Zarin and her mother, Karabortlen and The Hermitage 

Last year, I woke up to find myself in a small village house in Turkey - it was early September - from my terrace, I could smell wood smoke - I could hear the call to prayer - I felt relaxed and happy -

Steve and Enis were my hosts - they were very kind and thoughtful, looking after me, introducing me to my neighbours - they were all tolerant of the shy yabanci, with his smattering of Turkish words -

There's Zarin - she lives in the house above mine - she hopes to marry a soldier, or, better, a commandant in the jandarma - Zarin has glossy brown skin and jet black hair - her mother, in her seventies, is as delicate and wiry as a small bird - Zarin knows a few words of English - she tells me - I am looking after mummy - 

We would have coffee with Zarin and mummy - we would sit outside their single storey house, in the yard of dried earth - there are olive trees and fruit trees - a stone oven is situated outside the house - there is a terrace, as smooth as glass - we sit on white plastic chairs -

We drink marvellous coffee out of tiny cups - behind mummy, I can catch a glimpse of a room, furnished only with a carpet, and cushions arranged against the walls - there is a full moon hanging in the sky - Merlin the cat arrives, with his tiger's tail -

Zarin asks me if I know about Mustafa Kemal - I say I know only a little about him - Mummy waves a thin stick about - she has a tinkling, silvery, voice -

In the garden there are courgettes, chili peppers, peppers and tomatoes - during the day time, hens scratch about the yard - a cockerel swaggers about - one of mummy's hands has three nerveless fingers -

I drink my coffee, with its rich powerful taste - I look at Zarin's dazzling smile -

I call my small house the Hermitage -  

I tell Jane and Ken - I am the Hermit of Karabortlen -