In London History crowds you. It jostles you, knocks your drinking arm and spills your pint. In Oxford Street Celtic hordes push you out of the way, Norman policeman move you on and Saxon shop keepers ignore you. Shakespeare edits the local gazette, Dr Johnson corrects your language at school and Pepys sells you slightly charred parmesan cheese. It burns and rises and crashes and burns. And rises again.
Here, in Rough Cilicia, History is older, more tired. It waits for you to find it. It camps in the mountains, enjoying the view. It lies in the sea, letting the waves wash away the dirt of millennia. It sits by rivers and under cliffs and in the cool of caves. It watches you. It remembers Cleopatra’s beauty and Alexander’s ambition. Hittites, Persians and Romans all passed through, darkening the bath towels.
It lets you pass by without troubling you. But if you do stop to pass the time of day it rewards you with the hospitality of strangers. It makes you comfortable. It entertains you and then helps you on your way, leaving it as you found it. Untouched. Untouchable.