St. Nicholas Church, Demre

Step down from the street, and notice the drop first. The church does not rise to meet you. It sits below you, several metres beneath the modern town. The air in this sunken courtyard is cooler and smells of damp stone. Above you, the sounds of Demre carry on: scooters, voices, the hum of a shop fan. Down here, everything goes quieter. You are standing at roughly the ground level of an older city. Its name was Myra.

Why is the church so low? The answer is the river. Over many centuries, floods carried silt down from the hills and spread it across this plain. Layer by layer, the land rose around the old buildings. Ancient Myra slowly disappeared under its own soil. The modern town of Demre grew up on top. So the walk down these steps is a short walk back through the centuries, one layer of mud at a time.

This place is tied to one man. Nicholas served as bishop of Myra in the fourth century, when Christianity was still finding its footing across the Roman world. Tradition says he was born in Patara, an ancient port not far along this coast. Very little about his life is documented with certainty. What survives is mostly story. But those stories travelled further than almost any other saint's, and they all lead back to this town.

The best-known tale is a quiet one. Legend has it that a poor man in Myra had three daughters and no money for their dowries. Without dowries, they could not marry. Nicholas, so the story goes, came at night and threw bags of gold through the window, unseen. Some versions say the gold landed in stockings drying by the fire. You may already recognise where this is heading — the secret gift-giver of the winter holidays.

Yes, this is the root of the figure many people know as Santa Claus. The path from a bishop in Lycia to a man in a red coat is long. It runs through medieval Europe, through the Dutch name Sinterklaas, and later through American illustrations. But the starting point is here, in a dusty town among greenhouses on the Turkish coast. Many visitors are surprised by this. They expect snow and reindeer. They find olive trees and heat.

Now look at the building itself. The walls are mostly rough stone and brick, laid in bands. This is Byzantine work — the style of the eastern Roman Empire, ruled from Constantinople. The church you see was built and rebuilt many times. Earthquakes, raids, and floods all took their toll. What stands today is a patchwork of different periods. Some parts are early medieval. Others are later repairs. Read the walls slowly, and you can see where one era meets another.

Inside, let your eyes adjust to the low light. Traces of fresco cover parts of the walls and vaults. The colours are faded now — soft reds, ochres, and blue-greys. In places, you can make out haloed figures, robes, and raised hands. Much has been lost to damp and time. Still, these painted fragments once covered the whole interior. Imagine the space fully coloured, lit by oil lamps and candles. It would have felt warm and close.

Look down, too. Sections of the floor carry geometric stonework in coloured marble. Small cut pieces form circles, squares, and interlocking patterns. This technique is called opus sectile, which means cut stone laid into shapes, rather than tiny mosaic cubes. Walk carefully here. The patterns are easy to miss when you are looking up at the vaults. In the apse, at the eastern end, there is a curved stone bench in tiers. This is where the clergy once sat during services, facing the congregation.

One of the side spaces holds a carved marble sarcophagus. Many visitors gather around it, and locals often call it the tomb of Saint Nicholas. Be aware that this identification is tradition, not certain fact. Historians debate whether this particular coffin ever held his remains. But it is clear that Nicholas was buried somewhere in this church. For centuries, pilgrims crossed the sea to pray beside his tomb. Myra became a destination for travellers from across the Christian world.

Then, in 1087, the story took a sharp turn. Sailors from Bari, a port city in southern Italy, arrived in Myra. The region was unsettled at the time, and the town was vulnerable. The sailors took most of the saint's bones and carried them back to Italy. In Bari, a great basilica was built to hold them. They remain there today. So the saint left Myra, but this church kept his memory and his name.

Here is a second surprise. Part of the roof above you is not ancient at all. In the nineteenth century, Russian patrons took an interest in the church. Saint Nicholas holds a very special place in Russian Orthodox faith. Russian support paid for a restoration, including new vaulting and a bell tower. So when you look up, you are partly looking at nineteenth-century work. Later, a modern protective cover was added to shield the fragile remains from sun and rain.

The church still draws pilgrims today. Many come from Russia, Greece, and other Orthodox countries. On the feast of Saint Nicholas in early December, the town fills with visitors. In recent decades, Orthodox clergy have been permitted to hold special services here. On those days, singing returns to the old stone walls. On ordinary days, you will see people lighting candles quietly, or touching the stone. Please give them space. For many, this is not a museum, but a place of prayer.

Before you leave, consider the wider town. Ancient Myra is still close by. A short drive away, tombs are carved into a cliff face, made to look like wooden houses. There is a large Roman theatre at the foot of the same cliff. Around Demre, plastic greenhouses stretch across the plain. They grow tomatoes, peppers, and citrus. The old city lies beneath them, under the same silt that buried this church.

As you climb the steps back to street level, pause halfway. Look back at the brick, the faded paint, the low doorways. A bishop walked these floors more than sixteen centuries ago. His name has been carried to almost every corner of the world. Yet the place itself remains modest and quiet, half underground. Then step back into the warm air of Demre, and listen. The town above is simply going about its day.