A Childhood by the Sea: Summers on Burgaz Adasi and Beyond

From barefoot games to broken boats, a nostalgic journey through my island childhood and the summer rituals I now pass on to my children.

From Istanbul to Burgaz Adasi: The Princess Islands’ Magic

Each summer, we’d step onto the ferry at Istanbul’s bustling Kabataş pier and cross the shimmering Marmara Sea to Burgaz Adasi, one of the enchanting Princess Islands just a short ride from the city’s heart.

To the world, it’s a small island near Istanbul. But to me, it was the whole universe.

We stayed from the end of May until the beginning of September, returning only when school began again. No one called it a holiday. It was simply summer.

Burgazada wasn’t glamorous. No cars. No hotels. No screens. Just pine trees, winding paths, sleepy beach houses, and an island rhythm humming with the sound of seagulls and children’s laughter. We lived at the very bottom of the hill, the first house on Indos Yokuşu, overlooking the sea. That stretch of beach in front of our house once felt like it belonged just to us. It later became public, but back then, it was paradise. Ours alone.

There was one bakery. One ice cream shop. One toy store. One corn vendor on the corner whose family had served corn to mine across three generations. Everyone knew everyone. You’d leave the house barefoot in the morning and not come back until dinner. No one knew exactly where you were. No one worried. You were always somehow safe.

The Children of Indos Yokuşu (Hill)

A memory from Burgaz Adasi - Indos Yokuşu kids

My childhood gang was called Indos Yokuşu çocukları, the children of Indos Hill. Even though I lived at the bottom, we were always climbing. That hill felt endless back then. I remember panting my way to the top, scraping my knees, convinced I’d never make it.

Years later, I took my husband to visit , full of childhood stories and burst out laughing. “This is it?” The wall barely reached my knees. That mighty wall I used to scale now looked like a step. Funny how childhood distorts space. Everything is grander when you’re small.

But what I really found on that hill wasn’t just scraped knees and silly games. I found my lifelong friendships.

Karen in Brussels. Teri in Lisbon. Selin in Hamburg. Yasmin, Lian and Sandra in Istanbul. Me in London. We all went our separate ways, and now we see each other maybe once a year if we’re lucky. But when we do, it’s as if no time has passed. As if we’ve just walked down from the hill together barefoot, hair wet from the sea, laughter still echoing in the background. Using carrot juice to tan better.

Those friendships are priceless. They know you in your best and worst moments. They accept you just as you are before the world started asking you to be anything else.

You meet a lot of people in your life. But childhood friends? They’re a different kind of magic. They can never be replaced.

The Boat That Nearly Sank (and the Guitar That Definitely Did)

We were barefoot explorers collecting dut (white mulberry) fruit from the neighbour’s tree, getting stung by bees, chased by the gardener, baking cakes, putting on plays, and swimming for hours. I even used to sneak into my friends’ homes and wake them up by throwing water on their faces. If you know me as the reserved, quiet one, you’d never believe it. But there was a wildness in me. A joy. And the island gave me the space to let it out.

One summer, we decided to walk around the entire island, yes barefoot, and fearless. We forgot that one part of the path went right past the garbage bay. When we reached it, we had no choice but to jump into the sea and swim across. Going back wasn’t an option. And the pride we felt when we finally completed the loop, ending the day leaping into the sea again. That’s a memory that stays lodged in my soul. Yes you guessed it, that was my crazy idea.

And then there was Rocky, our tiny wooden boat.

Rocky was barely seaworthy. It creaked. It tilted. It felt like it might sink at any moment. But it was ours. And it carried some of the best days of my life.

My father, the most sociable man I’ve ever known, would invite everyone: neighbours, cousins, half the island. And somehow, we all fit. We’d pack home cooked meals and tea in flasks, take off for the day, and drift to hidden coves. He’d play his guitar, slightly off-key, but to me, it was magic. He was music. He was summer.

Looking back, I don’t know how we didn’t capsize. But we didn’t. And those sunburnt, salt-sprayed, guitar-singing days are stitched into my childhood like a song I still hum.

Çeşme: A New Chapter on the Aegean Coast

Sunset at Cesme - kids swimming

Later, when I became a mother and was living in London, I longed to give my children something like the freedom I had. We returned to Burgaz Adasi for a week, but it had changed. The rhythm was gone. Families no longer stayed all summer. My husband, not being Turkish didn’t quite connect with it. So we began a new chapter.

We found Çeşme, a coastal gem on Turkey’s Aegean shore, near İzmir. Quieter back then with mostly locals walking barefoot to the beach, Turkish coffee in one hand, folded towels in the other. It wasn’t like Burgaz Adasi. You needed cars, things were more spread out, but it had its own charm.

My children learned to windsurf. They made friends like themselves: Turkish, but raised abroad, speaking English and Turkish in the same breath, moving between cultures with ease. They had their own bonfires. Their own crab-catching adventures, though with parents nearby, of course.

We weren’t as free with them as our parents had been with us, but we tried to give them the same essence. The same salt and sun. The same magic.

Here too, we found a modest boat, not unlike Rocky. From the outside, it was nothing special. But it took us to quiet bays where the sea was so still, you felt like the only people in the world. We swam. We picnicked. We talked. And I realised again that it’s never about the boat. It’s the journey. The people. The bay. The memory you carry home, salty and sun-warmed, clinging to your skin like a second soul.

What We Had, What We Keep

Of course, everything is different now.

My parents never knew where I was. Today, I track my kids on Life360. I refresh the app like it’s a lifeline (not exactly, but you know what I mean). Has the world changed? Or have we? Maybe the danger was always there. We just didn’t see it. Or maybe there’s too much knowing now. Too much noise.

I don’t know what’s better. Innocence or awareness. But I do know this: the sea still heals, and nature still gives us back pieces of ourselves we didn’t know were missing.

We’ve now spent over 20 summers in Çeşme. It’s changed too with trendy Alaçatı, boutique hotels, Instagram crowds. But still, we come. We wake early. Swim first. Pick up warm bread from the bakery. And by 11am, we’ve already lived a full day.

Where the Sea Still Finds Me

You wouldn’t know it from my Instagram. I post mostly about London, the cinematic streets, hidden corners, and quiet cafés. But the truth is, if I could live six months of the year anywhere, it would be by the sea.

Because when I’m near the water, I breathe differently. I slow down. I feel more me.

And maybe that’s what I’m always searching for, in garden walks, in riverside cafés that feeling of barefoot freedom. That feeling of Rocky. That feeling of being 10 and laughing your way through salt and sun and scraped knees and bonfires and sandwiches wrapped in tea towels.

Childhood turns every place into a fairytale. And adulthood is just a quiet attempt to find the path back.

What About You?

Did you have a summer that raised you too?
Have you ever been to Burgaz Adasi, Çeşme, or the Princess Islands of Turkey?
I’d love to hear your stories. Share them in the comments below or forward this to someone who grew up barefoot with you.