Lycian Yolu - Türkiye similar to Crimea

What will happen if you take the bizarre relief and relict vegetation of the mountainous part of the South Coast, sharply increase it all in scale, mix it with the abundance of springs and snow on the peaks of the Caucasus, generously flavor it with colorful Eastern hospitality and add a small fraction of the cold and fog of Altai? The result is Lycian Yolu! Aka Lycian Way. It is also the Lycian Way. For two years now, my cherished dreams have become a reality - and the scope of my “backpack” wanderings through life has finally reached far abroad.

Pre-wanderings and anticipations.

The beginning of such an experimental and adventurous adventure was quite ordinary. The same rise in the middle of the night, the first train to Pervoprestolnaya, the usual unprepossessing reserved seat, the usual evening customs at the Ukrainian border. Yes, yes, I’m going to Ukraine first, oddly enough, but air tickets to Antalya from Kyiv can be bought at a very tasty price, and “seven miles is not a detour for a rabid tourist.”

In the glorious city of Kyiv there is an equally glorious airport with the funny name Zhulyany. So “wonderful” that you won’t even notice this inconspicuous building right among the trees and city buildings. The bus station of my native provincial Vladimir will probably be more impressive. Inside, at 2 o’clock in the morning, there was peace and quiet, some snoozing on the chairs of the micro-waiting room, some on their own backpacks, occasionally pampering themselves with coffee that was quite reasonable in price and quality, while away the night until the dawn departure, future fellow travelers.

With the first signs of dawn, as if by magic, the airport woke up. Registration announcements began to sound and sleepy people flocked to the counters. Everything is fast, polite and clear, the borders have been passed, the stall with a loud “DutyFree” sign is still closed on the occasion of early morning - and now a bright crimson airplane is rushing into the bright orange sky. When I opened my closed eyes for a moment, mountain ranges were already floating majestically under my wings and the entire vast expanse of Middle-earth was blue.

10. May. Hello to you, Turkish coast! Fethiye. Tanks and partridges of Baba Dag.

In Antalya, a sunny morning, a warm and gentle spring breeze awaited us, and of course, Kirill and Sasha - the leaders of our small but glorious army. After an hour-long military meeting to determine the places of future deployment, the main detachment, led by Sasha, went for a relaxed walk along the already studied and mastered Eastern part of the Lycian Trail, and five brave alternatives went far to the West, to explore paths not yet traveled by us and the unsolved ancient secrets of its opposite section.

A little about the “Lycian Way” itself. This is a 500-kilometer “path” that stretches from Fethiye to Antalya. It was laid and developed for trekking enthusiasts by Briton Kate Clow in 1999. Since then, by some enthusiasts (sponsored by a certain Turkish Bank), the trail has been regularly updated and marked.

The “path” in some places transforms into a dirt road, an asphalt highway, thorny thickets, the bottom of a canyon, loose slopes, many kilometers of beaches - in general, something for all tastes. In order not to get lost, according to all marking rules, within visibility from one to the other, marks in bright paint in the colors of the Polish flag are visible. You constantly come across signs indicating which settlement is next on your route and how many kilometers it is. Naturally, in the most confusing areas, both markings and signs miraculously disappear for a while

From the airport, a successfully caught car quickly took us to Otogar, the local bus station. The eyes barely had time - no, not to look closely, just to catch a glimpse of the unusual “abroad” life. The roads are smooth, the sidewalks are clean, huge concrete orange balls at the intersections - it turned out - a monument to an orange (!) (as it turned out later, the Turks generally like to erect monuments to fruits and vegetables).

The bus station in Antalya will be a little more modest than the local airport with its fountain in the middle of the hall - but it is also a very impressive and at the same time elegant structure. 10 minutes before the bus departure, bus tickets to Fethiye were purchased, the first Turkish lira were spent on some travel trifles, and before the Mediterranean Sea had time to wink with a blue eye from afar, the road immediately dived under the stone wing of the Mountains!

The sleepless night at the airport and the echoes of an acute cold, as always, suddenly caught just before departure, also took its toll - I diligently stared out the window, but my body treacherously fell into sleep. And what was caught with a glance in rare moments of wakefulness surprisingly resembled the beloved Crimea, only strangely stretched in scale. Here is a mountain pass, a stone wall and a cliff into a canyon - well, exactly a piece of the Belogorsk-Privetnoye road. Here is a flat area among green fields with a frozen multi-level wave of all shades of blue in the distance - am I going from Sympha to Sudak, and is Karabi visible in the distance?

Here are thickets (!) of mighty relict juniper, pine trees and stones - the South Coast? However, the cleanliness (!) of the road and surrounding area and in rare settlements along the way and beyond, snow caps on the peaks and signs clearly not in Ukrainian - periodically brought us back to foreign reality.

A turn, another turn, an hour of long descent and the quiet grandeur of the mountains abruptly gave way to the bustle and colors of the cramped city streets. Having refreshed ourselves at a local fast food restaurant, we found out that Turkish shawarma, unlike Russian shawarma, is quite edible, and it is better to speak with the local population in cities in English, because the Turks stubbornly do not understand our diligent Turkish pronunciation according to the phrasebook.

The first antiquity that opened our eyes was the rock necropolis of Fethiye. It is believed that the Lycians did not bury their dead in the ground, but built tombs in the rocks, like nests, in order, according to religious beliefs, to help bird-like spirits carry the soul of the deceased to the “light.” “Burrows” in the rock of all types and sizes, from ordinary niches to majestic structures with porticoes, arches and columns, reminiscent of a Greek temple.

For those who want to directly touch the antiquity, concrete steps are paved (disfiguring the entire landscape) and a booth with a cash register and a barrier has been installed, however, the wire fence enclosing the necropolis is quite frail and we can easily and unnoticeably pass “from the rear.”

By the way, the sad face and plaintive “No Money!” It will also work well as an entry pass - personally verified.

A few more kilometers - and travel by transport is over for us - and for a long time. Underfoot, the asphalt is still twisting like a serpentine under the arches of the pine forest, further and further is the outskirts of the village of Ovacik, and ever closer is the grandeur of the Baba-Dag community.

The “official” start of the Lycian Way is marked by a pompous sign, for some reason standing next to the road. The asphalt was replaced by a dirt road, which after half an hour finally degenerated into a rocky path and the tedious but confident “up” began. The higher the next “view” turn is located, the more islands and islets scattered across the sunny surface of the sea were revealed to the eye. For some time, a fresh breeze and pine-juniper ether were enough to refresh bodies heated by the still unusual physical activity.

Thirst came along with the pleasant discovery that water sources (aka tanks) on this section of the trail are in abundance and they have a very strange shape - a concrete cube several meters high and across with an iron hatch at the top and a container tied to the hatch - a bucket or canister. So it’s quite possible to take an impromptu shower on the go every half hour. Lepota - the sunny sea on the right, elaborate stone walls on the left, paragliders above - fluttering in whole clusters, catching the wind!

It’s just the constant cackling of some crazy partridge somewhere in the bushes ahead of us that hurts our ears. An hour passes... two passes... the invisible partridge is still ahead in the bushes and just as loud! They put forward a version - maybe it is considered a sacred bird among paragliders:))

The turns are more and more frequent, the markings are pleasing - all the “wrong” turns are carefully marked with a red cross - “you shouldn’t go there...”

Finally the trail flattens out and widens - we are at the saddle of the mountain range. Another Turkish mystery - all the more or less level clearings around are carefully partitioned into even square areas with stone borders and fences. Let's jump ahead - one of the versions of their origin became clear closer to night.

The wide embrace of the peaks completely hides the sea from view. Some mysterious stone towers rise ahead. Upon closer examination, the “two strongholds” turned out to be a rather ugly concrete unfinished building – half-castle, half-house, someone’s future pompous “country house”. Nearby on the mountain slope there are simpler houses, everything looks somehow deserted, abandoned and abandoned.

We hurried and left this dull place as quickly as possible, fortunately there was less than an hour left before darkness and it was time to think about spending the night. A suitable place was found in the upper reaches of a wide gorge leading to the sea, near another village. There’s a gorgeous spring right next to the road, under a huge pine tree there are two more or less flat clearings just right for a couple of tents – and the fact that they are strewn with stones doesn’t matter. Half an hour of “ritual dancing” - and the area is already clean, and along its edges there is that perfectly even stone curb.

The first night under foreign stars. The white sides of the mountains turn silver in the moonlight. The fire glows with soft light. The bustle of city everyday life is completely left behind.

Total: 7.8 km covered. Elevation gain 625 m. Elevation loss 180 m. Elevation 780 m.a.s.l.

May 11. Flight over the valley of butterflies. Garage and Tavern.

The mountains - they are mountains in Turkey - bask in themselves, exposing their steep white sides to the golden rays of the rising sun. It’s just still unusual that instead of the chirping of birds at dawn, you are woken up every morning by the mournful cries of Turkish religious chants.

It’s fresh and sunny outside, the soul is warm, the body is fueled with morning porridge, the legs are eager to hit the road – towards adventure.

Trusting the red and white markings higher up in the upper reaches of the gorge, we did not climb (there are also confident markings leading there, but of a different coloring), we went down, passed through the village of Kozagaz, and along the mountain ridge on the left side of the gorge we happily rolled down on a wide white crushed stone dirt road.

The sunny morning did not remain so for long - a light veil of fog from the sea very soon grew into impressive clouds. The smooth slope of the wide road carried us lower and lower from the next gorge into the labyrinth of narrow streets and terraced gardens of another half-abandoned village; every half hour along the way we came across springs captured by stone with a stream of water generously gushing from a pipe. Each one has an ornate inscription like “the source of such and such a Muslim saint.” A rocky descent along the path for another hundred meters, the first people we meet with backpacks - and we step onto the asphalt of Faralya.

A village full of campsites and boarding houses, lemon and orange trees along the roadsides, generously strewn with fruits, and on every more or less flat piece of land between the houses there is certainly some kind of bed with zucchini or potatoes.

A little away from the asphalt, after passing a barrier of grazing curious goats, we throw our bags on a green lawn under an orange tree hung with fruits. Marina courageously remains to guard the property, and the rest, having refreshed themselves with fresh vitamins, decide to go have a look at the nearest beach.

And the beach is located in a picturesque valley, squeezed between the palms of steep cliffs. Your head is spinning from beauty, delight... and fear - when you look at a cliff 250 meters down... and you understand that you have to climb to this very bottom now. Where you free climb, where you are protected by someone carefully hanging ropes - meter by meter of the vertical is left behind. Shaking legs finally step onto a flat surface, generously overgrown with human-sized reeds.

The thickets lead to a path trampled along the valley, where vacationers brought to the “impregnable” bay on numerous yachts flit back and forth. There is an entrance fee from the beach. The exit for those who managed to descend from the village is free.

It is believed that the valley is a nature reserve where huge flocks of butterflies of amazing beauty flutter. There were indeed butterflies there - about two dozen. Ordinary gray ones - either it’s not the season for them, or it’s just another advertising scam.

But the beach of this valley is good!!! The light, light rustle of the purest azure waves refreshed tired legs - and immediately lulled them to sleep!

There is also a very beautiful waterfall in the depths of the valley of butterflies, but we were not destined to see it today. The heavens above snorted, frowned and periodically sprinkled with light rain, which threatened to turn into a downpour.

We had to urgently climb while the stones were dry. The ascent to the same 250 m was much easier and faster than the descent, we caught our breath at the top, drank some water, took a farewell look at the marvelous valley - and went to have lunch, which Allah sent. And Allah, in addition to the usual tourist sandwiches, sent us today a very tasty local salty cheese.

As soon as we had time to put the capes on our backpacks and take a dozen steps on the asphalt, the heavens opened up! Quite in time we dived under the protection of a spacious concrete canopy that happened to be nearby. Someone's car was hiding there from the rain with us. A garage without doors?

Be that as it may, from now on we called any reliable and timely shelter from bad weather nothing more than a garage.

Half an hour later we were already leaving Faralia at a brisk pace, stocked up on fresh water on the outskirts and the markings took us along the path up the slope under the arches of a pine forest.

The pleasure on the rise from wet stones, pine cones and pine needles under your feet and the cold shower from every branch above your head is even greater! It didn't take long to climb, the path led out onto a wavy dirt road of deep red color. For about an hour, the dirt road gently rocked us up and down a picturesque green valley, where the ubiquitous stone terraces closed into a huge amphitheater. Well, the view of the purple sea and blue islands also added to the beauty of the landscape.

The heavens frowned somehow nervously, but allowed us to reach, in relative dryness, a settlement with a very promising name for Russian ears - Kabak!

As soon as we stepped under the roof of the micro-shop, it started raining again! I had to dive into the garage under the canopy on the back veranda of the store - again with a view of the sea. In order not to be bored, I wanted to drink something. For example, Turkish tea. So they were forced to sit, drinking tea in the Kabak for an entire hour and snacking on cookies.

A sign in the middle of the village offered to make a choice - either go through the mountains at the top, or go down to the beach. We chose the sea. The heavens apparently didn’t like our choice; the rain turned into a dull, steady drizzle and had no intention of stopping. So I also had to fully enjoy the “pleasure” of descending a steep path along wet pine needles and stones under the arches of a wet forest.

Kabaka Beach turned out to be empty, gray, wet, deserted and romantic in its own way. The most romantic ones even took the joy of swimming in the rain.

But we still decided to spend the night in the warmth and dryness of a nearby campsite. The price for the cramped and leaking bungalows allocated to us, the opportunity to cook on gas in the kitchen, eat what was cooked in the dining room, and warm up by the stove there, in general, was indecently high for such a hole. Well, oh well. But there are bananas blooming in the washbasin

Total: 19.2 km covered. Elevation gain 880 m. Reset 1490 m. Current altitude 20 m.a.s.l.

May 12. Canyon of Black Stones. Gay? The road goes deeper.

...I dreamed of the sound of rain... But, unfortunately, I did not dream. The rain drummed on the roof of the bungalow, on the gravel of the paths, and especially enthusiastically on some empty bucket that the devil had brought under the wall of the house. He drummed tirelessly and sadly all night and all morning - and only Kirill’s knock on the door and a request for powdered milk finally forced the female half of the hikers to stick their noses out of their sleeping bags. While we got up, stretched and leisurely had breakfast, savoring the good Turkish coffee found at the campsite, the street became completely clear.

Intelligence reported that the desired red and white markings began immediately at the rear entrance to the campsite. The path confidently dived into the forest, and five minutes later it crossed a fast river over pebbles. A verbose sign nearby confirmed that if there is a river, there will be a Canyon!

The sign offered two paths to choose from - difficult and short along the bottom of the canyon, or easy but long - up one of the sides. Along the bottom after 14 hours of rain, it was decided not to break and we rushed up - along a stone serpentine, higher and higher - to the foggy black peaks propping up the sky. Junipers, strawberries and other relict vegetation - in great abundance! White stones underfoot, black arches above your head, gray clouds on the tops - a most gorgeously sinister gothic landscape. And the cute beach of Kabaka again and again opens up to the eye further and further below at each next turn of the steep serpentine road.

On a gentle saddle, at 444 meters in height, the gray severity was finally diluted with greenery, harmoniously intertwining into a sort of picturesque rock garden. A fireplace, logs, the skeleton of some kind of building nearby - apparently it’s not in vain that shepherds set up a seasonal camp in such a marvelous place.

For another twenty minutes the path quite gently traverses the slope, crosses a small scree, becomes wider and more reliable, and just in time for lunch it leads out to a clearing with a spring. We hung out there for an hour with sandwiches, scaring away a herd of local goats. A little later we found ourselves frightened by a couple of stern German pensioners who, moreover, overtook us along the trail - they were also carrying mountain bikes with them!

The path winds higher and higher, again the backpack creaks like... somehow it creaks very rhythmically;) - and it doesn’t take long to compose a song:

The backpack creaks like an old saddle
Sore feet and sore throat
Why, sir, have we been taken to the Turks?
- to conquer Lycia's ancient path!

It's time, it's time, let's rejoice in our lifetime
Reliability of the tent and a friend's fire
Bye-bye-swaying your shoulder over your shoulders
Let us whisper “mercy to our side” more than once

The gray fog of the picturesque valley on the pass very soon brought us back from thoughts to reality; the path joined the road through Alinca, another village of three and a half houses. And from the hill next to the next guesthouse there was a VIEW! Such that the jaw immediately dropped, the backpack fell to the ground, and the hands flew up to the photographic equipment.

The stern German pensioners once again caught up with us, jumped on their bikes and rushed down the serpentine asphalt, and we all stood and watched, and couldn’t get enough of it...

Meanwhile, a young local resident decided to strike up a conversation with the newcomers.
- “Gay?” - he asked joyfully, turning to Dima.
- “uh... uh... no” - Dima clearly did not understand this formulation of the question.
- “Gay?” - the guy repeated no less cheerfully - to Kirill, who had already arrived from reconnaissance of the path.
- “Yes, yes – maybe Gay! Is gay interesting? - Kirill’s tone, to everyone’s surprise, was quite calm and curious.

It turned out that Gay is a populated area, down by the sea, and you can go there. Or you don’t have to go, but turn at a fork inland from the sea, into the mountains. Where it would be more interesting for us, we decided to decide along the way - and rushed down the serpentine asphalt of the most beautiful road, relaxingly looking around in admiration.

While we were admiring it, the fork to Gay was left behind and the road stretched north like an even arrow. When our legs were already tired from the smooth asphalt, we passed a small village, then a second, larger one, Bogazici, there is even a regular store there. With fresh bread and other goodies that turned out to be very useful.

Somewhere not far from this village, the ruins of the Lycian city of Sidim were lost in the surrounding amphitheater of mountain ranges. First, a nice spring with a stone pool was found, then a picturesque terrace for a parking lot, then fatigue finally took its toll, a little rain began to fall again - and it was decided to continue the search for the ruins in the morning.

The sun was creeping majestically behind the mountains, the peaks were wrapped in crimson clouds, the night covered the valley with a blanket of stars, mysterious lights flickered mysteriously on the slopes of the peaks, providing food for long evening conversations around the fire.

May 13. Hoary antiquities, full rain and the Last Supper.

Yesterday’s beautiful sunset quite naturally turned into a beautiful golden dawn, completely corresponding to today’s small holiday. A sleepy silence reigned in the camp; no one was particularly interested in the dawn except the birthday girl, maybe it was for the best.

Along with the usual porridge, an improvised birthday cake was served - local chocolate halva... mmm... finger licking good! A couple of congratulatory toasts with a mug of tea - and we can’t wait for the road and new adventures again.

It turned out that we got up for the night yesterday very successfully and on time - the next flat clearing was exactly opposite the ancient cemetery. And no water was found above our site. The ruins of Sidima (approximately the first century BC) are badly destroyed and scattered over a large area - either a free-standing piece of a wall comes across, or a foundation, or a fragment of a marble column underfoot. The best survivors, oddly enough, were the tombs. Was it built more securely for the dead than for the living?

Massive structures made of solid stone blocks mounted on a pedestal, half-erased inscriptions on the walls - there is an eerie stone cold and some kind of mysticism. Immediately, heated discussions began about how all this was built, and at the same time they touched upon the origin of the pyramids of Egypt - a lively discussion threatened to drag on for a long time.

The sun that began to get hot reminded us that it was time to hit the road; the path led to the outskirts of the village of Dodurga. The village is very hospitable, every local resident waves his hand and invites you for tea. But for some reason these cunning Turks erased the markings of the trail in the village, and everyone happily pointed out the direction to Bel to us - but - for some reason in a different direction.

The victory lap through the narrow streets and the clayey bottom of the irrigation ditch was finally completed, the path plunged into the forest, and everyone’s favorite process – the ascent – ​​began. Soon we crossed a dirt road, walked a little uphill on a flat road, then turned back onto the path - that we, as not tourists, walk on roads. In the middle of the forest, a flat football field suddenly appeared, even with a goal. Village against village fighting? Or squirrels versus hares?

On the way to the village of Bel, we walked a little on the cloud. Or it passed over us. But the edge of the earth sometimes seemed quite real. And turtles periodically cross our path. Why would this be?;) Bel is a village like a village, with an unchanged mosque, a minaret and a water source - nostalgically reminiscent of a soda fountain from the times of the USSR.

Another green valley flowing down like stone terraces-amphitheatres, another distant picturesque ridges, here and there the “bottom” is barely visible - the lowland of Patara, our tomorrow’s goal. In a picturesque pine forest, among numerous identical terraces, the marking led to two stone “source tanks”, then, as always, it suddenly disappeared, after a long search it was suddenly found where it was least expected - and led out into the open space!

Sea! The huge blue endless sea, so distant! 500 meters in height, an open slope - and a wonderful scree. There is no path as such here - there are only markings on the stones, forming the most adrenaline-filled serpentine road! This is if it’s in dry weather – but what if there’s a tedious, hours-long rain falling from above again!?

There is nothing left to do but walk EXACTLY according to the markings (and they are here every meter), using an unkind word to remember the masochist who was the first to walk here and paint all this.

Sliding on loose ground, periodically landing with your palm on thorny bushes, constantly balancing under a backpack that treacherously pulls you down, trusting the wet stones that still hold traction to your soles. A raincoat on a body that is hot from constant stress dries faster than it gets wet from the rain. And there is only one thought spinning in my head - this is not a descent - this is complete... hmm... rain! 400 m of drop - and finally my feet stepped on a smooth carpet of pine forest needles, lush crowns closed securely above my head - here, just in time, the heavenly office turned off the rain.

Water from above is, of course, good; the issue of drinking water was now more pressing for us. A search in the dense, wet green thickets in the vicinity of another camping village led to the source. However, it’s not difficult to find the source by the sound - the frogs there sing very inspiredly!

The sea is nearby! Some miserable 50 meters below. We squirmed back and forth over the rocks for a long time, but we never found a flat place to camp directly near the sea. Although, as we later learned, there is a descent, somewhere on the approaches to the village we passed it in search of the source.

All that remains is to admire the beauty from a beautiful observation deck that was accidentally found. Small beaches, scree, pine forest - Ayazma, no matter what! And turn in the other direction - a long cape goes into the sea, dry pine trees, rocks - the most typical Karaul-Oba.

The abandoned olive garden became the refuge of the tired pilgrims for tonight. It’s smooth, dry, the flowers are blooming, there’s even a couple of fire pits, the sound of the sea is quite audible, and if you climb onto a nearby rock, you can even see it!

“Today we will have the last supper!” - Kirill solemnly proclaimed - “???” - “Well, of course, on the night before the crucifixion they gathered in the olive grove!” Well, yes, well, yes, the night before the crucifixion, the full moon, it’s still Friday the 13th today, crimson mountains in the sunset rays - well, to hell with them, such associations!:))

May 14. Blue Infinity of Patara.

Once again we grumbled at the creators of the Lycian Path for their love of the sea exclusively from a distance - we turned our backs to the blue distance - and... that's right - again the endless “up”. Actually, on this section there is also a path “traverse along the sea”, probably even flat, but we, not tourists, or something, again haven’t conquered the peaks for a long time.

Pine forest, again the ubiquitous stone “cisterns” - this time an impressive one, with a stone pool! The markings disappeared right before a path leading somewhere sharply upward. And the path led to the top, and then a dead end.

And from the top there was such an “AH!” Beach! A huge, empty, clean, endless, irresistibly alluring beach!!! I wish I could take it like this and fly towards you like a bird! Or at least that butterfly.

Nooooo, the path is tricky, it will make more than one turn with a traverse, drive you up and down, and then push it out onto the asphalt in the middle of the forest.

Even above the asphalt road, the ruins of an ancient fortress were spotted. Our desire to get to know the antiquities closer was fully shared by the markings on the trail; they confidently led us to the low entrance, just without taking off our backpack on all fours to fit in. The gray stones of old masonry fit each other so precisely - the pattern is like that of a turtle on its shell. There was no path inside the walls of the fortress. There was nothing there at all - weeds and stones. In search of a second exit, we walked around the perimeter. Then we walked a little more. Then we climbed a little on the rocks. Actually, there is a gap in the opposite wall - but right into a vast swamp!

We despaired of understanding the strategic plan of the ancient Lycians, and, having completed a lap of honor, we returned to the entrance.

The description of the path, the GPS track and Kirill’s mind unanimously told us that the correct path was a detour, from the sea.

But the thirst for immediate swimming completely rejected all arguments of reason, they trusted the modest dirt road going in the right direction, crossed the river along a shaky bridge at the foot of the mountain - and here it is - the beach! BEACH! That's right, in capital letters and with all due respect. As far as the eye can see there is a transparent blue infinity of playfully whispering white lace waves. And a light gray, smooth runway right up to the horizon! And for all this splendor - only five people and one voluntarily joined dog.

We had lunch, swam, and a little earlier we managed to find out from the backpack “brothers in mind” we met that there was also water 5 kilometers away.

And let's go! Along the lacy white-foamed edge. The sand has been licked and compacted by the waves almost to the density of asphalt, springs under your feet, you want to run, spin, dance in the surf, fly and scream with happiness.

An hour flew by in a flash, we stopped only when we saw the first people on the beach, a wooden building on the shore, and suddenly cloudy sea waters - the further path was blocked by a river flowing into the sea. The building turned out to be a cafe, open only during the season. A wooden platform with a canopy, a wooden house with “conveniences”, a pipe with fresh water, a solar battery - and a watchman guarding all this goodness, who misses communicating with people.

The talkative watchman also turned out to be very calculating. He took a small amount of money from us (6 liras per nose), allowed us to use water, a shower, a barbecue, put up tents on the platform, take sunbeds, in general - relax, guys!

Relax - but also take care of the solar battery, keep an eye on it, make sure that no one touches it - and you get on the motorcycle and, satisfied, go off to your village.

Everyone was happy with this spontaneous half-day. We swam... sunbathed, wandered along the beach... swam again... We tried to buy fresh fish from the fishermen walking in a motorboat along the shore and pulling out nets - the fishermen, alas, did not understand the intentions of the man screaming and jumping along the shore, desperately waving an empty bag and money.

In the evening there was a good entertainment program - they showed the sunset. And you sit at the table, sip some tea - life is good!

Total: 12 km covered. Elevation gain 400 m. Drop 500 m. Current parking altitude 0 m.a.s.l.

May 15. Greenhouses and ruins. The luxury of Kalkan. Spiny rocks.

The morning, despite 0 m above sea level, turned out to be cold, fresh and windy. We slowly dressed in swimsuits, got ready, and prepared ourselves for the upcoming crossing of the water obstacle. Remembering the river we crossed yesterday, we thought that it would be at most... well, for some, waist-deep.

By 9 a.m., a satisfied watchman arrived, having learned about our intentions - his eyes widened! - “What are you talking about – it’s 5 meters deep!” Hmmm... No one wanted to check - there was only one thing left to do - say goodbye to the sea and go deep into the valley, into civilization, under the already scorching late morning sun, along the road along the endless swamps. They walked in short dashes from one faint shadow to another, entertaining their brains with logic games. An hour later, the endless swamp gave way to endless greenhouses.

In both directions - as far as the eye can see - there are cucumbers, tomatoes, even roses under glass and film. Some miserable shacks, apparently this is where the greenhouse workers live.

Then the village became more civilized, the road became a paved street, the houses became stone, there was even a store. We bought food supplies and treated ourselves to ice cream. In response to our request to honestly buy (!) a tomato, the owner just laughed, dived into a nearby greenhouse, and emerged with a huge bag of fresh tomatoes and peppers just off the bush.

At the exit from the village there are another historical ruins, the ruins of the ancient city of Letoon - the holy city of the Lycian Federation. The name of the city comes from Leto, the mother of Apollo and Artemis. Three local temples were dedicated to these three mythical characters. There is a legend that:

... the nymph Leto was the beloved of Zeus. The jealous wife of Zeus, the goddess Hera, constantly pursued her and did not give her peace. In search of a place where she could calmly give birth to the children of Zeus - the twins Apollo and Artemis, she stopped at a spring to drink. But the local shepherds drove her away. After a successful birth, Summer returned back to the source and punished the shepherds who did not allow her to quench her thirst by turning them into frogs.

Nowadays, the ruins of the temple and the spring with the carefree croaking descendants of those frogs have been partially restored with concrete inserts skillfully disguised as antiquity, and partially immersed in the swamp. Nearby stands the bulk of a well-preserved ancient amphitheater, the entrance to which leads through a covered gallery.

We climbed into the territory as always - through a hole in the fence. Some of them got out there. The rest decided to show consciousness at the exit and support the Turkish economy.

Noon. Heat. The stuffiness of the narrow streets of the village. Asphalt and brains melt. I'm already tired of walking through civilization. After consulting, we decided to devote the remaining 24 hours before leaving for Cappadocia to explore the coastal section of the trail from Kalkan to Patara, thus closing the circle and going to the opposite end of the beach we loved so much.

Right in the middle of the village, we caught a ride to Xanthos, examined another ruins, and finally boarded a dolmus to Kalkan. Before we even touched the seats, everyone fell asleep.

Kalkan. A picturesque town with white terraces running down to the sea. Well maintained and clean. Flowers and palm trees. A city of hotels and rich villas. And if the fence is on private territory, then it must be stone and two meters high. The general direction of our trail is clear, but the exact track found on the Internet is from last year, and the outskirts of Kalkan have grown and built up greatly during this time. It took a lot of wandering up and down until my favorite marking finally loomed before my eyes.

We saw the markings, but not the actual trail. No matter how hard we tried. It looks like the last time only her marker passed through here. And he was a mountain goat. Moreover, dwarf.

Diving under the thorny trees, pushing aside the thorny bushes, sprawling between the stones, we escaped from the forest onto the slope of the hill. And then everything is the same. But - a traverse over a 100-meter cliff with an obligatory view of the beautiful bay! Trees - if they grow, then in the most convenient area for passage. And if you want to go around the branches, you will definitely crash into some particularly thorny bush. It cannot be said that it is completely vertical - there is always somewhere to put your foot and where to grab your hand. But it's scary. And if you look back, it’s completely unrealistic to determine where you were walking a minute earlier.

And most importantly, blinded by the rays of the setting sun, your eyes stubbornly cling to the distant wonderful beach in the cove and naively want to believe that all this marked disgrace will lead there. Preferably before dark.

After an hour of climbing, thorny stones were added to the thorny trees and bushes. And you have to pull yourself up, clinging to them with your hands. Then we jumped a little on the wonderful scree, and when it suddenly became level under our feet, and our eyes rested on a stone with the inscription “5A” - everyone laughed uncontrollably - they say, we have passed the category pass!:))

And the path eventually led to a huge ancient stone viaduct to a wonderful, flat, clean clearing with fire pits. There is a good parking place for everyone - only the nearest source of fresh water is a kilometer away, at a gas station on the highway.

And, of course, there is a descent to that coveted beach from here - but no one had the desire to look for it. Already in the semi-darkness they collected firewood, set up tents, Kirill went to fetch water, and closer to night they even made a delicious Turkish camp soup.

The lights of the yachts in the bay were quietly winking, despite the protection of the rocks, and a warm breeze was blowing through the parking lot. Having made a vow to ourselves that tomorrow we would certainly go to the beach, we fell asleep.

May 16. Long road over the sea. Goodbye Lykia!

In the morning, meditating over a very conventional “official map” of the trail, I had to make a choice - to go to Patara over the sea or through the highway. The first sentence sounded much nicer, but after an hour or two we realized that “above the sea” means high, high “above.” Only once did the path come close to a nice little secluded beach, we allowed ourselves a little bliss of sea bathing, and then we stupidly, long, tediously sawed and sawed through the open space in the heat towards the pass, then cast a sad look at all this beauty from above - and realized that the evening bus to Cappadocia would not be waiting for us, and the Antalya bus station was still more than two hundred kilometers away.

A quick snack under a concrete canopy somewhere among the streets of Patara, a ride to Kalkan - and now the beauties of other, not yet conquered, sections of the Lycian Way flash before your eyes at the speed of an intercity bus.

And the look marks the key points - “Damn, a person must have a future!” Villages and towns, sometimes a dizzying serpentine road, sometimes a road as smooth as an arrow, are wound and wound on the wheels for kilometers. The sunset is dying, the night wraps the mountains in a black blanket, and people fall asleep... Very soon new adventures await them...