Yesterday, from the tower of Castelo e Muralhas Castelo Branco we saw a distant line of snowcapped mountains glistening under a brilliant Spring sun. Tonight, we’d rest our heads in Coimbra, noted for its historic university and preserved medieval old town. Though only one and half hours from Castelo Branco by highway, it would take us all day as we decided to take the back roads through the Serra da Estrelamountains to Castelo da Lousa and Talasnal, one of the abandoned Schist villages. Schist is a shiny, earth-toned local stone that is very durable and was used extensively in the region for building.
Below Torre, mainland Portugal’s highest peak at 1,993m (6,539 ft), the headwaters of three rivers, the Zezere, the Mondego and the Alva, emerge from the range and flow to the Atlantic coast. We crisscrossed these serpentine estuaries multiple times during the day as we drove through verdant pine forests along roads that hugged the curves of the land. Isolated, whitewashed villages dotted the mountainside.
Heads turned in Foz Giraldo, Oleiros, Alvaro, Maria Gomes, Alvares and Lousa when we parked to wander around. Early birds, we were way ahead of the summer crowds that rush to these mountains to escape the heat of the city and urban life.
Foresters, shepherds and cheesemakers squeeze a livelihood from the land in this sparsely inhabited region. Queijo Serra da Estrela is Portugal’s most unique cheese. It’s a strong flavored, soft, raw sheep’s milk cheese still made by hand from a 2,000-year-old traditional recipe. Firm on the outside, the wheels of cheese are lusciously creamy on the inside when young; as the cheese matures the center firms to a sliceable semi-soft texture.
We arrived at Castelo da Lousa around noon, hoping to explore the castle and nearby chapels after lunch at a restaurant adjacent to it. Midweek and off-season, unfortunately both were closed, but we enjoyed our time walking around the base of the castle. This small castle, dwarfed by surrounding mountains, was once a strategic stronghold along the Mondego line, a series of defensive fortresses along Portugal’s 11th century border south of Coimbra after it was captured from the Moors, deterring them from retaking that city. The knights Templar are credited with constructing its Keep and Glacis, a ramped lower wall, along the base of the castle, designed to impede scaling ladders and ramming. By the early fourteenth century, as the Portuguese border expanded south, the castle lost its importance and was forgotten.As Donna was waiting for me at the foot of the castle while I went to get the car, she was approached by two weary trekkers, without water, who had just hiked down from a mountain hamlet above the castle and were expecting to lunch and relax at the closed restaurant before hiking back up the steep trail. As crows fly, the distance from the village to the castle wasn’t far, but the return hike looked daunting without water or food. We quickly agreed to give them a lift back when they asked if we could help them. Our compact rental car was packed pretty full, but we pulled the seats forward and piled some bags on Donna’s lap to make room for Catia, Alain and his large backpack. ( Always wildy speculating, I wondered if they found the lost treasure of a local legend: King Arounce, who fled ancient Coimbra with his daughter and hid his riches in the mountains above the castle.) A Portuguese/ French couple, they were on a weekend getaway from Lisbon and his backpack was full of photography gear.
As it turned out they were staying where we were headed, in Talasnal, one of the three Schist villages above the castle. The four of us spent the rest of the afternoon at Ti Lena chatting away; their English was much better than our non-existent Portuguese. This rustic tavern served wonderful, traditional Portuguese cuisine typical of the region, and good local wine. This delightful, serendipitous encounter was one of the highlights of our road trip.Along with Catarredor and Casal Novo, Talasnal was slowly abandoned over the years as younger generations moved away to find work. With the rise of ecotourism these rustic villages, with their beautiful stonework, have been rediscovered by folks who want to reconnect with nature and a simpler pastoral life, if even for short periods of time.With the help of government grants, many of the near-collapsing structures are in the process of being updated and authentically restored, using traditional building materials and techniques, into restaurants, small inns, workshops, galleries and private homes to support a growing tourist infrastructure and revitalize the area. Across the mountainous central region of Portugal there are twenty-seven Aldeias do Xisto (Schist Villages) that can be explored.
A vacation from vacation? Yes, its’s tiring work having fun every day! Where to? Vilcabambahad been on our radar for a while, having read about its reputation as the “Valley of Longevity,” with mineral rich spring water and crisp mountain air. That along with its location in Ecuador’s Southern Andes Mountains at an elevation of 5000ft, a setting which provides continuous spring-like conditions, has attracted a growing expat population of greying hippies, new agers, and backpackers seeking the fountain of youth and inexpensive housing. We had to check it out!
Hostal Izhcayluma was recommended as the place to stay. Their $15.00 per person shuttle from their sister hostal, La Cigale, which was only a block from our apartment, as well as a line from their website (Izhcayluma is NOT a place for perpetually grouchy people) cinched the deal. Hostal Izhcayluma, promotes itself as a “luxury resort spa priced for backpackers” and truly has to be one of the best travel values in Ecuador or all of South America.With a bed in the dorm room going for $9.50 and luxury private cabins starting at just $39.00, the resort has a reputation as the place to go to “relax, enjoy, forget time and stay awhile.” Free morning yoga classes, a wonderful restaurant with some German dishes, and super affordable spa treatments (90 minute, deep tissue massages for $24.00, we both indulged) definitely promoted well-being. Bird calls filled the air and the distinctive face of 6,000ft high Cerro Mandango, god lying down, watched over the valley. Three thousand feet lower in altitude and much farther south, Vilcabamba was about 10 degrees warmer, which was a much-needed reprieve from the chilly days and nights we were experiencing in Cuenca.
At the reception desk are numerous brochures for off-site activities in the valley. For reasons unknown I’ve become attracted to horseback riding later in life. With naïve enthusiasm I was immediately drawn to the five-hour ride on “galloping horses” to Cascada El Paltohigh in the surrounding mountains. I’ve been riding about a dozen times, mostly on mountain trails, and the horses walked, occasionally trotted short distances, but never galloped. Thinking this was hyperbole from the corral, I was reassured by the sign-up sheet that asked for your riding experience. A family of five marked inexperienced. I thought this was a good sign and that the group would saunter slowly through the countryside for the novices. They must have been a family of vacationing gauchos from Argentina, because as soon as our guide shouted VAMANOS! we galloped out of Vilcabamba, into the mountains, and back. I walked liked a saddle-sore cowboy for a week after that.
A disc-jockey blasted “You can’t always get what you want” from loud-speakers setup on the steps of the church across from the plaza as we walked along vendors’ craft tables in the street. Trophies were visible on the DJ’s table as were bags of dog food under it. To our delight, Vilcabamba was having its Best Dressed Dog competition today and later in the afternoon a Paso Fino, fine step, horse show. About twenty proud and good-humored dog owners entertained a large crowd through several rounds of judging. Several dogs had cheering sections in the crowd. One or two ran away out of embarrassment, I think. Trophies and bags of dog food were presented to the winners by a tiara and sash wearing Miss Vilcabamba.
Immediately after the awards were presented the crowd rushed to the other side of the plaza where the horse show was ready to start. Horsemen with perfect posture, dressed in immaculate white shirts, pants and hats, paraded their mounts up and down the dusty street to the sound of lively Spanish music.
The restaurant porches around the plaza were full of aging gringos, drinking beer, sipping wine, observing from afar. Occasional a whiff of pot floated down the street. “My friend is really good at colonics, she’ll be here soon” was an odd conversation snippet we overheard.
We were glad we visited Vilbamba for a long weekend, but were relieved we hadn’t committed to spending more time there. Thoroughly relaxed we headed back to Cuenca.
With a vibe and cultural scene reminiscent of Florence, Italy, Cuenca continues to reap tourism awards as a hot new destination in South America. The city is investing heavily in infrastructure with a new tram line opening soon, but with all this positive press the streets are still mostly filled with Cuencanos (people of Cuenca) going about their daily lives. Masses of flag-led tour groups are unheard of, as are masses of tourists in general. We have been in Cuenca for five weeks and have never felt the crush of tourist season descending upon us.The city does a wonderful job supporting its craftspeople who still use traditional, made by hand, methods to create exceptional pieces in jewelry, textile, ceramic, wrought-iron, tin and copper workshops located across the city. Toquilla straw weavers in the villages around Cuenca who carry unfinished sacks of Panama Hats into the city’s sombrero (hat) factories also need to be included into this group. There are also several traditional felt hat tallerias (workshops) that cater to the indigenous women who live in the rural areas around Cuenca. The fine arts scene is also well represented with galleries and artists’ studios often next to traditional crafts workshops. To get the broadest experience of this vibrant arts and crafts community a tour through Cuenca’s most interesting neighborhood, El Barranco (the cliffs), and along its busiest street Calle Larga, is a must. The colonial buildings that front Calle Larga back onto the cliff which overlooks Rio Tomebamba and the newer southern part of Cuenca. Wide stairs in several parts lead down to Paseo 3 de Noviembre, a shaded pedestrian walkway and bike path that follows the river for several miles.This route actually starts several blocks west of Calle Larga at Cuenca’s Museo de Arte Moderno (Museum of Modern Art) across from Parque de San Sebastian which has a large fountain and several nice places to eat. Casa Azul, which has rare sidewalk tables that face the quiet plaza, and Tienda Café are good choices. Most of the workshops won’t have business signs over their doors or street numbers, might open by ten, but will reliably close between one and three for lunch.
Just around the corner from the Museo Municpal de Arte Moderno at 7-49 Coronel Guillermo Talbot is the unimposing metal embossing workshop of Carlos Bustos. With his workbench by the door to take advantage of the daylight and his finished pieces hanging behind him, he works until the sun sets. Still keeping the traditions of his family alive he offers embossed decorative pieces which can be traditional or whimsical. At the end of the street a mural-lined staircase will take you down to the Rio Tomebamba; instead make a left onto Presidente Cordova and then veer right at the Y in the road onto Bajada del Valo. A few doors down is the felt hat Sombrereria of Camilo M. Hanging from his walls are dozens of white felt hats in various stages of completion with name of the person who ordered it pinned into the brim. Ask permission to take photos and you will be greeted with a smile. Just past the hat maker, Plazoleta Cruz del Vado merges with Mirador del Barranco. This small plaza has several whimsical sculptures, largest of which depicts the traditional festival game Palo Ensebado (the teaching stick – climbing a greased pole) and a religious cross which celebrates the founding of Cuenca in 1557.
Walking along this scenic overlook, open doors reveal artists’ studios and Casa Museo La Condamine, a museum/antique store that houses an interesting menagerie of long forgotten Cuenca furnishings and antiquities. Next door to them is the Prohibido Centro Cultural, an alternative museum that displays sculptures and art that could have been inspirational for your worst nightmare or an award winning sci-fi/horror film, depending on how you look at things. It has a café. Further along the balustrade, musical chords waft from an instrument maker’s workshop, drawing you in, as the craftspeople test their work . Stairs from this scenic overlook lead down to Calle la Condamine and several coppersmiths.
Rounding the corner onto Calle Larga is like returning from the Amazon to New York City. It’s tenfold busier, with the Mercado 10 de Agosto (Cuenca’s central market) accounting for most of the activity in the first block. This a great short detour to get some exotic fruits or fresh bread and rolls from the numerous panaderias that surround it. Diagonally across the street is the Museum del Sombrero de Paja Toquilla (free), a still operating panama hat factory where you can watch the manufacturing process and try on the finished product. They have a lovely rooftop café, the only one in Cuenca, that overlooks the Rio Tomebamba and park below. They offer you a free cup of coffee when you purchase a hat. From the rooftop here you can see the jewelry workshop and store of Andrea Tello on Av 12 de Abril across the river. One of Cuenca’s finest silversmiths, having created filigree masterpieces that are in museum collections around the world, she earned the UNESCO Award of Excellence in Handicrafts in 2010. Just a few doors away is the wide alley Bajada del Padron where you will find the workshop of an ironsmith who makes Pucara, a symbol given as a gift to bring good fortune and prosperity. The sculpture incorporates the Christian cross with images of the Sun and Moon to honor Pachamama.
Continuing east along Calle Larga you will cross the intersection of Benigno Malo. For the next several blocks the restaurant choices are tremendous, with options for Arab and Indian cooking to gourmet Ecuadorian cuisine and everything else in between. El Mercado and El Jardin offer fine dinning experiences that are very enjoyable. For a more casual environment try Goza Espresso Bar which has outside table facing a small park. The lower level of Museo Remigio Crespo Toral (free) offers the Café del Museo, which is truly an oasis of calm in this bustling city, has terraced outside dining that looks over the lush greenery along the Rio Tomebamba and Paseo 3 de Noviembre. The museum itself is worth exploring to see how Cuenca’s gentry lived at the end of the 19th century. Or you can head to the Wunderbar Café on the Francisco Sojos Jaramillo stairway that leads to the Centro Interamericano de Artes Populares (CIDAP – free) which offers changing, monthly craft exhibits.
Back on Calle Larga the Museo de las Culturas Aborigenes looks unimpressive from its entrance, but the museum upstairs has an enthralling collection of 8,000 indigenous artifacts that spans 15,000 years and 20 pre-Columbian cultures, stone-age to bronze-age. Downstairs there is a very good, no-pressure gift store with excellent pricing. Next door is the fascinating studio of metal sculptor Julio Machado who creates hummingbirds and other animals in bronze and aluminum. Stay straight on Calle Larga when you come to the fork in the road at Todos los Santos Church; this will lead you to a store front painter’s studio where his favorite subject seems to be the church you just passed.
At the end of Calle Large at what once was the Inca city of Tomebamba, its terraced gardens still home to grazing llama, now stands Museo Pumapungo (free), one of Ecuador’s finest museums. The first floor offers changing contemporary art exhibits as well as a fascinating collection of artifacts discovered on site here. Upstairs features exhibits which represent all of Ecuador’s diverse cultural groups and their historic way of life. Topping it off, there is an unusual exhibit of shrunken heads, tzantzas, along with how-do instructions in Spanish and English from the Shuar people of the Amazon.
Across the river from the Museo Pumapungo is Las Herrerias, the street of the iron forges, where several workshops create utilitarian and decorative works; to locate the workshops, just follow the sounds of hammers striking anvils. Plaza del Herrero, at the end of the street, has a very interesting monumental sculpture dedicated to the ironworkers who helped build Cuenca. Be sure to try Tortilla de Choclo, a scrumptious corn pancake that is pan-fried on large griddles along the street in this neighborhood.
Artisans not in the Barranco neighborhood, but definitely worth the effort to visit, are ceramicist Eduardo Vega (internationally recognized for his decorative arts.) His workshop and home are a short walk downhill from the Mirador de Turi. Located on the new tram-line that runs through the historic potters’ Barrio Convencio Del 45, at 2-90 Mariscal Lamar, is the traditional, ceramic workshop of Jose Encalada where he and his son Ivan still form every piece using a potter’s kick-wheel. A few blocks over on Vega Munoz is the contemporary, ceramic studio of Eduardo Segovia where he creates whimsical decorative pieces influenced by South American traditions. Closer to the historic central part of Cuenca is the Mama Quilla silversmith shop on Luis Cordero. Here, Harley-riding Ernesto creates fine filigree pieces that reflect the cultures of the Andes.
We enjoyed walking through El Barranco, and specifically Calle Larga. The route we suggest here provides a wonderful overview of life and art in Cuenca.
“Ayvalik! How do you know of Ayvalik? This is where the Turks go to vacation” And “You must go to Cunda!” is a phrase we heard proudly repeated more than once.
This post was written about our trip to Ayvalik, Turkey in 2013.
A Mount Rushmore sized, carved stone profile of Atatürk loomed over the highway and filled the front windshield as my wife and I sped north, round a bend on the E87, escaping the Izmir airport. “I will be getting married in three weeks” our taxi driver Ozzie joyfully announced, then softer and more ambivalently “there are so many preparations to make ready before our wedding, we have to buy a refrigerator, stove and bed for our new apartment.” “About half way there we will break at this rest stop that makes the best homemade yogurt. Mama likes the yogurt with mild green peppers (yogurtlu biber) marinating in it, I always stop here on the way back to buy some for her. It reminds her of the way grandma used to make it.” Ozzie continued, “just last week there was a newspaper editorial lamenting the demise of fresh yogurt and how the store-bought yogurt now lasts forever and never goes bad!” And so began our journey to Ayvalik and a week on the northern Aegean coast of Turkey last May. Located two hours by taxi (four hours by bus) north of Izmir, on the southern shore of the Bay of Edremit, Ayvalik is fortunately just a little too far north and off the usual tour circuit, a full day’s drive away from the buses full of tourists that visit Ephesus then descend onto the beaches of Turkey’s Southern Aegean or Western Mediterranean coasts. “Ayvalik! How do you know of Ayvalik? This is where the Turks go to vacation” And “You must go to Cunda!” is a phrase we heard proudly repeated more than once.
A view across Ayvalik.
As we approached Ayvalik, salt evaporating ponds lined one side of the road as gentle Mediterranean waves rolled onto the narrow beach across the way. Turning off the highway, the road rose gently through acres upon acres of olive groves, ruins of an old stone Greek Church flashed by, its roof gone, leaving only the bell tower to pierce the silver-green canopy of the olive trees. As the road crested, a quick glimpse of Ayvalik flashed by, red tiled roofs and minarets set against the sparkling, turquoise blues of the Aegean. And across the bay were the low hills of Cunda Island in the distance. The May Day celebrations were in full swing on the palm tree lined waterfront, and in front of the ubiquitous statue of Atatürk a sea of labor unionists chanted and waved crimson Turkish flags aloft as our taxi passed.
Erinç our hostess smiled to us from the door of Eolya Konukevi as Ozzie jumped the low stone wall with our bags in hand to show off his youth. The salt air and Mediterranean diet had not worked its wonders yet, so we walked the long way around to greet her. “Please wear these slippers when you enter, it is our custom.” Four years earlier Erinç escaped the urban crush of Istanbul and opened Eolya Konukevi, a small four room boutique inn in a three story, 120 year old Greek townhome she lovingly renovated, keeping its historical ambience and charm. The bedrooms were on the small side so we opted for room #7, the only one with a private terrace. The terrace was too hot to use during the unseasonably warm ninety degree mid-day heat, but wonderful early in the morning or later in the day when the sun was lower and a perfect spot to enjoy a bottle of Turkish wine bought from the local grocery store. In early May we were the only guests for most of the week. Nevertheless each morning Erinç presented, in the sunken, high-walled courtyard a bountiful variety of fresh baked breads or pastries with homemade jams, honey, tomatoes, cucumbers, a wonderful assortment of olives, local cheeses, Turkish egg dishes and the delicious Turkish staple, Cevizli biber – a meze prepared with red pepper paste, hot red pepper flakes, onion, walnuts and cumin mixed to a moldable consistency and used to garnish many recipes. “You will see gallons of it in the weekly market on Thursday, the town gets crazy full, vendors fill the street and villagers from all around come into town to shop,” Erinç told us.
Fishermen tending to their nets along the quay in Ayvalik.
Embracing the pace of village life we walked everywhere, and hoped to stay thin. Along the quay, boat hands dangled over the side of excursion boats, busy sanding and varnishing them into pristine shape for the coming high season. Some fishermen sat atop their moored boats mending nets, and others tinkered noisily with engines. Lined with boats, palm trees and seafood restaurants the waterfront of Ayvalik, though much quieter and laidback, resembles many others fishing villages along the coast. The charm of Ayvalik is that it has no major attractions, just the wonderful ambiance of a once prosperous commercial fishing and olive oil processing center, now mostly forgotten and lost in time. Far away from any major historical sites, the townspeople here are just going about their lives, and wonderfully so, not catering to a substantial tourist infrastructure. There was only one short block with several bars, just off the waterfront that looked like it would be a noisy spot during high season. With tables and chairs outside that further narrowed the already thin lane there were more cats and dogs asleep under the tables than patrons the night we passed.
Horse drawn carriages can easily navigate the narrow lanes of Ayvalik and are still used for a variety of delivery jobs.
Meandering, cobbled lanes and back alleys led us slowly up the hill away from the waterfront and it seemed into an earlier century. Slowly crumbling pastel colored homes in various stages of decline lined both sides of the streets. Missing sections of stucco revealed still solid stone construction underneath ignored exteriors. Many homes had their doors chained shut decades ago, the locks heavily rusted over from neglect or abandonment (recall pictures of Havana, Cuba). Offset occasionally by a rare renovation in progress , the early signs of gentrification were beginning to edge in. Horse drawn wagons are still used by vegetable and fruit vendors to ply their trade and to deliver refrigerators, stoves and other large household items through lanes too narrow for modern trucks to navigate. The vignettes of everyday live abounded – the world’s oldest newspaper delivery man carefully balancing an ancient moped between stops, ringing the doorbell and sharing news for a few moments before sputtering away to another door further down the bumpy lane. The lone cow tied to a bright , orange slide in a vacant children’s playground. Fresh fish and Octopus taken from the sea just hours earlier, for sale on the pier early in the morning. School children in their uniforms, playfully headed home for lunch. Lambs’ heads, beef hearts and other organs hung in the butcher’s window. Piles of freshly baked Simit (a bread ring covered with sesame seeds all over) just taken from the baker’s oven and displayed on the ledge of his open window to cool. The candied apple seller walking the streets, hawking his caramelized treats from a tree like structure. A painter carrying his buckets, brushes and large extension ladder to work, carefully, dipping it under low hanging telephone lines as he walked. Men crushing, weighing and bagging coal just off the main square, covered head to toe in black dust. Stacks of split wood – used to fire so many grills and ovens – and impart that distinctive flavoring. Scarfed women, walking together their arms linked in camaraderie. A farmer racing by on his garden tractor, pulling his wife bouncing all over in a small wagon behind him, with a death grip on its sides she held her face high into the morning sun. Her head scarf blew straight out behind her.
Delivering lemonade to vendors in the market.
Still full of energy this older villager still delivered newspapers all over Ayvalik.
Villagers resting in the shade, trying to escape the heat of mid day.
The Minaret and clock tower of Saatli Camii mosque were just visible through the fabric and clothing which dangled from the shade awnings strung over the streets on market day. (A thriving Greek Orthodox cathedral until the Turkish War of Independence ended in 1923. The resulting peace treaty forced a population exchange between Turkey and Greece. Where Ottoman Greeks on the Turkish mainland where forced to leave their homes and move to the Greece and Turks living in Greece where forced to relocate to Turkey. Many churches were abandoned and left to ruin. Others were deconsecrated and with the installation of a minaret and minbar pointing towards Mecca from which the Mullah preached, repurposed as mosques.) Overnight, the local merchants had emptied the contents of their shops onto the streets and itinerant traders erected temporary stands to display their wares. Transforming what seemed to be all of Ayvalik into a vast outdoor shopper’s metropolis offering everything for the home and farm. The village was full of families from the outlying smaller villages that had taken buses to Ayvalik for this weekly event. The women wore traditional baggy pants, brightly colored with floral prints. And various, clashing mix matched tops and scarfs edged with intricate embroidery, created an ever changing, beautiful kaleidoscope of color and patterns as they flowed up and down the lanes, and shopped for more exuberant fabrics to sew at home.
Just off At Arabacilan Meydani (the Horse Carts square) the lane was full of chickens, lambs and goats for sale. Sun dried farmers chatted and laughed with each other while they sat in the doorframes of buildings along the lane, or sent text messages as they waited to make a sale. A block over was the Koy Pazari (weekly farmers market), with baskets full of artichokes, eggplants, fava beans, mulberries, onions, quince, squash, strawberries and grape leaves, stalls full of cheeses and more varieties of olives than I have ever seen in one place. Bottles of pomegranate and grape dressing were stacked high. Herbs and spices! Saffron and Cardamom were amazingly affordable (we should of bought more) And displays of the Turkish Spice blend of Red Pepper, Oregano, Paprika, Garlic, Cumin, Cilantro, Salt and Black Pepper abounded. Each herb poured separately upon the other into plastic bags creating an attractive rainbow package. Numerous five gallon tins of Cevizli biber with their tops shaped to pyramids lined the aisles.
Old men resting and drinking tea in front of Seytanın Kahvesi,(the Devils Café) tea house.
As the day got warmer and the crowds thickened we decided to escape the frenzy and headed to Seytanın Kahvesi (the Devils Café), a teahouse we had found the day before. Very hot apple cay (.50TL) served in tulip shaped glasses soothed use as we rested under the shade of a large tree in front of the cafe and people watched. Even in the mid-day heat the old men wore the traditional sweater vest under a heavy suit jacket. Some rubbed prayer beads as they chatted with friends, while others read papers and sipped tea. One pulled his feet from his slippers and cooled them against the paving stones. At another table, a man with crutches pulled x-rays from a large envelope and held them up to sky to show the pins in his leg to his friends. In the small cross-roads, opposing drivers negotiated which tractor would give way. From the front door tea runners ran down the lane balancing trays of cay to merchants in the market. Above our table hung a sign with carved out and painted, dancing stick figures spelling Cop(M)adam,(the trash ladies) the woman’s cooperative next door. Established to give women who have never worked for pay outside the home or farm, a chance for some economic independence. They create wonderful, contemporary handbags, pocketbooks and other fashion accessories out of thrown away materials. The small shop was full of chatter and laughter as the women worked together. An exotic aroma from the communal lunch being prepared drifted through the shop from the stove in the back room. We chose several items and negotiated lively with an occasional raised eyebrow or thumbs down along with their handy calculator.
With a picnic dinner in our bags from shopping at the bazaar we headed back along a different route further up the hill to find the once grand (and never converted) orthodox cathedral, Taksiyarhis. Situated alone in the center of an overgrown square, the ruins sadly dominated the neighborhood. Large, untamed fig trees sprouted from the foundation. With part of its portico collapsed and the rear of the apse caved in we peered inside to see fallen rafters and small sections of walls with fading designs barely visible, were all that remained of its former glory.
Looking north from Seytan Sofrasi (the Devils Table) towards Cunda Island on the horizon.
“Have you gone to Cunda yet? Erinç inquired. “Not yet, each time we walk past the ferry there is no activity. We might have to take a Dolmus (shared) Taxi over for the day.” I replied. “With it being so hot this Spring they might start ferry service earlier this year,” Erinç offered. Instead, we hired a taxi and headed to Seytan Sofrasi (the Devils table) a rock formation located in a state park a few miles south of town. Narrow, winding roads followed the shoreline around the smaller coves of the bay, revealing thin strips of sandy beaches round each curve. Only a few families were out, some fathers fished as their kids plunged knee deep into the shallow water, and shivered with glee as they raced back to shore. We passed several roadside stands with various flavors and shades of local honey for sale under beach umbrellas. Eventually the road started to rise gently through a forest. The trees thinned to expose the summit and its panoramic overview to the north of two small bays below, then Ayvalik and the large island of Cunda beyond, surrounded by twenty smaller islands. Lesbos, Greece hazily dominated the western horizon in the afternoon light. Prayer notes tied to safety railings fluttered in a refreshing breeze against a flawless sky. Ignoring the railing some people still climbed over to snap a picture from the edge, no guards were there to discourage them or save them from their selves if needed. Though a sturdy iron cage protected an oval, foot like depression in the rock that local folklore says Satan left behind as he leapt to party across the water in Lesbos for some crazy reason. It’s difficult to believe but it seems the Devil spent a bit of time in Ayvalik, if you go by the number of things that include his name, and the volume of ruined churches, monasteries and mosques built nearby to dilute his influence.
Fish restaurants line the dock in Cunda. Behind them stone lanes lead to Takisyarhis Kilisesi church and The Sevim Kent Library cresting the hill above the village.
We were in luck when we realized a short line was forming for the ferry to Cunda as we exited the taxi. Storm clouds built over Ayvalik as the boat pulled away with only a handful of passengers aboard for the short journey. The weather threatened only for a brief time but did not deliver. (During high season ferries from Ayvalik run to Lesbos, Greece and Assos, Turkey. Diving trips to nearby deep, red coral reefs can also be taken, along with swimming boat charters to the islands around Cunda). A long line of seafood restaurants fronted Cunda’s quay. Several blocks inland and on a slight rise, the cupola of the old Greek Orthodox Taksiyarhis Kilisesi church (same name but a different church) rose above the surrounding homes, was finally being restored as a museum and center for cultural events after years of neglect. A candied apple seller braved the sun and walked the streets, hawking his caramelized treats from a tree like structure. The shade of the buildings offered some relief from the sun for three older villagers and their donkey called “Donkey” who had a weathered, wooden saddle tied to its back and us as we continued our walk uphill to find a windmill that we had spotted from the ferry. The windmill with a pretty veranda and small adjacent chapel now restored as The Sevim and Necdet H. Kent Library (Kent was a Turkish diplomat stationed in France during World War II who saved the lives of many Jews by providing them Turkish identity papers) are all that are left of an ancient monastery complex that sat upon the crest of the hill and overlooked Cunda and the waters surrounding it. The library’s shaded cafe (free WiFi) provided the perfect spot to rest our blisters and appreciate the views, before heading back into the village for dinner.
Many restaurants line the back lanes of Cunda with tables and chairs to enjoy an evening meal.
We rewarded our efforts later that evening with wonderfully prepared Cretan (Turks from Crete came to Cunda during the population exchange) dishes at Lal Girit Mutfagi, a small restaurant set in a rustic stone building with an outside patio across the cobbled lane. Difficult choices tempted us: which mezes to try from the mouthwatering assortment on display? Since the night was warm, we were seated under the grape vines of the patio. Occasionally the waiter hoisted a watering can and sprinkled water onto the cobblestone lane to keep down the dust from passing tractors as farmers slowly drove home through the village from their fields or orchards. The restaurant did not have a paper menu; rather, Emine the owner/chef enthusiastically talked us through what she was cooking that night. The pace of the meal was delightfully relaxed, no rushing, everything from the kitchen freshly prepared and delicious. Soft cheese with wild spring herbs; mussels stuffed with spicy rice served on the half shell; grilled octopus; fresh anchovies in a light tomato sauce plated artfully in a spiral; artichokes with dill and stuffed grape leaves; and shredded vegetables with cheese and herbs wrapped in papery thin phyllo dough and baked to a golden brown; our meal appeared before us one exquisite dish after the next, as we enjoyed each of the chef’s creations. Folks filled the lanes as dusk fell and brought in a refreshing breeze. The restaurant livened as the evening lengthened, a boisterous atmosphere reflected much laughter and heartiness. Good Turkish wine, Raki!, a fine night, and a great meal still remembered. Serife! (Days later, Emine greeted us warmly as she shopped amongst the tables of fresh produce at Rormutauk Bazaar (the Sunday farmers market) in Sirinkent , just north of Ayvalik).
A shepherd with young lambs in Cennet Tepesi (Heaven Tower Park) above Ayvalik.
A lone crenulated tower spotted from the Dolmus taxi on the way back from Cunda looked worth another uphill hike. Giant century plants and their towering seed stalks leaned over the path toward Cennet Tepesi (Heaven Tower Park) above the bay. We followed the path through a slowly thickening pine forest to the tower I had glimpsed the night before. An unattended flock of sheep quietly grazed in grassy undergrowth. From behind the tower the sound of more sheep bah-ing slowly moved closer. We waited expectantly to see another flock arrive but were amused when only a lone shepherd, baa-ing, emerged carrying two young lambs in his arms. He baa-ed tenderly as if to convey his love for his flock and reassure the lamb’s mother that they would be reunited soon.
Some villagers still light bonfires, dance and jump over the flames in celebration of Spring.
At breakfast the next morning Erinç excitedly asked if we had heard of Hidirellez. ”It’s still celebrated here in Ayvalik. Today, every May 5th some of the families build bonfires in the streets in front of their homes. They play music, dance and cheer for each other and their neighbors to jump over the flames in a celebration of spring.” It’s not organized and fewer families do it than years ago. You’ll have to wander the lanes farther up the hill, but I’m sure there will be some bonfires.” Later that evening after a long siesta we headed back into the ancient backstreets. Two drummers, carrying big bass drums along with a cymbalist, noisily led a bride in a white gown and pink sneakers and groom in a tux, followed by a small group of raucous revelers in Halloween makeup. Momentarily surrounded, we posed for photos with the party, and then they left in the direction from which they came. Not the fire jumpers we were looking for, but encouraged nevertheless we continued our search. A few blocks over, the homes and people gathered on the street in front of them were cast in the amber warmth of several small fires centered in the middle of the lane. Some revelers danced to traditional music blasted from a CD player. Couches and chairs were brought outdoors for older partiers to settle into. Behind them a few parents supervised young arsonists in training making small smoky fires. We watched as the fires popped and blew sparks skyward when any burnable material was thrown in to encourage higher flames. And with a running start, young and old jumped, when their nerves permitted, as best they could through the flames as everyone clapped and cheered them on. Thankfully we did not witness any self-immolations that night.
A wedding parade on Hidirellez ( a May 5th celebration of Sping).
Ayvalik won the regional playoffs and the small village celebrated wildly.
As we walked back to our guesthouse, the square on the waterfront was surprisingly full of triumphant soccer fans, victoriously waving the team colors. The Ayvalik team had won the state playoffs! It seemed as if everyone who owned a scooter or car (not too many people do), overloaded it with flag-waving friends and raced down Ataturk Caddesi (the only two way street in town) several blocks, did a K turn and then speed back through town multiple times that evening. The horns were still blaring when our heads hit the pillow.
The smell of smoke lingered in the air very early the next morning when Ozzie picked us for the trip back to the airport. We offered him our best wishes for his quickly approaching wedding and changing life. And wished for ourselves, that Ayvalik would not change at all, or at least very slowly.
At the main Thursday market in Ayvalik colorful fabrics hand from the shade awnings strung between buildings.
With Cunda Island and Lesbos, Greece in the distance.
Cobbled lanes and rose bushes adorn the narrow streets of Cunda.
Sunset in Ayvalik
Weighing and bagging coal on At Arabacilan Meydani (the Horse Carts square).
Shelves in the blacksmiths shop on At Arabacilan Meydani (the Horse Carts square).
Palm trees lline a waterfront park on the way to Cunda Island.
Some villagers still light bonfires, dance and jump over the flames in celebration of Spring.
Some villagers still light bonfires, dance and jump over the flames in celebration of Spring.
Street vendors still push carts of produce door to door through the narrow lanes of Ayvalik.
A view across Ayvalik towards Cunda Island .
The sparse interior of Seytananin Kahvesi (The Devils Cafe).
Turkish breakfast at Eolya Konukevi.
A shepherd with young lambs in Cennet Tepesi (Heaven Tower Park) above Ayvalik.
A shepherd with young lambs in Cennet Tepesi (Heaven Tower Park) above Ayvalik.
Fishing in front of the ferry dock in Cunda.
Rusted locks on an a forgeotten home in Cunda.
Most people still walk from place to place in town.
Grapevines adorn many homes and offer some shade.
An ornamental gate along the waterfront frames the sunset in Ayvalik.
A vibrant kaleidiscope of color fills the streets of Ayvalik on market day, when villagers from the outlying hamlets come into town.
School children having some fun on the way to school in Ayvalik.
A stray dog catching some warmth from the morning in an old cobbled lane.
The view of Ayvalik from Cennet Tepesi (Heaven Tower Park).
Slowly crimbling pastel colored homes in various stages of decline line both sides of the lanes.
Slowly crimbling pastel colored homes in various stages of decline line both sides of the lanes.
Village women rest from a morning of intense shopping.
We crisscrossed these serpentine estuaries multiple times during the day as we drove through verdant pine forests along roads that hugged the curves of the land. Isolated, whitewashed villages dotted the mountainside.
As Donna was waiting for me at the foot of the castle while I went to get the car, she was approached by two weary trekkers, without water, who had just hiked down from a mountain hamlet above the castle and were expecting to lunch and relax at the closed restaurant before hiking back up the steep trail. As crows fly, the distance from the village to the castle wasn’t far, but the return hike looked daunting without water or food. We quickly agreed to give them a lift back when they asked if we could help them. Our compact rental car was packed pretty full, but we pulled the seats forward and piled some bags on Donna’s lap to make room for Catia, Alain and his large backpack. ( Always wildy speculating, I wondered if they found the lost treasure of a local legend: King Arounce, who fled ancient Coimbra with his daughter and hid his riches in the mountains above the castle.) A Portuguese/ French couple, they were on a weekend getaway from Lisbon and his backpack was full of photography gear.
Along with Catarredor and Casal Novo, Talasnal was slowly abandoned over the years as younger generations moved away to find work. With the rise of ecotourism these rustic villages, with their beautiful stonework, have been rediscovered by folks who want to reconnect with nature and a simpler pastoral life, if even for short periods of time.
With the help of government grants, many of the near-collapsing structures are in the process of being updated and authentically restored, using traditional building materials and techniques, into restaurants, small inns, workshops, galleries and private homes to support a growing tourist infrastructure and revitalize the area. Across the mountainous central region of Portugal there are twenty-seven Aldeias do Xisto (Schist Villages) that can be explored.
A vacation from vacation? Yes, its’s tiring work having fun every day! Where to? 
With a bed in the dorm room going for $9.50 and luxury private cabins starting at just $39.00, the resort has a reputation as the place to go to “relax, enjoy, forget time and stay awhile.” Free morning yoga classes, a wonderful restaurant with some German dishes, and super affordable spa treatments (90 minute, deep tissue massages for $24.00, we both indulged) definitely promoted well-being. Bird calls filled the air and the distinctive face of 6,000ft high 
The city does a wonderful job supporting its craftspeople who still use traditional, made by hand, methods to create exceptional pieces in jewelry, textile, ceramic, wrought-iron, tin and copper workshops located across the city. Toquilla straw weavers in the villages around Cuenca who carry unfinished sacks of Panama Hats into the city’s sombrero (hat) factories also need to be included into this group. There are also several traditional felt hat tallerias (workshops) that cater to the indigenous women who live in the rural areas around Cuenca. The fine arts scene is also well represented with galleries and artists’ studios often next to traditional crafts workshops. To get the broadest experience of this vibrant arts and crafts community a tour through Cuenca’s most interesting neighborhood, El Barranco (the cliffs), and along its busiest street Calle Larga, is a must. The colonial buildings that front Calle Larga back onto the cliff which overlooks Rio Tomebamba and the newer southern part of Cuenca. Wide stairs in several parts lead down to Paseo 3 de Noviembre, a shaded pedestrian walkway and bike path that follows the river for several miles.
This route actually starts several blocks west of Calle Larga at Cuenca’s Museo de Arte Moderno (Museum of Modern Art) across from Parque de San Sebastian which has a large fountain and several nice places to eat. Casa Azul, which has rare sidewalk tables that face the quiet plaza, and Tienda Café are good choices. Most of the workshops won’t have business signs over their doors or street numbers, might open by ten, but will reliably close between one and three for lunch.
2 Suitcases for 2 years 