I have just about to leave the island of Gokceada, having set up camp for the 4th time on a hillside above the port . The island is set in a shimmering sea on the edge of the Turkish universe, where at its westernmost extremeties near Cape İncirburnu, you can see the Greek mainland careering towards Thessalonika, & the details on the very close island of Samothraki can be seen. Passing nbetween this island & that, however, is strictly forbidden, both sides, the world’s bullshit borders an ever-present spanner in workings of the erstwhile traveller.
My journey here began in charming Canakkale. I’d awoken in my digs after a fairly decent sleep, & bouyant with a morning mindset’s mission – I needed to prep for the forthcoming walking tour. I’d got rid of my tent at Jura, & for a blanket possess’d only the ‘throw’ from Campbeltoun, which was actually too small for me at full stretch. So, I set off out about 8.30, getting the addresses of two possible shops that sold tents; one close, one a way away. The close one was, well, closed, – it was 8AM – & it looked like it only sold sports shoes, so I set off searching for the other one, got completely lost, & wasted an hour fannying about.
I plung’d in to ask the help of some locals, via google translate, & we realised the second shop was actually miles away. So I turn’d back to town, about hour & a half into my mission, with the only progress being my steadily increasing sense of panic. I even got myself lost again, for a while, but eventually reach’d town, & thought why don’t I check the first shop, just in case. So I did, & found to my delight that there was a camping section at the back of the shop, round a corner, & out of view of anyone peering thro the window. Result!
To the Future Students of My Genius
When travelling in Turkey I kinda lost myself,
So I put some videos of misell up on my phone
& realised that I was quite a cool chap, actually
Went out for a street-stroll with a strut in my stride
On the hunt for the tent I would be needing that night
But couldn’t fucking find one, I’m like dont worry,
It’s time to live off yer wits, you’ve done it before
So, iupon the mazy, messy back-street paths to my digs
I’d finally found the center of heavenly Canakkala
& thought why dont I just try that first place
That were closed early morning, when all taht I saw
Were rows of sports shoes thro’ the window – to my joy
It had a little camping bit, so bought a tent, nice one!
I’m not really a genius, I’m a complete fuckin dafty!
As you can see, at the moment the sonnets are really pouring ou of the aether into my verse vestibule, & at the same time I’m working on the ‘Young Shakespeare’ paper, which should be seminal – the spirt of the Bard is with me for sure. Money is finite, but I’m nowhere near desperate yet, & I’m the master of frugality. Its all an massive adventure this sonnet hunting malarkey – life on the edges of experience. living off your wits & luck, & when sprinkling in poetic sensibilityies, & that of an epic poet on a foot-march to Troy, well, real magic can happen!
I’m aiming to spend about 400 lira a day, which is only £8. I should be fne, I’m not drinking or smoking, eating simple supermarket foods, & just getting fitter & slimmer by the day. Quite a healthy, athletic & ascetic existence can only help the intellectual campaign of composition ahead of me in the coming weeks, y’know, I’ve got some proper work to do! There’s also the walking, which saves money & lets me see the scenery at a slower pace, absorb it, & to also think about my work – gve it, & mind, a all chance to breath.
It’s not so bad, the camping, I keep downloading podcasts, & converting talk sport youtube programmes to mp3s; there’s those dance tunes to study & a radio for whenever the power runs out. It’s not all silent meditation & composing, y’know, I like to work to true crime podcasts at home, it helps me relax, so why not take that vibe on the road.
So, I strutted back to my digs in Canakkale in clearly a better mood than I had been mere minutes before; got my bank card, drew out £100 in Turkish lira, & went to buy the tent. A nice guy was serving, who told me that recently a woman had walk’d there all the way from Swizerland. He also said, after the tent flagg’d up at 1150 lira, that 1000 lira would be enough! Amazing, a retail discount without even asking – I dont think Ive ever experienc’d that in my entire life!
On leaving the shop I went looking for that haberdasherie of sorts I’d clocked the previous evening, found it, spent 12 quid on a blanket & suddenly, like an grand expeditionary, I was ready for the tour!
Then, at midday, I was away on a wee-ish ferry for the crossing of the Hellespont. There was sea-salt in my nostrils, the first real whiff of tour, with the Mediterranean only a tantalsing few miles away. What a rush! I live on an island, am used to crossing bodies of water, its in my soul now, & this particular crossing is perhaps the most famous of then all, for in classical times Leander swam nightly to see his lover, Hero.
As the boat smooth’d its way across, I read thro Byron’s accounts of swimming it in 1810, & dash’d off the following sonnet;
WHEN LORD BYRON SWAM THE HELLESPONT
On the 3rd of May, 1810,
As Leander, who was nightly wont the Hellespont to cross
Was thought a myth, so too the deed was thought a doubtful story,
No traveller endeavoured e’er Sestos to Abydos
Til Byron came – Leander swam for love & he for glory
Upon one genial day in May, with Lieutenant Ekenhead
Of the Salsette frigate, after calculating the tides
Did dive inside the icy currents that so rapid sped
No boat could row directly forth the stream that so divides
Europa from the Asiatic, & the waters chill’d by ices
From melting mountain snows, so an angle course was forc’d
& made four miles from one, but being each a Dionysis
They swam like more-than-mortals, as both reach’d the other coast
No better swimmers beam’d upon a feat on which both prided
Quoth Byron, “as Leander, Mr. Ekenhead, and I did.”
Then it was footfall in Ecgabid, clearly the Abydos of the Sestos & Abydos of the Leander myth. Disembarking with a bubble of humanity, I set off walking, my first proper steps of the tour. About a mile in to the walk, it began to start spitting – spits & starts – so shelter’d under a tree a while as it got slightly heavier, eating my jar of pickl’d veg, my loaf of Turkish bread (30p each) & flavour’d by some red hot pepper sauce. On the rain easing, I set off again, when just after being barked at by an aggressive dog, it started pelting it down. Luckily I found an abandoned old roadside cafe with an exterior roof intact; & a table & chair to boot. After finding an in inconspicuos spot, invisible from the road, to to set up office, it was time for some work on the Shakesperean authorship question.
After a wee while I was joined by this handsome dog. I barked at him to clear off, but he just stared at me & licked his lips. A hungry stray, of course, one of hundreds & thousands I guess, across the country – while the cats seem endemic. Suddenly I rememeber’d I had left two bags of savory biscuits given me the previous day by the assistant on the coach, which I then presented to a happy looking dog. In effect it was residual karma from my decision not to give the guy who dropped the 100 lira note his money back – both the coach assistant & this dog needed it more!
Once the rain had eas’d up, I set off walking again, munching roadside blackberries as I plung’d into a world of open unfenc’d farms, with pleasant lowish, hills on either side. It started to make sense why the Allies had attempted a landing on the beaches to where I was heading – this would have been an easy, flat way to break the peninsula in two & reach the Sea of Marmara.
After a few minutes I was promptly picked up by a guy who clearly was looking for company. A lovely fellow called Alpi, he was doing a half-marathon the next day, & decided to have a wee tour around the Anzac section of the Gallipoli battlefield. At first he was stumbling over his English – lack of practice -, but it soon came flooding back to him, & he became my brilliant guide to the battlefield. Our first stop was this monumental graveyard of sorts, erected only in 2022, which had the names of Turkish soldiers etech’d into a great raft of stone, & a field of rocks spread irregularly behind it, to represent the chaos & randomness of battlefield deaths, with a crescent moon carv’d into each one.
This got me thinking, the sonnet is only 14 lines, & I could get each one of the 196 from the Silver Rose etch’d into a rock, or piece of marble, & scatter these about a field also. It would be like an interactive book -you’d have to walk from poem to poem. Plus, if I manage to set in in such a scene as this one with cypress trees & other herbiculture rendering it a pure arcady, then it would be a truly poetically immersive experience. Plus there’d be a massive statue of me looking cool at the back.
This was Anzac country, & I chatted briefly to an elderly Aussie about what it meant to be here, agreeing with him especially that in this instance Churchil was an impracticle dreamer. apparently 110 years ago his grandfather had died here. With him were his wife & a famous Turkish tour guide, the only one to get the Australian medal of honour or something, a Fulbright scholar & everything. I began to pick his brains about the strategies involv’d in Gallipoli, when the wife pipes in ‘why dont you pay for a tour & find out’ – end of discussion!
GALLIPOLI
You can see what Churchill was trying to do
Over in whitehall with maps and busy brain
The central powers would rely on, he knew
The Dardanelles, & all that Turkish grain
Besides, the old man of europe was palliative
Just one big sneeze and his knees would collapse
But there’s not many antipodeans who’d forgive
How one man’s plans would devastate the Anzacs
& decimate and descrate and blow to fuckin bits
Malaria, & dysentry & endless runny shits
Kitchener’s a cunt & the Abduls scrap like dingoes
& all this death’s just to give the Turks a bloody nose
Come on digger, do your duty, war’s a privilege –
But I’d rather be a ‘would-to-godder’ than die on this ridge
As we pass’d statues, Alpi was telling me the stories which would have been taught him in the classroom. There’s the general who held the ridge in the fierecest moments of the battle – if it would have fallen the battle would have been lost. There’s the Turkisg infantryman who, on hearing the screams of a wounded Anzac, braved No Mans Land, haul’d the injur’d fellow up on his shoulders, & actually carried him back to the Allied lines. Cool stuff! He also said that Fatih, the name of the Ottoman commander at the siege of Constantinople in 1453, & whom the district I’d stay’d in back in Istanbul was nam’d after, said when he drove the Greeks out of the city, that he was takig revenge for the murder of Hektor by Achilles in the Iliad. The Gallipoli victory then means the Turks are beating the west 2-1.
Back on the road, Alpi said – lets have tea. I thought we were going to a chi-shop, or summat, but he took us to this fountain, took out some camping chairs, a wee gas stove & a kettle. Proper rustic, proper Turkish, & in a right nice setting. The tea was amazing, & the cups kept coming, & as we drank into teh twilight I knew the caffeine would keep me awake, but we were having such a good chat I’m like, stay with the programme, Damo, the universe just gave you a free lift round one of the Gallipoli battlefields. You’re winning.
We had a great chat me & Alpi. He explain’d that luxury is tax’d in Turkey – that the reason most cars are white is that to have them painted a different colour is seen as a luxury & are tax’d! I also commented on how I thought the Turks were really friendly people, more so than most Europeans. His reply was affecting, he said that Turks always take a person as being good, & don’t worry about if they’ll turn out bad later. He’s totally right, but I do get a slight hint of “how can I help you, & I will, but hurry up I’ve got shit to do!”
Alpi also taught me few more word in Turkish, rendering my vocabulary so far as;
nakadar – how much
mahaba – hello
tisseykule – thank you
guleh guleh – goodbye
su – water
sawg – cold
evet – yes
higher – no
neredeh- where is –
market
hotel
kutupanah – library
gyemee – port
ban – I am
shy-ear – poet
ees-temme-yorum – I dont want –
autobus – city bus
durak – stop
gidan – for
doy-dum – full
avidos – youre welcome
After a while I’d realis’d the spot was perfect for my first camping mission of the tour, but I didnt have any food. Alpi was happy to give me some biscuits, a bag of dried fruits & also a couple of walnuts he’d pick’d up from the forest floor, these mad little alien eggs with delicious soft contents. A wee while later, after farewells bubbling with bonhomie, I was alone, under canvas, for the first time of many on this tour. The fact I was wide awake from the tea, didnt help, & I soon realis’d that the nights got chilly. Even my extra duvet will need beefing up somehow.
I awoke at 5AM, the moonlight projecting branch shadows onto my tent, & in fine spirits, & with a complete lack of the insects which plague the summer traveller. So let the games begin! But first thing’s first, my normal morning ritual of working in bed, tho without the coffees, a spot of sonneteering. I really do thing I’m creating something very special with the Silver Rose, but it needs finishing eitehr way!
About 6.05 was the first cockerel, & by 6.20 there was enough light to start breaking camp. I put on the Iliad, Butler’s translation, which I’d downloaded off youtube. I mean, Homer’s great, but I do think I’m better, he takes ages to get to the point!
The morning felt like a dream; nice weather, & within a few minutes of setting off I saw the island of Samothraki! Oh my god, talk about coming full circle. In 2020 I thought I’d finish’d Axis & Allies there, only to be sent to the very island off Britain where the Samothracian Mysteries were once play’d out, Arran, where I would actually finish Axis & Allies, only earlier this year. Then, just as I’m finishing my other epic poem, the universe plants me down on Samothraki’s sister island, Gokceada, anciently Imbros. I mean, is that not weird?
I walk’d a few k to the ferry port, overtaken at the last by a big red coach full of old uns. The ticket was 180, about £3.50, & once on board I proceed to charge my two electronic devices – the chromebook & mi phone. I don’t have internet in Turkey, so the phone is now just a camera & MP3 player, but my chromebook is a marvel. I can watch films, write epic, DJ tunes, film myself, connect to the internet – its a real took, & Ive got a nice light one – Lenovo N23. I’m a big fan.
The crossing was a pleasant or so, & I was very much the approach to a fascinatingly uneven looking island. Not long after footfall I was pick’d up off the road by a friendly middle-age couple, whose brother lives in Edinburgh, & they dropped me off in the friendly feeling central village/town. I mean, it’s a touristy place, for sure, so its’ go that port town feel – strangers are welcome, expected even.
After some 30 lira teas, the purchasing of an extra blanket thingy, & a spot of food shopping, I set off walking a few K towards Korikoy, a small fishing village with a lovely bay. My first thoughts were the island look’d great – lots of hills, & space- like Scotland, but brown, & of course, Samothraki was drawing ever closer. On reaching Korikoy, I decided to pitch camp beyond this half built hotel, near some rocks at the far end of the sea-bay curve. To get there I had to pass a plethora of amateur fisherman, women & boys – fishing seems to be the chief past-time of the Gokceadi.
After setting up I was suddenly struck by a sore thorat – it was the start of a 2 day cold which at times was quite nasty. Still, I ended this day reading the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius on these jaggy sea rocks over looking Korikoy, with Samothraki across the waters, & gorgeous dusty sweeps of earth & rock rising above me on one side. Then the sunset came all inspiringly uberpink & poetic.
I like working up here, its good, I said to myself, sooth’d of soul by the soft breeze, the splish splosh of the waves, the gently chuggings of fishermen returning to base, & the silence descending with the dark. Across the bay the sun was swathing up the headland with a bright, bronzey gold. This is it, this is the poet’s life, I thought while going thro my sonnets at sunset. Such moments validate the entire mission. Then the call to prayer sounds up, & some goats come tinkling across my camping ground, & I started exploding with pure poesis, the raw manna of my art. It was now retty much darl, but I was buzzing, so started listening to my new dance tunes, having a right rave to myself by this rocky cove, quality controlling each number by asking myself, yeah, that tune sounded good, but can you actually dance to it?
Then, tired, but happy, I headed to bed for my second night under canvas, as was a frog who kept leaping into a tent which someone had rudely plac’d in its path. Once inside the tent, & as I began to zip it up behind me, I notic’d just how clear the skies were, & just how big were the constellations. I’d never actually realis’d before, not much of a stargazer, but down here, you can actually feel the presence of them, these ancient gods.
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