Evliya Efendi devotes several sections of the Seyahatname to descriptions of the villages and towns along the Bosphorus and of the pleasurable excursions he made to those places. In his day the shores of the Bosphorus were sparsely populated, and these communities were inhabited mostly by fishermen and their families. During the past century Istanbul has expanded out along both shores of the Bosphorus, and the seaside villages are now part of the modern city. As a result they are fast being spoiled by traffic, high-rise apartments, and by expensive nightclubs and restaurants, and so in recent years they have lost much of their former rustic charm. Nevertheless, many of the villages and their ports are still picturesque and surpassingly lovely, and here and there one catches glimpses of what life was like along the Bosphorus in Osmanlı times.

Stamboullus are generally agreed that the most beautiful stretch of the Bosphorus is about midway along its course, where it thins down to a narrow strait only seven hundred metres wide. These stretch is called Boğaz-Kesen, or Cut-Throat, for the two Turkish fortresses which stand on the opposing shores of the Bosphorus there could literally cut off the passage to enemy shipping. Anadolu Hisar, the Castle of Anatolia, was constructed in about 1390 by Sultan Beyazıt I, the Thunderbolt, who ended his days a captive in Tamurlane’s cage. Rumeli Hisar, the Castle of Rumelia, was built directly across the strait in 1452 by Sultan Mehmet II, the Conqueror, thus closing the Bosphorus in preparation for the final siege of Constantinople the following year. The centuries of peace and idleness since then have softened the harsh military outlines of these fortresses, although their majestic towers and ramparts can still evoke visions of the dark and pompous beauty of medieval warfare. These old castles now seem a permanent part of the landscape, blending in with the verdant hills and valleys behind them, framed in a frieze of flowering judas trees and slender cypresses.

For those of us who have spent some years of our lives within sight of Rumeli Hisar, it is not so much an historic monument as a beloved part of the local scene. Our children have grown up under its walls and have climbed its battlements in their games. We have passed it daily on our way to work and nightly on our return from parties, and have seen it silhouetted by the sun and moon in turn when those luminaries rise over the hills of Asia. The romantics among us are moved to bad poetry at the sight of the old castle bathed in the light of a full moon, or illuminated by floodlights on holidays and holy days, its massive walls then seeming as thin and delicate as a candled egg of gold. Some of us have seen the Rose Tower reflecting the colours of a summer sunset half an hour after we thought the sun had gone, and observed the Black Tower wreathed in a sombre winter fog in a setting designed for the soliloquy of a melancholy prince. And late at night the sight of the old walls and towers brooding above the strait can make us melancholic too, when we think of the years of pleasurable exile passed in its shadows and now gone.

Those who live in the village of Rumeli Hisar are doubly fortunate, for they can look out from beauty around them to beauty on the other side, to the Sweet Waters of Asia. This is the valley formed by the two parallel streams, Göksu, the Stream of the Sky, and Küçüksu, the Little Stream, which empty into the Bosphorus a quarter-mile apart, just below the fortress of Anadolu Hisar. As Evliya Efendi wrote of the Göksu: ‘It is a river resembling the stream of life, adorned on both banks with gardens and mills. It is crossed by a wooden bridge, under which pass the lovers who come here to enjoy the delicious meadows.’ The fortress of Anadolu Hisar stands on the banks of the Göksu, just beyond the bridge which Evliya wrote of three centuries ago. This is surely one of the most enchanting sights on the Bosphorus, this little medieval castle nestling in among the old waterfront houses of the picturesque seaside village which has grown up around it, its archaic towers and battlements reflected in the turquoise waters of the Bosphorus, a colourful argosy of fishing boats harbouring under its mottled walls. It is no wonder that the Turks have always referred to this fortress as Güzel Hisar, or the Beautiful Castle.

And if that is not beauty enough, the Sweet Waters are flanked by still another castle on the other side of the valley, on the banks of the Küçüksu. There is nothing militant about the Castle of Küçüksu, for it was built in the middle of the last century, at a time when the frontiers were a thousand miles away and the Sultan thought less of war than of pleasure. As we stroll along the Bosphorus in late afternoon we observe the falling sun melting the glazed walls of this confectionary palace and setting on fire its jewelled windows. But then the sun sets and the palace darkens too, and we are saddened that the Sultan and his fair ladies are no longer there to keep it glowing with pleasure through the evening.

But sadness is a transitory and ephemeral feeling along the Bosphorus, and most of us spend our spare hours quite happily resting our eyes upon its beauties. Everyone has their favourite spot for Bosphorus-watching; our own is Nazmi’s, a venerable waterfront café near the village of Bebek. For more than half a century Nazmi’s has been a gathering place for the local fishermen and students and for the intellectuals and would-be intellectuals of Stamboul, especially those whose thought and talk require the stimulation provided by cognac and rakı in a seaside setting. And if the talk of philosophy, art and politics becomes too intense at times, and if the rival political factions sometimes shatter Nazmi’s windows and splinter his chairs upon one another’s heads in their drunken debates, pay them no heed, but fill your glass again, while the rising moon silvers the placid waters of Bebek Bay.

Some prefer to sit in Nazmi’s by day, for then the students and intellectuals are abed, and one can enjoy the view undisturbed by their violent discussions. One will then meet the fishermen and boatmen of Bebek, who store their gear in Nazmi’s back room and who sit and drink there in their off hours, which are numerous, judging from the perpetual insobriety of these salt-encrusted old characters. And so to Nazmi’s back room we will go, to learn some of the maritime lore of the Bosphorus. If you sit and drink there with old Captain Abbe he will point out to you some of the picturesque boats which sail along the Bosphorus, lineal descendants of the craft which have plied these straits since the days of Jason and the Argonauts: the taka, workhorse of the Bosphorus, broad of beam, peaked bow and high fantail, lumbering beauties painted in all the brightest colours of the sun’s spectrum; the mahona, single-masted craft with lateen rig and raking stern; the salapurga, cousin to the mahona but smaller and more snub-nosed; the bombarda, the old-fashioned caique from the Aegean isles, often seen loaded to the gunwales with wine from the Marmara; the martika, the sturdy twomasted Black Sea coaster; the karavia, or caravel, now almost extinct, the last examples of those ships in which Columbus sailed; the gagali, another ancient craft, of which only one or two still remain, high poop-deck and transomed stern, bow shaped like the curve of a parrot’s beak and decorated with the sign of the oculus, or talismanic eye, by which sailors have warded off the evils of the deep since the days of the ancient Egyptians. Captain Abbe will also point out to you with pride the boats in which the Bosphorus fishermen make their living. The most beautiful of these are the rowing kayık, long, slim, swift craft, each manned by about a dozen oarsmen. These kayık are towed in line behind powerful mahonas, ready to dart out across the water like sea-swallows when a school of fish is sighted by the lookout, who is pinioned like a sailor-Christ on his cross-like perch atop the lead boat.

But if Nazmi’s back room is empty you should know that the lüfer, or bluefish, are running and that Captain Abbe, together with every other fisherman on the Bosphorus, is out in his sandal, or rowboat, and will not return to the café until he has caught enough to support his family for the year and to ensure his winter’s supply of rakı. The lüfer fishing-fleet presents one of the most picturesque spectacles on the Bosphorus; each sandal equipped with a brilliant lamp shining down into the depths to attract the dazzled fish, together looking like a swarm of marine fireflies drifting down the dark blue stream, the night sky a lighter blue above them, crowded in luminous clusters down all the bays and coves of the Bosphorus, individual lights flitting back and forth between the invisible continents. One evening as I sat watching this extraordinary display, this yearly recurring festival of the marine-lamps which is one of the delights of our life on the Bosphorus, one of the lights detached itself from the others and headed towards the quay where I was sitting. Soon I could see that it was an old fisherman who was rowing powerfully to shore to meet his old wife, who had come down to the quay with his pailful of dinner. They conversed briefly in the yellow light of the boat-lamp and then the fisherman bade his wife good-night and rowed back out again into the dark blue stream, clouds of white sea-birds screaming around him. Soon his light had joined the others out on the Bosphorus and they drifted together slowly down the straits. Then I walked back along the quay to Nazmi’s, to sit there alone and watch through the night these marine galaxies, rivalling the stars in their beauty and luminosity.

When the decimated lüfer-school finally completes its slow annual transit of the straits, the fishermen return to their cafés and teahouses along the Bosphorus. You might then sit yourself by the fire in Nazmi’s back room and learn from Captain Abbe some of the lore of the wondrous winds and storms which trouble the straits and keep the fishermen happily idle through most of the year. That fierce wind now howling outside of Nazmi’s, dashing salt spray on the windows and whistling through the cracks in the walls, is Karayel, the Black Wind, blowing from the cold north-eastern quarter of the compass. Later in the winter you will feel the lash of Yıldız, the Wind of the Thunderbolt, as it shrieks in from due north and flays any fisherman foolhardy enough to be still outdoors in that icy season. Then in January you will feel the wrath of Poyraz, the north-west wind named after King Boreas, mythical ruler of the obstreperous airs. Poyraz howls down the straits from the chill Black Sea and whitens with snow the hillsides of the Bosphorus, lays white shrouds on the moaning cypresses, powders with white the domes of seaside mosques, the roofs of yalıs and sea-palaces, the crenellated towers and battlements of castles, and tints the blue waters of the Bosphorus with the milk-white reflections of scudding snow-clouds. In February the wind suddenly shifts to the south east and Keşişleme, the Wind of Mount Olympus, begins to blow moistly and the dismal winter rains begin. Cold rain pours down from lowering grey clouds for weeks on end, soaking our overcoats, filling our shoes, dripping from our beards, fogging our spectacles and our minds, drowning the town in filthy mud and discolouring the Bosphorus with ugly brown streaks. We swear then to sail away from this dark and cheerless, cloud-shrouded town and never again return, for it is doomed to a watery death and we are too, if we remain. But Captain Abbe, ordering another rakı at our expense, counsels us to be of good cheer. This alcoholic almanac then acquaints us with the windy signs and portents of approaching spring and good weather. The worst of winter is done, he says, when you feel the fresh zephyr called Hüsün Fırtınası, the Agreeable Storm, which wafts in across the Marmara in early March. This harbinger is soon followed by another, Kozkavuran Fırtınası, the Storm of Roasting Walnuts, which blows across the Bosphorus from the greening hills of Anatolia. Then in rapid succession you will see perennial vernal signs and feel the seasonal winds which accompany them. The returning birds: Çaylak Fırtınası, the Storm of the Kites; Karakuş Fırtınası, the Storm of the Blackbirds; Kırlangıç Fırtınası, the Storm of the Swallows; Kuğu Fırtınası, the Storm of the Swans; Kukulya Fırtınası, the Storm of the Cuckoos. Signs floral: Filiz Kıran Fırtınası, the Storm of Green Buds; Çiçek Fırtınası, the Storm of Flowers; Kabak Meltemi, the Pumpkin Breeze. Signs celestial: Ülker Fırtınası, the Storm of the Pleiades; Gündönümü Fırtınası, the Storm of the Summer Solstice. Then one day you will look out of Nazmi’s window and see a long, stately line of storks soaring across the Bosphorus from Asia in their annual return to their ancestral nest in the cemetery of Eyüp above the Golden Horn. Now the Bosphorus becomes azure blue again, flowering judases purple the hillsides and then mature into a virginal green, giant çınars spread their dappled shade over Nazmi’s courtyard and flowering vines carpet the café floor with blossoms. And so spring greets the local fishermen, now staggering out from Nazmi’s back room, their eyes bleary from the smoke and drink of a long winter. In this season you may be troubled by the cruel beauty of nightingale-song when you stagger home in moonlight from a late party, and in your bittersweet melancholy decide that you will sleep out in the Janissary graveyard in Rumeli Hisar. You will be awakened there by the throbbing sounds of takas and mahonas labouring up the straits and feel the warmth of the sun newly risen out of Asia. You arise then and walk back to Nazmi’s for a therapeutic beer and find the quay deep in brilliant blue and green and scarlet fish-nets spread out to dry in the sun. Laz fishermen and their families sit on the cobbles amid these gorgeous billows of twine and patiently mend their nets while a handsome idiot youth plays haunting melodies on a bagpipe to ease the monotony of their work. His primitive music seems to call out from their winter quarters all of the camp-followers of good weather. Soon the quay is crowded with street-boys from town, who spread out their ragged clothes to air on the cobbles while they dive and splash through the swiftly flowing garbage generated by the mobs of corpulent diners gelatinising in the waterfront restaurants. Sellers of sweet corn set up their smoking engines on the quay and vie for the penny-trade of the passers-by with pedlars of sweets, pastries, ice cream and fishing gear. The saz-player returning exhausted to his bed from the stews in Beyoğlu passes on the quay his friend, the balloon-seller, who left the same bed an hour before. Villainous Gypsies lead bears and pound tambourines, on the lookout for larceny, while across the road their dark women traffic in flowers, herbs and mushrooms, or whatever else you might desire on such a vernal day.

You might think that this fine weather would move Captain Abbe and his friends from their firm seats in Nazmi’s and induce them to do some fishing in the Bosphorus; but no, they find it more profitable to rent out their sandals to amateur fishermen in the summer. They, the professionals, can then pocket the amateur’s coin and laugh at his ineffectual attempts to catch their fish, while they swill rakı and enjoy their keyif throughout the summer undisturbed by work. Then, if you are prepared to endow him with a few more rakıs, Captain Abbe will identify for you the sweet breezes which ruffle the wistaria vines in the café, fill the sails of boats skimming across Bebek bay, and propel the fleecy clouds which float across the bright blue sky. These fair winds, Captain Abbe says, will follow in turn on their appointed days: Çarkdönümü Fırtınası, the Storm of the Turning Windmills; Kara and Kızıl Fırtınası, the Storms of Black and Red Plums; and Kestane Harası Fırtınası, the Storm of Ripening Chestnuts. But then there may be days when you will find Captain Abbe cross and uncommunicative, and you should know that the evil wind Lodos is blowing from the south west, filling the Bosphorus with foul garbage and the sinus with black phlegm, shrouding the city with a miasmatic haze and irritating the entire municipality until it is an airless, sweating, seething, quarrelling Levantine hell. But never mind, keep your temper, for the Meltem will soon come, sweeping in from the Marmara to dispel all evil airs and harsh feelings. Captain Abbe will soon become his affable self once again and may even buy you a rakı, while he catalogues for you the winds of late summer and early fall, the most glorious season of all along the Bosphorus. These blow in turn as the çınars turn gold over Nazmi’s courtyard and the grapes ripen on the trellis above your head: Turna Geçimi Fırtınası, the Storm of the Passing Cranes; Meryem Anne Fırtınası, the Storm of Mother Mary; Bağ Bozumu Fırtınası, the Storm of the Vintage; and Koç Katımı Fırtınası, the Storm of the Mating Ram. Then the skies above the Bosphorus begin to darken again, harsh winds blow down the straits from the north, and Captain Abbe and his friends begin to move out of their seats in Nazmi’s – it is time to get their sandals ready and to work again, the fish will soon be running. You will know that the çiroz are back when you see these little silver fish in their tens of thousands hung out to dry from every clothesline in the city. When the levrek are running Captain Abbe and his mates will set out their nets in Bebek bay and then haul them in until the quay is deep in thrashing, gasping, gleaming fish, and the cobbles are covered with scales and slippery with gore. And when the word spreads that a school of istavrit are swimming down the straits – beware! For then every man, woman and child in town will rush to Bebek with their hooks and lines. They stand ten deep on the quay, casting their lines wildly into the water, impaling one another with their hooks, accidentally flinging their weights through the windows of passing buses, fouling their lines on passing ferries, then dashing into public-taxis when the rumour spreads that the istavrit school has swum on to Arnavutköy.

With the streets of our village redolent with the savoury odour of frying fish and the cats grown corpulent on fish-heads and guts, then we can all face winter cheerfully. In that mellow autumnal mood we sit under the falling leaves in Nazmi’s garden, sipping our rakı to keep warm and reminiscing over the twice-picked bones of our barbunya, wondering if we will ever have the heart to leave this beautiful but ruinous town. Then we look out along the Bosphorus and watch the blue mahonas and their trailing company of kayıks as they set out to catch kılıç balığı, the swordfish, far out in the Marmara. We see them again when they return in early evening, and hear the fisherman’s flute as he plays for his tipsy shipmates dancing on the fantail of the mahona. But all of these great fishing days begin, as Captain Abbe will tell you, only after that late October storm called Balık Fırtınası, the Storm of Fish.

And so the year passes in Stamboul, a cycle of seasons and their ever-recurring winds, and so we pass our idle hours and days, seated in a café beside the Bosphorus.