Fifteen years ago I visited Kalkan, tucked away on Turkey’s beautiful Turquoise Coast. And fell in love...for me it was a magical place away from the stress of metropolitan life.
On rainy November afternoons and snowy January mornings I dreamt of its clear blue waters, tiny harbour and toy-town lighthouse. A place where the local people were relaxed and the food delicious. I fondly recalled the small pension where I stayed where both staff and guests were on first name terms with each other.
Because I was so in love with Kalkan, I never wanted to return after that first visit as I felt that to return to an old lover was always a recipe for disaster. You can never reinvent the past: there is always grave disappointment.
However, I found myself on a Friday evening, jetting off from Gatwick to Dalaman, on route to revisit my old friend after all that time. 
I arrived in the early hours and found that Dalaman airport was now a glamorous plastic place, just like all the other Med hotspots. The ramshackle place that was also a military airport was no more. At Fethiye, we changed from coach to minibus to take us on to Kalkan. All did not bodewell as the minibus driver fell asleep once or twice and a fellow passenger had to prompt him to wake up every so often. I had butterflies firmly planted in my stomach as we trundled along the night roads with only the swaying trees for company. After all I was returning to a love affair.
I arrived at my small hotel just as dawn was breaking. It was elegantly attractive and I unpacked like a zombie and made my way down to breakfast: I was the only person in the dining room. Even the Germans were still sleeping.
The views from the hotel were wonderful: azure sea and azure sky and I was relieved that there still was a view. But I noticed that there were shells of new villas creeping up the hill towards the hotel which would soon crush its fabulous vista.
And what of Kalkan, itself? Unfortunately, beloved Kalkan is going the same way as the commercialised resorts further along the Turquoise Coast. Even though it is over two hours from the airport, and there are no decent beaches of note - the nearest is a forty minute drive by dolmus - the spectacular Patara. It has, somehow, managed to lose its exclusivity and the packages and new build are moving in with a vengeance. Yet, strangely enough, a few years ago a couple of big holiday companies did settle down in Kalkan for a season or two but then, for whatever reason, they moved out. It was said that they could not attract the mass market. Now it is the norm to see the British flaunting their tattoos and beer bellies as they meander down the cobbled roads that lead towards the harbour.
The problem of Kalkan’s move towards popularity might lie with a particular specialist tour operator that put a lot of effort into developing and promoting Kalkan as an upmarket holiday resort, catering mainly for a discerning British clientele. Whereby it acquired the name of the “Turkish Tuscany”. This tour operator paid hoteliers for sole occupancy of their pensions and villas which pleased some of the locals who gladly rented out their villas in this way for £3,500 per week in peak season while decamping their growing families to small rooms above their restaurants and handbag shops. Gradually, British tourism took over this special village.
Now Kalkan is on the verge of erupting and there is a small man-made beach with beach beds, umbrellas and pedalos with painted dolphin faces to cater with the overflows from Marmaris.
Near to the dolmus stop are mopeds and scooters for hire, English breakfasts and one bar hosts a karaoke night.
Fifteen years ago, down by the harbour was a tiny bar with an equally small dance floor which encouraged an eclectic mix of people. One night of dancing and drinking there would give the most wondrous of hangovers the next morning. Alas, that bar is no more, in its place stands a touristy restaurant catering for those who know no better.
In Kalkan itself, the slightly-tacky, but beloved, carpet shops and dinky trinket shops have disappeared, replaced by real estate premises offering apartments with a sea view for £40,000! Yes, the Brits, along with Dutch and Germans are moving in big time: a new tunnel was recently completed reducing transfer time from the airport and enabling the families to trickle through.
But what of the specialist tour operator who started it all? In 2006 it crashed perhaps because “hidden Turkey” was finally discovered. But in 2007 it returned from the ashes, with not so much success. Because it does not want to capture the mass market and the mass market does not want to be caught.
I could not decide that for all its changes whether I still liked Kalkan. I spoke to a lady from Bolton who owned a typically Turkish house near to my hotel. She said that the first time she spotted Kalkan was from a yacht coming into the harbour at night time. She saw the welcoming fairy lights glistening along the quay and it all looked so special. “It’s a place,” she said, “that I wanted to retire to - which is why I bought my little house.” But now, she said, she was not so sure, everything had changed.
I also spoke to a guitar maker from Essex, who had made guitars for the best rock stars in the world. He came to Kalkan for a holiday staying at the same hotel where I was staying and loved everything about it. Kalkan, he remarked, was addictive. So he bought a smart town house there and does not regret it at all. Moreover, he welcomes further development of the village in the name of progress.
However, but for now, late at night when the mass market revellers have turned out of the restaurants and retired to their boutique hotels; and when the moon is high in the sky, casting its metallic glow on the inky sea, and the muezzin calls the faithful to prayer.
Kalkan quietly returns to the place I fell in love with and find it so hard to let go of.
