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Gravy stains and tall tales: A real foodie journey

1 day ago

DAY ONE IN DALYAN: NEAR-DEATH LANDINGS, GIANT COCKS, AND THE HEALING POWER OF RAKI

There’s a very specific kind of arrogance that sets in when a flight is going well.

You’ve boarded without incident. No one has argued about overhead luggage. No one has removed their shoes and committed crimes against humanity. You’ve got a drink in hand and, in a moment of wildly misplaced optimism, you start a new TV series.

The Cleaning Lady.

Big mistake.

Because this show doesn’t politely entertain you—it grabs you by the throat and says, you’re watching me now. Before you know it, you’re emotionally invested in organised crime while cruising at 35,000 feet, wondering if you’ve ever made a single good decision in your life.

And then—because the universe enjoys a dramatic pivot—the landing into Dalyan begins.

Now, I don’t know who Dalyan offended, but the wind there has a personal vendetta. The plane starts doing that aggressive side-to-side shimmy—the kind where everyone suddenly becomes very quiet and very religious.

You don’t panic. You just… mentally prepare. You think about your loved ones. You think about your will. You think about whether you should’ve ordered that second wine.

But we land. Of course we do. Slightly humbled. Mildly traumatised. Alive.

And then—out of nowhere—we’re escorted into a limousine.

A limousine.

Not a tired shuttle bus with a sticky floor. Not a taxi driven by a man who hates you. A full-blown, leather-seated, “have you accidentally become important?” limousine.

easyJet holidays, you absolute maniacs. What is this behaviour? Love you!

We roll into the Dalyan Live Spa Hotel under the cover of darkness, having just missed what can only be described as an apocalyptic storm.

Lovely.

Until you get into the room and realise it’s colder than a landlord’s heart.

No blankets. No backup. Just you and your partner staring at each other like, well… I guess this is happening.

Romance? No.

This is thermal survival.

Morning arrives, and with it, hope. Hope in the form of a hot shower—the universal symbol of “things are going to be okay.”

Instead, you are assaulted by water so cold it feels like the pipes are actively punishing you for your life choices.

It’s not refreshing. It’s character-building. And frankly, I’ve got enough character.

Now—credit where it’s due—the hotel team, who had literally opened the day before, launched into action like a slightly disorganised but deeply committed emergency response unit. Phones ringing. People nodding. Someone probably Googling plumbing.

You couldn’t fault them. They cared. They tried. They rallied. Not their fault… and they are doing their absolute best to sort everything out. Best customer service ever!

Hot water? Pending. Faith? Intact.

We head into Dalyan town, and within minutes, one thing becomes abundantly clear:

This is not your town.

This is the animals’ town.

Cats everywhere—confident, slightly judgmental, clearly in charge. Dogs roaming like retired generals. And then… the roosters.

Let’s address the elephant in the room.

Turkey has the biggest cocks I have ever seen.

Absolutely enormous. Strutting around like they pay council tax. You don’t laugh—you observe in respectful silence and carry on with your day, slightly changed.

And yet, despite the chaos, there’s a strange calm to it all. Nobody’s rushing. Nobody’s stressed. It’s like the entire town collectively decided to relax and just never stopped.

We find a karaoke bar—because clearly we make excellent life decisions—and there it is:

A pina colada so good it makes you forgive the morning’s attempted hypothermia.

Cold, creamy, slightly dangerous. The kind of drink that whispers, you’re on holiday now, behave accordingly.

Across the river, the ancient rock tombs stare down like disapproving ancestors. Thousands of years of history looking at you, drink in hand, wondering where it all went wrong.

The weather plays along—sun, cloud, just enough warmth to feel smug, not enough to sweat like a sinner in church.

Back to the hotel for a “quick nap,” which is code for collapsing like you’ve just completed military training.

Then the hotel bar.

And this is where things properly unravel.

A couple of double raki later—and suddenly you’re in a full-blown political discussion with bartenders who are sharper, funnier, and more insightful than most people you’ve met in actual meetings.

No fluff. No nonsense. Just smart conversation and strong drinks.

Raki doesn’t just warm you—it convinces you that you’re interesting.

Dinner at Sahil.

And finally—validation.

Meze for two arrives, which is optimistic at best. Hummus, smoky eggplant, Russian salad, cacik, fresh veg—each dish quietly reminding you that you’ve been eating like an idiot back home.

Then calamari.

Perfect. Tender. Crisp. Paired with a thick onion-cheese situation that sounds wrong but tastes like a revelation.

Mains land.

Adana kebab—spiced just enough to wake you up without ruining your evening.

And a grilled sea bass so perfectly seasoned it doesn’t even bother with the lemon sauce it was promised. It doesn’t need it. It knows its worth.

We walk back.

And the sky absolutely loses its mind.

Not rain—biblical rain. The kind that soaks you instantly and leaves you laughing because resistance is pointless.

Back to the hotel. Drenched. Slightly drunk. Entirely satisfied.

Naturally, another raki.

Because at this point, you’re not making decisions—you’re honouring a tradition.

Day one in Dalyan:

Near-death landing. Luxury limousine. Cold showers. Giant cocks. Exceptional food. Smarter bartenders than most executives.

And just enough chaos to remind you you’re alive.

Perfect. … See MoreSee Less

Gravy stains and tall tales: A real foodie journey

1 week ago

Right. Let’s address the elephant in the room.

I’ve been missing.

Not dead—despite what a few of you probably assumed after the radio silence—but buried. Properly buried. Up to my neck in notes, grease stains, half-drunk glasses of red, and the kind of late-night, slightly unhinged storytelling that only makes sense somewhere between midnight and regret.

Because, and here’s the bit that sounds suspiciously like a respectable excuse—I’ve been writing a book.

An actual, honest-to-God book. The kind with pages and chapters and the looming threat of someone, somewhere, judging your comma placement like it’s a moral failing. It’s due out this summer, assuming I don’t throw the manuscript into a fire and walk away dramatically at the eleventh hour.

Writing a book, it turns out, is a lot like running a kitchen during a Sunday lunch rush. Chaotic. Sweaty. Occasionally brilliant. Frequently held together by caffeine, stubbornness, and a low-level sense of impending collapse.

There were days I forgot what daylight looked like. Days where meals consisted entirely of “whatever’s within arm’s reach and not actively moving.” Days where I became convinced that this was either the best idea I’ve ever had… or a catastrophic misjudgment that would haunt me forever.

So yes. I disappeared.

Not because I lost interest. Not because I ran out of stories. But because I was knee-deep in creating something bigger, messier, and far more dangerous: a collection of stories that probably shouldn’t be told… but absolutely will be.

And now—mercifully, gloriously—I’m coming up for air.

Which means we’re back.

And not quietly, either.

Because this Friday, I’m off again.

This time to Dalyan.

Now, if your frame of reference for Turkey is the all-inclusive chaos of Marmaris—sunburnt Brits, neon cocktails, and the faint smell of regret baked into plastic sun loungers—then Dalyan is its cooler, slightly aloof cousin who reads books and doesn’t shout.

It’s quieter. Lower key. The kind of place that doesn’t need to scream for your attention because it knows exactly what it is.

We’re talking winding rivers lined with reeds. Ancient Lycian tombs carved into cliffs like someone casually decided to build a mausoleum mid-mountain. Turtle beaches. Mud baths that promise rejuvenation and deliver something closer to organised chaos with a side of sulphur.

And I’m going pre-season.

Spring.

Which means fewer crowds, cooler air, and that brief, magical window where everything is just starting to wake up—flowers pushing through, markets finding their rhythm, locals not yet exhausted by the annual invasion of flip-flops and bad decisions.

Ten days.

Ten days of eating things I can’t pronounce, drinking things I probably shouldn’t, and getting myself into situations that will, without question, become stories.

Some of them questionable. All of them honest.

So consider this your warning.

Or your invitation.

Or both.

I’ll be starting Friday. Ten days. No filters, no sanitised travel brochure nonsense—just the good stuff: food, people, chaos, and whatever else inevitably goes sideways.

Stay tuned. We’re back!

It’s about to get interesting again. … See MoreSee Less