two of three

blustery ferry; giving my hair up. intent upon unwinding the ribbon of my dire straits tape off the spokes of my walkman. a knossos of parked cars!those monuments and graveyards i saw a few years ago: the english monument is still my favourite; grey monolith surrounded by grey wall, every inch carved with names which at first you do not notice. the ships at the centre with their bold nomenclature, agamemnon, goliath, inflexible. it is much like a dead lighthouse, one that has turned to stone from an excess of helplessness and grief. its live twin stands nearer the sea, in folds of sunflowers coming to seed. last time i visited they had been reaped, leaving an anonymous yellow stubble.the çanakkale monument is malum*. i think the original architects must have meant it as a collosal, stark symbol, something you couldn't elude or adorn, something that wouldn't go away. [it is visible from miles away, from the height of troy you can see it.] and yet, it succumbs to bad management, idiocy, incompetence. it succumbs to people who will make car-parks of cemetaries; people who can make the sinking british fleet look like a child's bath toys, and carve it upon the dead men's stones. at least two people died per square metre of this peninsula. every april when the fields are tilled people still find bones.the anzac cove was more beautiful than when i last visited. the grass was alive, clumps of lavender growing between the stones, a hedge of rosemary in bloom, an 'e' missing from Atatürk's speech.çimenlik castle is full of engines of war; they made me think of milton's lucifer [a triple-mounted row of pillars laid / on wheels (for like to pillars most they seemed, / or hollowed bodies made of oak or fir, / with branches lopped, in wood or mountain felled), / brass, iron, stony mould...]. there was one barrel at the entrance which had been ruined by the retreating foreign forces; it had folded into a metal flower at the end, like one sees in cartoons.our hotel in assos was among the olive groves. in the afternoon we walked through them to the sea and picked white sand lilies.*"To Ida's spring-abounding hill he came,And to the crest of Gargarus, wild nurseOf mountain beasts; a sacred plot was there,Whereon his incense-honour'd altar stood:There stay'd his steeds the Sire of Gods and menLoos'd from the car, and veil'd with clouds around.Then on the topmost ridge he sat, in prideOf conscious strength; and looking down, survey'dThe Trojan city, and the ships of Greece."- Homer."...the highest summit of Ida is Mount Gargarus, now called Kaz Dagh, 5750 ft. above the level of the sea. On Gargarus was 'a temenos sacred to Zeus, and a fragrant altar.'"-Schliemannnext morning we went up gargaros to the zeus altar! i realised how ridiculous i was to think that ida would be anything similar to the dry dusty shingle of lycia. the house which the sea nibbled looked upon the ida mountains; i spent so many summers drinking of their springs, but to me they were always the kaz mountains, the name which the turkmen gave them.gargaros was mostly covered in a lovely species of pine. very vivid in colour and various in form. the altar itself wasn't very interesting, built only for the use of local people; some steps led up to a terrace where the altar was built up of stone in a square shape, with a well in the middle. the view was magnificent, though: the bright blue aegean, the isle of lesbos, huge and looming, a little mistily as islands do upon the horizon. on the way down we stept off the path into the forest; (i must mention this especially for the benefit of Sarah) the fallen carpet of pine needles is soft and extremely slippery! we city dwellers were quite surprised.*the night was glorious; we went down to the old harbour of assos, which is lined with quaint cafes. a man was playing the guitar, exactly what aegean nights are about. we sat until midnight under the moonlight, singing out songs of love and heartbreak mostly. a german woman went up and asked the musician to play a zeki müren, and we all burst out laughing, i am sorry to say. some people lit a bonfire, and drew up chaise longues by its side, in the half-gloom the waiters walked by with deep red trays that looked quite like offerings of viscous blood. i watched the lights across the bay, in the shape of a great ship half sunk into the cliff-face. the fishing boats went out to sea like a row of ducklings. we kept singing. the waiters danced the misket to the beautiful "ah bir ataş ver". * here is the new ceiling; it is mosaic that has been painted over, rather patchily. i realise the old ceiling needed a bit of work, but i cannot imagine anything more ill-suited than a round patch of red in an otherwise angular and monotone monument.i am ever so sleepy now; i shall probably edit this post tomorrow