The Turquoise Coast..... Kas - part 2

The next day we’re up early and in the square to catch the shuttle for our boat trip. It’s another dazzling blue sky day with a sun that’s belting down and our spirits are high. We board the bus, smiles bright and wish everyone a cheery “Morning all!” Various Hi’s and hellos pop back, but what resonates loudest to my ears is a dry “oh don’t you hate it when you’re stuck on a tour with loud people,” from a woman who then proceeds to discuss at length at her neighbour in a strident voice how she thinks tours are for people who can’t organise their own lives or don’t have imagination. I try hard not to take her comment personally, telling myself I’ve probably stepped into the bus in the middle of her conversation and turn to the woman next to me and smile. She picks up her book and proceeds to bury her head into it and doesn’t resurface for the full 45minuets of the bus trip (or for that matter, the next 7hours - obviously a good book!)

We’re taken high into the hills then back down through small shanty like villages (we’re told by the guide they are nomads) to the port at Ucagiz where we board a beautiful timber double-decker boat and head out into a glorious blue on blue on absolute blue bay. The water is so clear you can see metres into it. Straight down it is the prettiest palest aquamarine, look outwards a few meters and it’s the most luminous blue.
Our first stop is the ancient sunken shipyard where we bob for an hour to enjoy a swim and sunbake. I dip my toe into the Med and pull it out in an instant. The water is like ice. The guide laughs and tells us it is sitting at about 20degrees which doesn’t sound all that cold. M dives in and gives a gasp. It’s freezing he tells me. I retreat to the top deck and enjoy an hour of clicking the scenery and chatting with fellow passengers who are also too chicken to face the water.

An hour later we pull up anchor just as another boat is approaching and I begin to understand the comment of the “no music”. It’s not about having pleasant chill-out beachy music playing in the back ground. It’s obvious some of the boats are full on party boats and this boat is one with it’s fast pace beats and lots of raucous voices emanating across the bay.

Out of earshot we glide past the sunken city of Kalekoy, the captain taking the boat as close to the city's watery edge as possibly allowed. It’s beautiful and mesmerising as we stare down into what was once houses and streets. A set of stairs goes to nowhere in the deep, further along the curved outline of a church can be seen. Above the waters line, crumbling ruins cascade down the steep mountain side. Kalekoy was once the bustling town of Simena until a series of destructive earthquakes sunk her six meters into the sea way back in the 2nd century AD.

I stare at it trying to get a grasp of the enormity of something so old. In Australia the oldest building we have wouldn’t even be close to 250years old yet. As much as it is glorious to drift close to the ruins, I would have loved to have kayak over the very top of it and be able to look directly down and see what once was. The sun flickers across the waves blurring the lines of history and shrouding it in a glaze of mystery.

The motor switches on and we leave the sunken ruins for a pirate’s cave which doesn’t look like much from the outside but is pretty impressive inside, then it’s to a small cove for another swim. This time I jump in, loose breath and grab the under side of the ladder to heave myself out of the water. I’ve lost all feeling! The water is unbearably cold. I’m back on deck within a minuet of entering the water and spend the next 10 wrapped in a towel with teeth chattering on the top deck.

M toughs it out and swims for a while. When he reboards, he is a strange two-toned colour, the tips of his fingers and toes are a brilliant white, the rest of his body is a funny shade of purple. It takes awhile for his normal colour to return. It’s embarrassing to admit we live near the beach, one of the best beaches in Australia, if not the world and we’re finding the Med too cold.

As the boat continues on we watch large green turtles bob up and down and swim along, they are so majestic to watch and I’ve not seen turtles this large so close before. Lunch is a delicious chicken sis with an array of salads that are very moreish and it’s all washed down with a pale ale. The party boat catches up to us and it sends both us and the turtles scuttling for somewhere quieter, another cove with more ruins perched on a hill close by. If we want to explore these ruins we must swim to the land. I can’t bring myself to even put my little toe in the water. The castle on the hill goes unexplored. How I wished the boat had a dingy attached for shore excursions.

I’m keen to get off the boat and explore the area and am delighted to hear that our last stop will be a tiny rock hugging hamlet which has a striking fortress perched high above it and an array of Lycian Tombs scattered across the ridge top.

We have only an hour on land, no where near enough time to explore the village, the tombs, the ancient city walls or the Crusader Fortress and as soon as the boat docks at the flower filled wharf, M and I sprint past the restaurant spruikers and scramble up the hundreds of steps to the fortress that was built back in the middle ages to protect the village and area from pirates who nested in the waters of Kekova.

 
We’re awarded with the most incredible views of the surrounding countryside and endless blue sea, it’s stunning. By time we do a quick look the fortress, take in its turrets, small theatre and spy a beautiful mosaic floor from a distance, we have less than 15minutes to walk the ridge line to the Lycian Tombs of Teimiussa. This miniscule timeframe confirms to us the reasons we’ve always been so reluctant to undertake tours ourselves and this last stop makes us feel like we’re running through a ‘tick it off your list’ process. Thinking of the words of the opinionated woman from this morning, I find myself wondering aloud, “just imagine what an extra hour in this landscape could unfold.” 

A glorious trip in ruins.... Kas - part 1.

Other than becoming ‘deaf’ from the ear-popping 4660ft drop on the D350 mountain road, the 13hour night bus from Cappadocia to Fethiye is one of the best bus trips I’ve ever had the pleasure to do – smooth, comfortable and at times, extremely picturesque with an amazing light show from an evening electrical storm across the plains to a glorious sunrise dawning over soaring mountains, some of which glistened with remnants of snow.   The two hour mini-bus from Fethiye to Kas is horrendous. Not the worst bus trip I’ve ever been on (that accolade belongs to a Nepal moment of madness) but a bone shaker in any case. With windows and doors sealed tight, the driver refused to use any form of air ventilation and must have imagined he was driving an Audi sports along the Mediterranean coastline, cutting the corners so tight and hitting the brakes with such familiarity I was kind of wishing I’d just pass out from the stifling airless vacuum we were encased in.

The views of the Turkish Med were just as breathtaking as the driving skills we were experiencing and how I wished we could stop and really take them in at their full glory. We’ve arrived at Kas thoroughly shaken and became extremely stirred up when we see how quaint and laid back it is.

It’s love at first sight with the little guesthouse I’ve booked us into, only eight rooms with the sweetest little front veranda where breakfast is served every morning. A bow of vines covers the veranda, which is then framed by bright pink oleanders and pottered geraniums. Above the vines sits a row of windows with black laced wrought iron fringing contrasting against the stark Mediterranean whitewash. We can’t believe our luck with this place. It’s cosy, internally adorable and extremely cheap at only $30Australian dollars a night. Unfortunately I think they’ve forgotten to put a mattress on the bed. It is cement hard. Trouble is I’m finding all the beds rock hard in Turkey and wonder if perhaps it's my namby-pamby bones that are the problem. When I mentioned this to another Aussie we meet later down the track she agrees with me and imparts that she thinks it’s we Aussies who are too soft and maybe the beds are perfectly fine.

As we only have three full days in Kas the first thing we want to do was organise a kayaking trip over the sunken city of Kekova. In fact this is our whole reason in coming to Kas, so you can imagine our utter disappointment when we discover that none of the tour operators have been issued licences for kayaking tours and it’ll be at least another 10days before they can possibly have them. We just can’t believe we’ve missed ‘the boat’ again in our timing. We jump at the next best thing in touring the site and sign up for a one day boat trip that includes seeing a number of sites and a BBQ lunch. The operator announces with pride there’ll be no music on the boat. I think this a little strange at the time because I’m not adverse to music at all and begin to wonder if we’ve signed up for the ‘aged pensioners’ trip.

Once booked we take up exploring Kas village and I develop a case of the “OMG’s”. I can’t stop gushing over the adorable windows and door fixtures of the cottages, the single enclosed timber balcony rooms that jut out from the middle of the second storeys and the vine shrouded streets hung with lanterns.

Along the walls, fences and verandas sit rows of old olive tins potted with geraniums. Geraniums and pansies also fill old shoes, tea cups and at one place two pairs of jeans with healed boots. Evil eye amulets and colourful beads dot the marble and slate pathways and cobbled roads and lush vibrant kilims cover tables, chairs and cosy daybeds throughout the laneways.

We wander up ‘Slippery Street’ and find tombs carved into the rock mountainside Kas clings to. The view across to the Greek Island – a ‘stones throw away’ – is stunning. The Med is the most amazing blue I’ve ever seen, so incredibly clear and iridescent. M announces “chill time” and we amble down to the Tea Gardens which sit near the village square and face the port, and order Efes beers to cool away the afternoon heat. I notice a wreath being placed near the main squares statue and a small gathering of people holding a ceremony. After a speech, heads are bowed and people who were sitting around us or walking past all stand up and bow their heads for a moment of silence. I don’t know why they are doing this, but out of respect we too stand up and faced the wreath. Then people return to what they’re doing. M and I surmise this day must be some sort of remembrance day, similar to Armistice Day or our Anzac Day. Later in the evening I catch our guesthouse housekeeper crying as she watches the TV in the common area as I walk past. I ask her if she is alright but she speaks almost no English and so I don’t understand her answer. I smile kindly to her, nod and continue on my way. I don’t look at the TV. Because we’re so tired from the lack of sleep on the bus, we grab a Kabap takeaway, eat it on the veranda and retire early to bed.

We’re still getting over our flu sniffles so we’ve booked the cruise for our last day in Kas, thus today we’ll hire a car and drive back towards Fethiye to actually see that part of the coast. There’s a town everyone on TA is raving about, Oludeniz, and I want to see for myself what all the fuss is about. We head up onto the highway and begin driving when we notice that Kas has a peninsular so we double back to take a drive around it. I’m disappointed to see that wide scale development of ugly square block buildings cling with the hillside and cascade down to the beaches, they are all the same, oversized and characterless. Despite this, from the peninsular we have a great view of an incredible gouge that hangs over the coastal road across from the bay – it’s as if the mountain has split in two.

Back on the coast road we drive the switch-backs, dodging other cars, tourist busses that are stoping to let tourists out to take photos and a heard of goats ambling along with no particular place to go. They are taking their time and enjoying the view. The sign for Letoon comes into view and we turn off the highway and drive along dusty roads surrounded by plastic covered hot-houses filled to the brim with plump ripe tomatoes. Well we try to drive, what I really should say is, we played chicken and hop-scotch with the tractors loaded to the hilt with farm workers and packed high with boxes of tomatoes. So many tomatoes, they spilled onto the roadway, splattering the road with great splotches of red.

At the end of patchwork of paddocks and hothouses, we come across a theatre and ruins site which dates back to the 6th century BC.



Though not very big, it’s quite a lovely site, flecked with ancient olive trees with the gnarliest trunks I’ve ever seen.

Across the other side of the river from Letoon and up a hill is another ruin, this time larger. Xanthos. With an amazing Roman theatre and Lycian tomb sitting high on a pillar – definitely the best viewing spot of what ever was going on in theatre. As I sat in the back row of the theatre I tried to imagine this place back in the time of the Lycians for Xanthos was once it’s capital and a very grand city. That is until the Persians came and attacked and defeated the Lycians, and then those Lycians who survived the battle retreated to the city of Xanthos and killed their wives, children, servants and slaves before launching a suicide attack on the Persians. It reminded me of the Puputan of Balinese – so many lives lost.

The site is impressive, but I was disappointed and annoyed to read that many of the original bas reliefs and important artefacts of Xanthos had been taken from the site in the 1840’s by a Sir Charles Fellows and now sat in a British Museum. We went hunting for the large mosaic floor I’d seen a photo of but was unable to find it until M kicked his toe against a lump of gravel and old carpet and discovered it was the covering to the Mosaics and that this had been placed over the enormous floor area to protect the tiles and their colouring.

Further along on a hill was a lone tomb on a pillar, quite a magnificent piece surrounded by scrub and overlooking a sea of plastic polly-tunnels for as far as the eye could see. It was getting late and the sun was scorching, especially when we were walking around the granite rock theatre and acropolis so we jump into the car and continue on to Fethiye. We don’t get too far, as when we arrive back at the highway (after passing rows of rock tombs carved into the hill above Xanthos) we see the sign on the other side of the highway saying Saklikent Gorge. This was a definite must see on my list, but I was sure Saklikent Gorge was near Antayla, not Fethiye. I referred to our Map and saw there were two Saklikents. M decides that since we were near a Saklikent, there’d be no harm in checking it out to see if it’s the one I was thinking of. It’s back to dodging tomato tractors along the road, this time they are stopping to offload onto trucks that are parked under trees and further up the tractors become jeeps filled with adventure tourists zooming along the at full speed. The jeeps all screech to a halt near the river, off load the tourists who then all hold hands, walk into the river (only ankle deep) and proceed to cover themselves in mud, that is after they perform some sort of strange ritual, which I’m sure the tourists think is honouring something ancient, but in reality is probably giving the ‘guides’ and the drivers a good internal giggle – I know we were getting a laugh out of it!

We arrive to the entrance at Saklikent Gorge and find lots of gorgeous little teashops with hammocks and daybeds suspended over a creek. From a distance it looks so tranquil and adorable and as we’ve had no lunch yet, decide to drap ourselves across the beds, indulge in Turkish cuisine and watch the ducks paddle. The platforms the day beds are on are covered in flowers and greenery and when we come closer I discover the flowers are all plastic. It’s so very Kitch! But ever so sweet. The paddling ducks turn out not to be so sweet as they try to mount the platforms and steal our food. Almost as bad as cheeky Balinese monkeys!

Keeping tabs on time in Turkey is hard. In the spring/summer, the sun doesn’t set till late and it’s a super strong sun that belts down giving you the impression it’s only about midday, so imagine our surprise to find that we are lunching at nearly 4pm. Plans of going to Oludeniz and Fethiye disappear as it it becomes a quick gobble and go of lunch as we want to walk the Gorge and last entrance is at 5pm.

Saklikent Gorge is the second largest gorge in Europe and at 20kms long it’s the longest/deepest gorge in Turkey so we should have realised it was going to take a bit more than an hour to walk through it, but of course all sensibility goes off into the never-never when you’re on holidays and ‘you’ think it’ll be right…. a typical aussie mantra if ever there is one!... and we pay our ticket price and make our way into the gorge.

As we walk along the board walk from the entrance to the first crossing point we come across a number of couples walking the opposite direction, one couple stop and tell us they had been followed and ‘helped’ by a chap then at the end hit-up for guide money so be warned, and another couple told us they didn’t get to the waterfall as it was too hard. When we arrive at the end of the boardwalk a young chap offers his assistance to guide us up the gorge and wants 40TL – we don’t have any money with us as we knew we’d be walking through water and other than the camera weren’t carrying anything else. We tell him this and he tells us we’re not allowed in the gorge without a guide. We see another couple heading towards us, no guide in sight and mention this to the chap. He tells us they are locals, been here lots of time. I start to worry about going into the gorge. Another couple comes out, again no guide. Again the chap tells us they’re Turkish and they are allowed, but foreigners aren’t. 

I’m so disappointed and on the verge of turning back when M decides to hell with it and ignores the chap and leads me into the water. THE FREEZING WATER! Water that is so cold, I loose all feelings in my toes and lower regions. It goes to my waist. I no longer have a lower half anymore; it has turned to into an ice sculpture! M comments that in years to come, archaeology teams will have to excavate the gorge to find the lost ‘marbles of manhood’ that many a man will have lost in this river crossing.

We get to the other side and begin the slow slippery walk up the gorge. It is stunning! Pure white marble walls extend up, glowing in the afternoon light, water the color of cream rushes against our legs, we can’t see a thing in the water and so have to feel carefully with our feet. I’m terrified of getting my foot caught in any rocks/boulders. We traverse the gorges river from side to side, looking for safe footholds and not so deep water.

No more people are walking out of the gorge. Other than the rushing water and our breaths the gorge is quiet. It becomes colder and darker as we walk further in. The walls soar above us and the gap of sky becomes smaller and smaller until the walls either side appear to be touching. About an hour or so into the gorge we come to a point where we can no long just walk, but have to climb and scramble over rocks.

We can hear a loud crashing sound. To me it sounds like thunder and because we cannot see above us anymore, I can’t tell if there is a dark cloud above us or it’s the gorge wall touching. M thinks it’s a plane flying above us, but it’s too intermittent in my opinion to be an aircraft noise. “Perhaps it’s the waterfall we can hear” he says to calm me. We find it too hard to climb the rocks and so turn around to head back out. The water rushes around our legs and the rumbling gets louder. It takes less time to walk out of the gorge than in and when we arrive back at the boardwalk there’s not a soul around. At the ticket booth we find the place completely locked up, all gates closed except for a small gate near a bridge. There is no-one in the ‘shopping area’ either. M looks at the time. It’s 7.30pm. It’s also starting to rain. The noise was thunder. I’m horrified at the thought that we were in a gorge as a storm is approaching. I’m horrified that we are the last people to leave the gorge and that no-one of authority is around to do a ‘head count’ or to do a check of gorge to make sure everyone is out safely. I’m horrified to the point of pure exhilaration – as I feel a surge of freedom from the namby-pamby ‘high-vis’ safety conscious life we lead in Australia.

Later, as we walk the lantern lit streets of Kas, we come across a row of hard hats with candles lit beside them. It’s a make shift memorial and I ask the tea-house owner across the road from it what it’s all about. He explains that the nation of Turkey has just suffered a devastating accident and loss of life, a mining disaster that has taken the lives of at least 301men. I’m horrified at this news and it dawns on me now why our guesthouse ‘mum’ was crying last night. This tragedy will touch the lives of so many Turkish people we meet as we continue our travels, nearly everyone knows someone who has been touched. I send prayers to the universe to watch over the souls lost and protect and comfort those who remain. My heart goes out to Turkey and her beautiful people.

 

The perfect place to dwell in the past....

 

“Umm, isn’t this our side?” I say to M with a hint of trepidation in my voice.

 M swerves sharply to the left, shrugs his shoulders and replies dryly “He’s allowed to, he owns it, it use to be his farm.” I stifle a laugh and instead groan at his joke as the tractor with its gaily painted trailer thunder past and we move back to the right side of the road. Tractors appear to be the mode of transport here, I’m sure there’s two and half tractors to every car…. and by the half tractor, I mean the little rotary hoe style tractor, also with trailer, we’re seeing everywhere trundling along the road. M is in his element, he’s behind the wheel and sharpening his wits against the Turkish drivers. There’s obviously a method to the madness I’m seeing in the rules of the road here, I just haven’t worked it out yet…. and we’re in rural Turkey where the traffic is a little more sedate.

We’ve arrived in Goreme. But looking at this spectacular and unusual landscape, I could easily imagine I'm on the moon or in the cartoon - The Flintstones. When we first arrived I found myself wondering if I’d booked us into a big quarry instead of a village. Massive holes were being dug, elsewhere rocks and cut block stones laid in jumbled piles, and the noise of trucks and building equipment gave the impression lots of work was in progress.

What appeared to be half finished houses were jutting out of massive rock walls and odd shaped stone hills had odd shaped windows and doors dotting them.  Initially as the bus transferring us from the airport to Goreme had trundled down the steep incline, I couldn’t see the charm or magic this honey colour village was said to ooze and I had a minor freak out at having booked us in here for six days and nights as to whether we'd want to stay in this bizarre landscape for so long. As they say, ‘being unable to see the trees for the forest’, or in my case, ‘the sweetness for the honey’.

We were booked into the Kelebek Cave House and the moment I saw our room all nervousness of having ‘mucked it up’ dissipate in a puff of apple spiced smoke. It was divine. Surrounded in solid rock; walls and ceilings with swirls of carved indents, with old polish floors covered in rich red heavily patterned carpet and adorable kilim covered ottoman stools the room infused romance and old world charm. We were then taken for a tour of the guesthouse’ public areas and upon stepping onto the terrace with the two fairy chimney cave rooms we took one look at the view of the village below and melted into puddles of effervescent delight. Below sandstone homes with terracotta rooves were higgle-piggled with honeycombed mounds, dashes of red and pink peaked around corners in the form of potted geraniums and patches of green lit up the caramel and beige pallet.

As the setting sun painted the sky in the softest pink I’d ever seen and surrounding hills with their cascading ripples of valleys shone a brilliant red, pink and white, the lights of the honeycombed mounds and houses turned the valley and village of Goreme into a twinkling fairyland. This fairyland night glow was topped of by the illuminated sparkle of the Uchisar castle above the valley. 

 

The sound of horses hooves clip-clopping on cobblestones along with a ring of bells woke me just as sunrise was poking its rays across the valley. Pulling a robe over my jim-jams,  I rushed out to our private little balcony that overlooked Goreme and searched the skies for balloons. I couldn’t see any. Thinking they may be coming over from the other side of Kelebek, I went to the dining terrace but again the skies were empty. A stiff breeze was blowing, the skies were turning mauve to blue and it was freezing cold. Ice cold. I rushed back into our room and huddled under the big duvet that weighed a tonne but was so toasty warm. M was awake, but he looked dreadful. The sniffle of two days earlier had become a full blown flu.

M was determine to soldiered on though, and dragged himself out of bed to the dinning room that was laid with the most scrumptious Turkish breakfast to melt the tastebuds along with the most sumptuous views and then we walked down the hill to the main centre of town. We didn’t go very far before we came across a sign declaring “the best coffee until Oz” caught our attention. As embarrassed as I am to write this, I have to say after only a week into our Turkey ramble I was desperate for a coffee that tasted like home. Turkish coffee can be pretty good I agree, but it can be so strong and black, it reminds me of an advertisement once shown on Australian TV, where the call line was “Got any blacker….” Milk is just waved over the top. We couldn’t resist, sank down into a seat and gingerly ordered a 'flat white'. The barista knew exactly what we were asking for and made it to perfection! For the next five days Café Safak became our bolt hole for coffee, along with a contingent of other aussies visiting the area.  The Mamma of the café was Fatima and when she first heard we were Aussies she greeted us like family with a warm embraced and told us about her son, Ali now living in Melbourne – the ultimate home of coffee in Australia! The barista was a lovely young Afghani man called Mohammed (for some weird reason I kept calling him Oostas….not sure where I got that from, but I was so embarrassed when it suddenly dawned on me that I had his name wrong) who was a former translator during the recent war and was now awaiting resettlement. I can only hope his wishes of resettlement in Australia can come true for him as he has such dreams and hopes for the future, which in part. includes owning a coffee shop – he’ll be an absolute asset to our coffee-loving nation if he does because his coffee is some of the best we’ve ever tasted. It also turned out that apart from serving up great coffee and a wicked prize-winning lentil soup, this little café had a side business in cooking classes.

M and I quickly booked ourselves in for a half day course for the following day, which takes place in Fatima’s home and is taught by her daughter. The house turned out to be a cosy little cave abode, complete with fairy chimney roof and carved out alcoves inside. M and I had wanted to do a Turkish cooking class but found the classes in Istanbul out of our budget allocation. Fatima’s home cooking class fitted the bill perfectly and we cooked up a storm of traditional Anatolian dishes. I couldn’t believe how easy it was to make such great tasting Turkish fare and was stunned at the ingredient combination and techniques used. We made so much delicious food it was impossible to eat it all for lunch (but we gave it a good try!). M was waning, his nose was running like a tap and he’d developed a chesty cough, so he returned back to the guesthouse whilst I wandered out of the village and to the Goreme open air museum.

It was packed and cave viewing space was at a premium. The area of Cappadocia was at one stage a refuge area for Christians in the 4th to 11th centuries and thus the open air museum is abundant with churches, hidden in tiny hidey holes with tunnel entrances, some double storey. Many of the cave churches had signs asking for no more than 15 or 20 people at a time inside but of course nobody, including the tour guides, took any notice and everyone would pack like sardines into the ancient hollowed churches. It was also signed that the taking of photos was not allowed and at first (though I perfectly understand and agree with the reasoning - to protect the colours of the frescos) I was a little disappointed, but this very quickly dissipated when I realised that by not looking at the frescos through a camera lens and spending time trying to set up the ‘perfect picture’, I was actually looking at the incredible artwork and really taking in the fine detail. I couldn’t take my eyes off the frescos, some had been there for nearly 1000years and were still clear and colourful. I’d paid extra to see the Karanlik Kilise, also called the “Dark Church”, found I had it all to myself and spent close to half an hour just taking in the ambience and exploring the lines of artists of eons ago. This is the most decorated and close to in perfect condition of the Goreme cave churches and is absolutely stunning. Worth every extra lira paid over the cost of the main museum ticket. 

I was also intrigued by the small oblong holes in the floors of the churches or cut into the walls. These were graves, most were empty but some had the remains of those who’d walked the fairy chimney landscape some 1000 years ago. The graves were tiny holes, child like in size and it had me wondering about the height and body size of the inhabitants of the area. Other caves had home ‘furniture’ carved out, a large rectangle block with a trench circling it was a table and chairs. Large round holes in the middle of the floors, black from years of fire burning – the ovens. Another had a big square slab carved, a very hard bed. This had me ruminating that some things appeared not to have changed in Turkey – the beds we've so far slept in were also HARD. The modern day artistry antics of my fellow tourists also had me intrigued. By this I'm referring to another ‘scene’ I'm seeing unfolding at major landmark sights – the staged photos of the ‘flash-dressed girlfriend' and her adoring photographer boyfriend.  I first saw it in Istanbul and thought I was seeing a fashion photo shoot, but the exact same thing was happening in Goreme and I realised it was just an everyday tourist, only it wasn't the landmarks that was in the clickers sight.  Along with intently viewing the frescos, I followed a young couple around and observed their happy snap routine.  The young woman was glamorously dressed in a long flowing skirt, with high heeled strappy sandals, a beautiful sleeveless 'Sophia Lauren' shirt and a large floppy summer hat ringed by flowers.  She looked divine, but her attire was completely impracticable, especially the heels.  She would drape herself across the rock ledges, her delicate billowing skirt spread across the granite and she'd peer wistfully into the distance whilst her erstwhile partner clicked away, sometimes she playfully hid in the doorway of the cave and peer around, other times she stood close to the ledges with a dramatic cliff face covered in dovecotes in the background and give a sultry pout.  I found it an interesting way to document your tour of Goreme and honestly don't remember them entering any of the actual churches.  The other thing I found interesting was that it was quite a hot day and by times end I was beetroot red from the sun and covered in a film of dust that blew up from the rocky paths,  Miss Cappadocia still looked flawless without a hair out of place.  Did I have any envy about this, you bet I did! 

When M was starting to feel a bit better a couple of days later we decided to explore some of the valley's and started with the Love Valley.  Finding the Love Valley (or any of the other valley's) entrance however  was a little bit of a hide and seek game for us.  We could see these valleys, we knew they were there, but we just couldn't seem to find the entrances to them, or if we did, ended up getting ourselves lost and off track. Love Valley was our first hiking foray and it definitely lived up to its nick name.  Up close the formations certainly did have that phallic appearance. That aside, the tall almost perfectly round rock trunks were extremely dramatic.  Another attempt of exploring the valleys was when we tried to find the Red Valley.  I thought I had read that the Church of John the Baptist was in the Red Valley and proceeded to lead M on a wild goose chase (as if he really wanted to see another church!) in search for it.We left the village of Cavusin and unintentionally followed a tour group into the valley behind the village.  Again the landscape was incredible, at the beginning filled with old abandoned cave houses, some which still had gorgeous interiors.  We kept our distance from the group, but I had surmised they may also be heading to the church and so we began to purposefully follow them. We went deeper into the valley.  The day was starting to heat up and I was starting feel the effects of an oncoming flu. My nose starting to run and my head fuzzy.  We powered on until eventually the tour group and us all ended up on a hill top with the most panoramic view.  But I couldn't see anywhere the church.   I decided to ask the tourguide if we were heading in the right direction for the church.  He smiled, pointed into the distance at a large rock formation and said, "Yes it's over there."   M & I waited for the group to continue, we took happy snaps and then whet towards the rock forms.  No church. 

We kept going, until we found ourselves at the next valley of Pasabagi, near Zelve.  We turned back and hiked back to Cavusin, both out of water, both very hot and bothered.  Half way there we decided to cut across the hills towards the village that looked like it was 'just there'.  We found ourselves standing on the precipice of a large cliff with no idea of how to get down. 

Walking along it we could see parts of the cliff were covered in caves and these caves were holding bee hives.  Below the cliff was farm land and a track leading to the village.  In the end we scrambled and slid down the lowest part of the cliff we could find (I know, very foolish!) and wandered through fields of grapes, onions, tomatoes and apricot trees all planted together.  I was fascinated to see this way of companion planting and how the fields produced so much fruit with out the farmers having to resort of large monoculture farming practises.  The bees were in abundance here and part of the way along we crossed paths with a tortoise.  I have no idea where his closest water supply was as the fields seemed so dry and the one person we came across was a woman with bucket in hand laboriously watering her grape vine stumps. When we eventually arrived back at Cavusin  we learnt that the church we were searching for was in fact in the old town area on a small hill.  M refused to climb any more mounds and went back to the car,  I intended to see this church, climbed the hill and found it closed.

M was chaffing at the bit to get behind the wheel and drive so we hired a car and headed for Soganli, the most divine little cave village of the Cappadocia area (in my opinion).   The landscape here looks as if it's straight off the celluloid strips of a Star Wars film, even though not a single shot of the movies footage was ever filmed here.  My initial reason for coming here was to buy Peanut a doll this village is famous for. It's debatable as to whether the dolls are cute or fuggly but they certainly are unique and the selling of them is hotly contested by the womenfolk who make them.  As I went to make my purchase I had the feeling my choice may have started a fiery debate as to who had made the better doll and the fact I was buying just one doll didn't seem to sit right.  Surely I was to buy more.

The highlight of visiting this village was walking along the creek and finding the 'dome church', a beautiful little church with Romanesque arches and cornices and a perfectly cut out dome in the centre.  On the outside it just looks like a cave mound, inside is a totally different picture.  Next door to it is the "Hidden Church" and it remained hidden as we were flat out finding anything that looked like an entrance.  Once we had left, walked the river and back around and visited the  Karabas church (Black Hat) that we saw where the opening for Hidden Church was.  Way down the slope behind the Dome Church.  

The pinnacle of Goreme trip was the Balloon Ride.  Never in my life have I ever had any desire to ever put myself in a basket and float 1000metres into the sky to be held there by just a sheet and some rope and have a whopping great flame bursting up into said silk sheet. 

But I could not visit Cappadocia and not do what is considered one of the great balloon rides of the world.  I had to just stuff my fears, anxiety and freakouts down into the pit of my stomach, 'man up' and jump aboard the floating basket.  The first night we arrived in Goreme we booked our flight for early in the week,  just in case the weather turned bad and we had to cancel and find another day. Which apparently is what had happen to all the balloons on that first morning.   The breeze was just too stiff for floating.  Our flight was scheduled for the 2nd morning of our stay and we got up at 4am, packed into a bus, drove 100mtrs from our guest house, off loaded, ate a sumptuous breakfast and jumped back on the bus to drive near to Nevsehir where we watched the balloons inflate.  There was trepidation as to whether we'd get up and our pilot, Mike, was positive we would but the authorities were holding us back for more favourable conditions.   Sunrise came and went and it began to heat up.  We'd dressed to icy pre-dawn conditions and were now pulling the layers off. Finally very close to 7am we were given the all clear for take off and there was scramble to the baskets.  Mike was keen to be first off the ground and I think we came close for as we rose so did all the others and the sky filled with 100 balloons.   I held my breath and at the same time hung on for dear life as we rose higher and higher into the blue and sailed across the valleys.

Below the formations unfolded and at times the valley 'ripples' looked like  delicate entwined ribbons.  At times we just sat in sky, not really moving for wind was still and other times we went round in circles as if caught in a whirlpool.  Occasionally we dropped low and gently brushed across the trees top.  It was all so magical.  All too soon it ended and popped the champagne cork and toasted our flight.   As we did this  I noticed a strange rock formation on a far-away hill and after asking if it was a ruin, was told it was the work of some aussie graffiti-er (very tongue in cheek).  Mike then explained it was the landscape artwork of Australian sculptor Andrew Rogers and consisted of a number of rock sculptures including a horse which we could clearly see from our far view.

 

We didn't find it hard to fill our days and all six were crammed full with incredible views, experiences and discoveries of ancient rock villages.  Every morning except the first we would wake to the "Voosh" of high air pushing a confetti of balloons across the village and every evening we'd dive into delectable delights of Anatolian cuisine.  The family of one restaurant we dined at for a number of nights welcomed us as family every eve and greeted us as friends every day as we walked past.  We felt so at home with them as the mumma (also a grandmumma) proudly showed us her little 6mth old grandson and told us he was grumbly with teeth.  Even on the day we left, Mamma came out when she saw us being driven down to the bus, stopped our driver and gave us a glorious warm heartfelt  hug, something I needed that day, as we'd just been rung with news.  My own dear precious grandmother had just passed away.