Francis Davies recalls a trip to Konya, where dervishes whirl, but it was the overnight train from Istanbul that had her in a real spin
Istanbul in December. We walked in shirt sleeves under a brilliant blue sky through streets bustling with people in heavy overcoats and anoraks. I had the impression they thought us mad to be so underdressed, but to northern Europeans it seemed so wonderfully clement. Istanbul is not always like this in winter. I have seen several feet of snow at the same time of year. But then it was the start of a perfect, magical journey. Newly married, my husband and I were en route to Konya to see the Dervishes whirl on December 19.
That evening we caught the Trans-Anatolia Express at the beautiful, impossibly romantic Haydarpasa station, pivot of the Berlin to Baghdad railway and the gateway, if such there is, in railway terms at least, to Asia. The night air was damp with Bosphorous mist, and the animated station seemed shrouded in smoke.
As we boarded the train, a uniformed, magnificently moustachioed official stoutly wrapped against the night air, blew a succession of stentorian blasts on a large cow’s horn: doors slammed, all around farewells. I rushed to inspect our cabin with childlike anticipation and was delighted to find that as first class passengers – it cost a good deal less than a British Rail Supersaver – we had two comfortable, wood-panelled, interconnecting apartments: no arguments about upper berths.
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