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Illustration: PIET GROBLER

It seemed a curious place to have a meltdown, the harem at Turkey's Topkapi Palace with its labyrinthine sprawl of exquisite, mosaic-tiled rooms. The rich history of this mysterious place provided glorious material for a fertile imagination - dark-eyed women swathed in vibrantly coloured silks, satin and tulle; a bevy of giggling lovelies bathing in milk . but that was not why I wanted to stay.

My anguished pleas to be allowed to remain, just a little longer, within the walls of the palace's most secret heart, with its lush courtyard gardens and sumptuous tapestry of delicately carved wooden screens, went unheeded by the tour guide, who nudged me towards the entrance, pleading, "Welcome, Welcome." He wanted to get home to his tea.

It's not that I didn't know the cruel history of this place. These hundreds of rooms (only a few of which are open to public viewing) held, little more than a century ago, 1000 wives or concubines of the Sultan, guarded over by eunuchs, waited on by odalisques.

Imagine that: 1000 women and a few castrated men confined in close quarters with very little to do other than plot, scheme and look beautiful. I suppose the modern-day equivalent would be life at the Playboy Mansion, only with less freedom and more intrigue.

I'd negotiated my way seamlessly through Hagia Sophia, that exquisite, domed building that forms such a majestic part of Istanbul's skyline. It started out as a Christian church in Constantinople, built in 530-something AD. Then, in 1450-something, Constantinople fell to the Ottomans and it became a mosque.

You didn't hear any cries of "Please can I stay?" from me at Hagia Sophia.

Across the way, I'd marveled at the Blue Mosque, famed for its azure Iznik tiles, for its six minarets all built in the name of Sultan Ahmet. But when it was time to leave, I willingly went.

I navigated the Pudding Shop, made famous by hippies in the '60s, and ploughed through döner kebabs with my feet tucked under me on my chair. I left happily, without pudding.

With my friend Johan, I tried to sit at a café overlooking the Bosphorus and, for a while, I was at the very spot where east meets west, at the crossroads between the orient and the occident, straddling two continents. But not for long.

I was also uncomfortable in Istanbul's version of the souk, the Grand Bazaar. Johan was haggling with a salesman over a leather coat when my skin began to itch and it was time to go .

So what was it about the harem at Topkapi that made me want to not leave? One word: cats. It was the first place in all of Istanbul where I felt safe. You see, inside that seraglio, there were no cats. I could walk without looking down and back. The sheer relief of not being tense and on cat alert was delicious, heady.

OK, so I have a thing about cats. Actually, I'm terrified of them, so much so that I have to turn over the page if I see a cat picture. I can barely bring myself to write the word. And Istanbul is overrun with feral cats. Everywhere, there are cats. It doesn't help that restaurants hurl their evening's leftovers onto the streets each evening, inviting strays to emerge from the shadows and scrap over scraps.

When I say cats, I'm not talking gorgeously groomed fat cats variously fed on chicken and minced lobster (although I don't like those cats either). I mean wild, unkempt, scrawny, evil-looking little demons that rubbed up against my legs under the table - even in expensive restaurants, on the street, in open-air cafés, at my B&B, for goodness sake!

People laugh when I say I'm afraid of cats, and cat lovers will say: "Oh, but you'll feel differently about my darling Tabby." The truth is, I won't.

The feminist in me is appalled at the concept of a seraglio, of women being secluded in splendid isolation for the sole pleasure of one man. But if that harem guaranteed I'd never need to see another cat, ever. who knows?