A Tenner On The Wooden One

A change of historical direction. Leaving behind the horrors of a World War One battlefield, I return to the more distant realms of antiquity. Truva, or Troy as it is more famously renown lies a short distance from Cannakale. Just time for a spot of breakfast in a friendly looking cafe. The owner Khazeem is a supremely amiable and generous man. I promise to return this evening to chat some more.

After locating the tiny bus station (who hid it under that bridge?) Amongst all the old village people squeezed onboard, I converse with Mikum- a Korean girl- and the only other tourist on the mini-bus. We drive past a succession of very small villages old fashioned villages before we reach the gates of our destination. It's a fair claim to say that Troy is deserted. We're the only other tourists there, heavily outnumbered by the gaggle of cats and dogs belonging to the caretakers and custodians. During a series of excavations, it was established that the famous place went through nine different phases, each one dating from a different,though consecutive, period in history.

Most of it overlaps to a greater extent. All of it has had to be uncovered as Mother nature left nothing standing above the surface. Troy VI is the golden age of the stronghold. This involved the Greek legends of Paris, Helen, Achilles and "that horse". No sign of them all today, though. No sign of anybody. The story of these mythical characters is masterfully retold by the ancient wordsmith Homer in his epic Poem The Illiad. Straining to imagine all of this from what little you can see, Mikum has her own thoughts of how to visualise the glories from days gone past. Instead of sitting and connecting, she buzzes around the area, miaowing at cats, mimicking opera singers and generally jumping up and down. It makes for a bewildering side show.

Back in Cannakale, I take Mikum to Khazeem's for dinner and a nice cup of tea. We take in the 6.45 horse race from Istanbul on the TV with a friend of the owner. He happens to have placed a nice little wager on the Number 6 ("Jackboot"), who hits the jackpot by romping home by several lengths. Walking back from the cafe, it's noticeable just how cold my Korean friend looks. She is one of several visitors I have encountered who appear to have made mo provision for the extraordinary winter's chill that has enveloped all of Europe. I think this coupled with the perception that Turkey is a Middle Eastern country has caught a few packers out. I surmise that for a number of these travellers it will be the first time they have actually seen snow. I give her my jacket as we negotiate the deadly streets. It's rather like walking across an ice rink in a pair of slippers.