Day 4 in Dalyan: Poolside philosophy, kebab envy, and the art of doing absolutely nothing
Day 4 in Dalyan didn’t come in hot. No chaos. No grand plans. No heroic cultural ambitions. Just heat, a pool, and the slow, creeping realisation that doing absolutely nothing might be the most productive thing I’ve done all year.
We parked ourselves by the pool like two overfed cats and committed to the art of horizontal living. Books in hand, cocktails within arm’s reach, and not a single ounce of guilt—because frankly, we’ve earned this level of laziness.
I started with Morning Waits—a book that doesn’t so much tell a story as it crawls into your brain, rearranges the furniture, and then leaves the lights flickering. It’s a full-blown psychological ambush. One minute you’re reading about cognitive dissonance, the next you’re questioning your own existence, your choices, and whether you actually like olives or have just been pretending for years.
And then—because the universe has a sense of humour—a woman strolls past.
Leather trousers. Boots. Black turtleneck. Full-length coat brushing the ground like she’s about to interrogate a suspect in a Scandi noir thriller.
It’s 25 degrees. The sun is blasting. I’m lying there in a bikini, slowly melting into a lounger like a forgotten ice lolly.
At that exact moment, the book and reality collided in a perfect, surreal handshake of “what the fuck is happening?” Cognitive dissonance, live and in the flesh.
That’s when I bailed.
Switched immediately to John Grisham’s The Widow. Something grounded. Something that doesn’t try to psychologically waterboard you before lunch.
Speaking of lunch—because of course everything revolves around food—we wandered over to Mahir kebabs place. No fuss. No pretension. Just the kind of place that knows exactly what it is and doesn’t feel the need to Instagram it.
I went for a simple chicken kebab wrap. And when I say simple, I mean deceptively simple—the kind of thing that reminds you that good ingredients, treated properly, will always beat overcomplicated nonsense. Juicy, well-seasoned, wrapped tight like it had purpose in life. Half of it is currently sitting in the fridge, patiently waiting for its moment of glory at midnight.
Andy, on the other hand, ordered an Iskender kebab.
And this—this—was not a meal. This was an event.
Chicken, drenched in a spicy tomato sauce, tangled up with yoghurt, soaking into fries like it had absolutely no respect for structural integrity. It was rich, indulgent, and borderline offensive in how good it was. Imagine Hungarian chicken paprikash… then give it steroids, a tan, and a questionable moral compass.
I had immediate, aggressive food envy.
Back to the pool. Back to the loungers. Back to doing absolutely nothing, professionally.
Siesta hit like a freight train, softened only by the steady arrival of piña coladas. At this point, I’m not drinking them—I’m studying them. There’s a science here. A balance. I think of the one from Sofra Bar…a kind of tropical alchemy that Sofra seems to have mastered while the rest of us are still fumbling with sad, watery imitations.
I need that recipe. Not want—need. Please!!!
Dinner plans came courtesy of the lovely, slightly wine-fuelled recommendation from yesterday’s conversation—a woman navigating grief with more grace than most people manage happiness. She told us to go to Temsi Rest. So we went.
And thank God we did.
The meze arrived like a greatest hits album: carrot salad, red cabbage, spicy pepper salsa, and garlic butter that should probably be regulated by law. All of it mopped up with hot, toasted bread that didn’t stand a chance.
This was the first mistake.
Because we also ordered starters.
Rookie move. Amateur hour. Absolute hubris.
The portions weren’t generous—they were borderline confrontational.
Andy’s Sultan lamb kebab turned up like a gift from the gods—slow-cooked lamb stew wrapped in pastry and topped with melted cheese. It didn’t ask for attention. It demanded it. This thing was rich, deep, unapologetic. The kind of dish that makes you pause mid-bite and question every other lamb dish you’ve ever eaten.
I went for creamy garlic prawns.
And look—they were good. Very good. Almost excellent…
But here’s the thing: if you’re going to call something garlic prawns, I want garlic that punches me in the face and steals my wallet. This was more of a polite handshake. Lovely, but lacking a bit of criminal intent.
We also ordered a halloumi salad—which, at this point, was less a dish and more a test of endurance. Perfectly grilled, golden edges, that unmistakable salty squeak that halloumi does so well.
We barely made a dent.
Somewhere between the meze, the starters, and the mains, we crossed the line from “pleasantly full” into “life choices are now under review.”
And yet… no regrets.
Because this is Dalyan.
Where the days are slow, the food is obscene, and even a completely uneventful day somehow turns into something worth writing about.
No chaos. No drama. Just sun, food, and the quiet satisfaction of knowing that sometimes the best days are the ones where absolutely nothing happens—and it’s perfect.
