I don’t know if there will be any fool, besides me, trying to hike the Love Valley with luggage. Let me explain: I decided I would sleep in Üçhisar that day. The town lies a few kilometres to the south of Göreme. What would be the point of going all the way there by bus just to drop off my bags, then returning to Göreme to start the walk I had planned? I know the route from Göreme to Üçhisar climbs uphill and that the elevation gain in Love Valley is over three hundred metres. All the better: I want to get some exercise. After a decent breakfast with coffee, an orange and a gözleme—I love that kind of cheese‑filled pancake—I head north along the wide national road, which has little traffic, towards the beginning of Love Valley. I don’t see any clear signs, so I decide to explore the area before stepping onto the proper trail. I have a paper map with me. This doesn’t seem to be the right way. I turn back and find a place that clarifies where the trail starts. Here we go. Grey, dusty soil opens up between the dried-up herbs. The path climbs gradually. Bushes with an astonishing number of thin branches try to survive the winter. Many of them have a purple hue. I look back and notice the national road already far away and below me. I keep going. To my left the ground stays green. I finally encounter a tourist jeep parked where the dirt road ends. I take the chance to confirm I’m on the right route. From now on there are no more signposts.
The absurd shapes of the rocks are no accident. The explanation begins about ten million years ago, in the late Miocene, when volcanic activity deposited tons of ash. In the Quaternary, cooling caused cracks to open, allowing water to seep in and accelerate erosion in the softer layers, creating valleys and depressions. Without a basalt cap to protect them, the tuffs crumbled into dusty plains or deep chasms; where basalt held firm, chimneys jutted out like something from a fairy tale.
People have always carved their homes into these relatively soft rocks. There are still some who live in them today, although most are now occupied by tourists.
From what I can see, the footpath roughly follows an old streambed that contributes to eroding these rocks. In summer it is certainly dry, but in February it is impossible to follow the trail without rubber boots. It is no more than three metres wide. When I can, I make small jumps between muddy puddles, inexplicably hard‑bottomed. My trainers, suited to short strolls in nature but only on easy trails, performed reasonably well, even though proper hiking boots would clearly have been preferable. When the water is too deep, I climb out of the stream and invent my own path to keep roughly parallel to its course. Another house carved into the rock… Wait, this one looks recently abandoned. I go in to visit. I enter as if I were stepping into a tiny studio with no front door. It has probably stood empty for years. How cool. It’s a bit small to renounce my nomadic life, yet just roomy enough to fit a small kitchen and a tiny shower cubicle. If by some misfortune I get lost, I could spend the night here without worrying about asking the owner’s permission. I find others further on, but none quite as abandoned as the first. If I had never heard stories about Cappadocia before, I would never have believed these rocks were natural. Some look like menhirs, others like small natural pyramids, and others still—excuse my language—pass quite well for giant cocks.
The dominant colour of these rocks in Love Valley is white. Even so, the cliffs display yellow layers, pink layers… and that grey dust, almost like sand… I had no idea that the Moon was in Turkey… There are no animals. No mammals, at least. From time to time my ear catches what I assume are the sounds of snakes.
I continue along dry streambeds, crawling into natural tunnels carved by the earth, crouching to pass under narrow passages blocked by branches, scrambling up steep slopes… I have long known that the view from the top of a hill is different if you reach it by car or by bicycle. This time I think I had never seen a landscape so sublime.
As dusk falls, the low sun gilds the rocks in a warm gold, highlighting deep shadows in the hollows and rough textures where the wind has polished tiny cracks. It is a primeval scene, where the earth seems to pulse in organic, challenging forms.
I recall crossing paths with only one group of Chinese tourists. I trust my physical ability and mental endurance, yet I am an urban person with little experience for this kind of adventure. I confess that halfway along the trail I regretted not taking a taxi to the hotel to drop off my bags, but now that I have finally arrived, I think I did the right thing. Tomorrow I have another day of walking. This time, I will leave my luggage at the hotel.
The next day the temperature is below zero and some snow is forecast for the afternoon. If I had already liked my hotel in Göreme, I am speechless about the one in Üçhisar. Staying in a nearly luxurious hotel doesn’t quite fit the spirit of my trip. I dislike ceremony and exaggerated politeness. Still, I realised that despite the tourism, hotel life is relatively hard: the competition is fierce and the low season is almost as weak as on seaside resorts. After a fantastic breakfast with cheese, omelette, fruit, gözleme, cakes, I take advantage of the morning to venture into Pigeon Valley.
Pigeon Valley opens slowly. At first it is just a walk across this lunar plain. I insist on “lunar,” even though it sounds cliché. I can’t think of a more realistic way to describe the landscapes of Cappadocia. Finally the plain makes way for the slopes, sculpted by the wind and the patience of time, holding the same silence left behind by the ancient, sleeping volcanoes. The geological layers of each era stand out more clearly now, etched into the stone as if they were a rainbow.
The small holes carved into the rock that once sheltered pigeons tell a simple, ingenious story: the old inhabitants created refuges for the birds whose droppings fertilised the vineyards. Today those emptied shelters remain as miniature witnesses of the intimate relationship between human beings and the land.
At every bend, the valley changes character: now a refuge, now a viewpoint, now a passage, now greenish, now yellowish. It feels as if time itself has come to rest. The ever‑present wind blows hard between the few fig trees and olive trees. I have to be careful not to fall into a ravine. Although, honestly, the rocks of Cappadocia are so soft that if I ever had to fall into a valley, I’d choose this one. It starts to snow, but I finally see the village of Göreme in the distance.
Needless to say, I didn’t encounter any other tourist along the way. I arrive as the call to prayer begins—the melodious chant of the adhan in the afternoon. What a confusion! So many people rushing into hotels, shops and cafés because of the snowstorm—a real blizzard! Clearly, I ought to do the same: I stop to drink coffee. I realise the storm isn’t going to ease up in the next few hours. It’s no use staying out here like this. I return to Üçhisar along the road back to my hotel.
The wind is beating hard, the snow driving almost horizontally. Every two minutes I have to shake the snow off my raincoat. My trainers turn white, my feet icy and damp. The protection of my gloves is insufficient; my hands prefer to hide in the pockets of my trousers. I wrap every inch of my scarf around my neck. Under my raincoat I am wearing only a short‑sleeve T‑shirt. I lost my sweatshirt in Bulgaria and only now do I feel its absence. Well, that’s not quite true—I don’t feel so cold, actually. The temperature is slightly below zero. What creates the sensation of cold is the strong wind and the snow that in minutes transforms the landscape. True, my feet are cold—despite the two pairs of summer socks. When your feet are cold, the only remedy is to walk fast while still enjoying the view, and to take a hot shower as soon as you reach the hotel. A little before Üçhisar a car stopped, asked if I was all right and if I wanted a lift. I thanked them, but I refused. I have made it abundantly clear in other chapters how much I love snow. I just kept smiling, stopping occasionally to watch the palette of colours of the Cappadocian rocks fade away under a uniform white blanket.
The next day the cold was the same as the day before and it was still snowing, though without a storm. I restricted myself to a short stroll around Üçhisar. I would have liked to explore the other valleys, but nature refused. The cold is too much for me. And even if it weren’t… it is too dangerous to follow a trail already buried under snow. There are other routes I would love to explore, but I need to be reasonable.
Two days later the weather remained unchanged. I left the hotel only at night for a brief walk and to watch the mountains. I need to carry on my journey. I have already bought the bus ticket to Diyarbakir, in Turkish Kurdistan. Today the temperature is bearable, yet the trails are still impassable. I just met the hotel owner. She drove me to the bus station in Üçhisar.
