As I climbed up the jagged streets towards the centre of Şirince, there appeared on the side of a small alleyway a stone oven, it’s “out-of-placeness” making it seem slightly magical. Like a guardian statue, it sat at the edge of the town overlooking its small centre, burning olive wood from local orchards, and filled with dense, nourishing bread. Beside the still-warm loaves wrapped in newsprint, lay baskets of freshly-picked olives, homemade pomegranate molasses and ...
