During my day in Demre the weather had been decidedly changeable. There was a gusty breeze up and down the road between Myra and the town centre, and my trusty hat served me well both in shielding me from the sun and in keeping off the few drops of rain that fell. More significantly the tops of the nearby mountains were intermittently shrouded in cloud.
My plan to spend three days traversing a nearby mountain had been a concern for some time. Advice included; 1) don't go alone, 2) don't expect it to be easy, 3) go fully equipped for camping out for two nights. I was prepared for hardship but was keen not to become someone else's problem I.e. if I got into difficulties. My camping equipment amounted to one "pup" tent - no mat or sleeping bag, stove or capacity to carry more than a couple of litres of water. Crucially on Friday night, though I slept well I has a strange and vivid dream.
I was engaged in doing some carpentry work in Buckingham Palace. From the room I was working in I discovered that I could peek from behind a curtain and see a grand staircase down which a succession of distinguished visitors, well, big-wig politicians and media toadies, were processing. They were wearing shimmering silk cloaks of olive-green and burnt orange with flouncy white silk collars, the necks secured with golden cord with upholstery tassels on the end. You know the kind of thing; utterly ridiculous in any other context but conferring great pomp and status in such a place and in such company. They seemed to be attending a prestigious banquet of some sort.
I suddenly discovered that at the other side of the room a door slightly ajar gave me a glimpse of a more private chamber. There seated, with a corgi on her lap and a glass of sherry in her hand sat Her Majesty the Queen! She was attended by uniformed Palace staff and in response to some joke she let rip with the most extraordinary parabolic cackle, as if a chicken had been thrown from the upper gallery of a department store atrium. In my surprise I inadvertently let some non-verbal sound escape, thus making my presence known. "Come out, come out, whoever you are!" shrieked the Queen. I sheepishly opened the door fully and stepped forward. I apologised for my intrusion and remarked that it was, however, unfortunate that Her Majesty was never heard to laugh in public since witnessing her unrestrained expression of mirth might be effective in raising the spirits of her subjects. "You can talk!" She replied, "You're the nut job who's thinking about climbing a frigging mountain tomorrow!"
The above is by way of an excuse to all those of you who have sponsored me to complete this moutaineering feat. I hope you will now understand my reasons for an alternative course of action!
At 9am I engaged Saleh, my host to take me by car to Karaoz, a small beach resort and the last point on the coast before the Gelidonia peninsula plunges south into the Mediterranean like a broad dagger of rock attempting to part the waters. It is tipped with a scattering of islands and submerged rocks that are a threat to shipping, along with constantly changing, opposing currents. For this reason a lighthouse was built as a warning and a guide to coastal traffic at sea. The lighthouse was to be my objective and, should it be necessary I had my tent to shelter in for the night. Hopefully this would be in the lee of the lighthouse, on firm but soft ground, and without the attentions of the scorpions for which then area is renowned.
After saying goodbye to Saleh I began my hike, stopping after a few hundred metres to fill a water bottle at a spring. I added two sterilising tabs and regretted this for the rest of the day. Every time I took a swig I had flashbacks to my youth and the heavily chlorinated swimming baths of North London c 1966.
The walk itself proved most enjoyable. There were only a few gradients to contend with and for the most part I walked in the shade of tall pines, the air filled with a cleansing resinous scent. From time to time I took in views back to the mainland or down to the rocky shore on my right, with intriguing bays and inlets, mostly inaccessible except by boat. The path did descend to one of these. It proved to be accessible also by road! A calm sheltered nook at this time of the year but no doubt at the mercy of car-borne hordes later in the season.
Time seemed to pass quickly with the variety of spectacular scenery and unfamiliar plant and animal species to take in on the way. Within 2 and a half hours the lighthouse finally came within sight and I was soon standing at its base looking down on then treacherous "five islands". I was not alone. A number of others, some English, some German were already enjoying lunch, under shade but with this spectacular view before them. I joined in, with the "lunch pack" prepared by Aisha back in Demre (actually the left-overs of the previous night's supper; mini-peppers, courgettes and vine leaves stuffed with herb-flavoured rice).
While I was still eating the other groups were called by their tour-leaders to leave. At the same time a group of young Turks arrived, laughing, posing for photos, lighting a fire on which to brew coffee and strumming a guitar. An attractive young lady with long black hair approached me looking concerned and said, in perfect English, "Excuse me but I think your party is leaving!" I explained that I was travelling alone and we got chatting. It turned out that Pelin is a teacher (of English) at a school in Finike. She had visited London in February and we chatted about London's Turkish community, about her school, about my school. We exchanged emails and I hope she will get in touch if she plans to visit London again; I would be delighted to help and advise her about things to do and see in 'my home town'. I wonder what she would make of Elmgreen!
PS again the pictures do not appear in sequence but I trust your intelligence and imagination in making sense of them!
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