If you go down to the woods today...

Truly, for my next post I was intending to write about the Treaty of Lausanne, 1923, and its catastrophic effect on the people inhabiting Ayvalık at the time. And I will, I will. But I have been waylaid by a puppy, and this is he.



At the moment the puppy's Coke bottle chewy toy is somewhat bigger than him, but he is a Kangal, or Anatolian sheep dog, the Turkish national dog (and, perhaps, symbol of national virility) which means that one day he will be the size of a Shetland pony, thus:



And I am to be his godmother.

Down in the valley between the two ranges of pine-covered hills along the coast south of Ayvalık, there is an unmade track running between olive groves, and this constitutes the homeward arc of Freddie's and my circular walks, once we have climbed up the hills, gazed at the views over the sea, and then come downhill again through the pine woods.

I have recently become friendly with a man I often see down there who owns a ramshackle, unfinished farm house apparently being built without benefit of a plumb line.



The house is surrounded by many interesting artefacts, not least among them several boats in varying states of repair, an unexploded Greek mortar shell dating back to the Turkish War of Independence, and many examples of what is probably best described as 'Outsider Art': think Steptoe, amongst the olive groves.



My new friend, M, tells me that he is a man who like animals much better than people. The truth of this statement is evident from the menagerie that lives in the enclosure surrounding the farmhouse. M keeps rabbits, ducks, hens and six dogs of varying sizes.





One day M invited me into the compound to have a cup of tea, and to meet the animals. He let me play with the puppy for as long as I liked, and sent me home with a handful of newly laid eggs. Now, if he's around when Freddie and I walk past, we often sit and chat for a while. Although he owns other properties in Ayvalik and elsewhere, and presumably has some kind of other life to fund this bucolic idyll, M spends as much time as possible down here tending his animals, his vegetable garden and his olive grove, and having his friends over in the evening to drink beer and cook stuffed mussels (an Aegean speciality) over an open fire.

Although M is not fond of people in general, I am acceptable because I come with a dog attached. Freddie loves it down on the farm, as there are five other dogs for him to run around with. The puppy is too small for that yet, and during my visits spends most of his time curled up in my lap.

The puppy is a relatively new arrival, and a few days ago M asked me if I would like to think of a name for him. I felt honoured, and gave the matter much thought, considering numerous alternatives before returning to my first idea: Utku, which means 'triumph' or 'victory' in Turkish, and was the name of a student I taught in Ankara. I love the sound of this name, and have previously bestowed it on one cat (now deceased), and on the fighting camel I fell in love with last year, and whom I long, passionately, to own.



But it also makes a hell of a good name for a puppy that will one day be 4 feet tall. Yesterday, I told M that the puppy's name would be Utku, and he seemed pleased. He picked the puppy up and said 'Utku, Utku, Utku', kissing the puppy in between each repetition. That, he said, made the name official.



Then he invited me to come back to the farm this evening for a christening party - this being Turkey, I am translating freely here - for Utku at which, I understood him to say, there will be cake. Naturally, I accepted, and am now wondering what might be an appropriate christening gift for an Anatolian sheep dog puppy to whom I seem to have been appointed de facto godmother.

I'm thinking in terms of a big, juicy bone.