7.15 am.
Woken at 6.30 by the Telly Addicts; and now I'm being kept awake by the ominous sound of rain. Oh dear, oh damn.
It seems to be easing off now. Please, you Gods? I peak out of the shutters. Yes, it's getting less and the sky is lightening. Masses of cloud though.
I was woken in the night by thunder, but it was the distant gentle sort that sounds like giants moving furniture upstairs. Not like the barrage yesterday. None now, just v low cloud and rain. I think it's as light as it's going to get. All my mosquito bites are itching madly, and on the balcony a mass of tiny red ants are dragging a dead beetle along, who knows where. It all feels seriously gloomy.
Come on, Dent, get stirring, you know you'll feel more human when you've showered and had some breakfast.
8.45 am.
Showered, dressed, breakfasted, and the last of my packing done. I don't actually need to leave till 10.00, so now at something of a loose end! The rain has stopped, though, and at the moment it's cloudy but dry out. Dry at least in the sense of "not raining"; not dry in any other sense of the word. Everywhere I look there are raindrops clinging and gleaming, and the ground is dark with wet.
The ants haven't got very far with their trophy. Last night there was a beautiful small praying mantis on my door, but he/she isn't there anymore.
I'll go into town early and have coffee before I take the ferry over.
[This is what I did. Café Sofrano, with a view out at the boats coming and going and the Athens hydrofoils tying up. I had a fruitless time trying to photograph the very nice dog of the café, who buttered up to me and tried to sleep on my foot, but would always look away when I got the camera out.]
12.35 pm.
At a small taverna called Babis, in Galatas. The bus ticket office only opens half an hour before the bus goes, so I'm going to have an early lunch while I wait. Sitting right opposite where the car ferry Kyriaki docks; she's unloading at the moment, motorbikes, cars, a truck, a peddle cyclist and some pedestrians. The Kyriaki is a kind of two-ended landing craft; first cousin to the ferries at Tor Point and Bodinnick, in fact.
Very oniony melitsanosalata, very good. Also salad. Across the water now it's looks as though it's raining again on Poros; the sky is spectacularly ominous and stormy, and seems to be streaking itself downwards in grey smears. I expect that's coming this way, then.
Three old gentlemen take the next table and order sardines and saganaki and salad, and ouzo. Two Dutch women in sundresses, looking miserably cold, order coffees. The priest comes by - and gets a take-away. The clouds are getting more and more dramatic, rolling by overhead in great black waves. In their wake, the first spots of rain are hitting the already-large puddle outside on the road. Am I far enough back under the awning to - no, I'm not.
Pause to gather up my things and the rest of my plate of salad and get indoors, along with everyone else.
Rather crowded in here but a curiously cheerful buzzy atmosphere as we all crowd in and get settled again; a kind of Hellenic storm version of Blitz spirit. Outside on the quay, the crew of the Kyriaki have all pulled on bright orange waterproofs and are just getting on with it. And school's out; a great gang of wet teenagers has appeared, laughing and grumbling, trying to share a few small umbrellas between too many of them, fooling about and getting under the waiter's feet.
Not much more than an hour ago I was writing on a postcard that the weather had improved and it was now sunny again. Oops, spoke too soon. Here I am now, indoors and wearing a fleece and a mac, and very glad of both.
2.15 pm.
On the bus.
We've just passed the turning to Troizen. I try to get a couple of photographs out of the window - moving vehicle, raining outside, expect they'll be terrible.
Driving in the pouring rain through the rich agricultural land Theseus would have known as a boy. Stopping at traffic lights; temporary ones, for road works. Road works in the rain on the Troizenian Plain. Olive trees, citrus groves, fields of spinach and what might be young cabbages, polytunnels of tomatoes. Cypresses. Herons on a large lake edged with marshland. That must be the Phobaian Lake, aka Lake Saronis, named after the legendary King Saron who drowned near here, rather stupidly chasing a hunted deer into the sea.
Eucalyptus trees. A quiet beach, water lapping grey sand, 5 small boats beached, a closed café with tables stacked. The road starts to climb. A not-very-good singer on the radio, and the driver changes channels. Pomegranates, fig trees, bougainvillea. Passing through Kalloni, dropping off school kids at every stop now. Blackberries by the road. No-one seems to pick them here. Rain still going on. Not the cloudburst of earlier but steady and unceasing. Central Kalloni; a café, pharmacy, general store. A little house with wind chimes under the eaves. The last of the schoolkids are dropped off. Golden bleached grass, bent down by the rain. Terracing on the hillsides; storm drain beside the road with surprisingly little water in it. Getting very high now, stunning views out over the sea, gulls wheeling below, the road a corniche cut into steep cliffs.
Palaia Epidavros ahead. Looks immensely pretty even in the rain.
We descend almost to sea level and turn inland, nearly getting hit by a lorry carrying dozens of septic tanks. Stalls by the roadside are selling oranges, jars of jams and pickles, baskets of green veg, giant butternut squashes (I wonder if they get hardened to all the dirty jokes?). Now we're going up the valley where Hyrnetho was murdered. That's a nasty story. [To explain; I'm getting this story from Pausanias, of course, as I'd never come across it till his account. Hyrnetho was the daughter of King Temenos and was married to the leader of ancient Epidavros, Deiphontes, and they were expecting a child. Temenos loved her best of all his children and was planning to leave his own kingdom to her and Deiphontes. Two of his three sons were so angry at this that they first plotted against him, then against their sister and brother-in-law. They arrived at the gate of Epidavros asking to speak to their sister, and kidnapped her when she came down to them, driving off in their chariot with the furious Hyrnetho yelling for help. Her husband gave chase, also by chariot, up the narrow valley behind the city. But when he caught up, in the ensuing struggle, Hyrnetho was killed by one of her brothers. I said it was a nasty story. There was apparently a heroon or hero-shrine - or heroine-shrine in this case - to Hyrnetho and her unborn child, somewhere near the church of Agios Andreas].
Goats beside the road, chestnut brown with curly horns. Munching, munching.
Ah. And at 5 past 3 we stop, at a petrol station in the middle of nowhere where we have to change buses. Me and one other passenger, a pretty dark-haired woman who turns out to be Albanian. She speaks fluent Greek, I speak a hundred words or so; we exchange broken conversation for half an hour while we wait for the next onward bus. Neither of us had known there was a change. Neither of us is quite sure where we even are. We get onto where we live and then onto our families; she has three brothers, one in London and two at home; one is an engineer, the others I don't know the words she uses and she tries sign language and then gives up; something involving a keyboard, anyway. I tell her I have two brothers, that they are both tall and they both swim a lot. I'm struggling for the vocabulary to say anything more useful.
I suddenly notice there are seed leaves in the no-longer dry ground beside the road. The first rain of the autumn was yesterday, and here already is ancient and unshakeable proof of life returning. As ever, it's a sight that moves me hugely. I try to explain to my companion but am stumped by lack of vocab, and I think she must think I'm nuts as I point at the ground, say "Green!" excitedly, and take a photograph. Of the roadside verge. Yep, verifiably nuts, this tourist.
I don't know how much longer the second stage of the bus ride will be, and I could do with a loo. I say "Toaleta thelo, er, pamo, psachno..." hoping I'm using the right verbs and haven't just said I want a loo and I'm going to drill a hole, or something.
The gods are on my side and the petrol station has a loo. Indeed, it has a whole small café-bar. But our onward bus appears and there's no need to get a coffee to fill up the wait.
Lemon trees, olives, vineyards, stacked firewood outside a house. Pomegranate trees, walnuts, quinces. The outskirts of Lygourio; cafes, restaurants, shops, a language school.
Outsde Arkhadiko, a sign points out a Mycenaean Bridge. It's right there by the road, good grief, what an extraordinary thing. A lopsided pointed stone arch 3500 years old, on a 3500 year old road that followed more or less the same line as the modern one. Forgive me the cliché, but history is wonderful.
7.45 pm.
Nafplio. At the Taverna Ta Phanaria, on Staikopoulos Street.
I used to eat here in 1989. It's still here and the food is still good. How lovely!
They have a sign outside that proudly boasts "The same cook since 1980!" That would be the chap I remember, if so. I must try to get a glimpse, since I'll actually be able to verify it. How extraordinary; but also extraordinarily pleasing.
Arriving in Nafplio 26 years ago I was tired and hungry and rather dazed; I hadn't eaten properly in about 48 hours, and had been violently sea-sick for the first time in my life on the crossing from Brindisi. I felt flat and stale and as though my life had no meaning. Why had I come to Greece, why had I been obsessed with getting here? Everything was pointless.
Then I wandered into the old town, and found this tavern called Ta Phanaria, and got a meal; and everything started to come together. The atmosphere, the good food, suddenly I noticed how mild the evening was. A general sense of wellbeing suddenly inside.
And this evening has been rather similar. With the best will in the world I've found that long-winded transfer very tiring (walk, boat, walk, bus, unexpected hiatus followed by another bus and finally another short walk) and earlier, sitting in my hotel room after I'd unpacked, I felt like dust and ashes for a bit. But I've girdled my loins and come out, and of course, Nafplio is still inordinately pretty, the evening is pretty mild considering all the recent rain, and now I have stuffed aubergines and tsatsiki inside me I feel my heart full of life again and my spirits blossoming. Hmm; if spirits can blossom. That may be a mixed metaphor. I blame the glass of wine if so.
Tomorrow is another day. Though I'll probably have a quiet one.
Woken at 6.30 by the Telly Addicts; and now I'm being kept awake by the ominous sound of rain. Oh dear, oh damn.
It seems to be easing off now. Please, you Gods? I peak out of the shutters. Yes, it's getting less and the sky is lightening. Masses of cloud though.
I was woken in the night by thunder, but it was the distant gentle sort that sounds like giants moving furniture upstairs. Not like the barrage yesterday. None now, just v low cloud and rain. I think it's as light as it's going to get. All my mosquito bites are itching madly, and on the balcony a mass of tiny red ants are dragging a dead beetle along, who knows where. It all feels seriously gloomy.
Come on, Dent, get stirring, you know you'll feel more human when you've showered and had some breakfast.
8.45 am.
Showered, dressed, breakfasted, and the last of my packing done. I don't actually need to leave till 10.00, so now at something of a loose end! The rain has stopped, though, and at the moment it's cloudy but dry out. Dry at least in the sense of "not raining"; not dry in any other sense of the word. Everywhere I look there are raindrops clinging and gleaming, and the ground is dark with wet.
The ants haven't got very far with their trophy. Last night there was a beautiful small praying mantis on my door, but he/she isn't there anymore.
I'll go into town early and have coffee before I take the ferry over.
[This is what I did. Café Sofrano, with a view out at the boats coming and going and the Athens hydrofoils tying up. I had a fruitless time trying to photograph the very nice dog of the café, who buttered up to me and tried to sleep on my foot, but would always look away when I got the camera out.]
12.35 pm.
At a small taverna called Babis, in Galatas. The bus ticket office only opens half an hour before the bus goes, so I'm going to have an early lunch while I wait. Sitting right opposite where the car ferry Kyriaki docks; she's unloading at the moment, motorbikes, cars, a truck, a peddle cyclist and some pedestrians. The Kyriaki is a kind of two-ended landing craft; first cousin to the ferries at Tor Point and Bodinnick, in fact.
Very oniony melitsanosalata, very good. Also salad. Across the water now it's looks as though it's raining again on Poros; the sky is spectacularly ominous and stormy, and seems to be streaking itself downwards in grey smears. I expect that's coming this way, then.
Three old gentlemen take the next table and order sardines and saganaki and salad, and ouzo. Two Dutch women in sundresses, looking miserably cold, order coffees. The priest comes by - and gets a take-away. The clouds are getting more and more dramatic, rolling by overhead in great black waves. In their wake, the first spots of rain are hitting the already-large puddle outside on the road. Am I far enough back under the awning to - no, I'm not.
Pause to gather up my things and the rest of my plate of salad and get indoors, along with everyone else.
Rather crowded in here but a curiously cheerful buzzy atmosphere as we all crowd in and get settled again; a kind of Hellenic storm version of Blitz spirit. Outside on the quay, the crew of the Kyriaki have all pulled on bright orange waterproofs and are just getting on with it. And school's out; a great gang of wet teenagers has appeared, laughing and grumbling, trying to share a few small umbrellas between too many of them, fooling about and getting under the waiter's feet.
Not much more than an hour ago I was writing on a postcard that the weather had improved and it was now sunny again. Oops, spoke too soon. Here I am now, indoors and wearing a fleece and a mac, and very glad of both.
2.15 pm.
On the bus.
We've just passed the turning to Troizen. I try to get a couple of photographs out of the window - moving vehicle, raining outside, expect they'll be terrible.
Driving in the pouring rain through the rich agricultural land Theseus would have known as a boy. Stopping at traffic lights; temporary ones, for road works. Road works in the rain on the Troizenian Plain. Olive trees, citrus groves, fields of spinach and what might be young cabbages, polytunnels of tomatoes. Cypresses. Herons on a large lake edged with marshland. That must be the Phobaian Lake, aka Lake Saronis, named after the legendary King Saron who drowned near here, rather stupidly chasing a hunted deer into the sea.
Eucalyptus trees. A quiet beach, water lapping grey sand, 5 small boats beached, a closed café with tables stacked. The road starts to climb. A not-very-good singer on the radio, and the driver changes channels. Pomegranates, fig trees, bougainvillea. Passing through Kalloni, dropping off school kids at every stop now. Blackberries by the road. No-one seems to pick them here. Rain still going on. Not the cloudburst of earlier but steady and unceasing. Central Kalloni; a café, pharmacy, general store. A little house with wind chimes under the eaves. The last of the schoolkids are dropped off. Golden bleached grass, bent down by the rain. Terracing on the hillsides; storm drain beside the road with surprisingly little water in it. Getting very high now, stunning views out over the sea, gulls wheeling below, the road a corniche cut into steep cliffs.
Palaia Epidavros ahead. Looks immensely pretty even in the rain.
We descend almost to sea level and turn inland, nearly getting hit by a lorry carrying dozens of septic tanks. Stalls by the roadside are selling oranges, jars of jams and pickles, baskets of green veg, giant butternut squashes (I wonder if they get hardened to all the dirty jokes?). Now we're going up the valley where Hyrnetho was murdered. That's a nasty story. [To explain; I'm getting this story from Pausanias, of course, as I'd never come across it till his account. Hyrnetho was the daughter of King Temenos and was married to the leader of ancient Epidavros, Deiphontes, and they were expecting a child. Temenos loved her best of all his children and was planning to leave his own kingdom to her and Deiphontes. Two of his three sons were so angry at this that they first plotted against him, then against their sister and brother-in-law. They arrived at the gate of Epidavros asking to speak to their sister, and kidnapped her when she came down to them, driving off in their chariot with the furious Hyrnetho yelling for help. Her husband gave chase, also by chariot, up the narrow valley behind the city. But when he caught up, in the ensuing struggle, Hyrnetho was killed by one of her brothers. I said it was a nasty story. There was apparently a heroon or hero-shrine - or heroine-shrine in this case - to Hyrnetho and her unborn child, somewhere near the church of Agios Andreas].
Goats beside the road, chestnut brown with curly horns. Munching, munching.
Ah. And at 5 past 3 we stop, at a petrol station in the middle of nowhere where we have to change buses. Me and one other passenger, a pretty dark-haired woman who turns out to be Albanian. She speaks fluent Greek, I speak a hundred words or so; we exchange broken conversation for half an hour while we wait for the next onward bus. Neither of us had known there was a change. Neither of us is quite sure where we even are. We get onto where we live and then onto our families; she has three brothers, one in London and two at home; one is an engineer, the others I don't know the words she uses and she tries sign language and then gives up; something involving a keyboard, anyway. I tell her I have two brothers, that they are both tall and they both swim a lot. I'm struggling for the vocabulary to say anything more useful.
I suddenly notice there are seed leaves in the no-longer dry ground beside the road. The first rain of the autumn was yesterday, and here already is ancient and unshakeable proof of life returning. As ever, it's a sight that moves me hugely. I try to explain to my companion but am stumped by lack of vocab, and I think she must think I'm nuts as I point at the ground, say "Green!" excitedly, and take a photograph. Of the roadside verge. Yep, verifiably nuts, this tourist.
I don't know how much longer the second stage of the bus ride will be, and I could do with a loo. I say "Toaleta thelo, er, pamo, psachno..." hoping I'm using the right verbs and haven't just said I want a loo and I'm going to drill a hole, or something.
The gods are on my side and the petrol station has a loo. Indeed, it has a whole small café-bar. But our onward bus appears and there's no need to get a coffee to fill up the wait.
Lemon trees, olives, vineyards, stacked firewood outside a house. Pomegranate trees, walnuts, quinces. The outskirts of Lygourio; cafes, restaurants, shops, a language school.
Outsde Arkhadiko, a sign points out a Mycenaean Bridge. It's right there by the road, good grief, what an extraordinary thing. A lopsided pointed stone arch 3500 years old, on a 3500 year old road that followed more or less the same line as the modern one. Forgive me the cliché, but history is wonderful.
7.45 pm.
Nafplio. At the Taverna Ta Phanaria, on Staikopoulos Street.
I used to eat here in 1989. It's still here and the food is still good. How lovely!
They have a sign outside that proudly boasts "The same cook since 1980!" That would be the chap I remember, if so. I must try to get a glimpse, since I'll actually be able to verify it. How extraordinary; but also extraordinarily pleasing.
Arriving in Nafplio 26 years ago I was tired and hungry and rather dazed; I hadn't eaten properly in about 48 hours, and had been violently sea-sick for the first time in my life on the crossing from Brindisi. I felt flat and stale and as though my life had no meaning. Why had I come to Greece, why had I been obsessed with getting here? Everything was pointless.
Then I wandered into the old town, and found this tavern called Ta Phanaria, and got a meal; and everything started to come together. The atmosphere, the good food, suddenly I noticed how mild the evening was. A general sense of wellbeing suddenly inside.
And this evening has been rather similar. With the best will in the world I've found that long-winded transfer very tiring (walk, boat, walk, bus, unexpected hiatus followed by another bus and finally another short walk) and earlier, sitting in my hotel room after I'd unpacked, I felt like dust and ashes for a bit. But I've girdled my loins and come out, and of course, Nafplio is still inordinately pretty, the evening is pretty mild considering all the recent rain, and now I have stuffed aubergines and tsatsiki inside me I feel my heart full of life again and my spirits blossoming. Hmm; if spirits can blossom. That may be a mixed metaphor. I blame the glass of wine if so.
Tomorrow is another day. Though I'll probably have a quiet one.
No comments:
Post a Comment