Packed and energised, we took the bus to the intercity bus station. People were considerate of each other on the crowded bus, moving around and giving seats so that everyone was comfortable. Taking pot luck on the time to go, we had a two hour wait before the next bus to Çanakkale left. After a walk around, I settled to writing up our Bursa days on the computer and Keith studied the hotel and tour options, before we had some lunch.
The bus trip took four and a half hours with, two stops of only five minutes. We passed out of the suburbs of Bursa fairly quickly and the rest of the way we were surrounded by the kind of mixed crop and orchard farming that looks as if a child has drawn a farm with their new Derwent coloured pencils. Olives, apricots, cherries, tomatoes, beans, corn, rice, onions, potatoes, capsicums and more – each one a slightly different shade of green and creating a different texture or pattern against the earth.
Towards the end of the trip we were driving nearly parallel to the Dardenelles (a narrow stretch of water separating the European side of Turkey from the Asian side); the dark and rippled surface of the sea looking ominous and the land on the other side so close that buildings were easily visible.We walked into the main square near the ferry terminal, where I waited with the bags while Keith scooted around checking possible hotel options. After settling for the Yellow Rose and booking into the battlefield’s tour for the next day, we had tea in a café and strolled around the waterfront.
We purchased our bus tickets for our last city in Turkey, Erdine, from a very cheerful man in the bus office – he was singing all the time and gave a little sermon on how important it is to be happy and to do godliness because later we will have to account for every action and if we do bad we go to Hell. He elaborated on his theme by explaining that doing good would bring good consequences and that it was important to wear empathetic glasses to really be able to do good.
Behind Kilitbahir, across the water from us on the European side, there were huge words in white in a clearing on the hillside which said, according to our dictionary ‘Stop passengers,’ but which is really the first line of a poem by Necmettin Halil Onan, which goes:
‘Traveller, Halt! The soil you heedlessly tread
Once witnessed the end of an era.
Listen! In this quiet mound
There once beat the heart of a nation.’
Kitsch versions in clumsy ceramic cost 5 lira.
A fisherman tossed a ginger cat a small fish, to the delight of the crowd. Vast restaurants were three quarters empty but must be full around ANZAC day and at times of holiday in Turkey. The army patrolled the point, their fenced off lands preventing our waterside walk from continuing. A stroll down the street of booksellers brought us back to our hotel and a good night’s sleep.
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