My Dalyan Story: A Trip To Dalyan (Audio Travelogue)

Dreamy river cruises, ancient ruins, and soothing mud baths—Dalyan stole my heart from the moment I arrived! In this guide, you'll read my travel story in Dalyan, a charming Turkish town where nature and history blend seamlessly.

From gliding past Lycian rock tombs to spotting Caretta caretta turtles on İztuzu Beach, every moment felt like an adventure. I’ll share my favorite experiences, local food discoveries, and tips to help you plan your own unforgettable trip. Whether you seek relaxation or exploration, Dalyan has something magical for everyone. Ready to be inspired? Let’s go!

MY TRAVEL STORY IN DALYAN, A CHARMING TOWN IN THE TURKISH RIVIERA

Listen to my trip to Dalyan:

Day 1: The River Beckons.

The first breath of Dalyan air greeted me like an old friend—warm, scented faintly with pine and river breeze, and full of possibility. I had left Marmaris early that morning, the road winding through sleepy villages and golden hills. When I stepped off the minibus in Dalyan, it felt like slipping into a dream where everything was quieter, greener, more intimate. This wasn’t the buzz of a big resort town; Dalyan hummed gently.

I checked into a small boutique hotel tucked away on a cobbled backstreet just off the river. The owner, a silver-haired woman named Asuman, welcomed me with strong Turkish tea and a shy smile. The courtyard garden was brimming with bougainvillaea and orange trees; the rooms smelled faintly of lavender and wood polish. My room had a tiny balcony that overlooked the courtyard, and I knew I’d sleep well there.

By late morning, I wandered out, letting the town guide me. Dalyan was slow and colorful—market stalls lined the main street with handwoven towels, clay pottery, and spices that clung to the warm air. I followed the sound of clinking cutlery to a riverside restaurant shaded by fig trees. The menu was handwritten, the tables dressed in linen. I ordered grilled sea bass and meze, the flavors as fresh as the river breeze.

A man at the next table struck up a conversation. Levent, a boat captain born and raised in Dalyan, talked about the river like it was a family member. “She changes, you know. Never the same color twice. Sometimes blue, sometimes green, sometimes silver.” His words floated like the breeze, and when he offered to take me and a few others on a boat tour that afternoon, I agreed without hesitation.

By mid-afternoon, we glided over the Dalyan River, the hum of the engine blending with the rustling reeds. The boat was small, intimate, and quiet. I watched the Lycian rock tombs loom overhead—centuries-old, carved into the cliffs like ancient sentinels. They felt both sacred and secretive, like they were watching us drift by.

On the boat, I met Marla and Tom, a British couple on their honeymoon, and Selim, a solo traveler from Ankara. We talked about the river, its wildlife, and how unreal it all felt. As the boat curved through the delta, birds darted across the sky, and the smell of saltwater grew stronger.

Iztuzu Beach appeared like a mirage: a strip of sand stretching between river and sea. It’s a protected area, a nesting site for Caretta caretta turtles. We walked barefoot on the soft sand, reverent and hushed. I found a quiet spot, laid down my towel, and slipped into the sea. It was warmer than expected, soft waves brushing against me like silk. Time slowed.

Later, at the beach bar, I sipped a cold Efes beer and watched people laugh, splash, read, dream. The sun lowered itself slowly into the sea, casting golden light across everything. We returned to Dalyan by boat, the town glowing amber in the early evening.

That night, after dinner at the hotel—grilled lamb and eggplant—we all gathered in the garden. Under soft lantern light, we shared stories. I told them about my decision to take this trip alone, to rediscover something I had lost during the noise of city life. They understood.

Day 2: Mud, Myths, and Ruins

The morning air was crisp with the scent of oranges. I ate breakfast on the terrace—olives, feta, warm bread, and sweet cherry jam. Asuman recommended a local tour to the mud baths and the ancient city of Kaunos. I signed up.

The mud bath experience was both absurd and delightful. We slathered the sulfur-scented mud onto our skin like children playing with paint. It dried fast under the sun, cracking into a mosaic. When I rinsed it off in the thermal pool, my skin felt brand new, like shedding a layer of urban fatigue. To my surprise and delight, I reunited with Marla, Tom, and Selim from the day before. We laughed at our muddy reflections and posed for ridiculous photos. The guide led us to Kaunos, just across the river.

Kaunos. Ancient and sun-baked, it sprawled across the hillside like a forgotten whisper. We walked through ruined temples, crumbled agoras, and vine-draped arches. The wind carried the scent of thyme and sage. In the theater, I sat alone for a while. The stone seats wrapped around me like an amphitheater of ghosts. I closed my eyes and imagined voices echoing through centuries—a play, a speech, the cheers of a crowd.

Our guide explained how Kaunos was once a port city, but silt from the river changed the landscape. The sea had retreated. There was something poetic in that—a city losing its sea, reshaped by time and tide.

Before leaving, I climbed a nearby hill. From there, Dalyan unfolded below like a storybook. The delta shimmered in the afternoon light, boats weaving through the reeds like threads through cloth. Iztuzu Beach lay in the distance, a narrow crescent between land and water.

Dinner that night was at a lively riverside restaurant with live music. I sat alone but never felt lonely. A waiter taught me to say “Şerefe” properly. I watched as the full moon spilled silver over the river.

Day 3: A Walk to the Edge of the World

I wanted solitude on my final day. No tours, no schedules. Asuman suggested walking to Iztuzu Beach by foot—about 7 kilometers. “Take the path by the lake,” she said. “You’ll see.”

I set off early, sun already warming the fields. The road meandered between orchards and reeds, dragonflies darting around my ankles. The smell of jasmine and dusty earth filled the air. Sülüngür Lake appeared like glass. I came upon a small gathering—locals and travelers parked beside the water, drinking beer, sharing sunflower seeds, and watching the lake do nothing but shine.

A young man offered me a cold beer. We sat side by side, not needing many words. “Dalyan is a place where time slows down,” he said. I agreed. I took photos, trying to catch that slowness.

The path led me through a sleepy village where chickens wandered free. I climbed a low hill where the world opened up. Below me, Dalyan lay sprawled in green and gold, the lake and beach catching sunlight like mirrors. I stood there a long time.

Eventually, I reached Iztuzu again. The beach was quieter than before, the sand warm and welcoming. I swam, let the sea hold me. When I lay down to dry, I realized I hadn’t thought of work, deadlines, or city life all day. I felt free.

The return journey would’ve been tough, but luck found me. A smiling couple pulled up in a dusty blue sedan. “Need a ride?” they asked. I didn’t hesitate.

Their names were Gül and Emre, a family from Istanbul on a road trip from Izmir to Antalya. We spoke like old friends. They told me they were tired of the city. “We want a quieter life,” Gül said, gazing out at the fields. “Maybe here.”

Back in Dalyan, I invited them to dinner. We met later at a place with fairy lights strung through olive trees. We shared grilled calamari, stuffed peppers, and long conversations about escaping the noise. I told them I understood. Maybe one day, I said, I’d move to a place like this too.

Saying goodbye to Dalyan

The next morning, I stood by the river, suitcase in hand, watching the light play across the water one last time. Levent passed by on his boat and waved. “Come back soon,” he called.

I smiled, unsure whether I was leaving Dalyan or if some small piece of me would always stay. The rhythm of the water, the scent of the mud, the slow warmth of sun on skin—these things had changed me.

Dalyan didn’t shout. It whispered. And somehow, its whisper was louder than anything else I had heard in years.

As the minibus pulled away, I looked back one last time. The river shimmered, the tombs stood tall, and I knew I would return.

Someday.

Recommended Reading: Dalyan Travel Guide: Exploring Turkey’s Hidden Paradise