Occasionally, even as an almost-grown-up-person, I feel an urge to revert to my inner child by transforming the world around me into something made-up. I am reminded of an element of my character that loved to race around the field of my elementary school on an invisible pony, to transform a pile of rubble into a castle and envision intertwining tree roots as a many-roomed house. I wholly believed that the tooth fairy lived in the rhododendron bush in the back garden and once jumped of the top of the swing set because I was convinced the Pixie Dust I’d been bought at the Disney Store would make me fly. So entranced by my own delusions, I was often happily lost in an idyllic and imagined world, far from reality.

I suppose it was only natural to snap out of it. I lost my naivete long ago, elusive fairies eagerly replaced with equally elusive boys, and invisible ponies were disregarded as I pursued a desperate quest to be cool despite a mouth full of metal and a delayed entry into adolescence. University quashed any remaining glimmer of magic, moving into the city and forgetting the Thoreau-like romanticism of life in nature, in solitude. Cities leave little room for imagination, and despite being among thousands of years of history here in Turkey, it is impossible to live anywhere but the present in Istanbul. It’s all chaos and distraction. I’d become caught up in a job, a social life, a crush. I’d forgotten about the magic of an uninhibited childhood.

A glimpse of that was returned to me among the ruins of Ani. The desolate and decaying medieval Armenian city that lies on the Turkish-Armenian border is a giant playground for grownups. A treasure trove of antiquities, waiting for over a thousand years to be discovered, reimagined.

Ani was made capital of the Armenian kingdom beginning in 961 AD, and became a thriving stop on trade routes between the Byzantine and Persian empires as well as much of the Arab world. The population was estimated to have reached almost 200,000 by the 11th century, which rivaled contemporary cities including Constantinople, Baghdad, and Cairo. Over the following centuries, Ani rose and fell, first conquered by the Seljuks, who slaughtered a majority of the population before selling it off to an obscure Kurdish dynasty called the Shaddadids. They lost Ani to the Georgians, who returned the city to their fellow Christian Armenians in 1199. But it was soon thereafter captured by the Mongols and by the fourteenth century had passed through the hands of several Turkish dynasties and was in a state of steady decline. By the seventeeth century Ani was completely abandoned.

Four hundred years later, four travelers paid three lira to frolic through the remnants of this once-majestic city. Entering through the Lion’s Gate presents panoramic views across the whole city, which is a on a peninsula between the Akurian and Tsalkotsajour rivers. The ravine of the Akurian marks the border to present day Armenia, which stretches off in the unreachable distance. We are kept out not only by a steep chasm to the riverbed but also by the barbed wire fences and landmines rumoured to be lining the border (why? read here). But that only served to make the whole place feel isolated from the rest of the world. High, imposing walls behind us, the ravine on either side. We surged forward, breathless with the magnitude of it all, with the excitement of exploration.

What remains of Ani are a collection of religious buildings that appear to be scattered across the landscape at random. Once called the City of 1001 Churches, few remain, but the mosque and Sultan’s palace are (perhaps too well) restored, and among the rubble are the foundations of shops and houses, roads, a town square, and much more. Far in the distance at the tip of the peninsula is the fortress, perched fierce and high overlooking the city.

The weather made the place even more atmospheric. We all noted that Ani would not have felt right in glowing sunshine, it was a profound space that commanded equally profound weather. Low clouds hung and obscured the sun, but occasionally forced through to cast a chink of light on the corner of a building or a lichen-covered column. Intermittent smatterings of rain dampened the air, the heavy sky bearing down with the weight of the surrounding's sad and angry past. We meandered in silence, often breaking from the path to clamber up the ancient walls, admire ornate carvings in the stonework, or uncover a piece of painted pottery that had caught the eye. We stopped at The Church of St Gregory of Tigran Honents, which had been struck by lightning and was slit down the middle, one half standing tall while the other lay as rubble at its feet. There we came across Armenian script carved into a slab of rock and it seemed something akin to Elvish, ethereal, delicate and swooping.

Had I been alone I would have been miles away in my thoughts, dreaming up some kingdom and imagining myself Queen. But instead, I was grounded in the present with my friends. I listened as Lawrence pulled up Wikipedia on his Blackberry and described the bloody battles that had ripped the city apart and brought upon its downfall. Later as we were perched on a cluster of rocks, Gill pulled out her Android to play LMFAO “Shots!” which echoed across the ravine, and we laughed as Rob bust a move atop a boulder. Under the eves of a well preserved church, we picnicked on local Kars honey and slabs of yellow cheese. We climbed up the minaret of a 9th century mosque and discovered a hidden staircase in the Cathedral of Ani.

There are many reasons why Ani feels enchanted. It’s location on the far eastern border of Turkey makes it somewhat inaccessible, and as such it never has huge numbers of visitors. Often it seemed we has the whole city to ourselves, as if we were adventurers discovering the place for the first time. What’s more, until 2004 the sight was practically off-limits to tourists, it was only possible to enter the sight once permission was granted by the Kars police, and no photography was allowed. So the city still hides many secrets. But it’s majestic decay inspired me the most. Wildflowers bloomed from the top of a collapsing roof, the arched passageway descending to the Convent of the Virgins was rubble-filled, lopsided and almost impassable. The once-grandiose bridge that crossed the Akurian river now just two man-made precipices, jutting out from the cliff face. All left so much room for imagination.

We spent over six hours in Ani, and left feeling like there was more to explore. While the remainder of our short weekend trip took us to many other beautiful spots, including the Sultan’s palace at Dogubeyazit, the Muradiye waterfalls, the Armenian church on Akdamar Island and the old city of Van. But Ani left its mark. It was impossible to ignore that this was once an incredibly powerful city that had been reduced to rubble over hundreds of years of power struggles. And the burden of its past made Ani deeply haunting and evocative.