Mugla Old Town, dreaming and listening

Whenever I'm in Turkey, I visit Mugla - I lose myself quickly in the Old Town's maze of narrow alleyways - white washed walls reflect the sunlight - your shadow is a dark twin, scurrying past ancient doors - fig trees shade small gardens, their generous leaves motionless in the burning air -

The stone houses have terracotta roof tiles - the houses all seem empty, or, perhaps, their occupants are dreaming, hidden away in dark bedrooms -

I'm aware of the severe blue sky above the alleyways - I can feel the sun through the cream coloured baseball cap which shields my head - a postman walks, very slowly, up to a set of high wooden doors, kuzulu kapi - guarding a mysterious courtyard -

Mugla is set in a shallow bowl, ringed by mountains - the silent alleyways of the old town zig zag up the lower slopes of a barren crag - venerable mosques soothe your soul -

I wandered aimlessly and joyously, for an hour or so - an artless yabanci - I never looked at my watch -

I heard music from one house - a radio was playing - I listened, caught by the glamour of the song - the strange words were full of passion and longing -

I set off, towards the shops and workshops of the lower town - above me, on the summit of the crag, I saw a white flagstaff, with a huge Turkish flag - I thought of what Jane had told me about Ataturk -

I could hear the soft voices of the country boys - sent from their lonely villages to Gallipoli - their voices were like the voices of birds -