The end of August ’24 saw the end of the sightings.

Cats reappeared on the harbour side and the storks felt content once more to inhabit their scraggy nests; the short yet destructive egg pilfering spree seemed at an end. The reeds grew in peace, and the lower eucalyptus branches again sprouted in cautious muted celebration.

Maybe Now Green Paul had returned to the mountains.

2024, come and went and August 2025 arrived, the heat was stifling but the splendor of the mountains towering over the town and the crystalline sparkling of the bay seemed to offer a new dawning.  

The Gibbous Moon hung lethargically in the Mugla Skies, although the ownership of these skies was a bone of contention, and as the  the moon seemed to be hanging over the kite surfing beach the Mayor declared it A “Gokce Moon” and invited everyone in a Bacchanalian celebration by drinking the salty urine of the Marshy Mugla Terrapin and eating the celebrated toast of Gokce, among the finest toast in the world.

The hunt for the Terrapins was swift, bloody and unexpected, especially by the Terrapins, and so as the local Turtlers slashed their way through the marshlands they didn’t notice a tall figure in a tatty lion cloth with cod piece, shoulder protection and what looked like a Bikini top; as the milky moon light danced over the figure the bikini, cod piece and shoulder pads glinted revealing themselves to be the shells of Terrapins.

Had Green Paul Returned?