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Gravy stains and tall tales: A real foodie journey

17 hours ago

You only live once. The clock doesn’t care

It usually begins the same way. A message, sent late in the evening, when the house is quiet and the day has finally stopped asking anything of you. You can almost picture it without trying. Someone on the sofa, glass of wine within reach, scrolling a little too long, watching someone else’s life unfold on a screen.

“I wish I could do this.”
“I’d love to travel but I’ve got no one to go with.”
“I nearly booked something once.”

That last one stays with you. Not because it’s dramatic, but because it’s so familiar. 'Nearly' is where a lot of people end up living…not in a bold, tragic way, just quietly, almost boring. Plans are discussed, options explored, bags mentally packed, and then… fucking nothing. Something always gets in the way. Timing. Other people… you know the ones who say 'Yea! Let's do this!' and then come up with every excuse in the book not to go. Your own personal doubt creeps in dressed up as practicality.

You hear it enough times and you start to recognise the pattern. It isn’t really about the destination. It’s about permission. About waiting for the right conditions to make something feel safe. Life is not safe. Life is not fun when it's 'too safe'.

The truth is, the conditions NEVER bloody line up.

There isn’t a perfect moment where everything clicks into place and the decision suddenly feels easy. What actually happens is much smaller than that. You get tired of waiting. That one day the idea of not going starts to feel worse than the idea of going. This is a good day!

That is the point where things change.

Not because you suddenly become fearless, but because you stop expecting the experience to arrive neatly packaged. You book the trip anyway, slightly unsure, slightly excited, wondering if you’ve just made a complete ass of it. BTW… you did…and that's half the fun.

And then you get to live with that decision.

The first part is uncomfortable. Anyone who tells you otherwise is full of shit. They are lying or trying to sell you something. There is nothing naturally effortless about turning up somewhere on your own when you’ve spent years doing things as part of a pair or a group. You notice everything. Where to stand. Where to sit. What to do with your hands. You become acutely aware of yourself in a way that feels faintly ridiculous… like you have a massive booger sticking out of your nose.

There is that moment, usually early on, where you question the whole thing. Sitting somewhere with a drink, looking around, thinking, what the hell am I doing here.

And then you get through it.

Because that towering wall of social discomfort you’ve been building up in your head for years turns out to be about seven minutes thick.

Seven.

Seven slightly awkward minutes of not knowing where to look, how to sit, whether to smile at someone or pretend to be deeply interested in the wine list (or worse, your phone). Seven minutes of feeling like you’ve accidentally wandered into the wrong room. I know… I've timed it.

And then it passes.

No announcement. No grand shift. You just… settle.

And here’s the part that always surprises people.

No one gives a shit…not even a flying fuck.

Not in a cruel way. In a freeing way. Everyone else is far too busy dealing with their own nonsense. Their own slightly awkward conversations, their own relationship dramas, their own quiet insecurities.

You are not the centre of attention. You’re just another person in the room.

Which, it turns out, is exactly what you need.

That realisation doesn’t arrive all at once. It creeps in. You start to see it in small details. The couple who aren’t speaking. The group trying a bit too hard. The solo traveller at the next table who looks completely at ease, not because they always have been, but because they’ve done this before and lived to tell the tale.

And then, almost without noticing, you find your rhythm.

The awkwardness fades. Not because something dramatic happens, but because you stop fighting it. You order what you want without the usual polite negotiations, like that pork tail soup you've always wanted to try. You go where you feel like going and not care that you'll offend someone's constitution. You sit longer than you normally would, or leave early without having to explain yourself. THIS is freedom!

There’s no compromise. No waiting around for someone else to make up their mind.

It’s just you, moving through a place at your own pace.

That’s when it becomes something else entirely.

That’s the moment that matters. You either keep putting it off, or you get on with it. As my brother-in-law once told me… Shit or get off the pot!

Time doesn’t pause while you decide. It keeps moving, whether you’re booking the trip or sitting there overthinking it for the hundredth time. Years pass in the same way conversations do. One idea rolls into the next, plans get reshaped, priorities shift, and before long the things you once thought you’d do start to sound like stories from someone else’s life.

You only live once. Not as a slogan, but as a simple, slightly inconvenient fact. Just do it.

And you are only worth as much as you owe. Not in money, but in experience. In the things you haven’t yet allowed yourself to have. The places you haven’t stood. The conversations you haven’t had. The food you haven't eaten. The decisions you keep politely avoiding. Besides, when you’re dead and owe no one a penny, what exactly have you won? A tidy spreadsheet and no stories? Who cares…just book it!

So you book the trip. You turn up. You feel out of place for a while. You get through it. You find your rhythm. You realise you’re capable of more than you gave yourself credit for.

Nothing miraculous happens. No dramatic transformation. No sudden reinvention.

You just fucking go.

And after a while, that becomes the whole point. … See MoreSee Less

Gravy stains and tall tales: A real foodie journey

2 weeks ago

Day 8:

First things first—I’ve officially broken my own rule and I apologise.

All week I’ve been smugly tapping away at these posts like some sort of disciplined, well-adjusted human being with structure and routine. And then, like all good habits, it went straight out the window the moment raki got involved.

So yes—this is late. And yes—I’m blaming Sofra Bar.

And also raki.

Mostly raki.

The day started with something resembling responsibility, which already felt suspicious. Interview day. The kind of thing that, in a normal life, you prepare for properly…notes, focus, hydration, maybe even a vegetable at some point… which I did, kindof.

Instead, I went in carrying the faint echo of the previous night’s decisions and what I can only describe as misplaced confidence. And yet, somehow, it worked. I don’t know how. It felt… good… great in fact! Natural. Like I wasn’t trying to be anything other than exactly what I am—slightly chaotic, very human, and oddly convincing when I’m not overthinking it and of course passionate. I highly recommend doing job interviews on holiday.

So now we wait. Fingers crossed. Toes crossed. Possibly a few internal organs crossed just to be safe.

We headed into town mid-afternoon, the sun doing that lazy, golden thing that makes everything feel slightly cinematic. And then the loudspeakers kicked in.

Not gently. Not subtly.

Proper crackling, echoing, slightly ominous public announcement energy—the kind that immediately makes your brain jump to worst-case scenarios, especially when you don’t understand a word of what’s being said.

A deep, authoritative Turkish voice boomed across the streets like we’d just entered the opening sequence of some dystopian video game. My brain, already operating on fumes and paranoia, immediately went:

Right. This is it. Fallout 5: Dalyan Edition. Find bunker. Secure snacks. Make peace with loved ones.

Turns out it was a perfectly reasonable announcement about military F16s doing training exercises nearby and not to be alarmed.

Ah. Good. Casual. Love that for us.

Nothing says “relaxing seaside holiday” like the faint possibility of being buzzed by fighter jets while clutching a lukewarm water bottle and questioning your hydration choices.

Lunch took us to Çağrı, which is essentially two restaurants stitched together in the most brilliantly casual way. You can sit wherever you like and order from either menu, which feels slightly rebellious, like you’re getting away with something even though it’s entirely allowed.

Andy went for a meaty pide—one of those dishes that arrives looking deceptively simple and then quietly blows everything else out of the water. Perfectly spiced, rich without being heavy, the kind of food that doesn’t need to show off because it already knows it’s good.

I had the calamari. This was the best so far. Tender. Delicate. Not a hint of rubber. It practically whispered apologies for every bad calamari I’ve ever been served.

Although—and I will die on this hill—it would have been transcendent with the garlic sauce from WHY NOT RESTUARANT.

I am now emotionally invested in pairing foods across restaurants like some kind of unhinged culinary matchmaker.

Back to the hotel, and into what has become my favourite part of the day: the siesta.

There is something deeply civilised about accepting that the middle of the afternoon is not for productivity but for surrender. Curtains drawn, air still, the faint hum of outside life continuing without you while you disappear for an hour or two. It feels indulgent in the best possible way.

I am absolutely not ready to give this up when I go home.

We headed back out later with a very clear plan: a couple of drinks, maybe some food, an early-ish night.

Which is, of course, exactly how every questionable evening begins.

On the way, we were stopped by a local woman who recognised us from the blog. She thanked us for the things we’d written about Dalyan—about her town, her home. And there was nothing performative about it. No expectation. Just genuine warmth.

It caught me off guard.

There’s a difference between writing for people who pass through a place and being seen by the people who actually belong to it. It felt… grounding, I suppose. A quiet reminder that this isn’t just a backdrop for our little adventure—it’s someone else’s everyday life.

It meant a lot.

Then we went to Sofra.

And whatever intention we had of behaving like reasonable adults dissolved somewhere between the first drink and the decision to stay for “just one more” and “Let’s see how the game turns out.”

We left at 2am.

Somewhere in that six-hour blur, we collected a handful of our gentle readers and made several decisions that should probably never be reviewed in daylight.

At some point, a microphone appeared, which is never a good sign.

Karaoke happened.

Not gently. Not quietly.

At some point, in a moment of what I can only describe as misplaced confidence, I decided to serenade our lovely hotel barman—who had innocently joined us after his shift—with You’re So Vain.

Now. Let’s be clear. He is not vain.

He is, however, now permanently traumatised.

That poor man stood there, smiling politely, while I belted out lyrics like I was auditioning for a role no one asked for.

To the neighbours: I am so, so sorry.

To the barman: I will never speak of this again if you don’t. 😉

Sometime around 2am, we finally left, fuelled by equal parts alcohol and bad decisions. And then came the hunger.

Not the polite kind you can ignore. The kind that demands immediate action.

There was a place still open, advertising stuffed mussels, which under normal circumstances would have been irresistible. But with a stomach already swimming in raki, it felt like a gamble I wasn’t willing to take. I’m reckless, not suicidal.

So I went for a köfte sandwich instead.

And it was exactly what I needed. Warm, spiced, messy in all the right ways, with a sauce that somehow managed to cut through everything and bring me back to life. It didn’t just taste good—it felt necessary.

How we got back to the hotel is… unclear.

There are fragments. A vague memory of being guided. Possibly by our long-suffering barman. Possibly by instinct.

It’s something I’ll need to investigate once I regain the ability to sit upright without regretting it.

For now, I’m horizontal, slightly broken, and very aware that despite everything—every questionable decision, every unnecessary drink—I wouldn’t change a single second of it. … See MoreSee Less