Guzelyurt, Turkey, Saturday April 19th

A lovely birthday email started the day. We shared breakfast with our French friend and our host, Fahti, and then set off to buy a torch to invade the underground city. A boy in the hardware shop led us to a general store to buy a torch, and finding the owner absent, took us to the hairdressing salon down the road where she was doing a trim. Leaving her client, she came back to serve us but couldn’t get her only large torch to work. Keith was relieved because he didn’t see light; he saw weight. The tourist office referred us to a minimarket which referred us to another hardware shop and eventually we were the owners of the heaviest and largest torch imaginable, twice as big as the previous one. The look on Keith’s face when the torch was unearthed was priceless but I was in favour of the purchase. We now have a considerable weapon if we are attacked as well as a light.
To our great disappointment, the tunnels in the underground village became smaller and narrower to such an extent that we may have been able to go one way but had no guarantee of being able to return. Another tunnel had holes in it in odd places, through to a chamber below, and sloped down at a great angle into the earth. We were also still concerned about the confusion of directions which made it all a bit of a labyrinth. We abandoned the visit. Our only consolation was that we would visit an underground city in another town, one that would have lighting and guides.
We continued along the Monastery valley, which had a meagre creek running through it. On each side there were the remains of the dug out residences and mostly intact churches. Few tourists visit this valley compared to the Ihlara Gorge, and many of the churches had no defined tracks leading to them. Three eagles soared above, circling so that we could watch them for some time. The water was home to more frogs, and once again moles had been hard at work aerating the area. It was a very pleasant walk, about 5 km long, fizzling out with rock falls rather than having a defined end.
Our next target was a church high on a rock, west of the town. At only two km away, according to one local, the ‘High Church’ seemed easily attainable. After a couple of kilometres and no appreciable gain in reaching the church, we paused to ask some locals which road we should take next. They told us to hop in and they drove us to the spot, at least another two kilometres away. They were passing it on their way to Ihlara. Everyone asked us where we were staying and when we gave the name of our pension, it established our identity in the town. The kind driver repeated the name several times with lots of nodding of his head and gestures to himself and to us. It was as if someone else’s good reputation could extend to us and earn us consideration. Luckily we were not staying with the town con man.
What a disappointment! The anticipation and the climb up the ancient steps were the best parts. This high and wild spot, which utilised the natural rock for a fortress-like wall and was crowned with a small but perfect basilica, could have been magnificent. Instead, a rectangular toilet block style line of deserted, austere monks’ cells ran harshly along the entry side of the site, obscuring the stone covers of the deep wells. The interior of the church was a hideous scrawl of graffiti and scratched whitewash, a slashing so gross that the sacred nature of the building was all but destroyed. Two teenagers and two little children had arrived on a tractor and trailer at the same time as we did but stayed only a few minutes. Later I wondered if they had added their names and sentiments to the mess.
Feeling flat, we set off on the long haul back. We actually enjoy all the walking – it is possible to observe so much more than when you are in a car and to meet people as well. Walking back we saw new stone retaining walls being built in an attempt to control the tide of erosion, a stray dog return to its kennel in a rock cave, a car being washed at a public drinking fountain, new trees planted along the main road, and many farmers at work. Some tooting grabbed out attention and it was our kind drivers of the outward trip, returning and offering us a lift again. Much as we like walking, we were about to hit the uphill stretch so we gladly accepted. The men turned out to live only a few doors from our pension and so were very pleased to drive us all the way home.
That evening we had another beautiful meal – tomato and brown lentil soup, yoghurt and cucumber, bean stew, couscous and vegetables and bread, and a delicious pastry in syrup. Our hosts had been rather quiet while the other traveller was present but now that we were the only guests, it really felt as if we were visiting the family. The young husband and wife had met at university where they both studied hospitality. It was a second degree for Fahti, who is an accountant. As they put it, they ‘flirted’ for two years, were ‘fianceed’ for two years and then they got ‘the certificate’. They are expecting a baby girl in August. They live in Ireni’s family home and business, which they now run along with Ireni’s mother. Fahti had made two long tables with glass tops, featuring the original doors of the house. There was lacework, crochet and cross stich work everywhere, all made by Ireni and her mother. The mother spent every seated moment edging scarves with bead work and crochet, which she sold. It took fifteen days to edge one scarf. I didn’t buy one but I did think how price on hand made goods is never representative of the true amount of time spent on them. Ireni told us about her sister, and then, when she heard that we had four children, she told us that her mother had once had four children too. The father, a sister and a brother had been killed in a tragic car accident five years earlier. Her mother, who spoke no English other than to say ‘Goodnight’ to us at breakfast, knew what we were being told. We could only express in English and through our faces and gestures, the sadness we felt for them, but in some way the message got across and a new kind of bond was formed.
Ireni, Fahti, the dictionary and our interpretive abilities combined forces to write out the recipe for the hazelnut pastries that we had eaten – Seker Pare. They featured semolina. A phone call brought hurried consultations in Turkish, some friends arrived and a hasty tidying up of the tables and room ensued. More sounds at the gate heralded the arrival of an Italian couple, their three children and the husband’s parents, all arriving on the advice of their pension owner, that this was the only restaurant open in town. I think we had witnessed the warning and support network in action.
We had an interesting chat with the Italian couple, Sandro and Stefania, who work in Mozambique, while their meal was prepared. I felt so sorry for Ireni, who had used the dictionary to tell me that she was very tired, to have to turn around at 8.30 and prepare a meal for so many. Before we left for our room, I thanked her for our meal and the recipe and she gave me a long hug and many kisses.

It is common to see farm trailers decorated in folk art style.

Below are more views of the village of Guzelyurt.