Day V- evening

…but we are readying to leave, for that very light is dying, and we wish to make it onto the streets before sundown…

So ended my last proper post, weeks ago; just as D and I had reached Fethiye, what is now months ago. We had dumped our bags into the comfortable looking Ferah Pension up at one end of the main town, past the marina and a up a little hill.

We set out toward this marina now; I find I still need to tell myself that I am sauntering past a bay in the Mediterranean littered with yachts much the way streets I have lived most of my life might be littered with bicycles or auto-rickshaws. It is an observation I will revel in pointing out, to myself, over the next couple of days.

Almost immediately, after a few places named ‘The Yacht Hotel’ or something similar, we curiously trundle down steps that take us from the road overlooking the marina onto the planked stretch itself. It is lined with luxurious yachts; walkways lead to more of them- posh in all their Hollywood-fuelled (in our minds) desirability. It doesn’t particularly feel like we are in turkey anymore, if that could make sense. It feels like we are more in a getaway for the rich- maybe the south of France, or the Italian coast, or the Med- but wait, this is the Mediterranean. Soon we realise our walk is a pleasure we are not allowed. This dawns on us when a guard tell us we cannot go on to the walkways leading off. Of course, we know that- “yacht owners only” only gleaming steel plates is quite clear. As it turns out, we are not allowed on the main stretch we have just finished strolling across either- but we have finished after all, so we continue to the more ‘normal’ area.

Fethiye is slowly being bathed in the gentle light that an evening sun brings, gradually yet quickly moving to disappear behind the hills on one side of the bay. These distant, nameless hills are and odd mix of gold and pink, and we find ourselves on a broad gangway pretty much in the middle of the marina. It is more empty that it suggests it should, and it is flanked by local boats rented out to tourists. At its end towers a large green boat that we peer curiously into. It’s open central area, much like a dining room and the rich coloured wood all around, are alien to our eyes. We climb a step or two to look into it, and resist getting right on. But we do sit there awhile- a gaudy green boat here, towering Turkish flags there, glimmering water ahead.

We pass by the statue of Fethi bey, a local hero tragically killed while flying, early in the 20th century. Its in a tiny park by the promenade (if that’s what one is to call it), in the midst of boat-operator booths and stalls selling postcards, handsome stray dogs and cafes invitingly offering a beer, all in Pounds Sterling.


As we sit on a bench at nearly the other end of the marina now, a family returns from a day at sea, and in it. Their diving gear drips with water, their fair but tanned skin looking completely at home in this haven for British tourists. We wait awhile for the orb to disappear behind the hills, then walk away, heading into the streets of Fethiye town.

Day V- arrival

Under clear skies and by windswept fields, gentle welcoming hills offering fleeting glimpses of blue between them, we come to the otogar at Fethiye- its size commensurate with the small-but-not-tiny-town feel that we get.

Tuna had told us to take the shuttle from the otogar, and ask to be taken to Ferah Pension. We wouldn’t have to pay. Um, ok then. Tuna is the owner of said place of residence, whom we spoke to communicated with in very basic English, before leaving this morning. The bus services seem to run these free shuttles (the same bus service that one came here by), and a half dozen of us pile into the mini van, a little befuddled.
There’s a surly bald English chap who has seemed generally unimpressed with life since we stopped and chatted for a smoke earlier in the day. He must find a place that will let him see the Champions League matches later that night and the next. There’s an old couple, older than our parents would be, and a young one who are surely not married. There’s an Australian girl as well, quiet and distant as hell. It is but a few minutes before we are passing by the marina, glimpsing yachts and water; but we’re more concerned about being taken to our pansiyon.

Ferah Pension is the cutest place as yet. Wait, let me be less lazy and more real. It is the only place that shows character, that immediately says something about itself. And Ferah immediately says that it is warm and weird. Everything about it is quirky, odd and smile-inducing. The dog that looks like he can’t decide whether to growl, bite or greet, so he simply looks away. The numerous plants hanging in the dining area that almost makes you think that it is not open-air. The many, many plants hanging in the dining area that are welcoming in their green-over the-lovely-wood table way. The cluttered bar/food counter at one end that seems like it is well-stocked, and a bachelor’s. The tiny sofa, the different types of upholstery and curtains and drapes and throws and meaningless fabrics. The little door that shows us the mess that is the home of Tuna and Monica…
Our room isn’t too bad either. There is something about it that is more inviting than the previous two, but I can’t be sure what. The walls are a white that is both clean, and Mediterranean. The wood on the bed, drawers and shelf is cheerily brown and fresh. There are two windows- the mess of green and bits of asbestos visible from it notwithstanding- and windows with light are always a good thing.

But we are readying to leave, for that very light is dying, and we wish to make it onto the streets before sundown.