Category: Weather

Wacky Weather

March winds are fashionably late this year. A few nights ago, Hurricane Hatice blew furiously over Bodrum. We were trapped in our bed by a creepy speedy wind that whistled through the narrow streets. Unfettered flying objects and the constant banging of a nearby metal gate kept us alert. Dogs were silenced and cocks kept their own counsel. Unhappy memories came flooding back of the infamous hurricane that hit southern England and northern France on the morning of my 27th birthday on the 16th October 1987. More about this here.

Talking of wacky birthday weather, Yankee Sarah from Was Constantinople recently celebrated her birthday with a friend from across the pond. She wrote:

“While we were catching up on Baltimore Ravens gossip over fried anchovies and mussels, 300 houses were losing their roofs, 5 people were dying, some building was falling over in Nisantisi, and a yacht was on fire. By the time we paid the bill, the seas were calm again. We opted for more chilling than sight seeing.”

You can read the full post here.

Happy birthday Sarah. One to remember.

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Mad Mother Nature

Bodrum, Turkey, April 2012. What is going on with this crazy weather? A real snap, crackle and pop of a storm has just rolled across the horizon. We’ve been assaulted by hailstones. Big buggers, they were too. Mad Mother Nature needs to be sectioned. She’s clearly lost the plot and is a danger to herself and the poor boys trying to complete the urban refit before the season is in full swing. Let’s also spare a thought for the Teutonic early birds with their knee-length shorts and sensible shoes who have taken flight to the nearest covered refuge.

April Fools

My brother is in Majorca sitting on a sunny hotel balcony sipping cool white wine wearing shorts and a tee shirt. We’re huddled in front of an electric fire in slippers and zippy tops. Last month’s electric bill was 480 lira (£180). Yes that’s right. Four hundred and eighty. We don’t expect this month’s bill to be much lower. We thought grumpy Mother Nature had flicked on the spring switch a couple of weeks ago. It seems the perfidious old bag has switched it off again. Still, the flowers are nice.

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Bodrum Reborn

The Mould Season

Bodrum Reborn

Barring a few meteorological mishaps and last-minute mayhem from Mother Nature, I think spring has sprung. We’re not leaving until the summer, so we intend to make the most of what we have left. We’ve washed down the patio furniture and shampooed the cushions, wiped the windows and showered the courtyard. Patio doors have been flung open to freshen the musk and murder the mould. We were regaled by the call to prayer at full volume and the first row of the season between our Turkish neighbours. It was a corker of a commotion with Beril’s throat at full throttle. Welcome to Bodrum reborn.

I’ve suffered a premature exclamation. Since I wrote this we’ve had that meteorological mishap. An instant cold snap has slapped us about the face like an icy flannel. We lunched with the Belles today at a modest promenade eaterie. Over the pide (Turkish pizza), Jessica gazed up at the uniform blanket of light grey and remarked ‘I think it’ll snow today.’ And lo and behold, it did. It was just a weak little flurry of flakes and was over in a jiffy, but it was a bona fide blizzard. Our first and probably our last.

Yum!

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The Mould Season

During the cold, mould season, a viral fungus spread like the Black Death in the dank corners of our stone house. I blame this year’s unseasonal cold snap. We relaxed our rigorous ventilation routine in a vain attempt to keep the frost bite at bay. The external wall of our shower room sweated like a shallow waterfall in slow motion and nasty black spores infested every nook and cranny, crack and crevice. Cutting edge building technology like the humble air brick has yet to catch on in Turkey. At this time of year most houses are transformed into damp bunkers. Liam hit back with domestos-scented water cannon. He also told me to stop breathing.

The China Syndrome

Bodrum Belle, Jessica, nearly came a cropper in an attempt to keep body and soul snug in the wee small hours. She turned on her electric blanket a short while before retiring; when she returned to slip between the hot sheets, the room was thick with noxious fumes. The blanket had unhelpfully decided to switch from warm to slow burn. Nice. Jessica acted decisively; she cut the power and aired the room. When the smoke cleared, a large black hole was revealed – a large black hole that had burnt through the blanket, sheet, mattress and divan. As Jessica remarked at the time, her beautiful boudoir suddenly resembled the nuclear meltdown doomsday scenario from the China syndrome. Electric blanket devotees, beware.

Written in the Stars

The frosty flurry in old London Town soon turned to sloppy slurry. Sunday was our day of rest away from commitments. We decided to do what we rarely do these days – a West End jolly, just the two of us. It was a strangely alien experience. The Sunday evening stalwart – Jivin’ Julie’s karaoke night for the hairy marys down the Kings Arms (or Kings Arse, as it’s affectionately known) was a shadow of its former self. The fat crowd has thinned to just a few old fairy faithfuls. We ventured to Comptons, the pivot around which gay Soho revolves, to find it bereft of punters except for a few lonely tourists, northern fag hags in mountainous heels and Russell Grant. Sadly, cuddly Russ hasn’t managed to keep the weight off following his stint as housewive’s choice on Strictly Come Dancing. I bet he didn’t see that coming in the stars.

All the bars told a similar sad and sorry tale. Was it the long recession or the wind chill that kept the boys under the duvet? Perhaps it was neither. Restaurants were buzzing away to the sound of glasses clinking and tills cher-chinking. Perhaps the crowd has moved on to pastures new. Perhaps the pubs should lower their beer prices. We joined the throng at an eaterie and supped Rioja into the small hours.

The Big Chill

Our trip to Blighty was blighted by the big chill. Before our exodus, I could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times I’d experienced snow in London with its urban microclimate. In fact, three of our four last winter tours have been a white out. Perhaps global warming really is pushing the Gulf Stream out of kilter. What next, winter fairs on a frozen Thames? Shocking. Fortunately, we landed at Heathrow just before the weather closed in. Two years ago, we were diverted to Cardiff by a light dusting at Gatwick.

Once on land, we trundled off through town to celebrate the half century of an old friend and watched the arctic flurry from the comfort of an Islington restaurant. As the winter wonderland of bobble hats and woolly scarfs scurried past the window, a wonderful warmth enveloped us like the Ready Brek halo. Glory be to the god of central heating.

Jack Frost

It’s bleedin’ freezin’. As night time temperatures plummeted, Liam extracted his Dennis the Menace jim-jams from the bottom of the wardrobe, unrolled the woolly socks, re-commissioned the hot water bottle and upped the tog with an extra duvet on the bed. It’s icy times like this when I most appreciate not sleeping alone. As night progresses, we weave together, limbs entwined like a French plait, sometimes opting for periods of alternate spooning.

Come sweaty August nights, it’ll be a different story entirely. We’ll roll to opposite sides of the bed in a fruitless attempt to cool our clammy old hides.

Bedlam in Bodrum Revisited

Book Tour Intermission

While Bodrum collectively nursed its New Year hangover, the mechanical diggers moved in and started excavating the half of the promenade that wasn’t ripped apart last winter. These CATs don’t purr. Thankfully, we live far enough away from the main drag and didn’t have to endure the deafening rat-a-tat-tat competing with the deafening rat-a-tat-tat in our heads. Others were not so fortunate. Lessons have been learned from last year’s scramble to complete the makeover in time for the Spring rush. Not a minute has been wasted. Entire shop and restaurant frontages have been torn down leaving doorways hanging in the air. It’s not a case of mind the step, more grab the rope. Following the torrential rain of the last few days, the wide strip where the pavement used to be now resembles a bog which can only be crossed by impromptu paths of broken slabs set down by proprietors desperate to keep their doors open. Wheelchairs not welcome. Take a look at the before, during and after snaps.

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