A breeze stirs above the strait, carrying the whisper of ancient ships and the faint echo of bronze shields striking in distant memory. Çanakkale sits astride the narrow channel that once bore the world’s greatest legends. On its shores stand two monumental horses—silent sentinels of myth and cinema, beckoning both pilgrim and wanderer. Though separated by three decades in creation, these statues share a common purpose: to revive in stone and timber the audacity of ancient cunning. One horse, born of local vision in the 1970s, offers a visceral, almost tactile entry into Homer’s saga; the other, a gleaming relic of Hollywood’s “Troy” (2004), channels the spectacle of modern filmmaking back to the land that inspires it. Together, they beckon the traveler to reflect on how story and place intertwine, how memory is anchored by art, and how a single shape—an equine silhouette—can hold within it the full spectrum of human longing: for conquest, for homecoming, for immortality.
Here begins an exploration of those two horses, their genesis and meaning, their place in local life and global imagination. More than guidebook text or dry chronology, this is a reflection from the viewpoint of someone who has felt the stones of Troy underfoot, who has watched the sunlight pool at the horse’s wooden ribs, who has heard children laugh as they peer through steel slats. It is an invitation to follow the currents of history, architecture, culture, and myth along the Dardanelles—a journey not merely of kilometers, but of the mind.
Long before any sculptor shaped wood or steel, there was a tale: a tale of a city besieged, of cunning beyond valor, of soldiers hidden within a colossal wooden horse. In Homer’s Iliad, which recounts only a portion of the war’s final year, we glimpse the rage of Achilles and the fall of Hector. Yet the climax of the conflict—Odysseus’s ruse of concealment—resides in the Odyssey and in subsequent Greek tragedy, whispered by bards and painted on ars vases.
According to legend, after ten years of protracted siege, the Greeks feigned retreat, leaving behind a towering wooden steed as an offering to Athena. Trojans, believing victory was theirs, brought the horse through their walls. Under cover of night, Greek warriors emerged, opened the gates, and invited their forces back across the plain. Troy burned. For centuries, that narrative embodied both triumph and folly: a lesson in deception, a homage to ingenuity.
Over time, the horse itself transcended its military function. In Athenian drama, in Roman sculpture, on Byzantine mosaics, it became an emblem of the cunning intellect triumphing over brute force. Medieval scribes, still remembering the classical past in rare Latin codices, retold the story. Yet it was not until the 19th century that amateur archaeologist Heinrich Schliemann identified Hisarlık, in present-day Turkey, as the site of Troy—and thus gave physical body to the legend.
The “Trojan Horse” now lives simultaneously on many planes: the literary, the archaeological, the popular. In Çanakkale, at the edge of the mainland, the memory of that grand ploy remains particularly vivid. The city, straddling both Asiatic and European continents, has long been a landing place for those who seek the mythic past. The river-like Dardanelles connects landscapes and languages. To see a horse here—colossal, silent—is to glimpse centuries of human imagination made manifest.
In the early 1970s, as Turkey’s nascent tourism industry began to acknowledge the latent draw of ancient Troy, local leaders sought to create a focal point—a way to link the ruin’s excavations to the daily life of Çanakkale. It was İlhan Akşit, then director of the Çanakkale Museum, who envisioned a traversable wooden horse. Rather than a mere static monument, he proposed a structure that would allow visitors to step inside and briefly inhabit the fabled stall, if only for a moment of reverie.
Akşit understood that to awaken the world’s imagination, a statue must do more than stand. It had to be experiential. At the time, international interest in Troy was growing rapidly. Excavations led by archaeologists from Germany had unearthed layers of settlement dating back millennia. Yet, for the average traveler, stone foundations and broken pottery could feel abstract. Akşit believed that a physical re-creation of the horse—at just the right scale—could animate the past. In correspondence with the Turkish Ministry of Culture, he argued that such a structure would become a beacon: a lure for busloads of pilgrims seeking the very essence of Homer’s epics.
The proposal won municipal approval in late 1972. Local carpenters, woodworkers, and engineers collaborated under Akşit’s direction. Pine timber was selected for its resilience and availability in nearby Marmara forests. The initial design was sketched freehand by a museum draftsman; afterward, engineers calculated load stresses and interior dimensions. Within a year, the horse took shape. In August 1973, the skeletal timber framework was lifted near the entrance to the Troy archaeological park.
From outside, the horse’s silhouette appears to be a single, monolithic creature. In fact, it consists of over 120 interlocking pine beams, each precisely cut to taper at its ends so that metal bolts could secure them invisibly. The entire structure—nearly 15 meters tall at the head, roughly 8 meters across from flank to flank, and 12 meters in length—rests on a sturdy platform of local stone.
Pine planks of varying thicknesses sheath the timber frame. Artisans used hand tools to distress some surfaces, imparting an appearance of age. If visitors peer closely, they can still see wood grain patterns carved by chisels and the occasional nail hole from scaffolding planks. A protective coating of natural resin, chosen for its insect-repelling properties, preserves the surface.
Inside, a narrow staircase of oak (a species chosen for its hardness) winds upward to a small platform at chest height. From there, a trapdoor leads to a loft above the horse’s torso. On clear days, one can step out onto a hidden balcony—its wooden slats now weathered to silver—to survey the rolling fields once trod by Homer’s imagined Greeks and Trojans.
The interior is deliberately dim. Soft daylight filters through narrow slits cut into the wooden sides, just wide enough to peer out without spoiling the sense of being concealed. Those who ascend report a distinct sensation: feet sinking slightly into creaking boards, their breath echoing in the enclosed space. Children, especially, delight in giggling as they imagine how the ancient Greeks might have felt—both claustrophobic and triumphant.
Beneath the horse, near its legs, a small plaque in Turkish and English describes the project’s genesis: “Built 1973–74 under the leadership of İlhan Akşit, Director of Çanakkale Museum. This horse commemorates the spirit of Troy and invites you to relive its most legendary moment.” For decades, visitors entered for a small fee. Local guides—often young archaeology students—would lead groups in telling the full story: from Priam’s palace to Achilles’s rage, from Hector’s valiant stand to Odysseus’s cunning subterfuge.
By 1980, the horse had already become emblematic. Postcards featuring families posing beside it sold in shops throughout Çanakkale. Local children began dubbing it simply “At” (the Horse). On quiet afternoons, pensioners strolled along the path to the statue, feeding pigeons or reading poetic translations of the Iliad beneath its looming presence.
While the wooden horse of 1973 offered a living, breathing connection to the Trojan saga, a second steed arrived in Çanakkale three decades later—one cast not from ancient timber but from steel and fiberglass, a gleaming monument that had once featured in Wolfgang Petersen’s 2004 film Troy. Its presence in Hollywood was brief, but in Çanakkale, it found a permanent home.
In 2001, film producers constructing the set for Troy commissioned a colossal horse—the size of an adult elephant—to house special-effects cameras and conceal sets. When filming concluded in 2003, the question arose: what to do with this metal giant? The Republic of Turkey’s Ministry of Culture and Tourism petitioned Warner Bros. on the assumption that the film’s story would resonate deeply in the land of its origins. Following negotiations, Warner Bros. officially donated the horse to the Turkish government in early 2004.
Freight ships carried it from Bavaria—where portions had been assembled—to the port of Istanbul. There, expert riggers dismantled the structure into panels for transport by truck to Çanakkale. On September 13, 2004, after a day of dramatic convoys through narrow streets, the horse officially arrived in its new home, ready to greet the thousands of tourists arriving each summer.
Crafted originally as a film prop, this horse stands a full 12.4 meters tall at the withers, 6 meters wide across the shoulders, and almost 10 meters long from nose to tail. Unlike its wooden predecessor, its body is a steel skeleton sheathed in molded fiberglass. The fiberglass exterior was painted to resemble aged wood—deep chestnut hues streaked with darker “grain”—so that, on camera, it would pass convincingly as timber.
Upon close inspection, one sees subtle indentations along the panels: the fingerprints of sculptors who modeled the grain in clay before molds were cast. Bolted plates along each seam bear stamped serial numbers—markers of its Hollywood studio origin. Despite its cinematic roots, the fabrication illustrates a nuanced blend of artistry and engineering: the steel girders inside are arranged in diagonally intersecting trusses, ensuring the horse resists wind gusts that could reach gale force on the Dardanelles in winter months.
Unlike the wooden horse, this one is not hollow for visitors. Its interior is off-limits, secured by a pair of heavy steel doors accessed only by maintenance personnel. Instead, it serves as a photogenic backdrop: a “selfie station” for tourists, and a permanent installation whose surface is both sculptural and textural, demanding to be touched, circled, and admired from multiple angles.
Local authorities selected a plaza near the waterfront, where cobblestone pathways encircle the statue. A low wrought-iron fence, designed to match Ottoman-era motifs, prevents visitors from climbing on the horse, preserving its glossy finish. Soft spotlights at its feet illuminate the bronze-tinted fiberglass panels after dusk, transforming it into a midnight specter on clear nights.
Within weeks of its unveiling, travel writers noted that this “silver horse” (as foreign journalists called it, owing to the brief gleam of moonlight on its fiberglass surface) had supplanted the wooden statue as the primary “must-see” image of Çanakkale. Souvenir shops renamed their postcards accordingly. Local cafés, sensing an opportunity, introduced menu items such as “Atlı Baklava” (Horse Rider Baklava), a sweet roll shaped into a horse’s head. Even the Çanakkale ferry line painted a stylized horse motif on its hull—an unmistakable nod to the new emblem of the city.
The juxtaposition of the wooden and fiberglass horses encapsulates a dialogue between past and present, local ingenuity and global spectacle. Visitors often compare them: one allows you to step inside, to feel the close air and low ceiling; the other invites observation from the outside, an object of visual awe. One is weathered, its pine planks slowly dimming to silver; the other remains glossy, hints of cinematic polish still evident.
Yet despite their material differences, both horses accomplish a similar feat: they displace history from dusty tomes and dusty ruins into everyday life. The wooden horse, built with native wood and local carpenters, embodies a communal pride: born from the aspirations of a museum director and realized through the labor of small-town artisans. The movie horse, engineered by international specialists, represents the cinematic industry’s power to produce myth on a scale never before seen.
In conversations with tour guides, one often hears a single phrase repeated: “Bir efsane, iki yorum” (One legend, two interpretations). Both icons stand within kilometers of each other, yet their messages diverge: the wooden horse whispers of hidden soldiers in vendetta; the fiberglass horse stands as a testament to cultural exchange—how a story millennia old found new life on film. Both simultaneously invite reflection on how legend evolves over time: from oral recital to written epic, then to archaeological debate, then to cinematic portrayal, and finally to public art.
The presence of these statues extends beyond tourism. Each summer, the city’s rhythms are punctuated by festivals and ceremonies that weave the horse into local identity. Beyond that, artists—painters, sculptors, musicians—continue to reinterpret its form, reminding us that a myth remains alive only through constant reimagining.
Since 1975, just two years after the wooden horse’s completion, Çanakkale has celebrated the “Troia Günleri” (Troy Days) festival each late August. Originally conceived by local cultural associations, the festival includes traditional dance troupes performing near the horse’s feet, reenactments of Trojan battles by volunteers in period costumes, and nightly projections of Homer’s lines onto large screens. These vibrant tableaux generate a sense of communal pride: on one day, children don crested helmets and brandish wooden shields; on another, poets recite verses in both Turkish and English beneath the horse’s outstretched neck.
After 2004, when the movie horse arrived, the festival expanded to include screenings of Troy on an open-air platform overlooking the Dardanelles. Attendees watch from bean bags set before the steel and fiberglass figure, which, when lit by floodlights, appears ready to stride off the plaza and into the cinematic battlefield. Firework displays behind the horse dramatically underscore scenes of burning Troy—a spectacle both celebratory and bittersweet.
During Ramadan, local imams sometimes lead evening prayers for peace and unity near the wooden horse, reminding attendees that while the statue conjures images of conflict, it also offers a chance to reflect on reconciliation. On Çanakkale Victory Day (March 18th), commemorating the WWI Gallipoli campaign, wreath-laying ceremonies sometimes take place beside the horse, forging an unspoken link between the Trojan conflict and Turkey’s more recent trials by war.
Literary circles in Çanakkale have embraced the horse as a motif. Journal issues of the local historical society feature essays analyzing how the statue’s shifting patina over decades mirrors the erosion of memory itself. One poet—Mehmet Alperen—offers a short sequence of free-verse stanzas titled “Ahşap Kader” (Wooden Fate), in which villagers describe thunder louder than cannon fire when the horse’s joints creak in winter. Another poet, Ayşe Demirbaş, published a chapbook called Fiberville in 2008, exploring identity through stanzas that compare the fiberglass horse’s smooth surface to the façade people sometimes wear.
Musicians have composed pieces for bağlama (lute) and ney (reed flute) meant to accompany evening vigils beneath the statue. Their improvisational melodies—rich in longing—highlight the tension between the centuries that divide Homeric tradition from today’s digital age. Visual artists have likewise used the statues as canvases: in 2015, a local painter named Zeynep Öztürk produced a series of abstract canvases in which the horse dissolves into swirling reds and ochres, symbolizing the conflagration of war. These works were exhibited in Istanbul, hailed as a nuanced meditation on ruins and remembrance.
The two horses—one wooden, tucked near the ruins of Troy; the other metallic and prominent in downtown Çanakkale—offer differing experiences. For those intent on pilgrimage, it helps to plan carefully: timing, transportation, and local customs can enhance the journey.
Çanakkale does not have its own international airport. Most visitors fly into Istanbul’s new airport (IST). From there, coaches depart hourly for a roughly 6-hour ride to Çanakkale. Alternatively, one can fly to Istanbul’s Sabiha Gökçen Airport (SAW) or to İzmir Adnan Menderes (ADB) and then take a local flight to Çanakkale Airport (CKZ), which offers seasonal service from major Turkish cities. Taxis or shuttles from Çanakkale Airport to the city center cost approximately 150 Turkish lira and take about 30 minutes.
For those who prefer driving, the route from İstanbul follows the O-4 highway to Tekirdağ, then the O-3 south to Ezine, and finally a country road into Çanakkale. Expect several tolls along the way, and plan for potential delays at the Gallipoli ferry crossing if traveling by road from the European side in summer.
Ferries from Eceabat (on the Gallipoli peninsula) to Çanakkale run around the clock. Tickets cost under 10 lira, and the crossing takes thirty minutes. Some travelers disembark at Kilitbahir first if they wish to visit the fortress there before proceeding to the city.
Inside, follow the signage for “Ahşap At” (the Wooden Horse). The horse stands a short distance from the excavation site’s first gate. It is open daily from 8 a.m. to 6 p.m., though hours extend to 8 p.m. during peak summer months.
The significance of the Trojan Horse statues derives in part from their setting. Neither stands in isolation; both are portals to richer layers of history and local life. To fully appreciate the horse is to extend one’s gaze to ancient ruins, Ottoman fortresses, and gastronomic delights—each a chapter in Çanakkale’s evolving story.
Just beyond the wooden horse lies the trench of layers that Schliemann first and Frank Calvert identified as Troy. Visitors wander among remnants of city walls dating back to the early Bronze Age (circa 3000 B.C.), through the citadel of Troy VII, which likely saw the historical conflict that inspired Homer.
Re excavations today remain active under the Turkish Ministry of Culture, led by teams who note discoveries of everyday vessels, jewelry, and building foundations. Each year, finds—pottery shards incised with Mycenaean motifs or charred remains of granaries—offer hints at the daily lives of Trojans. Guides crouch near partially exposed stone—marred by millennia—to show faces of potsherds that once held oil, wine, or grain. The sense of continuity can be profound: a boy from Ankara studying archaeology points out indentations in stone door posts that align to tell some hidden story of a life extinguished long ago.
Among the most stirring features is a reconstructed pile of stones thought to be from the final conflagration. On certain days, local actors don simple linen tabards and, by torchlight, mime the Trojan siege. Their performance begins at dusk: arrows whiz through thin air, muffled cries echo, and volunteers from the audience stand in for Trojan elders pleading for mercy. The effect is visceral. As flames flicker around the horse, it feels as though the ancient world reawakens, if only briefly.
A true immersion demands tasting local flavors: gözleme (hand-rolled flatbread filled with cheese and spinach), midye dolma (mussels stuffed with aromatic rice and spices), and Ezine cheese—soft, slightly tangy cheese made from a blend of sheep’s and goat’s milk.
In an era when “Insta-worthy” photos can shape a destination’s appeal, the horses of Çanakkale have become prime subjects. Yet capturing them well requires more than a smartphone pointed at fiberglass.
As time presses onward, both statues face separate challenges. The wooden horse, at home in an open-air archaeological park, endures wind, rain, insect infestation, and occasional lightning strikes. The fiberglass horse, though more weather-resistant, contends with graffiti, minor vandalism, and environmental wear on its painted surface. Understanding these challenges offers insight into the future of public art along the Dardanelles.
Funding remains a perennial concern. The wooden horse’s upkeep relies largely on ticket proceeds for Troy; in off-peak years—such as during global travel slowdowns—maintenance budgets shrink. Civic groups have initiated “Friends of Troya Atı,” a nonprofit that channels donations to specific restoration tasks: replacing bolts or treating newly infested wood. The group publishes an annual report, inviting the public to sponsor numbered planks or steps as a symbolic gesture.
For the fiberglass horse, the city’s Tourism Directorate covers expenses. However, as priorities shift—often toward infrastructure or defense—a perception grows that the statue’s upkeep is less urgent. In response, a local design student proposed a program to invite graffiti artists to legally paint temporary murals on its surface once every two years. The plan, still under consideration, aims to balance preservation with community engagement.
Looking ahead, cultural planners envision a “Trojan Heritage Trail” linking the two horses via interpretive signposts, audio guides, and augmented reality (AR) applications. An AR app in development would allow visitors to use their smartphones at each statue, launching a 3D rendering of Homer’s Troy superimposed onto the landscape. Virtual actors might recite lines from the Iliad in ancient Aeolic Greek, translated into Turkish and English below.
Another proposal suggests installing a “Chronicle Wall” near the fiberglass horse: a curved panel of tempered glass etched with timelines, archaeological diagrams, and mythic references. The wall would curve around the statue’s base, so that a visitor can read about King Priam’s reign, then turn to see modern-day photographs of excavations. In partnership with local universities, students would curate exhibitions on the glass, rotating spotlights to shift emphasis on different eras.
Educational programs seek to involve neighboring villages: schoolchildren from Tevfikiye now visit the wooden horse each spring to plant olive saplings around its base—trees meant to symbolize peace and endurance. The city later harvests olives for communal tables at festivals. Similarly, local youth groups volunteer to paint the benches around the fiberglass horse each September, choosing colors that evoke Homeric seas and Trojan earth.
Ultimately, the two horses will likely remain at the heart of Çanakkale’s identity—one wooden echo of ancient ingenuity, one fiberglass testament to modern storytelling. Each year, as new discoveries reshape our understanding of Troy, the horses will stand renewed, inviting fresh eyes to see myths in living relief.
Under the same sky that once witnessed Achaean longships pulling against the tide, two equine giants now endure: one of pine and nails, one of steel and resin. They anchor a landscape that has known the clang of bronze, the gust of cannon, and the silent passage of pilgrims seeking meaning in myth. In their differing silhouettes—one accessible, the other inscrutable—they remind us that legends are not static. They evolve through the hands that build, the eyes that behold, and the imaginations that reanimate them across generations.
As a visitor stands beneath the horse’s head—whether feeling the grain of its wooden flank or tracing the rivets on its fiberglass skin—they enter a dialogue spanning three thousand years. They remember that, just as Homer’s verses once shaped how we beheld war and fate, our own stories—captured in pixels or carved into planks—shape how future travelers will perceive this land. The horse may stand silently, but it speaks volumes: of creativity, endurance, and the capacity for a single image to stir countless hearts.
Thus, when dusk settles upon the Dardanelles and the crickets begin their hum, one can close their eyes and imagine spotlight beams dancing across the horse’s ribs—shadows merging into silhouettes of ancient soldiers hidden within. The tremor of the sea murmurs of journeys untold. And so the story continues, carried on every breeze that touches Çanakkale’s shores.
1. What is the difference between the wooden Trojan Horse and the fiberglass Trojan Horse in Çanakkale?
The wooden horse was built in 1973 under the direction of İlhan Akşit, using pine timber, oak staircases, and traditional woodworking techniques. It stands near the entrance to the ancient Troy ruins and is hollow, allowing visitors to climb inside and view the surrounding plains from a concealed loft. In contrast, the fiberglass horse is the prop used in the 2004 film Troy, composed of a steel skeleton sheathed in painted fiberglass. Installed in downtown Çanakkale in September 2004, it functions primarily as a photo attraction and is not accessible internally.
2. How can I reach the wooden Trojan Horse at Troy from Çanakkale city center?
From Çanakkale, take a public minibus (dolmuş) bound for Tevfikiye village, asking to be dropped at “Troya Örenyeri.” The ride takes approximately 40 minutes. After disembarking, a five-minute uphill walk brings you to the archaeological park entrance, where signage directs you to the wooden horse.
3. Are there entrance fees to view the Trojan Horse statues?
Visiting the fiberglass (movie) horse in the city center is free and open 24/7. For the wooden horse near Troy, there is an entrance fee to the archaeological site—approximately 100 Turkish lira (which includes access to the wooden horse). Reduced rates apply for students and seniors; guide fees may apply separately.
4. What are the opening hours for the wooden horse and the archaeological site of Troy?
Generally, the Troy archaeological park (including the wooden horse) opens at 8 a.m. and closes around 6 p.m. during the off-peak season (November–March). From April through October, hours extend to 8 p.m. Always verify at the ticket office on arrival, as hours may shift for restoration work or public holidays.
5. Is there a best time of day to photograph the Trojan Horse statues?
For the wooden horse, early morning (around sunrise) and late afternoon (the hour before sunset) provide the warmest light and fewest crowds. For the fiberglass horse, blue hour (just after sunset) is ideal: the sky turns deep blue while spotlights bring out the horse’s contours against the dusky horizon. Weekdays in May or September typically offer both comfortable weather and thinner crowds.
6. Can visitors enter inside the wooden Trojan Horse?
Yes. A narrow oak staircase leads to a small platform inside the horse at chest level. From there, a trapdoor opens onto a loft above the torso, offering panoramic views of the surrounding fields and ruins. The experience can feel constricted; caution is advised for those who are claustrophobic or have difficulty with steep stairs.
7. Is the fiberglass Trojan Horse accessible at night?
Yes. The statue stands in an open plaza near the waterfront and is illuminated by spotlights after dark. While access is unrestricted, visitors should exercise normal safety precautions in the evening.
8. What other historical sites should I visit near the Trojan Horse in Çanakkale?
– Kilitbahir Fortress: A 15th-century Ottoman citadel overlooking the Dardanelles, built to control naval passage.
– Gallipoli Peninsula: Site of World War I battlefields and memorials, about 30 minutes by ferry or vehicle.
– Çanakkale Naval Museum: Displays Ottoman naval artifacts, recovered cannons, and submarine relics.
– Assos (Behramkale): A Hellenistic site with a cliff-top Temple of Athena, about two hours’ drive south.
9. How do I support the preservation of the Trojan Horse statues?
For the wooden horse, consider donating to “Friends of Troya Atı,” a nonprofit that funds maintenance tasks (e.g., replacing rotted beams or treating timber). For the fiberglass horse, local community initiatives occasionally solicit volunteers to repaint benches or clean the plaza. You can also support preservation indirectly by choosing guided tours that contribute a portion of ticket revenues to maintenance.
10. Are there local festivals or events related to the Trojan Horse?
– Troia Günleri (Troy Days): Late August festival featuring dance performances, reenactments, and film screenings near the statues.
– Çanakkale Victory Day (March 18th): Ceremonies commemorate WWI Gallipoli; sometimes, wreath-laying occurs near the wooden horse to link themes of sacrifice across eras.
– Ramadan Evenings: Occasional interfaith gatherings near the wooden horse that promote peace amid reflections on conflict.