Sirince Village

When the harbor of Ephesus finally died, its people did not vanish — they moved. Local tradition says Greek families from the fading valley climbed into these hills and built themselves a village among the orchards, naming it Cirkince, "the ugly one," in the fond hope that no tax collector or rival would bother visiting. The republic later renamed it Sirince — "the pretty one" — which is, frankly, more honest.

A village of two faiths' memories

Sirince's Greek Orthodox centuries ended with the population exchange of 1923, when its families departed for Greece and Muslim families arriving from the Balkans took their houses. The two communities' architecture now lives side by side: vine-shaded courtyards, a small mosque, and two 19th-century churches — the domed St John the Baptist church in the village center, and the basilica of St Demetrius on the hill, its restored interior hosting exhibitions. Neither is ancient; both are touching, the last Christian chapter of a valley whose first chapter was written by apostles.

The pleasures of the place

Sirince's fame today is happily edible: fruit wines pressed from peach, blackberry and quince, dense village olive oil, lace and needlework sold from doorsteps, and long courtyard breakfasts. The lanes are cobbled and car-free, the pace is pre-industrial, and the view over rooftops and orchards belongs on a postcard. Tastings everywhere are hospitality first — sip, chat, and wander on; nobody will press you.

With Ephesus below

We pair Sirince with Ephesus on our Ephesus & Sirince Village day, and the sequence matters: the marble metropolis first, then the village that inherited its people. Ancient grandeur in the morning, living continuity in the afternoon — the whole account of this valley, told in one day.