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“Magnificent...a brilliant and inspiring account of her journey along the coastline of Turkey and back into time.” (The Observer)
This is the story of back-country Turkey, an area that even in the 20th century remains stubbornly tied to antiquity. The author traveled through it by truck and horseback, often alone. She reached places little visited and never written about. The country people welcomed her with generosity unrelated to their meager resources. She was traveling in time as well, and found significance in recalling the life of Alexander the Great. Twenty-two centuries ago he was the first to dream of a united world.
the kindness in the household, the serving of guests as if it were a part of religion (which it is), and the mobile quality of the furniture with absence of cupboards or bedsteads, or even tables in any quantity, so that any number can be accommodated anywhere—all this still belongs to a deeply-rooted world. As we sat in the evening, with shoes off in the way of the east, and the postmaster and his nephew comfortably relaxed in their own harim, I noticed how much the Turk suffers from the fact
feet high, where the water has left an overlapping incrustation of lime. The peasants use it and dig new gardens, and every turn of the spade uncovers some bit of stone or marble, Byzantine or Roman, mostly doomed to disappear. A line of caravanserais or hans was built in Seljuk times along this road. The finest of them is at the top of Dösheme, on the plateau, at a village called Susuz, the Waterless, east of the modern main road and north of Mellikoy. Nineteenth-century travellers rode by its
during this respite, “do you always choose this sort of a road to drive on?” “Because,” said I, equally reasonably, “the good roads don’t go to the ruins; and if it were a good road,” I added, “would it not be pleasanter to do it easily in a taxi rather than in a jeep?” This argument worked, for Mehmet was the fairest of men whenever the Jeep had not clouded his mind with emotion. And we were now in sight of the trees of Örenköy, folded in the seven-thousand-foot Xanthus cliffs behind them. The
reconstruction is sound, there was only one direction for him to make for, and that was towards the important north road that came down from whatever then represented the later Laodicea, through Temisonium (Kara Hüyük) to what is now Tefenni, or a little farther south to Cibyra (Horzum), and on by Isinda (Korkuteli) to Pamphylia. This road was soon to be the chief means of communication between the later provinces of Asia and the southern coast, though there is, so far as I know, no notice of
found, however, that Fellows, and Spratt and Forbes after him (and not many other travellers have been here), give an exaggerated account of the time and trouble required. Their nine, or eleven, hours are reckoned at five and a half by the people who ride up and down from Myra to Finike, and five and a half was exactly the time I took without counting a rest at the top. A little ruined town22 clusters on the spur, with a stupendous view of coasts and islands. Its tombs are broken, its columns