The Old Man (and Woman) and the Sea—hiking the Likya Yolu

April 2024. One of the bastards of the Frisia Coast Trail hiked a stretch of the Lycian Way—Likya Yolu in Turkish. This coastal track spans over 700 kilometers along Turkey’s southern shore, often tracing ancient paths once used by the Greeks and Romans. Lycia is the historical name for the Teke Peninsula, a region still largely untouched by the hotel chains and resorts found further east around Antalya. Instead, this coastline is peppered with forests, pastures, rural villages with great Turkish hospitality and food. Expect generous meals, the ever-present gözleme, and a landscape scattered with ruins from classical antiquity. Along the way, encounters with goat herders and their formidable Kangal dogs are a daily rhythm. After nearly two days of hiking, the bastard found shelter at a small seaside lodge run by an elderly couple. It is their little piece of paradise, we want to tell about.

After having beans for lunch, dinner, and breakfast—the last three meals—the bastard had effectively turned into a human jet engine. His speed on the trail that day was noticeably improved. The route helped too: mostly downhill, though littered with loose rocks that made footing tricky. The path descended toward the sea.

Near a pimple-shaped mountain topped by the ruins of the ancient Lycian city of Apollonia, the bastard stumbled upon an orchestra of jingling bells. A flock of sheep wore them proudly, their sound filling the air. A woman shepherd led the herd, flanked by a massive Kangal dog. The animal, wearing the traditional spiked collar, approached the bastard and walked with him a while, tail wagging like an old friend.

The day before, at Ali’s Pansiyon in the rural village of Boğazcık, the boy Hüseyin had explained that villagers are free to graze their animals on the mountain slopes. “Mountains belong to nobody,” he said.

Between the village of Boğazcık and the lodge and jetty at Aperlae, the bastard encountered just one other hiker. A young woman, likely Western European. She looked like a day hiker—small pack, baseball cap. As they crossed paths, she paused to let the bastard pass, eyes downcast beneath the brim of her cap. Even though she had the uphill climb, she did not look up.

Closer to the sea, the bastard passed through yet another ancient archaeological site: the Hellenistic settlement of Aperlae—also spelled Aperlai—dating back to the fifth century BC. Tombs are scattered across the hillside, quietly beautiful. As is often the case in this region, little has been done to preserve the ruins or present the site to the public. Much of it is overgrown—frankly, most of it. And where the vegetation is kept at bay, it is largely thanks to grazing goats and sheep.

Yet this neglect is part of what gives the Lycian Way its distinctive charm: the sudden, uncurated encounters with the remnants of lost cultures, rising out of the landscape like ghosts you were not looking for.

Once at the seashore, it was a short, flat walk eastward. A few cows grazed nearby, lazily herded across the open ground. The path led to Aperlae Restaurant and Pansiyon, run by an elderly couple—cheerful, open, and refreshingly unpushy. They were so loud and exuberant in conversation, you’d think they could be heard all the way in Antalya.

The bastard had returned to the open sea. And what a spot it was: a long, rickety jetty stretching into the bay, a weathered boathouse, and a simple hut to sleep in. Best of all, he was their only guest.

The man, named Mustafa, explained the business’s motto with a grin: “You happy, me happy.” His raspy voice betrayed years of heavy smoking. He also gave a thorough—if theatrical—explanation of how to use the shower. To get hot water, you had to heat a metal barrel on a gas burner standing beside the shower stall. Then, pour the hot water into a bucket and use a cup to rinse yourself.

Mustafa demonstrated the whole process with animated gestures and even lit the burner briefly for effect. Then he burst into loud, raspy laughter. "Mandi," the bastard thought—the way how people bathe in Indonesia.

The place was utterly still, flooded with light, the green-blue sea reflecting the sun in all directions. A kind of deep, physical relaxation settled in. There was no access road—everything had to come in by boat. No cars. Nothing mechanical. From the bedroom in the small lodge—if you could even call it that—the only sound was the rhythmic slosh of waves against the rocks. Now and then, the sound of small fish leaping from the water chased by something larger.

Just six sailing yachts were anchored in the big bay, all of them at a considerable distance from the shore. Not one had anyone ashore. Lucky them—they did not know what they were missing.

And the bastard could finally take a swim in the great Mediterranean Sea. He walked down the old, rickety wooden jetty and dove straight into the blue lagoon. Delicious! Though still a bit cold in spring.

An entire afternoon and evening of doing absolutely nothing followed. Nothing—except for eating freshly prepared fish and drinking cold Efes beer. Heaven.

It was a sober breakfast the next morning. Never before had the bastard been served plain, cold boiled potatoes for breakfast. They came alongside some white cheese, black olives, a hard-boiled egg, and salad — meaning, as always in Turkey, a few slices of tomato and cucumber. And bread, of course. Always bread in Turkey. Always white bread. And always tea too. Always black tea.

With a stomach lined with potatoes, the bastard settled his debts with Mustafa for food, drink, and lodging — and gave him a little extra. Mustafa, in a gesture of quiet pride, walked him to the parkuru (the trail), shook his hand — as all Turkish men love to do — and said, “Bye bye,” followed by his trademark: “You happy, me happy,” the few English words he knew.

tombs, ruins of Aperlae, 5th century BC

The hike to the village of Üçağız was easy—mostly flat terrain. The first stretch passed through rocky fields. Yet the place had an eerie stillness. Clearly farmland, meant for grazing goats, sheep, and cows. And yes, there were a handful of cows—maybe ten—but otherwise, absolute silence.

The only sounds the bastard caught were a dove cooing and a crow calling. No jingling bells from goats, no barking dogs, no chirping birds, no shepherd’s whistle or stones thrown, no wind. Nothing. Dead quiet. For one of the first times in his life, the bastard truly heard silence. And somehow, it was utterly beautiful. Unreal.

What did not help shake the eerie feeling was a rotting carcass lying on the trail, swarming with hundreds of feasting flies. The bastard could not tell if it had been a dog or a wolf. They say wolves stick to higher elevations, away from the coast, but wandering wolves can cover hundreds of kilometers in just a few days. The bastard preferred to imagine it was a wolf—one that had lost a heroic duel with a Kangal shepherd dog.

A little further down the path, a snake slipped away into the dead leaves. It was an even brown snake, about a meter long. You do not see snakes often on this trail—at least, the bastard had not. His best guess was a black whipsnake. That did not help to get rid of the eerie atmosphere either

So, when the bastard finally arrived at the open sea again, he was glad to leave this somewhat uncanny feeling behind him, in these also enchanting hills. The downside was that the progress on this second part of the trail was terribly slow because of the very rocky and rough surface. But he saw the marine of Üçağız slowly coming nearer. Salvation was not far away.

Üçagiz is a small and friendly touristy village with a marine for mainly tour boats and ferries to the towns of Kaş, Kale and sometimes to the city of Demre. But also for yachts and some small fishing boats. They say they catch lobster in the waters along the coast. Caught with diving and sometimes with traps. Clearly the tourist season hasn’t started yet because the little restaurants on shore are nearly empty. The bastard stayed in the Ekin Pansyion in the west side of the village. Straight at the trail of the Lycian Way. With the lovely, bit noisy sea only ten meters away from his window.

But the bastard could not help thinking back to his austere stay with Mustafa and his wife at Aperlae yesterday. He felt a pang of regret for leaving that simple, yet so serene spot. Such a laid-back place. Zero commercial development. A place where Mustafa and his wife were growing old together, the bastard liked to imagine.

They sat on their worn-out sofa, facing the long, rickety wooden jetty and the green-blue Mediterranean Sea, watching the sun rise each morning. Sometimes they argued; sometimes they laughed—always loudly. The bastard even had noticed a pair of binoculars resting on the sofa. Probably used to peek at the fancy yachts and ships anchored far out in the bay—a world so different from theirs.

“I hope the two can grow even older together in this peaceful, teeny-tiny corner of Turkey,” the bastard thought.

Üçağız

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Note — Walking the Lycian Way fits a series of coastal hikes of the Frisian Bastards to experience the regional maritime landscape and culture. Exactly where the Frisia Coast Trail is all about, too.

For these reasons the bastards hiked in the southwest of Wales (read our blog post Croeso i Gerddwyr—hiking the Pembrokeshire Coast Path), the Andalucian Coast to Coast Walk in the south of Spain (read our blog post Naranjas and Reservoir Dogs—hiking in Andalusia), the Rota Vicentina annex Fisherman's Trail in the southwest of Portugal (read our blog post Surf on someone else’s Turf—hiking the Rota Vicentina), and the coastal section of the Bibbulmun Track in West Australia (read our blog post The Waugal, protector of fresh water and new life—hiking the Bibbulmun Track).

Suggested music

Pharrell Williams, Happy (2013)

Poledouris, B., The Blue Lagoon Soundtrack (1980)

Further reading

Clow, K., Lycian Way (2022)

Hemingway, E., The Old Man and the Sea (1952)

Lonely Planet, Türkiye (2004)

Featured image, Aperlae, Turkey by Hans Faber.