Turkish Letters #12 part 3 -- Edirne (John)

Edirne is a small unremarkable city. It was once the capital but an outbreak of oil wrestling, of which the locals are very proud, convinced the sultan to decamp to Istanbul. The freezing winters may also have had something to do with it. According to legend, always a reliable source, oil wrestling began during one of the military campaigns of Murad I, II or II.v, when two of the lads started wrestling. They wrestled all day and all night. Then they died. I will leave you to draw your own conclusions about a culture that formalises a sport in which there is no firm outcome except the death of the participants. Maybe the sultan was wise to move the capital. Apparently the wrestling isn’t so fatal anymore. But I did see some wrestlers’ graves so I’m not so sure.

Edirne is also home to a very impressive mosque designed by Sinan, the most famous of Turkish architects. He churned out a couple of hundred buildings during his career, most of them rather marvellous, and set the template for all that followed. The mosque he designed in Edirne has a larger internal space than Hagia Sophia but he cheated by using eight columns as opposed to Sophia’s four huge ones. However, a fringe benefit of this caddish behaviour is that the walls take less weight and can thus have more windows. The result is a space that is light-filled and truly beautiful whereas Sophia is dark and impressive.

Sinan also designed the caravanserai, now a hotel, in which we stayed. Unfortunately, half of it was closed during the winter season. What we saw was nice but had been less than brilliantly modified. Sinan must be spinning in his tomb. Although when we visited that in Istanbul there was no whirring noise so maybe he’s off with the houris and doesn’t give a damn.

We only had one day in Edirne so we roamed about photographing the architecture and objects of interest. These include a giant tulip sculpture, a variety of sculptures of oil wrestlers, and topiary dolphins. Edirne has a serious fixation with dolphins that is a bit odd for a land-locked town. They are everywhere. In a children’s playground a pool is lined with mosaic dolphins mournfully looking down at the inch thick covering of ice that separates them from their watery abode.

While checking out a mosque in the poor quarter of town we were surrounded by a bunch of snot-nosed urchins who had been skating on the ice-slicked marble of the portico. They made us take their photographs and squealed with delight when Shiralee showed them the preview on the back of her camera. A well-meaning gent ushered us out of the district. Whether he was concerned for our safety or believed that we would be more interested in the giant tulip than the colourful local housing I don’t know. We took the hint and wandered off into the countryside.

We crossed Ottoman bridges whose elegant arches span rivers already icing over. The trees lining the rivers blended into the orchards and forests that blended into the romantic haze. It was lovely. We tramped through knee-high grass and weeds to visit ruins standing in fields. We tripped over marker pegs at an unfinished archeological dig, forever changing the understanding of the floorplan of one ancient palace. Nearby, women swathed in clothes that made them look like the contents of a St Vinnies collection bin did something to tubers in a freshly ploughed field.

That evening,while we were scouring the back streets for things to stare at, a huge flock of birds erupted into the sky above the town. Hundreds of them wheeled back and forth, around and around like a practical demonstration of fluid dynamics against the sunset. The wheeled, separated and coalesced again. A little eddy would spiral out from the centre to orbit once or twice and then rejoin the mass. All the while the central core dipped and wove like a feathery tornado. It was astounding.

I cannot finish without mentioning Edirne’s Ataturk sculpture. He stands, ramrod straight in military regalia. His beetling eyebrows aimed directly at the Greek border to make them think twice should they decide to get up to any shenanigans. Shennanigans, it turns out, is an Irish bar on the outskirts of Bodrum.