‘Çay! Çay!’ is offered from atop the hill where a figure, a silhouette shouting before the dipping afternoon sun, is standing. The sun is a mango-coloured egg-yolk. A regiment of dogs line the horizon, disgruntled by the appearance of two strangers on their land. ‘Çay! Çay!’ is offered once more. The dogs are about fifty metres away and I can see the strings of saliva that bind their angry gums. The stranger presents a raised palm as a beckoning in an effort to mitigate the hostile terrain. ‘Çay!’ His shout now feels less like a question and more like a declaration of intent. I automatically begin to climb the hill and soon feel his rough hand embracing mine; his eyes suggest familiarity. Olivia and I had made the trip to Western Turkey to see Pamukkale’s thermal springs; resplendent oceans of blue that hang like portaledge tents from the side of Turkish hills. We have ended up hiking, instead, through the dense Turkish shrub, populated by fizzing insects, because the travertine terraces were over-crowded and gritty. We have now found ourselves a little lost, victims of an incessant heat. Atop the hill a handful of the dogs have acquiesced and now roam freely. Others remain tetchy and on-guard. I get the impression that visitors here are uncommon. With a disarming smile and, despite the language barrier, a loquacious tongue, the man insists that we enter his home. He motions to a hand-built complex of assorted wooden planks that are covered in tarpaulin and tied together with blue twine. Beside the home are hand-made pens for goats. A rusty old red car has settled into the landscape and now provides a precious slice of shade for a heavily pregnant, shaggy dog. We initially decline the kind offer, conditioned to be cautious of strangers who invite you into their homes. Paranoia is an unfortunate by-product of Western development. Children are raised to suspect strangers. Yet the man calls out in Turkish and, almost instantly, his wife appears before us, her face crimson and youthful. Her smile is a conclusive reassurance, the signature finalising our ingratiation into their family. She too offers us her hand, cracked like well-worn leather. ‘Çay!’ the man declares, this time an excited order. The wife ushers us into her home with great enthusiasm. Upon entry, the sweat that has embalmed my body cools; my cap, damp, is cold to the touch. The Turkish are masterful architects of the naturally air-conditioned home and, in this heat, I am entirely thankful. For a delicate minute we sit, the four of us, in silence. The man, who does not speak English, offers occasional prompts to his wife who has returned to her task of tying together a string of green peppers to sell at tomorrow’s local market. The woman knows only a handful of English words, a few place names, helpful indicators. Olivia and I are typically monolingual. ‘Çay!’ Tea! We return to the original plan. We have travelled from Britain, a country that speaks often of tea. However, we are in Turkey, a country that actually grows tea leaves. And even in the humblest of homes the Turkish 'çaydanlik' offers an impressive alternative to the simple kettle. Over a successive two hours we bear witness to a live performance of authentic Turkish hospitality. Steaming amber-coloured 'çay' is poured from the 'çaydanlik' into small, hour-glass shaped glasses. We are fed bowls of sour yogurt that has been freshly made by hand from the milk of their goats. The man dispenses Turkish cigarettes and the small room fills with an earthy smoke. Turkish, English and animated gesture coalesce in an effort to narrate stories. When language fails, hearty laughter fills in the gaps. On leaving, we ask our new friends if we can take a photo alongside their small homestead. They accept, happily. Though whereas Olivia and I want to document an experience we deem unique - a book-marked travel story – the husband and wife remain equable. To them, our meeting was simply an expression of Turkish culture, a culture of giving that is predicated upon a happiness in accepting chance encounters.