Tag: Bodrum

Crazy Norfolk Broads

One late evening, Liam popped out for a pint of semi-skimmed for our morning cuppa and a bottle of cheap red. As he turned an ancient corner, he found himself leaping for his life as an elderly Norfolk broad sped towards him in a motorised wheelchair. She had what Liam described as a “unique” look: coal black hair long enough to sit on (though at the time, it flapped wildly in the tail wind) and a plump, chalk-white face, daringly decorated with randomly applied scarlet rouge. The F1 racing chair was festooned with blue fairy lights and an ice-cream van tune chimed from speakers hidden beneath her witch’s weaves. Fancy dress or magic mushrooms? Fleeing the wardens or just late for the coven? Who knows? One thing’s for sure, Liam will never complain again about the mad moped boys of Bodrum.

A few days later, I swanned along the cobbled street to the post box, entrusting another signed book into the care of the Royal Mail. As I popped the package into the slot, a hunched and hefty Norfolk broad swaggered past, weighed down by two fat Tesco’s bags. Gusset-sagging black and white leggings led up to a booty-hugging canary yellow micro-skirt. Think a couple of cows wrestling in a sack rather than two little piglets. Perhaps the most striking element of the arresting ensemble was the ruffled blond bob, an ill-fitting wig, curling precariously around a bumpy builder’s complexion and hanging on for dear life. This remarkable piece of living art was bravely topped with a pretty yellow dahlia poking out from a white Alice band. Personally, I thought the plastic flower was a bit OTT.

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On Your Marks…

The Horn Chorus

Busted Flush

What is it with British plumbing? I’ve never lived anywhere in Blighty with good enough water pressure to provide a decent douche. Don’t you just loathe a limp spray? Norwich is no different. Okay, the house is 370 years but that’s no excuse in this day and age. I’m old too, but my own water works do a decent enough job. My little winkle sprinkles with much more umph. I’m feeling nostalgic for our fireman’s hose of a spray in Bodrum. It was strong enough to pin an unsuspecting nude to the tiles. Mind you, that was only when the water was actually on. For the dry shifts, we kept a bucket by the basin for a quick whore’s wipe. My one consolation is that, come the mould season, we won’t have viral spores breeding across the bathroom ceiling like a medieval plague.

Our wimpy water works also extended to the porcelain. The lacklustre flush was barely enough to deal with even the most modest log. Emergency assistance was delivered by engineer Maurice who parachuted in from the Smoke for the weekend. His talented hands fiddled with my ballcock and, hey presto, Niagara Falls. His labours were rewarded with a large glass of white, followed by several more (but that’s another story).

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The Mould Season

Emigrey Spongers

School’s Out

Travel may well broaden the mind but upping sticks and relocating to a foreign field can blow it completely. The best laid plans may not prepare you for having the cultural rug pulled from under your feet, something that can throw the most balanced person off kilter. Becoming a novice expat is like the first day of school. All those childhood fears come flooding back. Will I fit in? Will people like me? Am I wearing the right kind of kit? Am I as good as them?

As the naïve new kids on the block, we made the classic mistake of chucking ourselves into the well-rooted and largely insular expat community that clung to the iridescent coast of Aegean Turkey. We didn’t dip our toes into the water to test the temperature. Oh no. We leapt in with eyes slammed shut, noses held and hopes raised. It was a salutary lesson in what not to do. The emigrey soap opera was, at times, a life-sapping experience and negativity stalked the smoky bars and over-crowded beaches. We spent the first six months trying to get to know people and the next six months trying to get rid of many of them. In retrospect, I don’t know why I expected a disparate group of people thrown together purely by chance to be our cup of tea. Four years down the line our burnt fingers had healed and we started to enjoy the sparkling company of a small cohort of like-minded people. As with many things in life, less is more. Ironically, just as we reserved our own corner of the playground with a hand-picked gang, we returned back to Blighty to be grown-ups again.

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Separating the Wheat from the Chavs

Emigrey Soap Opera

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.

Pipe and Slippers

We’re hoping to start our East Anglian adventure in a brand spanking new city-centre designer pad with a high spec and low bills: a six month probation while we try the city on for size.

Ancient Norwic is a young person’s university city with a vibrant crowd and a thriving arts scene; these old nags aren’t quite ready for the knacker’s yard just yet. I’ve chucked my old floppy slippers in the bin. Now they were knackered. Ironically, I bought my first ever pair of slippers in the Bodrum branch of Marks and Sparks, a soft shoe shuffle designed to keep my little tootsies warm during the challenging Bodrum winters.

We’ve been struggling to become a fag-free family, frequently falling off the wagon, usually after a session on the sauce. This time, things will be different. We’re determined to kick the filthy habit (famous last words, I hear you mutter at the back). The £8 a packet price tag would drive us into the greasy hands of Blighty loan sharks. Yes, my friends, times have changed. They’ll be no pipe and slippers for us in our new gaff.

The Beau Belles

When we decided to jump the good ship Blighty, we enjoyed an extraordinary run of good luck. Our neighbour bought our house and its contents. IKEA-chic (or is that shit?) was clearly to his liking. We hauled over just 17 boxes of our precious personal possessions (aka old crap we couldn’t give away). Our extraordinary run of good luck has continued. Thanks to a select group of Bodrum Belles, we’ve flogged off our house contents all over again. We’ve hauled back to Blighty just 17 boxes plus Liam’s beloved Roland keyboard and our marvellous Samsung flat screen TV (miraculously still working; most of our other electrical goodies have malfunctioned). I love this recycling lark. No need to re-flat-pack the flat pack. So, a massive hand to the Beau Belles of Bodrum.

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Are You Being Served?

In the Beginning

The P-Day Landings

We took time out from our packing, sorting and chucking (how did we manage to accumulate such a vast collection of crap in just four short years?) to have a tipple or three with the winners of the ‘Spot the Gothic Pile’ competition that I ran in March. The winning pansy fans were chosen at random from two stacks of correct answers identifying Norwich Cathedral – one for Blighty and one for Turkey. Imagine my surprise when I learned that Niki from Suffolk (Norfolk’s southern sister) and Paul from just outside Kuşadası (but originally from Suffolk) knew each other? “Fix! Fix!” I hear you cry. Believe it or not, it was a complete co-incidence – honest gov’nor.

I had simply intended to post signed copies but Niki and Paul had bolder ideas. They had a pansy summit in mind, a liquid convention on our home turf. The dastardly plot was hatched and P-Day was planned. We met at Café S Bar, an unpretentious watering hole along Bodrum’s town beach where the rainbow flag flutters in the breeze next to the flags of all nations. Ozzie, the seriously fit convivial host dispenses charm and flirtatiousness in equal doses. At the height of the summer he strips down to his speedos and plunges headlong into the bay, tackle in hand, to spear the catch of the day. It’s done more to impress the mixed mob than to put food on the table. Alas, we’ll miss the brawny burlesque this year.

We made a good-humoured bunch – me and Liam, Niki and her beau, James, Paul and his beau, Nigel and their best Blighty Pal, Kiwi Cheryll. Kiwi Cheryll is a licensed sex therapist with a fruity tale to tell (just don’t ask her about the chocky-wocky do da story). Sensible Nigel and Cheryll sipped the soft stuff while the rest of us hit the sauce. What splendid people. After a jar or two, I signed copies of the book. Sadly, by that late stage in the game my scriblings had degenerated to illegible doctor’s scrawl and I’ve no recollection of what I actually wrote. Cheryll kindly bought the very last copy in my possession – another tenner for our half-empty purse. Four hours in the making, the P-Day Landings were a fun-filled finale to an epoch of epic proportions. Have we made the right decision? We think so but, watch out, one day Jack will be back.

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And the Winners Are…

No Going Back on Going Back

Turkey from the Inside

I’ve been scribbling like a lunatic getting the message out about the book. The days when an author just sits back and lets someone else do all the PR and promotion are long gone. Sometimes, though, things just happen without any intervention from me. Pat Yale is an extremely respected British vetpat travel writer living in Cappadocia. You could say she put the pat in expat. Pat wrote A Handbook for Living in Turkey which is the definitive guide for moving to and living in our fosterland. Pat also writes a Turkey travel blog called Turkey from the Inside. Liam stumbled across the page about Yalıkavak. This is the introduction:

On the northwest side of the Bodrum Peninsula, pretty Yalıkavak centres on a harbourful of gülets but also boasts several inviting getaway-from-it-all boutique hotels up on the hillside. It served as the setting for Jack Scott’s 2012 travel memoir Perking the Pansies which dished the dirt on goings-on in the expat community.

Thank you, Pat. I’m chuffed.

The Only Virgin in London

My father died when he was 50. My mother has been single ever since. In fact, she’s been a widow for much longer than she was a wife. She calls herself ‘the only virgin in London’. She says this without the slightest hint of bitterness or irony. My mother is now 83 and still runs for buses. She’s been to Bodrum just the once, for my surprise 50th birthday party. She loved it and spent her time chain smoking and solving puzzles. ‘Keeps my brain active,’ she says. She has five children, eleven grandchildren and three great grandchildren. She loves us all even when we’re not that loveable. Liam calls his mother-in-law ‘One hell of a woman.’ You can say that again.

Happy Mother’s Day to the only virgin in London.

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Caveat Emptor

Liam and I love living in our little stone cottage tucked away in the middle of old Bodrum Town. A perilous spark, a sieve-like roof, heat exhaustion and frostbite have not put us off. Our neighbours are a joy and the locals are warm, welcoming and obliging. We feel blessed. We rent and are thankful for the freedom. We can move as we please and when the mood takes us. We have been mercifully released from that inbred notion to own (something we Brits nurture in the womb).

For some, the dream can turn sour. For years now, we’ve read reports about people buying property abroad falling foul of unscrupulous builders, vendors, agents or officials. Some of the stories are enough to make you weep, particularly when the unsuspecting lose their shirts in a single dodgy deal. Sadly, it’s a phenomenon which afflicts many countries around the world – not just Turkey – and the laws which protect such people vary from country to country.

I was recently contacted by a member of the Turkish Living Forum who is fronting a campaign for change in Turkey. He points out that while many people successfully purchase property here, there are plenty of examples of those who have a really rough ride. He’s not alone in this view. The Turkish press is littered with examples of  scams and only last year, police raided the Central Tapu Office in Bodrum.

Of course, fraud can afflict all buyers, foreign and Turkish alike. But for foreigners, coming to grips with the complexities of unfamiliar property law in a foreign land can be a daunting task. Not to mention an emotional one.

Wherever you are willing to splash out, in Turkey or elsewhere, it clearly makes sense to do your homework. Do everything you can to understand the buying process, get good legal advice, don’t be tempted by cost-cutting shortcuts and don’t dish the dosh unless you are absolutely sure that everything is above board. Let’s face it, that’s exactly what you’d do in your own country so why lose your head (and possibly your life savings) when abroad? If it looks too good to be true, the chances are it is. There are plenty of people around who can offer good advice.

Turkey is a fabulous and seductive country to live or invest in. Dreams really can come true if you do it right and the authorities play their part too.