It’s been a quarter of a century since I last visited Dalyan on Turkey’s pine-clad south-west coast. Back in the day, it was a sleepy village on a dreamy, reed-lined river stuffed with turtles. I’d been told that Dalyan had since grown into a full-on resort stuffed with young Russians avoiding the call-up. As they say, forewarned is forearmed.
And what did we find? Yes, Dalyan is much livelier, centred around a buzzy bar street with a smiley hawker at every door and the obligatory flock of peacocking waiters. But the resort has retained much of its old laid-back rustic charm with a hint of Bohemia. The river too is busier these days, but the turtles still pop up for air. As for the Ruskies, they were nowhere to be seen. With tourist visas expired, it seems most have returned to the motherland hoping to keep their heads down.
Our waterside family-run hotel delivered a cool pool and pretty wooded gardens running down to a jetty – the perfect place to decompress with a good book and a glass of cheap plonk. Wi-Fi was more notspot than hotspot, but that meant we took a welcome break from our glued-to-the-phone lives.
Built in quirky faux-Ottoman style, our digs were kept squeaky clean by a small gaggle of headscarved ladies who didn’t bat an eyelid at the prospect of a couple of old fairies shacking up together. And talking of wrinklies, compared to most of our neighbours, we were just out of short trousers. So much so, we thought we’d booked into the Best Exotic Marigold Hotel – one of my favorite films – with paramedics and a defibrillator on standby, just in case.
Not that all the residents of our retirement village were retiring types. Our next-door neighbours were a couple of full-throttle sisters from North Wales. Both widowed some years back, the racy ladies had decided life was for living and have been living it large ever since. The widows were merry most nights. Naughty but nice. They were a scream.
Lazy days on the loungers were followed by leisurely meals in town; but just like Cinders, we were tucked up by midnight. The slow stroll home was usually escorted by an assortment of street dogs – ten a penny in Turkey. Two middle-of-the-road mutts reminded us so much of cartoon characters that we called them Hanna and Barbera.
Mid-way through our return to Paradise, we hooked up with a belle from our old Bodrum days. She and her Turkish beau had left the hassle and bustle of Bodrum to build their picture-perfect home in the village of Köyceğiz, on the shores of the large lake of the same name. They gave us a winding road tour with a lazy meze lunch up in the hills where diners can cool their toes in ice-cold melt waters. We were the only tourists at the table. I’d forgotten just how beautiful Turkey is. This image of the meandering Dalyan River does not do it justice. We were too busy taking in the view to capture it.
It was a truly wonderful excursion. Thank you, you know who you are.
