Ditches and archaeology have been the order of the day this winter. Iznik hasn’t had a sewerage system since the days of the Roman Empire. Septic tanks have been the norm, so when the mayor announced last autumn that the town was to get a sewerage system serving every house, few were impressed. I don’t think any of us had the wit to foresee the total chaos we would be subjected to. Every street and back lane was dug up. The mud was indescribable. Elderly people loath to attempt ditch- jumping had to cross bridges made of wobbly boards, and sales of wellington boots must have gone sky high.

Local treasure-hunters were out in all weathers, monitoring the conduits as they were dug. Ditch-watching is a serious business in a town where rich pickings can lie only a few feet under the surface. Years ago Menekşe’s uncle came to visit Selim to ask if the large yellow lump of metal in his hand was gold. Having spied something glinting as a backhoe dug a trench, he had slipped back after dark to retrieve it. It was gold. Four hundred and seventy-five grams of the finest gold, melted down and hidden sometime in the distant past. It was just the thing a day labourer with eight children needed to change the course of his family’s life. What riches were discovered by the treasure-hunters this time I have no idea, but am sure there are Iznikians with a new spring in their step.

With machines tearing up the roads, it goes without saying that there will be archaeological finds of varying significance necessitating the rerouting of the trench. A Roman road was revealed – which is hardly surprising – but the discovery of a mosaic palace floor was a major discovery. Füsun Hanım, a local retired archaeologist, tells me that a mosaic face one metre in diameter was uncovered. The find was deemed so important that it was immediately covered over.

Unrelated to the roadworks was the unearthing of an impressively large tumulus at the Iznik necropolis on the road to Elbeyli. And early this year it was announced that a large Roman basilica had been revealed in the lake, 20 meters from the shore, close to the marina. It had first been picked up by an aerial photography team. The great excitement brought out museum officials, Culture and Tourism Ministry bigwigs, archaeologists and a professional diving team. Researchers now tell us it is nearly 1,600 years old, built in the 4th and 5th centuries to a plan similar to Iznik’s Haghia Sophia Church. It is the Church of St Neophytos, who at 16, in the year 303, was tortured and killed by Roman soldiers. The church, built where he was martyred, was a place of early Christian pilgrimage until it was destroyed in an earthquake 400 years later.

Of course, all this could have been discovered decades ago if the experts in their ivory towers would lower themselves to spend a few hours talking to the locals. For generations local children have not swum in that area because it was said to be the site of Christian graves. And graves have indeed been found. So full marks to local folklore, none to the authorities.

Along with mud and ancient artefacts we have had local elections. Iznik had eight candidates, so the bunting and vehicles blaring music and slogans reached new heights. Several gentlemen took me aside to explain that Selim always voted for their party and so they were sure I would do the same. I know Selim was special but I am pretty sure he didn’t have four votes. One candidate had a team handing out cakes and lemonade, while another wooed us with ballpoint pens. Is accepting a biro tantamount to accepting a bribe, I wonder?

Our old mayor, who was admired for never doing anything to upset the status quo, had blotted his copybook with the winter sea of mud. The contender who runs a really ship-shape town nearby didn’t have a hope; living eight kilometres from Iznik made him a foreign usurper. And three others had really insignificant little election vehicles roaming the streets, so that ruled them out. The defeated candidates are now insinuating the victor handed out cash for votes. There is no such thing as a good loser in Iznik politics.

I am just home from an excursion to the Iznik market. The 24-kilometre drive along the lakeshore is a relaxing trip, apart from the road through Boyalıca, where stray dogs and the elderly seem oblivious of oncoming vehicles. Turning into the main street of Iznik I encountered a traffic jam with half a dozen vehicles in front of me slowed to a crawl. At the head of the procession were two ancient gentlemen (probably from Boyalıca) with walking sticks, ambling along in the middle of the road. No horns were sounded as the drivers waited for them to reach their destination. It is little events like this that I can’t imagine happening anywhere but in a Turkish country town.

First I had lunch with friends who were in town, and then it was off to the fruit and vegetable market where each of us has our own favourite stalls. Although it is a huge market, with over a hundred stalls, I always have to search for Turkish bananas. Small and sweet, they have far more taste than the big unblemished imported ones, and the aroma of strawberries was everywhere. In London, when I shop for my daughter, Sara, the fruit is packed, wrapped and anonymous. Here I can find mini-mountains labelled tarla (field), meaning the fruit is grown in a field and not in one of those plastic tunnel things.

With the groceries crossed off the list I set off back home. Here, on the edge of the lake, I found Mehmet’s wife and four of her friends chatting as they weeded between the rows of flowering bean plants. The village women have a labour-sharing system. Mehmet’s family will owe each of these women a day’s work, with no money changing hands. Mehmet, meanwhile, is wading in the lake, checking his fish traps. He would die of shame if he realised I have a clear view of him splashing around in his underpants.

Fatih is mowing the lawn in a herringbone pattern, which he considers most attractive. I think it looks a bit odd, but who am I to voice an opinion? My one-day-a-week gardener brooks no criticism, but he is so reliable and honest that I can live with his eccentricities.

Tomorrow they will all have moved on to chores elsewhere and I will once again be alone with the frog chorus and birdsong.