A GENTLE STROLL TO THEANGELA

Recently, we have been enjoying something of an Indian Summer; the Turks call it a Pastrami Summer (Pastırma Yazı) because, in the ancient Anatolian city of Kayseri, they reckon it is the ideal weather for hanging out their famous pastrami to dry.

In Bodrum, the last of the tourists have gone, the oppressive heat has faded but the sun still shines warm and inviting.

On such a glorious Pastrami day a couple of Sundays ago, I had an early morning call from my friend Ursula. "We planned to go for Brunch today" she said, "But do you feel like going on an organised walk instead?". In fact I'd already read about this walk – it was arranged by the Heroditus Third Age Academy (a local variant on the University of the Third Age organisation). The blurb said we would be going to visit an ancient (3,000 year old) Lelegian city called Theangela, a few kilometres outside Bodrum. "Some gentle hill walking, wear sensible walking shoes, bring water, camera and binoculars", it said.

Well, with the new diet scheduled to start the next day I thought a bit of "gentle hill walking" would be just the thing to set the tone – give my body the right signal that things were about to change – so I agreed to meet Ursula within the hour.

We reached the rendezvous, and a multi-national party of some 28 of us, most of us on the wrong side of 55, plus dogs, drove in convoy to the start of the walk. Heads turned in stirred curiosity as we drove through several traditional villages on the way: could there be a wedding or circumcision party they'd missed out on – for round here, streams of cars generally means one or the other.

After passing through stunning Autumnal scenery for some kilometres we parked in a convenient lay-by close to the start of the walk. We listened as someone apparently more accustomed to walking than us, gave us a briefing on how to breath whilst climbing up hill: "slowly in to a count of 8, hold for 4, out to a count of 8". This was beginning to sound like something more than "gentle hills".

Off we set, having been exhorted to take it gently. Of course, the experienced walkers at the front set off at a lick, and those of us behind tried to keep up.... just to show we could, which we couldn't. However, it didn't matter because the pine forest setting was magnificent. The first rains of autumn had washed the earth clean and revealed, as if it were a restored Renaissance masterpiece, nature's canvas of forest greens and warm wholesome browns.

Here and there, the orangey-red mountain strawberries, like carefully crafted marzipan fruit, vied for attention with the exquisitely perfect purple-tinged white winter crocuses that stood proud along the track and on the forest floor.

We were following a forest track, a fire-break, that zig-zagged through pine trees in long, muscle-cramping ascending slopes across the face of this....let's face it, despite the blurb, this mountain. "Hill" it was certainly not! The leaders disappeared off round the next bend, and then the next, leaving the rest of us to be diverted by the bushes of mountain strawberries and the wild winter crocuses.

Various varieties of wild mushrooms were spotted, including some wonderfully sculpted specimens, looking as though they had been created by the props department for a Harry Potter film. Heated debates ensued between the various experts as to which ones could be safely consumed and which would see you off before you had got to 3 of your breathing cycle. As for me, I stayed out of it. I put my trust in the local supermarket when it comes to mushrooms – they may not taste wonderful but at least you live to see the next day.

So onwards and upwards!

Selçuk, the founder of Heroditus 3^rd Age Academy, kept us going by assuring us that we were "nearly there"..... and then again 15 breathy minutes later, that it was "just round the next bend". I was reminded of my father on family outings when I was a child whose standard answer to the whining "Is it much further" from the back seat was "It's just over that next hill".... it never was!

But eventually we reached the grassy summit and were surprised to find a quite substantial house up there, complete with an ex-taxi parked outside. No sign of of the driver so no chance of a lift back down the mountain I guess!

The only signs of Theangela was a mass of fallen debris in amongst which could be seen the odd recognisable bit of ancient wall. One of our archaeological experts had her book which indicated that Theangela marked the outermost limit of King Mausolus's satrapy. It seems he found a city of this size, right on the edge of his domain, too big to handle so he cut it in half by a great big wall. Well, there was a bit of wall, no one could deny that - but even our guides had serious doubts that we had found Theangela.

King Mausolos got fame by giving his name to something called the Mausoleum of Halicarnasus – one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World - which these days is to be found just down the road from Migros supermarket in Bodrum.

So we sat up on this peak for a bit, admiring the fabulous views and sharing mandarins and a packet of biscuits which someone had thoughtfully brought along. One packet between 28 (plus dogs) on top of a mountain - loaves and fishes came to mind, but no one seemed up to the task.

Then we retraced our steps back down, taking care not to lose any stragglers who were distracted by the prospect of wild mushroom risotto for supper.

And yes, it is true, going down is much harder on the knees than going up. At the bottom, a vendor of tempting Turkish sweets and pastries had pushed his cart out to this remote spot, sensing a sales opportunity. "How did you know we were here?" someone asked. "I was tipped off" he smiled. A sticky pastry would have been the perfect end to a superb day, but I remembered I was signalling to my body that change was afoot..... and resisted.

Terry's Ebru Group Exhibition in Oasis Shopping Centre, Bodrum August 2010

So this is a first for me!


For several years I have been part of a group learning the Turkish art of Ebru, known elsewhere as marbling. In brief, paint is flicked on to the surface of water thickened with a natural gum called tragacanth. The paint on the surface is then manipulated with a stylus and with special "combs" to produce patterns and images. When a piece of paper is laid on the surface of the water, the image transfers to the paper. Ebru was first practised in the 16th century in Turkey and Persia and so-called Turkish paper was exported to bookbinders in Europe to line and cover precious hand-made books.


Nothing so grand awaits my stuff: a good friend of mine who restores antique books has used some in his work but the majority just end up in a large box in my study. However, just recently, we were invited to mount an exhibition in a local shopping mall. The exhibition, called "The Dance of Colour on Water" is in the Oasis Shopping Centre in Bodrum until the end of September. Here are some photographs to give a flavour of the event.

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Terry's Christmas Ramble 2009

TERRY'S CHRISTMAS RAMBLE 2009

*more photographs in Year in Review below

Well, it’s a beautiful dewy, sunny November morning and I have just got back from my daily walk. Every day I drive to the village about 8 a.m. and then it’s off for a brisk walk along the seafront. Unspoken rules govern whether to ignore, nod towards, smile at, grunt at or even offer a cheery “Günaydin” to other regular walkers;but I greet all dogs.

Earlier this year I bought some “power-walking sticks” (they’re like ski poles with dinky rubber boots). They’re meant to exercise the upper body whilst you walk but I just kept falling over mine so I gave up on them.

Further along the front it’s time for 15 or 20 minutes on the exercise machines. Provided by the Council, they’re terrific especially for the “more mature person”. At first everyone ignored them - except small children and dogs for whom they doubled as trees. Then gradually the local village ladies took an interest and soon shalwar-clad grannies were swinging and pedalling for Turkey. Most of us kid ourselves we are doing this for fitness but the bags of hot loaves and breakfast pastries which hang off the sides of the machines (not mine, of course) tell another story. Renamed “the swings” by Carol, these machines beat some sweaty, music-blasting gym, the view is better and they’re free!

But I do see some funny sights along the sea front sometimes. A local woman in her baggy shalwar comes along most days. A string bag containing a couple of recycled 2 litre coke bottles full of milk dangles off one arm. With her free hand she tows a cow on a rope - presumably just in case her customers need extra milk. Now you don’t get fresher (or greener) than that.

The approach of winter and Christmas is marked by some very clear signs in our village. For a start the Council has just dug up my road, for the third year running – bless them.That's always a good sign winter’s here.

Elsewhere restaurant windows sport fading newspapers hiding the hibernating outdoor furniture and the corpses of the last mossies of the season.

Posters - one appeared in September - promising Traditional Christmas Dinner with all the trimmins (sic) start to pop up around the village. Oh well, bang goes the diet again! Hurry on quickly to the exercise machines.Nearer home another sign is that the garden furniture on my terraces is squirreled away under polythene.

Outside, the mandarin trees in the orchard hang heavy with ripening fruit. Maybe these are the reminder for me: Christmas satsumas or even tinned mandarins with Carnation milk - cue a nostalgic sigh from the all the over-55s.

Speaking of carnation milk, I was looking on the internet for a picture of an old fashioned carnation milk label and I came across this, which is much more fun. It seems even in the '40s it didn't pay to mess with old folk: have a look at this entry for a caption competition for carnation milk outrageousfun.net/funny-comercials/38/

Anyway, back to the Ramble.

First an update on the Pig saga. The ruse with the t-shirt worked – but only for a while. Now, they are back, with a vengeance and the flu! Landlord’s expensive new wire fence is no deterrent – they simply dig a hole and limbo under it.

Speaking of landlord, I managed to get him to have the outside of the house repainted in June. I shamed him into it by telling him Fiona, my niece was coming out for a visit. That scared him and he even had the roof re-insulated so with luck the rain won’t get in this winter. So thanks Fiona – and thanks for a super visit.

However, in the horse-trading that preceded the work, I said I would do some work inside the house.The result was a refurbished kitchen,natural stone cladding on the fireplace and new furniture, quarry tiles on both terraces, a new terrace wall and decorated throughout. I didn’t intend to do all that but the end result is worth it. Uncle is still only giving me one year extensions to the lease though. I’ve given up worrying about it.

In May, we denizens of Bodrum cultural desert got quite excited when we heard of a performance of Aida in the Roman Aspendos amphitheatre some 8 hours away by road. It was a two-day round trip by coach: Day 1, leave Bodrum and arrive hotel in Antalya late afternoon, dinner at hotel, followed by an hour’s drive to the theatre, opera starting at 9 pm, back to hotel 02.00, back to Bodrum after lunch on Day 2.

We could cope with that, we thought, but Carol, Louise and I reckoned without a large group of Turkish ladies from a rather right wing charity who were on “an outing”. They drove us mad! Their leader, a woman whose eyes shone with the steely glint of the fanatic, was on the mic within 30 seconds of setting off, promoting her charity for the benefit of us foreigners (“I suppose you all speak Turkish - if only a little”). Every few minutes thereafter she was grabbing the mic: giving instructions to her brood; directions to the driver “Stop here for nuts”; commentary on places of interest, “They sell wonderful cakes in the next village – stop, driver”. Later she led the community singing and most memorably she gave an synopsis of “Ada” - as she renamed the opera – but Verdi wouldn’t recognise it.

The amphitheatre was superb but, clearly, Romans never had to bother with licensing regulations. No exit signs, no handrails, no emergency lighting, no stewards, and steep 3000 year old broken steps - the fire officer and licensing Inspector would have had seizures. As for the opera, it was spectacular in an epic Cecil B DeMille sort of way;the sets, costumes and orchestra were terrific. In the Grand March, we hoped for elephants, expected a camel and got a pony or two. Oh well.

But Radames, poor Radames: what were they thinking of, casting a plump, dumpy glove puppet. His dervish-like billowy skirt did him no favours; nor did his “army” who towered over him. We knew he was on a loser, even before “Ada” appeared. When she did, we were ready for her: of course the girl playing Aida was a six foot Amazon!

Our culture season continued in June, with the Turgutreis festival which was themed around anniversaries of deaths and birthdays of Handel, Mendelssohn, Haydn and Turkish composer Ferit Tuzen. Quite how Ms Sun Huang’s performance of Sarasate’s Carmen Fantasy on the Erhu fitted in with all this was unclear – but she was very good.

The final concert was given by the Symphony Orchestra of the Vienna Volksoper so lots of Strauss as well as Haydn’s striking piece, Symphony No 45, The Farewell. In a country where strikes must be officially approved in advance, the sight of musicians walking off stage mid-symphony caused some consternation amongst some members of the audience, but in the end they too got the joke.

The elderly Austrian conductor got caught out when the call to prayer from the nearby mosque rang out loud and clear during the Trisch Trasch Polka. To stop out of respect for local religious sensitivities or not to stop out of respect for music, that’s often the dilemma facing visiting foreign conductors. This one opted to stop. The muezzin took the ezan very slowly – after all not every day he has an audience of 3000 just across the street.

A long silence prompted some of the audience to indicate to Maestro that he could carry on. Off he went - and so did the muezzin. Maestro stopped again and waited, until wiser voices gave him the real “all clear”! He got his own back with the encore, the Radestsky March, when he rebuked us for lack of virtuosity in the clapping department. But of course here they only normally clap between movements.

Alongside but seldom clashing this year, we had the Gümüslük International Classical Music Festival, a fantastic Summer School which attracts students from Turkey and abroad who attend master classes given by international guest musicians. The setting for the festival is a partially restored chapel set on a small hill overlooking the fishing village of Gümüslük.

The visiting artistes also give evening concerts. This event really deserves to be kept alive but it loses money. If anyone has any novel ideas for sponsorship let me know. If all else fails watch out next year when we start going round with the bucket for loose change!

The 7^th Bodrum International Ballet Festival took place at the Castle. The high point of the season was a French group called La Compagnie Kafig performing a piece called Tricôte about auditions for, rehearsal of and performance of a hip-hop ballet. Now, despite once being dubbed "techno Tel" as a result of a long night of dancing to music I didn't know was techno (I blame it on the booze), I wouldn't normally expect to find hip-hop amongst my Desert Island discs, but I was knocked out by this ballet - I’ve never seen dancing like it – absolutely amazing. And anyone who can take his trousers off whilst spinning on his head has got to be admired. (That was the dancer, not me!)

Now all this talk of music leads me neatly into explaining why I am sitting at a piano in the first photo of this newsletter. I’ve never learnt to play anything. But as I become an official OAP, at the end of March, I decided to do something about this before arthritis really sets in. So now I have a digital piano (sorry, purists, but buying the real thing was an indulgence too far). Still it does look a bit like a real piano.

As yet I can’t bring myself to take lessons What would I say to the 6 year old prodigy whilst I’m waiting for my lesson? Instead, with lots of encouragement from friends, I am trying to teach myself.

Much to my surprise, I have managed to learn roughly how the notes on the page relate to the keys on my piano. Lots of “Every Good Boy Deserves Favour” “All Cows Eat Grass” but I get there in the end. Of course the real problem is getting my fingers to obey my brain. As I tippy tap on a computer keyboard, generally I can get all fingers and thumbs to do as they are told. What happens then when the keyboard is musical I wonder – they just seem to run amok?

As for chords, why do ALL my fingers want to get in on the act? When I type, all unwanted fingers get out of the way. But if the music says C=E=G why do the two unused fingers of that hand insist on crashing down on D and F?

Never mind, I am enjoying it. My Welsh friends will be pleased to know I can get through Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau with the right hand almost flawlessly but forget the left hand!

The main travel story of the year is my drive up to the northern city of Bursa a couple of times this year. Bursa was the first capital city of the Ottoman Empire, which takes us back to about 1326. I first went to there in 1966 when it was called Yeşil Bursa (Green Bursa). Now much of the green has turned dull concrete grey as it has become a busy industrial city.
However, there is still loads of history to be enjoyed, not to mention the city’s famous thermal baths and some lovely parks which were ablaze with tulips – a flower which actually originated in Turkey.

Bursa used to be famous for silk and when the Queen visited the city last year she went to the ancient Koza Han, where silk was traded for centuries. She tried her hand at ebru – but it's a messy old hobby and our ebru group reckons she should dispense with the white gloves. Maybe putting the handbag down might be an idea too.

Bursa is also famous for its great mosques and mausoleums. Osman, founder of the Ottoman dynasty is buried there. Here too the exquisitely beautiful Cami (Green Mosque) and the nearby Yeşil Tomb.

With a shady park in front, the complex of 12 tombs known as the Muradiye is an oasis of calm in the city. Here too is the beautiful tomb of Sultan Jem who was held hostage for most of his life by half the crowned heads of Europe and even by the Borgia Pope Alexander VI.

Ok, end of history lesson and Terry’s ramble for another year.

Wishing you a very Merry Christmas and a healthy, happy and peaceful 2010