Published via Ecency

A Sweet Beginning and a Journey Through Time in Cumalıkızık

I began my day in Cumalıkızık with the most unexpected delight a warm, chocolate soufflé served at a small café tucked between two centuries-old stone houses. The café, shaded by vines and framed by wooden shutters painted in faded turquoise, was as charming as the village itself. The soufflé came in a clay dish, dusted with powdered sugar, and when my spoon broke the delicate surface, a river of molten chocolate flowed out. It was the kind of dessert that seemed to melt both in my mouth and into the morning air, blending perfectly with the scent of fresh bread and wet cobblestones.

As I savored the last bite, I looked out over the narrow cobbled streets of Cumalıkızık, one of the best-preserved Ottoman villages in Turkey. The morning light reflected off the yellow and blue-painted walls of the traditional houses, their wooden beams and stone foundations whispering stories from the 14th century. It felt as if time had slowed down, inviting me to explore its corners without hurry.

My destination for the day was the Old Objects Museum (Eski Eşyalar Müzesi), a place I had heard about from locals who described it as “a house full of memories.” It wasn’t a grand museum with marble halls or modern displays it was humble, personal, and deeply nostalgic, much like Cumalıkızık itself.

The Walk Through the Village

The walk to the museum was an experience in itself. The streets were narrow, winding like veins through the village, each corner revealing a new scene children chasing a stray cat, an old man sipping tea by his doorstep, women arranging jars of homemade jam in front of their homes. The walls were uneven but alive, their colors fading beautifully under the Anatolian sun.

Some streets were so tight that only one person could pass at a time, and yet, they opened into small courtyards where the scent of fresh gözleme and Turkish coffee filled the air. I stopped several times just to take in the view the contrast between the deep green of the chestnut trees and the warm tones of the houses, the sound of birds mingling with distant laughter, and the rhythmic tap of my shoes on the stones polished smooth by hundreds of years of footsteps.

As I turned another corner, I found the sign for the Eski Eşyalar Müzesi, hand-painted in white letters on a wooden plank. It hung slightly crooked, but it had character just like everything else in Cumalıkızık.

Entering the Old Objects Museum

The museum was housed in a restored Ottoman home. Its wooden door creaked open to reveal a small courtyard filled with tools, pots, and iron pieces that looked like they hadn’t been touched in decades. A friendly elderly woman greeted me at the entrance, her smile as warm as the morning sun. She told me that many of the items inside had been donated by local families who wanted to preserve their heritage.

Inside, the air was cool and carried a faint scent of dust and wood polish. The rooms were dimly lit, their wooden floors squeaking underfoot. Yet every corner seemed alive with the memories of people who once used these objects in their daily lives.

The first room displayed household tools: copper pots, ceramic bowls, and wooden spoons darkened from years of use. There were delicate porcelain teacups and oil lamps, each telling its own quiet story. A beautiful brass samovar stood proudly on a wooden table, its intricate engravings reflecting a soft golden glow. I could almost imagine a family gathered around it on a cold evening, pouring tea and sharing stories.

Another section was dedicated to agricultural equipment sickles, plows, and handmade baskets woven from reed and willow. These objects were not just relics; they were symbols of the hard-working spirit that had sustained the villagers for generations. Seeing them, I couldn’t help but picture the farmers who once tilled the rich soil of the Uludağ slopes just beyond the village.

In one corner, a display of traditional clothing caught my attention. The garments were colorful and rich in detail embroidered vests, handwoven belts, and headscarves adorned with beads and lace. Each piece represented not only craftsmanship but also identity, reflecting the local customs and pride of the people of Cumalıkızık.

The Soul of the Village in Everyday Things

What struck me most about the museum was how ordinary things felt extraordinary in that space. A simple wooden cradle, a rusted key, or a faded photograph carried the weight of time and memory. In a glass case, there was an old black-and-white photo of a young couple on their wedding day smiling shyly, standing in front of one of the same stone houses I had just walked by. It made me realize that the village itself was like a living museum, and this house merely gathered its echoes.

Another room showcased musical instruments a tambourine, a saz (a long-necked lute), and even a small drum. The guide told me that villagers used to gather on weekends to sing folk songs and dance in the square. Those instruments, though silent now, seemed to hold onto the rhythm of old celebrations.

One of my favorite displays was a collection of handwritten letters and school notebooks from the early 20th century. The handwriting was elegant, written with fountain pens, and the language had an old-fashioned tone. Some letters spoke of soldiers going off to war, others of love and longing. Reading those words felt intimate, almost sacred as if I had opened a time capsule of emotions.

A Pause for Reflection

After wandering through the museum for over an hour, I stepped back into the courtyard to rest. The sun was higher now, and the air buzzed softly with the sound of bees and distant chatter. I sat on a low stone wall beside a well, looking around at the collection of everyday relics each one a testament to the passage of time.

I thought about how easily we forget the value of simple objects in our modern lives. A wooden spoon, once carved by hand and passed from one generation to the next, carries more meaning than anything mass-produced. In this museum, surrounded by the tools, fabrics, and keepsakes of ordinary people, I felt a quiet respect for the past—a sense of connection that transcends centuries.

Wandering Through the Streets Once More

When I finally left the museum, I decided to lose myself again in the maze of streets. The afternoon light made everything glow the cobblestones shimmered like silver, and the flowers spilling from balconies painted the village in bursts of red and purple. I passed by a narrow alley that opened to a small square where a fig tree cast its shadow over a wooden bench.

I stopped at a local shop selling homemade marmalade and olive oil, and the shopkeeper offered me a taste of their famous mulberry jam. As I tasted it, I could still feel the sweetness of the morning’s soufflé lingering on my tongue, mixing with the earthy flavor of the jam a perfect reflection of Cumalıkızık itself: rich, layered, and timeless.

Every street I walked seemed to tell a story, every stone seemed to remember. The laughter of children, the chatter of villagers, the sound of wind brushing through old trees all came together like a melody of life continuing through the ages.

The Day’s Last Light

As the sun began to set, I climbed a small hill at the edge of the village and looked back. The roofs of Cumalıkızık glowed golden, and the call to prayer echoed softly from the mosque’s minaret. I felt grateful for the warmth of the people, the taste of chocolate and mulberry, and the quiet wisdom held by the old objects in that small museum.

Visiting the Old Objects Museum was not just a lesson in history it was an emotional journey, a bridge between the past and the present. Each artifact, each street, and each face reminded me that culture is not just preserved in books or buildings, but in the spirit of a place and its people.

Cumalıkızık, with its crooked streets, colorful houses, and soulful silence, is more than a village it is a living memory. And as I left that day, I carried a piece of it with me, like the lingering taste of that first soufflé, sweet and unforgettable.