CEMRE - SPRING'S COMING

Did you receive in your Christmas post, a calendar or a diary from a thoughtful friend “back home” to save you having to fathom out when Easter (unknown here) falls this year? If you did, you may have noticed that March is a busy month for “notable” dates. Both the Welsh and the Irish celebrate their national Saint’s Days in March - St David’s Day on 1st and St Patrick’s Day on 17th. On 29 March the clocks go forward, signifying what they call in England British Summertime which is a bit optimistic. It is particularly surprising because just a few days before is another important date, namely 21st March,the Spring Equinox, the official start of Spring.

However, here in Turkey Spring is less precise about its arrival date. It rather sneaks up on us as its arrival is deduced from a series of natural occurences, some observable by everyone, some only perceived by the "initiated". Of the latter, one of the earliest is the phenomenon known here as "cemre".

I first heard about cemre from my 78year old neighbour. I had recently moved in and was still getting used to being surrounded by acres of open land with every imaginable tree, shrub and flower. As a former city dweller, this beautiful rural setting was uncharted territory, in every sense.

“Cemre has finished” he said happily, when my neighbour arrived in the orchard one soggy, windy March afternoon. The blank look on my rain- soaked face told him that I could not share in his obvious joy at this news.

“Look”, he said patiently, “When cemre has finished, Summer starts”. His tone was of one talking to an especially dull child. He assumed that my Turkish stretched as far as “cemre”. It did not. “Cemre comes down from the sky”, he mimed. “It falls three times. After the third time, Winter is finished and Summer starts.” I nodded knowingly. We both knew that I was still no wiser. In a final attempt, he added, “You will see, from Sunday, the weather will be better”, and off he wandered to escort his cows back home to their byre.

I wandered back into the house, reflecting on what the boundary between Winter and Spring in England looks like. I could come up with physical evidence: the days getting longer; snowdrops and crocuses giving way to daffodils, bluebells and primroses; the sun putting in an occasional appearance. But as for things coming down from the sky, nothing at all came to mind apart from April showers.

The twinkle in my neighbour’s eye told me that here was a man with a keen sense of fun, but a little corner of my sceptical mind was still curiously waiting for Sunday.
The weekend started badly, more rain and wind. So much for changes in the weather, I though as I nodded off on Saturday night - cemre indeed!

On Sunday morning, I was woken up by bright sunshine streaming through the window. The wind had gone and the birds were deafening. Time to eat my scornful words and my first breakfast outside on the terrace.

As I sat enjoying this unexpected treat, I started to notice little things. That faint green blush on the trees, like a dusting of green snow? That wasn’t there yesterday, surely? New-born bees practised pollen collection on pale delicate almond blossom that wasn’t there yesterday either, was it? Just then, Cat, normally asleep for this season, suddenly stirred herself, alerted dozing Dog, skittered around the garden twice and ran unfalteringly straight up a pine tree, leaving Dog looking up open-mouthed and envious. Jays careered raucously through the fruit trees like a bunch of school yard bullies. Two exhibitionist tortoises mated noisily next to my terrace. Maybe there was something in this cemre thing after all. But what exactly was it?

Asking around my Turkish friends in the village, I was surprised how they all talked about “cemre” in the familiar way we say “It’s Easter next week”, so certain are they about its existence and timing.

‘Cemre’, it seems, is the name given to three radiations of heat from the sun that supposedly fall into the air, the water and the earth during February and March. These combine to spark the dormant seeds and plants into life. But how does anyone know when these three heats have fallen? My neighbour talks vaguely about the light and the sky, then shrugs his shoulders, “Işte, that’s the way it is” he says.

But cemre is only the curtain raiser to Spring and Summer. To be sure that the season has changed we must wait for other signs, more publicly observable than cemre.
Wait for the leylek and kırlangıç because storks and swallows are sure signs that Summer is just round the corner. Next, we must have the kocakara fırtınası or old woman’s storm, a spell of cold wet weather in late March. Further north, they also talk of ‘kirkikindi yağmurları’ or Forty afternoon rains – because it is supposed to rain on 40 afternoons during April and May - but Bodrum seems be spared this version of St Swithens.

When all this has occurred, we can safely assume that Spring has arrived and that this will quickly slip via a riot of yellow into Summer. But the final confirmation, the surest sign of all is when that most welcome harbinger of Summer, that refugee from the shivering north, arrives ....... the first Tourist of the season! Hoş geldiniz – Welcome!

TERRY'S CHRISTMAS RAMBLE 2008

According to the Chinese calendar, it was the year of the Rat but for me 2008 was more like “Year of the Entire Zoo”. Wild boar in abundance, but also horses, camels and a particularly aggressive centipede all had a role in my life this year.

This summer the local wild boar were really determined to destroy the orchard. Maybe it was shortage of food, maybe the long hot summer – a summer so hot that I finally had to admit defeat and install partial air conditioning - but whatever the cause they really weren't going to give up ..... but I beat them eventually.

Sus scrofa is the Latin name of the little devil below (left). That’s not quite what me and landlord called it and by the way, this is not one of mine, I’m not so daft as to get that close. Every night brought wider and deeper craters around the base of the fruit trees.

Plan “A”, landlord’s invitation to the local Jandarma (army police) to come and shoot them was rejected; so we had to resort to my Plan “B". This could have been called "Back to nature" or the Desmond Morris Solution. *For those not old enough to remember, Dr Desmond Morris wrote a book called "The Naked Ape" back in 1967.

Pigs can’t see well in the dark but their hearing is pretty keen and they also have an excellent sense of smell. So a little tiny tinkling bell dangling from the branch of a tree might scare them off and, if that doesn’t work, the nuclear option: three old smelly t-shirts of mine – ones that I had recently worn whilst gardening – wafting in the trees. The Naked Ape was marking his territory! And before you scoff at this anti sus scrofa ploy, you might want to note that it worked! NO MORE PIGS**!

My neighbour has two horses. After the winter they were looking rather scrawny. So my landlord agreed that neighbour could graze the horses in his/my garden. “Oh well”, I thought, “It’ll make a change from the cows of two years ago and anyway the plants might enjoy a change of manure”. Of course, the usual condition applied: no snacking on the fruit trees. “No problem! They’ll only eat the trees if the grass runs out”, says my neighbour. “Oh, and by the way, the brown one’s pregnant”.

The trouble was no-one told the horses that they were not supposed to eat the fruit trees. I soon learnt what pregnant mares hanker for - nice young apricot tree leaves of course. So as soon as my back was turned expectant mum and her girl friend were off down to the orchard for a binge. What with their trespassing in search of forbidden fruit and the expectation of the patter of tiny hooves any time I was kept on my toes for a few weeks. In the end I got barrow loads of horse manure and my neighbour got Barney the foal.

I’ve mentioned before that entertainment here is a bit thin in winter but last January I saw camel wrestling for the first time – not high culture but certainly different.

It took place across the bay from me near a beach surrounded by hills.

Into this natural stadium came a lot of camels and even more people.. The scene was like a medieval encampment. Family groups grabbed their spot on the hillside, grandmas and children were parked, picnics were set out, campfires were lit and soon the air was pungent with the smell of camels and seared lamb.

Meanwhile the main event was coming together in and around the makeshift arena. Camels were offloaded from lorries, groomed, dressed and given their final tactıcal briefing. The animals are decked out with gaudy caparisons, beads and saddles; an intricately embroidered panel on the hump gives the owner’s details.

The bout begins with the two opponents being led round the ring, getting ever closer to each other. Each tries to stare the other down, the idea being to psych out the opposition. The camel minders enter into the spirit of this ritual too. Think weigh-in for a heavy weight boxing match.

Finally the two animals come together in the centre of the arena and they lock necks; the idea is to force your opponent’s head to the ground in submission. This necking – which bull camels do naturally during the mating season to show dominance in the flock (yes, it IS a 'flock' of camels, I checked) - goes on for about three minutes and is accompanied by an ear-splitting running commentary. At the final whistle, if neither animal prevails, there is an arcane points system which decides the winner.

The important point is that the camels do not get hurt. Some of these are working camels and as such are valuable. If things look like getting out of hand, the camels are restrained by minders who hold on to the ropes attached to the animal. By the way, it takes about 9 burly men to restrain a 900lb camel mid-wrestle. Just in case you were wondering.

Apparently, in art, the camel is symbolic of sobriety and dignified obedience. This symbolism doesn't extend to their owners, it would seem. Around the arena, camel owners use their camel transport (lorries) as mobile grandstands: the “refreshments” are served, bets placed and as the as the local aniseed flavoured raki takes hold, drunken folk dancing breaks out between bouts.

The headgear of choice, the equivalent of the Ascot dress code, is the bright orange “puşi”, modelled here by the neophyte camel fancier on the right .

In England at such outdoor events one would expect to find stalls selling burgers and hot-dogs Here they sell sausages made from camel meat. At first I thought this was a bit insensitive but then I got the idea. Part of the incentive for the camels to fight is the thought of what might befall them if they don’t. All that encouraging slapping round the face with the reins is not to get them worked up, it’s to make them look in the direction of the hot camel sausage stalls. “Fight or else… get my drift?” When it was all over, the camels get taken home on the back of a lorry….. the rest of us had to walk!.

And so to the centipede. It’s called a giant centipede... well, it was over 4 inches long, it had a hard brownish scaly shell and vicious fangs and it was in my bed. It crept in whilst I was asleep and presumably objected to me rolling over on top of it. By way of defence it sunk its fangs into my forearm. The result was a painful, swollen and inflamed forearm and hand which took four days to recover. A quick check on Google told me that only three people had died from what was called “centi-pede envenomation” in the past 100 years or so, and two of those were “questionable”. The third was in Turkey in 2005! Oh well, so that’s alright then.... I hope!

I haven’t done much by way of travelling within Turkey this year although my friend Metin and I went off on a fairly local tour which took us to the ancient city of Aphrodisias, then on to Selçuk and fınally to Didim.

Aphrodisias is one of the finest and most beautiful archeological sites in Turkey, dating back to the 2^nd century AD. Its name derives from Aphrodite, goddess of love, or as my guide book has it, the goddess of the three “f”s: fertility, fornication and fun. At the centre of the site is the Temple of Aphrodite and nearby a 270m long stadium which could seat 30,000 people.

From Aphrodisias we headed for Selçuk which features both the superb Museum of Ephesus and the.Basilica of St John.

Traditionally it is thought that St John wrote his gospel here in his latter years and that he is buried beneath the altar of the basilica. shown right.

One column is all that remains of the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus, one of the seven wonders of the ancient world. However there are two statues of Artemis in the museum. Depending on which guide book you read, Artemis is either multi-breasted as a sign of fecundity or the egg-like breasts are actually the severed testicles of the more fervent of her devotees. Either way, clearly not a woman to be messed with!

They say the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus was bigger than the Parthenon in Athens and that if you want to know what it must have looked like you should visit the huge Temple of Apollo at Didyma. So we did and it was…. huge! We stayed in a pension so close to the Temple that we were practically inside it – the view at breakfast was pretty spectacular.

The temple was both a sanctuary and a seat of the second most famous oracle after that at Delphi. Apparently the oracle sat in the inner temple and made her prophesies after drinking from the sacred spring. Doesn’t that just remind you of “Dog and Duck” on the average Saturday night. The surrounds of the temple are littered with huge marble fragments including a particularly impressive head of Medusa, she of the snake hairdo.

In the Spring, I visited England for the first time in about 4 years. I had to overcome my really intense dislike to the flying experience (not the plane, but all the nonsense of the airports) but it really was well worth it. My travels took me to Carshalton initially, and then to Pershore, Worcs; then it was off to Pembrokeshire; and finally back to Carshalton.

I had almost forgotten what a beautiful place Britain is. But I also felt just like a stranger there. I had to learn to ‘chip and pin’, what it meant to “go large”, absolutely not to even think of answering my phone in the car whilst driving, not to barge in the front of queues or let doors go in people’s faces, and most definitely never to take my eyes off the speedometer for fear of being caught on speed camera.

Staying next to the Ponds in Carshalton (left), was superb, with some super meals and a very memorable trip to Ronnie Scott’s Jazz Club.

It was a delight to meet up for dinner with my Fairfield colleagues again; we just seemed to picked up where we left off 11 years ago.

Staying in Pershore, visiting Edward Elgar’s birthplace (left) and his grave, along with Malvern Priory and Pershore Abbey, was just a joy.

Returning to Wales, spending time in Pembrokeshire, going back to my old university (right) and the Arts Centre in Aberystwyth, and visiting St David’s Cathedral taught me what “hiraeth” really means .

Discovering grass cows and cows in the shape of spitfires in Hurstpierpoint was a wonderful surprise.

Lunch with my family and meeting new great nephews for the first time was wonderful and above all catching up old friends was a

huge, huge pleasure.

To all those who made my visit so happy - to Thya, Nicholas, Peter and Andrew, Michael and Michael, Val, Derek, Elspeth and Colin, Hazel and Janet and of course all my family – a great big, heartfelt thank you! My one regret was running out of time and not being able to see more friends but I won’t leave it so long next time and hope to catch up then.

On my return to Turkey it was time for our annual dose of culture. The superb Gümüşlük festival is also a summer school for young muscians and it takes place in the shell of a small Byzantine chapel in the fishing village of Gümüşlük. The venue is tiny, the seats are really uncomfortable and audiences usually overflow outdoors; swallows nesting in the roof provide a chirruping continuo and fly circuits of the church during loud passages.... but the music and the atmosphere on a balmy summer’s evening are magical.

The Ballet Festival takes place in the shadows of the 15th Century Castle of St Peter in Bodrum.

The discos of Bar Street and the call to prayer from the mosque are so close they seem to be backstage, but the ballet festival is still a real treat. This year’s festival featured three Turkish companies and two visiting companies from Spain.

The Turgutreis Festival is now in its 4th year and generally excellent. But save us from themed concerts. The theme was “Love of One’s Country” but the planners ran out of ideas after Finlandia and Ma Vlast. then it seemed to morph into “Composers for which our country is a bit famous” and eventually into “All Sorts of Music,not necessarily classical, for which our country is famous”. Which is how we came to endure 1½ hours of the Uruguyan Tango Octet of Hector Ulises Passarella complete with a pair of bandoneons and a pair of extremely odd tango dancers.

With the end of the Turgutreis festival we reached the end of our culture feast for another year, and so we go into winter mode where the most exciting event is the Camel Wrestling which will be with us again in early January.

With warmest wishes for a very Happy Christmas and a healthy, successful and peaceful New Year.

** A footnote written in early January. The Pigs are back! But I think I understand why. We've had lots of rain and the t-shirts have effectively been washed. Which to my mind confirms why they work!