Three days home alone and dad finally decides maybe he should cook something. Day 1: left-over takeaway. Day 2: fried egg and bread. Day 3: we can’t go on like this. Admittedly, if it was just me, we’d still be on bread and honey. I can’t be bothered cooking for myself.

Time for a gentle stroll up the road. It’s a real blessing that our house is so cool inside; out here, it’s sweltering. The stone and earthen lane carries us uphill towards our larger tea field and hazelnut grove.

In my runaway imagination, in years to come I will build our own private hamam in the basement. Opposite a biomass furnace, I will tile the walls and install a mini pool and spa. As I say, I have a hyperactive imagination.

Guests descend, en masse, and all of a sudden the house is full of commotion. We serve them Turkish coffee, kurabiye (cookies) and assorted dried fruit and nuts.

My beloved is in her childhood village with her sick mother for the week. Our daughter went with her and has spent the day hanging with her old friends.

Your truly (front left) doing my very small part harvesting our tea crop.

After three days unpacking our things, arranging, cleaning and tidying the house, I finally got outside to have a proper look around. Those who think these things are easily won should note what came before. For a decade we stayed in the little house next door. Adequate for summer holidays with young children, akin to …

Much of Friday afternoon was spent organising that modern easential, internet access. It became much more complicated than in needed to be; perhaps that’s because we’re foreigners, or maybe it’s just how it is. Eventually we left with a data contract, of the kind we have always had, suitable for remote working and staying in …

Mashallah.

I don’t recall the reasoning, back in February, that convinced us flying through the night would be a sensible course of action. Perhaps those were just connections that worked without us having to part with stupendous amounts of money. Or perhaps we just mistook ourselves for twenty-somethings, well-used to discomfort and inconvenience.

I’m not sure if I have any readers left who still recall a post I wrote sixteen years ago, in which I remembered: Throughout my teenage years I was something of an eccentric. While my friends were interested in mountain bikes, football, Nintendo and Baywatch, I was a dreamer. I yearned after a romantic past, …