DAY 2 IN DALYAN: Plumbing wars, translucent bread, and a terrier I was fully prepared to steal

We woke up warm.

Which, after the previous night’s Arctic cosplay, felt like a win. Two extra blankets had appeared—no fanfare, no explanation—just quietly delivered by the cleaning ladies who had clearly taken one look at us and thought, these idiots are not coping.

They weren’t wrong.

So, buoyed by this small but meaningful success, I approached the shower with cautious optimism. The kind of optimism that says, today might be the day things turn around.

They did not.

Now—I saw the signs. “Save water.” “Protect the planet.” All very noble. All very worthy.

But there comes a point where environmental responsibility collides head-on with personal dignity.

And after standing under a stream of water that felt like it had come directly from a glacial melt, I made a decision. A selfish, reckless, borderline criminal decision.

I let it run.

Not for a bit. Not for a reasonable amount of time. For a full, stubborn, increasingly spiteful twenty minutes—like I was trying to psychologically break the plumbing into submission.

It did not break.

I did.

So I did something I swore I’d never do…we switched rooms.

Which is how I ended up watching our hotelier—a previously calm, lovely man—completely lose his grip on reality while attempting to fix our new room’s door lock that had clearly decided it no longer believed in doors.

For twenty solid minutes, he swore at it in Turkish with the intensity of someone addressing a personal betrayal. This was not maintenance. This was a feud.

At one point, I was rooting for the door.

But—against all odds—he won. The lock clicked. Order was restored. Dignity, partially recovered.

And inside… finally… hot water.

Real, actual, unapologetic hot water.

I stayed in there far longer than necessary, partly out of gratitude, partly because I had some serious winter maintenance to address. Let’s just say my legs had reached a stage where they were no longer a feature, but a Sasquatch situation. Andy, I’m told, was quietly relieved.

Saturday is market day in Dalyan.

And markets here don’t ease you in gently—they hit you straight in the senses. Colour, noise, people who move with purpose. No one browsing aimlessly. No one pretending to “just have a look.”

Vegetables that look like they’ve actually seen sunlight. Tomatoes that smell like tomatoes. It’s unsettling, frankly.

But the real stars—the ones running the show—are the gözleme ladies.

These women are operating on a completely different level. They take a ball of dough and roll it out so thin it becomes philosophical. You’re not looking at bread anymore—you’re looking at a concept. Not thin in the way you expect. Thin in the way that makes you question physics. They stretch it out until it’s almost transparent—like watching someone perform the windowpane test on an entire loaf of bread and then deciding, yes, that’ll do.

They stretch it, fill it—cheese, mushrooms, minced meat if you’re behaving, or honey, sugar or chocolate if you’ve given up on yourself entirely—then throw it onto the griddle like it’s nothing.

No measuring. No fuss. Just decades of experience and the quiet confidence of someone who knows you couldn’t even begin to replicate it.

I ate it standing up, slightly burned, completely happy.

And then—unexpectedly—I was approached by a reader.

Now, in my head, I’d always imagined handling this with grace. A calm smile. Maybe a witty remark. What actually happened was closer to mild shock followed by what I can only describe as disproportionate joy.

Because it’s a strange thing—writing something, throwing it out into the void, and then having someone come up and say, I read that.

It never gets old. It makes the whole thing feel less like shouting into the abyss and more like… a conversation.

So yes—if you see me wandering about, probably heading toward food or alcohol, do say hello. I promise I’ll try to act like a normal person… or blame it on the Raki.

We returned—again—to Sofra Bar.

Because when you find a place that serves a pina colada with a marshmallow on top, you don’t question it. You don’t explore alternatives. You commit, like it’s a long-term relationship.

It’s still the best one I’ve had. Still unnecessary. Still perfect.

I did attempt to convince the bartender to set the marshmallow on fire—purely for research purposes—but he looked at me the way you look at someone who shouldn’t be trusted with open flames.

Fair.

Dinner at Dalyan Chef steak house.

And I’m going to say this knowing full well it will upset people:

The steak here is better than any beef I’ve ever had in the UK. There. I’ve said it.

Closer to Canadian Alberta beef—proper flavour, properly cooked, no nonsense—and somehow significantly cheaper, which feels like a personal attack on every overpriced steak I’ve ever endured back home. So needless to say, if you are looking for a fantabulous steak dinner, look no further!

We were greeted by Maximilian—a small, dangerously charming terrier who immediately decided I was the love of his life. He did not leave my side. Not once.

I briefly considered taking him with me. Andy shut that down quickly, which I think is unreasonable.

Starters were exactly what you want them to be—fresh, simple, and, crucially, tasting of something. Not dressed up, not overthought, not apologising for existing.

The halloumi arrived golden at the edges, holding its shape like it had standards. That first bite—that familiar, slightly defiant squeak—reminding you this is cheese that refuses to melt into submission. Salty, warm, just enough resistance to make you pay attention.

And the tomatoes… look, I don’t know what’s happened to tomatoes back home, but somewhere along the way they’ve lost the will to live. These hadn’t. Deep red, properly ripe, the kind that release that sharp, green-sweet smell the second you cut into them. Juicy without being watery, soft without collapsing—like they’d been picked that morning by someone who actually gives a damn.

It’s the sort of plate that quietly exposes how far we’ve drifted from food that tastes like itself.

Then the steaks.

Andy’s steak Diane arrived like it had something to say for itself. Rich, unapologetic, a little bit over the top—but in exactly the way you want when you’ve committed to ordering steak in a proper steakhouse. The sauce clung to everything it touched—peppery, slightly sharp from the mustard, softened by the mushrooms, with the salami adding that unexpected, slightly rebellious edge. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t trying to be. It was the kind of dish that leans in close and says, you didn’t come here to be sensible, did you?

Mine—the steak Oscar—took a different approach. Less noise, more confidence. Cooked rare, properly rare, the kind that gives just enough resistance before giving in completely. You could’ve cut it with a butter knife, but more importantly, you didn’t need to rush it. It held its own.

The shrimp on top felt almost unnecessary—perfectly cooked, sweet, clean—but really just there as a supporting act. And the béarnaise… rich, buttery, with that slight tarragon lift that stops it from becoming too much. It didn’t drown the steak, didn’t fight it. Just sat alongside, doing its job quietly, like it knew the meat didn’t need saving.

And that’s the thing—nothing on the plate was trying too hard. No unnecessary flourishes, no chef showing off with tweezers and foam and things that don’t belong anywhere near a steak. Just good ingredients, treated properly, cooked by someone who understands that when you get the basics right, you don’t need to shout about it.

We finished with apricot liqueur, more time with Maximilian (still not mine, tragically), and the quiet satisfaction of having eaten something genuinely excellent.

Back at the hotel, the room was warm.

Properly warm.

No blankets piled like sandbags. No strategic cuddling for survival. Just heat. Reliable, consistent, unremarkable heat—which, at this point, felt like luxury.

And that’s the thing about a day like this.

Nothing quite works the way it’s supposed to. Showers fail. Doors rebel. You make questionable beverage decisions.

But somewhere between the chaos, the food, the people, and the dog you almost stole, it all adds up to something better than perfect.

It feels real.

And frankly, that’s a lot more interesting.