Читать книгу Looking for Aphrodite - David Price Williams - Страница 23

We left the village behind and started to climb slowly up a winding dirt road, higher and higher above the harbour, until Marmaris eventually disappeared from view and we were travelling in rough mountain country ever westwards – at least I hoped it was ever westwards as I had no idea where we were going or how we were going to get there. It was clearly no use asking my fellow travellers as no-one spoke any English. I tried to work out where the sun was to discover the direction, but the sun was high overhead and the twists and turns in the road made it impossible. I had to trust that the assembled villagers, I assumed that’s who they were, were hoping to go the same route as me and that my initial description of the destination had been fully understood.

Periodically the mini-bus would come to a stop and one or two of the occupants would disembark. This seemed to me to be in the middle of absolutely nowhere, amid trees and scrub along the road-side. There was no sign of any habitation, no village, no farm or house – just what appeared to be an empty and craggy landscape. Other times we would be waved down and other travellers would join the party, again from what seemed equally uninhabited country, some of them carrying chickens in baskets which they kept in their laps. Now and again there was what appeared to be a field, in one case with a lone camel standing amid the stubble which gave the scene a mildly oriental flavour, but otherwise everywhere appeared to be entirely wild nature.

After about two hours of this bumpy, uncomfortable journey the road came down to the sea’s edge for a short while and ran among groves of Aleppo pine trees. My spirits rose that we were arriving somewhere, but then it dived back into the hills soon afterwards and the discomfort continued. It was not until about four hours into the drive that the road straightened out and we speeded up and curved into the first village I had seen since Marmaris. This turned out to be Datça, a collection of old houses along the sea-side surrounding a small harbour filled with little fishing boats. And Datça, it

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