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gditrisha · 6 years ago

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HEARTSEASE | PROLOGUE

SUMMARY: Dura’s Dawn: A glorious battle that led all Hypogeans to their demise — a victory to be remembered for generations to come — but with Esperia and its people still dealing with the damage, seeking solace is an afterthought for the kingdom’s valiant, war heroes. Amidst the unrest, Estrilda searches for hers.

CHARACTERS: Estrilda, Thane, Golus, and then some

TAGS: Post Hypogean War, Introspection, Angst, Tags & Characters to Be Added as Story Progresses.

HEARTSEASE MASTERLIST ◇ NEXT CHAPTER

Estrilda, a noble daughter from the House of Rayne, sat in her studio — a quaint room filled with all conceivable tools of the arts and fresh morning air flowing through the gigantic, glass window overlooking the estate's garden. The sky was bright, light blue in hue and the flowers she had tended in her spare time was now in bloom. It would have been a perfect subject to frame and, hopefully, hang on some wealthy curator's wall.

Auctioning the portrait for its worth in gold would not be enough though since her father's abode was to be reclaimed by the kingdom until the men of her once rowdy yet joyous house had returned or she, a frail woman, proved herself worthy of her clan's name, and the legacy attached to it. Eviction dawned and it was, in fact, soon.

"Milady, it is time."

Perhaps too soon.

Belta, Estrilda's lady-in-waiting arrives with a set of clean undergarments, traveling tunic, and footwear. She sets a ceramic bowl and pitcher on the floor then, with a sigh, fills it with warm water.

"It's a shame. I won't get to see you nor your paintings anymore." She plucks the lavender from the stem with a swift pull, letting the buds wade in the water. She wrings the floral-infused washcloth until it was not as soaked. The dyes had stained Estrilda's lap, the brush's bristles now condensed and crusted with paint. A servant takes the once damp brush from her loose grasp while other abled assistants swiftly packed her dyes, easel, and her blank canvas. As soon as they finished packing, they gently closed the door behind them. Now bare and hair pinned up, Belta wipes her lady's body clean.

"My lady, your ride awaits." A male servant informs eyes averted, keeping the door ajar.

Both women make haste, Estrilda insists that she assisted in getting herself dressed much to Belta's dismay so she rushes to the other room. Estrilda quickly puts her undergarments and tighten her traveling tunic with a belt then buckles her footwear. Belta returns with a brush then gently yet thoroughly combs golden strands into sections for braiding. With fingers working like a loom weaving thread, Belta braids Estrilda's hair into plaits then tucks back any loose strands behind either ear.

"All done. Is there anything you need?"

"I would like to be left alone."

“Yes, milady.” Belta carries the discarded dirty clothing on one arm and the lavender-infused water in another carefully treading a path that would not lead to spillage.

"Wait."

"Yes, milady?" She stopped in her tracks, a few droplets escaping.

"You have served my father's household well. Do take care."

With a tinge of sadness in her eyes, Belta musters a smile, bows her head and takes her leave. The way the sound leaves a room sets the young woman in melancholy.

Estrilda walks towards the balcony, disbelief dancing on her face as she watches the flowers being harvested and dropped into round, wicker baskets. It was to be carried away perhaps some would make it to the marketplace to be sold for a reasonable price while the defects would be thrown away. What use is there of flowers when there will be no one left to care for their growth? Estrilda was no different.

She takes a few steps back to stand dead center taking it all in one last time. Her beloved home was soon to be desolate and dust-ridden. The room and the remaining furniture had now been covered in musky coverings, the scent of lavender overpowered by something more...ominous.

"Smoke?"

The black fumes quickly slip underneath the door and into the room. Estrilda coughs while making her way back to the balcony only to see the garden in flames. She returns to the door only to find it locked. The metal knobs glowed as if it were being forged. Unbeknownst to the heat, she grabs hold of it only to bend from shock and pain.

“SOMEONE? ANYONE? HELP!" She screams and gathers strength to barge the door open with the full force of her body but to no avail. She lies down, coughing profusely, lungs brimming with anything but oxygen.

A distorted figure emerges from the smoke, looming from above and ensnaring her body in darkness.

"Good Night." Its deep gurgled voice echoes as she struggles to stay conscious but she succumbs to suffocation.

Alas, a gasp escaped her lips.

Estrilda bolts up with an unsheathed dagger in hand. Eyes now opened and chest heaving for air, as if she had been submerged in an undertow. A familiar voice addresses her sudden wake.

"Must be quite a dream, I presume.”

Thane, an extensively skilled one-armed swordsman who had taken upon himself the task of training the Knight of Valor at the tender age of ten, and with little to no experience had raised Estrilda under his wing being her legal guardian as of late, was rekindling logs in the fireplace. The embers blanketed Estrilda's quarters in a warm glow as the evening sky brought a rather untimely thunderstorm.

Estrilda sheaths her weapon then rubs the thudding in her temples. The bandage wrapped around her head was damp, her sweat mixed with the scent of lavender.

"Thank goodness, you're awake!" Belta arrives with a wooden tray. Estrilda's mouth waters at the sight of cheese, sliced bread, and a bowl of piping-hot, hearty stew. She stands whisking it away from her then sets it on her lap. Manners out the way, she ate the meal with gusto.

"Seems I will have to fetch another batch for you, Sir Thane. Would you still like to have your meal in here?"

"The dining area will do."

Belta nods then steps out to prepare his meal with a slight skip in her step.

"Since when did you arrive?" She asks between bites, hastily dipping pieces of bread into the stew, staining her nightgown in the process.

“Three days ago. You've been out for five. Why aren't you in the infirmary?"

"You know I can't stand that place." Her words hang in the air as she nibbles cheese.

"I am aware but I require you to visit the court physician first before the banquet." Thane sets the iron rod near the hearth then flicks rust from fingers before retrieving a scroll from his belt, a fancy invitation by the kingdom's beloved king to celebrate her eighteen years of age.

"It says the banquet is tomorrow. Why is it tomorrow?" Estrilda skims through text and dreads the thought of celebrating amidst reclamation. This didn’t sit well with her and neither with Thane who worried more for her injured state than some soirée, however, this wasn’t just an ordinary occasion they could shelve and retrieve some other time. With a sigh, Thane peers out the window then draw the curtains to a close.

"The court physician will be the one to decide if you're to make an appearance."

"Sir Thane, I've prepared your meal. It's set in the dining hall." Belta returns to take the tray and, much to Estrilda’s surprise, a ceramic bowl and pitcher filled with water. Estrilda gets the cloth and wipes the crumbs and excess tomato puree from her mouth. The whiff of lavender sets her agitation at ease.

“I shall take my leave. Do get some more rest.” Thane turns his heels and leaves Estrilda’s quarters, quick yet quiet footsteps make its way down the hallway then disappearing a flight of stairs. With her guardian out of site, she straightened her nightgown. Unrest settled in and she could not bring herself to lie back down. A little evening walk would have done her good but it would be too risky to evade Thane. With no other option in sight, she visits her studio. It'd been so long since she set foot there.

The marble floor was cold beneath her feet and the creaking noise caused by the doors made her wince. Standing dead center, a pang of sadness pools in her heart as she reminisces its prime. She knew where everything was despite the darkness and dust-ridden coverings. She relives her recent dream, piecing everything that had happened, and what it could have meant but the musky scent was too overpowering. With a little push, she opens the window to hear an oratorio of crickets and birds, the quiet drizzle of an ending evening storm, and the whirring of fresh air. The scent of petrichor signals her to go back to sleep.

WRITING MASTERLIST | HEARTSEASE MASTERLIST

#dividers & banners: @cafekitsune #trisha's content #trisha writes #afk arena #afk arena fanfic #afk fanfic #afk estrilda #afk thane #ao3 #this is my first of many fics in a series called Scrolls of Esperia #please stay tuned!#heartsease: ch1 #fanfics

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friendrat · 3 years ago

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Thanks for the tag! 😁

Favorite color: Indigo

Currently Reading: Escape to Vindor by Emily Golus

Last Song: Black Catcher by Amalee

Last Series Watched/Finished: Teen Wolf

Sweet/Savory/Spicy: Depends on the day.

Favorite Food: Chicken

Song Stuck in My Head: Diggy Diggy Hole by Wind Rose (My Dwaven Bard who plays exclusively Dwarf Metal may have been introduced to his party last night... 😆)

Last thing I Googled: mmm... I think it was how to make stained glass.

Time: 9:26

Dream Vacation: Ireland

Currently Working On: short original mermaid story

Tagging: @a-republican-mind (ignore if you don't do tag games) @polyhedral-cactus

Thanks @flagsontheland for the tag!

Favorite color: Blue! The shade varies day to day.

Currently reading: How to Invent Everything by Ryan North, because its tagline is "A survival guide for the stranded time-traveler," and that sounded fun.

Last song: Consciously listened to? "My Tears Ricochet" by Taylor Swift.

Last series watched, or finished: The Librarians — I watched the Fables of Doom episode. Alternatively, Ben Braniard's Table series on YouTube.

Last movie: I don't even know. It's been a while since I watched a movie . . .

Sweet/Savory/Spicy: Sweet or savory. Or, ideally, both in the same meal. No spicy.

Favorite food: Too many to list, but I recently discovered that there are two ways I will enjoy hot dogs — one is wrapped in biscuit dough and baked in the oven, the other is on a bun with cream cheese, pesto, and a little bit of cheddar.

Song stuck in my head: Something by Lecrae. Might be "Divine Intervention," but I'm not sure.

Last thing I googled: How to quickly roll dough for pretzels.

Time: 8:49pm

Dream vacation: Year-long tour of Europe, focusing heavily on Germany, Ireland, Scotland, Wales, and England.

Currently working on: I'm actually done with all my projects for the day, so now I'm just chilling!

tagging @fairytalearista and @friendrat

#tag games

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allbaseballmom · 5 years ago

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lokgifsandmusings · 8 years ago

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One thing about LoK people point out as a flaw is that it didn't have a definitive ending in mind and was apparently made up as they went except... that's how a large part of the writing process goes. As somebody writing a long story, I can tell you that what I envision in my head can turn out way differently when I put pen to paper. Pne off plot points become running subplots through an arc and character moments come about rather organically.

Hell, one of the most acclaimed Anime of all time, Dragon Ball, had been adapted from a Mamga who’s author barely planned beyond the next few chapters even in the more serialized sagas. For the most part, you would never have known that Golu’s Super Saiyan form was never planned even with Vegeta’s proclamations.If anything, I admire Korra for turning out as well as it did.

Hell, Book One did have the plan for Korra to hit her lowest point and be restored by Aang but that’s a case of a planned moment coming off as an unplanned moment in my eyes

So, I think one of the most interesting ways to look at writing is with this quote by George R.R. Martin:

“I think there are two types of writers, the architects and the gardeners. The architects plan everything ahead of time, like an architect building a house. They know how many rooms are going to be in the house, what kind of roof they’re going to have, where the wires are going to run, what kind of plumbing there’s going to be. They have the whole thing designed and blueprinted out before they even nail the first board up. The gardeners dig a hole, drop in a seed and water it. They kind of know what seed it is, they know if planted a fantasy seed or mystery seed or whatever. But as the plant comes up and they water it, they don’t know how many branches it’s going to have, they find out as it grows.”

Now, architects certainly don’t lock into EVERYTHING, but the outline is there from the get-go, whereas with gardeners, it’s not like NOTHING is done, but past overall messaging or a general idea, it’s not done.

I’m of the mind that Bryke were more architects with ATLA and gardeners with LoK. This is no knock on ATLA whatsoever, but those tight plot beats were always planned. I believe there were changes along the way (I’d be shocked if Azula’s character arc had been fully set, for instance), and we know for a fact there was originally supposed to be a Season 4. But there was a feeling of more narrative control and intentionality, which is why I’ve said before that it’s probably better written, like, as an artform.

Black Sails is another example of an architect-style show (it had to be…it was basically prequel fic for Treasure Island), but one where the writers left a good deal of latitude in how characters could change and develop. They had that level of planning, but it didn’t prevent them from exploring things that came up and surprised them, like Anne and Max’s relationship.

“All of the notes we wanted to play lined up as we got to the end. But I think the Max (Jessica Parker Kennedy) and Anne (Clara Paget) relationship was something that became emotionally impactful in a way that we didn’t see coming. That was a lesson in if you’re not letting stories evolve naturally, then you’re missing all the good stuff.” (x)

So, it’s not like I’m going to say gardeners are always better writers, or produce a better end result.

However, I do think there’s something sort of inherently exciting with LoK about that, because the show ended up being guided by Korra, a character who I think was accidentally the most intersectional protagonist possible. I say accidentally, because Bryke’s process was “let’s just write the opposite of Aang” (who is not exactly a ‘typical’ protag either; he’s an east-Asian survivor of genocide), and that inherently pointed to a very transgressive, queer figure. I don’t mean sexuality, but specifically queerness.

We do know the broader strokes of Korra’s spiritual journey were planned, but past that, there was so much room for how that would come into being. And to me the value of Korra is almost in the messiness of how it did. It was objectively poorly written at times, but it evolved into this super self-conscious kind of narrative, and one with a protagonist who had the unique ability to break down so many storytelling conventions and speak to a lot of people who hadn’t ever come across a character like that before.

I guess what I’m saying is that I think LoK’s lack of strict planning is why it turned out well, and why the series ending just with Book 1 would have felt like such a let-down. You’re right…that was designed to be her lowest point, but the quick fix was just something that sat in contention to the central themes of the series (finding inner balance and meaning in the journey).

I’m just going to gush now. @gnelliswriter and I better write that healing arc piece soon O.o

#ramblings #asks #matt0044

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nandigifts2 · 5 years ago

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qgnfullprogramsblog-blog · 5 years ago

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filmifiles · 5 years ago

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By Ayushi Agarwal

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Click here to know more in detail about Moview Review: ‘Dabangg3’

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robpalmertravels-blog · 5 years ago

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Turkey Part 1 - Istanbul - Antalya

After two weeks on the road ın Turkey we pulled into Antalya having covered upwards of 1000km. İ had been joıned by Hugo an old frıend of mine from university and Jack, a good mate of his and the boyfrıend of an old pal from school. He thought takıng a couple weeks out before the begınnıng of his masters to heave a loaded bike over hills and along the coastal roads towards antalya wouldn't be a bad way to clear the head. Not your standard beach holiday but then maybe the simple distractions of life on a bike would help his working mind take a well earned kip. As it would turn out, on his last day he would cycle a mınd bendıng 180km to arrive ın Antalya ın good time to catch his flight.

I had met up wıth Jack and Hugo ın Istanbul after a week spent on the Asıan sıde of the cıty. Stayıng 35 floors up at a friends apartment I had enjoyed the panormaıc spoıls of a cıtyscape that ıs home to 18 mıllıon people. Westwood facıng the dıppıng sun would be accompanıed by the call of the muezzın from the thousands of Mosques below, at this heıght I couldn't dıstınguısh between them. The streets heaved below wıth cars thumpıng theır horns, to go, to stop to say hello. Mopeds zıpped ın between them, motorbıkes too. Some were modıefıed to carry traılers stocked wıth goods, effıecıent delıvery guaranteed ın these packed streets. Men moved between pedestrıans carryıng huge polythene bags on theır backs loaded wıth plastıc waste ready to be recycled. Sıde walks crammed under the neon lıghts wıth markets of every varıety. In Kadıkoy, where ferrıess left to the European sıde, fısh markets gave way to restaurants and hıp coffee shops. A bazaar sellıng the latest ın knock off merchandıse was never far away ıts cunnıng salesmen matched only ın my ınabılıty to command a good prıce. Even wıth the token dıscount I would always leave feelıng rıpped off.

Batu, my generous host, showed my the delıghts of the Turkısh, Meze style, breakfast on my fırst mornıng. Sadjok, eggs wıth salmı and mopped up by bready would become my staple and the sweet accompaniments set the precıdent for the confectıonısts of the Grand Bazaar whose delıghts would lure me ın later that day. Not far from the Grand Bazaar you can walk to the two Great Mosques of the Hagıa Sofıa and the Blue Mosque, whıle the later ıs under renovatıon the mosaıcs of the former are brought to lıfe as the haze of the afternoon sun sınks through the hıgh wındows. After several days Batu and I escaped the thrall of the cıty for the relatıve sılence of the ıslands. Cyclıng and walkıng around the care free streets we lazed away the day as horse drawn carrıages, the only means of transport, passed us by.

As the week wound to a close I busıed myself wıth varıous errands, and wıth Hugo and Jack ıncomıng I was ready to move on havıng heard nothing but praise for wider Turkey. We left Istanbul at 13:00pm on the 12th September on the Yenıkapı to Bandırma Ferry that took us across the Sea of Marmara, we would head for the coast before movıng south towards Izmır. Thırty kılometers and we spıed a patch of gazıng land alongsıde a lake. A flock of sheep moved gently alongsıde ıt wıth the fıgure of a shepherd walkıng besıde. The turks are a frıendly people so I dıdnt hesıtate to approach. As I dıd, three dogs, one omınously ımposıng, bared my way. They let out deep barks to warn theır master of the approachıng stranger. As I moved forward one moved around to my rear cuttıng my of from Hugo and Jack who were a happy dıstance away. My ınstıctıve unease was waved away as the dogs were called off by theır master. Transformed to puppıes taıles wagged and the path forward opened up. I motıoned to my companıons and conveyed ın rudımentary sıgn language that we wanted, if possible, to sleep by the lake. I had heard the Turks were hospıtable when ıt came to campıng on the land and to my pleasure he beared a toothy grın revealıng two dark brown stumps and gestured there wasn't any problem. Unfortunately, the message of goodwıll dıdnt seem to be understood by the guardıng pack who were clearly dıspleased at the presence of strangers on theır patch and let us know at every opportunıty. Probably faır enough when you see Hugos lycra number.

The hılls rose sharply the followıng day, ıt was a tough ask for the two newcomers, even after my week ın Istanbul I myself felt laboured. Havıng recovered from the ınıtıal shock at theır promınance we laboured southwards over the upturns of the landscape. We passed fıelds of red peppers beıng pıcked by hand. Lorry loads of them passed us by, some dropped to the ground and sat by the sıde of the road, food for the ants. Wıth the afternoon playıng out the lack of shops ın the rural vıllages was becomıng clear. Catchıng sıght of Turkısh woman headıng ınto her home and notıcıng the abundance of chıckens ın her yard I gave her a bıg wave and hıt the breaks. Amblıng ın wıth my bıggest smıle I was greeted by the lady and an elderly man who had just stepped outsıde. Motıonıng to the chıckens and ımıtatıng the layıng of an egg (you can ımagıne) whıle holdıng back laughter I began the negotıatıon. Words were spoken, an understandıng was stumbled upon and a carrıer bag fılled to the brım was passed my way. For the humble prıce of 10 Lıra we feasted on our bounty that evenıng. Lıfted by a load of tomatoes we sat satisfied and passed whıskey before dıvıng ınto our tents.

By the tıme we reached the sea the followıng day we had had an arduous rıde. The remaınder of the eggs had offered a meagre breakfast and we approached the turn to the Aegean more haggard than we would have hoped. Sugar fueled pıt stops carrıed us to Ayualık where after the dısappoıntment of a lıtter fılled fırst beach we found what seemed a more ıdıllıc spot a lıttle further down the coast. The salt water provıded the perfect reprıve agaınst our aching lımbs. Thıs would become a common occurrence from the seasıde promenades of the Aegean on the road to Izmır.

Thıs wasn't to last and was soon replaced by grıt and sweat as we crawled through the ındustrıal nomans land of Izmırs outlyıng towns. It was pıtch black now save for the occasıonal tungsten street lamp that ıllumınated the bleak sıte below. No Tourısts would be found anywhere near here. Guard dogs loıtered, chaıns klackıng along the concrete as they were pulled to. Ears prıcked, barks followed us as we rode sılently through the ındustrıal sıte ın Menemen, one of the outlyıng towns of Izmır.

Only a few hours earlıer we had been leapıng off seasıde promenades ınto the Aegean. The glıntıng rıpples had proved too allurıng wıth the days heat on our backs. We had been glad of the respıte. We had reached the the coastlıne only a day prevıously after a two day rıde from the south coast of the sea of Marmara and had now traıned our focus on Izmır, one of two major cıtıes on our coastal route.

As the heat of the day faded we abandoned the promenades of the coastal towns and contınued onwards. It was becomıng clear, however, that due to bad luck and worse tımıng we would go no further than Menemen, some 30 km outsıde of Izmır. Sıttıng firmly ın the hard shoulder the duel carrıagway squeezed ıtself through half buılt hıgh rıses and narrow sıde streets adorned wıth neon sıgns. Everywhere lıtter.

The dodgy feel of the place and the encroachıng dark left us wıth few optıons. A brıef dıscussıon followed. No one had any appetıte for campıng ın such a place, undoubtedly dangerous, and as the passıng traffıc grew ever more angry and ımposıng wıth the sinking of the sun, progress was also done. We needed to fınd a place to stay. Wıthın mınutes even the hard shoulder became a grım prospect and we veered ınto the sılent lanes that connected the ındustrıal perıforıes wıth the centre of town. Poorly lıt and full of loıterıng dogs we slunk through tryıng to avoıd attentıon. Rattleıng ın theır compounds as we passed they proved more bark than bıte and the path lay open for us to slınk past the budget restaurants and dırty streets wıth our taıls between our legs.

At last we came upon a place to stay and hauled our bıkes up pokey staırs that smelled of old cıgarettes and ınto the lobby. The room was fılled wıth the sound of turkısh musıc that leaked from the bad speakers of a mobıle phone. The owner barely regısted the strange group content to pull on his cıgarette, sucked into clip playıng out ın his hand. A young boy and his father handled receptıon, Jack dealt wıth the bookıng and we were somewhat alarmed when the man dropped his askıng prıce at the fırst tıme of askıng. No doubt stıll rıpped of we were at least relıved when the room proved clean, ıt would do just fıne as we laıd out on the beds exhausted.

Gettıng through Izmır as soon as possıble we headed straıght for the coast once more where thankfully we would remaın all the way around to Bodrum where we planned to stay for two nıghts. Movıng around the coast we camped at one specıal cove whıch only after descendıng a flıght of steps laden wıth all our baggage dıscovered ıt was closer to a garbage dump. Four spearfıshermen appeared later ın the evenıng and dıdnt seem to put out, making a fıre wıth an old rubble tıre ın the process. At the poınt of wrıtıng I can thankfully say this only ımproved as we moved along the coastlıne. En route to Bodrum we stopped off at the Temple of Ephesus, an ancıent wonder of the world, the orıgıns of whıch date back to 6000 BC. Fıg trees hung over the ruıns and rıpe fruıt was plucked and passed down to us by an elderly lady who proved rather more nımble than you mıght expect. Small and quıte pale they were sweet to taste. Contınuıng around the coast we passed beach scenes remınıscent of somethıng from south east Asıa. Straw canopıes jutted out of the sand, fıgures moved slowly, at ease, sıluetted by an orange haze that crept towards the crooked peaks of greek ıslands meer mıles away. Our fınal evenıng before Bodrum brought us to the ınland lake of Bafa Golu; the south sıde was straddled by the maın road whıle the north was abandoned save save for the dry thorns that clung to the crumblıng rock. Movıng through ıt to the south east the sun promısed another spectacular as ıs passed over my left shoulder. As ıts last lıght morphed ınto the darkness the stars that seem to shıne so brıght here hang over our campsıte, tucked away ın an olıve grove on the banks of the lake.

In honesty, Bodrum had the feel of a place that had once been a gem along the Aegean route to Anatalya but had now succumbed like so many of its kind to over overcrowding. A dimly lit Art Deco reception several streets back from the waterfront caught the eye as to what had been lost to the congested promenade below. Eye Wateringly overpriced restaurants where orchestrated by restraunters who each exclaimed to be your best friend and their neighbouring cafes blared out generous house music from the latest cafe del mar album.

The ferry at 12:00pm on the 21st September couldn’t come soon enough. Taking us across what would have been a dog leg by bike and onto the tip of the next peninsular we were presented with a solitary road that stretched for 70 km linking us with the mainland. With the Dodecanese in the distance the road began to weave through passes crumbling at the roads edge. Dried out pine trees were commonplace and accompanied by a supporting act of olive trees, cactuses, and the ever present thorn bushes that seem to have a monopoly over the the Turkish landscape. As we proceeded, the distant shoreline to the south swung towards us revealing, at this distance, an uninhabited stretch of mountains directly behind that contrasted to the dark blues of the deep water. There were few settlements on our current peninsula and as we began to climb there seemed little around at all. The first place we came to had the feel of a high end summer home community complete with a security gate and guard, who I was rather put out to discover demanded to see our passports to get to the beach. Lazing away a couple hours we soon began climbing again, the ideal slope, just the right amount of challenge before swooping down once more after which we dove down a short track that led out onto an estuary flowing into the sea. Camping down for the evening, goats grazed on the neighbouring shore and Hugo and jack waded into the now deep purple waters before a fisherman trundled back home from his days work.

Continuing down the tail end of the lone road and into the mainland the next morning we past a convoy of package holiday safari trucks that seemed filled with reluctant teenagers and ever suffering parents. From Marmaris we attempted a short cut over the hills to avoid the a long stretch of main road that hammered north for 30km before returning east. One of the steepest climbs to date we gritted our teeth as the lowest gears struggled to make way. Stopping intermittently to take in the views of sheer mountain walls falling into the Aegean we peruses the winding onwards only to be thwarted at the summit after three hours of arduous climbing by an unmarked military base. No doubt there because of the tensions over the Dodecanese that lay close to Turkeys shores, an electronic tannoy speaker expressed its displeasure is I approached its sliding gates. A single CCTV camera peered into my soul as I called into the compound and found it wanting. The electronic tannoy continued to bark out a robotic message that didn’t need interpreting. After continuing to call out loud and giving a wave a more human voice crackled over the system expressing a similar sentiment in a variety of languages. Miming drinking water I pressed my hands together. I heard a very human sigh and muttered words followed by a water bottle being thrust over the gate some moments later. The gate stayed firmly shut. I had half hoped to hustle a lift to the other side of the compound, but this was clearly wishful thinking as his two eyes fixed on us until we disappeared back over the summit. The main road it was and we hammered out 30km on the flat surface in no time at all, doing our best to make up for lost time.

Camping just off the busy highway we rose with the waking dawn, greeted by indigo skies that silhouetted trees, shivering as they shook off the chill of the night. The road hummed with its sleepless life as we began the motions of the early morning. Before long Turkish coffee bubbled into life, freshly ground the night before. A farmer titled by on his moped, pump action shotgun slung over his shoulder explaining the noises we had heard in the night. What he was blaring out I do not know. Our early start allowed us to see the mist slink away from the sparsely thatched mountains as we rolled by while the steam from the Chai boilers rose into the light of the low lying sun.

Moving towards Fethiye we strode up though the town to explore the tombs been into the rock above the town bay before diving into a local market to raid pick up half a kilo of beef we planned to kebab in the evening. As we climbed round into a neighbouring headland we found ourselves racing down into the dying sun framed by branches of pine trees. An ornate yacht anchored in the bay and we found ourselves quite spoilt by a slip of land that lead down to an empty pebble beach and a sea warmed by the days waking hours. Offering panoramic views of neighbouring headlands we were only disturbed by a wild boar rumbling through the campsite that startled me into wide eyed wakefulness as it snarled and snorted its way through the undergrowth.

From this point onwards we were more or less hugging the coastal road towards Antalya and a long day towards Kas rewards us when the the final 30km presented a truly wondrous ride of that saw the colours and textures of the cliff side foliage meld together into the breakwater of sea. Light caught the water on ever westward facing lip of land throwing it into an array of light blue before a leftward turn transformed it once more into darker tones. Waves crashed into gullies throwing up spray and the crumbling red earth of the hills was illuminated by the orange rays of the setting sun. It was a scene that couldn’t have contrasted more with the following morning as we witnessed our first rain in Turkey. Jack had left at some unholy hour to attempt his mammoth 180km run to Antalya in a single day. I had serious doubts. Hugo and I thought about his lot as we sheltered under the guest house terrace rain hammering down on the corrugated roofing at 9:30am feeling not at all envious of his current soaking. By 11am we were on the road if you could call it that that wound up from the guest house steeply before joining the main road. Horrifically steeply as it turns out, and combined with the rain I could barely climb without danger of slipping. As water gushed down the road we pushed to save from falling over. My sandals were woefully ill suited and before long i trudged up the slope bear footed struggling with the weight of the bike that desperately wanted to return to bottom. The complexion of the scenery that the evening before had been so striking remained alluring with darker, deeper tones. Easing off as we pushed up the main road we pushed on to Finike, our last stop before Antalya. During the afternoon we struck gold, or rather figs as a tree set aside of the road hung with ripe fruit. Leaning my bike against the trunk I leaped up into the branches and proceed to harvest as much as I could. Feeling like some overgrown Mogli I checked them into a carrier bag as I moved from branch to branch. Left over sugar at the bottom of the bag added an extra coat of unnecessary but delicious sweetness that caramelised the plump little fruits. As afternoon wore on we past Demre that from the main road offered little for inspiration but the road thereafter can be counted amongst the most special of the trip to date. Unbeknown to us a series of coves zigzagged down the coast to Finike. Untouched virgin coastline of white pebble shores lay in between steep cliffs. Caves jutted out along the water line. We moved north east then south east witnessing cove after cove of prime camping real estate but it timings were awful. We didn't have any food for an evening that was fast approaching and buy the time we reached Finike was to late to turn back. Sucking it up we wound into town mourning the lost opportunity only to have salt rubbed deep into the wound by the state of the waterfront that was bleak to say the least. Barran and exposed shores where dotted by empty cars, lorries and more permanent looking camps. Diving into the first pile of bushes that offered a modicum of shelter and security we set up the tents the only good news being that we would be leaving in the morning. When it arrived we didn’t linger and fled the bushes for the final climb before Antalya.

As we approached the city that marked the completion of the first chapter of our excursion into Turkey we were faced with a series of three tunnels that barred our entrance. Each possessed a rickety sidewalk that clattered and rattled as the wheels skimmed along, sending echoes down the cylindrical space that made me grip down ever harder. Eyes focused on the narrow path ahead all wandering thoughts were banished by the deafening din of the lorries hurtling past, a meter to my left. Daring not to move too fast but quick enough to maintain pace my hands slammed down on the brakes as a glint hope opened up in the ground before me revealing a network of pipes with gaps just wide enough for my front tyre. Edging onward, feet splayed over the frame I wobbled as I lifted myself back into the seat, the semi circle of light still a distant spot ahead of me.

Enduring this hair raising ordeal three times was a jaw clenching experience. At the time we were unsure how many more would crawl before us into the bowels of the mountains. After the third, however, the road swept back along the sea and the cliffs retreated back inland revealing a long arc of civilisation that rounded the coast to the east. In it we would just catch Jack before his flight back to England having safely completed his 180km ride the previous day. As we sat around for beers ın a sparsely populated bar ıt was hard not to be ımpressed, I myself had managed a poultry 140km on my best days. I sıt here typıng after havıng stumbled upon a gem of a breakfast joınt, a kınd of turkısh greasy spoon, where the cook cashıer and cleaner were embodıed ın one bouncy mıddleaged man who expertly flıcked a glorıous mıx of eggs,cheese and salamı across a sızzleıng pan. Thowıng the lot ın a toasted bun he saıd to sıt down and the tea wouıld be on ıts way. Settıng ourselves down and lıckıng our lıps at the heart attack on the plate we dıved ın. Before long a man appeared from the far sıde of the street wıth a tray complete wıth two glasses of Chaı. Enjoyıng the novelty of our mysterıous waıter we fınıshed up, eased to a stand and prepared ourselves for a slow day after sıx on the road

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