After a dream-like day of swims, sweetmeat snacks and sultry temperatures, it seemed counterintuitive to be driving along Turkey’s Turquoise Coast in search of Father Christmas.
Had I ever known that Father Christmas – referred to in these parts as Saint
Nicholas – hailed from here, then it had long been submerged in the
subconscious, buried under the welter of accounts and images that position
him firmly in the snowy landscape of the North Pole, surrounded by elves and
reindeer.
But there it was on our map: somewhere between Kas and Kumluca, next to the
pine-tree-fringed town of Demre and the ancient rock tombs of Myra – a
picture of a smiling face complete with bushy white beard and red hat. We
may have been in Turkey and it may have been August, but there was no
mistaking who that was: the great gift-giver himself. It would have been
churlish not to have turned off.
The connection between Demre and the man who brings hope and joy to millions
at this time of year is pretty strong. No matter how passionately the
Germans say that it is their version of Christmas that deserves to be given
Unesco beatification, there is little doubt it all started somewhere along
this spectacular stretch of Mediterranean coastline in the late 3rd century
AD, and that it centres on the Greek Orthodox holy man who went on to become
the Bishop of Myra (the ancient name for Demre).
Saint Nicholas (as he became) was actually born 60 miles or so to the west of Demre, in Patara, then an important port in what was Lycia and a place best known today for being home to a magnificent Roman amphitheatre and some of the finest white-sand beaches in Turkey – a prime breeding ground for the endangered loggerhead turtle.
The son of affluent parents, the young Nicholas was sensitive to the plight of those less fortunate, and developed a reputation for selfless generosity. Stories of his kind deeds (some undoubtedly apocryphal) are legion. Without the recipients knowing, he would place coins in the shoes of the needy; he helped sailors and fishermen; on one occasion, so the story goes, he brought back to life three young boys killed by a butcher who wanted to sell them as ham; most famously, on hearing of the plight of a man with three daughters of marriageable age but no dowries, he placed three purses filled with gold pieces through a window of their house. (In some versions, the purses were thrown down the chimney – landing in a stocking that one of the ladies had left out to dry.)
The tales of this warm-hearted benefaction spread far and wide, and it was not long after the death of Nicholas in AD 343 that he was declared a saint (indeed the patron saint of both Greece and Russia) and his death date (December 6) was turned into a holiday involving the giving of presents, a tradition that continues to this day in parts of continental Europe. Over time the festivals and legends associated with Nicholas became fused (and confused) with ancient Yuletide traditions and figureheads in northern and Scandinavian Europe (including the Teutonic god Odin), and Saint Nicholas was transformed into the Dutch “Sinterklaas” – and, ultimately, on the other side of the Atlantic, into the portly, red-robed figure we all know as Santa Claus.
The goodly folk of Demre have, of course, sought to capitalise on their most famous son, and in the main square there are stalls at which you can barter over Saint Nicholas figures and trinkets and where boys offer to take you to a place where you can buy “VIP Icons”. There are statues, too: demure, saintly ones of the man himself, and a rather brasher version of the jolly Santa figure he was turned into.
But the main draw here is the Church of Saint Nicholas, a wonderful building/museum which, although restored and amended many times, still has something of the special magic it would have had when the remains of the Greek Orthodox saint were placed here at some point in the 5th century.
Although the physical link has gone (the bones of Saint Nicholas have long since been removed and are now said to be divided between the Italian port of Bari and Venice), something of his spirit remains.
We visited late in the day when most of the tourist groups had already departed and the fading sun presented it at its best. We marvelled at the simple elegance of columns fashioned 1,000 years ago and mosaic-tiled floors and annexes containing colourful frescoes depicting Nicholas and some of the deeds for which he is famed.
After the hustle and bustle – not to mention the heat – of the day, there was a welcome calm; a communion with something that could perhaps be described as the true spirit of Christmas.
We retired to the Kismet restaurant, one of many modest dining establishments close to the main square, and, after hearing out the Muslim call to prayer, ordered one of its specialities – a foot-long doner kebab served with chips and salad, followed by a freshly baked cheese and pistachio-flavoured baklava with ice cream.
I asked our waiter, a kindly soul, to teach me how to say “thank you” in Turkish. “Tesekkür ederim,” he said, pronouncing it syllable by syllable. Teh-sheh-kurr Ed-erh-im, I repeated until, finally, it sank in. It seemed the least I could do in this of all towns.
Saint Nicholas (as he became) was actually born 60 miles or so to the west of Demre, in Patara, then an important port in what was Lycia and a place best known today for being home to a magnificent Roman amphitheatre and some of the finest white-sand beaches in Turkey – a prime breeding ground for the endangered loggerhead turtle.
The son of affluent parents, the young Nicholas was sensitive to the plight of those less fortunate, and developed a reputation for selfless generosity. Stories of his kind deeds (some undoubtedly apocryphal) are legion. Without the recipients knowing, he would place coins in the shoes of the needy; he helped sailors and fishermen; on one occasion, so the story goes, he brought back to life three young boys killed by a butcher who wanted to sell them as ham; most famously, on hearing of the plight of a man with three daughters of marriageable age but no dowries, he placed three purses filled with gold pieces through a window of their house. (In some versions, the purses were thrown down the chimney – landing in a stocking that one of the ladies had left out to dry.)
The tales of this warm-hearted benefaction spread far and wide, and it was not long after the death of Nicholas in AD 343 that he was declared a saint (indeed the patron saint of both Greece and Russia) and his death date (December 6) was turned into a holiday involving the giving of presents, a tradition that continues to this day in parts of continental Europe. Over time the festivals and legends associated with Nicholas became fused (and confused) with ancient Yuletide traditions and figureheads in northern and Scandinavian Europe (including the Teutonic god Odin), and Saint Nicholas was transformed into the Dutch “Sinterklaas” – and, ultimately, on the other side of the Atlantic, into the portly, red-robed figure we all know as Santa Claus.
The goodly folk of Demre have, of course, sought to capitalise on their most famous son, and in the main square there are stalls at which you can barter over Saint Nicholas figures and trinkets and where boys offer to take you to a place where you can buy “VIP Icons”. There are statues, too: demure, saintly ones of the man himself, and a rather brasher version of the jolly Santa figure he was turned into.
But the main draw here is the Church of Saint Nicholas, a wonderful building/museum which, although restored and amended many times, still has something of the special magic it would have had when the remains of the Greek Orthodox saint were placed here at some point in the 5th century.
Although the physical link has gone (the bones of Saint Nicholas have long since been removed and are now said to be divided between the Italian port of Bari and Venice), something of his spirit remains.
We visited late in the day when most of the tourist groups had already departed and the fading sun presented it at its best. We marvelled at the simple elegance of columns fashioned 1,000 years ago and mosaic-tiled floors and annexes containing colourful frescoes depicting Nicholas and some of the deeds for which he is famed.
After the hustle and bustle – not to mention the heat – of the day, there was a welcome calm; a communion with something that could perhaps be described as the true spirit of Christmas.
We retired to the Kismet restaurant, one of many modest dining establishments close to the main square, and, after hearing out the Muslim call to prayer, ordered one of its specialities – a foot-long doner kebab served with chips and salad, followed by a freshly baked cheese and pistachio-flavoured baklava with ice cream.
I asked our waiter, a kindly soul, to teach me how to say “thank you” in Turkish. “Tesekkür ederim,” he said, pronouncing it syllable by syllable. Teh-sheh-kurr Ed-erh-im, I repeated until, finally, it sank in. It seemed the least I could do in this of all towns.
Ancient Christian town
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