Picking the Poppies

I’m always chuffed to hear from people I don’t know who take the trouble to tell me how much they enjoyed reading Perking the Pansies. It’s even better when I hear about what readers have been saying to each other. The fab fun in the sun people behind the phenomenally successful Turkey’s for Life website (I’m cabbage-faced about their numbers) told me about someone who couldn’t find the link to my book because she’d been searching for Picking the Poppies.They provided the link, she bought the book and then she wrote:

“His writing is great. I bought it for my Kindle last night and can’t put it down. Great book, very funny. Anyone who has made the same move to Turkey will really understand. Well worth the purchase so everybody out there buy it, get yourself a nice bottle of wine sit in your garden or balcony and prepare to let dinner burn. Lol. Well done Jack. Bring on the next one xx”

So, to Angela, whoever you are and wherever you may be. Thank you for the giggle and for the compliment. You sound like my kind of girl (in a platonic kind of way, obviously).

Letter from Ephesus

Image: Thomas Depenbusch

No journey through Asia Minor is complete without a tumbling tour of the ancient wonder that is Ephesus: world heritage site nominee and arguably one of the most impressive open air museums anywhere. Ephesus (or ‘Efes’ to give the place its Turkish name which also happens to be the name of Turkey’s favourite ale), was one of the most sophisticated cities of antiquity, adorned with grand civic buildings, marble-clad pavements and street lighting.

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‘Allo, ‘Allo Norwich

Throughout the Middle Ages, Norwich was England’s largest city outside London and, until the eighteenth century, vied with Bristol to be the Sceptered Isle’s second metropolis. The original source of the city’s wealth was the wool trade (England’s principle foreign exchange earner in those far flung days). As the industrial revolution swept through other parts of the country, Norwich slipped down the civic rankings. The city was relatively untroubled by industrialisation and avoided most of the urban blight that followed it. Much of what did exist was flattened by the Luftwaffe in 1942. The blanket bombing was a bit of threadbare affair as the Jerrys missed both the enormous city hall and Jeremiah Colman’s mustard mill. Despite the bulldozing frenzy of the 60s and 70s that disfigured too many British towns, Norwich has managed to preserve much of its charming medieval legacy.

Apparently, Jeremiah Colman was one of those rare Victorian philanthropists who were good to their workers. This goes to prove that you can get filthy rich without screwing the poor. Until recently, Colman’s was the main sponsor of Norwich City Football Club. This crown has now passed to Delia Smith, Blighty’s most famous no-nonsense cook and obsessive football fan. However, St Delia (as she’s known in the pie trade) is not a local lass. Norwich’s most famous daughter is Edith Cavell. Nurse Cavell was shot for treason by the dastardly Germans in the Great War because she helped smuggle British prisoners of war out of occupied Belgium. It caused an international outcry at the time and badly damaged Imperial Germany’s image. Well, it just wasn’t cricket and not nearly as funny as ‘Allo, ‘Allo.

Like anywhere, I’m sure it has its problems but Norwich today is a sparkling hilly liberal jewel within a flat sea of true blue conservatism. The council is Labour-controlled and the city returns two members to Parliament. The current incumbents – Simon Wright (Liberal Democrats) and Chloe Smith (Tory) both have progressive social views, including a healthy understanding of LGBT issues. Right on Norwich, here we are.

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Arrested Development

Just before we clambered aboard our life raft and paddled back to Blighty, we learned that the popular and dashing Mayor of Bodrum had been arrested by a detachment of Polis and carted off to jail, supposedly on bribery and corruption charges. Such transgressions are nothing new. A nod, wink and palms well-greased have made a vital contribution to the mad march of little white boxes up and down the Turkish coast (and elsewhere around the Med). When mega money meets meagre purse the outcome is often a foregone conclusion. Even the honest and the honourable can be led (or forced) into temptation by big business bullies or murderous mafia gangsters. As a vetpat of our close acquaintance remarked recently:

“If an ugly thug in a shiny suit strutted into your office, casually placed a loaded gun on the desk and made thinly veiled threats to you and your nearest and dearest, what would you do?”

However, there may be more to this Mayor’s rapid fall from grace than meets the eye. Rumours abound that he is a victim of trumped up charges because he refused to join the governing AK Party. Certainly, the arrest was carefully staged with the media in full attendance. Smile for the camera, Mr Mayor, you’re going to be on the six o’clock news. It’s not implausible. The current administration do not have a particularly tolerant attitude towards opposition. Locking people up at the drop of a fez is their forte. Is this evidence of a spiteful government tightening its grip on power or simply another a greedy public servant caught with his snout in the trough? Time will tell but neither outcome will do Turkey any favours.

Off With Their Heads!

Off With Their Heads!
Circa 1640

Our loft aspirations turned to dust. Someone else reached the finishing line before us and we were back to square one. Do not pass go, do not collect £200. This is what happens when dreamy loft lodgings are offered to several letting agents simultaneously: chaos and disappointment run amok. Still, at least our reservation fee was promptly refunded. Decent billets were flying off the shelves at a rate of knots so we rose early to catch the elusive worm, zipping back up the A11 in our borrowed Renault Megane at the crack of dawn. It was a fruitful tour. On our first viewing we bagged ourselves a genuine 17th Century weaver’s cottage at the edge of Norwich’s medieval quarter just a short sashay from the action. So, instead of a writer’s garret, I shall be weaving my words in a converted artisan’s flint and brick dwelling dating from the 1640s. Just think, the original weaver first moved into his brand new designer hovel (no mod-cons at the time) when the humourless Protestant Taliban chopped off Charlie Stuart’s head, established the English republic, banned music, closed down the play houses and outlawed Christmas (and let’s not even talk of the unspeakable things they did to the Irish). It’s no wonder the Commonwealth didn’t last; it was so boring. I wonder what Killjoy Cromwell would have made of us? Off with their heads?

Preserved in Aspic

Mission accomplished on the flat front, we said our temporary goodbyes to old Norwich Town and ventured back to London. Norwich has remained a bit off the beaten track since it’s not connected to the motorway network; it’s an hour’s drive along single and dual carriageways until the roar of the M11 is reached. This gave us the opportunity to take in a full English at a Little Chef. I suspect this traditional chain of roadside eateries is destined to die. Just like the Bates Motel in Psycho, Little Chefs are in the wrong place and, these days, weight-rich, time-poor Brits prefer a processed cheese burger to go. It’s a crying shame.

One the way to Liam’s folks, we couldn’t resist a minor detour to our old home in Walthamstow. We pulled up outside. It was as if we had never left. Four years down the line and the pretty little Victoria terrace hadn’t changed a bit. There was the heavy red Thirties door with feature Art Décor stain glass window, the twisted wisteria dripping from the bay window and the neatly trimmed chest-height box hedge. Even the original sash windows were still dressed in the same wooden Venetian blinds we’d left behind. It was like uncovering a time capsule; our old life had been preserved in aspic. We smiled at each other but didn’t linger. It doesn’t do to go back.

Lofty Pretentions

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.”

Bodrum’s Crusader Castle

Bodrum’s Crusader Castle

The Crusades is a dirty word in the Middle East. It’s hardly surprising. All those unwashed and smelly chain-mailed warrior knights, bloodied sword in one hand, crucifix in the other, brutalising the civilised Muslim world for God, glory and gain (in that order). The perfidious Catholics even turned on the besieged Byzantines, sacking Constantinople and deposing the Emperor because he was a softer target than the Arabs and the wrong kind of Christian. The crusader legacy resonates today with the fault lines that still exist in the region.

This brings me neatly on to Bodrum’s very own Crusader heirloom – the Castle of St Peter. It is the jewel in the Town’s crown. Its sturdy silhouette dominates from every direction. Built by the Knights Hospitaller from 1402, the castle remained in Christian hands until they were unceremoniously booted out by Suleiman the Magnificent in 1522. The magnanimous Sultan allowed the defeated knights to sail off to Crete – no hard feelings. What a gent. The castle last saw action when it was bombarded by a French warship during the Great War. Presumably, our Gallic allies did it for a laugh as the fortress had long lost its strategic importance. Several towers were badly damaged and the minaret of the mosque was toppled.

Today the reconstructed castle is a major tourist attraction and home to the Museum of Underwater Archaeology, the biggest of its kind. The grounds also play host to the annual summer ballet and dance festival. It’s a sweaty affair during the height of summer. Rambling over the ramparts is an easy excursion and there are plenty of shady places in the well-tended gardens to catch your breath and watch the randy dandy peacocks strut their stuff. The exhibits are absorbing if you’re into old wrecks, chipped anfora and ancient glass. I can’t vouch for the exhibition devoted to the tomb of a Carian princess, who died between 360 and 325 BC. It’s always been closed when we’ve visited. Sauntering through the various towers is a fun way to spend a spare afternoon. The English Tower, in particular, looks like a set for Ivanhoe. Where’s Elizabeth Taylor when you need her?

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If you’d like a potted history of the castle check out Wikipedia. Spot the (non) deliberate mistake relating to the mosque.

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Sleepy Norwich

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.

It’s a Fair Cop

One of our favourite Bodrum Belles took us to the airport for our airlift back to Blighty with Sleazyjet. We shall be forever in her debt. It was our first experience of Bodrum’s brand spanking new international terminal building. Very impressive it was too but, as with much of Turkey, not quite finished. I’ve always thought of airport buildings as the new cathedrals, built high and mighty to invoke awe in the great unwashed (or in Bodrum’s case, the great sunburned). Bodrum’s new edifice is a lofty triumph in steel, marble and fresh paint. It puts Stansted’s tired old concrete shed with its stalactites of filth dripping from the ceiling and duck-taped carpets in the shade (why do Britain’s airports have carpets anyway?). Catering arrangements at the new terminal were an expensive shambles. Much of the food hall had yet to open. Bewildered staff at the only available eatery hadn’t a clue what they were doing; thrown to the lions with no training, no doubt. This led to much tut-tutting and foot tapping from the hungry hordes.

The flight home was an uneventful affair. That was until we landed. The bottle-blond cabin crow swung open the aircraft door to the sight of a small platoon of armed police waiting outside. The corporate perma-grins dropped out of position and we were politely asked to re-take our seats. A name was announced across the tannoy. A handsome and well-constructed young man (who I’d greatly admired back at Bodrum Airport) swaggered down the aisle and joined the waiting bobbies. They handcuffed him and off they trotted. It was all done with the minimum of fuss. There was neither argument nor struggle. His pretty missus and their two young children followed him off the aircraft. She didn’t seem at all surprised by the ambush and the kids remained calm. She casually flip-flopped down the tunnel with the jolly sprogs in tow. People will do anything to get to the front of the queue at passport control.