ELCOME aboard my gulet, descended from the Turkish schooners of yore. A double-masted wooden vessel once used by fishermen and sponge divers and, since the 1970s, a popular floating playground for independently minded tourists taking in the glistening Turquoise Coast. Seven of us have arrived in Bodrum past midnight, where the shisha bars are pulsing to Euro-pop. Within minutes of stepping onto ’s deck and removing our shoes, her anchor clanks upwards and we motor past the Castle of St Peter and into the darkness in search of a quiet bay. After a glass of Champagne under the stars, I settle into my small, but charming mahogany cabin and drift into a slumber. The
