The plane lands in Izmir. It is dark and we are tired. I am with my son and grandson aged 10.

A plush car meets us, arranged by our Turkish friend. We are hungry and are given welcome Turkish biscuits and water. We drive through the night, noting miles of glinting lights from a jungle of high- rise buildings, that when I see them in daylight seem to be planted randomly in fields.

We drive for three hours and end in narrow cobbled streets in an ancient town on the Aegean Sea, that used to be part of Greece. They are built of solid stone in Greek style.

We creep into our comfortable apartment that is a renovated stone built Greek house renovated by a friend of our Turkish friend who is part of the art world in Istanbul. It has a simplistic style which is more art than Turkish. The drawback is that there is no insulation between rooms or between one floor and the other, just floorboards where the light shines through from the downstairs to the bedroom above. This means my son and I cannot not speak in the evenings whilst waiting for my grandson to go to sleep which he always finds difficult, possibly because he is on the autistic spectrum.

Yet, the next morning, as we emerge into sunlight, the world becomes magical.

I am visually impaired, so I am introduced into a pleasant fog, although thankfully my peripheral vision is intact. I could see the cobbled streets and weathered stone houses and the numerous rather well-fed cats that wander the streets but, I have no idea where I amin the world or how to negotiate myself from one place to another. Thank God I have a son who can see. My grandson stands next to me saying,

           ‘Granny, I will hold your hand.’

           ‘Thank you’’ I say

We wander, and find a shaded breakfast restaurant.

An elderly man greets us. We greet him in Turkish and of course we have no idea as to what he is saying in return, although my son’s Turkish is better than mine. He can string words together whilst I just use nouns. Our host spoke to us in broken English.

Foliage surrounds us. The place is still and quiet, just the sound of birds in the trees, and the strolling cats. It feels removed from the hustle and bustle. A cat crawls onto my grandson’s lap He is enthralled.

           ‘What long eyelashes he has, ’says my grandson.

           ‘What are long eyelashes in Turkish?’

We google it, ‘kipikler.’

‘I shall call this cat Kepikler.’

 A breakfast comes of many chesses, olives, cucumbers, tomatoes, salad and omelette, washed down with sweet tea.

It is my job to remove the cat as obviously it wants to eat our breakfast, and so it was that we return each morning to have breakfast and visit ‘Kepikler’ and my grandson comes away armed with freshly baked cakes given by the kindly old man.

I inhale the exotic warm air and feel liberated.

After breakfast we roam the streets and visit gilded Greek Orthodox churches. We absorb the mix of Greek and Turkish culture.

We find a simple beach with soft sand and still clear water, I dip my toes into it, it feels icy but enticing at the same time.

‘It would be nice to have a beer,’ says my son.

There isa café behind us which looks suspiciously empty.

A woman appears and I speak in halting Turkish, she laughs and replies in English.

           It’s the end of the season and the café is closed, but I will go in and see if there is any beer in the fridge.’

           ‘Sorry, there is no beer.’

 She beams at us, her desire to welcome us is palpable and I feel a surge of gratitude that this complete stranger just wants to envelope us.

I feel the sea again and think it is too good an opportunity to miss, and step into the chill blue water tentatively moving forward to allow my limbs to become accustomed to the cold.

           ‘I’m diving in!’ I shout to my son.

           ‘Standby, in case I don’t come up!’

In a moment I feel the cold enter my head and I surface again, gasping a little and swim fast to keep warm. It is exhilarating, and I think of my last year of illness and it feels as if life has started again.

My son and grandson join me and I rest floating and watch them. My heart glad as I look at my child and grandchild.

Life moves on in the stages of our lifespan.

I now observe the product of a life as I slip into the shadows of old age.

The following day our Turkish friend comes with her ten-year-old daughter, going on twenty and obsessed by make up in contrast to my grandson of the same age who just wants to play.

She takes us to restaurants with fine food. She is part of Istanbul

 Intelligentsia, an art dealer that sells art works to the Tate and the Pompidou centre.

She takes us to Pergamon. An ancient site dating back before Christ standing upon a hill, so that we feel on top of the world. Even, the girl forgets about make up and climbs on the ruins.

           This is the best playground!’ she cries.

 We visit our Turkish friend’s friends, who have renovated a village house in the countryside, with a pomegranate orchard and an olive grove. We stand by a 1, 100-year-old olive tree that is still producing olives. We touch it.

My grandson climbs into its many hollows.

We stand beneath it and feel humility.

It is our last day in Turkey and my grandson bids a last goodbye to Kepikler the cat.

           ‘Do you think he will remember me granny?’

We return to a grey and damp United Kingdom but I have been given a warm gift. The hope of a better life.