Tag: Altinkum

Jack Scott’s Postcards from the Ege

Jack Scott’s Postcards from the Ege

Not much of the news coming out of Turkey these days is positive – refugees, bombs, riots, censorship and the usual rhetoric from the imperious Erdoğan. The western media do so love to stoke up a drama. You could be forgiven for thinking the place is falling apart. Well, it isn’t. But the headlines are putting visitors off. According to some estimates, bookings by Brits are down by over a third. A glance at the travel agent’s window reveals the bargains to be had, reflecting a tourist trade going through lean times. It would be foolish to suggest there aren’t any problems but Turkey remains one of the safest holiday destinations anywhere.

It’s been four years since we returned from Turkey and we’re content with our lot in old Norwich Town. The slowish pace of life suits us well. But, we’re often nostalgic for our easy come, easy go days of Bodrum. During one particularly wistful afternoon in the boozer, Liam and I took a drunken stagger down memory lane. Over the last few years I’ve scribbled a word or two about my best bits of Turkey and I’ve even won writing competitions with my musings. So to cure me of my melancholy, Liam suggested I put them all together. So that’s what I’ve done. And very cathartic it was too. I’ve called it Postcards from the Ege, Jack Scott’s Turkey Trail.

Here’s the blurb:

With such an immense political and cultural heritage, it’s no surprise kaleidoscopic Turkey is such a feast – a prime cut of authenticity, seasoned by the West and spiced by the East. Jack Scott knows a thing or two about the country. He lived there for years and travelled widely – to Istanbul and along its south-western shores from Izmir to Alanya. In Postcards from the Ege, Scott shares some of his must-sees and personal highlights. Follow Scott’s trail. Come to Turkey.

The e-book has just been published on Kindle by Springtime Books. It’s a steal at a couple of quid and if it encourages people to sample the extraordinary land we used to call home then that’s all to the good.

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Türkiye’ye Hoşgeldiniz!

Someone Like You

Kym Ciftci is a Didim doll and a complete force of nature. Kym isn’t just a looker, she’s a talented looker. She has a gift for the song and for the word. Kym’s also got a soulful, silky voice and a heart as big as the Temple of Apollo. All this is coming together for one night only on the 5th of April in a brand new musical play called ‘Someone Like You’ which Kym has both written and directed. All proceeds will go to a local children’s charity. If Liam doesn’t receive the call from Blighty, we will be there to show our support. Be there or be square. It’s a weepy so make sure you bring a Kleenex.

For more information, click here

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.

In the Beginning

In the beginning there was work and work was God. After 35 years in the business, the endless predictability made me question the Faith. Liam, on the other hand, was neither bored nor unchallenged but was routinely subjected to the ephemeral demands of a capricious boss, a soft and warm Christmas tree fairy with a soul of granite – Lucifer in lace. He feared for his tenure. I feared for his mental health. It was the 30th May 2009, Liam’s 48th birthday, and we were enjoying a romantic meal in Soho. As the booze flowed the conversation turned to ‘What if?’ Thus began our Great Adventure.

We began to hatch our audacious plot to step off the treadmill and migrate to the sun. Turkey sprang instantly to mind since we had just returned from Bodrum – a chic and cosmopolitan kind of place attracting serious Turkish cash, social nonconformists and relatively few discount tourists. Liam loved it and, after many years visiting the western shores of Anatolia, I needed no convincing. All I had to do was sell my house just as property prices were in free fall. All Liam had to do was agree a financial settlement with his ex on their jointly-owned property, something that hitherto had proven more difficult to resolve than the Arab-Israeli conflict.

Against all odds, I sold my house and its contents to a God-send of a neighbour and, after some emotional horse-trading, Liam finally achieved a reasonable settlement on his own property. Implausibly, we both secured voluntary redundancy from work. In my case, it happened with such an indecent haste that I sensed they were glad to be rid of me. Well, the axeman was stalking the Town Hall corridors looking for prey. It mattered little since it all added to the purse. Our remarkable run of luck convinced us that someone was looking down kindly upon us. Liam attributed it to the Virgin Mary.

We turned our attention to where in Turkey we might settle. The obvious choice was the narrow western coastal strip tucked beneath the vast Anatolian Plateau as it is the most attuned to European sensibilities. Turkey beyond this is the genuine article, a magical land of sweeping landscapes, drenched in drama and culture but far too foreign and exotic for a couple of mature, bourgeois, gay boys from the Smoke.

Bodrum was the bookie’s favourite, an urbane, liberal oasis where we could live safely and unmolested. We briefly entertained the notion of living in Kaş on the Turkuaz Coast where we had honeymooned. Kaş is a sparkling Bohemian jewel, surrounded by a pristine hinterland that has been mercifully spared the worst excesses of mass tourism. But, its glorious isolation, protected by a wilting two hour drive from the nearest international airport, means that the town is effectively closed out of season and lacks those dull but essential full time services we all need to live in the material world: banks, supermarkets, hospitals and the like. We cast our eyes along the map. The coast running south-east of Kaş towards Alanya has been colonised by the Germans and Russians and the string of major resorts running north – Fethiye, Marmaris, Altinkum and Kuşadası – attracts legions of bargain basement Brits. It was no surprise that the odds on favourite won by a mile.

Work ended for me in September 2010 and for Liam a couple of months earlier. He used this time wisely as our planning guru, researching every last detail and concocting a bells and whistles financial model to ensure that our enterprise would not end in certain penury.

Naturally, our plans attracted its fair share of detractors. Moslem countries don’t exactly have a commendable record of tolerance, and since I dropped out of the womb screaming ‘I Am What I Am’, we could well be asking for trouble. I addressed this in my leaving do speech. ‘God knows,’ I said ‘why two openly gay men would want to live in a Muslim country with a dubious track record in sexual equality and an unenviable history of military coups. I shall simply insist that Liam wear a head scarf and walk three paces behind me at all times. Besides,’ I added ‘we’re not moving to Iran since we have no desire to be lynched from the nearest olive tree by the Revolutionary Guard.’ Nevertheless I accepted that Turkey provides a challenge to the free-spirited wishing to live unconventionally. Openly gay Turks in visible same sex relationships are as rare as ginger imams.

Having slipped from the shackles of the waged, we journeyed once again to Bodrum for an exploratory visit armed with a list of prerequisites. We determined that we would live in a fully serviced town that was open year round, we would find a house or flat with a sea view costing no more than £300 per month to rent, and we would live on a bus route so we could get along without a car. Easy.

We quickly decided not to live in Bodrum itself: too hot, too busy and too expensive. Besides, we were sold on the idea of views and space and Bodrum had neither within our price range. So, we spent our days exploring the surrounding area by dolmuş, the little minibuses that traverse the peninsula. Our final excursion was to the small town of Yalıkavak about 20kms north west of Bodrum. After leaving the main arterial highway lined with commercial developments reminiscent of a sun-drenched North Circular, we ascended into brittle shrubby hills along a gently winding road. The bus joined a long convoy of slow moving heavy vehicles that laboured towards a high pass framed by windmills. As we passed over the brow of the hill we became instantly captivated by a picture postcard view of Yalıkavak shimmering at the end of the lush valley below. Arriving in the lazy white-washed town, we alighted at the bus station and followed the modest crowd towards the centre. We strolled along the arresting little pedestrianised high street protected from the obstinate sun by huge white sails and toured the harbour to admire the gulets that bobbed playfully in the soft breeze. After the hassle and bustle of Bodrum, the calm and tranquillity was a timely indulgence. The Rough Guide described Yalıkavak as relentlessly gentrified. That’ll do us just fine.

As luck would have it, Liam had already researched some rental options and emailed one of the companies advertising on the net. We got a reply virtually immediately and arranged to meet Lorraine the next day back in Yalıkavak.

Lorraine got our number straight-away which appeared to thrill her no end. She seemed nice enough if a bit tarty in a footballer’s wife sort of way. She showed us a few apartments on her books, none of which hit the right spot. ‘OK,’ she said “I know what you boys would like” and made a quick phone call. A short while later we knocked on Clement’s door. As he beckoned us in his first words were ‘No kissing, I haven’t douched’. Walking into his sparking white reception room we gazed up and gasped at the double height room with a galleried walkway leading to a huge upper terrace. He served tea and gave us the grand tour. The place was enormous compared to my little Victorian terrace in Walthamstow and Clement had done it up lovely. His taste in décor was very IKEA/Habitat/Heals (delete according to budget), simple, tasteful and very us.

Once we had seen the show home, we viewed a nearby vacant house. Lorraine could smell a deal and explained that the rent was more than we budgeted for at £425 per month but included site fees (which helped pay for the gorgeous swimming pool). So, our rental limit was unceremoniously tossed aside like a used dish cloth. We had become utterly seduced by the chance of living in a detached villa with the most amazing, virtually unobstructed view of the Aegean and Greek islands in the far distance, we just didn’t care. We did the deal with the landlord and agreed Lorraine’s fees. Tepe House was to be our new home. We flew back to London to pack.