I had to admit that my travels up the bay from Izmir had not exactly wowed me. Too much industry and sprawling, ugly towns had left me a little in need of some natural beauty.
At Edremit the road gave out to a single track. They were building the rest of it and now and then you could see the the tunnels they had completed but had yet to join up.
I was going to a motel that had been recommended by a hotel owner in Assos.
I had not quite reckoned on what it might be like but was confronted with a place of great charm and stunning views over the neighbouring Greek island of Lesbos.
This I was told – was the short stretch of water that every day had seen boats laden with migrants cross to the island, out of Turkey and into the EU. It had all stopped now. A combination of a clamp down by the Turkish authorities and EU funding had pinched out this route. Terrible images of dead children being carried off the beaches while tourists sunbathed nearby had really put Lesbos on the map. And for all the wrong reasons.
The camp on the island was still there. What now for those people?
I had appreciated the run in as the road toiled upwards and the country got wilder. Truly beautiful mountainous countryside, I was all alone here. The traffic had found an easier route.
I came to a small hamlet, circling a stagnant and bright green pond. That was the highest point. Then steeply downhill on a very rough road, petering out to sand and the entrance to the Okan Motel.
What a spot. There were two young couples from Istanbul fishing for mackerel with impressively powerful rods. The light was amazing and I sat out most of the afternoon with my head in the shade and my legs in the sun. There wasn’t anything else to do. And if there was I wasn’t interested.
An old man carrying plastic bags of hand carved spoons wandered in and I bought a couple off him. Not dishwasher proof but elegant in a rustic way.
Simple cabins were en-suite and exceptionally clean. You used to be able to find this sort of thing all along the Turkish coast but tourism was now big business. The deadly ‘all inclusive’ had replaced this tranquility with jet skis and banana boats.
No-one here was playing loud music. There was no traffic noise, nor plane in the sky or even the chug of a fishing boat. This view and its attendant quietude hadn’t changed for millenia. I felt lucky to experience it.
In my cabin the TV was already running. Michael Portillo holding his Bradbury railway gazetteer was alighting from a train at Holbrook Junction on the Isle of White. His jacket was Aquascutum and his trousers Basingstoke red. I switched him off.
That night a lively birthday party invited me to join their table. I didn’t get many of the side splitting jokes but the welcome was genuine and warm.
It was nice to be in company. But then you never eat alone with these guys around.
