One bruised shin, 80km, and a few thousand years of ruins along Türkiye’s Lycian Way.
Words & images Maxwell Tooby
One bruised shin, 80km, and a few thousand years of ruins along Türkiye’s Lycian Way.
Words & images Maxwell Tooby
I’d just cracked my shin on what was probably a block of stone laid over 2,000 years ago by a Roman stonemason.
After a pause to catch my breath (and unleash a few colourful expletives), I laughed. What was I even doing here? How was walking around in a place this old even legal? My archaeologist sister would be mortified. I moved on, picking my way through the ruins of a Lycian-Roman city perched high on a mountain, overlooking the endless blue of the Mediterranean. The view was so staggering I quickly forgot my throbbing leg.
One of the incredible coves along the Türkish Riviera - you never know what’s around the next corner.
Guided by our local leader, Alper, I was five days into an eight-day small group adventure trek along Türkiye’s Lycian Way, starting in Fethiye and finishing in Kaş. The trail is ridiculous in the best way. It threads between the Mediterranean and the mountains, through pine forests, hidden coves, and ancient ruins boasting the kind of views you don’t forget. But as it turns out, the scenery wasn’t even the most memorable part.
When I found out I’d be hiking Türkiye’s Lycian Way with Explore Worldwide, I immediately Googled “Turkish Riviera” like a true millennial. The images looked fake. Endless blue seas. Dramatic cliffs. Golden beaches. The search results were basically a real-life Pinterest board.
Türkiye's stunning coastline from above.
View from the ancient Simena Castle, overlooking the turquoise coastline.
And from day one, it didn’t disappoint. Within minutes of setting off, Ölüdeniz beach came into view, its turquoise waters framed by sheer cliffs. It was one of those pinch-me moments. By sunset at Butterfly Bay, I almost felt I’d seen it all already. Did I really need to keep walking another 60 kilometres? (Spoiler: yes, ofc).
Following the Lycian Way through fragrant pine forests.
The mother from our homestay the previous night, sitting in Sidyma Ancient City.
That night, though, my mind wasn’t on the views - it was on lunch. We’d stopped at a tiny family-run restaurant I would have walked right past if not for Alper. On the menu was gözleme, Turkish pancakes stuffed simply with cheese or potato.
We sat beneath a shaded pergola heavy with ripe grapes, plucking them straight from the vine.
The kitchen belonged to Bedia, who, despite feeling unwell, insisted on welcoming us with a quiet smile. Her husband, Halil, hovered nearby, while their daughters, Esra and Büşra, darted in and out with plates and tea. It wasn’t a landmark or a scenic lookout, but it’s one of those small, perfect travel memories that stick.
As the hike continued, the trail grew wilder and more intimate. The white and red markers led us through pine forests and in and out of hidden coves high above the ocean cliffs. Somewhere far beyond the horizon, a fire burned on an island, and a dreamy haze hung over everything, giving my vision its very own nostalgic, film-like hue (no filter needed). I found myself wondering what was around the next headland. Another view? Another ruin? Another bite of cheesy gözleme?
The second night’s stay was in the village of Gey, where we arrived at the distant call of a goat shepherd echoing through the hills. The stone houses looked as though they’d been sunbathing for a few centuries. Faded Renaults from the ‘90s sat between them, chalky from the heat. It felt like we’d walked through a time warp and landed somewhere unbothered by the 21st century.
Old Roman wells littered the slopes alongside ancient olive trees with roots like giant claws gripping the earth.
Further along the trail, we started spotting traces of the past. One tree, Alper said, was nearly two thousand years old. I stared at its gnarled trunk and believed him. He told us you could count the rings to tell its age, and I imagined the stories between them: empires rising and falling, ships setting sail, people like me tripping over ancient stones and swearing loudly about it.
That night we stayed outside Patara, once a bustling Lycian port and later a major Roman outpost. From a humble roadside pull-out, we hiked up a hill as the sun rose and suddenly, there it was: a massive Roman aqueduct stretching across the landscape. At its base, light spilled through an arched opening, illuminating golden grasses and distant water that shimmered like glass.
Exploring Patara Theatre, once a major Lycian city.
The aqueduct became our path for much of the day. Just as water had flowed for centuries before, we walked atop its structure as it guided us straight into the ancient city. I was particularly struck by the Bouleuterion, one of the earliest democratic assembly halls in the Lycian League. Standing there, surrounded by half-reconstructed ruins and chirping cicadas, it felt strangely more intimate than Rome or Athens. Like you could actually hear the ghosts debating tax reform.
Ancient tombs surrounded by mountains in Sidyma Ancient City.
After exploring Patara’s ruins, we hit the beach, cooling off in the same sea that once carried Roman ships. Later, hiking inland, Alper stopped beside the trail and picked up an unassuming rock. Intricate patterns ran across its face; fossilised coral reefs, he explained. I realised we were literally walking on an ancient ocean floor. Somewhere between coral fossils and mountain views, I started to feel very, very small, and I was loving every second of it.
Eventually, Kaş came into view, shimmering below us. The ruins underfoot belonged to Phellos, a city long forgotten, its seaside sister Antiphellos now reborn as Kaş. That night, we celebrated the only way you should after hiking 80 kilometres: by eating too much meze and hopping between more bars than was sensible for people with sore calves.
Our final day was all sea and sun; one last short hike to a harbour, a waiting boat, and hours spent swimming through turquoise water, exploring sunken cities and climbing to island castles.
The next morning, on the transfer back, I thought about everything the Lycian Way had shown me.
Swimming off a gulet in Kekova Bay - the highlight of the trip.
Washing off the dust after days of hiking at Patara Beach.
Oceans that became mountains. Empires that rose and crumbled. Olive trees that have outlived entire civilisations.
Yes, there were pitfalls along the way (in the shape of a bee sting causing my upper lip to blow up – don’t ask).
But to walk the Lycian Way is to walk back through time itself. It’s a gentle reminder that travel isn’t about chasing the most “Instagrammable” view. It’s about feeling history underfoot; about sharing food at a stranger’s table. And it’s about realising you’re just one small part of a story that’s been unfolding for millennia.
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get in the know Santa Claus is actually Turkish. Yep, Saint Nicholas was born in Patara, a coastal town in Southern Turkey. So technically, Christmas started in the Mediterranean. Wild.
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