Tuesday 10 May 2011

Istanbul (1): The Blue Mosque, Haghia Sofia and the Bosphorus

The Capital of Two Once Mighty Empires and a Channel that Divides Europe from Asia

Introducing Istanbul

Turkey

Istanbul is vast. The homes and businesses of its fifteen million inhabitants - twenty per cent of the entire Turkish population - cover both sides of the Bosphorus and sprawl down the European coast of the Sea of Marmara. The centre and most of the history is on the European side which is split by the Golden Horn, a magnificent name for a modest jellyfish-filled creek running into the Bosphorus. To the north is the modern centre, to the south, on an easily defended peninsula bounded by the Golden Horn, the Bosphorus and the Sea of Marmara, is the ancient capital of first the Byzantine and then the Ottoman Empires.

Istanbul on the South East Corner of Europe

Sultanahmet Peninsula

Old Istanbul has narrow, cobbled streets, mosques by the hundred, bazaars by the dozen, and one modern - if usually packed - tramway running round its edge.

The tourist heart of Istanbul. This post is about the Sultanahmet peninsula and the Bosphorus

The Column of Constantine

On our first morning we walked from our hotel to the tip of the peninsula. We followed the tramway and passed the Column of Constantine on the way. Erected in 330 AD in what was then the forum, it once supported Constantine dressed as Apollo. He fell off in 1107 and the 35m stump, though carefully preserved, looks rather forlorn, crammed between tramway and shops. Interred in the concrete base is the axe Noah used to make the Ark, Mary Magdalene’s oil phial and the leftovers from the feeding of the five thousand. If you believe that, you may also believe it contains one of Shergar's hooves and Lord Lucan's left arm.

Constantine's Column, Istanbul

Hippodrome

Peeling away from the tramway, we descended the hill to the hippodrome. Built in 200 AD, little now remains of the 100,000 seat stadium but the space is preserved, as are some of the monuments marking the spina, including the obligatory looted Egyptian obelisk.

The obligatory looted Egyptian obelisk
Hippodrome, Istanbul

Turkish football fans are renowned for occasionally losing their sense of proportion, but they are nothing compared to the fans of chariot racing. Fighting between ‘the Blues’ and ‘the Greens’ in 532 developed into the Nika Revolt. The Emperor Justinian eventually restored order by massacring 30,000 Greens in the Hippodrome. Given the number of tourists it is hardly a peaceful place today, but it is free of murderous Romans.

The Byzantine and Ottoman Empires

Byzantium was founded in the 7th century BC and spent its first millennium as an increasingly prosperous trading centre. It was of no great political importance until being rebuilt in the early 4th century AD by the Roman Emperor Constantine, who modestly renamed it Constantinople. In 395 the Roman Empire split and the city became first the eastern capital and then, when the western empire disintegrated in 476, the sole capital. It seems inappropriate that a Greek speaking empire that did not include Rome was still known as the Roman Empire, but that is what its citizens called it. It was not dubbed the 'Byzantine Empire' until a century after its destruction - and that was equally inappropriate as the name 'Byzantium' had dropped out of use two hundred years before the empire came into existence. The doubly misnamed empire reached its zenith under Justinian, he of the Hippodrome massacre. Throughout most of the Middle Ages, Constantinople was Europe’s largest and richest city, but the empire was undergoing a slow but inexorable decline. By 1453 nothing was left but the city, now surrounded by the emerging Ottoman Empire.

Mehmet the Conqueror took Constantinople for the Ottomans in 1453; the resulting westward flight of the city’s cultured elite helping to kick-start the Renaissance.

The Blue Mosque

The great palace of the Byzantine Emperors stood next to the hippodrome, on the site now occupied by the Blue Mosque. Built between 1609 and 1616 for Sultan Ahmet I it was the last great mosque of the Ottoman classical period. It was criticised for its size and splendour at a time when the empire was struggling, and for its six minarets – a sacrilegious attempt to rival the architecture of Mecca.

A graceful cascade of domes and semi-domes
The Blue Mosque, Istanbul

We entered the walled courtyard, which covers an area as the big as the mosque itself. From here the building, too big to photograph satisfactorily, is a graceful cascade of domes and semi-domes. It remains an active mosque so there is no entrance fee, but that does not mean there no queue. Leaving the courtyard we found the eastern entrance and a patient line of people waiting to funnel through a narrow arch. As in all mosques visitors are required to remove their shoes, but with the number of tourists and a one way system in operation the usual system of leaving your shoes in a rack is not practical. We filed past the plastic bag dispenser and took a bag each. Based on a non-randomised sample of two it would seem that 100% of the handles break as soon as you try to carry your shoes, so you end up clutching them to your chest. Signs request women to cover their heads; scarves were available, but those who reached for them were told, ‘no need, don’t bother’.

The dome of the Blue Mosque, Istanbul

The blue tiles that gave the Mosque its name dominate the vast interior, but there are pinks and greens, too and they along with over 250 windows give a feeling of space and light. The huge interior sits under a vast dome set upon another even bigger dome supported by ‘elephant leg’ pillars, too fat to be elegant. Despite this, and the crowd, it has an air of calmness and serenity.

At the exit you find yourself looking across 200 metres of gardens at another massive domed building.

Hagia Sophia

The first Hagia Sophia burnt down in 404 and the second was destroyed in the Nika Revolt of 532. Justinian, being a devout Christian (the sort of devout Christian who murders 30,000 people in a hippodrome), immediately set about building a new church. Completed in 536 it is considered the greatest architectural achievement of the Byzantine Empire and it is obvious how much the Blue Mosque, built over a thousand years later, owes to its neighbour.

Hagia Sophia, Istanbul

With the arrival of the Ottomans, Hagia Sophia became a mosque. The four minarets, rockets on ugly concrete pedestals, added little architecturally, while internally Islamic decorations were added but the ancient Christian mosaics were left undamaged. In 1935 the building was secularised and is now a museum.[Update:It became a mosque again in July 2020]

We sat in a café between the two buildings watching the empty tour buses roll past. They drop their cargo outside the Blue Mosque and pick them up again after Hagia Sophia. After drinking Turkish coffee in many different places, this was our first in Turkey. It was disappointing, but that is what you get for using a café in the heart of the tourist area.

Queue negotiated and money paid we entered Hagia Sophia. The space inside is even bigger than the Blue Mosque but just as crowded. Fewer windows and the lack of shiny tiles mean the interior is dark and sombre. The floor plan is clearly that of a basilica, but the fittings are Islamic. There is a mihrab to locate the direction of Mecca, a minbar – performing the same function as a pulpit, but very differently designed – and marble platforms for reading the Koran. A marble circle marks the spot where the Byzantine emperors were crowned. This is the omphalos, the centre of the world. The last time we visited the centre of the world it was in Beijing, on the spot where Chinese emperors were crowned. Travellers may notice inconsistencies in mondial centrality, but the ego of emperors varies little. Above, Christian mosaics sit easily alongside Arabic calligraphy.

Lynne at the Centre of the World?
Ompholos, Hagia Sophia, Istanbul

A gallery affords a closer look at some mosaics and reveals others that cannot be seen from the ground. Over a thousand years old, they have been recently restored and are a remarkable sight. An exhibition of photographs of the restored mosaics stands in the north gallery. Photographer Ahmet Ertuğ’s work is impressive and connoisseurs of irony can enjoy watching people photographing photographs while standing with their backs to the originals.

Constantine, Virgin & Child, Justinian
Hagia Sophia, Istanbul

Lunch in Sultanahmet

Like any tourist honey pot, Sultanahmet offers a wide range of overpriced restaurants serving mediocre food. We were pleased to find a rooftop terrace which provided a reasonably priced cheese salad and a beer. To quote our daughter Siân, ‘Turkish food is meat, bread and salad in varying combinations’. The meat tends towards dullness, but the bread is good and varied, white and brown, flat breads and leavened breads, and the salads are crisp and fresh, containing something apparently unobtainable in England – tomatoes that actually taste of tomato.

Rooftop terrace overlooking Hagia Sophia, Istanbul

The Golden Horn and an Afternoon Trip on the Bosphorus

As the sun was shining, though it was not warm, we decided on an afternoon trip on the Bosphorus, so we walked down to the Golden Horn. The waterbuses have their berths around the Galata bridge, and those doing trips for tourists soon make themselves known to any obvious stranger.

Surprisingly, most of our fellow cruisers were Turkish. The sun shone from a largely blue sky, but the wind was keen and we huddled together on the open deck. Pulling away, we looked back at the Süleymaniye mosque on its hill above the dock. Finer than the Blue Mosque, though less visited, its profile is the most instantly recognisable view of Istanbul. We passed under the Galata bridge, dodging the dangling lines from the fishermen above, and made our way across the Bosphorus to Üsküdar, better known in English as Scutari where the Selimiye barracks, the site of Florence Nightingale’s hospital, still stand.

The Galata Bridge over the Golden Horn, Istanbul

The Bosphorus is 30 Km long and in some places as narrow as 600 m. We passed under the first Bosphorus bridge and cruised north along the Asian shore for an hour to the Fatih Sultan Mehmet suspension bridge built where the Persian emperor Darius assembled a pontoon bridge on his way to invade Greece. Nearby is an Ottoman castle constructed in 1452 just before the assault on the city. We returned along the European shore. Both shores are lined with the houses of the wealthy. On the Asian side there are a couple of nineteenth century palaces, while on both sides there are carefully landscaped neighbourhoods of large, comfortable modern dwellings.

Beylerbeyi Palace beside the Bosphorus

Our walk back across the centre of the peninsula took us through both the Spice Market and the Grand Bazaar, of which more later. That night we dined at a Lokanta, a cheap restaurant where much of the food is displayed in metal containers by the entrance. Neither of us ever eats Doner Kebab (or, in Turkish, Kebap) at home, but we made an exception because we were in Turkey. We felt no need to repeat the experiment.

Leavings the Fatih Sultan Mehmet bridge, Bosphorus
Istanbul

Saturday 30 April 2011

Republican* Ramble Round Ramshaw Rocks

* Trans-Atlantic readers should, on no account, attempt to interpret this word in an American context.

The Roaches, Gib Torr and the Ramshaws, Staffordshire Rocks

Where are We, and Why are We Here on this of All Days?

Staffordshire
Staffordshire
Moorlands

I wish Kate and Woss-is-name all the best, I really do, though I don’t actually know them. I am always happy to attend the wedding celebrations of any relative or friend who is kind enough to invite me, but my appetite for watching the televised splicing of a pair of complete strangers is minimal, to say the least.

So I bade a fond farewell to Lynne, royalist, romantic and, for yesterday at least, couch-potato and with the words ‘miserable old git’ ringing in my ears drove to Stone. There, by pre-arranged coincidence, I met Lee, Francis and Brian whose misery and gittishness matched mine. Lee drove us through Longton and Leek to the Peak District where there were no flag waving crowds, no sycophantic television presenters and no silly hats.

I will not claim that every member of the party believes that in a mature democracy the people should be trusted to choose the figurehead of state rather than leaving it to an accident of birth, so maybe ‘Republican Ramble’ is a slight exaggeration, but with royalists sprawled over every television channel not devoted to shopping, I feel justified.

We are fortunate in not only having Cannock Chase, Britain’s smallest Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty within twenty minutes drive, but also having the 500 square miles of the Peak District, our oldest National Park, less than an hour away.

Despite its name the Peak District contains few real peaks – nor is this southern section, The White Peak, particularly white - but the two kilometre long rocky outcrop of the Roaches, with the detached hill of Hen Cloud at one end is a dramatic landmark visible from miles around.

The Roaches, Peak District National Park

From the lay-by outside the Roaches Tea Room – of which more later – we walked up into the gap between Hen Cloud and the Roaches. On the penultimate day of the warmest and driest April on record the sun shone, as we have come to expect, but a strong north east wind with a distinctly bitter edge was enough to induce a few shivers.

Going up

A little higher up there is a view across Hen Cloud.

Hen Cloud from the Roaches

Here the path levels off and runs below the ridge through a stand of larches, like a strangely misplaced Japanese garden. Sheltered from the wind this was a very pleasant stroll.

A strangely misplaced Japanese garden

The Roaches is much frequented by rock climbers. Our two hundred metre climb to the highest point of the ridge may not have require ropes, but it was steep enough to justify my use of poles and to ensure most breath was reserved for walking. A little remained available for moaning about the wind but none was spent speculating about Kate’s dress, what she was thinking or the state of Wills’ nerves.

We were soon up on the top where the wind brought tears to the eye and threatened to blow my hat – and possibly me as well - into the valley below. So why does it look so calm in my photo?

On top of the Roaches, looking calmer than it felt

The walk along the top, past the trig point marking the highest point at 505m and down to Roache End 100m.

On top of the Roaches

Descending at the end of the Roaches we found a dry-stone wall where we could sit out of the wind and drink some coffee. Francis moved away to water another section of the wall. Five minutes later, a wind-swept party crossed the stile and commented on our snug position. They walked on and sat down at the exact spot where Francis had taken his pee. We didn’t like to tell them - they looked so comfy - and what they eye doesn’t see……

From here the usual route is eastwards, towards the well kept beers of the Ship in Danebridge, but for once we went the other way, descending into the valley...

Into the valley

towards Black Brook in the deep valley behind the Roaches.

Francis crosses Black Brook

The path, sometimes rocky, sometimes sandy, descends gently through the heather. Two thirds of the way down and far away to our right I heard my first cuckoo of the spring. Nobody else seemed that convinced. A minute later, much closer and to our left there was no doubt. Hearing a cuckoo is always pleasing but hardly unusual, actually seeing one is rare. It flew, barely thirty metres away, from one tree to the next. Brian, a birder for many years, claimed a ‘lifer’, saying it was his first ever cuckoo. Francis and Brian each raised several hundred pounds worth of binoculars. Lee peered through a pair he bought for £20 at a car boot sale. I just squinted upwards. When a bird sits on the far side of a tree in full leaf, it matters little how much you paid for your binoculars; it was as invisible to Francis’ precision optics as it was to my naked eye.

Lee looks for an invisible cuckoo

We followed the stream to the sound of curlews, usually easier to spot than cuckoos but hiding on this occasion and past Goldsitch house, which was surrounded by a swirl of swallows (we spotted the first of these three weeks ago near Milwich). Francis confidently identified a bird on a telephone wire as being a willow warbler. It was not much to look at, but it made a big noise for a small bird.

Climbing towards Gib Torr we encountered an area of peat bog, though the exceptionally dry April had turned the usual treacherous stickiness into a springy carpet. We heard a red grouse, which strangely likes this sort of territory, and watched it settle on the rocks, clearly visible against the skyline.

Gib Torr Rocks

From Gib Tor Rocks we descended to the minor road and thence to the A53 at The Royal Cottage, a pub that is not actually closed but never seems to be open – even on a royal day such as this. A hundred metres further on the more welcoming Winking Man provided a well-priced sandwich and relatively cheap pint of Black Sheep or Hancocks HB (choices and opinions were divided).

The pub is named after a formation on the Ramshaw rocks and that was where we headed after lunch. Although close to the A53 we approached the rocks by first following a minor road into the moorland to allow a more gentle ascent from the north east. Having safely negotiated a morning of rocky paths, some of them quite steep and tricky, it was on the flat metalled road that I turned my ankle. It was painful and accompanied by a worryingly loud crunching noise.

I continued, hoping to walk it off. We climbed through the heather and up onto the rocks. The Ramshaw Rocks are as high as the Roaches but stand out less from the surrounding elevated moorland. They are also a gritstone outcrop, but more twisted and weathered than the Roaches and dramatic in their own quiet way. The Winking Man resembles a face with a hole for the eye but passing above it we missed the best view. There was another rock, however, which had a wink that seemed more convincing than a mere hole.

Not really the Winking Man

The descent was steep and difficult, particularly when trying to protect arthritic knees and an increasingly sore ankle. It was slow going, for me at least, and the others had to wait at the bottom – for which I apologise.

Among the Ramshaw Rocks

From here we dropped into a pretty dell behind Hen Cloud, worked our way round to the gap before the Roaches and back down to the road where a Park Ranger had set up some impressive telescopes and cameras in a lay-by. A pair of peregrine falcons is nesting on Hen Cloud for the third successive year and after raising three chicks from five eggs last year it is hoped that they have settled there. Despite his equipment, the ranger had seen neither the peregrines nor the resident kestrel. All he had to show us was jackdaws wheeling across the crag face. Jackdaws are regular visitors to my garden bird feeder, so I was not that excited.

Into the dell behind Hen Cloud

A detour into the Roaches Tea Room was now obligatory. Some had cake while others - well Brian (Hilary please note) - settled for just a cup of tea. We had a pot of Earl Grey, originally blended for the nineteenth century Prime Minister of that name who may have been an aristocrat but was nevertheless a thoroughgoing democrat (Great Reform Act 1832). Lee had a latte, which is not named after the legendary Italian reformer Giuseppe Latte. By the time we moved on, my ankle had stiffened up considerably.

I spent the evening with my elevated leg attached to an ice pack. I woke this morning to see my ankle swollen and a bruise beginning to form. Below the bone is an angry red cross over a blue background against the whiteness of flesh that rarely sees the sun. It may be God’s way of telling me that He picks the head of state round here and I should accept it with due reverence. On the other hand (or rather foot) it might just be a bruise.

Saturday 9 April 2011

The Stone Circle (2): Fulford to Sandon Bank

The Middle Day of a 60Km Circular Walk around the Town of Stone

Leaving Fulford

Staffordshire
Stafford Borough

Fulford is a pleasant village, but we spent more time there than intended. After pulling on our boots Mike, Lee, Francis and I spent some time wandering up and down the road trying to find the footpath. A gap between two houses did lead into the fields but was clearly in the wrong place and not obviously a right of way. After satisfying ourselves there was no other route we were about to set off when a passing paramedic stopped his ambulance and confirmed we were heading in the right direction, which was nice of him – I just hope he wasn’t on his way to an emergency.

Beyond the houses we found an overgrown and dilapidated stile in roughly the right place and crossed the fields to Greensitch Farm. Looking back, we could trace our path through the dewy grass, but the unseasonably warm sunshine suggested the dew would not last long. Finding our way through the farmyard was a challenge, but eventually we struck out southwest on a well-defined bridleway. The official Stone Circles route takes the minor road out of Fulford, linking with the bridleway later. The footpath, though, is clearly marked on the map, if apparently rarely used.

....we could trace our path through the dewy grass...
Fulford

Fulford to Millwich

Despite some mud - horses churn up the surface in even the driest spring - the bridleway was a pleasant path, rising gently to the minor road where we turned west onto a concrete track past New Buildings Farm - not the most resonant of names, nor any longer, the truest.

Undulating fields

Turning south, we spent the rest of the morning in undulating fields with the occasional bosky dell and meandering stream. Francis described this countryside as bland, and to some extent he was right; we climbed no steep hills, descended into no deep ravines and saw no great views unfold before us. On the other hand, it is always pleasing to walk in gentle sunshine through rich pastures lined with trees bursting into leaf. The varied greens were fresh and full of promise, the blackthorns were covered in snowy-white blossom, and the stinging nettles - and this is important when you are wearing shorts – had hardly raised their heads above the ground.

Blackthorn covered in snowy-white blossom

Not so long ago the sight of a buzzard was worthy of comment, now it is commonplace to see a pair circling overhead or being chased off by an anxious crow (or possibly rook). We sat in a field to drink our coffee and watched a chaffinch perching on the fence and two blue tits checking out a hole in a gnarled oak as a potential nest site. Further on, the clear and unmistakable song of a chiffchaff (well, it was clear and unmistakable once I had asked Francis what it was) filled the valley.

Coffee with added birdsong

After 5 km of field paths we reached Milwich, a pleasant village though its name presents a pronunciation problem. Francis lives in Baswich, pronounced ‘Baz-itch’. Nearby Colwich, on the other hand, is always ‘Coll-witch’. Milwich looks like a word where the ‘w’ is asking to be pronounced, but Mike’s local knowledge assured us ‘Mill-itch’ is correct. Consistency was never the strong point of English spelling.

Milwich to Weston

However it is pronounced, Milwich features a pub, which is still open, and an old and characterful school building. A sparrow hawk flew down the street just above ground level and perched on a garden fence.

Milwich's old school

From here we reversed the route we had taken in the Baswich to Swynnerton walk until Coton Mill Farm. On Mill Lane, the first swallow of summer sat on a telephone wire, enjoying the sun but maybe wondering if he had arrived a tad too early.

Later we breasted a low rise and crossed a stile into a field of sheep, each ewe accompanied by one or, more often, two lambs, still at the age when they stay close by their mothers. From this elevated position, and amid much baa-ing, we were able to gain the mandatory glimpse of Rugeley power station, its cooling towers just poking above the distant hump of Cannock Chase.

The mandatory (if distant) view of Rugeley Power Station

After Gayton we left the official route, which precedes directly to Salt via the Sandon Estate and diverted through the village of Weston in search of lunch.

We approached the A51 intending to take a field path to what we assumed would be an underpass. Seeing no obvious exit from the field we walked towards the A51 and then took a slip road beside it – presumably an earlier incarnation of the main road itself. We soon realised we were walking into a cul-de-sac, the only underpass being already full of the main West Coast Railway line. As we turned the landowner chugged up beside us on a sort of motorised bedstead, turned off the ignition with a screwdriver and engaged us in conversation.

He did not mind there being a footpath across his land, he said, but wondered where it went. He had a point as it clearly went nowhere. He then wondered why the council had sent two men to spend a day putting a stile next to his gate, which he never closed. He furthered wondered why they had planted the post for a finger sign right next to the railway’s nine foot iron fence. He seemed to think we should have answers for these questions, but we could offer little but sympathy and a suggestion that he write to the County Footpaths Officer. To ensure he had his story right he explained it all to us again, and then once more to be certain. We tried to leave as he started the fourth run through, it was half past one, lunch was still twenty minutes away across the A51 and the beer was calling, but we heard him out again, just to be polite.

It had been a long morning by the time we reached Weston. We sat in the sun outside the Saracen's Head and enjoyed a sandwich and a couple of pints of ‘Dog Father Ale’, an excellent beer though the name must have looked better in the planning meeting than it does on a beer pump.

Weston to Salt

Our afternoon walk was a mere 3 kilometres as the crow flies, but our non-corvine navigation turned it into 5. We started with a zig up the Trent and Mersey canal and followed it with a zag through Salt and south towards Hopton Heath. Just after leaving the canal we re-crossed the Trent. I remarked on how much it looked like the Danube at this point, but nobody took me seriously.

Along the Trent & Mersey Canal

Salt, Hopton Heath and Sandonw Bank

From the canal, we were again briefly on the official route. We walked through Salt and up the steepish slope to the woods overlooking Hopton where the Parliamentarian rearguard stood at the battle of Hopton Heath.

Looking back towards Salt

Leaving the official route again to avoid repeating last autumn’s walk over the battlefield and past the somewhat underwhelming monument, we zigged northeast, making a long, gentle descent to the minor road. A swift climb up Sandon Bank took us to the Seven Stars Pub where Francis’ car was parked. The building looked as sad as only a derelict pub can look.

Francis was unimpressed by the morning’s walk, but I enjoyed strolling over lush fields under a cloudless sky. The afternoon section, though brief, had been more varied and involved more contours - and had been completed under the same warm sun. We encountered one path which should have been signed but wasn’t and one that was signed but should not have been – and took an ear-bashing for our trouble. Otherwise the footpaths were well signed and the stiles in good repair, as they usually are in Staffordshire.

It would be nice to think that Part 3, scheduled for May 21st , would attract the same benign conditions. Unfortunately, when it comes to weather, all the planning in the world guarantees nothing.