Once upon a time, a Byzantine prince had his life as privileged royalty in the exotic palaces of Constantinople crushed, and he was exiled to a remote island in the Sea of Marmara to live out his days.
The island prison location worked so well that for the next 500 years, a succession of princes, princesses and other assorted royals who fell into disfavour found themselves likewise sentenced, until the Ottomans ended the practice – preferring other methods of disposing with failed leaders.
Wear good walking shoes to climb the 200 metres to St. George’s Monastery.
“Life as an exile must have been pretty sweet”, I say to my travel and life partner, as we take in the 360 view from the island’s 200 metre summit.
But ruminating on life as persona non-gratis 1500 years ago does leave gaps in my observation credentials, as I learn later.
We’re mid-way through a hike up to the Agia Yorgi Monastery on Buyukada, the largest island in the Adalar archipelago, about 90 minutes’ express ferry ride from Istanbul.
St. George Monastery (Agia Yorgi) dates back to the 6th century.
The Princes’ Islands, so named in acknowledgement of all those unfortunate sovereigns cast out centuries ago, are known locally simply as Adalar.
There is no royalty on the island these days – as far as I know, anyway. With the advent of ferry service from Istanbul, tourism has again one-upped treachery and Buyukada is a happening place.
Well, not exactly happening. Vehicles are prohibited on the Princes’ Islands, save for emergency and other authorized purposes. To get from A to B you use your own foot-mobile, a bike, or hire a horse-drawn carriage (or phaeton). That’s why we’ve come here – knowing that after a week in frenetic, loud, horn-honking Istanbul, a couple of days of respite would be welcome. But that’s not quite how it turns out.
Colorful phaetons and energetic horses ply the streets of Buyukada.
Horses careen around the streets at a break-neck pace, their passengers following in hot pursuit. Unwary pedestrians (like us), assuming this is a quaint, quiet island, soon realize the slow pace applies to everything except the transportation. Phaetons are the equine version of taxis – so the same mantra applies – get passengers to their destination as fast as possible, so you can pick up another fare, and so on.
Express ferries transport visitors from Istanbul to the Princes’ Islands in 90 minutes. Unlike exiled Byzantines, return tickets are readily available.
We arrive at the Buyukada dock along with a full load of passengers and disembark into a throng of street vendors, would-be tour guides and departing visitors. It’s only mildly less chaotic than the Kabatas ferry dock in Istanbul.
The roads have no order to their layout, like an unruly web weaved by an inebriated spider. We zigzag through the streets in search of our lodging. Our noses give advance warning that we’re approaching the carriage hire kiosk. It seems we’ve escaped the automotive exhaust fumes of Istanbul only to be inundated by horse exhaust. Almost simultaneously, we come across a line-up of several dozen awaiting passengers. Most visitors come for just a few hours, so the first thing on their agenda is a horse-driven tour of the island. With every arriving ferry, the line-up re-populates.
Since we’re on Buyukada for the night, we bypass the queue and head straight to our hotel, unpack, then wander out for a leisurely lunch and explore the waterfront.
The view from a horse-driven carriage.
Late in the afternoon, after the crowds have boarded ferries for the return to the city, we make our way back to the horse-taxi stand. We climb into a carriage and settle in for the 20-minute ride to our destination – the 6th Century landmark Agia Yorgi Church. The banter of birds above us and the clip-clop of hooves along the cobblestones are the only sounds we hear as the road winds away from the town centre and skirts the island. Glimpses of stunning coastline appear beyond deco-era mansions, framed by tumbles of pink bougainvillea, lining the roadway.
Brilliant pink bougainvillea tumble over stone walls guarding the elegant mansions of Buyukada’s wealthy.
Our horse taxi stops at the base of the hill leading up to the monastery. We scramble out and start the trek up the cobblestone path. It’s surprisingly steep, but we keep climbing and are rewarded for our obstinacy by a breathtaking view across the Sea of Marmara once we reach the summit.
Exploring the monastery is equally rewarding, and in the solitude of the late afternoon, I imagine royal exiles living in quiet harmony with dedicated monks, admiring the beauty of their tranquil island and rejoicing that they no longer have to involve themselves in the turmoil of Byzantine politics. (Only later do I learn that the punishment of exile came with other nasty treatment, like having your eyes gouged out.)
Pedestrians, cyclists and phaetons vie for space along the island’s roadways.
By the time we trek back to the bottom of the hill, the few horse taxis that remain have clusters of passengers waiting for a ride, so we opt to walk back to town. There are no sidewalks; every so often the clatter of hooves warns us of approaching horses and we leap to the side of the road to avoid being run over. By the time we reach town, we’re tired and hungry, so we head towards the aromas of fresh grilled fish emanating from the seaside bistros. We find a table and look across the expanse of water towards crazy, chaotic Istanbul.
Buyukada’s waterfront teams with bistros serving up fresh fish.
“Are you ready to go back to the big city?” my partner asks.
“Yes,” I reply. “I’m ready to trade in four-legged horses for automotive ones.” But I’m thinking of all the people who never had the choice to return, who didn’t – couldn’t – appreciate Buyukada for it’s beauty and solitude. We watch as a ferry, with its twinkling lights reflecting against the dark sea, churns its way towards Istanbul.
Mansions line the streets leading from the town centre.