From Cairo to the Connemara: A Sojournal

Pt2 - 6: THE WHITE TERRACES, AND THAT'S A WRAP FOR TURKEY... This morning’s two hundred and thirty seven kilometre drive from Fethiye took a lazy 4 hours and factored in a little scenic detour through the mountain villages of Altinyalya and Gölisar. We could tell by the way everyone stopped and watched the car go by they’re not used to strangers in these here parts; they’re probably still talking about those dumb tourists who drove through one year. Snow lay on the peaks all around and the countryside, though ruggedly beautiful, is a season behind at this altitude and has not yet stirred to spring. Bare poplars, ramshackle buildings, families in their horse-drawn carts meandering along the roadside, orchards of sticks just beginning to bud; we could’ve been passing through a film set of pre-revolutionary Russia. We’re now installed in room 213 of the Lycus River Thermal Springs Hotel in Pamukkale. It’s about five kilometres out of town in a precinct of upmarket touristeleries. By...

Pt2 - 5: WHEELING SOUTH We exxed Sel ç uk at 9 and were clambering over the wet, grey sandstone ruins of Priene an hour later. We made the most of having the ruins to ourselves by planting our damp arses on the royal seats in the theatre and pretending to be Emperor and Empress, commanding the plebs to kneel before us. Our voices echoed off the dramatic backdrop of sheer sandstone cliffs which reminded me of the landscape around Delphi in Greece, but there wasn’t much else to engage us here so we jumped back in the car and made for Dydima via Miletus. The big gape at Dydima is the Temple of Apollo. Sadly, it’s flanked right up to the fences on all sides by shabby carpet merchants and cheap pensions. We dined lavishly at the Apollo Temple Restaurant & Café Bar & not carpet shop, I on a chilli steak and Tess on a bubbling lamb creation called Gure ç e. Fending off swarms of second rate carpet hustlers we crossed the road into the Precinct of Apollo. Enough remains of the magn...

 Pt2 - 4: THE MONA LISA of BERGAMA, EPHESUS and OPERATION TIME MANAGEMENT The bus to Bergama was another luxury cruiser complete with valet service, so the four hour journey through snow covered villages on the high road to K ücükkuyu and rolling farmlands along the Aegean coast to Dikili then Bergama seemed much shorter. I kept this to myself at the time, you’re the first person I’ve mentioned it to. The young woman in the Bergama Tourist Office was the living Mona Lisa, a beauty so knuckle-bitingly ethereal as to make hardened philistines weep. I hid the teeth marks with my gloves. Wasted in such a menial role, La Giaconda with consummate grace found us accommodation at the Pension Böblingen. Run by a Turkish family who’d spent six years in Stuttgart as gastarbeiters, or guest workers, the pension was friendly, warm and comfortable. We passed a long night huddled around the heater in the lounge sharing drinks and conversation with a young English couple, both archaeologists. ...

 Pt2 - 3: ANZAC The bus to Ç anakkale (Chan- ack -ally) was a pleasant surprise, a state-of-the-art Mitsubishi cruiser with luxury reclining aircraft seats, spacious overhead lockers, huge panorama windows, air-con and a two-man crew – the driver and a conductor/attendant. It was fully booked, but once we settled in we could’ve been the only travellers on the bus. We were studying the route on our map when I heard something I suddenly realised I hadn’t heard for forty-six days, an Australian accent coming from a few seats further back. It was inevitable of course, since we were about to undertake the compulsory pilgrimage to Gallipoli, but I caught myself feeling mildly peeved Tess and I weren’t the only Aussies. I also caught myself thinking it was amazing we hadn’t come across any other Australians in the five days we spent traipsing around Istanbul. We nosed silently out of the Otogar, or Central Bus Station, at precisely 9:45 and within twenty minutes were on the outskirts of...