Coming a Cropper in Kalkan

The Grim Reaper has been busy recently and we found ourselves on the road to Kalkan for a funeral. It used to be a straight 6 hours drive from Bodrum to Kalkan, so we set off at 7am and found ourselves at the mosque at 11am. The highway rejuvenation, not yet finished, has already improved the route by a whole 2 hours, so we had time on our hands. We parked up by the graveyard, ready for a speedy retreat and walked down into the town. Kalkan, to me has always been Kaş's less attractive sister and the modern streets that have grown up around the old harbour center have little to recommend them, but the heart of Kalkan is not that different to the town I sailed into in 1981 and for that I'm grateful. Kalkan obviously feels that I'm not 100% committed to its new upmarket image and took its revenge. One second I was stepping off the pavement, the next I was kissing the flag stones in the middle of the road.  My husband informs me that he was just thinking how slippery the stone was when I disappeared from view.  One bloody knee later, I was keen to distance myself from the scene of my ignominy and I hobbled to a harbour-front restaurant for brunch. (The most expensive omelette I've eaten, but they did give me a plaster). Funeral over, we headed back home with a diversion to see friends on a yacht in Fethiye marina. It was shaking hands with their crew that made me suspect that there was something wrong with my right hand. I have a pretty high pain threshold but 24 hours later, I finally admitted to myself that a trip to the hospital was inevitable and my broken arm was incased in a cast.  Cooking is out, as is hand-writing. Typing one-handedly is time consuming and putting on a bra takes me 15 minutes.  I'm hoping that the enforced use of my left hand will spark new inspiration in my rather jaded brain and you will be getting more imaginative posts in the next three weeks.