Istanbul reminded me that inspiration is not always found in grand moments. Sometimes it begins with a walk, a colour, a window, or a small detail that stays in the mind long after the journey is over.

The first image that stayed with me was Istiklal Street at night. The lights, the movement of people, the old tram, the shopfronts, and the warm glow of the street all seemed to turn the city into colour. It was not one colour, but many colours moving together: orange, red, gold, blue, green, and violet. At the time, I did not know how this memory would become a design, but it stayed with me.

The next morning, Istanbul showed me another kind of beauty. In the daylight, I noticed the trellises, climbing leaves, old walls, painted houses, and windows softened by greenery. The city felt alive in a quieter way. The leaves seemed to climb upwards, wrapping themselves around buildings, almost like nature was stitching itself across the streets.

Then came the bazaars. Inside, the Turkish lamps glowed like small worlds of coloured glass. Their patterns, light, and jewel-like colours reminded me of stained-glass windows. Later, when we visited Süleymaniye Mosque, the arches, windows, and calm geometry gave those colours a sense of structure. I began to see how light becomes more powerful when it passes through shape.

When I returned to England, I already had the SIMB Rainbow Yarn with me. Looking again at my Istanbul photographs, the colours of the yarn suddenly made sense. The golden yellow, orange, red, green, blue, and violet tones carried the same feeling I had seen in the city.

That is when the design began to form in my mind. The checked crochet panels became city grids. The square motifs became stained-glass windows. The arched detail near the neckline recalled mosque architecture. The crochet leaves climbing across the shoulders and sleeves became the trellises and greenery I had noticed in the morning streets.

Işıl taught me that colour is never just colour. It changes with light, place, and memory. This dress became my way of preserving Istanbul through crochet: a slow-made piece of wearable art, carrying the glow of night streets, bazaar lamps, climbing leaves, and quiet sacred windows.