I was going to miss Ahmed more than I thought possible. Although back in the UK, I had visibly flinched when my friends had repeatedly told me when I was dumped, that the only way to get over someone was to get under someone else pretty damn quick. Unintentionally, I had embraced that theory fairly enthusiastically and now had the tee-shirt to prove it!

As we knew we had a long journey ahead of us, we decided to have a relaxing day with a stroll along the beach front, last-minute souvenir shopping and a little sunbathing. Ahmed and I agreed to meet up in the evening for a romantic dinner for two, as my friend was going to be otherwise occupied with the mad bad Turkish captain from the boat trip.

At the appointed time, Ahmed knocked on the door wearing a suit which had obviously been borrowed; as the sleeves were just a tad too long and so too were the trouser legs. Frankly he could have rocked up wearing a tutu and he would still have made my heart smile. Although it was unlikely I would have dined with him in public, particularly if his legs were better than mine. As we shut the door to the apartment, we were accosted by the terrible twins and Ahmed’s brothers. Blank or Blanker, not sure which, assured me we were all going out on the lash. Unfortunately, as after two sherbets I’m usually slewed and after three I’m completely stocious, this had already begun to look like an early night for me. As we walked down the street together, we were also ambushed by my friend and her mad bad captain; and then there were eight! Not quite the intimate evening we had planned!

As we ordered our drinks, I saw a familiar face behind one of the potted palms in the corner of the bar; the girls’ over protective father. I wondered whether this was an unhappy coincidence or if he was, in fact still stalking his precious cherubs; who were this evening modelling the working girl meets Goth look. Which just went to prove what my Grandma had always said; that you saw some sights, when you’d not got your gun with you.

Whilst Dad was doing his best to look inconspicuous and failing miserably, the Turkish belly dancer pounced and endeavoured to get him to deposit lira in her ample cleavage.
She continued to shake her tassel-adorned assets whilst batting her drag queen false eyelashes. The little minxes hooted, whistled, clapped and screamed “work it baby”. The belly dancer sensed an appreciative audience, so continued shimmying against the girls’ father, whilst his wife looked on with a face like a badger’s arse. The final straw for Mommie Dearest was when the dancer sat herself squarely on Dad’s lap and hugged his face into her heaving bosom whilst someone shouted “get a room”. Mum abruptly jumped out of her chair and emptied her G&T over the head of the dancer, who was promptly unceremoniously dumped onto the floor when Dad, stood to attention. Mum stormed off hotly pursued by her flame-faced and contrite husband.

Ahmed and I never did have that romantic meal but he did buy me a rose from one of the many flower sellers that frequent the bars. He dropped it onto the table together with a crudely scribbled bar stub. Written on it was a line from a famous Turkish song “Canım Seninle Olmak İstiyor” which very roughly translated means “I Want To Be With You“.

So this is what a holiday fling is like I thought; romantic interlude over Ahmed back to the shop and chasing tourists, and me back to shelf-stacking in Tesco. Somehow, the fates had dictated otherwise but as usual the course of true love never did run smooth.

Ahmet’s brothers and the terrible twins tagged along again and this time the girls were dressed in miniscule booty shorts that even Kylie Minogue would have been embarrassed to wear. The boys took great delight in haggling on the girls’ behalf and I have since discovered that there are three prices for most things in Turkey; one for the tourists, one for the expats and one for the Turks. So if you are ever fortunate enough to find yourself in a Turkish market, ensure that you take a Turk along with you. The girls’ squeals of delight, when the boys had successfully secured a good price for a desired bootleg item, could be heard echoing throughout the market. Although I suspected that the girls’ probably needed new clothes as much as the Pope needed a new balcony.

I was mesmerised by the whole market experience, and content to wander from stall to stall absorbing the atmosphere, the sounds, the bright colours and the enticing smells of the Turkish food stands; pancakes, fresh juice, baked potatoes and doughnuts. One of Ahmet’s “friends” was working on the pancake stall so, of course, for a small price we were invited to sit and eat a pancake with our chosen filling.

After we had eaten, we continued our stroll around the market. I had to smile as the generator stalled constantly throughout the evening causing brief blackouts but as the resilient market traders switched on torches, I assumed that this was a regular occurrence. I loved the colourful displays of various goods, the rows and rows of fresh fruit and vegetables and had to admit that the clinical displays in the supermarkets back home weren’t anywhere near as appealing.

As I wandered around the market with Ahmet, I lingered at one fruit and veg display, where an elderly stallholder and his traditionally dressed Turkish wife enjoyed some banter with the locals over their purchases. The wife caught my eye and grinned at me and as she did her entire face radiated joy. As she served Ahmet, she continually gestured to me throughout their conversation. She must have liked what he told her as the next thing I knew we had been invited to share some çay. We sat down on some upturned plastic crates in the middle of the market chaos, behind this little fruit stall whilst the wife attended to the çay, constantly chatting away to Ahmet, who in turn translated for me. She said that they owned a small holding a little further along the coast and their family had been coming to this market to sell their produce for as long as she could remember. She said that they were simple folk and unlike many of the stallholders, they came even throughout the winter. She apologised as she said she had never finished school and could barely read and write. I asked her through Ahmet, what differences she felt there were between English and Turkish women. She paused briefly before saying that in her opinion Turkish women were more content and I realised that I was in the presence of someone who had found the meaning of true happiness. When we had finished our tea she took my glass and turned it upside down. Smiling at me, she said to Ahmet that I would return to Turkey for although I had a foot in one place, my heart was in another.

As we said our goodbyes, she touched a lock of my hair with her weather-beaten hands and smiling shyly she removed her headscarf to reveal newly set and coloured auburn curls which she proudly patted. As we turned to leave she called out to us “veda arkadaş” (farewell friends).

We have returned to see her many times since and there is always a smile and glass of çay waiting for me. Each time we sit with each other a while; neither of us understanding each other’s language yet we manage through shared photographs and the odd word or gesture. Each and every time is a moment of sunshine happiness for me and the simplicity of sitting on those upturned crates throughout the changing seasons is another treasured memory that I will add to my scrapbook of golden days.

As expected we were going to be accompanied by Ahmet’s brothers and the terrible twins. The girls, Paige and Brittany, whom I later renamed Blank & Blankest, eventually rocked up, after several frantic calls prompting them to leave their beds.

Everybody had boarded by the time they finally graced us with their presence; two less than Angelic visions in white. Blank asked me if the salt water would harm “us xtensions and cryllics”. Having neither, I wasn’t able to offer a valid opinion. As the boat left the shore, the girls were too busy texting to notice the breath-taking scenery, whilst Ahmet’s brothers, were just as mesmerised by the scenery on the boat. Sadly Blank and Blanker did not share the brothers’ enthusiasm and I feared that this was going to be a somewhat brief liaison for all parties concerned.

Ahmet took me along to the wheelhouse to meet his “friend”; the captain of the vessel who was a big burly crazy Turk. He told me that he had three obsessions which he loved above all things; his boat, football and women. Nodding in the direction of my friend he asked “she has man – no?” Sensing another potential conquest, he mentioned that we would be stopping in about an hour for a languid lunch and suggestively winked at my friend; who’d evidently won the love lottery today!

After dropping anchor in a nice quiet cove and whilst the crew served lunch, the captain decided to join us. He told me he was a very passionate man and had several girlfriends who visited him at different times throughout the season but he was always willing to test drive another. I have to admit there was something very endearing about him. As he sang along with Sinatra, whom he told me was possibly one of the greatest men of our time; no argument there from me. He ate and drank with gusto, and I suspected he romanced in the same way. Although, I don’t think his dentist would have approved of the way he removed the caps of his beer bottles with his teeth. He also loved chomping on raw chillies and I noticed that Ahmet also seemed to enjoy this practise as well. I had to marvel at the resilient digestive system of the Turkish man but couldn’t help but wonder whether chillies and a little Turkish lovin’ made compatible bedfellows.

My friend appeared to be succumbing to the Captain’s flirting; well let’s be honest, it’s just as easy to love a man with a boat, than one without. I also think that abundant alcohol enables you to drink even the fugliest individual handsome.

As we lay there soaking up the rays, another boat sailed into the same cove. There was a man at the front of the boat with a huge pair of binoculars trained on us. The captain was immediately on full alert and hailed the other vessel. The grating voice of the girls’ father could be heard above the Turkish voices. All I could decipher was various expletives and “Turkish worms”. The captain clearly affronted by the insults to his fellow countrymen, started hurling insults back and suddenly a huge argument erupted between both crews. I have since discovered that Turkish disputes involve a lot of posturing, an inordinate amount of shouting, inappropriate curses and very little resolution. However, on the upside they are usually diffused very quickly.

The captain buoyed by several bottles of the local brew, apparently enjoyed a bit of a rumble and drew his boat alongside the other. The girls’ father unprepared for the swell, lost his footing and toppled overboard much to the delight of the passengers and crew on our vessel. The only damage incurred was the father’s pride so both crews had lived to love and fight for another day.

On returning to land I discovered that our plans for dinner that evening were scuppered as unfortunately, Ahmet was unable to leave the toilet for any length of time. Must have been something he ate!