Sunday breakfast in Cicekli 

For some time, I have spent September in Turkey - either at Jane and Ken's house, or in a village house in Karabortlen - I drink cay in the tea garden next to the jandarma post, sitting under the dark foliage of a mulberry tree - village dogs sleep in the sun - farmers drive ancient tractors down the main street - a patron studies the front page of Hurriyet like a world statesman -

We would take breakfast at Cicekli on a Sunday morning - driving up the helter skelter road to the top of the mountain - you would see the valley, far below, through the scorched pines - cypress trees like dark flames - goats picking their way over the bleached stones in the dry river course -

On the summit of the mountain, we would pull in for kahvalti - you would chose an arbour, shaded by vines, to eat your olives, salty cheese, honey, tomatoes, walnuts and peppery scrambled eggs - these would be bought to you on a metal tray as big as Achilles' shield - a solemn boy would scamper off with your orders for more scrambled eggs -

Bright mad flowers burst from old olive oil tins - scalding cay would be poured from a double decker teapot - you might nibble a crazily hot green chilli - icy England would be far away -

I would scribble a few words in my moleskine - I would delight in seeing my skin become brown - I would no longer wear a watch -