We found a slightly damp self-catering ground-floor apartment on the east beach, with peppers and tomatoes growing outside, for the princely sum of £3 a night each, and slept for a while, before spending the rest of the day exploring. The narrow Ottoman era streets, with rickety wooden houses, harboured what seemed like dozens of little shops selling everything from plastic toys to fossils, ornate vases and inlaid backgammon boards. Highly independent, and dare I say it, *assertive* dogs and cats went briskly about their business, making us humans seem unfocused and lazy. By late afternoon, Sorcha and I went for a dip on the east beach. The Black Sea water is curiously unsalty, but makes up for this with a plethora of jellyfish. Evening saw us, after a glorious sunset, ambling towards Uncle Mustapha’s fish restaurant, which was doing a brisk trade in grilled anchovies and sea-bream.

Everything I’d read lauded Amasra as a jewel of the Black Sea coast, a seaside town unspoilt by resort hotels, tucked into a mountainous coastline of sub-tropical pine forests. During our stay, the hamlet was bustling, but not by any means packed–there were very few other visitors from outside Turkey–half a dozen of British and Americans each, a family of Germans and a French couple was all that I noticed, all presumably there for the eclipse. Most of the Turkish visitors, at least the ones who were there exclusively for the event, seemed fairly well-to-do, as judged by the sprinkling of BMWs and Mercedes parked hither and tither.

One morning while wandering, Sorcha and I stumbled onto an almost hidden covered market of one of the winding backstreets, dealing ourselves a culture shock. Dozens of wizened, middle-aged local women, in headscarves and huge skirts, were squatting beside their homegrown courgettes, tomatoes, sweet chillies, hazelnuts and fruit. Churns of milk were covered with polythene, and there were endless choices of feta cheese and olives.

On Wednesday afternoon, the Moon began to obscure the Sun. We were just back from diving off ancient fortifications into an aquamarine sea, and brunched outside our apartment on olives, chilis, tomatoes, poached eggs, and hot bread from a nearby bakery. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, save some mist loitering around the mountaintops. Amasra began to buzz with eclipsers, tanned t-shirted tourists squinting at the sky with Mylar shades or filtered lenses. Decadents that we are, we took it easy, finishing our repast while the heavens moved.

We acquired some beer, and went ambling along the docks, where some questionable music was playing, Turkish TV was filming, and a group of arabs (in full arab garb, apparently up from the Emirates for the event) were praying, heads to Mecca, throughout the entire eclipse. A comfortable patch on the harbour’s sea-wall was found, settled upon, and beers distributed. The day became more eerie. My camera seemed confused: how could it be dark *and* sunny at the same time? I prayed that the breeze would stay westerly and keep the mist from blowing off the mountains towards us. As 14:20 became closer, the wind picked up, streetlights came on around the town, and seagulls became suspiciously quiet. Weird billowing light waves played across the pier in front of us, and then suddenly: totality. A great cheer arose from the populace, and I came out in goosebumps, whether from the sudden drop in temperature or my body’s reaction to the strangeness of it all, I don’t know. For two minutes we babbled, hugged, tried to take photos, suck the scene into our memories–until the light came back, and we could no longer safely see the Sun or Moon with the naked eye.

Madagascar for 2001, anyone?

Post Script:

As I began this article, twelve days after the 1999 eclipse, and six days after the Turkish earthquake, it had been confirmed that over 12,000 people died in the disaster. We passed through Izmit, the epicentre, on our way to and from Amasra, and we left Istanbul just 75 hours before the earthquake struck.

Dave Walsh, a.k.a. Daev, a.k.a. the Reverend Hellshaw, is an Owl Worrier, Snark Hunter, and Gentleman Cynic of the highest order. His excellent forays into the strange may be found at www.blather.net and in the Fortean Times, among other exotic locales.