavy suitcases and boxes of groceries, the under-powered hire car struggled to reach second base camp on Mount Tepe. The smell of burning rubber filled the air. Liam kept his eyes shut and I got out and ascended on foot.

DFS on LSD


We’ve acquired a ludicrously large house with little to fill it with. Local stores are either indescribably awful (think DFS on LSD) or outrageously expensive (or both), so we settled on IKEA, the store of choice for the middle class poor everywhere. It is comforting to know that the IKEA formula, like McDonald’s, is so dependably familiar whether in Bournemouth or Beijing. However, the idea of an eight hour round trip to the nearest store in Izmir fills us with dread, but loins girded, we have stoically resolved to go forth in search of flat pack paradise.

Old Scrubbers

Our house had been redecorated by our landlord and there was white paint splattered everywhere, literally. Turkish workmen don’t make good apparently. Our site manager, Hussein, a jovial man of seemingly industrial strength idleness, offered to arrange a spring clean. We declined. We’ll be scraping and scrubbing for days. Clement kindly lent us an old vacuum cleaner and a kettle.

King Cnut

We popped by the house to measure up. We had the misfortune of bumping into crinkly Cnut from Denmark. He and his wife Ragnild own the house on the level immediately beneath us. He greeted us with assorted tales of despair about the site as he puffed continuously on his over-long pipe. However, his catalogue of grievances failed to burst our bubble. Our cheeriness only irritated him. We’ve dubbed them the Vile Vikings. What a miserable cnut.