Cappadocia 2022: The Stone Fairies of Göreme

The temperatures were hovering around zero in Central Anatolia, so I came amply prepared with a brand-new quilted jacket.

From Istanbul you can fly to Nevsehir and Kayseri airports, and I opt for the latter. The Turkish Airways breakfast is just right: plump savory börek, hearty meat steaming in its buttery golden phyllo wrapper; a little plate of assorted cheeses, and a glass of wholesome orange juice. As we approach, I peer out the window at the industrial city that lay in the shadow of the snow-tipped Mount Erciyes. Kayseri was still around 80 km away — a fairly long drive through rocky, inscrutable terrain — from the fashionable cave hotels of Göreme.

There is one for every persuasion. I choose an adults-only retreat; when I arrive, it is still garbed in fall colors, with neat piles of firewood, pumpkins and cozy wool rugs. My room has a bright turquoise door and all the requisite creature comforts: hot water and heated floors, reliable WiFI, a rotary phone. Outside, heavy roses blush against honey-yellow stone walls inset with tile work, and numerous terraces offer enviable views over a valley dotted with fairy chimneys. There are friendly resident cats and cocker spaniels — the one named Izmir seems to be the manager of this establishment and has his own socials.

I had been deeply excited about three things: staying in a cave, taking a hot-air balloon ride over fairy chimneys, and a valley excursion on horseback. I had even briefly considered one of those flying dress rentals (a Cappadocia cottage industry sustained by Instagram likes) but decided that it was simply too much work.

What I hadn’t considered was the weather. Wind and sleet and driving rain cancel all airborne and horseback adventures for the next few days, so I decide to explore the neighborhood.

I tread the stony path downhill, past other similarly refurbished cave hotels, to the center of a very tourist-oriented little town; browse in a desultory fashion through racks of souvenirs; make the acquaintance of a tall, shaggy dog with a slender nose, and a friendly proprietor who sells me some hot wine that I try not to get on my (ersatz) fur-tipped coat sleeves; and commiserate with other travelers.

Maybe I should have just booked that gaudy dress and photo shoot, after all?

The Red, Blue and Green tours go on as usual, though, and so the following day, after a bracing Turkish breakfast, I join the Red group led by Hakan and Isa.

“Isa as in Jesus, easy to remember, eh?” says the amiable Isa. A well-practiced line, one that sets the tone for the day.

The first stop is craggy Uchisar Castle. I carefully pick my way over the high grass and uneven ground to the imposing rock formation riddled with passageways, and marvel at what life must have been like so many centuries ago. Outside, an Anatolian camel turns its docile eyes to me.

The Green tour had explicitly said hiking was involved, but I could already see the Red one also required a modicum of agility. I’d worn jeans and trusty trainers, a mulberry beanie and a coat so scarlet, it was maroon; this would just have to do.

The next stop is the UNESCO-listed Open Air Museum, a cluster of rock-hewn churches and monasteries built by Christians who were fleeing persecution. I go up the cobbled path to St.Basil, the first chapel. Dedicated to the Kayseri-born saint, it features a scene that would be oft repeated: St. George slaying the dragon. Then there is the Chapel of Saint Barbara, patron saint of Byzantine soldiers, and the small Chapel of Saint Catherine, where the frescoed saints have their eyes scratched out.

Was it an act of defacement by the Ottomans, or one of piety by departing believers? But the walls stay silent, and hold their secrets close.

I find moments of levity as well, here in this eerie rain-spattered valley. The domed Apple Church contains well-preserved, brightly colored frescoes, and is thought to have been named because the locals thought the globe held by the angel Gabriel was a piece of fruit. They also supposed St. George slew a different reptile, and so we have the Snake Church.

My favorite one, and the most popular one of all, is the Dark Church. No sinister undertones here; merely its literal lack of illumination that so preserved the frescoes painted by the monks of Constantinople. What I will always remember is how beautifully vivid the blue was; the artists had worked with monastic fervor and costly Afghan lapis lazuli.

After that, we travel to Pasabag Valley (Monks Valley), also known as the vineyard of the generals, and once the site of a hermitage. The rain lends an otherworldly mien to the thick pillars and sharp mushroom-shaped rock caps, and I decide that whoever named these fairy chimneys was thinking of Scheherazade’s Paribanou, not Tinkerbell. We are rewarded for our shivering rain-sodden labors with cups of sweet, nutty Cappadocia coffee.

From the generals’ vineyard we go on to Devrent Valley. Its tourist-friendly moniker is Imagination Valley, because you’ll need a dose of it to be able to make out the affectionately named rose-colored rock formations. The camel and Napoleon’s hat are easily spotted; other creatures like the dragon and koala require much squinting.

Finally it is time for lunch, and our group sits down to share a meal at a steakhouse in Avanos, a town on the banks of the Red River. We are served juicy kebabs and rice, accompanied by ayran, the salty Turkish yogurt that I’m developing a fondness for. Somebody orders testi kebab; it is an Anatolian specialty, fragrant meat and vegetables simmered in a clay pot over an open fire, sliced open at table side with elaborate flair.

Avanos is renowned for its pottery, a craft dating back to the Hittites. There is a lively demonstration at the factory, and we’re allowed into the room where artisans hand-paint items in silent, studied concentration. There are beautiful Hittite wine jugs I dearly wish to take home, and cunningly illustrated tiles, and in a nod to modernity, a wall of pieces that glow in the dark.I am unable to resist buying a robin’s egg-blue bowl, adorned with a multitude of swirling, multi-colored blossoms, and a smaller cobalt jewelry tray; only practical concerns prevent me from attempting to purchase heavier ceramics.

The last valley for the day is Love Valley. Millennia of volcanic erosion have created heart-shaped chimneys, and there is a suitably romantic legend of tragic lovers from feuding families to reinforce this theme. In case the casual visitor still harbors any doubt, the iron railings at the viewpoint curl into fanciful little hearts, framing basalt-capped, stocky tuff formations that are outright phallic.

(An Instagram Story of these particular chimneys, artfully shot through a metal heart, elicits more than the usual reactions, and I side-eye all my friends who have liked what is essentially a geological d*** pic.)

The day-long tour with the loquacious Jesus ended there but the persistent rain continued into the evening. Undeterred, I walk into my second steakhouse of the day. The welcome is smooth, the dry-aged steak is wonderful, and dinner —in resplendent solitude, as always — finishes with a crisp Cappadocia white and a memorable baklava on the house.

The ageless chimneys glimmer in unceasing rain, and all over town, myriad pinpoints of light sparkle and flare into life. In that moment, you could believe in stone fairies, too.