The Lycian Way - Turkey

By: Paul Sentobe

The Lycian Way
Turkey

I waved goodbye to Mark the American, as he headed off to walk the Lycian Way with nothing much besides his beloved kite and a battered copy of the Qu’ran. It was September 9^th.

Turkey is many things to many people but its place in modern and ancient history is centred on its position as a gateway between the East and the West. I chose to walk the Lycian Way, a 500km set of ancient trails extending from Olu Deniz in the West, to Antalya in the East, determined to see Turkish history first hand. Although this leads you close to the most densely populated of the tourist destinations, the mostly rural path winds through everything from deserted, inaccessible beaches to literally breathtaking mountains; all peppered with enough ruins and monuments to have any budding archaeologist salivating with historical intrigue.

Strategically important for the Eastern Mediterranean and the Levant, Lycian history reads like a ‘Who’s Who’ of military might. Heavily contested, at one time or another it has seen the Greeks, the Romans, the Christian Crusaders, the Ottoman Muslims and assorted pirates, all leave a calling card along the aptly named Turquoise Coast.

Middle to late summer in Turkey is a perfect time to visit. The conditions are ideal for light trekking, tents and anything warmer than a light sleeping bag can be gleefully left at home. The entire trek would take the keen walker at least a month. I chose to complete a small 5-day loop, starting and ending in Olympos, via Tahtali Dag, the highest mountain in the region.

Olympos, denigrated by the guidebooks as a shallow travellers’ hangout, nestles at the end of a deep gorge, and unashamedly caters for the Turkish and traveller community. Staying in simple treehouses - wooden bungalows on stilts - the atmosphere is one of concentrated, determined relaxation, perfect for the start and end of a trek. The trail leading to the idyllic 3km Olympos beach takes you past an array of fascinating Byzantine ruins. Roman arches stand to attention beside crystal clear fresh water pools.

Floating in the sea off the coast, I studied the gravity defying Lycian ramparts clinging to the rocky shoreline by their stony fingernails. The ramparts once guarded the inland city, one of the largest in the ancient Lycean league. In the distance the jagged peak of Tahtali Dag reminded me of what lay ahead.

The first day is all climb, past crops of oranges, pomegranates and watermelon. I stopped for a breather at the ancient pilgrimage site of Chimaera, the eternally burning rocks. Used by ancient mariners as a natural lighthouse the site is dedicated to the Roman god Vulcan. Swotting up on my classics I found that it was here that Bellerophon, with the help of his winged horse Pegasus, defeated the mythological fire-breathing part-lion, part-goat.

Alexander the Great marched along this same route in his attempt to find an easy mainland route from the Aegean into the Middle East. I wondered why I didn’t do likewise as the second day had me climbing steeply through pine forests. On finally reaching the plateau, a heavy mist swept in, accentuating the altitude, obscuring everything beyond 10 metres. I waited in the hollow of a tree for the way to the summit to clear. Veils of clouds streamed silently past like dry ice on an epic film set. In the dying light of the day, the weather cleared, giving me my chance for the top.

It was at this part of the trek that I glimpsed a different Turkey, more Afghanistan than beach paradise. At 2000 metres the vast flat plain I chose to camp for the night lords it over the mountain peaks in the distance. As the sun set, eagles screeched in the thin cold air, echoing from the mountain peaks, each one of which glowed red like barbecue coals. As the temperature continued to plummet, the shepherds brought their goats and cows down to shelter for the night along well-worn trails. My evening entertainment, other than nursing battered limbs, consisted of watching the pandemonium that was caused when two flocks met at a crossroads - goat gridlock.

After three days in the empty hills, I experienced the peculiar culture shock that comes with entering civilisation again. Despite the presence of a Genoese fortress, Gedelme has nothing much to distract the traveller. Desiccated by three days of high altitude sunshine I headed straight for the nearest place that looked remotely bar-like. After sampling the excellent Efes beer, I sat back and watched horrified as tour after organised tour of motorised ’safaris’ made a pit stop before heading back to Kemer. The young waiter, Mehmet, smiled thinly, saying that it was distractions such as this that kept him going. Born and bred in Germany he was deported to a distant cousin in Eastern Turkey after becoming entangled with the German polizei once too often. As I left the bar, Mehmet’s day seemed to have improved, a local delivery of pirate music tapes, mostly of the ubiquitous ‘Tarcan’ - read Turkish George Michael - had all the bar staff dancing on the tables with joy.

Phaselis, founded in 690 BC is one of the most impressive complex of ruins in the area. Built around three small natural harbours linked by a grand cobbled walkway commemorating Hadrian, the city was linked with Olympos during the Lycian League. Reminding me of an open air British Museum I wandered around the elaborate amphitheatre.

On coastal stretches of the trail, isolated beaches, free from human contact, await. Mornings along this coast come like a resurrection; the sun sending a golden arc across the crescent shaped bays as kingfishers skim in low-level formation across the calm morning waters. In one of nature’s bizarre jokes, crows imitate the Muezzin’s morning call to prayer. The sight of yachts on the horizon reminded me of how news must have arrived during the time of the Lycians. The sight of sail could be either passing trade or the first signal of approaching danger.

My eagerness to finish got the better of me on the homeward stretch. Whether I overheated or just didn’t pay attention, I got lost, very lost. Two hours circling round in a gully almost had me wishing for the concrete certainty of London - almost. Soon, I not only didn’t know the way ahead; I had also lost the end of the trail back. It was then that I heard the tones ofï¿½ Tarcan, floating ashore from a yacht anchored nearby. My surprised joy on hearing this was only matched by the surprised speed at which my tired legs propelled me across the burning sand, my arms waving like Crusoe signaling to Man Friday.

The captain duly swam ashore. Looking sheepish yet undaunted, he answered my plea of rescue with “Yes of course, we take you - but you know, this tour - this is a kind of sexy tour you know.” Not comprehending, I mumbled something about not caring what the passengers looked like just help me off this sandpit from hell. The realisation dawned on me like coca tea at 5000m. Staring at my girlfriend I could see the calculations tot up in her eyes too, two hours onboard a floating seraglio in the sun surrounded by assorted nymphs, or countless hours slogging back the way we had come.

As we rounded the final cove, the sails taut in the stiff off-shore breeze, my eyes drifted from the golden sands of Olympos beach, over cedar and pine forests up to the peak of Tahtali Dag. I scanned the horizon all the way, looking for the telltale fluttering of a kite in flight.