A Journey Of Simplicity

Reading in my room whilst admiring the hills through the open fields

There are places in the world that root you to the earth, that seem to hum with an ancient energy, places where time moves slowly as if savouring every second. On our journey along the Lycian border in Turkey, we found one of those places.

It was the kind of travel I always seek not filled with the rush of cities or the glimmer of tourist attractions but a journey back to something simple, something real. Paul and I were fortunate enough to stay with a local family through a Turkish friends recommendations in the hills, a place where the air was sweet with the scent of pine trees and the distant murmur of the sea.

Cooked vegetable’s dried in open sunlight to then make it into dry powder to be used as soup in winter.

The heart of this home was Fatima, the chef. She was a woman whose hands had known the warmth of fire and the coolness of harvested vegetables for decades. She had learned the art of cooking not through recipes in books, but through stories passed down through seasons of survival. I remember the way she welcomed us, smiling through lines etched by years of laughter and work.

Fatima showed me the essence of living with the land of preparing for the cold winters by harnessing the abundance of summer. Together we wandered through her garden and the neighbouring farms, baskets overflowing with tomatoes, peppers, herb, almonds, all organic, each with a story of its own. I watched in awe as she prepared for the months ahead, drying vegetables under the Turkish sun fermenting jars of vibrant pickles and crafting hearty soups that would nourish the family long after the warmth had gone.

Tomato gravy preserved using summer vegetables to be used in winter

“This is how we survive the winter,” Fatima said with a soft smile, her hands busy slicing ripe red tomatoes. “And this is how my mother survived it, and her mother before her.”

The simplicity of it all struck me. No grand supermarkets, no fancy appliances just earth, hands, and heart. As we sat together learning the rhythms of preservation that had been perfected over generations, I realised that this was a true art form. Not the kind displayed in galleries, but one found in the quiet work of everyday life, in the food that nourishes and sustains.

Preserved green beans curry that’s stored in an underground storage in a cool dry place away from sunlight.

Each meal we shared was a masterpiece of simplicity. The soups, rich and flavourful filled our bellies after long walks along the Lycian border. We practiced yoga in the mornings and evenings breathing in the crisp mountain air, and spent our days exploring the hills meeting locals who spoke of the history buried in the stones beneath our feet.

Every evening stories were exchanged over dinner, tales of ancient civilisations and family legacies of how the land has cared for those who have cared for it in return. The food wasn’t served on fancy plates or in five star restaurants, but it carried with it the weight of tradition and the lightness of love. This I realised was the true Michelin star an honour earned not through fame or recognition, but through generations of care and connection.

Our time with this beautiful family wasn’t just a stay, it was a return to the basics of life, a reminder of what it means to be grounded. It was about slowing down enough to savour every bite, every breath, every step. It was a lesson in how to live well, to live fully, in harmony with the earth and with each other.

As we packed our bags to leave, Fatima gifted us a jar of pickles she had fermented during our stay. “A piece of us to take with you,” she said.

And we did. But we left with more than that with a deeper appreciation for the beauty in simplicity, for the art of living in tune with nature, and for the understanding that sometimes the most grounding journeys are the ones that bring you back to the most fundamental parts of yourself.

Kajal Mehta