Having failed on the ballooning front our guide decided to bury us in the earth instead. The rock churches and such were a mere teaser, today we were visiting an underground city.
Here the predilection for gouging holes out of soft volcanic rock had reached its ultimate expression. Cappadocia dwellers of days gone by excavated not one but several of these underground accommodations to shelter them from the ravenous hordes which apparently swept across the landscape on a semi regular basis.
They didn’t live here full time, rather it was a place of refuge where the surface dwellers could hide when dangers such as raiders or Winter threatened. Then the denizens would retreat beneath the surface and roll sturdy obsidian plugs across the entrances to discourage ingress.
Stern warnings were issued by our guide. Were we claustrophobic? Did we suffer from high blood pressure? How about heart conditions? For a group whose average age was over sixty he might as well have said “Are you still alive?” Taking our greasy assurances of remarkable health and mental stability at face value he led us into the bowels of the earth.
Although possibly “colon of the earth” would be a better term. Narrow passage ways twisted and turned, wrapped over each other and down, always down. Carved out rooms on the sides of the passages marked where people lived, prayed and made wine. Because being driven underground by savage marauders was no excuse for the latest vintage to be tardy. Priorities guys.
Of course in these days of peace and tranquility the underground cities are merely tourist attractions and sites of archaeological interest and absolutely nobody lives in caves anymore. Well except for one lady so we went and had lunch with her. Our tour information pack mentioned a lady living in a cave and I must admit I had visions of some desiccated hag in rags squatting in a cavern. In fact she was a friendly and charming lady whose house had been built into the cave. She gave us lunch (which was delicious) and discussed the decorations she had been awarded for baklava making. She was a former mathematics teacher who had had to retire due to MS. Now she entertains guests in a cave house with magnificent carpets on the floor which looked like they had been woven yesterday despite being more than thirty years old.
Replete with lunch we heaved our sagging bellies towards Love Valley for an afternoon constitutional. Love Valley is so called because of the immense number of phallically shaped fairy chimneys that stud its surface. I guess Love Valley is somewhat more socially acceptable than “Dick Valley” which would be the only other plausible name.
By the way a fairy chimney is a spire of soft volcanic rock which maintains its existence due to being capped with a layer of much tougher volcanic rock. The results, if you are of an innocent mind, rather resemble mushrooms.
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