Seldom have we been so well organised as this trip. Handy flights booked, house organised, gardener engaged and even a couple of days stopover booked in a delightful boutique hotel in Istanbul en route to Fethiye where we had left our ketch “Elisabeth” the previous autumn.
We had read the papers and been aware of the situation in the Eastern countries, but Ireland had only a couple of cases and Turkey had none so we carried on with our plan and flew out from an unexpectedly quiet Dublin airport to Istanbul.
The couple of days in Istanbul flew past with visits to the delightful Sultanahmet area, with its bazaars, temples and unique atmosphere. Right on the Bosphorous and steeped in the history of an ancient border between Europe and Asia, Sultanahmet is normally thronged to the point of bursting, but it was pleasantly quiet. Even the Grand Bazaar was civilised and we spent some time there chatting to stallholders and being dazzled by the overwhelming variety of goods on sale. 30,000 people work in this maze of more than sixty covered streets full of a bewildering array of chatter, colour, carpets, clothing, spices, lights, ornaments, jewellery and all the chattels of the mysterious east. After a couple of days we picked up our connecting flight to Dalaman, an hour south of Istanbul, and soon arrived, delighted to find “Elisabeth” exactly as we had left her, tethered at her mooring in Ecce Marina.
Our plan was to spend about two weeks stocking up the boat and doing the inevitable repairs and fixings, then to leave Fethiye to head north towards Bodrum, Turgetries and then the Dardanelles. When our three month visas ran out we would then skip across to Greece and slowly head for Spain. [
The news then started to get more serious, the situation in Italy escalated and it became apparent that Spain, amongst others; was starting to have a serious problem as the numbers mounted alarmingly. Then the travel restrictions came in and in no time at all we were stranded in Turkey. No flights in and soon none out. Fortunately the numbers were not alarming in Turkey, but the authorities were not being complacent in any way, and everything started to feel less comfortable.
Speaking to some of our Turkish friends in the Marina we were advised to stock up on food and fuel, which sounded like a good idea, and this did not take too long as we are normally well provisioned on board as a matter of habit. We soon had enough of everything to last us a couple of weeks and prepared to sit it out until things changed.
We sat, we went for walks, we sat some more, and slowly became tired of the constant, edgy presence of bad news, not always perfectly related, and the uneasiness whenever anyone invaded personal space or crowded in the market or shop.
We decided to head to sea.
Fethiye lies in a corner of a large bay well sheltered from prevailing winds, and a few miles away on its northern side there is another sheltered bay loosely scattered with inlets and islands which we know as Gocek, but this is a lazy man’s term for the many places that the bay encompasses.
We made final enquiries at the marina office to make sure we were allowed to leave and set sail across a channel that became slightly lumpy as the afternoon progressed. We managed to use the breeze to our advantage and had a cracking sail for the hour or so that it lasted. As we approached Gocek we had the pilot book and charts out and, as we headed up the bay, started to look for a place to drop the anchor.
Spoilt for choice, we finally decided to anchor in a tiny bay called Hammam Koyu or Cleopatras Cove. Steep cliffs, wooded with pine trees, sheltered the bay and its curious ancient building, half in and half out of the water. As evening fell a host of small birds shouted rather than sang their evening songs and the soporific tone of numerous goat bells made the place seem magical and timeless, and so far from the busy and nervous town we had left only a couple of hours before. The evening glass of red led to plans to go ashore in the morning.
Next morning, when all the little jobs had been done, we hopped in to the dinghy and headed ashore with walking shoes and a stock of nutty bars to explore the footpaths that we had seen from the boat. A large yellow signpost announced several routes so we plumped for the long one, which was about twelve miles, and headed off up the tiny and rather steep path marked by dashes of red and white paint on random boulders. Walking at the brisk pace we use in Connemara to stave off hypothermia we slightly ignored the surrounding woodland and it was fifteen minutes or so before the landscape demanded that we stop and admire it. As we reached the top of a ridge the woodland opened up and revealed the expanse of the Aegean, the Greek Islands, and a Turkish patrol ship hiding at anchor, presumably watching for illicit westward traffic toward the Islands.
It was at this point that we started to notice the little flowers .Hiding in the cracks and cavities of the eroded limestone were innumerable tiny flowering plants like clusters of precious stones in their mother rock. In other places tiny gardens of chamomile daisies, poppies and aconites hid amongst the boulders of the steep sided valley, diverting the eye from the path and leading to more than one stumble. The variety was stunning and each flower found was more interesting than the last.
Once we had negotiated the route of a dry river gorge the going got more civilised, opening out into pine woodland with a carpet of bright green grass and flowers, many of which caught our attention, either by looking exactly like something in our garden at home[,] or by not looking like anything we had seen before. We had long suspected that there was a flush of growth in Mediterranean Turkey before the searing heat of summer arrives and scorches everything, now we could see this was indeed the case.
The woodland we walked through had an other worldly atmosphere, the bird calls were strange to us, the plants all slightly unfamiliar and the bells of the unseen goats gave the place a strange feel. When we finally came on a dwelling it was a low stone built house with a couple of sheds, and it was difficult to tell if it was currently in use, or if the feeling of being watched was entirely imaginary.
Quite soon we were out in more open country on a wider track and signs of farming appeared, a donkey in panniers tied to a gate, chickens scuttling around and a tractor could be heard chugging. As we passed the farm the farmer responded to our rudimentary “Meerhaba” with a wave, but his wife, clutching a handkerchief to her nose, let us know to pass at the correct distance. They seemed delighted, however, when I took photos of their new puppy and the pair of goats tethered in the tractor trailer. Although modest their farmhouse had an impressive set of solar panels to supply power and [the place had] an amazing view over the wide valley of pastureland that opened out before it.
The farmers were obviously not the first to appreciate this view as there were some commanding Roman ruins on a low hill and in the valley could be seen an ancient water cystern with its characteristic dome shape. Along this part of the track there were some other substantial ruins, and some large ancient tombs set in beautiful positions, overlooking wooded bays and azure seas, haunting reminders of ageless promises to the departed made by unknown loved ones. If you are going to spend eternity somewhere then this is a spot with a perfect view. There are so few places left on earth now which are truly rural and have no care for a modern hurried life, yet here was a place of ethereal beauty where only a farmhouse and some goat sheds had been built in two thousand years.
Soon we were encouraged by a large and official signpost that we were on our way home and by the thought of tea and biscuits. Unfortunately this did not take into account the slightly fey nature of the path we were on. We came to a crossroads of sorts where a flock of very large yellow sheep lounged and grazed unconcerned by our presence. Two tracks were marked with crosses to indicate that they were the wrong way, so we searched for other marks but, failing to find any, we headed off in different directions only to backtrack and cast around in circles muttering that it had to be here somewhere. Stumped, we sat and shared an energy bar and a drink. The sheep obviously found us poor company as they got to their feet and moved off, suddenly revealing the painted marks that we had spent the last twenty minutes looking for. I refuse to believe the feckless creatures didn’t know exactly what they were doing.
A couple of well built but deserted houses skirted the hillside we now descended, peering down through the pine trunks at the crystal blue waters of the bay below. A host of tiny flowers topped the grassy banks, once more including at least six different miniature orchids and here and there, surprisingly, we found porcupine quills, not something I thought lived here. By now we felt we were nearly home, we could see the cove where the boat was anchored so only a few minutes would get us there. Unless we got lost.
It is hopeless to try and work out how it happened,; we just lost the track and couldn’t find it again. We found a dead goat, we found spiky vines that wouldn’t let go and we found lots of places that were impossibly steep and obviously not where we wanted to go. I was blaming it all on the faeries. Finally I spotted a familiar place and sure enough there was our path again and within fifteen minutes we were back on the boat and the kettle was on.
The area we were in is a hugely popular tourist hotspot, every day in the summer hundreds of Gulets and tour boats anchor in these bays. Thousands must pass this way but never leave their boats, preferring to swim and barbeque rather than go ashore to walk. Many boats only stay a short while, heading off to the next bay for the next swim. It is a miracle that such a unique piece of landscape has survived in an original state, not one holiday home in sight, or a proper road to get to one if it were there, and pathways so lonely that you felt you were being watched from the woods. We were honoured to have found it, but then we have been honoured to find much of what we have seen in Turkey where we have sailed hundreds of miles and yet realise we have only scratched the surface of this country that is just steeped in the history of ancient civilisations.