Can I say I've been to Africa if I don't leave the terminal?
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Skyring
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Transit 3 Heathrow
3/4 April 2013
WE pull into a T5B gate, and there's the usual fiddle-faddle with escalators and trains and lifts to get anywhere. Heathrow T5 is a huge advance on the previous terminals, but I still feel like a rat in a maze whenever I get off a plane. Somehow I make a mistake at immigration, hit the wrong desk, and my Fast Track pass is not returned. Not a huge problem as our plane was apparently the only one arriving and the place is all but deserted. Still, I'm asked some searching questions as to what exactly I'll be doing in the day between flying in from South Africa and leaving for Turkey.
The second pass is more useful. Once I have my luggage...
My bags. Did they pass through the horror story of Johannesburg unmolested?
No! My big yellow LL Bean rolling duffle is there, seemingly untouched, but my big yellow BookCrossing tote bag - as usual, packed square with books, is missing its Q-Tag. And the zipper pull. It's still zipped up, but the moment I unzip it, I'll have no way to zip it up again. Its days as checkin luggage are over.
I'm also a little pissed off about losing the Q-Tag. A platinum tag, to boot. It's almost an antique now, one of the old "Silver" ones. Not that I would have any with me, but Qantas didn't see fit to send me Gold, Silver or Bronze tags on my way down. ***SIGH***
Right. Where's that Arrivals Lounge?
Here is a welcome refuge. What a civilised idea. My big bags, once I dig out a change of clothes, disappear into the luggage room, and I vanish into the shower complex, a maze of narrow passages all alike. The floor is wet and the pipes gurgle, but if I were a cat, I'd be purring. So good to have a wash after a long flight!
Breakfast is good. Coffee, yogurt, wifi. I'd stay there all day, but I've got things to do.
I haul my bags all over T5 landside, trying to work out where the rental cars live. Eventually I'm directed outside - into the "summer" of British Summer Time - into the howling blizzard, where I freeze for half an hour waiting for the shuttle. Finally it arrives, takes the longest possible route to the car yard, and I gratefully ease myself into the office, where I'm thawed out and charmed into a more expensive car I probably don't need. But hey, it's a VW and I drive a Golf, so I figure the switches will be more or less familiar.
A Scirocco, which is nice enough, though I actually would have preferred a Golf. I'm not really game to boot the thing around, and I'll be hauling passengers later on, so a coupe isn't really what I want. My bags happily fill the boot and I plug the address into the GPS. A little village near Oxford, "just follow the yarn-bombing". Right.
As ever with a new car, I'm diffident until I sort out the controls. I'm busy fiddling with the wipers, so I manage to get stuck in the wrong lane and have a quick tour of Heathrow's cargo port before I navigate out and head north.
Now, I love the English countryside. Absolutely gorgeous, even at the tail end of winter. So why is it that the people who design motorways make them so incredibly boring and uniform? All over the world, they are the same. Four lanes with a median strip and occasional glimpses of the world outside through the trees and cuttings. A steeple, a field of cows, equally bored, a services...
Finally - well about an hour later, though it seems longer - I'm guided off into a series of ever smaller roads. Here's my village of Harwell, my but it looks pretty, aren't all the streets narrow and nowhere to park and why aren't they signposted and where are the blessed house numbers?
I squint at the GPS, find my street, drive past a row of houses, go down a farm lane to turn around, go past the same houses sloowly with a bus up my tail, looking for house numbers, turn around in a barnyard, drive back again... I spot some yarnbombing, so I'm in the right area. Nowhere to park on the roadside, so I pull into someone's driveway, get out and knock on the door.
Geez. Door after door after door. Half the village is away or asleep or dead, half only just moved in and don't know their house number - or if they have one - and the remaining house, in a thick rustic accent, directs me to the far end of the street. Of course. The only house that doesn't have a cutesy name. It has a number, tucked away out of sight.
What the hey. My friends come out to greet me, hugs are exchanged, books are exchanged, Tim Tams and sweet things exchanged. My mate Jay, with whom I have had many roadtrips - Kaikoura, Memphis, Route 66, Iowa, Goulburn - has prepared some roadtrip food. A startling concoction of peanut-butter, chocolates and pretzels, in honour of something we got out of Trader Joes in Chicago, years ago. There's also a pavlova to be sampled, cats to be stroked, chatting and tea and happiness all round. BookCrossing has found me some remarkable friends, and I know that wherever I go in the world, I can generally count on somebody to show me around and load me down with books.
After lunch we grab a bag of books and head out. My mad mates, Jay and Janice, have yarnbombed the street, we're off snarfing historical landmarks, and we've got a tree to decorate with books. It's all so ridiculously picturesque and villagey. Old farms, little brooks and copses, thatched houses, ancient walls with a plaque showing where the Black Prince rested his royal bottom centuries ago. I tell Janice that it's nothing like Canberra, where I live in a heritage district myself, and my house can't be modified (at least from the front) as it was built in 1927. She looks interested. Janice is the local, though she shared that Kaikoura roadtrip with Jay and I in 2009.
Jay is the New Zealander, the pavlova cook, just staying overnight before we both head off for another adventure in Turkey.
Jay and Janice
We pop into the village church, where Janice has arranged the "captain of the tower" to show us the bells and the church tower. He and Janice are old mates, old bell-ringers, and Jay and I get a grand tour, culminating in a rather nervous photo-op on the flat roof of the church tower, where the parapet is about knee-high and there is a cold wind gusting.
The Captain and Janice (and Ring-bear)
Fascinating, historic stuff. We sign in the tower visitor register, have a look around the old church interior and then continue our history tour out through the churchyard and through the village.
Janice periodically releases childrens' books, enclosing them in plastic bags, decorating them and tying them onto the branches of a tree at the village crossroads. They are a favorite with the locals, as is Janice, a stalwart of the local school, Womens Institute and so on.
It's a delightful place, very English, but also cold and my body is telling me that it's well after midnight. For the next hour or so, I am nothing but snores coming from the spare room.
Evening comes, and with it another New Zealander also working in the UK. Oh yeah, another BookCrosser! We have a date for dinner in a pub slightly nearer Oxford, and I drive us all along more country lanes to another of those rural pubs the English do so very well. We're joined here by yet another BookCrosser, and it is here that the germ of the 2015 World BookCrossing Convention is hatched over ale and cider and shepherd's pie.
Stand by for another Trip Report in 2015 - from Oxford, city of dreaming spires and escaped books!
3/4 April 2013
WE pull into a T5B gate, and there's the usual fiddle-faddle with escalators and trains and lifts to get anywhere. Heathrow T5 is a huge advance on the previous terminals, but I still feel like a rat in a maze whenever I get off a plane. Somehow I make a mistake at immigration, hit the wrong desk, and my Fast Track pass is not returned. Not a huge problem as our plane was apparently the only one arriving and the place is all but deserted. Still, I'm asked some searching questions as to what exactly I'll be doing in the day between flying in from South Africa and leaving for Turkey.
The second pass is more useful. Once I have my luggage...
My bags. Did they pass through the horror story of Johannesburg unmolested?
No! My big yellow LL Bean rolling duffle is there, seemingly untouched, but my big yellow BookCrossing tote bag - as usual, packed square with books, is missing its Q-Tag. And the zipper pull. It's still zipped up, but the moment I unzip it, I'll have no way to zip it up again. Its days as checkin luggage are over.
I'm also a little pissed off about losing the Q-Tag. A platinum tag, to boot. It's almost an antique now, one of the old "Silver" ones. Not that I would have any with me, but Qantas didn't see fit to send me Gold, Silver or Bronze tags on my way down. ***SIGH***
Right. Where's that Arrivals Lounge?
Here is a welcome refuge. What a civilised idea. My big bags, once I dig out a change of clothes, disappear into the luggage room, and I vanish into the shower complex, a maze of narrow passages all alike. The floor is wet and the pipes gurgle, but if I were a cat, I'd be purring. So good to have a wash after a long flight!
Breakfast is good. Coffee, yogurt, wifi. I'd stay there all day, but I've got things to do.
I haul my bags all over T5 landside, trying to work out where the rental cars live. Eventually I'm directed outside - into the "summer" of British Summer Time - into the howling blizzard, where I freeze for half an hour waiting for the shuttle. Finally it arrives, takes the longest possible route to the car yard, and I gratefully ease myself into the office, where I'm thawed out and charmed into a more expensive car I probably don't need. But hey, it's a VW and I drive a Golf, so I figure the switches will be more or less familiar.
A Scirocco, which is nice enough, though I actually would have preferred a Golf. I'm not really game to boot the thing around, and I'll be hauling passengers later on, so a coupe isn't really what I want. My bags happily fill the boot and I plug the address into the GPS. A little village near Oxford, "just follow the yarn-bombing". Right.
As ever with a new car, I'm diffident until I sort out the controls. I'm busy fiddling with the wipers, so I manage to get stuck in the wrong lane and have a quick tour of Heathrow's cargo port before I navigate out and head north.
Now, I love the English countryside. Absolutely gorgeous, even at the tail end of winter. So why is it that the people who design motorways make them so incredibly boring and uniform? All over the world, they are the same. Four lanes with a median strip and occasional glimpses of the world outside through the trees and cuttings. A steeple, a field of cows, equally bored, a services...
Finally - well about an hour later, though it seems longer - I'm guided off into a series of ever smaller roads. Here's my village of Harwell, my but it looks pretty, aren't all the streets narrow and nowhere to park and why aren't they signposted and where are the blessed house numbers?
I squint at the GPS, find my street, drive past a row of houses, go down a farm lane to turn around, go past the same houses sloowly with a bus up my tail, looking for house numbers, turn around in a barnyard, drive back again... I spot some yarnbombing, so I'm in the right area. Nowhere to park on the roadside, so I pull into someone's driveway, get out and knock on the door.
Geez. Door after door after door. Half the village is away or asleep or dead, half only just moved in and don't know their house number - or if they have one - and the remaining house, in a thick rustic accent, directs me to the far end of the street. Of course. The only house that doesn't have a cutesy name. It has a number, tucked away out of sight.
What the hey. My friends come out to greet me, hugs are exchanged, books are exchanged, Tim Tams and sweet things exchanged. My mate Jay, with whom I have had many roadtrips - Kaikoura, Memphis, Route 66, Iowa, Goulburn - has prepared some roadtrip food. A startling concoction of peanut-butter, chocolates and pretzels, in honour of something we got out of Trader Joes in Chicago, years ago. There's also a pavlova to be sampled, cats to be stroked, chatting and tea and happiness all round. BookCrossing has found me some remarkable friends, and I know that wherever I go in the world, I can generally count on somebody to show me around and load me down with books.
After lunch we grab a bag of books and head out. My mad mates, Jay and Janice, have yarnbombed the street, we're off snarfing historical landmarks, and we've got a tree to decorate with books. It's all so ridiculously picturesque and villagey. Old farms, little brooks and copses, thatched houses, ancient walls with a plaque showing where the Black Prince rested his royal bottom centuries ago. I tell Janice that it's nothing like Canberra, where I live in a heritage district myself, and my house can't be modified (at least from the front) as it was built in 1927. She looks interested. Janice is the local, though she shared that Kaikoura roadtrip with Jay and I in 2009.
Jay is the New Zealander, the pavlova cook, just staying overnight before we both head off for another adventure in Turkey.
Jay and Janice
We pop into the village church, where Janice has arranged the "captain of the tower" to show us the bells and the church tower. He and Janice are old mates, old bell-ringers, and Jay and I get a grand tour, culminating in a rather nervous photo-op on the flat roof of the church tower, where the parapet is about knee-high and there is a cold wind gusting.
The Captain and Janice (and Ring-bear)
Fascinating, historic stuff. We sign in the tower visitor register, have a look around the old church interior and then continue our history tour out through the churchyard and through the village.
Janice periodically releases childrens' books, enclosing them in plastic bags, decorating them and tying them onto the branches of a tree at the village crossroads. They are a favorite with the locals, as is Janice, a stalwart of the local school, Womens Institute and so on.
It's a delightful place, very English, but also cold and my body is telling me that it's well after midnight. For the next hour or so, I am nothing but snores coming from the spare room.
Evening comes, and with it another New Zealander also working in the UK. Oh yeah, another BookCrosser! We have a date for dinner in a pub slightly nearer Oxford, and I drive us all along more country lanes to another of those rural pubs the English do so very well. We're joined here by yet another BookCrosser, and it is here that the germ of the 2015 World BookCrossing Convention is hatched over ale and cider and shepherd's pie.
Stand by for another Trip Report in 2015 - from Oxford, city of dreaming spires and escaped books!
Last edited:
Skyring
Established Member
- Joined
- Oct 18, 2005
- Posts
- 2,216
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- LT Silver
Flight 4
LHR-IST
4 April 2013
BA678 A320
Seats 4D/F
Scheduled: 0710
Boarding: 0645 (Gate A20)
Pushback: 0708
Takeoff: 0734
Woke - once - had a quick shower and shave, packed up (not that I'd unpacked), skipped breakfast at the hotel and walked over to T5. Most of the way was under cover, but there were some bits through the carpark where the chill got in.
Just as an aside, this "quick shower and shave" was a feature of my life for the next month, mostly. Usually I had a plane to catch, or I was in someone else's house sharing the facilities. There were very few chances to luxuriate under the warm stream, sleep in or just laze around. Laundry was often a worry, and I have to say that after a while one gets bloody sick of rummaging around in the bottom of the bag for something. I have plastic boxes to keep things in - those big "Sistema" boxes are very well put together - some Kathmandu cells, a couple of laundry mesh bags and any number of pockets and zips, but there's always something lost in the ruck.
And why is it always the nicest hotel rooms that are occupied for the shortest period? Apart from Gallipoli - more later. The Heathrow Sofitel was very good, as airport hotels go, but I was only there for a glorified nap.
I'd had a bit of juggling to do on flights and things. My original plans involved travelling up to Edinburgh where I could stow a lot of luggage, and then travelling down later, following the Turkey trip with a Scandinavian roadtrip to see the Northern Lights up around Narvik. But with these things dependent on others, it didn't all work out, and there was a bit of skyping AA, hassling BA and paying rebooking fees.
But here we were, checking in with a couple of "Club Europe" seats, saying goodbye to our bags and navigating up and up to the lounge for breakfast.
No champagne on offer, but "Fentimans Botanically Brewed Traditional Ginger Beer" was an acceptable substitute. Yogurt and coffee and a danish, but we held back on the brekkie. There'd be more on board, without the need to keep an eye on the departures board.
Which called us away before I could catch up with Facebook, let alone AFF.
Gate A20 was downstairs and around the corner, just a few minutes away. We strolled aboard, found our seats, stowed our gear, leaned back, smiled and relaxed. This is the modern Orient Express!
Can't say that Business on these old A320s is much chop, really. The seats are three configured as two with a bit of extra legroom. I put Routebear in the middle and he helped. It's fun travelling with a bubbly young woman. Apart from being great company, Jay did her best to charm the cabin crew, and it worked in a way that doesn't when it's just me, a grumpy old man with a toy bear.
Jay had charmed me out of the window seat, but I think it was all London overcast until well into Europe anyway, so we turned our attention to breakfast, where we were quite spoiled by the cabin crew.
Brekkie menu by skyring, on Flickr
Again, no champagne, but they whipped up some spiced tomato juice for me, a plate of fruit, "cherry compote with Greek yoghurt and homemade granola". Homemade granola, alright!
The omelette and various pastries, coffee and smiles completed the meal service.
I've got my camera with me, but it's a bulky bugger. Pretty useful zoom, and I used it to good effect, shooting over Jay and out into the Alps as we flew over.
In due course the Sea of Marmara appeared, and then we flew right over Istanbul itself before turning to come into Ataturk from the east. Unfortunately we had no view of the iconic sights of AyaSofya, the Blue Mosque and so on, but we got a good impression of the size of the place, spread out over two continents.
Landing: 1252 from East
Gate: 1305
Immigration was painless - we had Fast Track access, once we had bought an entry visa. For some unknown reason, New Zealanders don't need a visa, but Australians do, and I had to pay USD60 for the pleasure. Humph. Luckily they had a card terminal at the counter - the Turkish lire I'd bought were no use, nor were the British pounds.
Baggage claim was easy enough, and my yellow bags visible at a distance. If only I had a lire coin to secure a baggage trolley! What genius thought that one up? So we had to carry and wheel our bags. My big rolling duffle was serious overloaded and I began to worry about the integrity of the wheels. Seven or eight times around the globe and already it was wearing out!
LHR-IST
4 April 2013
BA678 A320
Seats 4D/F
Scheduled: 0710
Boarding: 0645 (Gate A20)
Pushback: 0708
Takeoff: 0734
Woke - once - had a quick shower and shave, packed up (not that I'd unpacked), skipped breakfast at the hotel and walked over to T5. Most of the way was under cover, but there were some bits through the carpark where the chill got in.
Just as an aside, this "quick shower and shave" was a feature of my life for the next month, mostly. Usually I had a plane to catch, or I was in someone else's house sharing the facilities. There were very few chances to luxuriate under the warm stream, sleep in or just laze around. Laundry was often a worry, and I have to say that after a while one gets bloody sick of rummaging around in the bottom of the bag for something. I have plastic boxes to keep things in - those big "Sistema" boxes are very well put together - some Kathmandu cells, a couple of laundry mesh bags and any number of pockets and zips, but there's always something lost in the ruck.
And why is it always the nicest hotel rooms that are occupied for the shortest period? Apart from Gallipoli - more later. The Heathrow Sofitel was very good, as airport hotels go, but I was only there for a glorified nap.
I'd had a bit of juggling to do on flights and things. My original plans involved travelling up to Edinburgh where I could stow a lot of luggage, and then travelling down later, following the Turkey trip with a Scandinavian roadtrip to see the Northern Lights up around Narvik. But with these things dependent on others, it didn't all work out, and there was a bit of skyping AA, hassling BA and paying rebooking fees.
But here we were, checking in with a couple of "Club Europe" seats, saying goodbye to our bags and navigating up and up to the lounge for breakfast.
No champagne on offer, but "Fentimans Botanically Brewed Traditional Ginger Beer" was an acceptable substitute. Yogurt and coffee and a danish, but we held back on the brekkie. There'd be more on board, without the need to keep an eye on the departures board.
Which called us away before I could catch up with Facebook, let alone AFF.
Gate A20 was downstairs and around the corner, just a few minutes away. We strolled aboard, found our seats, stowed our gear, leaned back, smiled and relaxed. This is the modern Orient Express!
Can't say that Business on these old A320s is much chop, really. The seats are three configured as two with a bit of extra legroom. I put Routebear in the middle and he helped. It's fun travelling with a bubbly young woman. Apart from being great company, Jay did her best to charm the cabin crew, and it worked in a way that doesn't when it's just me, a grumpy old man with a toy bear.
Jay had charmed me out of the window seat, but I think it was all London overcast until well into Europe anyway, so we turned our attention to breakfast, where we were quite spoiled by the cabin crew.
Brekkie menu by skyring, on Flickr
Again, no champagne, but they whipped up some spiced tomato juice for me, a plate of fruit, "cherry compote with Greek yoghurt and homemade granola". Homemade granola, alright!
The omelette and various pastries, coffee and smiles completed the meal service.
I've got my camera with me, but it's a bulky bugger. Pretty useful zoom, and I used it to good effect, shooting over Jay and out into the Alps as we flew over.
In due course the Sea of Marmara appeared, and then we flew right over Istanbul itself before turning to come into Ataturk from the east. Unfortunately we had no view of the iconic sights of AyaSofya, the Blue Mosque and so on, but we got a good impression of the size of the place, spread out over two continents.
Landing: 1252 from East
Gate: 1305
Immigration was painless - we had Fast Track access, once we had bought an entry visa. For some unknown reason, New Zealanders don't need a visa, but Australians do, and I had to pay USD60 for the pleasure. Humph. Luckily they had a card terminal at the counter - the Turkish lire I'd bought were no use, nor were the British pounds.
Baggage claim was easy enough, and my yellow bags visible at a distance. If only I had a lire coin to secure a baggage trolley! What genius thought that one up? So we had to carry and wheel our bags. My big rolling duffle was serious overloaded and I began to worry about the integrity of the wheels. Seven or eight times around the globe and already it was wearing out!
Last edited:
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Skyring
Established Member
- Joined
- Oct 18, 2005
- Posts
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Transit 4 Turkey, Part 1
4 April 2013
I guess every schoolchild in Australia and New Zealand has come to be taught a certain reverence for the names of Gallipoli and Anzac. It's a special day, poppies are distributed, the teachers talk of remembrance and sacrifice, elderly gents wear medals on their jackets and the television is full of exciting battle footage. Perhaps not every child devoured the old "History of Australia in the Great War" as avidly as I did, but I certainly found Charles Bean's "The Story of Anzac" a thrilling and poignant read. The names of the commanders, the battles and the places, the exotic mystery of a war fought in a strange place for odd reasons, the poignancy of the defeats and the missed opportunities - they all resonated with me, and I longed to look over the ground for myself.
Jay, who gained her degree with a major in the cultural impact of the First World War, was of a like mind, and given our shared tendency to moon over forgotten battles - there was one afternoon at Antietam where we just sat on the side of Bloody Lane and openly wept - it was a foregone conclusion that if we ever got a chance, we would visit Anzac.
I would have liked to plan a week there, with a walk up Rhododendron Ridge, a detailed ramble through the old trenchlines, excursions to Helles and Suvla, a side trip to Troy, but we really only had one full day to spend at Anzac, so we planned to make the most of it. Jay gave me a guidebook a year previously, and I had read through it eagerly. She also came up with the best place to stay - The Gallipoli Houses - and I promptly booked our accommodation there. Honestly, I could not believe that a place so highly praised would have rooms available two weeks before Anzac Day, but there it was.
Eric, the host of the establishment, emailed instructions for driving down. Now, I've seen traffic in Istanbul, and it can be daunting, but I'm hardly a novice at city driving, or driving on the wrong side of the road in a strange country, so I arranged for car hire. A Renault Fluence, with automatic transmission and enough room for baggage. Again the baggage was dragged through an airport terminal in search of the rental agencies, and again I spent a long time waiting, this time for the counter staff to get themselves organised. On the way we were accosted by any number of gentlemen keen to offer us accommodation, airport transfers, bus tours, carpets...
But I'd been there before, and all they received from me was a cheerful Russian phrase - the only Russian I know, something to do with love and motherhood, I understand - and a shake of the head.
"Okay, sir," she said, "Your car is in the red carpark, third level, at the Avis office." I took the documents, hoisted my various bags, and set off, hoping that there wouldn't be too many stairs.
A lift, as it happened, but the Avis section was at the far end of the carpark. My big bag was making ominous scraping sounds towards the end, and I gloomily contemplated the weeks of travel ahead.
We were given a choice of cars. Here was our Fluence, a dusty little object, obviously fresh in from a hard drive across the desert, and a shiny new Nissan Qashqai (Dualis) which looked like it might have more cross-country capability. I'd heard some of the roads at Anzac could be rough, so it was a no-brainer, really. Besides, time was running out if we wanted to get down to Gallipoli by dinner time. Given the rave reviews of the food at the Gallipoli Houses, I wasn't keen on missing my tucker.
We overflow the boot with our bags, and Jay's big backpack is plonked onto the backseat. Then I hand the directions to her, plug "Gelibou" into the GPS, and we're off!
It's early afternoon now and traffic outside is light-ish. The first decision point comes immediately outside the airport gates, but Eric's instructions, bless his thoughtful heart, cover this. We take the middle ramp onto the freeway and merge into the traffic.
Two things about Turkish drivers. They don't share our respect for lane markings, and they have a very cavalier attitude to speed limits. However, traffic flows well. A little too well for my liking, as I'm still chugging along in the right lane, trying to keep my steering wheel in the left half of the lane and dodging the huge transcontinental semi-trailers setting off for Amsterdam or Prague or Rome along the Trans-European Motorway.
The coastal motorway is shorter, but busier, as half the population seems to live in villas ranked up from the Marmara along the hillsides, and obviously they are going to clog up the motorway. Our road is higher, with occasional long views out over the sea, and the land is under cultivation, where it isn't developed.
The GFC must have hit hard here. This bit of Turkey - and all the way down to Helles - is just littered with half-built villas. Some truly huge developments stand abandoned at lock-up stage, their yards rubble, walls unpainted, windows empty. Some have obviously been abandoned for years.
After a while we stop for a break at a bored service station. Drinks and a visit to the WC - strange how they use the English abbreviation - and then back on the road for another hour or so of hills, gradually descending to the coast as the seaside population thins. I'm having no trouble driving now. The traffic is thin and although they are usually going faster than I, I'm content to sit in the slow lane at the legal speed.
At least for a while. I bump the cruise control up until I'm travelling at the local speed and not being hassled quite so much by heavy trucks. We've lost the big international haulers now, we're in amongst the more colourful locals, brightly coloured or rusting, hefted along the highway by big blokes with lots of fuzz on their faces. They look like they know what they are about and they eat rental cars.
Extremely pleasant motoring. This place is an exception to the rule that motorways are boring. We've got the coast on one side, the hills on the other, and this road is a part of it all. Access is only occasionally by flyovers and ramps, more likely are rural intersections, dusty roads, bus stops and houses with driveways. A refreshing change, but I wonder about the safety, considering the speeds the locals are hurtling along at.
We leave the coast at Tekirdag, though I'm kind of wishing we could continue on to see if Barbaros lives up to its name. Just a few kilometres on, the town of Kumbag beckons. However, our directions lead us on a long dogleg via Kesan, and after climbing a spectacular hill outside Tekirdag, crowned by a modern hotel, we are heading inland.
The motorway surface deteriorates. The locals zip along, unabashed, but I find the vibration and the potholes a little stressful and I slow down. Jay dozes, as she so often does when navigation is crucial. But hey, I've got the GPS to guide me, yeah?
"Turn left here!" the voice commands, and I do. It's not on the directions, but I know we're turning left soon, so...
Almost instantly, it's apparent that this is not the right turn. The GPS has decided to cut off the dogleg via Kesan, and we're going the short way along backroads. Righto. The road might be winding, but the surface is better. What could go wrong?
As it turns out, not a real lot, and it's fun driving. The roads wind along hillcrests and through farmland. Every now and then there's a village: narrow streets, dust-coloured stone buildings, dogs sleeping in the road, chickens scattering before us, old men drinking coffee and looking at us with curious eyes, returned with interest. Each village has a statue of Kemal Ataturk in the square, arm upraised to hail a cab.
And then back onto the rural roads, speeding past tractors and cows, having a glorious speed in this land without traffic police. I keep an eye on the GPS. The estimated time of arrival isn't moving more than a few minutes, so we're doing fine. This is fun!
After a half-hour of this stuff, we're back on the motorway, aiming for Gelibou - the town giving its Greek name to the Gallipoli peninsula - and the driving becomes a bit more predictable. Around the Bulair narrows, we climb up and the Aegean opens out on our right. Just a gulf of the sea, but big and blue and beautiful under the afternoon sun. The hills of the peninsula can be seen to the south.
We zigzag back to the other side, and the Bosphorus is there - a wide river with Asia on the far side. This is the prize the Allies were aiming for in 1915, wanting to sail their dreadnoughts up to threaten Constantinople once they had demolished the forts guarding the minefields across the narrowest part of the straits. They lost three battleships in a morning before deciding to send in the Army to take them from behind. But that took time, and the Turks were ready for the invasion on 25 April.
We bypass Gelibou, a stream of freighters on the waterway to our left, and we're looking for landmarks now. Just shy of Maidos (now Eccebat), we turn right for Gaba Tepe, and right again for the tiny village of Kocadere.
Just 35 inhabitants and a tourist lodge. The sun is setting over Gun Ridge as we pull into the tiny carpark.
4 April 2013
I guess every schoolchild in Australia and New Zealand has come to be taught a certain reverence for the names of Gallipoli and Anzac. It's a special day, poppies are distributed, the teachers talk of remembrance and sacrifice, elderly gents wear medals on their jackets and the television is full of exciting battle footage. Perhaps not every child devoured the old "History of Australia in the Great War" as avidly as I did, but I certainly found Charles Bean's "The Story of Anzac" a thrilling and poignant read. The names of the commanders, the battles and the places, the exotic mystery of a war fought in a strange place for odd reasons, the poignancy of the defeats and the missed opportunities - they all resonated with me, and I longed to look over the ground for myself.
Jay, who gained her degree with a major in the cultural impact of the First World War, was of a like mind, and given our shared tendency to moon over forgotten battles - there was one afternoon at Antietam where we just sat on the side of Bloody Lane and openly wept - it was a foregone conclusion that if we ever got a chance, we would visit Anzac.
I would have liked to plan a week there, with a walk up Rhododendron Ridge, a detailed ramble through the old trenchlines, excursions to Helles and Suvla, a side trip to Troy, but we really only had one full day to spend at Anzac, so we planned to make the most of it. Jay gave me a guidebook a year previously, and I had read through it eagerly. She also came up with the best place to stay - The Gallipoli Houses - and I promptly booked our accommodation there. Honestly, I could not believe that a place so highly praised would have rooms available two weeks before Anzac Day, but there it was.
Eric, the host of the establishment, emailed instructions for driving down. Now, I've seen traffic in Istanbul, and it can be daunting, but I'm hardly a novice at city driving, or driving on the wrong side of the road in a strange country, so I arranged for car hire. A Renault Fluence, with automatic transmission and enough room for baggage. Again the baggage was dragged through an airport terminal in search of the rental agencies, and again I spent a long time waiting, this time for the counter staff to get themselves organised. On the way we were accosted by any number of gentlemen keen to offer us accommodation, airport transfers, bus tours, carpets...
But I'd been there before, and all they received from me was a cheerful Russian phrase - the only Russian I know, something to do with love and motherhood, I understand - and a shake of the head.
"Okay, sir," she said, "Your car is in the red carpark, third level, at the Avis office." I took the documents, hoisted my various bags, and set off, hoping that there wouldn't be too many stairs.
A lift, as it happened, but the Avis section was at the far end of the carpark. My big bag was making ominous scraping sounds towards the end, and I gloomily contemplated the weeks of travel ahead.
We were given a choice of cars. Here was our Fluence, a dusty little object, obviously fresh in from a hard drive across the desert, and a shiny new Nissan Qashqai (Dualis) which looked like it might have more cross-country capability. I'd heard some of the roads at Anzac could be rough, so it was a no-brainer, really. Besides, time was running out if we wanted to get down to Gallipoli by dinner time. Given the rave reviews of the food at the Gallipoli Houses, I wasn't keen on missing my tucker.
We overflow the boot with our bags, and Jay's big backpack is plonked onto the backseat. Then I hand the directions to her, plug "Gelibou" into the GPS, and we're off!
It's early afternoon now and traffic outside is light-ish. The first decision point comes immediately outside the airport gates, but Eric's instructions, bless his thoughtful heart, cover this. We take the middle ramp onto the freeway and merge into the traffic.
Two things about Turkish drivers. They don't share our respect for lane markings, and they have a very cavalier attitude to speed limits. However, traffic flows well. A little too well for my liking, as I'm still chugging along in the right lane, trying to keep my steering wheel in the left half of the lane and dodging the huge transcontinental semi-trailers setting off for Amsterdam or Prague or Rome along the Trans-European Motorway.
The coastal motorway is shorter, but busier, as half the population seems to live in villas ranked up from the Marmara along the hillsides, and obviously they are going to clog up the motorway. Our road is higher, with occasional long views out over the sea, and the land is under cultivation, where it isn't developed.
The GFC must have hit hard here. This bit of Turkey - and all the way down to Helles - is just littered with half-built villas. Some truly huge developments stand abandoned at lock-up stage, their yards rubble, walls unpainted, windows empty. Some have obviously been abandoned for years.
After a while we stop for a break at a bored service station. Drinks and a visit to the WC - strange how they use the English abbreviation - and then back on the road for another hour or so of hills, gradually descending to the coast as the seaside population thins. I'm having no trouble driving now. The traffic is thin and although they are usually going faster than I, I'm content to sit in the slow lane at the legal speed.
At least for a while. I bump the cruise control up until I'm travelling at the local speed and not being hassled quite so much by heavy trucks. We've lost the big international haulers now, we're in amongst the more colourful locals, brightly coloured or rusting, hefted along the highway by big blokes with lots of fuzz on their faces. They look like they know what they are about and they eat rental cars.
Extremely pleasant motoring. This place is an exception to the rule that motorways are boring. We've got the coast on one side, the hills on the other, and this road is a part of it all. Access is only occasionally by flyovers and ramps, more likely are rural intersections, dusty roads, bus stops and houses with driveways. A refreshing change, but I wonder about the safety, considering the speeds the locals are hurtling along at.
We leave the coast at Tekirdag, though I'm kind of wishing we could continue on to see if Barbaros lives up to its name. Just a few kilometres on, the town of Kumbag beckons. However, our directions lead us on a long dogleg via Kesan, and after climbing a spectacular hill outside Tekirdag, crowned by a modern hotel, we are heading inland.
The motorway surface deteriorates. The locals zip along, unabashed, but I find the vibration and the potholes a little stressful and I slow down. Jay dozes, as she so often does when navigation is crucial. But hey, I've got the GPS to guide me, yeah?
"Turn left here!" the voice commands, and I do. It's not on the directions, but I know we're turning left soon, so...
Almost instantly, it's apparent that this is not the right turn. The GPS has decided to cut off the dogleg via Kesan, and we're going the short way along backroads. Righto. The road might be winding, but the surface is better. What could go wrong?
As it turns out, not a real lot, and it's fun driving. The roads wind along hillcrests and through farmland. Every now and then there's a village: narrow streets, dust-coloured stone buildings, dogs sleeping in the road, chickens scattering before us, old men drinking coffee and looking at us with curious eyes, returned with interest. Each village has a statue of Kemal Ataturk in the square, arm upraised to hail a cab.
And then back onto the rural roads, speeding past tractors and cows, having a glorious speed in this land without traffic police. I keep an eye on the GPS. The estimated time of arrival isn't moving more than a few minutes, so we're doing fine. This is fun!
After a half-hour of this stuff, we're back on the motorway, aiming for Gelibou - the town giving its Greek name to the Gallipoli peninsula - and the driving becomes a bit more predictable. Around the Bulair narrows, we climb up and the Aegean opens out on our right. Just a gulf of the sea, but big and blue and beautiful under the afternoon sun. The hills of the peninsula can be seen to the south.
We zigzag back to the other side, and the Bosphorus is there - a wide river with Asia on the far side. This is the prize the Allies were aiming for in 1915, wanting to sail their dreadnoughts up to threaten Constantinople once they had demolished the forts guarding the minefields across the narrowest part of the straits. They lost three battleships in a morning before deciding to send in the Army to take them from behind. But that took time, and the Turks were ready for the invasion on 25 April.
We bypass Gelibou, a stream of freighters on the waterway to our left, and we're looking for landmarks now. Just shy of Maidos (now Eccebat), we turn right for Gaba Tepe, and right again for the tiny village of Kocadere.
Just 35 inhabitants and a tourist lodge. The sun is setting over Gun Ridge as we pull into the tiny carpark.
Last edited:
Skyring
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Transit 4 Turkey, Part 2
4 April 2013
The scrubby heights of Gun Ridge dominate the view from the terrace opening out from the Kocadere Room. Large rooms with delightful outlooks, comfy beds, couch, acres of space. Furnishings are top notch, the exposed wooden beams add rustic style, the decorations themed to the old battlefields. And a friendly ginger cat, though the last is apparently a shared resource.
There is no better place to stay for the Anzac battlefield explorer. Clean, comfortable, convenient. It is a few minutes drive to Anzac Cove, but off the direct route so there are no crowds of tourists and their tourbuses. The village is tiny - only 35 residents including muezzin, who adds his voice to those of dogs, sheep, roosters and songbirds.
The host, Eric, runs a tight ship. His crew are marvels - friendly and obliging without being obsequious. He knows everything there is to know about Gallipoli, both the history and the area. Listen well to him; he goes back to the original sources, whether it is some arcane bit of military lore, or the menu at the local pancake restaurant.
What I like best is his desire to see his guests happy. He asks what guests want to see and then provides the resources and the inside tips. Maps, guidebooks, walking notes - you name it. He goes beyond what is expected and gives that special information only somebody deeply immersed in his subject could provide.
His wife, Ozlem, is the cook, and what a cook! Her kitchen serves up local dishes, tailored to meet guest quirks such as vegetarianism if need be, and every bite is sublime. Lentil soup - a dish that lis not normally a source of ecstasy - mopped up with crusty local bread. Total yum. And on it goes. Not big portions, but perfect.
The same may be said for the establishment. Not big, but perfect. Perfectly in keeping with the environment, the house is not too large. The group having a pre-dinner drink around the fireplace may exchange their tales without having to shout. Eric stands by the fire, answering questions, talking history, talking philosophy.
Parking is limited, and if there are more than three vehicles at the front gate, go around to the back, where there is room for five more. There is a small book swapshelf beside the free internet computer. The many displays of historical artifacts, maps, photographs etc are augmented by the collection beside the dining room lavatories. Just turn on the light and there is a whole corridor full of things. The terrace upstairs is open to all, and is the perfect place to sit and watch the sun set over the Aegean.
That's from my report on a travel site. This place has an almost perfect record. Everybody loves it. And with good reason.
For a start, it has the best location of any accommodation near the battlefield. It is actually within the National Park that encompasses Anzac. The next closest are the backpacker hostels at Eccebat on the eastern side of the peninsula, and further on you get the hotels of Çanakkale over the strait. This is the place were the Prime Minister or Governor-General stay before getting up for the Dawn Service. Look out the window, and the flags and monuments of some of the battle sites are visible.
Location alone, it is top notch. No other place comes close.
Second, the facilities are excellent. Comfortable, roomy, clean, elegant. This place has real class. It isn't a huge place - everyone sat and ate at the one table when we were there, with six or seven of the dozen or so rooms occupied. Full up, it still wouldn't be crowded. It's not big enough to lose the personal touch - think of a really good bed and breakfast place and you have it.
The lounge and dining room, comprising the ground floor of the photo above, are perfect. There are displays of battlefield souvenirs, beautifully displayed, maps and prints of the campaign, a bookcase full of guidebooks and history books - and novels to borrow. A big fireplace with comfy lounges around, where host Eric holds court and the smiling waiter/porter/gardener brings in the beers. At the end of each day, the guests gathered, swapped storied, drank a relaxing glass, and listened while Eric answered questions, talked on the history, the culture, the soldiers, the land. He is really good, and he makes sure that every guest is best informed and equipped on their plans for the next day.
And the food. Oh, but it is sublime. Eric married a local lass, and Ozlem is a most gifted cook. Jay and I were going vegetarian for this trip and she took that into account. The food is excellent local tucker, and lashings of it. Breakfast and dinnertime - they don't do lunch, but will happily pack one for you - are high points.
The village is tiny, just a few dozen souls, mostly farmers and their families. About as rustic as you can get. Lean over the railing and you are amongst the cows and the sheep and the roosters. The village existed before the campaign, but the occupants were evacuated and never returned. "They were farmers," Eric explains. "They planted crops in their new homes and that was that." There is a small museum and a mosque - for early morning wake up calls, a few houses and that's it. All around are fields, rising to the heights of Gun Ridge and the Sari Bair range. A glimpse of Gaba Tepe and the Aegean off to the left.
Battlefields aside, this is a lovely bit of land, with water on three sides. The old invasion beaches at Helles are full of tanned Turks in the summer, the rustic restaurants are made for crowds, and the fields are green. I'll be back.
4 April 2013
The scrubby heights of Gun Ridge dominate the view from the terrace opening out from the Kocadere Room. Large rooms with delightful outlooks, comfy beds, couch, acres of space. Furnishings are top notch, the exposed wooden beams add rustic style, the decorations themed to the old battlefields. And a friendly ginger cat, though the last is apparently a shared resource.
There is no better place to stay for the Anzac battlefield explorer. Clean, comfortable, convenient. It is a few minutes drive to Anzac Cove, but off the direct route so there are no crowds of tourists and their tourbuses. The village is tiny - only 35 residents including muezzin, who adds his voice to those of dogs, sheep, roosters and songbirds.
The host, Eric, runs a tight ship. His crew are marvels - friendly and obliging without being obsequious. He knows everything there is to know about Gallipoli, both the history and the area. Listen well to him; he goes back to the original sources, whether it is some arcane bit of military lore, or the menu at the local pancake restaurant.
What I like best is his desire to see his guests happy. He asks what guests want to see and then provides the resources and the inside tips. Maps, guidebooks, walking notes - you name it. He goes beyond what is expected and gives that special information only somebody deeply immersed in his subject could provide.
His wife, Ozlem, is the cook, and what a cook! Her kitchen serves up local dishes, tailored to meet guest quirks such as vegetarianism if need be, and every bite is sublime. Lentil soup - a dish that lis not normally a source of ecstasy - mopped up with crusty local bread. Total yum. And on it goes. Not big portions, but perfect.
The same may be said for the establishment. Not big, but perfect. Perfectly in keeping with the environment, the house is not too large. The group having a pre-dinner drink around the fireplace may exchange their tales without having to shout. Eric stands by the fire, answering questions, talking history, talking philosophy.
Parking is limited, and if there are more than three vehicles at the front gate, go around to the back, where there is room for five more. There is a small book swapshelf beside the free internet computer. The many displays of historical artifacts, maps, photographs etc are augmented by the collection beside the dining room lavatories. Just turn on the light and there is a whole corridor full of things. The terrace upstairs is open to all, and is the perfect place to sit and watch the sun set over the Aegean.
That's from my report on a travel site. This place has an almost perfect record. Everybody loves it. And with good reason.
For a start, it has the best location of any accommodation near the battlefield. It is actually within the National Park that encompasses Anzac. The next closest are the backpacker hostels at Eccebat on the eastern side of the peninsula, and further on you get the hotels of Çanakkale over the strait. This is the place were the Prime Minister or Governor-General stay before getting up for the Dawn Service. Look out the window, and the flags and monuments of some of the battle sites are visible.
Location alone, it is top notch. No other place comes close.
Second, the facilities are excellent. Comfortable, roomy, clean, elegant. This place has real class. It isn't a huge place - everyone sat and ate at the one table when we were there, with six or seven of the dozen or so rooms occupied. Full up, it still wouldn't be crowded. It's not big enough to lose the personal touch - think of a really good bed and breakfast place and you have it.
The lounge and dining room, comprising the ground floor of the photo above, are perfect. There are displays of battlefield souvenirs, beautifully displayed, maps and prints of the campaign, a bookcase full of guidebooks and history books - and novels to borrow. A big fireplace with comfy lounges around, where host Eric holds court and the smiling waiter/porter/gardener brings in the beers. At the end of each day, the guests gathered, swapped storied, drank a relaxing glass, and listened while Eric answered questions, talked on the history, the culture, the soldiers, the land. He is really good, and he makes sure that every guest is best informed and equipped on their plans for the next day.
And the food. Oh, but it is sublime. Eric married a local lass, and Ozlem is a most gifted cook. Jay and I were going vegetarian for this trip and she took that into account. The food is excellent local tucker, and lashings of it. Breakfast and dinnertime - they don't do lunch, but will happily pack one for you - are high points.
The village is tiny, just a few dozen souls, mostly farmers and their families. About as rustic as you can get. Lean over the railing and you are amongst the cows and the sheep and the roosters. The village existed before the campaign, but the occupants were evacuated and never returned. "They were farmers," Eric explains. "They planted crops in their new homes and that was that." There is a small museum and a mosque - for early morning wake up calls, a few houses and that's it. All around are fields, rising to the heights of Gun Ridge and the Sari Bair range. A glimpse of Gaba Tepe and the Aegean off to the left.
Battlefields aside, this is a lovely bit of land, with water on three sides. The old invasion beaches at Helles are full of tanned Turks in the summer, the rustic restaurants are made for crowds, and the fields are green. I'll be back.
Skyring
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Transit 4 Turkey, Part 3
5 April 2013
Again, an early alarm. Actually, I think it was the muezzin, but whatever, it's before dawn. We dress warmly and head out to Anzac. Strange, we make the right turn at Gaba Tepe, head along the coastline, we cannot miss it because there's only one road, but we drive right through in the dark. Just like the Anzacs, we lose our way and drift too far north. Such a tiny place! We turn around and leave the car in the North Beach carpark, where I worry a bit about parking in what are clearly bus spots. But the place is silent and deserted.
The beach at Anzac Cove is now quite inaccessible. The modern road has changed this historic landscape forever, and there is a steep concrete embankment dividing shingle from scrub. We walk down at the bottom of the North Beach area, the Sphinx a silhouette against the crescent moon, the land a dark mystery. South past Ari Burnu, and there is Anzac Cove, a semicircle of gravel and stones a metre or two wide, the far headland jutting out into the lightening Aegean.
At the bottom of a drainage channel there is room to sit, and we rest here in silence as the sun rises out of Asia, dawn creeping across the narrows, over the ridges and finally breaking over the crest of Plugges Plateau behind us. I close my eyes to meditate in this special time and place.
Over the sea comes the sound of a fishing boat heading out from Gaba Tepe, its engines growling loudly over the quieter rippling splash of the small waves reaching up to our feet and then receding in a hiss through the shingle.
There's Imbros on the horizon, the base for the operation, where General Hamilton sat brooding over the disaster, his eyes lifting so easily to the heights his troops could not reach. His tangled chain of command, full of incompetents, dullards, spies and timeservers sprinkled amongst the professionals, was his downfall. Orders went out, and by the time they reached the fighting units, they had changed out of all recognition. A brigade landed at Suvla, on a day when they were badly needed at a dozen places, and they had no orders at all. Nothing. They sat on the beach and had a picnic before anybody thought to put them into the battle, a day or so later.
We make our way along the beach. All that remains of the wartime base, when the beach was crammed with piles of supplies, wharves jutted into the sea, equipment of all sorts was shoehorned in, all that is left are the broken concrete footings of a desalinisation plant. The diggers were always short of water in this dry land, and if a general was offered a cup of tea on the front line, he would refuse it, because he knew the labour involved in carrying it up so high.
There is a ruined Turkish fort from the 1930s on the point. Here the beach is replaced entirely by concrete, hastily laid to shore up the crumbling seawall. Every year at this time, the park workers are repairing the ravages of the winter in time for the thousands of visitors who will be here in our footsteps for Anzac Day.
We turn and walk back to North Beach, retracing our footsteps, retracing the path of the pilgrims, retracing the steps of those diggers who first set foot here one dawn so many years ago. Before we leave, we each bend down, pick up a small rock, slip it away as a souvenir. Perhaps that's why the beach is so narrow.
The stands are being erected at the North Beach Cemetery, we see in the morning light. There are going to be fifteen thousand visitors here in a couple of weeks, and they want to be here as the sun comes up behind the Sphinx, to sit in silence, to recite the Ode, to listen to the speeches, to remember.
Remember what? Stories of courage and sacrifice and mateship? The more I learn about the Gallipoli campaign, the more I realise what a huge cough-up it was. If we colonials had had any sense, we would have said no bloody way. The whole thing was purest fantasy - that a few obsolete battleships would appear off Constantinople, the Turks would panic and surrender, the Russians would take over, the Balkans would fall in behind and the Germans would realise the jig was up.
Never going to happen. Not only did the Turks have a modern German dreadnought, easily able to outfight any of the British ships, but the Narrows had guns and forts on both sides. We weren't going to take the Asian shore, and while warships might get through the defences, no cargo ships could penetrate to bring up supplies or troops.
But the legend remains, and so do the fallen. The Turks lost far more than the Allies, and today the land is their memorial. I feel a bit self-conscious at posing Routebear on the sign, but he's as British and Australian and New Zealand - and Turkish, for he's visited Istanbul a couple of times - as any of those whose bones are buried here. I pause to reflect on the mateship that sprang up even during the fighting between the Anzacs and the Turks, and endures to this day.
Just a little further Kemal Ataturk is remembered on a huge plinth inscribed with his words, which touch me clear to the heart. Such compassion and grace instead of bitterness and revenge. I am moved.
Those heroes that shed their blood and lost their lives... You are now lying in the soil of a friendly country. Therefore rest in peace. There is no difference between the Johnnies and the Mehmets to us where they lie side by side now here in this country of ours... you, the mothers, who sent their sons from faraway countries wipe away your tears; your sons are now lying in our bosom and are in peace. After having lost their lives on this land they have become our sons as well.
5 April 2013
Again, an early alarm. Actually, I think it was the muezzin, but whatever, it's before dawn. We dress warmly and head out to Anzac. Strange, we make the right turn at Gaba Tepe, head along the coastline, we cannot miss it because there's only one road, but we drive right through in the dark. Just like the Anzacs, we lose our way and drift too far north. Such a tiny place! We turn around and leave the car in the North Beach carpark, where I worry a bit about parking in what are clearly bus spots. But the place is silent and deserted.
The beach at Anzac Cove is now quite inaccessible. The modern road has changed this historic landscape forever, and there is a steep concrete embankment dividing shingle from scrub. We walk down at the bottom of the North Beach area, the Sphinx a silhouette against the crescent moon, the land a dark mystery. South past Ari Burnu, and there is Anzac Cove, a semicircle of gravel and stones a metre or two wide, the far headland jutting out into the lightening Aegean.
At the bottom of a drainage channel there is room to sit, and we rest here in silence as the sun rises out of Asia, dawn creeping across the narrows, over the ridges and finally breaking over the crest of Plugges Plateau behind us. I close my eyes to meditate in this special time and place.
Over the sea comes the sound of a fishing boat heading out from Gaba Tepe, its engines growling loudly over the quieter rippling splash of the small waves reaching up to our feet and then receding in a hiss through the shingle.
There's Imbros on the horizon, the base for the operation, where General Hamilton sat brooding over the disaster, his eyes lifting so easily to the heights his troops could not reach. His tangled chain of command, full of incompetents, dullards, spies and timeservers sprinkled amongst the professionals, was his downfall. Orders went out, and by the time they reached the fighting units, they had changed out of all recognition. A brigade landed at Suvla, on a day when they were badly needed at a dozen places, and they had no orders at all. Nothing. They sat on the beach and had a picnic before anybody thought to put them into the battle, a day or so later.
We make our way along the beach. All that remains of the wartime base, when the beach was crammed with piles of supplies, wharves jutted into the sea, equipment of all sorts was shoehorned in, all that is left are the broken concrete footings of a desalinisation plant. The diggers were always short of water in this dry land, and if a general was offered a cup of tea on the front line, he would refuse it, because he knew the labour involved in carrying it up so high.
There is a ruined Turkish fort from the 1930s on the point. Here the beach is replaced entirely by concrete, hastily laid to shore up the crumbling seawall. Every year at this time, the park workers are repairing the ravages of the winter in time for the thousands of visitors who will be here in our footsteps for Anzac Day.
We turn and walk back to North Beach, retracing our footsteps, retracing the path of the pilgrims, retracing the steps of those diggers who first set foot here one dawn so many years ago. Before we leave, we each bend down, pick up a small rock, slip it away as a souvenir. Perhaps that's why the beach is so narrow.
The stands are being erected at the North Beach Cemetery, we see in the morning light. There are going to be fifteen thousand visitors here in a couple of weeks, and they want to be here as the sun comes up behind the Sphinx, to sit in silence, to recite the Ode, to listen to the speeches, to remember.
Remember what? Stories of courage and sacrifice and mateship? The more I learn about the Gallipoli campaign, the more I realise what a huge cough-up it was. If we colonials had had any sense, we would have said no bloody way. The whole thing was purest fantasy - that a few obsolete battleships would appear off Constantinople, the Turks would panic and surrender, the Russians would take over, the Balkans would fall in behind and the Germans would realise the jig was up.
Never going to happen. Not only did the Turks have a modern German dreadnought, easily able to outfight any of the British ships, but the Narrows had guns and forts on both sides. We weren't going to take the Asian shore, and while warships might get through the defences, no cargo ships could penetrate to bring up supplies or troops.
But the legend remains, and so do the fallen. The Turks lost far more than the Allies, and today the land is their memorial. I feel a bit self-conscious at posing Routebear on the sign, but he's as British and Australian and New Zealand - and Turkish, for he's visited Istanbul a couple of times - as any of those whose bones are buried here. I pause to reflect on the mateship that sprang up even during the fighting between the Anzacs and the Turks, and endures to this day.
Just a little further Kemal Ataturk is remembered on a huge plinth inscribed with his words, which touch me clear to the heart. Such compassion and grace instead of bitterness and revenge. I am moved.
Those heroes that shed their blood and lost their lives... You are now lying in the soil of a friendly country. Therefore rest in peace. There is no difference between the Johnnies and the Mehmets to us where they lie side by side now here in this country of ours... you, the mothers, who sent their sons from faraway countries wipe away your tears; your sons are now lying in our bosom and are in peace. After having lost their lives on this land they have become our sons as well.
Skyring
Established Member
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Transit 4 Turkey, Part 4
5 April 2013
There are no buses battling over the carpark when we return. We have spent an hour at Anzac and only seen one other vehicle and a couple of workers. Back to the Gallipoli Houses for breakfast, and the dining room is deserted. apart from Eric, who is happy to chat about Anzac and our plans for the day for another half hour. Our breakfast coffee is made, delivered and goes cold while we listen. He really knows his stuff.
Breakfast is continental, a buffet heartier than anything found in France, biased towards the local tucker. Eric has given us directions to a local pancake place for lunch, assuring us that they do a vegetarian meal. More lunch options are available further afield, but for today, we're staying on Anzac.
I pull out my old slouch hat for today. I've gotten hold of a replica Rising Sun badge, and it's held on with clips which would have earnt a chuckle from the old diggers. The bash is poor and I'm wearing the brim down for sun protection, but it's a fair dinkum "Hat Khaki Fur Felt" made from genuine Aussie rabbits, and I'm feeling more like the infantry soldier I once was than a paunchy, balding old geezer.
Skyring, overcome by emotion by discoverylover, on Flickr
We're looking for New Zealand connections now, and we head off to No. 2 Outpost on North Beach, where the cemetery is full of boys from the Canterbury, Auckland, Wellington and Otago battalions. Here the curve of the coast up to Suvla is a pleasing sweep, the hills behind are not quite so rugged, and the advance on the night of 6 August doesn't seem quite so impossible. We'll meet the New Zealanders again, at their high point of Chunuk Bair in a few hours, but there's a lot of ground to cover.
We try our own little adventure, looking for a way up a knoll behind a farmer's hut, but the slope is too steep, the ground too muddy, the scrub too thick for us to penetrate far. Perhaps it would be easier with a full pack, rifle, ammunition, water bottles, rations and somebody shooting at you.
Eric has given us a map and some directions for talking tracks. The Shell Green Cemetery is one I'd like to visit, and one of the reasons I selected the Qashqai with its higher ground clearance. But apparently this and most other unpaved tracks are washed away in the winter rains, and it is only after Anzac Day that they are sure to have been repaired. We could walk, but we've a lot to see. Again, I think of the diggers landing on the first day. Small parties were able to get up the slopes and all the way to the heights of the range at Baby 700 and Battleship Hill by lunchtime. They must have been formidably fit.
But they never made it back down.
We take the easy road, the paved road the tourist coaches use. It is oneway all the way up past Chunuk Bair and then down again past Scrubby Knoll. Perhaps we should have walked along its easy verge, for we find that the sites along the Anzac front line are so close together that we are continually walking back to the car, driving a few hundred metres, looking around, taking photos, walking back to the car...
I won't bore with too many details. The Lone Pine Cemetery was covered with stands under construction for the 25th. We couldn't climb up on them to get what must have been a splendid view, but we looked through the rows of headstones, each with a line or two written by the relatives. I couldn't take too many of these - after a while my voice seized up and I had to sit down.
We moved on. Quinn's Post, The Nek, Chunuk Bair. Steadily upwards. In most cases the cemeteries are in land the Anzacs never held. Not for more than a few moments, anyway. The Nek is particularly poignant; only four headstones mark those identified - the rest were mere scattered bones when the war graves commission got here in 1919. Quinn's Post is largely eroded away; what's left are a few shallow tracks in the scrub. But they clung by their fingernails to this slope, overlooked by the enemy, a constant barrage of bombs flung over by the Turks a few metres away. How they survived, let alone lived and ate and slept for seven months, is a mystery.
In two places - just up from Quinn's Post and at Chunuk Bair, we find we are well and truly outnumbered. This is sacred ground for the Turks as well, and here are Turkish cemeteries, Turkish monuments, Turkish coaches and tour guides. Little stalls are set up beside the car parks, selling snacks and trinkets.
Far above, a Turkish fighter circles, perhaps reminding we latter Anzacs who really won the battle. To be fair, they were fighting for their homeland. We were uninvited thugs in the night.
At Chunuk, the whole venture supposedly came within an ace of success. Here the New Zealanders gained a foothold on the heights of the ridge, well above the established Anzac lines at the Nek. Here they could see the Narrows. And here they were swept away, enfiladed from both sides, demolished in one of the few successful frontal attacks across open ground. Kemal Ataturk was here, and huge monuments describe his actions in leading the charge, his life spared when a bullet struck his pocket watch instead of ending his career as soldier, politician and father of the modern nation.
Every dawn, the shadow of his huge statue falls upon the New Zealand Memorial a few metres away. Reconstructed trenches line the summit, and Turkish children run around, licking ice creams.
It is peaceful here, nearly a century after the guns fell silent. We smile at each other and a bold youngster looks at my soldier hat, pretending to take soldier strides. If I had an ounce of style, I would have presented it to him. Instead it spends four weeks becoming gradually bent out of shape in my bag, and I shall use it to cover my bald spot when I mow the lawn.
5 April 2013
There are no buses battling over the carpark when we return. We have spent an hour at Anzac and only seen one other vehicle and a couple of workers. Back to the Gallipoli Houses for breakfast, and the dining room is deserted. apart from Eric, who is happy to chat about Anzac and our plans for the day for another half hour. Our breakfast coffee is made, delivered and goes cold while we listen. He really knows his stuff.
Breakfast is continental, a buffet heartier than anything found in France, biased towards the local tucker. Eric has given us directions to a local pancake place for lunch, assuring us that they do a vegetarian meal. More lunch options are available further afield, but for today, we're staying on Anzac.
I pull out my old slouch hat for today. I've gotten hold of a replica Rising Sun badge, and it's held on with clips which would have earnt a chuckle from the old diggers. The bash is poor and I'm wearing the brim down for sun protection, but it's a fair dinkum "Hat Khaki Fur Felt" made from genuine Aussie rabbits, and I'm feeling more like the infantry soldier I once was than a paunchy, balding old geezer.
Skyring, overcome by emotion by discoverylover, on Flickr
We're looking for New Zealand connections now, and we head off to No. 2 Outpost on North Beach, where the cemetery is full of boys from the Canterbury, Auckland, Wellington and Otago battalions. Here the curve of the coast up to Suvla is a pleasing sweep, the hills behind are not quite so rugged, and the advance on the night of 6 August doesn't seem quite so impossible. We'll meet the New Zealanders again, at their high point of Chunuk Bair in a few hours, but there's a lot of ground to cover.
We try our own little adventure, looking for a way up a knoll behind a farmer's hut, but the slope is too steep, the ground too muddy, the scrub too thick for us to penetrate far. Perhaps it would be easier with a full pack, rifle, ammunition, water bottles, rations and somebody shooting at you.
Eric has given us a map and some directions for talking tracks. The Shell Green Cemetery is one I'd like to visit, and one of the reasons I selected the Qashqai with its higher ground clearance. But apparently this and most other unpaved tracks are washed away in the winter rains, and it is only after Anzac Day that they are sure to have been repaired. We could walk, but we've a lot to see. Again, I think of the diggers landing on the first day. Small parties were able to get up the slopes and all the way to the heights of the range at Baby 700 and Battleship Hill by lunchtime. They must have been formidably fit.
But they never made it back down.
We take the easy road, the paved road the tourist coaches use. It is oneway all the way up past Chunuk Bair and then down again past Scrubby Knoll. Perhaps we should have walked along its easy verge, for we find that the sites along the Anzac front line are so close together that we are continually walking back to the car, driving a few hundred metres, looking around, taking photos, walking back to the car...
I won't bore with too many details. The Lone Pine Cemetery was covered with stands under construction for the 25th. We couldn't climb up on them to get what must have been a splendid view, but we looked through the rows of headstones, each with a line or two written by the relatives. I couldn't take too many of these - after a while my voice seized up and I had to sit down.
We moved on. Quinn's Post, The Nek, Chunuk Bair. Steadily upwards. In most cases the cemeteries are in land the Anzacs never held. Not for more than a few moments, anyway. The Nek is particularly poignant; only four headstones mark those identified - the rest were mere scattered bones when the war graves commission got here in 1919. Quinn's Post is largely eroded away; what's left are a few shallow tracks in the scrub. But they clung by their fingernails to this slope, overlooked by the enemy, a constant barrage of bombs flung over by the Turks a few metres away. How they survived, let alone lived and ate and slept for seven months, is a mystery.
In two places - just up from Quinn's Post and at Chunuk Bair, we find we are well and truly outnumbered. This is sacred ground for the Turks as well, and here are Turkish cemeteries, Turkish monuments, Turkish coaches and tour guides. Little stalls are set up beside the car parks, selling snacks and trinkets.
Far above, a Turkish fighter circles, perhaps reminding we latter Anzacs who really won the battle. To be fair, they were fighting for their homeland. We were uninvited thugs in the night.
At Chunuk, the whole venture supposedly came within an ace of success. Here the New Zealanders gained a foothold on the heights of the ridge, well above the established Anzac lines at the Nek. Here they could see the Narrows. And here they were swept away, enfiladed from both sides, demolished in one of the few successful frontal attacks across open ground. Kemal Ataturk was here, and huge monuments describe his actions in leading the charge, his life spared when a bullet struck his pocket watch instead of ending his career as soldier, politician and father of the modern nation.
Every dawn, the shadow of his huge statue falls upon the New Zealand Memorial a few metres away. Reconstructed trenches line the summit, and Turkish children run around, licking ice creams.
It is peaceful here, nearly a century after the guns fell silent. We smile at each other and a bold youngster looks at my soldier hat, pretending to take soldier strides. If I had an ounce of style, I would have presented it to him. Instead it spends four weeks becoming gradually bent out of shape in my bag, and I shall use it to cover my bald spot when I mow the lawn.
Last edited:
Skyring
Established Member
- Joined
- Oct 18, 2005
- Posts
- 2,216
- Qantas
- LT Silver
Transit 4
Turkey Part 5
5 April 2013
I'll have to come back. I originally wanted a full week here, but there's not enough time this trip to do more than scrape the surface. Literally.
A few bonus photographs.
A very buzzy plane.
The Narrows from Chunuk Bair. What the whole thing was about and they never got within cooee.
Suvla from the Nek. Heartbreaking beauty.
We broke for a late lunch at the pancake place Eric recommended. The place was set up for busloads of diners, but we were pretty much the only customers. It had some local produce and craft for sale as well as the tucker.
But it was the food we'd come for and we were most pleased! Lots of it, top notch tasty, served with a smile and lots of accompaniments. They brought out a Turkish menu and we picked from that. Guess and grab. Point and shoot. "Yeah," Jay said after we'd eaten, "how are you going to ask for the bill in Turkish?"
"No worries," I replied.
I raised my voice. "Kan ik de menukaart hebben, alstublieft?"
She cracked up. "You've just asked for the menu in Dutch! That won't work!"
They brought out the bill for me and I winked at the waitress. She had seen me make the scribbling "bill, please?" gesture under the table level, out of sight from Jay's sparkling eyes.
The place was looking a bit bare this early in the season, but once Spring got properly under way, say about the 25th of April, it would be beautiful. I'll bet they make a fortune serving cold beer and hot savoury pancakes to the children of Anzacs.
Another happy evening of golden brown Efes beers by the fire with fellow travellers, grand food and a long coffee after.
Turkey Part 5
5 April 2013
I'll have to come back. I originally wanted a full week here, but there's not enough time this trip to do more than scrape the surface. Literally.
A few bonus photographs.
A very buzzy plane.
The Narrows from Chunuk Bair. What the whole thing was about and they never got within cooee.
Suvla from the Nek. Heartbreaking beauty.
We broke for a late lunch at the pancake place Eric recommended. The place was set up for busloads of diners, but we were pretty much the only customers. It had some local produce and craft for sale as well as the tucker.
But it was the food we'd come for and we were most pleased! Lots of it, top notch tasty, served with a smile and lots of accompaniments. They brought out a Turkish menu and we picked from that. Guess and grab. Point and shoot. "Yeah," Jay said after we'd eaten, "how are you going to ask for the bill in Turkish?"
"No worries," I replied.
I raised my voice. "Kan ik de menukaart hebben, alstublieft?"
She cracked up. "You've just asked for the menu in Dutch! That won't work!"
They brought out the bill for me and I winked at the waitress. She had seen me make the scribbling "bill, please?" gesture under the table level, out of sight from Jay's sparkling eyes.
The place was looking a bit bare this early in the season, but once Spring got properly under way, say about the 25th of April, it would be beautiful. I'll bet they make a fortune serving cold beer and hot savoury pancakes to the children of Anzacs.
Another happy evening of golden brown Efes beers by the fire with fellow travellers, grand food and a long coffee after.
Skyring
Established Member
- Joined
- Oct 18, 2005
- Posts
- 2,216
- Qantas
- LT Silver
Transit 4
Turkey Part 6
6 April 2013
A rare lie in on Saturday. No flights, no dawn excursions, nothing but breakfast on the horizon. Oh, and leaving this place, but checkout isn't until ten - I roll over and close my eyes when I hear the muezzin competing with the roosters.
Today we are about the last in the dining room. Trust me, waking Jay up early needs a sledgehammer on the door - my default morning condition on roadtrips with her is hungry, usually arriving just as the staff are cleaning away the brekkie.
We linger over our yoghurt, cold meats, cheeses and nuts. Coffee is hot this morning - Eric waves us a hasty goodbye as he dashes off to do the grocery shopping, so there's no time to talk. I'm going to miss him. He is a treasure of information.
We settle with Ozlim in her tiny kitchen office, where the staff are having morning tea. I leave a bit of a tip for them: it really has been a superb stay and these people worked hard to make it so.
And then I hand Jay the keys and we head off to Istanbul. Our first roadtrips, she didn't drive at all, making my stints at the wheel long if not boring - travel with Jay is never boring! But she's since gained a lot of driving experience on both sides of the road, and I can settle back to watch the scenery go past. Just so long as she doesn't forget to keep the steering wheel on the left side of the lane. At one stage we begin creeping off to the right, but there's not a lot of Europe left on the right.
[video=youtube_share;6V_2tIN0bLY]http://youtu.be/6V_2tIN0bLY[/video]
The Dardenelles and big freighters to begin with. It's fun looking over into another continent. Not something we see a lot of in Australia. Or anywhere, really.
After a bit we turn inland. Jay ignores the GPS when it suggests we cut the corner, and we follow the motorway all the way through Kesan. It's still a grand trip. I like Turkey, with the hills and forests and farms, the careless antiquity, the people keener on living their lives than complying with authority. Little wonder that the diggers got on so well with Johnny Turk. Still do. Turkish contingents have been marching in Anzac Day parades for forty years now. Every so often some Turkish mayor or businessman will visit the Australian War Memorial and hug a guide, tears streaming down his face.
But my, are they demon drivers or what!
We stop for lunch at that big hill outside Tekirdag, just we two and a couple of truckies having a big plate of koftes. Our lentil soup isn't quite the thing here, compared to Ozlem's delectable bowls. Not to worry - the view is awesome. I take the wheel here, and boot the thing along until we're getting close to Istanbul. I pull over for petrol before returning it. An attendant comes out to fill us up. He does so while I stand around trying not to look at the numbers on the bowser. "Wowsers! That's a lot!"
Fifty litres, but it's 97 octane at about five lire to the litre. It comes out to $136 Australian to fill the tank. Now I know why a Turkish friend said I was very brave to drive in Turkey!
As we get closer to Ataturk, I'm glad I decided to return the car there and continue on by cab. The traffic becomes congestion, the emergency lane is seized upon as just another traffic lane and every time we need to change lanes or take a ramp it's a major operation. The GPS arrival estimate is just blown apart in the last few kilometres, which takes us the best part of an hour. I'm very thankful for my urban cabbie driving skills and practical philosophy course. I stay cool, but anyone at all vulnerable to road rage - do NOT drive in Istanbul!
Handing the car back is a sweet relief. We pull out our bags, tidy away all the pockets and stowage bins, dump everything onto the complimentary luggage trolley offered with a big smile - yeah, right, the last lot of tourists left it here and we're just returning it to the rack for you - and head for the cab rank.
Istanbul cabdrivers are tops. Saturday afternoon in Istanbul and the whole city is on the road. The streets are congested, the parks are full of families enjoying themselves with kids and balls and dogs and portable braziers, the traffic is horrendous. But we've got a wizard. At one point there's a noise of flashing lights as a convoy of police muscle past - in the breakdown lane - escorting a limousine. Some dignitary has flown in and this is the official motorcade.
Our cabbie gloomily surveys a choked road before pulling off. I've been along here enough times to know that we're taking a long cut, and I watch closely. We duck under the motorway, up a sidestreet, along a minor road, through a hotel carpark and back onto the motorway. Just as the same official convoy pulls along beside us! All the way into Sultanahmet our cabbie is full of tricks and excursions, and we keep pace with the police. This guy is a genius!
We detour off Kennedy Caddesi under the old aqueduct. Six lanes of traffic and they split up under the old stone arches. The candy-striped city walls, the domes of the grand mosques, the frenzied traffic - Istanbul is its own brand of thrill.
I love this city. Right up there with Paris and San Francisco and New York in my book.
We've got a hotel overlooking the Blue Mosque, we go for a walk before dinner, we have our meal on a rooftop with the Bosphorus barely a stones throw away, we walk through old ruins to get back home. And we have most of tomorrow to see the sights before the evening flight back to London.
Turkey Part 6
6 April 2013
A rare lie in on Saturday. No flights, no dawn excursions, nothing but breakfast on the horizon. Oh, and leaving this place, but checkout isn't until ten - I roll over and close my eyes when I hear the muezzin competing with the roosters.
Today we are about the last in the dining room. Trust me, waking Jay up early needs a sledgehammer on the door - my default morning condition on roadtrips with her is hungry, usually arriving just as the staff are cleaning away the brekkie.
We linger over our yoghurt, cold meats, cheeses and nuts. Coffee is hot this morning - Eric waves us a hasty goodbye as he dashes off to do the grocery shopping, so there's no time to talk. I'm going to miss him. He is a treasure of information.
We settle with Ozlim in her tiny kitchen office, where the staff are having morning tea. I leave a bit of a tip for them: it really has been a superb stay and these people worked hard to make it so.
And then I hand Jay the keys and we head off to Istanbul. Our first roadtrips, she didn't drive at all, making my stints at the wheel long if not boring - travel with Jay is never boring! But she's since gained a lot of driving experience on both sides of the road, and I can settle back to watch the scenery go past. Just so long as she doesn't forget to keep the steering wheel on the left side of the lane. At one stage we begin creeping off to the right, but there's not a lot of Europe left on the right.
[video=youtube_share;6V_2tIN0bLY]http://youtu.be/6V_2tIN0bLY[/video]
The Dardenelles and big freighters to begin with. It's fun looking over into another continent. Not something we see a lot of in Australia. Or anywhere, really.
After a bit we turn inland. Jay ignores the GPS when it suggests we cut the corner, and we follow the motorway all the way through Kesan. It's still a grand trip. I like Turkey, with the hills and forests and farms, the careless antiquity, the people keener on living their lives than complying with authority. Little wonder that the diggers got on so well with Johnny Turk. Still do. Turkish contingents have been marching in Anzac Day parades for forty years now. Every so often some Turkish mayor or businessman will visit the Australian War Memorial and hug a guide, tears streaming down his face.
But my, are they demon drivers or what!
We stop for lunch at that big hill outside Tekirdag, just we two and a couple of truckies having a big plate of koftes. Our lentil soup isn't quite the thing here, compared to Ozlem's delectable bowls. Not to worry - the view is awesome. I take the wheel here, and boot the thing along until we're getting close to Istanbul. I pull over for petrol before returning it. An attendant comes out to fill us up. He does so while I stand around trying not to look at the numbers on the bowser. "Wowsers! That's a lot!"
Fifty litres, but it's 97 octane at about five lire to the litre. It comes out to $136 Australian to fill the tank. Now I know why a Turkish friend said I was very brave to drive in Turkey!
As we get closer to Ataturk, I'm glad I decided to return the car there and continue on by cab. The traffic becomes congestion, the emergency lane is seized upon as just another traffic lane and every time we need to change lanes or take a ramp it's a major operation. The GPS arrival estimate is just blown apart in the last few kilometres, which takes us the best part of an hour. I'm very thankful for my urban cabbie driving skills and practical philosophy course. I stay cool, but anyone at all vulnerable to road rage - do NOT drive in Istanbul!
Handing the car back is a sweet relief. We pull out our bags, tidy away all the pockets and stowage bins, dump everything onto the complimentary luggage trolley offered with a big smile - yeah, right, the last lot of tourists left it here and we're just returning it to the rack for you - and head for the cab rank.
Istanbul cabdrivers are tops. Saturday afternoon in Istanbul and the whole city is on the road. The streets are congested, the parks are full of families enjoying themselves with kids and balls and dogs and portable braziers, the traffic is horrendous. But we've got a wizard. At one point there's a noise of flashing lights as a convoy of police muscle past - in the breakdown lane - escorting a limousine. Some dignitary has flown in and this is the official motorcade.
Our cabbie gloomily surveys a choked road before pulling off. I've been along here enough times to know that we're taking a long cut, and I watch closely. We duck under the motorway, up a sidestreet, along a minor road, through a hotel carpark and back onto the motorway. Just as the same official convoy pulls along beside us! All the way into Sultanahmet our cabbie is full of tricks and excursions, and we keep pace with the police. This guy is a genius!
We detour off Kennedy Caddesi under the old aqueduct. Six lanes of traffic and they split up under the old stone arches. The candy-striped city walls, the domes of the grand mosques, the frenzied traffic - Istanbul is its own brand of thrill.
I love this city. Right up there with Paris and San Francisco and New York in my book.
We've got a hotel overlooking the Blue Mosque, we go for a walk before dinner, we have our meal on a rooftop with the Bosphorus barely a stones throw away, we walk through old ruins to get back home. And we have most of tomorrow to see the sights before the evening flight back to London.
Last edited:
Skyring
Established Member
- Joined
- Oct 18, 2005
- Posts
- 2,216
- Qantas
- LT Silver
I was inspired by your TR - a magnificent effort!
Skyring
Established Member
- Joined
- Oct 18, 2005
- Posts
- 2,216
- Qantas
- LT Silver
OK, pix lifted from Jay:
Um, if I was deciding to name a bus company something, I wouldn't choose this name!
The old city walls.
A gorgeous rococo kiosk between the Topkapi and Ayasofya.
A golden evening on a hotel rooftop.
The view in one direction: the Blue Mosque.
The view in another direction: appetisers.
The end of the meal, apple tea and sweet delights in the darkness.
We strolled along the ancient lanes, between hotels and houses, huge walls, magnificent mosques, people out strolling, kids playing, eating ice creams, just having fun. Every now and then we'd pause by some monument a thousand years old to marvel and take a photo.
Hard to describe the atmosphere. Our stomachs were full of good food, the taste of the sweet dessert morsels were still on our lips, the beer I'd had was making me glow. And I love Istanbul, even this touristy bit of the huge city. Mellow and merry, we climbed back up past the two great mosques to our hotel, promising ourselves to take breakfast on the rooftop here, which had a fabulous view over Sultanahmet.
Um, if I was deciding to name a bus company something, I wouldn't choose this name!
The old city walls.
A gorgeous rococo kiosk between the Topkapi and Ayasofya.
A golden evening on a hotel rooftop.
The view in one direction: the Blue Mosque.
The view in another direction: appetisers.
The end of the meal, apple tea and sweet delights in the darkness.
We strolled along the ancient lanes, between hotels and houses, huge walls, magnificent mosques, people out strolling, kids playing, eating ice creams, just having fun. Every now and then we'd pause by some monument a thousand years old to marvel and take a photo.
Hard to describe the atmosphere. Our stomachs were full of good food, the taste of the sweet dessert morsels were still on our lips, the beer I'd had was making me glow. And I love Istanbul, even this touristy bit of the huge city. Mellow and merry, we climbed back up past the two great mosques to our hotel, promising ourselves to take breakfast on the rooftop here, which had a fabulous view over Sultanahmet.
D
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Most mornings I have a coffee with a retired BA pilot. ( he is 93 YO) he comes out with some candid comments from time to time. The other day he said " You know GPH, people think its marvellous that I have been to so many places, but 90% of the time its the terminal, taxi, hotel,taxi terminal and that's my full extent of being somewhere"
He is also an ex WW2 Bomber pilot (Lancaster's) and he said one day that as a junior pilot on a flight to Berlin not long after the war , the captain asked him " Have you been to Berlin before?" to which he replied , " Yes often, but I have never actually landed there before" ( straight face ! )
He is also an ex WW2 Bomber pilot (Lancaster's) and he said one day that as a junior pilot on a flight to Berlin not long after the war , the captain asked him " Have you been to Berlin before?" to which he replied , " Yes often, but I have never actually landed there before" ( straight face ! )
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