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The Turkey we encountered was far from the Turkey of the busy coastal towns
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The sea looked tantalisingly close, but to reach it involved a scramble down a cliff with fixed ropes where, according to the guidebook, "a fall could be fatal". We took the easier option, joining the gathering group of walkers nursing beers at the cliff edge of Butterfly Valley, as the sun made its descent into the shimmering waters off the Turkish coast.
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| Butterfly Valley |
Our goal was to walk four days of the Lycian Way, Turkey's first long-distance route, a trail of 316 miles that starts at Ovacik, near Fethiye, and ends at Antalya.
The walk is a classic journey through history. Among other things, it follows ancient paths and goat tracks Alexander the Great traced on his march through Lycia more than 2,000 years ago. Along the route are rock caves and tombs, relics of ancient civilisations and opportunities to stop at former strategic cities such as Xanthos and Patara, still home to staggering ruins of tombs and amphitheatres. Our walk would climb into the Babadag mountains, which follows the Teke peninsula (formerly Lycia) with the Taurus Mountains behind. South across the Mediterranean are views of the Greek island of Meis and on a clear day you can see the island of Rhodes.
We were six women of varying stages of fitness, accompanied by our "fixer" Suha and his friend Ahmet, both friends of Di, who organised our trip and who visits Turkey so often she is a virtually a resident of Kalkan. That first day combined all the components of adventure: dramatic weather (a hail storm), historic landmarks, breathtaking scenery, exhaustion and elation.
The seven miles we walked took us to elevations of nearly 2,625ft, reached through switchbacks up the mountainside. We passed through olive groves, small villages with pomegranate orchards and mulberry trees, and spotted the occasional wild tortoise. We crossed streams and springs, picnicked with views of the coastline as far as the eye could see, and walked through forests of flowering oleander, guided by the waymark signs of two splashes of paint, one red and one white, on trees or rock.
Eight hours later we followed a trickling stream into the beekeeping and farming village of Faralya. Once bed and dinner were secured, we strolled along an ancient cobbled track to the cliff overlooking Butterfly Valley, so named because of the Jersey Tiger moths that fed on the wild buddleia – though they now seemed few and far between. Later we feasted on trout caught from a pool at our guesthouse as stars began to fill the sky.
The next day began with a five-mile walk to Kabak. Civilisation suddenly came into view: a small guesthouse, Mama's, hidden by tangled bougainvillea, with a sign pointing us to the beach.
We found the route, stripped off and plunged into the sea, tired feet aching with the chill, but what a glorious moment – even though it added two hours to a long day.
From sea level we had a two-mile climb. Bit by bit the sea shrank behind us. Our steep ascent led through sweet-smelling pine forest as we followed a stream up past a waterfall. Onwards and upwards we went, finally emerging on the plain and into the tiny hamlet of Alinka. At the first house, a young boy tending sheep welcomed us. His mother made tea with wild sage and sugar while we sat in plastic chairs repaired with staples and string.
That night we stayed at Bayram's House in Gey, owned by the village's mayor, where, due to a mix-up, we found ourselves billeted in a dormitory with six mattresses on the floor. A quick swig of whisky bolstered our waning spirits and we sat down to the best meal of our trip: home- cooked lamb, borek (filo pastry filled with cheese and meats), yufka (a type of flat bread), salads and yogurt with bottles of chilled wine. Drifting in on the wind came the sound of music from the square. Our visit had coincided with a fiesta for the young men of the village about to start their military service.
The Turkey we encountered was far from the Turkey of the busy coastal towns. We'd walk for hours without seeing a soul; one day we passed just one man on an ancient tractor and two veiled women on a scooter. And everywhere we went we were treated with generous Turkish hospitality, passers-by offering us fruit, nuts or dates. One family even offered to kill a lamb for us.
On our last day, in order to reach the bay before Kalkan, we took a less-known section of the walk, neglecting to read up on our route in Kate Clow's essential guide, The Lycian Way. Had we done so we would have seen that the "narrow, dramatic cliff path along steep rocks involves some scrambling". We found this out for ourselves shortly after admiring a Roman aqueduct at Delikkemer. With the end of our walk and a hot bath almost within sight, we started the final rocky descent to the coast. Suddenly the track petered out and the only way seemed to be down sheer rock face. In a rare moment, everyone stopped talking and we lay flat, inching ourselves along a section of jagged rock with the sea perilously far below.
We made it. Our destination was in view. We left our precious waymark signs and marched to the hillside above Kalamar Bay. To reach our villa from this side of the hill we had to scale a mountain of rubble and climb over railings. Not a very dignified arrival but one that was far more satisfying than the usual taxi ride from Dalaman airport.
The walk is a classic journey through history. Among other things, it follows ancient paths and goat tracks Alexander the Great traced on his march through Lycia more than 2,000 years ago. Along the route are rock caves and tombs, relics of ancient civilisations and opportunities to stop at former strategic cities such as Xanthos and Patara, still home to staggering ruins of tombs and amphitheatres. Our walk would climb into the Babadag mountains, which follows the Teke peninsula (formerly Lycia) with the Taurus Mountains behind. South across the Mediterranean are views of the Greek island of Meis and on a clear day you can see the island of Rhodes.
We were six women of varying stages of fitness, accompanied by our "fixer" Suha and his friend Ahmet, both friends of Di, who organised our trip and who visits Turkey so often she is a virtually a resident of Kalkan. That first day combined all the components of adventure: dramatic weather (a hail storm), historic landmarks, breathtaking scenery, exhaustion and elation.
The seven miles we walked took us to elevations of nearly 2,625ft, reached through switchbacks up the mountainside. We passed through olive groves, small villages with pomegranate orchards and mulberry trees, and spotted the occasional wild tortoise. We crossed streams and springs, picnicked with views of the coastline as far as the eye could see, and walked through forests of flowering oleander, guided by the waymark signs of two splashes of paint, one red and one white, on trees or rock.
Eight hours later we followed a trickling stream into the beekeeping and farming village of Faralya. Once bed and dinner were secured, we strolled along an ancient cobbled track to the cliff overlooking Butterfly Valley, so named because of the Jersey Tiger moths that fed on the wild buddleia – though they now seemed few and far between. Later we feasted on trout caught from a pool at our guesthouse as stars began to fill the sky.
The next day began with a five-mile walk to Kabak. Civilisation suddenly came into view: a small guesthouse, Mama's, hidden by tangled bougainvillea, with a sign pointing us to the beach.
We found the route, stripped off and plunged into the sea, tired feet aching with the chill, but what a glorious moment – even though it added two hours to a long day.
From sea level we had a two-mile climb. Bit by bit the sea shrank behind us. Our steep ascent led through sweet-smelling pine forest as we followed a stream up past a waterfall. Onwards and upwards we went, finally emerging on the plain and into the tiny hamlet of Alinka. At the first house, a young boy tending sheep welcomed us. His mother made tea with wild sage and sugar while we sat in plastic chairs repaired with staples and string.
That night we stayed at Bayram's House in Gey, owned by the village's mayor, where, due to a mix-up, we found ourselves billeted in a dormitory with six mattresses on the floor. A quick swig of whisky bolstered our waning spirits and we sat down to the best meal of our trip: home- cooked lamb, borek (filo pastry filled with cheese and meats), yufka (a type of flat bread), salads and yogurt with bottles of chilled wine. Drifting in on the wind came the sound of music from the square. Our visit had coincided with a fiesta for the young men of the village about to start their military service.
The Turkey we encountered was far from the Turkey of the busy coastal towns. We'd walk for hours without seeing a soul; one day we passed just one man on an ancient tractor and two veiled women on a scooter. And everywhere we went we were treated with generous Turkish hospitality, passers-by offering us fruit, nuts or dates. One family even offered to kill a lamb for us.
On our last day, in order to reach the bay before Kalkan, we took a less-known section of the walk, neglecting to read up on our route in Kate Clow's essential guide, The Lycian Way. Had we done so we would have seen that the "narrow, dramatic cliff path along steep rocks involves some scrambling". We found this out for ourselves shortly after admiring a Roman aqueduct at Delikkemer. With the end of our walk and a hot bath almost within sight, we started the final rocky descent to the coast. Suddenly the track petered out and the only way seemed to be down sheer rock face. In a rare moment, everyone stopped talking and we lay flat, inching ourselves along a section of jagged rock with the sea perilously far below.
We made it. Our destination was in view. We left our precious waymark signs and marched to the hillside above Kalamar Bay. To reach our villa from this side of the hill we had to scale a mountain of rubble and climb over railings. Not a very dignified arrival but one that was far more satisfying than the usual taxi ride from Dalaman airport.
