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!
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