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History and drama on Turkey’s untouched Turquoise Coast
"“The sun had slipped through the pines on the Yarimadasi headland and what was left of the day fluttered like a silk sheet over Gocek bay. I’d spent the last hour as an eight-year-old: kayaking, swimming, snorkelling and high-diving from the deck of the Amazon Solo, a 28m. Black Sea-built gulet. Now I was drinking grown-up with the owner, Serha Cengiz, while the chef gutted grouper for dinner.” I was at the bitter end of a ten-day journey down the Turquoise Coast, a trip on which every day had been more beautiful than the last and on which the wonders had been stacked like an increasingly unfeasible house of cards. I’d picked up Roman pottery shards; seen a stone thrown by God; skimmed across water so clear it felt like flying; hiked ancient paths through resinous forests; waded icy rivers in 35C sunshine; and found peace I’d thought impossible in a post-lockdown world. Getting drunk on such beauty had left me confused. Turkey’s Safe Tourism certification scheme was world-leading; its welcome effusive; its cuisine, like its history, complex and classical; and its landscapes suffused with cinematic grandeur. Why then, I teased Serhan, did Greece get all the love? He said he’d think about it. Turkey’s Turquoise Coast runs from Cesme in the north to Alanya in the south. If you followed every turn of the shore, explored every bay and set foot on each of the 500-odd beaches, you’d travel 1,000 miles. I started in Bodrum, the party town stifled by Turkey’s strict social-distancing laws; mostly stifled, anyway. Dining with my guide, Taylan Tasbasi, at Iki Sandal, where the Ottoman meze is a history book of 15th-century appetisers, 17th-century fish pickles and 19th-century salads, I heard of two speakeasies on the edge of town: an underground club called Pandemic and a chill-out bar called Quarantine. Both stood in marked contrast to the obedience with which the city was following the new public health regime, bringing a Sunday morning feeling to a place where it always used to be Saturday night. We took the ferry across the inky Gulf of Gokova to the Datca peninsula (£6 foot passengers, £1 extra for bikes, £18 for cars; bodrumferryboat.com). It seemed a stark, sun-blasted place — the austere opposite of hedonistic Bodrum — but there was treasure here. I had a cup of tea and a haircut in Hizirsah. Ali, the barber, had come straight from his almond groves and was talking about the 8,825ft peak behind the village, on which there was an ancient stone shelter. Legend had it, he said, that women brave enough to spend the night alone up there would see their future. Do they? I asked, as he set fire to my ears. “I think they foresee only a long walk back down,” he said. Right now Datca feels like the 1960s, but land is being bought and the increasing number of Istanbul number plates confirms rumours that this 50-mile-long strip of mountain and orchard is the next big thing in off-grid Turkish tourism. It isn’t the first time it has hosted immigrants. At the western tip lies Knidos, a port city founded in the 7th century BC with two harbours, multiple theatres and a naked Aphrodite so racy that it was put under guard to deter lascivious sailors. Taylan is an archaeologist and, unlike me, unfazed by the riches underfoot. He picked up three pottery fragments: one black, one red and one with a spiral. “Roman, lead-glazed, 2nd century,” he said, “and Greek, 1st century BC. The one with the spiral is Lycian and much older.” He dropped them and wandered off. I followed, astonished. Knidos was home to a Dionysus cult — ancient ravers who used booze and dope to party like it was AD99. Their temple is in ruins now, but there’s another one, two hours east. You may recognise the name from the last-minute discount cards in the travel agency windows. It’s called Marmaris. With its full-English caffs, lager- marinated steak dinners and pile ’em high all-inclusives, it’s easy to dismiss Marmaris as Benidorm à la Turque. Indeed, as you gape at the vodka-befuddled British twerkers in the Anfield Bar and the overenthusiastic talent at Big Tiffany’s drag joint, you may feel that the Spanish sink resort is the more sophisticated option. But just a short drive from the strip lie some of Europe’s prettiest seaside hideaways. Selimiye is one. You pass Jesus Beach on the way — so named because the shallow bay makes paddlers appear to walk on water — the road switchbacking around a temptation of impossibly blue fjord-like inlets. This floral fishing village, where waterside rooms at the Bahtiyar Pansiyon are still at backpacker prices (B&B doubles from £40; selimiyebahtiyarpansiyon.com), is like Mykonos must have been before it became trendy. If you want to splash out, try the Tamara hotel in the heart of the village, with rooms 20 paces from the water (B&B doubles from £120; tamaraselimiye.com), and spend a few days doing what the Turks do: floating, eating, dancing and taking selfies. But go soon because gentrification is coming. Over the mountain and through the shipyards, where the carcasses of half-built gulets lie like dinosaur skeletons among the wildflowers, is Bozburun. There are many reasons for visiting, but I offer just two: first, the smoked organic goat’s milk ice cream at Bozburun Dondurmacisi (40p a scoop). Second, a boutique hotel accessible only by boat called Sabrina’s Haus. Sabrina Zimber was a German wanderer who dropped anchor in the bay in 1984, saw her seaside field of dreams and built a B&B for lucky backpackers. Four decades on, the maze-like 17-room property has spiralled upmarket as an art-filled, fine-dining, celebrity hideaway gazing across the island-studded bay. You’ll like it (half-board doubles from £412; sabrinashaus.com). By day six, I was suffering from aesthetic exhaustion. The mountains, the forests, the rivers, the pomegranate orchards, the ease with which humanity occupied the space and the constant views of that mesmerising blue had left me craving a restorative tour of a run-down industrial estate. No chance. Turtle Beach is a two-and-a-half-mile curve of sand at the mouth of the Dalyan River. It has restaurants, showers, wheelchair access, a mosque and turtles, their eggs lying in hundreds of carefully protected nests. It’s Turkey’s most famous beach, but over the headland to the south lies secret Kargicak Bay. You can reach it in a rental car if you don’t mind a hairpin descent down a dirt track. Bored by the Istanbul rat-race, Busra Hanim and Orcun Dundar rented the cove from the Forestry department to build a restaurant, organic farm and, from next year, safari-tent accommodation, and effectively they recreated paradise (kargicakbay.com). Busra teaches yoga and her friend Mehmet leads sea-kayaking trips to grottoes, hidden bays and otherwise inaccessible beaches. On one — a patch of white sand shaded by wild olive and carob trees — goat tracks led from the crags across the sand and into the sea, prompting the question: do goats surf? I could have stayed a while — Orcun said it was 22C here last Christmas, but Taylan insisted we took a boat trip to another lost city. Kaunos stands on a bluff above a deep bay at what was then the mouth of the Dalyan River. It is believed it was founded in about the 8th century BC by local Carians, and occupied by Persians, Greeks and Romans before the bay silted up and trade declined. Earthquakes and malaria hastened its dereliction, but not before it had gained an amphitheater, a bathhouse and Petra-like rock tombs and temples — one of which has this year been found to hide a remarkable secret. If God throws a stone at you, I reckon you've got two options. You either run and hide, or you build a temple around it. The ancients of Kaunos, it seems, chose the latter. Recent excavations — unreported until now — discovered a hollow beneath an altar containing a powerfully magnetic iron meteorite. On the walk back to the dock in the baking sun, we met Mohammed. His orchard bordered the lane, so he’d set up a table in the shade selling chilled pomegranate juice to passers-by. All of Turkey’s charm and hospitality were suddenly here. We were only chatting with a one-eyed bloke whose wife had thrown him out of the house to try to make a few lira from tourists, but it is moments like this — on a dusty track beneath a lost city far from the dehumanised apparatus of mass tourism — for which we travel. Back on the Amazon Solo, we’re several rakis into a night streaked by shooting stars and Serhan has finally found the answer to my question. “I’ll tell you why Greece gets all the love,” he says. “Films.” He counts on his fingers. “Zorba the Greek, Shirley Valentine, Captain Corelli’s Mandolin, Mamma Mia!. And Turkey?” He holds up just one finger. “Midnight Express.” A ten-day private guided tour of the Turquoise Coast, travelling by land and sea from Bodrum to Fethiye, costs from £2,795pp, B&B . Chris Haslam was a guest of gototurkey.co.uk Three more ways to explore the Turquoise Coast By Kayak Kayak guide Mehmet Cobanoglu offers a delightful week paddling the flat blue waters from Dalyan, following the shoreline to discover parts of the Turquoise Coast known only to loggerhead turtles. The best nights are spent camping on secret beaches, cooking over driftwood fires and drinking raki under the stars. Other nights are spent in shoreside hotels. The paddling requires a certain level of fitness, but is entirely suitable for novices, with training on offer as part of the trip. Kayaks, safety equipment and camping gear are provided. Details: Seven nights from £355pp, B&B, plus some extra meals. Fly to Dalaman By Bike On this eight-day tour by bike and boat, you'll start in the pretty, riverside town of Dalyan, pedal the shore of Lake Köyceğiz to the hot springs at Sultaniye and visit the ruins of Kaunos, before sailing from Göcek to Fethiye for a long descent through the orchards on the lower slopes of the Taurus Mountains to the Xanthos River. You'll bike to Patara — the astonishingly well-preserved ancient city that was the winter home of Apollo and true birthplace of St Nicholas — before a final magnificent ride along the coast road to Kaş. Details: Eight days from £635pp, B&B, plus four other meals. Fly to Dalaman By Gulet By far the most sophisticated way to explore the coast, a gulet comes with a crew and a cook and will sail wherever you like, usually drifting from bay to bay for shore hikes, beach time or swims, before anchoring in a bay overnight. It looks expensive, but offers terrific value if you can fill the berths Details: Five nights’ cruising on the Amazon Solo out of Gocek, sleeping 12 in six en suite cabins, from £1,145pp, all-inclusive. Fly to Dalaman" Read MoreMedia Archive
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TRT WORLD
International Broadcast
Turkey’s Health Tourism Certification Programme hits Mediterranean Waters
"As ‘safe travel’ becomes a new trend, come with Canan Sevinç as we set sail on the Mediterranean coast with Turkey’s Health Tourism Certification Programme. #Turkey #Mediterranean #Gocek #Fethiye #Yacht #Vacation #HealthTourism #SummerHoliday Please Click Here to Watch the Video" Read More
Hürriyet
Turkish National Newspaper
Ekimde Göcek (Göcek in October)
"MEĞER Göcek’in en şahane zamanıymış.Eylül sonu ekim başı. Artık o yaz telaşı, o yaz kalabalığı, yaz kadınları, yaz adamları yok.O yakıcı güneş de.Bir tuhaf hüzün, yalnızlık ve huzur var.Işık bile değişmiş, tüm Göcek, başka bir renge bürünmüş.Hem sıcak, hem soğuk. Ablamın, eşine doğum günü hediyesiydi, kocasını aldı, birkaç günlüğüne minicik bir tekneye kaçırdı.Son iki güne, beni ve sevgilimi de dahil etti.İnsanın, kardeşiyle de tuhaf bir tarihi oluyor. Çok yakınlaştığı ve çok uzaklaştığı zamanlar. Biz, benden 4 yaş büyük ama baktığınızda kardeşim gibi duran ablam Suna Apa’yla en yakınlaştığımız yıllarımızdayız. Basbayağı arkadaş olduk. Ama uzuuuun zaman aldı bu. Suların durulması, itiş kakışların azalması, hayatlarımızı kıyaslamamız… Şimdi iki kardeş birlikte, “Ekimde Göcek” kadar huzurluyuz. O minicik teknenin burnunda güneşlenirken, “Baksana, ben doğduğundan beri Alya’ya şu melodiyi mırıldanıyorum. Nereden hatırladığımı da bilmiyorum. Ne bu?” dedim. “Annemin bizi uyuturken mırıldandığı melodi…” dedi. Ne tuhaf! Böyle bir bilgi yok hafızamda ama o melodi var, ne zaman kızımı, hatta sevgilimi sakinleştirmek istesem, ya mırıldanıyorum ya ıslıkla çalıyorum. Sonra enişteme baktım, güle oynaya sevgilimle sohbet ediyordu. Hey gidi yıllar! Eniştem de benim için hep Kazım Abi’ydi, hâlâ öyle, eniştem olduğu için değil, o da TAC mezunu, ben hazırlıkken o lise 3’tü. Ablamla aşk mektuplarını taşırdım. Bizim okulda, bir yıl büyüğüne bile “abi” diyeceksin, sıkıysa deme, görürsün gününü. O yüzden bugün bile Kazım diyemem, Keko derim.Meğer anneler, babalar, sevgililer ve patronlar çıkarmış ekimde denize…Tevekkeli değil Muhtar Kent’i gördük. Bir hamle yapıp, “Verin artık bana bir röportaj!” diyesim geldi ama ekimde Göcek’te işi kim takar!Süsten püsten, karmaşadan, itiş kakıştan, aceleden, telaştan uzak bir hafta sonuydu. Ekimde Göcek kadar güzeldi." Read More
Gourmet Magazine
Food & Travel Publication
Rhapsody in Blue
"A bay spread out beneath us in a wide arc, the hill behind it punctuated with the mouths of caves near its summit. In a niche along the coastline, a half-ruined white dome peeked out from a grove of olive trees with giant, gnarled trunks: on the water nearby sat a small boat, a white net just being flung out from its stern. It was almost absurdly picturesque, like the foundations of Western history reduced to a particularly vibrant postcard. But that was precisely why we had decided to come on the so called Blue Voyage. Turkey may seem like an odd place for Americans to select for a cruise -the sunny beaches of the Caribbean are nearer to home, and the ports of western Europe might seem like a bigger cultural bang for the buck. But for me, the Lycian coast of Turkey ,where the Aegean turns east and becomes the Mediterranean, has it all: temperate weather, unspoiled villages, sparkling turquoise seas dotted with islands, and a history as complex – and as eerily present today – as that of any place on earth. The heroes of classical Greece roamed these seas, along with the satraps of the Persian Empire, Alexander the Great’s armies, Mark Antony and Cleopatra,the apostle Paul and the servants of the Ottoman Sultan. Evidence of their presence is all around you. And then, of course, there is the food, a cuisine that is Mediterranean at heart but amplified with the warm, aromatic spices and delicate flavoring of the Middle East. The most common vessel for the Blue Voyage (which was given its name not, as you might suspect, by a tourist bureau but by a linguist exiled between the wars in the now trendy resort city of Bodrum) is the gulet, a wooden -hulled motor sailboat modeled on the distinctive cargo craft that have sailed these waters for hundreds of years. Our group of seven had chartered the larger option, a schooner, because it had somewhat bigger cabins and more deck space for lolling. And loll we did, in the sherry joy of being on the sea – diving from the deck into spectacularly blue, limpid water that plunged to ten feet only a yard or two from shore; watching dolphins play tag under our bow; passing a trio of giant sea turtles in the protected bay at Kaş; falling asleep to the slap of waves against the hull, awakening to the creak of the boat as it left the night’s anchorage; or simply lying in the sun, half reading, as we made a slow but steady progress to one vague destination or the other. The ever-changing scene and the constant scene of history just around the corner, kept lassitude at bay. Island were packed so thickly along the undulating coast that it was often difficult to tell whether we were sailing between mainland and an island, between two islands or just between two out croppings of the mainland. Because there were no coastal roads linking Lycia to the rest of the country until the 1980s, villages and towns were few and far between, but we frequently slid past stone ruins of ancient buildings,for the most part ignored by the locals." Read More
Rutas del Mundo
Spanish Travel Magazine
Cruising the Gulf of Fethiye
"Turkey is vast, varied and magnificent, full of adventure from exotic Istanbul in the west to the plains and wild, snow-clad mountains in the interior that keep on marching all the way to the Himalayas in the east. Great! But not what I wanted. Turquoise-colored warm waters, boats, bays, coves and uncrowded small towns and villages with cozy cafés and restaurants was my goal. Landing at the Dalaman airport on the Turquoise Coast in southwestern Turkey, it was only a 25 minutes’ drive to the tranquil village of Gocek. The village is sheltered by pine-clad surrounding hills and from Mediterranean storms by 12 islands full of little coves and bays ideal for swimming, snorkeling, fishing. Further out is the lovely Gulf of Fethiye. Now a boating center, Gocek has been spared the ravages of mass tourism. Practically unchanged since I first came here some ten years ago, it was a great pleasure to again stroll down the main street with its little shops and cafés. The pace of the village had hardly changed in all this time. Nobody is in a hurry. Bargaining in shops selling fine Turkish handicrafts or more junky goods is gentle or non-existent. And the local people are genuinely friendly and helpful. Gocek’s relationship with the sea goes back thousands of years to when the Lycian town of Kalimche stood here. Today no less than three marinas offer all kinds of services to modern sailors and the whole water front is full of the traditional wooden gulets for hire or for ferrying day-trippers to other villages, islands and beaches. Or, at the other end of the scale, you can rent a sailing yacht with a professional crew. As a result, the people you find in the streets, restaurants, cafés and bars are a colorful and agreeable mixture of the local people, yachtsmen and other visitors from all over the globe looking for a special experience. The near-by town of Fethiye is larger and more touristy but in many ways it is a bigger version of Gocek. I had the good fortune of sharing the chartering of the magnificent, fully rigged schooner Amazon Solo with nine people – all laid-back good-humored British and Scots who were ready to try anything. We all met up at one of the region’s favorite watering-holes – Gocek’s The Alternative Restaurant and Bar – which with great flare and good taste serves an amazing variety of vegetable mezes and meat, pasta and seafood dishes at shaded tables outdoors. Soon it was time to sail. Boarding the schooner Amazon Solo was easy, being moored right out in front of the restaurant. And appearing as if by magic the jolliest, most helpful crew I have ever come across lugged our suitcases to the ship. Skipper Safak Karabiyikli, second mate Sadi Karabiyikli (his brother), chef Yusuf Gundyz and deckhand Serkan from this moment on never flagged in their enthusiastic and cheerful service – without being servile. Which is the very best kind of service. An inspection of the good ship followed and dedicated owner/operator Serhan also came on board to welcome us and to introduce us to the Amazon Solo, the flag-ship of his Vela Dare fleet of boats. Representing fine Turkish craftsmanship, she was built on the Turkish Black Sea coast from local chestnut and oak, with decking and superstructures in iroko, and the interiors in cedar and Indian walnut. Measuring 27.5 meters (not counting bowsprit) the Amazon Solo is powered by a 542 HP Caterpillar diesel engine. And occasionally by the sails. As for the name Amazon Solo, Serhan tells us a fascinating tale: “Legend says that the Amazons, the warrior tribe dominated by females, used to live in the central Turkish Black Sea area, not on the coast but inland, and the boat was built not far from there in a small village called Tekkeonu, where people have built boats for generations. “Homer mentions the Amazons as fighting women, equivalent tomen in fighting ability, but he reveals very little else about them. Henever comes out and says where the Amazons lived, but since they fought two wars in Asia Minor, it’s natural to assume they lived there or nearby.” Below the boat’s deck are seven spacious, air-conditioned cabins with toilets and showers as well as a large saloon and bar. But naturally the point of being here is to enjoy the outdoors and except for diving down below to escape a couple of tremendous downpours or to sleep, everyone spent the whole time on deck. Drinks and meals are served on the aft-deck. We never traveled far without a stop at some little cove, bay, village or beach. The first evening was no exception. Chugging out into the blue waters of the Bay of Gocek our skipper soon found a little cove with a beach surrounded by pine-tree covered hills and rocks. We anchored and had our first swim in warm, crystalline waters. After that drinks were served, then dinner accompanied by very acceptable Turkish wines, red or white. The Turkish crew whose language skills were fairly limited – but limited in several languages – had developed a way of asking the passengers what their choice of wine was: “ redwineorwhitewine ” in one word. From some of the very British passengers they had also adopted the overused word: “ LOVELY !!!” Chef Yusuf Gunduz’s first dinner was scrumptious and an enormous success. He, like most good Turkish chefs, performed tasty miracles with all kinds of fresh vegetables. Meat and fish, delicious as they were, in my mind were almost secondary to the vegetables. Yusuf never let us down. The Turkish breakfast was possibly my favorite meal of the day: Warm, fresh bread, fresh orange juice, tea or coffee, tomatoes, olives, olive oil, different exquisite local jams, pine honey, feta and other cheeses – and any kind of eggs or cereals for those who wanted a more northern European breakfast. During the following days we went cruising, swimming, snorkeling and exploring – in the end realizing that in order to do this properly months were needed rather than the one week we had booked. Sailing east from Gocek into the Gulf of Fethiye we visited the town of Fethiye on a Tuesday, the big market day when everyone from near and far comes to buy and sell or just socialize. Bustling and picturesque, Fethiye is a small, attractive port tucked in between a broad bay and the cliff-face of Mount Crasus which represents the western end of the Taurus mountains. Settled since the Lycians built Telmessos here 3000 years ago, most of the town we see now is brand new. It was flattened by earthquakes in 1856 and 1957. The fascinating aspect of these disasters was that a number of huge Lycian sarcophagi were left untouched – except one whose lid moved only a few centimeters. Any damage done to them has been inflicted by humans. Besides the thousands of different items sold in the Fethiye market – from clothing to spice to the freshest of fruit and vegetables – the happy mixture of people was intriguing. Peasant women in traditional dress and baggy trousers rubbed shoulders with smartly dressed Turkish town folk. A sprinkling of tourists, reasonably dressed or in stages of inappropriate undress marveled at all there was to see and buy. About “ inappropriate undress” – although officially a secular country, the tolerant Turks are after all mostly Muslim. A short walk up-hill from the market several Lycian rock tombs loom up high, carved into the cliffs. They can be visited for a small fee. At the foot of these rocks is a little café remarkable for its huge glasses of fresh orange juice – and a magnificent panoramic view of Fethiye itself with the Gulf of Fethiye and its islands beyond. Not far from Fethiye is a small island full of Byzantine ruins including a church with floor mosaics. Here I found out that Santa Claus came from Turkey. This little island with good anchorage bears his name: St. Nicholas Island – or Gemile Island in Turkish. It was a port of call for commercial and cruising vessels from Europe and Eastern Mediterranean, as well as a center of pilgrimage.. Born in Patara about 300 AD St. Nicholas later became a bishop known for his immense kindness. The Dutch corrupted his name to Sinterklaas which became further corrupted to Santa Claus. And, by the way, this jolly old chap with a big white beard and a red suit was the 20 th century invention of the Coca-Cola company – one of their most enduring and successful advertising campaigns. The drawings were done by a Swede by the name of Haddon Sunndbloom, starting in 1931. And next is a warning: Near St. Nicholas Island there is a place called Õlüdeniz – or The Dead Sea. Don’t go there unless it is totally out of season. It was once one of the most beautiful beaches on the Mediterranean, a turquoise lagoon encircled by white sandy beaches with pines hanging over the water. The actual beach is still beautiful but the land between the lagoon and the sandy beach is a vast car-park and a whole town of hotels and pensions have invaded what should have been a big national park. But – if you like mass-market holidayland with all that goes with it, this is for you! From the tall Babadag Mountain above you can paraglide into the lagoon. Sailing west from Gocek we arrived at the Dalyan river estuary. For a reasonable price you can rent a riverboat and travel upriver to the town of Dalyan. Where you pass from the sea into the river is the remote and world famous Iztuzu – “turtle” Beach. World famous because naturalists and ecologists from Turkey and every corner of the globe saved it from the fate of big developers. This is one of the few beaches in the Mediterranean where the giant loggerhead turtles lay their eggs. Chugging upriver past the beach through up to five-meters tall reeds we stopped and climbed a short distance to Kaunos where there is a Roman theater, a huge Byzantine basilica and a Roman fountain house. For those who remember seeing the classical Humphrey Bogart and Catherine Hepburn film African Queen , part of the film was shot in these spectacular reeds. Most spectacular of all on this run up to Dalyan are a series of Lycian tombs looming way up in the rock-face on the left in a bend of the river. The largest one was never completed. The method of construction is clearly visible – starting at the top. After a riverside fish and sea-food lunch at Dalyan a short trip up to the western shore of Köcegiz Lake is highly worthwhile for the spectacle to be seen at the mudbaths at Ilica. Worthy of Fellini at his most grotesque, on a warm day you see hundreds, perhaps thousands of tourists wallowing in glorious mud. Said to improve male potency, solve gynecological problems and rheumatism, masses of people flock here. My boatman told me that now there wasn’t enough mud here for this many people so they trucked it in from somewhere else. To truly get to know this region half a life-time is required. Everywhere you go there are ancient ruins of past civilizations, many completely unmarked. There are dozens more large and small towns and villages to visit, some charming and unspoiled, others on the coast very touristy. At a notable farewell meal at Gocek’s The Alternative Restaurant Turkey’s entry – or not – into the European Union was discussed. I declared: “It should be the other way around: The EU should apply to join Turkey!”" Read More
The Sunday Times
UK National Newspaper
Turkey’s Blue Cruise Indulges Every Sense
"When it comes to the great tourist traps of history, the ancient port of Knidos, in Turkey, deserves pride of place. On its rocky headland, surrounded by sparkling blue waters, a lavish temple was raised in the fourth century BC to Aphrodite, the winsome Greek goddess of beauty and love – and throughout the classical era, sightseers from around the Mediterranean world converged here to pay their respects. The eager throngs climbed the marble steps to enter a pagan entertainment complex where sunny-faced priestesses sold food, wine and erotic souvenirs to the faithful in shady, rose-filled gardens. But its real attraction was a legendary sculpture, the so-called Aphrodite of Knidos – the first female nude in western history. It was said to be the loveliest depiction of a woman ever made, and its sensual power made men weak at the knees. The priestess-guides kept close control over their X-rated asset: they charged a fee to view the statue from the front, and extra for the “posterior view”. Today, the famous temple has disappeared, the Penthouse Pet of antiquity vanished without a trace. But myth and magic are resilient forces in the Mediterranean. In the 1950s, a group of Turkish bohemians from Istanbul, led by a poet who called himself “the Fisherman of Halicarnassus”, sailed this forgotten coastline in a wooden fishing boat called a gulet. Drifting from cove to cove, they dis- covered that the ancient passion for beauty that Aphrodite had embodied was still a part of the coast’s fabric. In strings of poems and articles, they announced that the goddess’s soothing touch could still be felt in its warm, clear waters, while the liberating call of Dionysus (the god of wine, and thus a notorious “promoter of love”, who was always worshipped in partnership with Aphrodite) echoed from every glowing cliff face. The waterborne bohemians dubbed their idyllic sailing trip the Blue Cruise, and a new tradition was born. Today, the ancient kingdom of Lycia is a fixture on the tourist map, as Turkey’s Turquoise Coast – and the Blue Cruise is one of those mythic travel experiences that everyone hopes to do once in their lives. Yet, despite its enormous popularity, European sailors still swear that a yacht trip here can reach closer to the spirit of Homeric myth than Greece itself. To test this proposition, I signed up for my own week-long Blue Cruise around the hidden crannies of this sacred coast. Where could a modern pagan gnaw on fresh figs, plunge from the deck of a fishing boat and glimpse the ancient dream? I quickly discovered that today’s Turkish sailors are no less hedonistic than their Greek forebears. The Amazon Solo had barely eased its way out of Gocek marina when Serhan, the amiable owner, raised his glass of anise-flavoured raki and made a ritual toast: “For a safe journey: Pruvan neta olsun! Keep your prow clean.” THREE MORE toasts later, things were looking good all round. Across the bow of Serhan’s sleek, 107ft Black Sea schooner, the Turkish landscape was proving unexpectedly dramatic: the Twelve Islands of Gocek Bay were looming towards us through the pale heat mist. Jagged silhouettes rose from a sea of glistening silver, where a pair of dolphins were arching. The modern Blue Cruise is nothing if not cosmopolitan. The passenger list included three Britons, one Turk and an unruly gaggle of retired Italians. It sounded as if there were 50 of them, especially when they all bellowed into their mobile phones at the same time, but when you counted there were only eight. The Italians were an extra- ordinary bunch. They had already shown their priorities by spending a whole morning in Gocek looking for fresh basil to make pesto sauce, which caused us to depart four hours late. Their leader was an urbane, frail, white-haired bachelor named Giorgio, who behaved like Louis XIV with hiscourt, at least with regards to the five Gucci-clad women in the group. Doctors back in Rome had stipulated that Giorgio should not smoke, drink coffee or wine – so he spent every moment of the day smoking and drinking coffee and wine, all solicitously supplied by his bevy of elegant beauties. Giorgio quickly proclaimed himself my tutor on the prin-ciples of the Blue Cruise according to Aphrodite and Dionysus: “Antonio!” “Giorgio?” “It is important to travel with a private harem”. NEXT MORNING at daybreak, I dropped myself over the side of the Amazon Solo, swam a few strokes across the water to Gemile Island, then pulled myself up onto a stone landing that had been carved 17 centuries ago. The branches of Mediterranean pines dipped down to the water; a forest trail led up from the shore, past Byzantine apses and columns entwined in olive trees. Swarms of bees clustered in the broken hollows of a church – home, in the 4th century, to the Christian Saint Nicholas, the prototype for Father Christmas, or “Baba Noel” as the Turks call him. Baba’s island was as thick with flowers as Aphrodite’s temple. “Take a blind man … to Lycia,” wrote the Fisherman of Halicarnassus, “and he’ll immediately know from the smell of the air exactly where he is. The acrid perfume of lavender, the pungent fragrance of wild mint and thyme, will tell him.” Not to mention jasmine, honeysuckle, myrtle and orange blossom. As I swam back to the boat, the scent of fresh espresso assailed me – and, sure enough, Giorgio’s harem had laid out a morning repast, to the strains of Puccini’s Nessun Dorma.”Antonio!” “Giorgio?” “What did you see on the island?” He listened indulgently to my account of the ruined monastery before turning serious.”Interesting. But, Antonio, today we have the squid-ink pasta for lunch.”The next morning, when Serhan weighed anchor at 10am on the dot, Giorgio looked at his watch in deep concern: “What is this? Switzerland?”As the Amazon Solo headed into the open sea, past the wild Seven Capes, it became obvious that the name Turquoise Coast is inadequate: the Med-iterranean’s palette is never limited to just one colour. Close to shore, the water’s tone is emerald-green, bright and glassy as mouthwash; further out, its depths are almost burgundy, Homer’s “wine-dark sea”. The eastern Mediterranean has the same astonishing clarity it must have had for the wandering Odysseus: we could watch the floor of the sea passing 60ft below, as if the boat were floating on air. And no other sea is so blindingly reflective. It sparkles all about, as if a million broken mirrors are scattered on its surface, and you have to turn away and hide your eyes. For the next few days, we drifted in and out of anchorages that could only be accessed by sea. Every headland was encrusted with relics of the Lycians, whose forgotten culture is, as the Turkish writer Azra Erhat put it, “an unsolvable riddle”. One thing is certain: the Lycians had a fine eye for real estate. Every one of their cities was built with a spectacular sea view. In Patara, above the glorious seven-mile beach, an amphitheatre lay filled with sand. At Myra and Dalyan, rock tombs like min- iature temples honeycombed imposing mountainsides. Stone sarcophaguses were littered across the rocky coastlines like orange mushrooms. One afternoon, I took the boat’s dinghy and skirted the shore around Kalkan – the Sunken City. It was actually a rather modest market town that has slowly slipped beneath the waves since ancient times, as Turkey’s coastline has crumbled like a biscuit dipped in tea. But hard facts are overlooked when one is dreaming of Atlantis. I thought I could still make out the foundations of buildings, a vague hint of a plaza, and what I took to be an ancient street. Back on board, the Italians were fixing the espresso machine. “Antonio!” “Giorgio?” “Why are you so busy with old stones? It is not healthy.” AT LAST, we navigated the remoter straits to Gokkaya Bay, where the landscape became more unearthly by the hour. Until now, the dry Lycian mountains had seemed oddly familiar, even vaguely Cali- fornian. Now the coast became brittle and volcanic. Twisted claws of stone emerged from the water. Jagged islets rose and fell with thetides – no wonder Greek sailors regarded them as the barbs of Poseidon’s trident, raking the waves. It felt as though we had entered an ancient water maze, where every ship could find its own private cove to hide from the rest of the world. To my immeasurable relief – and the mortification of the Italians – even mobile phones couldn’t pick up signals here. It was in this lost world that I finally fell into the rhythm of the Blue Cruise. I would wake in the still of dawn and set off by kayak, listening to delirious birds as the sun rose through the salt mist. Flying fish leapt out of the placid water; the algae fringing underwater rocks was a startling shade of lavender. After a Homeric breakfast of honey and feta cheese, I would tackle a modest excursion – snorkelling on the wreck of a turn-of-the-century trader, say, or hiking to Hayitla, an unexcavated Lycian site where sarco-phaguses protruded from soil as white as flour. In pockets of the bay, visions would appear like Ottoman-era paintings: a quail-hunter wandering with his dog, a rusted antique carbine slung over his shoulder; a young Muslim man and his fiancée sitting in silence by the water, the girl’s mother perched on a rock higher up, watching them like a hawk. The climax of each day was the Dionysian three-hour lunch. Although Giorgio insisted on his bowl of pasta, the cook laid out his Turkish specialities – a succulent aubergine dish called “The Holy Man Swoons”, lamb kofte, green beans in garlic, herbed yoghurt. Each course was accompanied with healthy infusions of cold white wine, the full glasses sparkling like great rock diamonds in the warm sun, their contents slowly but surely dissolving any afternoon plans. I would end up reclining on pillows like a pasha – feeling, in fact, like Dionysus himself.”Antonio!” “Giorgio.”It was the last meal on the last night, and we were standing on deck. The coast shone in silver moonlight. The Milky Way – the ancient Greek pathway to heaven, lined on either side by the palaces of the gods – swirled into eternity. I was expecting some more sage Italian advice, but for once Giorgio seemed lost for words.”Guarda che luna,” he finally sighed. “Guarda che mare.” Behold, what a moon. Behold, what a sea. I tipped my wineglass as a toast. Perhaps my course in Dionysian living was complete." Read More
Sailing Today
Sailing Magazine
Going Solo
"A sailing holiday on the Solent might be fun for some, but for others being in warm Mediterranean waters with a crew to do the hard work seems to appeal more. Andrew Smith reports… I’ve got to put my hands up and admit to being something of a philistine when it comes to breath-taking scenery. Sorry I can look at a snow-capped mountain range and think it’s nice, but not be inspired to write symphonies or get my crampons out and go climbing over them. The same can be said for the scenery of the west coast of Turkey, where, in May, I spent a week sailing with my wife Diana and a handful of complete strangers on a cruise in the Turkish Med. If, over the last couple of issues, you’ve been following what Martyn Lester and Rod Heikell have to say about sailing on the Turkish charter coast – or, indeed, if you’ve been here yourself- then you’ll know I’m doing the whole area a horrible injustice by merely saying it’s ‘nice’. I do, however, like to think of myself as something of an aficionado when it comes to having other people do everything for me and steer me around those little annoyances that get in the way of my search for hedonistic satisfaction. So I was especially pleased to be doing my sailing on the fully-crewed Black Sea schooner Amazon Solo, the flagship of the Vela Dare fleet of gullets based in Gocek, the major sailing centre at the head of Skopea Limani and the Gulf of Fethiye – although our boat’s opening turn-around was actually taking place in Marmaris. This part of the coast is served by the international airport at Dalaman, but we arrived by sea, because we’d planned our cruise to be in the middle of a trip to the nearby Greek Island of Rhodes. If I’d planned this it would have been fraught with mishaps and British farce stories of lost-luggage and midnight taxi dashes in pyjamas to catch ferries, so, thankfully, Diana took charge and the whole process of getting there turned out to be as easy as crossing the street. An hour-long ferry trip took us from Rhodes to Marmaris on the Saturday, and after a short hop in a taxi we soon found ourselves sitting relaxed in a swish marina bar waiting for the gulet’s crew to finish off cleaning and tidying up before welcoming aboard their next group of guests. Don’t waste too much time in the marina bars in Marmaris, though. For one thing, the prices are three or four times what you’ll pay almost anywhere else for a beer. For another there’s a lot going on in the narrow streets behind the marina, and if you’ve got a couple of hours to kill, as we did, you could do a lot worse than spend a leisurely time window shopping for souvenirs and gifts, and then getting up to the Castle Bar, in the highest part of Marmaris, where you can watch the world go about its business below. We embarked in the early evening and the captain Aslan introduces us to the rest of the crew – Imdat the chef, Aytekin the first mate, and deck hand Suleyman – after which we waited with mild trepidation for the rest of the guests to arrive. Vela Dare through their UK agents Tenrag, had assured us that when people opt for a cabin charter, as we had, they ask a few basic questions to try and ensure they’ve got the right mix of people so that the guests, who will be strangers to each other, will rub along OK during their time aboard. You can imagine the fun six members of a Teetotallers Society would have with half a dozen Rugby players! Space here is limited and I beg the forgiveness of the other members of the party on the boat if I limit my comments to the fact that they were a cracking bunch of people. Chuck and Karen were a few years older than my thirty-something and hailed from America, as did Shirley, who was there with her British husband John. Peter and Catherine only had a couple of years on me and were from London, and all got on well. We were under way only for a short time that evening, because we were to spend our first night anchored a short distance away in Marmaris Bay. That Saturday happened to coincide with Fenerbahce winning the Turkish football championship, so we spent part of the evening watching the fireworks go off, and the noise of some very happy Turks carry over to us from the marina until well into the night. When we all decided to retire the party was still in full-swing in Marmaris, but none of the hubbub penetrated to our spacious, not to mention luxurious double-cabin below. As the flagship of the Vela Dare fleet, the Amazon Solo will accommodate 12 people plus two children in its seven large cabins, each with ample stowage and an en-suite heads/shower compartment. There are a number of smaller gullets in the fleet if you’re more inclined towards something smaller than 32m (including bowsprit) Black Sea schooner. The food throughout the week was little short of excellent, and again, because space doesn’t permit me to give you an extensive list of all the varied and delicious meals we savoured, I suggest you check out the menus on view on the Vela Dare website. Suffice it to say that we ate a hearty breakfast and then motored to our first port of call, Ekincik. It took about an hour and a half to get there so, naturally, we stopped for lunch and a quick swim before boarding a small river boat that was going to take us up the Koycegiz River to the ruins at ancient Caunos. This was the first of two excursions we had during the week, and thankfully this one took place on the only overcast day, because even though the walks around the Roman, Lycian and Byzantine ruins were short, it was hot enough for everyone to be thankful we weren’t doing it in the blazing sun. The ruins and tombs were marvellous to behold and, unlike in England, you’re actually allowed to clamber all over them. We had an English-speaking guide with us throughout the afternoon, which was a real bonus, because so much has happened in this part of the world over the centuries. By the time we’d got back to the boat, by way of a small bar and a couple of the local Efes lagers, it was – yup, time foe dinner and a couple of bottles of the complimentary wine that came with each meal. Other drinks available on board were very reasonably priced, so after each meal we’d sample some of those too, though I never did get a taste for the Turkish brandy. The next day we were on our way again, under sail for some of the time, though there wasn’t a huge amount of wind to be found. The sails were ‘flopsy’ according to John, who insisted it was a Byzantine nautical term, but he was convincing no one. We anchored for lunch in one of the 40 odd bays in the Gulf ofFethiye and spent the rest of the day sunbathing, swimming and generally thanking our lucky stars for such good weather, good food and good company.We set off early on Tuesday and headed for Fethiye, where we entered the marina after breakfast for the second of our excursions ashore. A quick trip round the crowded town market for some bargains before we were all loaded up in an air-conditioned van and taken for lunch at Saklikent Gorge. The bravest among us (not me, I hasten to point out), hiked a few kilometres up the stunning gorge in the icy-cold mountain waters before returning, assuring me it was ‘character-building stuff’. The day was rounded off with a trip to a local carpet collective where some of our party were sorely tempted to purchase some magnificently beautiful carpets – unfortunately, they cost more than some second-hand yachts.And that’s basically how the week progressed. We’d wake up, swim, breakfast, motor or sail to some beautiful bay, eat again, swim in the lovely warm, sparklingly clear turquoise waters, sunbathe, take our poor, put-upon souls to the awning-covered dining area at the stern of the deck and read or gossip or paint or write or fish or sleep. Then we’d usually go to yet another idyllic and secluded bay and anchor for the night and eat and chat and laugh. Some of us outdoor types even took to sleeping on deck under the stars some nights (and I am including myself in this party), and not just, as was unkindly suggested, because it was less distance to walk to the breakfast table in the morning. To call the week luxurious would be about right. The crew waited on us hand and foot and were polite and courteous to a man. The sailing was great, with guests not having to lift a finger unless they wanted to – and could convince the Skipper Aslan they knew what they were doing. Obviously the weather makes a great deal of difference to a holiday and we were lucky to have gorgeous sunshine for 10 hours a day for six of the seven days aboard, but even if it hadn’t been so good I’m sure everyone would have had just as good a time. If you like being on the water (with a professional crew doing all the hard work), in a relaxed atmosphere with no overly strict itinerary to adhere to and don’t mind eating and drinking well to boot, you could do a lot worse than think about hiring a gullet and sailing up and down the Turkish coast for your next holiday. I’ve certainly been recommending it to friends and am definitely considering doing it all over again. The scenery’s nice too. A guest writes…It’s all very well me telling you what it’s like on the Amazon Solo, but what did the others think? Here’s what Chuck said:“I was amazed with the quality of the food, it was gourmet level. The staff on the Amazon Solo were outstanding always there to be of service, yet not intrusive. The route chosen by the captain brought us within sight of countless ruins, and easy hikes to many of them. Turkey turned out to be a very clean country, with very friendly people. All in all, I was extremely pleased with the vacation. Very restful yet exciting, with wonderful people on the boat to share it with. ”And here’s what Diana said:“ Oh please, oh please, oh please – can we go again next year? ”Unsure about sharing a boat with a bunch of strangers? Here’s what Andy thought:“ To some the idea will sound like Hell, while to others of a more gregarious nature it will seem like perfectly ordinary stuff – I usually fall into the first of these brackets. However, most decent people adapt their normal behaviour to fit in with those around them. For example, I’m a smoker and one of our party was particularly anti-smoking. Fair enough, I’m not going to give up my enjoyment for them and yet I’m not going to spoil their enjoyment either, so I would make sure I wasn’t sitting upwind from them when I had a cigarette. Simple really. People who don’t know each other tend to be a little bit more polite, a little bit more forgiving and a little bit more accommodating than normal. We enjoyed the company of our fellow guests, and are still in touch with some of them six months later, so I for one wouldn’t hesitate to join a bunch of strangers again in future.”" Read More
Islands Magazine
Travel Publication
Mythical Playground in the Mediterranean
"On a sailing cruise along Turkey’s Turquoise Coast, it’s oh so easy to succumb to a lifestyle fit for the gods. As I lolled on the deck of the Amazon Solo, enjoying the opalescent waters of the eastern Mediterranean, I could see why even the crustiest of ancient mariners would wax poetic here. In these surroundings callous-palmed oarsmen had imagined Aphrodite as a ravishing young woman surrounded by singing water nymphs and muscular mermen blowing on conch shells. Who could blame the sailors for adopting as their patron deity the winsome Greek goddess of love? And what power over those mortals Aphrodite had! Hard-bitten captains maintained small alters to her and made sacrifices at seaside temples. The most famous shrine was in Cnidus, gateway to the stunning cliff-lined kingdom of Lycia, known today as Turkey’s Turquoise Coast. Conveniently for sailors, Aphrodite was frequently worshipped with Dionysus, the ecstatic god of wine ( and thus the promoter of love) who was depicted reclining on sailboats whose masts were entwined with vine leaves. In this sensuous seascape, myth and reality often blurred: When Queen Cleopatra sailed from Egypt in 41 B.C., intent on seducing Mark Anthony, she presented herself as the “New Aphrodite.” Her royal barge sparkled with precious metals, and silver-plated oars kept time to the music of flutes. Cleopatra reposed beneath a canopy of woven gold, fanned by plump young Cupids, while lovely nymphs worked the rigging. Mark Anthony never stood a chance. When they became lovers, the New Aphrodite sailed again – this time accompanied by her New Dionysus, who had taken to wearing vine ;eaves in his hair.Alas, Anthony and Cleopatra were doomed, and Aphrodite’s temple at Cnidus has long been destroyed. Meanwhile, the Turquoise Coast has weathered some of the great battles between Europe and Asia, Christianity and Islam, West and East. The kingdom of Lycia, purged of almost all Hellenic influence, is now part of Turkey, remembered largely because of the haunting rock tombs carved in sheer cliffs. But myth and romance continue to reign here. In the early 1960s a quartet of Turkish bohemians sailed along this forgotten coast in a rustic fishing boat. Navigating from cove to isolated cove, they discovered that the ancient Greek passion for beauty represented by Aphrodite had become part of the very fabric of the Turquoise Coast: The goddess’s soothing touch could still be felt in its warm, clear waters – while the liberating call of Dionysus echoed from every lonely beach. The waterborne bohemians, led by a writer who called himself the Fisherman of Halicarnassus, dubbed their idyllic sailing trip “the Blue Voyage,” and a new legend was born. Today the ancient kingdom of Lycia is the Med’s ultimate sailing destination, the new plus ultra of escapes from everyday cares into an aquatic Eden. I signed up for my own week-long Blue Voyage, which would take me into Turkish waters dotted with deserted islands, Byzantine saints, and sunken cities. The plan was to explore the playground of Aphrodite and Dionysus. Where else could a modern pagan gnaw on fresh figs, plunge from the deck of a yacht, and glimpse the ancient dream?I quickly discovered that today’s Turkish sailors are no less hedonistic than their ancient predecessors. The M/S Amazon Solo had barely eased its way out of Gocek’s marina, when Serhan, the boat’s amiable owner, raised his glass of milky, anise-flavoured raki and made a ritual toast: “For a safe journey: Pruvan neta olsun! May the ship’s prow stay clear.””Pruvan neta olsun!” chimed in young Captain Mustafa, knocking back his glass and taking the ship’s wheel. They both nodded towards a curious bauble hanging above their heads – concentric blue rings around a tiny yellow-and-black ball, a venerable Mediterranean charm against the Evil Eye, ” Serhan confided, rapping his knuckles on the wheel. “I prefer to touch wood.” His was a most convenient superstition to have on the Amazon Solo, a stunning 107-foot Black Sea schooner. The hull was made of chestnut, the deck of African iroko, and the interiors crafted from cedar and Indian walnut. In fact, the Amazon Solo – named for the race of warrior- women that legend had placed in Turkey – was the closest to Cleopatra’s luxury barge.Scarlet Turkish carpets warmed the state rooms; up on deck, white canvas lounge chairs were positioned to catch the sun’s rays. And, of course, there was a canopied dining table in the stern – although it was hung with blue sailcloth, not spun gold. Our first view of the coast was unexpectedly dramatic: The Twelve Islands in the Gulf of Fethiye were looming through the heat mist. Jagged silhouettes rose from a sea of glistening silver; sheer ochre cliffs plunged into the waves, where dolphins were frolicking. It was a theatrical setting fit for mythic events: Daedalus and his son Icarus had launched their flight on wings of wax and feathers from these pine covered mountains. And the legendary meeting between Anthony and Cleopatra had a modern echo: Prince Charles and Lady Diana are said to have had a secret rendezvous in these isles once, arriving in separate yachts in a vain attempt to rekindle passion’s flames.Our Blue Voyage was taking place in mid-October, at the end of the sailing season, when Turkish yacht owners like Serhan traditionally invite a group of friends for one last sail. Hence the cross-cultural mix of passengers: three Brits, a Turkish restaurateur, me (the lone New Yorker), and a gaggle of retired Italians.It sounded as though there were 50 Italians – especially when they all bellowed into their cell phones at once. But I counted only eight. An amazing bunch, the Italians, whose habits proceeded to set the laid-back tone for the cruise. They’d already caused us to depart four hours late by spending the whole morning in port looking for fresh basil to make pesto. Their leader was a frail, urbane, white-haired bachelor named Giorgio, who behaved like Louis XIV with his court, at least with regard to the five Gucci-clad women in the group. Doctors in Rome had insisted that Giorgio not smoke or drink coffee or wine. He spent every moment of the day smoking and drinking coffee and wine, all solicitously supplied by his bevy of elegant beauties. Giorgio quickly proclaimed himself my tutor on Dionysian principles. “Antonio!””Giorgio?””It is important to travel with a private harem,” he instructed, as one of his admirers put on a tape of his favourite opera – Italian, of course. Next morning at daybreak, I slipped over the side of the Amazon Solo and swam a few strokes to Gemiler island, pulling myself up onto a stone landing that had been placed there centuries ago. Branches of Mediterranean pines dipped to the water; a forest trail led up from the shore, past the Byzantine apses and columns of a ruined church whose hollows swarmed with bees. Gemiler was also known as St Nicholas island, in honour of the popular fourth-century bishop who became Noel Baba to the Turks, Father Christmas to Westerners. Saint Nick was renowned for his generosity: He once visited three virgins whose father had been left penniless and threw purses of gold into their house for the girls’ dowries. In the centuries after his death, Saint Nicholas became an international celebrity. (His grave was one of the holiest outposts of medieval Christendom, and he even came to displace Aphrodite as patron saint of sailors.) Eventually his cult extended to the wintry climes of Russia and Germany, where Protestants converted him into the jolly Santa Claus who delivers Christmas presents to children. Christmas snows were a long way from Gemiler that bright autumn morning. Ancient steps led me steeply upward, past a covered tunnel – a long passageway that ended at the island summit, where the remains of a church still commanded a view of the surrounding water. In Byzantine times the air would have been thick with incense, but since nature has reclaimed the breezes, every breath was rich with other scents. “Take a blind man …to Lycia,” wrote the Fisherman of Halicarnassus, “and he’ll immediately know from the smell of the air exactly where he is. The acrid perfume of lavender, the pungent fragrance of wild mint and thyme, will tell him.” Not to mention jasmine, honeysuckle, myrtle, and orange blossom. Back at the boat, the scent of fresh espresso assailed me. Giorgio’s harem had laid out a morning repast worthy of any Italian pasticceria, to the accompaniment of Puccini’s “Nessun Dorma.””Antonio!””Giorgio?””What did you see on the island?”He listened indulgently to my account before turning to more serious matters.”Interesting. But Antonio, today we have squid ink pasta for lunch.”By now I realized that, for Italians, the whole purpose of travel is to find the perfect place to eat spaghetti. They had transported their own pasta in bulk from Rome, along with fresh bulbs of mozzarella and a giant wheel of parmesan cheese. They had no less than three espresso machines, as well as saddlebags of Lavazza coffee. If they weren’t eating, they were talking about food. Food was more than an obsession, it was life itself.The key gourmet item, brought by a silver-haired chap named Corrado, would turn out to be a bottle of wine vintage 1898. Corrado was an architect, and while renovating an old Roman villa, he had discovered a cellar with 300 bottles of Chateau Lafitte. Half were being put up for auction – these bottles, selling at $15,000 a pop, were going to make him rich – the other half he was slowly drinking. Here on the boat, the bottle became a subject of feverish discussion among the Italians: When should Corrado open his 1898 time capsule? A question that was, of course, in keeping with the spirit of Dionysus. Punctuality is not a strong point for either Italians or Turks, but the next morning we cast off from our anchorage at 10 A.M. on the dot, just as Serhan had scheduled. Giorgio got up from his deck chair and looked at his watch in mock concern: “What is this, Switzerland?” As the Amazon Solo headed into the open sea, past the wild Seven Capes, it became obvious that the name Turquoise Coast was an understatement: The Mediterranean’s palette is never limited to a single colour. Close to shore the water’s tone is emerald green, bright as mouth wash; farther out, its depths are almost burgundy – recalling Homer’s “wine-dark sea.”For us the eastern Mediterranean had the same astonishing clarity it must have had for the wandering Odysseus: We could watch the floor of the sea passing 60 feet below; it seemed the boat was floating on air, not liquid. The water sparkled as if a million broken mirrors were scattered on its surface, so blindingly reflective you had to avert your eyes. For the next few days we drifted in and out of anchorages; one glorious spot, Butterfly Bay, was a mere sliver cut into sheer cliffs, visible only to an experienced captain. Every headland was encrusted with relics of the Lycians, whose forgotten culture is, as one Turkish writer put it, “an unsolvable riddle.”One thing is certain: The Lycians had a fine eye for real estate. All their cities had spectacular sea views. I saw the vestiges along our route: a sand-filled amphitheatre above the glorious 11-mile beach in Patara; stone sarcophagi like orange mushrooms littering the rocky coast. But none of these relics quite compared to what I found in the waters of Kekova island; the “sunken city.” While the Italians headed to the mainland to check out the local cappuccino, I took the dinghy and skirted the island’s shore. The Lycian coast is next to one of the most volcanic areas of the Mediterranean, and villagers claim that a great eruption 2,000 years ago flooded the channel here, drowning thousands and sweeping an entire city of marble into the sea. Archaeologists have a slightly less dramatic version: Kekova island was actually edged by modest market towns that slowly slipped beneath the waves, as earthquakes caused the coast to crumble like a biscuit dipped in coffee. I maneuvered the dinghy back and forth, peering into the water and trying to reconstruct the scattered bones of the past. In the 1980s this seafloor still held scattered amphorae and Byzantine mosaics, all long since stolen by antique hunters. But I could make out the foundations of buildings, a vague hint of a plaza, and what I took to be an ancient street. It was all very fragmentary, another Lycian riddle, the meaning utterly elusive – and in my imagination, irresistible.This place, where tectonic plates collide, is a better place than most to ponder the vagaries of destiny. One of history’s few surviving Lycian voices is a soldier in Homer’s Iliad, whose philosophical words might just be an epitaph for this entire, ruin-riddled land. “The race of man is like the leaves of a tree,” he says. “You look one way, and the wind blows them to the ground. You look the other, and spring returns. It gives birth to the new, makes green the forest. Thus one race departs, and another is born…”Back on board the boat, the Italians had convinced Serhan to seek out a harbour where they had heard decent gelato was sold.”Antonio!””Giorgio?””Why are you so busy with old stones? It is not healthy.”The next day, we eased into Kas – pronounced cash – a once-quiet sponge-divers’ town that now resembled a budget Cote d’Azur. The waterfront proudly sported a new marina beneath palm trees; cafes crowded the plazas with flower strewn tables. (“The Italian verdict on the chocolate gelato: “molto bene.”) The streets were full of Turkish carpet vendors, plus a mock-Greek temple advertising Aphrodite Jewellery. But you could turn a corner in Kas and be faced with a 19th-century world of smoky dives packed with Turkish men – always men – sipping hot tea from slender glasses, playing backgammon, and puffing on sweet tobacco through gurgling water pipes. At dusk the air became heavy with the scent of lamb kabobs on fragrant wood fires and alive with the wail of a Muslim muezzin drifting across the harbour.In fact, Kas straddled the Asian-European divide in a way that seemed distinctively Turkish – just as the Amazon Solo’s four-person crew did. On the conservative side were the deckhand Marem, a cherubic carpenter from the Black Sea who had recently taken a wife in an arranged Islamic marriage; and the cook,the somber, inscrutable Imdat, as animated as a ship’s figurehead, who looked like he should really be wearing a fez and long robes. On the Western side of the spectrum there was Captain Mustafa – habitue of every late-night bar in the Mediterranean – whose designer T-shirts and eyewear made him appear more European than the Europeans. And there was also the unflappable Serhan, a former shipping agent in his late 30s, who looked as if he’d be as comfortable living in London or New York as in Istanbul.After dark I accompanied Serhan on his social rounds in Kas. The town, so somnolent by day was now humming with activity, shops ablaze with lights as if Noel Baba was expected any moment. The sidewalks were piled with antiques and pyramids of fluorescent pink Turkish sweets. Next to French restaurants serving nouvelle cuisine, huge sides of meat were being carved in the open, and the bars kept pounding out classic rock’n’roll.It took the Amazon Solo only 15 minutes to motor from Turkish Kas to the Greek island of Kastellorizon, and two hours for Serhan to arrange the paperwork – a comment on the sorry state of official relations ever since the bloody wars of the early 1920s, which resulted in forced population exchanges between the two countries. Unofficially, however, at least on Kastellorizon, the Greeks and the Turks behave more like rival siblings than angry nations. Mustafa made the mistake of leaving the Turkish flag flying above the Greek one, and the island’s harbourmaster triumphantly sent him scurrying up the mast to change it.”Up with the Greek flag!” he cheered. “Down with the Turkish!”Kastellorizon, about 80 miles from Rhodes, is the most isolated of all Greek islands. This remoteness has not been without its benefits: Ignored for decades, it may well be the most picturesque island in the Mediterranean. As we sailed in toward the row of pastel buildings lining the waterfront, old men flicked their worry beads and fed fish scraps to cats, luridly painted fishing boats bobbed at anchor, bougainvillea framed the weathered blue tables of the tavernas. At the only café, a grandmotherly woman named Angela, dressed all in black, gave me a pomegranate to go with my Greek coffee in the middle of the afternoon.”I didn’t know Greek islands like this still existed”, marvelled Caroline, one of my shipmates. “It looks like a film set.””Looks?” Giorgio shook his head at our ignorance. “Eh! Pellicola italiana: An Italian movie. Academy Award, 1991. Very, very beautiful.”He was talking about Mediterraneo, a film about a handful of Italian soldiers stranded on a Greek island during World War 11. When the producers needed a location that hadn’t changed since 1942, they were delighted to find Kastellorizon. Today, with fewer than 300 inhabitants, it still looks like a vintage postcard – although a bevy of Greek-Australians have returned here in recent years, restoring old family houses and bringing new life to the place.The back alleys of the village zigzagged toward a medieval fortress above the harbour. There, two Greek soldiers sat by a pillbox, their shirts off in the sun, nibbling a picnic of olives and tzatziki and waiting for a Turkish invasion. Five hundred whitewashed steps farther, at the peak of the island, the wreck of an Orthodox monastery was being guarded by goats. And at dusk, instead of the lonely wail of a muezzin, church bells tolled over the streets far below. And yet – you could never tell this to a Greek or Turk – to an outside observer, the similarities between the two countries were more striking than their differences. After dark the waterfront became an outdoor living room, with TV sets propped up on tables, all tuned to a soccer match in Athens. Sea bass and octopus were being barbecued on grills, and glasses filled with ice-cold retsina. Sounds of a swing band from a passing yacht added Glenn Miller to the party atmosphere”You know, if the population of this island falls below 200 people,” Serhan challenged the Greek taverna owner, “by treaty it reverts to Turkish control!””Only if you come with lots of guns!” said the Greek, laughing.”G-o-o-o-a-l!” cried the Italians, glued to the TV.The next day , we navigated remoter straits to Gokkaya Bay, where the landscape became more unearthly by the hour. Until now, the Lycian mountains had seemed oddly familiar, even vaguely Californian. But here the coast became brittle and rocky. Twisted claws of stone emerged from the water. Jagged islets seemed to rise and fall with the tides – no wonder Greek sailors considered them the barbs of Poseidon’s trident. It was as though we’d entered an ancient water maze, with a million coves hidden from the rest of the world. To my relief – and the mortification of the Italians – even cell phones couldn’t pick up signals in Gokkaya Bay.It was in this lost world that I finally fell into the rhythm of the Blue Voyage. I’d wake in the still of dawn and set off by kayak, listening to delirious birds as the sun rose through the mist. Around me flying fish leaped out of the placid water. Then, after a Homeric breakfast of honey and feta cheese, I’d tackle a modest excursion – snorkelling over Lycian ruins, say, or hiking to an unexcavated Lycian site where sarcophagi protruded from the pale soil. I’d come across scenes that recalled Ottoman – era paintings: a quail hunter, his rusted antique carbine slung over his shoulder, wandering with his dog; a young Muslim man and his fiancee sitting in silence by the water, the girl’s mother perched on a rock higher up, watching them like a hawk. The climax of each day was the Dionysian, three-hour lunch. Although Giorgio always insisted on his bowl of pasta, Imdat would lay out Turkish specialities – a succulent egg-plant dish called “the Holy Man Swoons,” lamb kafta, green beans in garlic, herbed yoghurt.Each course was washed down with bountiful infusions of cold white wine, the full glassed sparkling like diamonds in the warm sun, their contents slowly but surely dissolving any afternoon plans. I would end up reclining on pillows like a pasha – feeling, in fact, not unlike Dionysus himself. There was still one ritual left to perform. On our last day, under the rising moon, Corrado announced that the moment had come to open his 1898 wine. By now anticipation had reached fever pitch. We examined the faded label, which announced that this sauterne was an after dinner favourite of the King of Spain. We crowded about Corrado as he peered at the cork and smelled the bouquet. We watched in anticipation as he considered the viscosity and measured the precious liquid into 14 glasses, half an inch in each. To think that when this was bottled, in 1898, Cezanne and Toulouse-Lautrec were exhibiting in the salons, a new Strauss composition was premiering, and Chekhov’s Seagull was opening in Moscow. It was a touching Europhile moment – except that Asia stole the show. As we stood on deck, the Turkish coast glistened in silver moonlight. The Milky Way – the ancient Greek pathway to heaven – swirled into eternity. Giorgio made a toast: “Guarda che luna,” he proclaimed, sweeping his arm to encompass the wonders of Gokkaya Bay. “Guarda che mare.” Behold what a moon. Behold what a sea.How did the wine taste? To be honest, like a $1.99 sherry. But nobody cared. East and West had joined once again on the Turquoise Coast, and the afterglow was delicious." Read More
The New York Times
US National Newspaper
Comfortably Cruising the Coast of Turkey
"KALKAN, Turkey – A mousy looking, all-wood schooner called a gulet has been the workhorse of the Turkish Mediterranean ‘’blue voyages’’ for more than 30 years. Now, gulets are getting a face lift as comfort-conscious Americans want bigger and better. Traditionally, these coastal cruiser were built at about 50 feet; now they are coming in at 120 feet and provide a perfect environment for those who just want to put up their feet and watch the clouds roll by These broad-beamed boats with voluminous deck space are for hire along the Turkish coast, a place of hidden surprises where one undiscovered cove might hide a 1,500 year-old temple. The spring and summer months are the busiest time for these work-horses. They hold up to six couples varying degrees of comfort and provide one of the great travel bargains as well as allowing the passive sailor to combine a marine experience with cruising comforts… in a new 120 footer named the Amazon Solo the accommodations were surprising: a double bed, a separate head and shower. All rooms look out at the water. The blue voyage got its name, naturally, from the techniclored blue of the water. An informal route began in the early 60’s when historians wanted to discover a lost part of Turkey. Some of these blue voyages rediscovered the Blue Cave, a sea cave near Kalkan that is one of the country’s natural wonders. There is the bay at Myra, where you slow to view a series of tombs cut into rock. There are places called Rat Island, Goat Island, Snake Island. Along the way, you might spy a dolphin. Tours begin from Kalkan, a city on the eastern Mediterranean, Marmaris and Bodrum, which is becoming known as the Riviera of Turkey for its cosmopolitan crowd, including the financier Ahmet Ertegun and the actor Dustin Hoffman….. The boats are hand-built of chestnut and oak, the interior of cedar and Indian walnut by local craftsmen in the Black Sea. Much of the cruising is on motor power. Because the boats are close to shore, there are times when there isn’t enough wind. But for a few hours a day, when the wind is right, they host the sails. Because of wide decks, there is room for everyone to sit and schmooze aft, where meals are often served. The fellow doing the serving could be the chef, a deckhand, or even the captain…" Read More
