Gallipoli – Day 2

A Quiet Encounter on the Open Road

It was still early morning, and the narrow road stretching from Güneyli to Ocaklı lay utterly still beneath my feet. There wasn’t a single passing car. The silence was so complete, I could hear each footstep echo softly against the bitumen.

This calm was soon interrupted by the distant hum of an approaching engine. I turned my head as a vehicle with Istanbul plates slowly passed me, then pulled up a few hundred metres ahead. A man and a woman stepped out and began surveying the nearby fields, casting the occasional glance toward the lone figure—me—walking steadily behind.

It took me six or seven minutes to catch up with them. As I drew near, they paused their conversation and greeted me with warm smiles, which I returned in kind. Our casual chat revealed that they had driven all the way from Istanbul in search of land to build a home in this serene corner of the world.

Of course, their curiosity about my walk got the better of them, and they asked several questions. We exchanged stories—and soon, Instagram accounts. As we said goodbye, we left each other with an unexpected sense of connection, the kind that only the open road and chance encounters can create.

A Morning Scene from Another Time

The gravel road stretched across a series of rolling hills on the way to Değirmendüzü, flanked on both sides by scattered pine groves. It offered, without hesitation, breathtaking glimpses of the land’s raw beauty to anyone passing through.

I can’t quite remember another walk I’ve enjoyed this much—perhaps it was the way history seemed to unfold with each step. Knowing the stories held by these lands made the entire experience feel both meaningful and quietly exhilarating.

As I passed through the village of Fındıklı, a small pickup truck caught my eye. It was transporting crates of fresh fruit and vegetables from one village to another. Three people were onboard. The driver—around 55, large-bellied, with a salt-and-pepper stubble and thick moustache—was talking with ease. Despite the time being only 10:30 in the morning, the village appeared utterly still, like it hadn’t yet awoken.

Just then, an elderly woman—perhaps in her seventies—approached from a nearby house, holding a woven basket. The driver clearly knew her. He stepped down, kissed her hand respectfully, and casually tossed the basket to a teenage boy sitting in the back of the truck. The lad, probably sixteen, had jet-black hair and heavy brows, and silently caught the basket mid-air. Without pause, the woman began giving him instructions—what to add, what to remove.

I stood for a moment, quietly observing this interaction. It felt like something from another time—a kind of local exchange that was both practical and steeped in tradition. There was something deeply human in that simple scene, something you couldn’t learn unless you happened to be right there, watching.

A Question Without an Answer

After a while, as the rising sun began to tighten its grip and the lingering scent of dung thickened the village air, I realised it was time to move on. The heat, the smell, the stillness—it was all a gentle but firm nudge back to the road.

Before leaving, I had a quick chat with the teenage boy at the back of the vegetable truck. He fired off a few curious questions, and I answered as simply as I could. But what lingered with me was his puzzled expression—he didn’t quite know what to make of me, or my answers. When I mentioned how far I’d walked, his eyebrows shot up in disbelief. His only real question was: Why?

I knew my answer wouldn’t satisfy him. Still, I said with a smile, “Honestly, I don’t really know why… Maybe to learn things I don’t yet know. Maybe to meet people I’ve never met.”

But he kept staring at me with the same baffled eyes, as if the whole idea still made no sense. And I understood. For him, such a goal was too distant, too abstract—maybe even a little ridiculous.

I walked away smiling, content that at the very least, I’d given him a story to laugh about with his mates that evening. Maybe, one day, it might even mean something more.

The Road That Wouldn’t End

After Değirmendüzü village, the road unfolded into an ever-climbing terrain. Each time I thought I’d finally reached the top of a hill, I’d realise the road was still rising—mocking me, stretching further, always upwards.

It was then that the truth struck me like a stone: for years, I had been training in entirely the wrong environment. My city walks, my workouts at sea level—they hadn’t prepared me for this. Not really. Out here, every step carried the weight of the landscape. And the hills had no sympathy.

On one particularly punishing incline, something inside me snapped—not in pain, but in surrender. I stopped. Looked around. Then, without a second thought, I stripped off my shirt and sat down right there in the middle of the road.

For a moment, the world was utterly still. No cars. No voices. Just me, my breath, and the sound of wind brushing across the rising earth.

A Quiet Witness

Tamer reached me not long after. Every time he asked how tired I was, I found myself wondering if he was actually sent along to test my patience. There he was again—taking the chance to snap a few photos of me slouched in the middle of the road, sweat-soaked and silent. I simply smiled back at him, saying nothing. It felt like time had come to a standstill.

But just then, as if to gently remind me that the world was still turning, a butterfly appeared—graceful, delicate, unbothered. It fluttered around me, as if inspecting the scene. For a fleeting moment, it even seemed to pose beside this exhausted figure sitting on the warm asphalt. Caught in the frame of our camera, it became the quiet witness to my struggle—and maybe my stubbornness, too.

Racing the Light

I still had 10 kilometres to go before reaching Tayfur Village—my final destination for the second day. We needed to get there before darkness fell and find a suitable place to camp. The road ahead was flanked on both sides by pistachio pine trees, their branches reaching out like quiet companions.

As we passed beneath them, I had a sudden, almost childlike urge to stop and gather the cones scattered beneath the trees—cones packed with precious pine nuts. But there was no time for distractions. I was racing against the fading light, and the shadows were already beginning to stretch across the road.

When we finally reached the outskirts of Tayfur, I noticed something odd. Unlike every other village we’d entered so far, there were no shepherd dogs rushing out to greet—or challenge—us. The silence felt strange, almost hollow. A village with no dogs? That, in itself, felt like a story waiting to be told.

The Village Coffee House

The village coffee house stood at the base of a modest two-storey building, just off the traditional square. Out front was a semi-open porch area with a corrugated metal roof, where locals sat and chatted in the fading light.

As we pulled up and parked nearby, our Istanbul license plates clearly caught a few curious eyes—the low hum of conversation dipped for a moment, and several heads turned our way. We offered a polite nod and a quick “good evening,” and just as quickly, the chatter resumed. It was as though we’d passed some unspoken test of village etiquette—acknowledged, but not fussed over.

Inside was another large hall, warmed by a gently crackling stove. We found a quiet table in the corner and sat down. A young man in his late twenties—whom we later learned was named Anıl—welcomed us with a friendly smile and a firm handshake. Over the next four hours, Anıl would serve us glass after glass of fragrant winter tea, the kind that warms more than just our hands.

Since I didn’t carry a solar charger with me on the road, these village stops became essential charging points for my devices—phone, GoPro, smartwatch. That night, the Tayfur Village Coffee House became not just a place to recharge our batteries, but also our bodies and minds.