Leg 2, Day 13; Blog, Supplemental; Arycanda

My last day of Lycian walking was 3 days ago. Today I am flying back to London so I have a few hours sitting in this armchair several thousand feet above the Earth (currently the Datça and Bodrum peninsulas). Plenty of time to report on some final activities and reflections on my Turkey trip.

Arriving in Finike on Wednesday evening I walked from the rather jolly bus station (Otogar) in the direction from which we had arrived. Part of the geography of the town seemed familiar. To my right buildings climbed a steep hill. Somewhere near the top a cliff-face was emblazoned with the Turkish flag, the red banner with the white crescent moon and star. I was looking for a stone staircase between buildings and there were a few to choose from. I passed one that looked familiar but rather neglected, with the treads of some steps broken and lots of weeds growing between the cracks. Still, it was the right height, slightly crooked and rising about 50metres between buildings.

On the other side of the street were railings and bridges across a canalised stream. Arbours over the bridges sported vigorous wisteria vines, in flower. and along the other side of the stream ran a strip of garden with a row of properties behind . I crossed the bridge and walked beside the cafés (both the refreshment and the internet variety), barbers, and a greengrocer's shop. I stopped at one café that had a good view across to my target stairway. After ordering a çay I asked the waiter if he knew of a hotel called the Paris Hotel. He said "Yes" and "Here is the lady you must speak to." Standing immediately behind me was the proprietor!

I soon confirmed that the window and balcony I could see near the faded "HOTEL" sign were indeed those of the room I had stayed in 25 years ago on my first visit to Turkey with my then girlfriend Karen. It was just as I remembered it, including the "gratis" cat (perhaps one of it's descendants), thought this time it was not actually in the room when I was shown into it.

The view from the balcony was terrific, with the mountains I had recently been walking through and the profile of Cape Gelidonia. As the evening sky began to acquire tints of amber and turquoise the call to prayer rose up from a nearby mosque and the atmosphere was complete.

The next day I enjoyed a traditional Turkish breakfast on the roof terrace with the same panoramic views, this time brilliantly lit and with the mountain skyline better defined. The air was fragrant with honeysuckle and fresh, which compensated for the tea which was not!

After a shower and packing I hauled my backpack down to street level, left it in the care of the Paris "office" and headed for the bus station again. I had planned a visit to Arycanda which was "one of the finest 'antic' ruins in the area" in the opinion of Saleh Topuz of the Kent Hotel.

I was not disappointed. After a long bus journey through a sea of glasshouses and polytunnels, gradually climbing into valleys between sparsely forested hillsides the bus finally stopped by a few tented stalls by the side of the road. Behind the stalls was a rock face with a thundering waterfall. Some pipework had been installed to harness the flow of water to generate a simple but effective string of fountains by the simple expedient of having a series of holes drilled in the pipe.

The stalls were selling a variety of produce, mainly fruit, but including carob beans, herbs, fruit syrups and herbs for "data çay" - mountain tea. Roast corn cobs, nuts and freshly squeezed orange were also available. After  a delicious glass of orange I struck out for the site of Arycanda, a short rising walk on a surfaced road (G6). At one point I was close to acquiring a couple of puppy companions but managed to shake them off!

The site is indeed stunning. The extent and monumental scale of a variety of 'municipal' buildings and amenities in a fair state of preservation (taking into account the two earthquakes that effectively closed down the city) ticks all the boxes for the amateur archaeologist, and probably for the experts too.

Most striking to me were the monumental tombs. It is staggering to see these and one can't help but be impressed and somewhat bewildered by scale of the investment on labour and materials that was devoted to these, as if a secure and monumental final resting place were the ultimate goal of this culture. The art and the engineering of their construction must have been given the highest priority.

The second priority, as I have noticed before in cities dominated and improved by the Roman Empire was, once again, the Baths. Arycanda has at least three separate set of baths, each with their calderium, tepidarium, frigidarium complexes. One is attached to a gmynasium. I need to clarify whether this was in the English sense, a place for the pursuit of physical fitness, or in the Continental sense, a place of study.

Given its elevation (for defensive purposes) the agora, an open 'market' area, has a spectacular location - one long side of it forming a terrace overlooking the valley. (There are in fact two agoras, one for commercial use, higher up the hill and one for state use - for celebratory, judicial functions or public proclamations or debate).

Behind this is a charming Odeon - like a small amphitheatre or lecture theatre, and immediately above this the great Theatre itself. So well preserved is it that only health and safety considerations would prevent it being used for drama or music events. In fact I believe that it is occasionally used, Turkish H&S regulations being somewhat less rigourous than those applying in Europe.

Leg 2, Day 10; to the Lair of the Chimaera

I was up early and, after packing and settling up I checked out of the Varuna, Olympos. Having acquired 1.5kg of native honey, and 750gm of pomegranate syrup, my pack was both heavier and straining at the seams. It is still incredibly comfortable once it's on but I notice the difference the weight makes when climbing - and I did a lot of climbing today.

I headed back into the Olympos complex - as a Lycian Way walker I was allowed through for free, but there is no facility on the turnstile for this - "Just go round behind the gift shop" the operator said. On my way down beside the Skywater river I came to the point where a tributary stream gushes into the mainstream from the bank, and I remembered reading about a building near there with some floor mosaics, so I went to check it out. The floor mosaics were a disappointment; broken slabs were strewn around the floor of a room open to the elements, collecting grime and a with moss growing between the tessare. It was depressing.

What was exciting was that the "path" that led away from the river to this group of buildings had evidently been an aqueduct, channelling the water so that it could be accessed for a variety of purposes. A well built trough about 70cm wide with the sides retaining a smooth coat of mortar extended for some 200 metres. The "liberated" stream now meandered alongside it, overhung by trees and vines and a couple of extra Pirate bridges had been built to enable people to get around the site with dry feet. In another building was yet another tomb, with some strange and heavy carving of the sarcophagus and lid. It reminded me of some pseudo-tribal sculpture work of the 1920’s.

Eventually I dragged myself away from all that antiquity and continued on down to the river mouth and the beach and turned left. I walked along the beach, finding the bands of larger pebbles easier to walk on. A couple of hundred metres along moving up to the back of the beach I picked up the path towards the second stream emptying into the sea. A crossing has been provided in the form of a Pirate bridge (about number 6 of this holiday; I'm beginning to realise it's something of a Turkish speciality). This one is more of a gang-plank; a ladder-shaped welded steel frame with wooden slats across. The daft thing is that it lies across a protruding rock half way across the stream, and has an unnerving see-saw action. Hence the need to grip your sabre between your teeth while using a flagon of rum in one hand and a barrel of gunpowder in the other for balance.

I discovered yesterday that this is the shortcut to Çirali village. I called in at the honey shop to mention the flight security limit on liquids - just so that they can advise future customers - and they gave me some navigation tips on finding the Chimaera.

The walk out of Çirali seemed long. This is so because the road circumscribes a large cultivated area; there were orchards of pomegranate trees, and the ever-present oranges and limes, and pasture for cows as well as meadows of wildflowers with row upon row of bee-hives, painted in a range of subtle pastel shades - blues, mauves and pinks (or maybe that's the bleaching effect of the sun). Eventually a rough track struck off to the left, toward the base of a mountain range. Lycian Way marks and frequent signs to the Yanarta (flame-rocks) confirmed that I was on the right track.

After a long "wilderness" stretch I finally arrived at the 'official' start of the Chimaera path. When I say 'path' I am referring to what is rather more of a staircase constructed of stone slabs. This climbs relentlessly. The spacing of the steps is such that two paces bring one to each consecutive step. This means that one leg is doing all the lifting work! To make this more like a balanced workout I devised ways of marching on the spot every third step so that the 'lifting' leg alternated. I found that certain songs naturally complemented this activity but just as I was getting to the third chorus of "Thank you for the Music" the regularity of the steps came to an end. A series of engineered steps continued but their tread width and height began to vary wildly, completely undermining my impromptu karaoke. Form time to time a pipe crossed the path diagonally. These served as culverts where otherwise a stream adjacent to the path would wash over it and accelerate erosion.

The path had started with tall black pines providing shade and a cool breeze blowing between them. The air became still and the tree cover began to dwindle. The sun was now higher in the sky and the only thing required to turn the perspiration dial up to 11 would be to suddenly find oneself on a broad slope of uninterrupted rock with a series of natural gas fire pits dotted around the surface with orange  flames licking around one's heels. And that is exactly....

The (mainly) methane gas leeks out from layers of rock just below the surface and the flames char the rocks that line each pit making them quite conspicuous. A few other visitors were present. Some had the forethought to bring marshmallows and skewers to toast them on. Some posed next to the flame-pits for photos. Others just stared mesmerised but feeling somehow superfluous. I was one of those. I had the task of trying to capture some images to share with you. Fire is a willing servant and a cruel master. It is also a neurotic and petulant model. Lacking movement I don't think the photos really do justice to the phenomenon, but there it is. I will try and upload a few seconds of video to YouTube and provide you with links. But to be honest, they will at best look a little like a malfunctioning gas hob that someone has attempted to hide under a pile of slag.

Climbing beyond this was arduous but rewarding. A different variety of plants populated the rocky slopes. Stark white foliage covered in fine hairs protected some species from dehydration; others had finer leaves or leathery skins and contained water reserves within their tissues. My strategy was to keep drinking water and simultaneously perspire so that my tee-shirt was perpetually soaked and when in shade contact with it brought an immediate chill.

I stopped for lunch and suddenly found I had another canine companion. This one had a a bit of Golden Retriever about it. It was wet - I later discovered why - and rather than begging for food only seemed interested in using me as shelter from the breeze while it had a snooze.

I carried on, seeing that I was approaching the top of a pass and another barren rocky patch with yet more 'yanartas'. These were smaller, more friendly, like a collection of camp-fires. A little further and I stood on the pass with a view back to Çiralī behuind me, and rocky peaks before me, with Tahtali Dag in the distance. Tommy relief the path down the other side had plenty of tree cover and a cool breeze. I sidled down between pines, across an area of huge fallen rocks and soon began to hear the sound of water. At the bottom of a steep-sided valley to my right a mountain stream tumbled over rocks, forming occasional pools that would have been inviting on a seriously hot day.

Few plants grew through the carpet of pine needles but at one point I stopped to photograph an orchid. It had brownish blooms on a short stem. I could not decide whether these had been colourful but had 'gone over' or whether their muted hue was evolved to lure pollinators attracted to decaying matter. A fair number seemed to have remained open rather than closing to form seed pods. I got some good pictures so perhaps that is some research for the future.

The bottom of the valley became broader and the path soon descended to meet it on some level ground. Behind some waterside bushes I glimpsed - another Pirate bridge! Crossing this I follows the path which soon came up to join a broad tractor track. As I continued it rose higher above the stream with views down to a series of waterfalls and the sounds of falling water filling the air. This must have been where Goldie took her dip.

The track changed to more freshly bulldozed soil and continued to climb between orchards and ploughed fields.  It continued to climb for a couple of kilometres, finally with houses and farm buildings appearing alongside. Water seemed to be gushing from pipes into troughs and cisterns, spraying onto soil under fruit trees, and running down roadside bullets. There certainly was no shortage of water in the area. One large building had signs that indicated that it was a fish-farm. It seems to have been developed as a visitor centre too with a large car-park and posters of banqueting tables bearing heaped platters of, presumably the fish-farms own product.

A tarmac'd road now continued hair pinning up to the main road where I hoped to catch a bus to Finike. I was arriving at the road almost bang on my expected time of 4pm. As I got nearer to the road I began to feel that uneasiness that I associate with catching any scheduled transport - the dread of arriving just in time to see the train, bus or whatever departing. I was not slackening my pace but the climb was raising my breathing and heart-rate.

I had just begun to slow my pace when the road came into view. I knew I had to cross to the other side to head in the direction of Finike and was checking the oncoming traffic when, on the other side of the road I saw the white bus approaching. I managed to wave it down, cross the road and jump aboard - without missing a beat! - and I was soon speeding towards Finike, with views back over my shoulder to Olympos, Adrasan, the Gelidonia peninsula, and other places I had come to know as intimately as bashing your boots across their varied surfaces would allow.