Uzungöl, Trabzon

When I arrived in Uzungöl, I expected a peaceful mountain village. And it was. Wooden houses tucked into green slopes. A narrow road curling around a still lake. Forests standing quiet, as if they had nothing left to prove. But there was something else too. Something I didn’t expect. A feeling that grew slowly, like the mist rising from the trees. This place wasn’t just beautiful, it was layered. The kind of place that says very little, but makes you feel a lot.

Around the lake, most of the cafés, hotels, and shops are run by Turkish families. Many of the workers are young Syrians, quiet, polite, often in the background, trying to rebuild their lives far from home. And the tourists? Mostly from the Gulf. Especially Saudis. You hear Arabic more than Turkish in the streets. No one speaks English here. Families in abayas walk slowly by the water. Children take turns posing for photos in front of the lake and the tall, twin-minaret mosque. It feels far from typical Turkey. In some ways, it feels like its own little world.

Uzungöl keeps a strange calm. The weather helps. Low clouds hang in the valley like they're in no hurry to leave. The air is fresh but often damp. Sometimes it rains in short, soft bursts, then clears just enough to show you the full curve of the mountains for a few minutes. That’s when everything feels still.

It’s a place where everyone’s there for different reasons, but somehow the lake holds them all quietly. And for me, it wasn’t the view or the food or the photos I’ll remember most. It was the strange feeling of being surrounded by majestic valleys yet completely alone with my thoughts. Even though Kash was with me on this trip, and we shared conversations, laughter, and meals, there were long stretches of silence between us — not awkward, just natural. A quiet calm settled in, something unspoken but understood. The kind of silence that gives your thoughts room to rise, the kind that doesn’t ask to be filled.

I wasn’t lonely. But I was deeply alone with everything I’d been carrying. And strangely, it felt okay. Uzungöl didn’t try to fix me. It didn’t offer meaning or messages. It just let me be. It gave my thoughts room to stretch out and breathe, the same way it gives space to the fog, to the hills, to the strangers who end up standing beside that lake without knowing why.

Pokut: A Day in the Clouds

We took a break from Uzungöl. Honestly, we didn’t feel like leaving. The lake had already slowed us down in a way we hadn’t expected. But Pokut felt promising too, something higher, maybe clearer. So we planned a day trip.

On the way, we stopped at a few places. Some old stone bridges, quiet rivers, and a village called Şenyuva that felt frozen in time. It wasn’t rushed. We let the road lead us. Every stop gave us something like fresh air, a photo, a reason to just stand still.

The climb up to Pokut was slow. Narrow paths, mist, gravel. But as we rose, the clouds fell behind us. And when we reached the top, the world below had disappeared.

Pokut was open, simple, and cold. Wooden homes scattered across a green ridge. A few cows, a lot of sky. We found tea at a small wooden place looking over the valley. It wasn’t fancy. Just glass cups, hot steam, and silence.

We stayed a few hours. Let the clouds roll in and out. Took a few photos. Then headed back down, a little quieter than we were before.

I stayed at Özkan Otel during my week in Uzungöl. It’s a small, family-run hotel just a short walk from the lake. My room had a clear view of the mosque and the lake. It looked beautiful specially at night when the lights reflected off the water. Breakfast was included every day, served with magical view of the lake and the mosque. All the staff were young Syrians who were very polite, helpful, and doing their best, even with a language gap.

We spent seven days in Uzungöl before returning to Istanbul. Mentally I am still there.