Antalya

The province moves through three distinct characters as you travel east from the city. Around Antalya itself, the coast is flat and open, a long sweep of sand and pine where the city's promenade runs beside the water. Further west the land folds into forested ridges, and the mood turns quieter and greener, with villages set back from the shore and orange groves on the lower slopes. Toward Alanya, the mountains close in again and the road hugs the sea with little room to spare, so that each headland seems to be a new country. The inland north belongs to a different rhythm altogether. Here the high plateaus are farmed by shepherds and villagers, and the stone of old settlements is weathered to the colour of dry bread.

A day spent in the region tends to begin in the old quarter of the city, where narrow lanes of whitewashed houses lead down to a harbour full of fishing caiques and cafés with their chairs turned toward the water. Hadrian's Gate, a Roman triumphal arch from the second century, stands at the edge of the old town, and the stone is worn smooth by generations of footsteps. Head out along the coast and the ruins begin to take over. At Side, the columns of an ancient temple stand against the sea, and the theatre behind them still holds its curved rows of seats. Further along, Phaselis sits in a pine-covered bay, its harbour walls half-swallowed by roots and sand. Inland, Termessos is reached by a steep climb through forest, and the ancient city, built into the mountainside, makes the effort feel worth it. By evening, the smell of grilled fish drifts across the harbour, and the lights of the fishing villages come on one by one along the shore.

What lingers, though, is the coast itself, the way the land drops from the mountains to the water in a few short miles and the colour of the sea changes from deep blue to turquoise over the shallows. You notice the small things: the sound of pebbles shifting in the surf, the scent of pine resin warmed by afternoon sun, the way a fishing boat turns slowly into a bay at dusk. The Taurus range keeps watch over all of it, its peaks still white long after the lowlands have turned to summer. It is the kind of landscape that asks you to slow down, to sit longer over a meal, to walk one more headland before turning back. Leaving is harder than expected, and most people find themselves already planning a return, half-convinced the coastline will look different the next time they see it.