BY JACK WATSON
A week in Istanbul marked my first trip abroad since visiting Australia a decade ago. Travelling with my grandfather Roger—a contributor to these pages—we indulged in the first-class lounge, flew European Business Class, and stayed at a four-star Radisson Hotel. It was luxury all the way.
The view from our hotel’s rooftop dining area was nothing short of spectacular: distant islands, countless mosques (over 3,000, all broadcasting the call to prayer five times a day), the shimmering sea, gleaming skyscrapers, and picturesque historical buildings. My eyes were well and truly opened on that first evening. Strolling through vibrant streets lined with bustling restaurants, we reached the crystal-clear waterfront, where families gathered, cats roamed freely, and the locals radiated a joy and pride seldom seen back in England.
We visited Istanbul’s two most famous mosques—the Blue Mosque and the Hagia Sophia—both of which have become stricter in recent years. Once, visitors could wander in freely; now, we had to cover our knees and remove our shoes. Islamic rules are tightening, even for tourists. Still, the interiors were breathtaking, with dazzling stained glass and ancient architecture. Nearby, the Basilica Cistern Museum awaited, its grand pillars and cavernous space once holding water for the entire city when the aqueducts still flowed.
Next, a tour of Galatasaray’s RAMS Park Stadium. The club, originally formed by soldiers, has grown into one of Turkey’s biggest, amassing 777 trophies since 1905—including the Turkish Super Lig. On our way back to the hotel, we stopped at the iconic Galata Tower and Galata Bridge. Later, we dined at a rooftop restaurant with stunning views of the Bosphorus and the illuminated mosques.
In a nod to my hometown club, Hull City—now owned by Turkish businessman Acun Ilıcalı—I wore their jersey. Bad idea. Not only did it mark us as English, but it also invited haggling from locals eager to discuss Acun (who isn’t universally popular). Frustrated, we retreated to the Grand Bazaar—one of the world’s largest and oldest covered markets—where I bought a Galatasaray shirt instead. Another misstep: vendors kept shouting, quizzing me on my favourite player. “First name starts with F, four letters; second starts with O, three letters…” They got the hint.
As the days passed, the sun beat down, humidity rose, and our legs grew weary—but we pressed on to Topkapi Palace, the historic residence of Ottoman sultans. We fell for a scam, paying nearly £100 for “fast-track” tickets from an external booth, complete with a guide who abandoned us after a cursory glance at the Harem. Left to explore alone, we wandered through baths, council chambers, courtyards, and living quarters. Fascinating, but not worth the price.
Evenings became a time to rest, with beer o’clock creeping earlier each day (for Grandad, not me!). I soaked up the sun, admired the views, and read Elif Shafak, a brilliant Turkish writer. I also managed to lose my keycard, expertly dropping it into the immovable sideboard by the desk. Thankfully, maintenance fished it out for me.
As our trip neared its end, we took a cheap and frequent ferry to Istanbul’s Asian side—a short but scenic ride offering fresh perspectives of the city. It also revealed a cheaper route to the airport, saving us £20 compared to a taxi. We wandered past Fenerbahçe’s Şükrü Saracoğlu Stadium, enjoying a quieter, hassle-free part of the city.
Our final evening was a fitting farewell: dinner at the Armada Hotel’s terrace restaurant, dressed in shirt and trousers. The sea glistened as the sun set, a full moon rising through the clouds. The food was exquisite, the ambience serene—we could have lingered for hours in the cool evening breeze.
I’ll miss Istanbul: the food, the people, the weather, the landmarks—all unforgettable. Still, it will be good to return home, and I certainly won’t miss the five daily calls to prayer!
If you’ve never been to Istanbul, and have the chance—go now, before they make you wear a burka and recite the Qur’an at customs.