Rize, in the eastern Black Sea region of Türkiye, is a different kind of holiday. 

It’s mountains and mist instead of beach clubs. It’s rivers and forests instead of wide boulevards. And the weather changes fast — sunshine, rain, fog, all in the same afternoon.

For the next few days, I want to explore what makes Rize so distinctive: its nature, its food, its mountain culture, and the one thing that defines daily life here more than anything else — tea.

I start tucked away in the hills, staying in a small bungalow surrounded by greenery, with the kind of quiet you rarely get in big cities. It’s fresh air, damp forest smell, and that constant background sound of running water that seems to be everywhere in this region.

And water really is the headline here — especially if you’re into rafting.

A rafting paradise

Rize is widely known inside Türkiye as a centre for whitewater rafting. The rivers here are used for training, competition, and coaching. Some routes are suitable for beginners, and others are serious — fast, technical, and not for anyone who doesn’t listen to instructions.

That’s why I’m meeting Aydin, a veteran rafting coach with decades of experience training national-level athletes. He’s been involved in the sport for more than 30 years, and he talks about it with the calm confidence of someone who has seen every type of river mood — calm stretches, sudden floods, changing currents after rain.

Before we get anywhere near the water, he runs through safety, commands, paddling technique — the basics that matter when you’re about to trust a river to carry you downstream.

It’s one thing to hear about rapids in theory. It’s another to sit in a raft and feel the current take control. The water here is cold, the river is loud, and once you’re moving, it’s very clear why this region produces such strong athletes.

After a morning like that, you don’t need a complicated plan for lunch. You need warmth and calories.

And in Rize, there’s a local breakfast dish that fits the weather perfectly: mihlama — sometimes also called kuymak.

If you’ve never had it, think of it as the Black Sea region’s answer to comfort food. Hot melted cheese mixed with corn flour and butter, cooked until it becomes stretchy, rich, and almost elastic. People eat it with cornbread, dipping and pulling it like it’s meant to fix your mood as well as your hunger.

On a rainy mountain day, it makes complete sense. It’s heavy, it’s warming, and it’s deeply local — the kind of dish you won’t easily find on menus outside this region, and definitely not prepared the same way.

From there, I push deeper into the mountains, toward Zilkale, a stone castle perched high above a valley.

Zilkale sits in the Kackar Mountains, and its history goes back centuries. Fortifications like this weren’t built as decoration — they protected valleys, controlled movement through mountain routes, and served as lookout points in a landscape where geography shaped security and trade.

Even today, you can feel why the location matters. The terrain is steep, the forests are dense, and clouds roll in quickly, changing the atmosphere minute by minute. It’s the kind of place where the castle doesn’t feel separate from the landscape. It feels like part of it.

While I’m there, I meet a family visiting from Istanbul. They tell me the reason people come to Rize is simple: nature, fresh air, food, and what they call “oxygen” — that feeling of breathing properly again after city life.

They also give me the most predictable but most important advice in this region: drink tea. And if you can, try the local dishes — including the classic combination of beans and rice that’s common across Türkiye, but with its own Black Sea character here.

As I move through the castle, I hear a sound that feels familiar in an unexpected way — a local wind instrument with a strong, piercing tone. 

It was a traditional Turkish bagpipe. It reminds me of the bagpipes in Ireland and Scotland, but it belongs to this landscape. 

It’s one of those moments where you realise musical traditions travel across regions in parallel, shaped by similar needs — outdoor sound, communal celebration, and the ability to cut through wind and open air.

From the castles, the road pulls me higher into the uplands, where summer pastures come alive.

In the Black Sea region, many families have a tradition of moving to higher elevations during the warmer months — living closer to grazing land, staying in simple homes, and maintaining ways of life deeply tied to the seasons.

I meet a local man named Hakan, who tells me he has been coming up here since childhood. He describes how the area has changed — more houses, more visitors, and far more cars than there used to be. What was once a quiet seasonal world is now increasingly connected to tourism.

It’s a familiar story across many rural parts of the world: as people discover the beauty, the place changes. Not always for the worse, but never without impact.

Tea is life

And then we arrive at the real heartbeat of Rize. Tea.

In Rize, tea isn’t a drink you order. It’s the default. It’s offered when you visit someone’s home, served in workplaces, poured in small glasses at roadside stops, and shared constantly — not as a ceremony, but as a rhythm of life.

Rize is the centre of tea production in Türkiye, and the plantations here stretch across hillsides in every direction. The landscape itself is shaped by tea bushes — neat rows of green that blend into the surrounding forests.

I meet a young worker named Nuray who explains how harvesting works. Tea is typically picked multiple times a year, and many farmers use special scissors designed to cut the right part of the plant efficiently.

She introduces me to Kenan, whose family has owned a tea garden for generations. He shows me how the leaves are harvested — not just as a job, but as a tradition connected to family land.

And then we go a step further, away from industrial production, into small-scale processing.

This is where tea starts to feel like craft again. The leaves are withered, rolled to release their natural oils, and further processed before they become the tea people actually brew. It’s labour-intensive, and it gives you a new appreciation for how much work can sit behind something as everyday as a glass of tea.

Back in the city, you even see tea expressed in the architecture. There’s a building shaped like a tea glass — a bold symbol of what tea means here: economy, identity, and daily habit all in one.

And because this is Türkiye, there’s always room for dessert.

I try a local sweet called pepecura — made by boiling grape juice and thickening it with corn flour. It has a deep grape flavour and a naturally sweet profile without needing extra sugar. It’s a regional dessert that fits the Black Sea pantry: fruit, corn, and practical home-style cooking.

In the tea trade centre, I meet Hasan, one of the people involved in promoting tea culture here. He talks about tea not just as a product, but as a national habit — something Turkish people consume in extraordinary amounts because it’s woven into social life.

And then he makes an offer that takes this trip in a more extreme direction: a visit up into the mountains to a glacial lake, at nearly 2,900 meters.

It’s a long drive into high-elevation terrain, followed by a hike. The air gets thinner, the temperature drops, and the landscape becomes more alpine — rockier, more open, and quieter.

Hasan tells me the water temperature is likely around 8 to 10 degrees Celsius.

That is not “refreshing.” That is survival. But I do it.

And afterwards, we warm up the most sensible way possible: tea. Hot Turkish tea on the rocks, high in the mountains, with fog rolling in and the temperature falling fast.

Hasan tells me he organises a winter festival here too, where people cut through ice and plunge into the lake. I tell him, respectfully, that I might attend as a spectator.

Before we leave, I ask him the best time to visit Rize.

He says one of the reasons this region is special is the range of experiences packed into the same season. In early summer, you can be at the sea and in the mountains on the same day — swimming on the coast, rafting in rivers, and hiking at altitude.

And that’s what stays with me about Rize.

It should be far better known internationally. Not because it needs more crowds, but because it offers a side of Türkiye many visitors never imagine: wild landscapes, deep local food traditions, and a tea culture that isn’t performed for tourism — it’s simply lived.

I know one thing for sure: I’d come back. And next time, I’d want to bring my family.

So… where to next?

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