ANOTHER DAY, ANOTHER BAY

CAPTAIN TUNCAY was the hero of our voyage. Raven-haired and twinkle-eyed, he is three times winner, twice runner up, of the Bodrum Cup, the annual race of Turkey’s famous traditional sailing boats, the gulet. Yet a more modest mariner would be hard to find. With an additional crew of three, who never seemed to tire or sleep, our every needs were catered for on a week’s sublime sail along the lonely coast of Lycia, the southernmost sag of the Anatolian coast.

Our boat was the 126-tonne Randa. Beautifully crafted in pine and teak, 28 metres long with a main mast just as tall, she whistled through the waves. Rigged to a unique design, she has 750 sq metres of sail: a Genoa, small Genoa and mainsail, and in between a mizzen and a “fisherman’s sail”, which looks upside down, governed by a distinctive wishbone brace between the two masts. And when the wind is blowing from behind, a 500 sq metre spinnaker gives it Poseiden’s extra puff. It is a proud claim of Tussock Cruising (now called SCIC – Sailing Cruises in Comfort) and that no other company’s boats spend so much time in real sailing.

We passengers are a motley bunch, nine of us on this 16-berth yacht, from Canada and Catalonia, Belgium, Holland, London, Norwich. Our en-suite cabins are handsomely fitted out in rich mahogany, with plump cushions and hammam towels, and the showers are efficiently hot. Each morning after breakfast the bell rings for Captain Tuncay’s briefing. Spreading his chart across the table and flexing his dividers, he explains what the wind is doing, points to possibilities and suggests itineraries. We are in his hands; he has our full trust.

Our plane from Gatwick had landed one balmy May evening at Dalaman, and thirty minutes after leaving the airport we were stepping aboard the boat in the small port of Göcek, greeted by Turkish Champagne-method wine. From Göcek we headed east beneath the belly of Anatolia, along the coast of ancient Lycia, “the land of light”, a haunting shore where limestone cliffs rise straight from the blue waters, with the stubble of juniper, broom and other scratchy scrub. The temperature was perfect, the water deliciously cool, but there was little sign of wildlife; few birds, the occasional goat, hardly any fish. There is a moratorium on commercial fishing at this time of year, so stocks can be replenished.

Another day, another bay. Captain Tancay knows all the best, secluded spots. Swimming was bliss, there was a canoe to paddle, a windsurf board, fishing lines. In one bay, Aperlae, we found a sunken city, and on the hill a monumental necropolis. As ancient pottery shards and murex shells scrunched beneath our feet, it felt as if we were the first to stumble on the place.

At the airport I had picked up a copy of The Histories, Heroditus’s view of the world in the 5th century BC, which I never thought I would read until Kirsty Young banished me to a desert island. Now I had my floating island and I devoured it, reading: “in one of their customs, that of taking the mother’s names instead if the fathers, the Lyceans are unique…And if a free woman has a child by a slave, the child is considered legitimate, whereas the children of a free man, however distinguished he may be, and a foreign wife or mistress have no citizen rights at all.”

Among these bays and islands, the ancient ghosts still linger. There must be so many stories here, and in this dreamy atmosphere we think of some ourselves. There is the blessed St Gulet of the Tussock who drowned in a sailing accident and was sanctified after it was revealed that she had turned beach stones into Turkish Delight to prevent her marooned father from starving. And then there is the island of self-sacrificing goats, who have appeased the gods since time immemorial, their way of life now threatened by the discovery of suntan-oil fields: will the speculators move in? No wonder these cruises are popular with children.

The Lycians, whose civilisation dates from the 12th century BC, excelled at building rock tombs, which appear high up in the limestone escarpments, notably at Myra, where there is a fine Roman theatre. There were two dozen cities in the politically cohesive Lycian League, later overlayered with monumental Roman architecture, and we saw four of them in one day: Patara, by a vast, sandy turtle beach, Xanthos, Letoon and, most impressively, Tlos. It is impossible to think of anywhere in the Mediterranean that has so many visible ancient cities within such a small area. This day ashore was welcome, if only to remind ourselves where we were, to see Turkish people going about their daily lives, to take tea with the old men in a village square, to buy honey and shaving sticks from a roadside stall, to scrump wild mulberries, discover frankincense trees, to tickle trout and sit on cushions by a river and drink refreshing, yoghurty ayran.

Food was a major part of our lazy days afloat. The galley was in the wheelhouse so we could watch the young chef, Levent, at work. As a patio is to a kitchen, so the aft deck was to the galley, and three times a day we sat like sultans round the table beneath its shady awning, delighting in the many colourful and imaginative dishes that kept on coming. Under full sail, as the boat healed over by several degrees and the plates threatened to slide, we felt we were living on the culinary edge. (Theodore Kyriakou, owner of London’s Real Greek and Souvlaki restaurants, photographed some of the recipes for his latest book, A Culinary Voyage Around the Greek Islands, on board the Randa.)

Tussock, which this year celebrates 25 years of operating, has nine gulets and employs more than 50 sailors year-round. In winter, when the boats are hauled from the water, their tasks are not just in maintaining the prized vessels, team-building and charting new destinations, but also in preparing the next season’s menus, which will be adapted by the chefs en route. These meals will be added to if something tasty is found in a passing port – fresh fish or fruit just come into season. The progress of sailors through the ranks is: first deck-hand, then chef, then captain. One morning Levent gave us all a lesson in making böreks, filo pastry stuffed with goat’s cheese, mint and dill. There is a Tussock recipe pack to purchase to take home. Emma from Norwich, one of two vegetarians aboard, said, “Usually I get served rubbish stuff – but this is brilliant. I don’t like cooking, but I’m going to try it now.”

The slide-down wine, red, white and pink, came from Cappadocia; the boat always serves Turkish wine, and Efes beer. Everything is local. At any time passengers could dip into the big cooler box beneath a bench on the aft deck: food and drink is included in an all-in price. This brimming box, the galley, the boat, the sea, the whole week had a feeling of abundance and generosity.

After only a couple of days the routine had set in. The early morning dip, the gong: “Breakfassready!” The bell: “Briefing time”. The favourite spots on deck, watching out for dolphins, mermaids. The polite enquiry from young sailor Mahir, “Sorry coffee?” But the best moment was when the sails unfurled, when the sailors leaped in the air to bring all their weight to bear in hoisting the 150kg mainsail, when the Genoa billowed out and the 360hp DAF diesel engine died, and all that was left was the passing silence of the ancient sea.

© Roger Williams