That’s all very magical. What is not so magical is that the tinkling sound of running water can also be heard in my bathroom. One problem with cave houses, especially those at the foot of a slope, is that they act like giant sponges -- and a sponge can only absorb so much moisture before it starts to leak. So now my bathroom is adorned with a collection of small metal pots that my neighbors used to use for carrying yogurt but which I am utilizing as drip-catchers.My bathroom was once a stable, the old mangers now concealed behind cupboard doors. A long crack traversing the ceiling suggests that the ground has slipped in the past, much to the anxiety of previous owners who inserted two arches to support it. Now I inspect one of these arches more closely and find its lower surface so covered with drops of water that it looks as if the stone is perspiring.
I suppose I’m lucky that the most porous part of my property is the bathroom. But unfortunately the water is also making a soggy mess of the last two unrestored caves which would make perfect guest bedrooms if only I could dry them out.
But I’m trying not to let this bother me too much since these two rooms were an unexpected bonus. When I bought the house it was in such a ruinous state that it was hard to cross the courtyard. Neighbors had bolted a gate on their side, so I had barely even glimpsed the secretive rear courtyard. Imagine my surprise, then, when, tapu safely in hand, I arrived to start work on the restoration -- and found I’d bought two more cave rooms than I’d realized.
Both these extra caves have huge niches carved into their rear walls. These would have been used first to tread grapes for wine, then later to tread grapes for pekmez (molasses) -- the clues lie in the small drains linking the niches to pit-like holes beside them where the juice would have accumulated. These should, of course, be dry, but right now one is so full of melted snow that it resembles a giant ice bucket.
With the Big Thaw comes the Big Mud, and now the neighbors who were wringing their hands about an absence of snow just weeks ago are gnashing their teeth about the muck. And they certainly have a point, I admit, as I drag my boots through the glue-like gunk to my front gate, wishing I had listened to the friend who advised me to get the path paved before winter set in.
Pat Yale lives in a restored cave-house in Göreme in Cappadocia.
