I woke as we neared the Syrian border, my left cheek clammy and wrinkled. Saliva had collected on the headrest of my reclined bus seat, and gone cold. I rubbed life back into rubbery skin, and looked outside. The land was drier than yesterday, when I had watched the sun set over central Turkey through the same window. Olive trees clung to brittle soil, their roots shabbily exposed. Adding theirs to other muted greens, they pushed a withered face above the ground’s gradual undulations. (Read on …)

The bedroom was icy. Fresh breaths of arctic air sifted through unseen cracks, under the door, through the glass. My foot lay exposed. I snuck it back under the weight of blankets piled on top of me: three of them, thick and soft.

A steel cylinder stood in the corner of the room, stuffed with newspaper. A fire, waiting to be lit. It would have to wait. Behind the curtains lay another land: a land of eerie undulations in the earth, pointed stone chambers, forgotten homes. Giant cones of volcanic tuff congregated in clusters, watching over this frozen village, Göreme. (Read on …)

My mother and Willie Turnbull, the author of this article, joined me for a week in Turkey while Claire was away, attending her mother’s wedding. I forced our swift schedule on them; they forced relief from The Budget on me. Willie offered to write this article. I gleefully accepted, but insisted that the title be “Gosh, Prayers and Broken Windows.” “Gosh” because Willie – who hadn’t, like me, been travelling for months – used the word (perhaps too often) to express his newfound wonder. The “Prayers and Broken Windows” had more to do with Willie being Scottish, and await his explanation… (Read on …)