Globusz^® Publishing 

I remember once seeing a film in which an elderly Greek gentleman was tormented to tears by the boastful comments of some foreigners, who thought that they had, in their own country, achieved a certain professional success. They chided him unmercifully, saying that he could know very little of the modern advancements in science, technology and art, having lived in such a backward country.

The old man pondered for a while and then replied:

“Maybe I do not know so much about the modern achievements of which you speak, but it is clear to me that you, also, must be ignorant, for you are obviously unaware of the time when Greece was supreme in the civilised world.” Vehemently he asked:

“What of the age when the great thinkers such as Socrates, Aristotle, Euclid, Archimedes and Plato enriched the culture and learning of their time? Are you oblivious of the debt that you owe to these men? Do you not recognise that their works form a basis for modern thought and development? Is it not you who are ignorant of a whole period in history?”

Beside himself with emotion, he became more angry and exclaimed patriotically:

“From my country an Empire was kindled.”

His little speech fell on deaf ears, but it was spoken with such a deep sincerity and pride, that it gives me the theme on which to introduce this chapter. It is the splendour of Greece, past and present, that I hope to portray, for in this earlier civilisation, there was created a purity of thought and deed which shines through the centuries as an example of a once great era.

Today, as we visit the various ruined temples and palaces, we should be continually alert to the past glories of this heritage. The bald and ageing stones should not suggest a dead world; they should provide a link to the minds of the men who erected them. If we do not have this eye for the past, then let us look about us at the present for, here in Greece; there is ample evidence of splendour and beauty. Amongst the green and mauve hills, where flowers grow in scattered profusion of variegated colour, are villages where walls are washed to such a brilliant white, that they dazzle the eye. The light flows over everything with an indescribable luminous quality. It moves with gentle waves over translucent green seas; it plays between draped fishing nets on the golden sands; it can be seen gleaming on shuttered windows, dappling the fluted tiles on monastery roofs, and shimmering amongst the branches of pencil-slim cypress trees. Some of these qualities were introduced to us as we travelled the road to Komotini and Xanthi, the tobacco towns of Thracia, which is neatly wedged between Bulgaria and the Aegean Sea at the country’s eastern extremity. There are still certain Turkish influences in this area, so that one is not immediately presented with the true character of Greece.

Switching on the radio, we found that we could tune in to Athens. Clear, exciting, bouzouki music came to our ears reviving memories of the film Zorba the Greek and the music of Mikis Theodorakis. Our carefree attitude was, however, rudely interrupted, for without any warning, there was a loud bang. Instantly I was struggling to keep the Land Rover on the road and then braking steadily to bring us to a halt. It was another puncture and our already damaged tyre was in an even more sorry state. Retracing our path, we picked up a large chunk of rubber that had completely detached itself from the canvas, leaving the tyre, quite useless. Within minutes the now familiar metallic clicking of the ratchet could be heard, as we jacked up the vehicle. The procedure was now so routinely well known to both of us, that we worked efficiently and little time was wasted. It was, however, essential now that we bought two new tyres at the earliest opportunity, regardless of cost.[31] Making enquiries in Komotini established the fact that they could be purchased, but we should have to wait a day for them to be delivered from Thessaloniki.

“I think we deserve a hotel tonight”, Audrey suggested,

“There’s nothing I’d like better, after all these punctures, than a good hot bath, and a decent meal.” I agreed and, within minutes, a willing and helpful postman was showing us to the Xenia Hotel, which is one of many built by the National Tourist Association. That night we had steak and green salad – the first lettuce we had eaten for about six months.

When we arrived at the garage the following morning, to collect the Land Rover, the owner, with the combined efforts of his two mechanics, was exerting a tremendous effort to fit the new tyres on to the hubs. He was convinced that the wrong size had been sent, but when I checked they were correct. After some time and much sweat, when the second tyre had been finally forced on, we realised that they were marked ‘Transport’ and had special thick walls requiring split rims. Having watched the struggle to force them over the ordinary rims, we hoped desperately that we should never have to remove them again.

Feeling relieved that the Land Rover was now in a better state to continue the journey; with less likelihood of punctures, we entered Macedonia, and arrived at Kavalla. Although this town looked very interesting, we drove on crossing a bridge over the Strymon, a great river flowing down from Bulgaria. The road followed the Strymon Gulf and we decided that we would find a good camping place here as the sandy beaches looked marvellous.

On the edge of the small village of Asprovalta, we came to an attractive site with pagoda-like straw huts dotted about a grass area. We walked down to where the sea was breaking over the soft, silvery sand, and saw an old motorised kayaks come throbbing past, with a smaller boat in tow. A man in a straw hat waved cheerfully to us as we stood laughing at his companion in the smaller boat, who was baling out water as fast as he could. The beach stretched as far as the eye could see, and was completely deserted.

To the southeast, some fifty miles away, a mysterious peak rose faintly above the sea’s horizon. It was Mount Athos, the Holy Mountain, which is positioned at the tip of a narrow peninsula, one of the three prongs of the Chalkidiki which juts out into the Aegean Sea. A canal dug by Xerxes, and a crumbling stonewall separates the mainland from this community of monks. Originally it was said to be the abode of Peter the Anchorite, who lived for fifty years a solitary existence in a cave. Traditionally it is the place where the Virgin Mary and the Apostle John were blown ashore, when they were sailing towards Cyprus to visit Lazarus. At that time the inhabitants of Athos were pagans, but immediately Mary walked towards them she was recognised. The false gods and idols were put aside, whereupon Mary blessed Athos, declaring it to be her garden, and forbidding the presence of any other woman. Today, this self-governing monastic republic, numbering no more than two thousand members of the Greek Orthodox Church, still refuses admission to women. Indeed, even female animals are barred, for, ‘the unseemly spectacle of mating must not offend souls intend on their daily purification’. This rule was decreed in 1060 by the Emperor Constantine, who forbade access to ‘any woman, to any female, to any child, to any eunuch, to any smooth visage.’

Although Athos is recognised by the Greek constitution, permits are necessary for a visit to any of the twenty monasteries on the island. It is, perhaps, one of the only places not to have progressed in the use of the Gregorian calendar, still using the Julian system, thirteen days ‘behind the times’.

Easter is the most solemnly observed of all religious festivals in Greece. When we first entered the country we noticed many decorated stalls and shops selling beribboned coloured candles, from a few inches to over a yard long. A procession passed by led by a boys’ band and followed by a column of schoolgirls and local inhabitants, some carrying religious banners.

One morning at Asprovalta, a car pulled up on to the grass beneath the trees. Two men jumped out and began making extensive preparations, as if for a scout jamboree. They collected branches blown from the trees and constructed a large spit on to which they hoisted a whole lamb. Soon they had a fire burning and, by the time the rest of the party had arrived, the meat was sizzling hot and smelt quite appetizing. A final basting, then liberal portions of roasted meat were served out and washed down with a good supply of retsina. What we had witnessed was the traditional roasting of the Paschal lamb.

Easter eggs are eaten too, and we were fortunate enough to be given some. Travelling along a quiet stretch of road, we came upon a lorry. Half a dozen men were shovelling a mound of earth into it from the garden of a nearby cottage. They continued with their work and we got out of the Land Rover, glad to stretch our legs. After a while, a woman came out of the cottage to talk to the men, but seeing us waiting she waved and went inside again. When she reappeared, it was to offer us some specially baked, warm bread rolls and some scarlet eggs, which were chickens’ eggs – hard-boiled and dyed. Somehow the woman had managed to get an interesting leaf pattern on to the shell. Before we left we were also given an apple each and a bag of walnuts. This small, spontaneous offering was typical of the friendly way in which the Greeks offer their hospitality.

During seven complete days at Asprovalta, we caught up with our correspondence, and serviced the Land Rover, which now had over eighteen thousand miles to its credit. Sometimes we were awake before sunrise, and lay, with the tent flaps tied back, watching the sky change from a soft peach colour to a brilliant blue. After breakfast we generally packed up some food, then set off with our towels and swimming costumes along the beach. The sun shone every day, and we never returned until the early evening, relaxed and carefree, often having done nothing except swim, sunbathe, and collect shells and pebbles. In the evenings we gathered the dry branches, which had fallen from the many large trees about the camp, and had blazing fires, placing our largest potatoes in the centre so that they would be ready for supper. It is only when they are cooked like this, eaten with a little charcoal, that they taste their best.

One evening, a small, middle-aged fellow came and joined us, settling comfortably on a tree trunk. Seeing our potatoes in the fire, he bent down and moved them to the edge.

“Potatoes burn in fire”– he explained.

After the preliminary questioning about which country we came from. He furiously said: “Turk”– and spat contemptuously into the fire. He then continued by telling us that Greece was eighty per cent Communist ruled.

“England seventy-five per cent Communist”– he declared loudly.

Quite obviously he wasted little time on tactical small talk, which so often embroiders conversations in England. When we asked how he had come by this information, he replied that he only had to read the newspapers. Although we went to some trouble to explain that, (at least when we left home), the communist influence was far less then he believed, we could see that he was quite unconvinced.

Just before he left us, he picked the potatoes up again and said: “Finished.” Then he walked off into the darkness. I picked them up and as they were still hard, pushed them back into the embers. His knowledge of cooking potatoes was about as good as his English politics.

There is something about a fire in the open at night that is so completely different from an indoor fire. Not only does it warm the body it provides an atmosphere, (smoky and smarting to the eyes on all but the windward side, yes,) but more than this; in desolate surroundings one finds an affinity for the glowing, living embers. The world of the night shrinks, to be encompassed within its glow. From the first flame and the youth of the young, crackling twigs, which dance and scatter their sparks to the wind, to the more mature, glowing logs that provide lasting comfort; one can be taken through a lifetime of experience. Later, as one grows tired, so the fire burn out, speaking, as if in subdued tones, with all the experience of age.

Two English people arrived at the same camp while we were there, a man and his wife travelling in a Volkswagen Camper. We discovered that this couple had been to Kathmandu and Mexico, and had been travelling for four years. They had run out of reading matter and were anxious to exchange paperbacks, so we profitably swapped the only one that we had left for Thor Heyerdahl’s ‘Aku-Aku’. As we had seen the Kon-Tiki raft in Oslo, we both thoroughly enjoyed reading this fascinating account of Heyerdahl’s experience on Easter Island.

Before leaving for Thessaloniki, we stopped in the village of Asprovalta to stock up with provisions. Outside a small cafe some Greeks were enthusiastically giving vent to their feelings. One particular dark-haired orator was holding forth in a loud voice, accompanied by frenzied gesticulations. His audience sat talking amongst themselves, yet, at the same time, seemed concerned about what he had to say. I don’t think that a Greek could ever be accused of disinterest. We had experienced their insatiable inquisitiveness, followed by direct questioning, when people had wandered into the camp to inspect our Land Rover.

Inside a nearby butcher’s shop, Audrey pointed to the mincing machine, indicating that she wanted a kilo of meat. The man shook his head and lifted his hands in despair: the machine was broken. He picked up a tray of sheep’s intestines, and then offered a sheep’s head, assuring us that they were very good.

“I don’t think I’d know what to do with them – Audrey said faintly – we’ll have to try something else.”

The butcher must have had a sixth sense when dealing with women who were not quite sure what they wanted, so he rushed off into the cold store and returned with a leg of lamb which provided our next few tasty meals.

We spent the afternoon exploring Thessaloniki and, despite pouring rain, managed to see quite a few interesting monuments. We parked in the famous Via Egnatia, the Roman road built to connect Dyrrachion in Albania with Byzantium. From the Triumphal Arch of Galerius, decorated with bas-reliefs to show the Emperor’s victories over the Persians, we walked up the narrow street of St. Paul to the earliest Byzantine church in Thessaloniki, St. George’s. Originally it was probably erected as a mausoleum but, when it was converted a century later into a Christian Church, it was decorated with magnificent gold mosaics. This church evoked the same atmosphere as the Aghia Sophia in Istanbul. We also found a small, red brick church known as Our Lady of the Coppersmiths.

Next morning we drove along the shores of the Thermaic Gulf to yet another idyllic spot called Platamon. Here, at the foothills of the Olympus range, beside the sea we found a clean, attractive, and well-organised campsite. After we had erected our tent, we enjoyed a swim, then walked along the sandy beach collecting shells, sun-bleached wood, and the carapace of a small turtle.

High on a thickly wooded hill was an old Venetian castle. We took a winding path, which led through overgrown shrubs, to investigate the ruins. In the courtyard, which was grass carpeted and studded with daisies, two foals were grazing peacefully, but our feet disturbed some loose stones and suddenly the air was filled with the raucous sound of jackdaws. In fright, the birds took flight en-masse to the sky, then wheeled and circled around a crumbling old tower.

To the northwest was a fine view of Mount Olympus with snow falling to cover, like icing sugar, the dark slopes. It rises majestically to 9,570 feet, a massive omnipresent force. To the Greeks, it was not only the highest peak in their land. It was the zenith of the world. There the Gods assembled in celestial supremacy. Their legendary thrones were situated on the highest summits, which rise precipitously to a semi-circular ‘amphitheatre’ above the desolate Mavrolongos valley.

Below, mere specks, near the edge of the sand, were our Land Rover and tent. As we made our way down to them, two shepherds with a flock of goats greeted us. We spent some time with them before leaving Platamon on the new national motor road connecting Thessaloniki with Athens. These routes provide fast motoring, if required, on the payment of toll charges, but we had to leave the high-speed road at Volos as we wanted to explore Mount Pelion.

There were many bends to negotiate before we reached Zagora, which was then followed by a tree-lined route to the beautifully set, small hamlet of Chorefton. Two red and blue fishing boats were anchored just off the coast in a deep green sea, and yellow sands stretched around the bay. We walked along passing a few houses, but there was no sign of life at all, only a large wooden door swung mysteriously open on creaking, rusty hinges. The place was deserted. Climbing back into the Land Rover, we decided to go to the next village. As I started the engine, a tall, bearded man appeared, looking for the entire world like a pirate. Putting his head through the window he peered at all our belongings, then, muttering something to himself that we didn’t understand, he broke into hoarse chuckles before he went wandering off towards the empty houses.

Although the weather was fine, the wind was growing stronger, and we could feel it buffeting the vehicle. At one point, we stopped to ask our way from an old man, standing in a wooden hut beside the road. As he came towards the Land Rover, he found it almost impossible to stand upright. Eventually we made our way down to the coastal village of Aghios Ioannis. The sea was being whipped up into an impressive spray of’ ‘white horses’, and the sun was catching these and producing unusual rainbow effects above the waves. It was here that we again felt the hospitality and enchantment of a typically Greek village. Leaving the Land Rover in a shaded hotel courtyard, we climbed a flight of white steps, decorated with bright flowering plants, up to the entrance door. A girl showed us to a clean bedroom with whitewashed walls, natural wood furniture, and the most vivid emerald green blankets. The view from the window was directly out to sea, and, to our amazement we could distinguish the almost familiar shape of Mount Athos, about ninety miles away. Downstairs, we asked for a meal, and spent some time in the large kitchen trying to understand the Greek names for the various foods. As we searched for a particular word to describe something that we wanted, it was the owner’s twelve-year-old daughter who came to our rescue. For her age she had a remarkably good English vocabulary. There was a general air of informality as helpers prepared the meal for us at scrubbed wooden tables, and we began to feel as though we had been there before, and that these people were old friends. When we went into the dining room, we found that we were the only people there, apart from an old man playing a game like backgammon with another local. They were both too intent on each other’s moves to take much notice of us.

By the time that we were ready for an evening stroll along the beach, the wind had dropped a little and no longer whipped the sand to sting our legs. A few fishing boats lay tilted to one side, pulled up on the dry sand in front of white-walled, red-roofed houses. Some villagers stood talking to each other, while others sat at their doors enjoying the freshness of the evening air. Everyone gave us a cheery greeting.

As we prepared for bed, a large boat slipped into the bay, anchored, and prepared to spend the night there, a single lamp at the masthead. By the time we awoke in the morning it had already left, but the sea still held the deep blue-green shade, intoxicating in its magnetic pull. We wonder now how we ever managed to drive away from some of these perfect places, which invited us to stay for weeks.

At the town of Neochorion, we stopped only to buy freshly baked bread, before we returned to Volos. Then, passing roadside shrines and fields of damp red poppies, we turned southwards to the historic site of Thermopylae. Here Leonidas, the Greek king had gallantly defended the pass leading to the south with a mere five thousand men. The enemy, (The Persians), aided by a traitor, were able to negotiate a route through the mountains to appear unexpectedly at the rear of the assembled Greek armies. Leonidas, realising that he was hopelessly outnumbered, allowed many of his allies to depart, remaining, with an army of Spartans, men whose only permitted vocation was war. Knowing full well that they could not stop the Persian advance, they fought to the death. Today, an impressive bronze statue of Leonidas stands against the sky in an attacking pose, shield in one hand and spear raised above his head, aptly reminding one of the battle fought and the lives so courageously lost.

According to Herodotus in ‘The Histories’, the pass was only fifty feet wide at Thermopylae, but over the years the path of the Sperhious River has changed the area into a broad alluvial plain. We had anticipated camping on this plain but as it was still comparatively early in the day, we drove on through pastel-tinted Amfissa to Delphi. We knew that we were inviting problems to camp at Delphi, for it was bound to be crowded with tourists. It was predictably commercialised, so we continued, past the hotel and parked cars, until we caught sight of a rough donkey track on the right of the road. Bumping over the steeply inclined, grassy hillside we came to a suitable flat area. The terraced slopes fell away before us to the gorge of the Pleistos River. Opposite, a mule-track zigzagged back and forth, a thin brown scar rising steadily up through dark green scrubland to severe, grey rocks that glittered with a certain metallic reflection, for they were the Phedriades rocks, ‘the shining ones’. What a marvellous place to camp.

According to mythology, Zeus released two eagles, one each from the furthermost points of east and west.They are said to have met over Delphi, the ‘navel of the earth’. Delphi represented the centre of the Universe, and there are many legends, which describe how it became significant. One tells of a Cretan shepherd who, astounded by the strange antics of his goats, which had inadvertently strayed towards a crevice in the rocks, went to investigate. He, himself, was overcome by fumes emitted from the rocks, and became delirious. These fumes, or gases, which gave the power of prophecy, were said to emanate from the python, a dragon slain by Apollo. So the place became a holy shrine, the sanctuary of Apollo.

In order to make full use of the prophecies that the fumes induced, a woman was installed in the sanctuary. Originally the position was filled by a young virgin, chosen by the priest, but following the rape of one young and beautiful pythia, (as the prophetess was called), women of not less than fifty years of age were chosen to fulfil these duties. To receive divine inspiration, the pythia would first undergo purification in the Castalia Spring, before taking her seat on Apollo’s throne with the divine tripod. She would then chew laurel leaves and drink water from the Cassotis fountain. At her feet would be the sacred stone, omphalos, the ‘earth’s navel’, centre of the earth and all creative power. Sitting above the deep crevasse from which the poisoned gases came, the prophetess would be induced into a trance.

When her incoherent mumblings began, the priests accompanying her would interpret, later putting the words into verse form for presentation to persons seeking advice. This could be somewhat misleading if not inaccurate, for when a certain King Croesus enquired from the Oracle if he would succeed in his intended conquest of the Persians, he was given the following answer:

‘Cross the Halys River and you will destroy a great empire.’

Croesus crossed the river, was taken prisoner by Cyrus, King of the Persians, and his own empire was subsequently destroyed.

The most advantageous time to see Delphi is before the tourists arrive in their numbers. So we rose early in the morning, before the sun’s rays had fallen on the Temple of Apollo, and walked back along our track to the road. Passing the Castalia Spring, which was running cool and plentiful beneath the towering rocks, we then walked down through a maze of wild flowers to the Tholos of Marmaria, a rotunda in white marble. The three remaining columns, above a three-stepped platform, adequately give an impression of the style of this building, which is in a beautiful setting. We then followed the Sacred Way, past the small sun-warmed Treasury of the Athenians, to the Temple of Apollo. Here stand the stumps of six weathered columns, each chipped and worn, and individual sections of pillar scattered, half buried in the grass. Just behind the Temple was the Theatre, where ancient dramas are still performed. We climbed the tiered seats and marvelled at the view; before us was a winding road skirting the massive cliffs of the Phaedriades, innumerable dark, spear-like cypresses, and the deep, dark ravine where the River Pleistos had cut its way. From the Theatre, a rough path leads up to the Stadium, first glimpsed beyond an old silver-branched fig tree, its bright Spring-green leaves just unfolding. Here every four years, before seven thousand spectators, the Pythian Games were held. There was also a dramatic performance recalling Apollo’s victory over the Python.

The museum at Delphi is well worth visiting to see the sculptures, in particular the noted bronze charioteer. Vestiges of reins are held in his right hand and he stands, tall and noble, a youth of less than twenty years who twice won the four-horse chariot race with ease. He is wearing a long robe, and, around his head is a victory band tied with a single knot at the back. Eyes of enamel and onyx gleam brightly from his fine face, a prince from Syracuse, an image of Apollo, enshrined in the wild magnificence of Parnassos and the Phedriades.

Soon after leaving Delphi, we made a short diversion in order to see the monastery of St. Luke Stirus (Ossios Loukas). This monastery is famed for its superior Byzantine mosaic work but, for us, the attraction was more in its quiet setting; a fertile valley surrounded by lonely hills. The tile work on the circular, upturned saucer-shaped roof, so typical of Greek churches, must have been comparatively new, but it was completely in keeping with the rest of the mellow, red-stone work. From where we sat, on a hill beneath olive trees, eating our lunch of bread, cheese and apples, we could see a monk busily tending his plants in the monastery gardens. It was one of those drowsy afternoons, when the only thing one wanted to do was lie back in the soft, cool grass, and listen to the murmur of bees.

There were several camps to choose from on the outskirts of Athens. We found the one that had been recommended to us, and the following morning set off for the city. We were soon aware of the Acropolis, a mighty rock thrusting upwards from the activity of a thriving, modern capital, but decided that we would save visiting it till later.

Before leaving England, we had arranged to have some money transferred from our London bank to one in Athens, so we made straight for the National Bank of Greece. What an enormous building! Making our way up a flight of marble steps into the grand entrance hall, we quickly found someone who spoke English. He directed us past many gleaming, polished desks, which divided the entire floor into a veritable maze for an uninitiated visitor. Reaching our destination we found a queue that we joined, and waited some while for our turn to speak to the clerk.

“Please, you must speak to Mr. Papandreou”– we were told,

“He is over there.”

A pointing finger indicated that we should make for another desk with another queue. I must mention that there is no shortage of staff in the National Bank. Everyone had something to do, if only to check other people’s work, or point to other desks! Even now we retain a vivid picture of many, efficient, well-dressed cashiers, all with outstretched arms, pointing the way to other cashiers with unpronounceable Greek names. Eventually we were directed upstairs to a private office, and there sat the man who could help us. After taking so long to track him down, we were rather disappointed when he said,

“Come back tomorrow. Your bank in London must be cabled first, in order to complete the transaction.”

So, next morning, the ‘desk procedure’ began all over again. There was no point in getting agitated, or of thinking, like one tourist, that it would be a good idea to do some shopping while waiting, that would have been bound to cause even further delay. The best plan seemed to be to sit down at every opportunity and just watch what was going on. Once the business had been completed, we decided to have lunch at a restaurant in Piraeus, which is noted for its superb fish. Unfortunately, somehow we managed to get hopelessly lost on the way and became so hungry that we stopped at the first restaurant we saw. It turned out to be a most unpleasant little place, and the food was terrible. When a twenty per cent service charge was added to an already excessively high bill, we had a flaming row with the manager and left agitated and still hungry.

“How about cooling down on the Acropolis?”– Audrey suggested. About half an hour later, alongside many other tourists, we began the ascent of the steep, stone clad path leading to the marble Propylaea, or entrance gate. Then we passed through to the immense area on which the various buildings stand. Ahead and a little to the right, beyond glistening white rocks and worn stone, stood the Parthenon, predominating in its grandeur without being overpowering. In the glory of its ageing maturity, it is the culmination and most perfect expression of Doric architectural style in existence today.

Under Turkish rule, the Parthenon had been used successively as a mosque and then as a gunpowder store. The result of this latter unfortunate choice was, that when the Venetians shelled the Acropolis in 1687, there was an explosion in the Parthenon that caused extensive damage. Whilst trying to remove the figures from the west for safekeeping, the most important centre section collapsed to the ground and was shattered. Gradually the remaining valuable pieces of the building were stolen, sold at random, and even used as building material.

Lord Elgin, who was British Ambassador to the Sultan of Turkey at the time, negotiated with the Turks on behalf of the British Government, for the purchase and removal of the remaining sculptures. Most of the guides at the Acropolis will tell how Lord Elgin stole the marbles. In fact, he paid £70,000 for them, and probably saved them from total destruction. Unfortunately, he was only paid half this amount by the British Government, and had to foot the rest of the bill himself.

To see some of the finest of these sculptures that originally decorated the pediments of the Parthenon, and for which Phidias was responsible (the various other individual artists are unknown), it is necessary to visit the British Museum in London. Here they form the collection known as the Elgin Marbles. Wonderful as the collection is, somehow we felt that the sculptures needed their original setting, so that one could look at them from a distance. They needed to be at a great height with fresh, clear air about them, not in an artificially lit room.

Compared with the Parthenon, the Erechtheum is more gracefully feminine. Six caryatids, or maidens, dressed in gently flowing robes support, with apparent ease, baskets above their heads that take the weight of the entire roof. One might consider this design aesthetically displeasing, but the result is completely the opposite. That such an effect of lightness and strength could have been created from stone, never failed to surprise me. These dignified figures, priestesses of Athens, guard the most sacred temple in Athens, which stands on the site where a contest took place between Poseidon and Athena for the possession and protection of the city. Poseidon, god of the sea, struck the rock with his trident and, at once, water gushed forth as a symbol of his dominion. When Athena struck the rock with her spear an olive tree immediately grew. The gods consulted on the result of the contest and decided that, of the two, Athena should take the city under her auspices.Today a single olive tree flourishes beside the Erechtheum, a simple reminder of the city’s origin.

From the Acropolis we had a bird’s eye view of several of the places that we were to see during our time in the city. To the southeast were the great columns of the Temple of Jupiter, at one time the largest temple in all Greece. Not far away was Hadrian’s Arch. Below the southern walls lay the gleaming, white Odeon of Herodes Atticus, a restored theatre which, at present-day performances, seats five thousand spectators. Further along was the older theatre of Dionysus, which has beautifully shaped marble seats bearing the names of the dignitaries for whom they were once reserved. In the close vicinity of the Acropolis, the general view is of red-tiled rooftops. These belong to the older style houses, but endless blocks and rectangles of modern Athens, which extends far beyond the green hill of Lykabettos, surround them.

While exploring various side-turnings in the city, our attention was caught by the small, thirteenth century church of Aghios Eleftherios, sitting quietly in the shadows of the huge nineteenth century cathedral. Inside we watched people buying and lighting slender white candles before offering their prayers. It surprised us to see an old woman quickly snuff out the flames, as people left, and collect up the candles for re-sale. Walking through the bustling crowds along Pandrossou Street, known as ‘shoe lane’ because of the large number of shoe shops, we finally arrived at the noisy central market area. Great lorries added to the confusion as they, too, tried to negotiate their way along the narrow streets. At the end of the day we felt glad to sit down at one of the open-air cafes, overlooking bright blue sunshades and orange trees in front of the Parliament Building.

After four busy days in Athens, we continued on a fast motorway to the Corinth Canal. We stopped at this four-mile long chasm to look down the steeply inclined sides to the narrow water channel over two hundred feet below. Ancient seafarers often dragged small ships on rollers across this isthmus to avoid the long voyage round the southern tip of the Pelopponese. The idea of a canal was conceived very early. It was Nero who struck the first blow with a golden pickaxe to start excavations around 67 AD.

The Pelopponese, or ‘the island of Pelops’, named after a legendary hero, is rich in archaeological sites, each one fascinating to see and explore and important in its own right.

At Corinth the seven pillars of Apollo break the skyline high on a hill, and the fountain of Peirene still supplies water to the nearby village.

Mycenae is well hidden by the surrounding hills. Climbing a rough path over wild-flower strewn grass, we came to the Treasury of Atreus[32], a great beehive tomb fifty feet high with a walled passage leading to an immense doorway. Inside the tomb it was cool and dark, a darkness that completely engulfed us. As we stood there, we could hear, (strangely enough), the unmistakable sound of humming bees.

Only a short distance away is the Acropolis of Mycenae, to which so much horror is attributed as a result of Aeschylus’s tragedies. Mycenae is of intense interest to historians and archaeologists, primarily because it was the hub of Helladic civilisation but, of late, it has been the broiling pot of discoveries, including tablets containing a primitive Greek writing known as ‘Linear B’. We passed beneath the much-eroded Lion Gate entrance, so named because of the two lionesses that are carved above the lintel on a triangular slab of grey limestone. Now they are hardly recognisable, but the gateway is still an imposing one. Traditionally, Mycenae was the capital and burial place of Agamemnon, and a city ‘rich in gold’. Just inside the Lion Gate and to the right, are the stone grave shafts that Heinrich Schliemann the archaeologist, excavated. He tore down walls and dug trenches until he discovered Mycenae’s treasures, sending the Greek workmen away when he first caught sight of the riches, fearing that they might become greedy for gold, too.

By far the oldest of Pelopponesian sanctuaries, dating long before the times of Mycenae, is Tiryns, famous for its cyclopean walls and passageways of stone, polished smooth by the continual passing of soldiers. Tradition tells that it was the original home of Apollo. It was rather dark and gloomy, and we found the nearby town of Nauplia much more picturesque and attractive. There were brightly coloured kayaks reflected in the calm waters of a landlocked bay, and the small island of Bourzi with its fort like buildings conjured up many a fairy tale.

The interested reader will, I hope, pardon my glossing over such important historical sites, but to describe each and every one that we visited, in detail, is surely outside the scope of this book. We looked over the ruins and enjoyed them for what they are; aging stones slowly conceding to time, valuable links with the past. The occasional tourist will delve deep. The specialised archaeologist will dig and sift the soil but we were content to have seen, our experiences uncluttered by the complexities of historical study.

Some of these places we visited whilst at Tolon, a delightful village on the coast, near the head of the Argolikos Kolpos. ‘Swiss Camping’ was a well-appointed campsite, which we found clean and not too crowded. On the day that we arrived there, we were preceded by another Dormobile Land Rover, only the second of these vehicles that we had seen on this trip. The occupants, a young couple and their fifteen-month-old son, were spending a couple of months in Greece before going to Canada. Over a cup of coffee, we discussed the various attributes of the layout of their vehicle as opposed to ours. One enviable addition to theirs was a small refrigerator.

The following day we explored Tolon, which has many typically Greek characteristics. Only just separated from the mainland, sparsely covered island hills help to shelter the sands and retain a high water temperature, making this a wonderful place to spend several days. The shops and cottages, which are mostly of one storey, nestle beneath a stony headland at one end of the sweeping bay. They spread along either side of the main street, their doorsteps and window ledges decorated with pots of flowering plants. Hearing a bell, we turned to see an old lady pushing a rusty bicycle along the road. Two large wicker baskets, strapped on either side of the saddle, contained small, green courgettes, some still with the withered remains of the yellow flower. We bought a couple of kilos of these, for they had been freshly picked and would make a fine meal. Down at the beach, fishermen’s nets, dyed a deep yellow and hung thickly with cork floats, were draped over tall, sun-bleached wooden poles. Here we sometimes bought our fish, often carried to us direct from the boat. The fisherman would wade towards us, with the fish dangling from one hand, and a pair of brass hand scales under his arm. For the pleasure of buying it this way, we had the job of cleaning out the fish – a messy business.

We spent some time every day in the sea, swimming either from the sandy beach of Tolon, or from a stonier beach a short walk away. On a nearby rocky headland we found the ruins of Assini, where there were the remains of a beehive tomb. We enjoyed scrambling about the jumbled heaps of rock that were now almost entirely disguised by bushes of sweetly scented thyme. From the highest point there was a splendid view across the bay, while below us, in a corner of a field, a group of men were wrapping oranges in blue tissue paper, and packing them into wooden crates.

One day we went for a leisurely drive through the pleasant quiet countryside. Poppies glowed deep red amongst the grass, and beside many of the whitewashed cottages was a rounded stone oven, partially blackened by smoke. Eventually we arrived at Epidauros, where there is the best preserved of all Greek theatres, as well as the ruins of the Sanctuary of Asclepius[33], and a very fine museum of classical architecture. In the theatre a guide proved, by rustling a piece of paper and clapping his hands, how the sound could be heard from any part of the auditorium. So perfect are the acoustics that even from the uppermost tiers we could hear him easily.

After a couple more lazy days at Tolon, we set off for Tripolis. On our way, we worked out that, owing to our recently relaxed speeds (seldom exceeding more than fifty-five miles per hour), we were regularly getting twenty miles per gallon over a thirty-day period. On more difficult roads in Persia and Jordan, our average had been as low as fifteen miles per gallon.

We approached the mountain town of Langhadia, its houses clinging precariously to the steep slopes that fell sharply away from the road. Built of grey stone, they looked like boulders that had tumbled down the mountainside. We stopped for a while to photograph a man dressed in national costume. He turned out to be the owner of a souvenir shop. Although we were invited inside immediately, we found that he was not over concerned to sell us anything. In next to no time he had dressed Audrey as a Greek shepherd girl, complete with distaff and hand-woven woollen bag. Then, giving her a hearty embrace, handed her a bar of chocolate and a miniature pair of Turkish slippers with pompoms, like those worn by the Greek highlanders.

We did not arrive at Olympia until late afternoon and as there was not much of the day left, we planned to drive on to Kourouta, near Pyrgos. From here we would be able to return to Olympia whenever we chose. We soon made the acquaintance of several other people at the camp, including a German couple, who kept us amused by their accounts of how the husband had taken a small inflatable boat round several of the smaller Yugoslavian islands, occasionally using an umbrella as a sail.

The next few days merged one into another. The weather was perfect, and again we spent most of our time on the beach. On one occasion Audrey trod on a squid. It was only when she saw the ink-black fluid spreading across the water in front of her, that she realised what had happened She soon came running up the beach. One morning, a party of school children came walking along the sands and, as we were the only other people about, they made straight for us. Soon, they were all putting the English that they had been taught into practice. One girl, whose English was quite fluent, was able to tell the others what we were saying, much to the embarrassment of their teacher, who was trying very hard to converse in French.

As the sun set that evening, we walked along the shore, looking towards the grey outline of Zakynthos, an island that had suffered severe earthquakes in 1953 and is known to the Venetians as ‘The Flower of the Levant’.

Before the last stages of our journey, we had a final check up of our belongings. One thing we discovered that we had never used was an awning that could be fixed to the side of the Land Rover to afford shade when we wanted to eat outside. With our carefully constructed mosquito net attached to it, we could also have slept out in the open. We had already parted with the mosquito net, deciding that we would not need it after all. It had been given to Clive, the Welshman whom we had met in Jerusalem. He was off to India and then to Australia, so we reckoned that he would make better use of it than we would. Our large cabin trunk, that we carried on the roof rack, was now filled with pamphlets, maps and souvenirs, that we should not need until we returned home. Audrey found some cotton sheeting that we had tucked away, and re-lined our sleeping bags, which were getting rather worse for wear. The tent was still in a very good condition, although the flysheet, originally bright orange, was now bleached to a pale biscuit colour.

One morning we woke up, looked out at a blue sky, and both thought it would be an ideal day to go to Olympia.

Greek mythology tells how the gods were interested in athletic games. Zeus had wrestled successfully with Kronos, and Apollo was victorious in boxing with Mars, and also in running against Hermes. But it is a local legend that recalls how five brothers, known as the Kourites, came to Olympia from the island of Crete. It is said that they organised contests amongst themselves, each victor being crowned with a wreath made from the branches of an olive tree. These contests were instituted to take place every fifth year, corresponding to the number of brothers, but the idea was gradually forgotten until the ninth century BC

At this time, Greece was in the grips of continual strife, due to civil wars and disease. Iphitos, the King of Elis, as was customary with problems of such magnitude, consulted the Oracle at Delphi as to what he should do about the worsening situation. The Oracle answered,

“Iphitos and the people of Elis must revive the Olympic Games.”

The revival was initiated, and it brought about a treaty known as the Sacred Truce, which was respected by the entire Greek world. Elis and Olympia, where the games were held, were areas where the passage of armed men was forbidden. An Olympic parliament was set up to maintain the truce and to administrate in the participation of the games. Although civil wars were still prevalent, at the announcement heralding the beginning of the games, hostilities ceased, and all Greeks paid homage to the peaceful festivities.

The four-yearly periods between the games were known as Olympiads, and were used as a system of chronological reckoning. The first named Olympiad was held in 776 BC, but it was not until the seventh that the victors again received the olive wreath as a crown, according to tradition. A child who used a golden knife cut the olive branches from a specific tree near the temple of Zeus. The olive wreath and its importance was most significant, because for the first time in history, man was competing without the need for personal gain, other than the pleasure and honour of participation. This idea was completely alien to the Egyptians and the Persians. Herodotus relates how one of Xerxes men reacted when he learnt of the Olympic festival.

‘Good heavens, Mardonius[34], what kind of men are these that you have brought us to fight against, men who compete with one another for no material reward, but only for honour?’

It is interesting to note, that what had begun as a local festival now attracted athletes and spectators from all over the ancient world. We entered the stadium, passing beneath a wide arch, and walked to the centre of the arena. Standing there, just the two of us, we felt the wind as it gently blew over the grass slopes where once hundreds of people had sat. It was not difficult to imagine the spectacle of the athletes entering the crowded arena in a grand procession or, to see in one’s mind’s eye, the foot race in which twenty men would compete, running naked under the hot Grecian sun. With our feet on the same grooved limestone blocks that had served as a finishing line, we looked towards a special stone seat on one side of the stadium. This had been reserved for the priestess of the goddess Demeter: the only female allowed there. I am quite sure that it would be impossible to visit Olympia without feeling an intangible, buzzing excitement at the thought of how up to four thousand spectators would fill the air with their shouting and cheering, and how the contestants would strive for the greatest honour of receiving that simple olive wreath.

Pale pink petals of almond blossom drifted down to weathered slabs of stone, and we wandered, as the fancy took us, in and out of the ruined buildings; the Gymnasium, where the athletes had exercised, having had ten months of intensive training for the various events; the workshop of Pheidias, where he had fashioned in gold and ivory a statue of Zeus, and the Temple of Hera, where once the famous statue of Hermes[35] stood.

There was a sad decline in the concept of the Olympic spirit following the Roman defeat of Greece in 146 BC, particularly after the antics of Nero. He ensured that he was proclaimed winner of every event in which he took part, and even introduced a singing competition, wishing to take the crown for this as well, even though his voice had been likened to that of a crow.

It was not until the latter part of the nineteenth century, due to the efforts of a French Baron, Pierre de Coubertin that the games were reinstated, the first modern Olympiad being held in Greece in 1896. There is a monument to Coubertin, on which the head of Zeus is portrayed. It is in a quiet grove of tall cypress trees on the other side of the road from the antiquities of Olympia. Close by, a small altar is engraved with the five rings, representing the unity of the five continents. This peaceful corner is a symbol of Coubertin’s efforts dedicated to the continuation of the high ideal of the Olympic spirit.

Before each modern Olympiad, the Olympic flame is kindled from the sun’s rays. These are concentrated by means of a lens producing a flame in a fluid that a priestess holds in a vase. The ceremony takes place at the original Olympic Stadium. When the flame has been ignited, the priestess, dressed in a pure white, flowing robe, makes her way through the passage leading from the stadium, and passes the torch to her chief priestess who, with her followers, carries the flame to the Temple of Hera. The torch is then handed to the first of a relay of runners who carry the Olympic flame to the city in which the games are being held.

Waving farewell to the other campers at Kourouta, we set off for Rion, just beyond Patras, where we would take the ferryboat to the mainland. We made good time on the journey, reaching Arta, the old capital of Epirus, by the afternoon. Here we passed over an elegant stone bridge spanning the Arakhthos River. Built in the seventeenth century, it has an interesting but gruesome legend relating to it. Apparently, work on the bridge was held up because during the night the river destroyed the previous day’s work. It was revealed to the foreman builder that unless the body of his wife reinforced the foundations, the bridge would continue to collapse. In order to appease the river gods, the builder consented, and the work was duly completed. Inevitably he committed suicide shortly afterwards. The story has been retained to the present day in a song well known in the Balkan countries.

We reached Ioannina that evening and soon had our tent up beside the lake. Looking along its shores we could see a Turkish mosque, and decided to make this our first visit. It was known as the mosque of Ali Pasha[36], the tyrant, and was built in true Turkish style with a single, tall minaret. Today it is the municipal museum. As we entered the courtyard and passed by a heaped pyramid of cannonballs, we heard the voice of a young girl singing a lullaby to her child. It was a song which was much more familiar to our ears than any we had heard recently. With the haunting melody in our minds, we walked towards the entrance of the mosque. Inside was a collection of antiques and examples of Epirote art. We did not stay looking around for long. It was a fine, sunny day, yet we preferred to sit on a wall of stone. We gazed at the magnificent scenery around us. Beyond a small islet, set in the calmness of the lake, lay the craggy, grey, lower slopes of Mount Mitsikeli, part of the Pindus range of mountains.

The little, green island seemed to act as a magnet, drawing us towards it. When we found out that there was a regular ferryboat service, costing a mere two drachmas, (about sixpence) we hurried to the small quayside, and within minutes we were on our way. The boat barely rose and fell with the ripples on the languid water, but we moved with sufficient speed to give a welcome breeze. From our position, low in the water, and the direction of our approach, we could not see the landing stage. Between thick beds of reeds men were re-tarring their fishing boats and mending their nets, and then a few houses came into view.

We landed and stepped out of the boat, anxious to explore the winding paths that led over grassy banks covered with wild flowers, and disappeared tantalisingly between tall trees.

Of particular interest on this island are the monasteries and, as we followed two old women along a cobbled path, a young boy appeared and led us to the first of these, known as Aghios Nikolas Dilios. This is the oldest, having been built in the eleventh century. The boy knocked at the door, which was opened by a woman, who beckoned us inside. She lit a candle and placed it before a beautifully carved wooden altar, which was typical of the folk art in this region. The walls of the church were completely covered with sombre frescoes in colours of brown and blue, showing scenes of various martyrdoms and the day of Judgement. There were fiendish looking devils and headless saints, bearded, emaciated hermits and haloed angels.

The boy led us outside again into the brilliant light of day, and we continued along the footpath scattering chickens and disturbing a snake. ‘The next monastery was surrounded by a high brick wall, but we found a wooden door and a long bell rope beside it, which we pulled. From within came the remote tinkling of a bell and a dog began to bark, but as no one opened the door, we walked on until we came to a tree-shaded courtyard, which formed part of the guesthouse of the monastery of St. Panteleimon. It was here that Ali Pasha was killed in 1822. He had come to the house with his wife and twelve friends, thinking that he might obtain a pardon for his crimes. One day a group of men entered the courtyard, one of them holding aloft a roll of paper. Ali Pasha came out on to the balcony, and, realising that this could be a trick, shot at the man, wounding him in the hand. The fire was returned and Ali staggered back into the room and fell on to the bed. The group of men then passed beneath the balcony and shot upward through the floorboards. In such a way was Ali killed. The last words that he uttered were to his friends urging them to kill his wife lest she should fall into the hands of the assassins.

The room is now a small museum and the bullet holes are preserved in the floorboards as proof of the event. With this vivid account in our minds, we reverted to the more peaceful solitude of the monastic church, where we sat for a while away from the glare of the sun, watching an old woman dressed completely in black, sweeping the floor.

Then we strolled slowly back to the small village, admiring the cleanliness of each freshly painted house and the whitewashed stone paths, before returning to the landing stage. The same boat that we had arrived on was just leaving with several people on board but, seeing us, the owner turned back and picked us up to the delight of the occupants.

One morning we explored the oldest part of Ioannina. Although it was hot and sunny, and the heat was reflected from the white washed walls, the streets were narrow and we were able to find shade. The unexpected was always to be seen as we glanced through open doorways and along dark passages. In one sunny spot we saw no less than eight cats, all of different colouring, stretched out and basking in the warmth. Close by in a small grate was contained a charcoal fire. People were friendly and generally gave us a nod and a smile, or greeted us with the now familiar, “Yassas”.

The market place was still busy. A row of women, dressed in black skirts and jumpers, black shoes, stockings and kerchiefs, squatted beside their lettuces, leeks, spinach and onions, which had been neatly spread out along the kerbstones. The vegetables looked fresh and green and had obviously been gathered early that morning. No price was indicated; neither did the women call out their wares. They were quite happy to sit talking with each other. They had such charming, placid, country faces, brown and shining, with no sign of the wear and tear and frustration of city life. Audrey pointed to the leeks and a rosy-cheeked woman held up a bunch for her. By this time, a small man with a moustache had appeared on the scene, and went to tell Audrey how much she needed to pay. Perhaps he was making sure that she was not over-charged, we did not know. At the end of the row of women sat an elderly couple with a large wicker basket of eggs. When Audrey asked for six, the old man took a clean handkerchief from his pocket, shook it, then spread it on to the path. Carefully, he placed some eggs on the handkerchief and indicated that she should take what she wanted.

Having found out that there was a car ferry to Corfu leaving Igoumenitsa at eleven thirty in the morning, we rose early and soon had the Land Rover packed. The journey, of sixty-five miles, was made in very good time, for although the way was through the wild mountains of Epirus the road was well engineered. However, as we drove along the quayside, the ferryboat moved out. It was not even eleven o’clock. There was a three and a half hour wait for the next boat, so we had plenty of time to contemplate our proposed visit to this Greek island.

Corfu is, perhaps, the island most often visited by tourists, because it is a common entry point and stopping place for ships sailing between Brindisi and Athens. The Corinthians founded it in 734 BC, but by 229 BC, it had fallen to the Romans. In 1386 it placed itself under Venetian protection, and it was also a British Protectorate for nearly half a century. Consequently, there is an interesting mixture of influences. We were looking forward to the boat trip, and had sometimes talked of sailing around the Greek islands, particularly the smallest of the twenty-four Cyclades, of which we had seen such enchanting photographs. But this was just not within the scope of our budget, so we had settled for Corfu, one of the Ionian Islands.

While we sat eating sandwiches in some gardens by the sea, a crowd of schoolboys came along, threw down their school bags, hurriedly tore off jackets, shirts and trousers, and, in no time, were enjoying a swim. They dived and splashed, pushed each other off the wall into the water and generally had a grand time. The hot sun dried them and within half an hour they had all gone, rushing off along the road.

Our first surprise came soon after we had cast off. Just as we were musing about the possibilities of this short, but tranquil cruise, a party of secondary school children on the lower deck –about a hundred boys and girls – began to play records. After listening, dancing and singing to a few of these, one boy began to play a trumpet. This, apparently, is typical of Greek people, who love music wherever they are. Working on the age-old principle, ‘if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em; we went down to the lower deck, too. We learnt that they were on a four day holiday from their school in Patras. One girl, Lola, asked us if we could find her a pen friend in England, so we took her address before disembarking.

It was late afternoon when the old fortress came into view heralding our arrival at Corfu. The campsite that we were making for was at Condakali, some four miles northwest of Corfu’s main town, Kerkyra. As we were putting up the tent and preparing a meal, an enormous woman appeared carrying a wicker basket, and began to collect rubbish from smaller baskets tied to the trees about the camp. She was dressed in the traditional, gathered black skirt, and white, low-necked, full-sleeved blouse. On her head was a piece of cleverly draped white material, which not only looked attractive, but served the purpose of keeping the sun off the back of her neck

In the meadow where we were camping, in fact, everywhere we went on Corfu, there were fields of buttercups, and here and there amongst them we found several types of wild orchids. One evening we caught sight of a brilliant flash of yellow high in the trees. We found the binoculars and quietly waited for a while before we spotted it again, it was a golden oriole. As it grew dark we witnessed a strange spectacle, something that we had never seen before; numerous points of moving, phosphorescent light, glowed intermittently, each switching on and off with amazing regularity. They were fireflies, and every night they gathered beneath the trees.

The dignified eighteenth century houses that line the old streets of Kerkyra rise to quite a height. Several have balconies, and the coloured, shuttered windows suggest that the sun must penetrate even into these narrow, paved ways. As we walked up the stepped alleys, we saw a young boy attaching a large wicker basket to a rope. High above his head, from about the fifth floor, a woman prepared to hoist up her day’s provisions through the open window. Carpets and clothes hung over wires stretched from one side of the street to the other to dry. Wrought iron lamps over doorways added to the decorative effect. We returned to the busy, shopping area, where there were plenty of local people as well as tourists. Amongst them wandered the occasional, long-robed tall hatted, Greek Orthodox priest. Standing on a raised dais in the middle of the road, protected from the sun by a large blue and white sunshade, stood a silver-helmeted, smartly uniformed policeman, who kept the traffic under control.

That afternoon we made a short excursion to Kanoni, where it is possible to look down upon two islets in an idyllic setting; they almost appear to be floating on the blue water. Walking across a narrow causeway to the nearest of them, we stopped to look down into the clear water; shoals of small silver fish gleamed in the sunlight. On the islet is the convent of St. Vlacherna, its stonework spotlessly white, and enhanced by one, dark green tree growing in the courtyard. The bell tower was decorated with pots of plants. On Pondikonisi, or Mouse Island, is a Byzantine chapel, almost hidden by tall, cypress trees. There is a legend that tells how Poseidon, god of the sea, turned the ship that brought Odysseus to Ithaca to stone. The island is said to be that same petrified ship.

Another legend about Odysseus centres on Paleokastritsa, believed to be the site of the Phaeacian capital, ruled by King Alcinous. The story tells how the shipwrecked and exhausted Odysseus lay sleeping in a copse by the mouth of the River Ermones, having spent two days and two nights battling against the sea. He was awoken by the sound of laughter and, looking up, saw a group of maidens playing ball together. One more beautiful than all the rest was Nausicaa, the daughter of the King. She clothed and fed Odysseus and advised him to ask her father for help. Alcinous entertained him royally, plying him with more food and wine before giving him a ship, so that he might continue his homeward journey. As we sat gazing down at the twin bays of Paleokastritsa, its two swathes of sand and the deep sapphire and emerald colours of the sea, we half expected to see some of the characters that Homer has written about.

Built on a rock, looking over the clear sea, and steep, green slopes, is a monastery whose monks worship a twelfth century icon of the Virgin Mary. Its quiet courtyard is patterned with shadows of trailing grapevines. As I passed beneath an archway, I gave my head a resounding crack on a low beam. A large well-fed priest, waiting to sell postcards to tourists, doubled up with unsuppressed laughter, as I staggered into the room. So much for the hospitality of the Greek Church, I thought, then looking back at Audrey I realised that she was laughing, too.

Driving north from the campsite, we took the road to Ipsos and Strinilas, passing thousands of olive trees, some of which were quite large. One young woman, looking very charming in her traditional dress, was busy gathering a basketful of ripe black olives, and we remembered reading that the oil forms a very important part of the people’s diet.

As we turned a corner, we met a motor cyclist, trying to negotiate the sharp bends of the steep hill. His vehicle did not appear to be very powerful, and was certainly not built to take a passenger. However, he had offered a postman, with a large weighty sack, a lift to the next village.

We stopped and enquired the correct road for the monastery of Pantokrator. The postman took the opportunity to transfer himself, and his bundle, to our Land Rover. Both he and the motorcyclist looked considerably happier at this arrangement. In the village, the postman treated us to a fresh, lemon drink before we resumed our driving. Waving goodbye, we set off on a much rougher road that shortly became no more than a track. Our teeth rattled, and the cutlery and tinned foods clattered about alarmingly. Nothing else was going in the same direction that we were. In fact, one or two people that we passed beside their lone cottages scratched their heads and looked bemused as we jolted along.

Eventually the track ended; we had arrived at a small, yellow house, set high up on some rocks. As we walked up a stone path towards it, a priest, wearing a dark blue habit, and characteristic, tall, black hat, came to meet us. Speaking through a handsome beard, he invited us in for refreshment, but we asked if we could see the monastery first. Turning back into the house he collected a key and then beckoned us to follow him.

The monastery was at the top of a very steep and barren hill. We followed the priest carefully, picking our way over rough, grey stones and low scrub, disturbing a snake on the way. Although it was very hot, the priest moved at a good pace, and within a quarter of an hour we were at the top, enjoying a fresh breeze, and a splendid view across the sea; our first view of Albania, its high mountains veiled by a mauve haze.

The monastery had been built in AD 1347, in honour of a miraculous icon of Christ. The dark grey, stone exterior was not attractive, and inside the church seemed gloomy, but once we were accustomed to the darkness, we were able to discern two paintings of Christ, one of them on the ceiling accompanied by four of His disciples, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. Apart from the church, all that remained of the monastery was a crumbling, stone wall, and a partially collapsed belfry with two bells. We wondered if they were ever rung.

Returning to the priest’s sparsely furnished home; we sat at a bare wooden table and were offered tea. How we regretted our lack of knowledge of the Greek language. There were so many things that we wanted to ask him. Just as we were about to leave, he ran down the path and waved at us to stop, then went hurrying back to the house. He returned, after a while, carrying a small bag and a coat. Taking a watch from a bead-decorated purse, he explained that he had to be in Kassiopi the following day for a religious festival. If we could give him a lift, it would save him making the entire journey over the mountain on foot early in the morning.

He climbed into the front seat of the Land Rover and sat bolt upright clutching his bag. Throughout the rough ride back, he stared fixedly ahead of him, obviously quite unused to travelling in such a way. At one point, we experienced a particularly bad lurch, and the priest fervently crossed himself, he was visibly frightened, but made no comment, putting his faith in God. Rather than show our amusement, we kept straight faces and continued the jolting ride trying to cause as little discomfort as possible.

We decided that we would go to Kassiopi next morning. It was Sunday, and the first thing that we noticed when we arrived at this small, fishing village, were two lambs roasting on spits. Several people were standing about talking and, while we were there, a busload of men, women and children arrived, all dressed in their best outfits. A service was in progress in the village church, the Panaghia Kassiopitra, and we hoped that we might catch a glimpse of our friend, the priest, but it was so full that the congregation was spilling out of the doors. We could hear plenty of singing and melodious chanting, which reminded us of our first visit to an Orthodox service in Romania. By standing on our toes, and peering over the shoulders of people in front of us, we could see that the church was colourfully decorated with many candles and lamps. Many of the priests wore beautiful, brocade vestments, but with their tall black hats and beards they looked so alike that it was impossible to pick out the one that we knew.

Our short stay on Corfu came to an end and reluctantly we drove into Kerkyra to where the ferryboat was waiting at the quayside. One of the crew signalled to us to drive aboard. Having put the Land Rover below, we went to the upper deck and stood watching the captain, who made a terrible mess of getting the boat away from the quayside. Striking terror into the crew, he rushed back and forth wildly gesticulating and shouting order upon order to them, while the ship’s bell rang continuously. All ideas that we had of the Greeks as a seafaring race were quickly dispelled. Slowly the boat slipped away from the quayside, scraping the sides of another large ship moored alongside. A few bystanders waved at some passengers, who were looking with consternation over the side. We also peered down at the bottle-green sea. Immediately below us, the frothy turmoil created by the ship’s propellers led our eyes along the translucent green of the ship’s wake. At its end, the old fortress that had greeted us on our arrival slowly disappeared into the distance.

From Igoumenitsa we had to retrace our route to Ioannina. After we had covered a number of miles we came to the place, where only a few days before we had seen some nomads in the early stages of erecting their wicker and rush huts. Their task had been completed. Beautifully thatched, the rounded shape of each hut’s roof was perfect; so well did they merge in with the general scene that we had almost driven past without seeing them. These nomads were shepherds who have no real settled homes. Known as Sarakatsans, they are scattered all over the mainland of Greece but surprisingly, share a common language and way of life.

Once again we drove through Ioannina and beside the lake. A flash of brilliantly coloured plumage as several birds gracefully swooped in front of the Land Rover, sent us peering into the bird book again. This time we had seen bee-eaters. Thereafter we made extremely slow progress over the mountains, for the road was very poor, even though it was the shortest route from the west coast to Athens. At the highest point we looked over a range of mountains and fir forests. Most of the winter’s snow had melted, but at about four thousand feet, we felt glad to pull the blankets closely round us as we slept in the Land Rover, surrounded by magnificent trees.

That afternoon we had been to Metsovon. At the turn off to this mountain town we met two of the locals, a man and his wife, and gave them a lift. Their clothing was very dark, either black or a dark blue, and was only relieved by some red embroidery on the woman’s apron. She was busily knitting, the wool being kept in a large woven bag, which was supported on her back. We left them at the wooden gate of their stone cottage, like all the other dark, stone houses along the narrow, cobbled streets. Chickens scattered to cover as we walked along past small, wooden balconies, fences and washing lines, all draped with a variety of clothes, that had definitely been hand-woven. The roofs of the houses were covered with grey slate. Only the more recent buildings further down the hill had red tiles. Sheets of old metal protected outhouses and sheds, stacked with bundles of firewood, and held in place with large stones. Battered petrol tins, painted white, had been utilised as flower and plant containers and twisting grape vines climbed up stone walls.

As we passed one doorway, a tall, thin woman came out, carrying a child in her arms. We exchanged greetings and I asked if I could take her photograph, explaining that we could send her a copy when we reached England. Smiling, she stood still for a moment, and then invited us inside. Following her along a narrow passage, we found ourselves in a room whitewashed from the floor to ceiling. Low divans around the walls were covered with bright red and black patterned covers, and there were several hand-woven cushions. It looked and was an inviting place and we were attracted by its simplicity. At last the woman found the pencil that she had been looking for. Slowly and carefully she wrote her name on the back of our tourist leaflet: Marianthi Patteli. The child stood, gazing wide-eyed at us, clinging shyly to her mother’s long, pleated tartan skirt.

Metsovon enjoyed certain prosperity under Turkish rule, owing to a story that could have been taken from the ‘Arabian Nights’. A sixteenth century Vizier, disgraced at the time, sought refuge in this little mountain town, and was cared for by a villager who did not know his guest’s identity. Some time elapsed before he regained favour, but when this occurred he offered his host a royal recompense. The host declined this generous offer, asking instead for local autonomy. This was agreed upon, and four decrees granting this unprecedented freedom can now be seen, proudly displayed in the Town Hall.

In the Tositsa’s mansion, a museum named after Michael Tositsa, a peasant of Metsovon, who prospered and left most of his money to the town, we saw much of the traditional folk-art. A high proportion of the inhabitants are Vlachs, or Romanian speaking Wallachians. This Romanic influence is obvious in the embroidery and beautifully made wall hangings and carpets.

Making an early start from our camp on the edge of the forest, we continued along the road, which rose to nearly six thousand feet at the Katara Pass. Then we gradually descended to the Peneus River, which emerges from the clefts of the Pindus Mountains at Kalambaka. From here, through a heavy grey veil of rain, we could just see the towering black rocks of the Meteora. They looked dark and forbidding. High above the precipitous, smooth rock faces, balancing, even overhanging, isolated monasteries perched like nests. Here monks have emulated the life of birds.

Steadily, we climbed up towards the Great Meteoron, or Monastery of the Transfiguration, and were amazed to recognise a small black van parked at the edge of the road. As we drew alongside we met, once again, our old Irish friend Norman Barron. He was busily writing a letter, and was astonished to see us. Since we had last been with him, at Izmir, he had spent over a month in Istanbul. He told us that the Great Meteoron was closed for the afternoon, so we decided to stay the night and look around the monasteries with him the next day. He was far more knowledgeable than we were about the area.

Our first visit was to Moni Roussanou, the small monastery on one of the lowest, but most striking of all the pinnacles. This was the first to be used as a convent; originally women had been vigorously excluded. Approaching the building over a small, lightweight footbridge, we pulled a wire at the entrance door, and from within we heard the faint tinkling of a bell. Although we waited for quite a long time, it was not until we were about to cross the bridge again, thinking that there was no one there that the door quietly opened. A young nun, dressed from head to toe in black, beckoned us inside and led us along a clean, whitewashed stone corridor into the cool quietness of a chapel. We stood gazing at some sixteenth century frescoes while the nun waited silently behind us. Despite the scenes of horrifying martyrdom, there was an atmosphere of peace here. I half turned and caught a glimpse of the pale, oval shape of the nun’s face, outlined by her black mantle. The serenity of her expression told of her devotion; she was quite remote from the excitement, pleasures and pitfalls of a worldly existence.

Outside, a small, black goat that undoubtedly belonged to this monastery joined us. It followed us almost to the road, then stood on a rock and watched us walk away.

We rejoined Norman, who had wanted to finish writing a letter and then, together, we drove our vehicle up to a bluff between Moni Rousaanou and the Aghias Triadas. Before us stretched a wonderful view of the plain of Thessally, the valley of the River Peneus. It seemed as though we had taken possession of the only hilltop around which was without a monastery and had set up our own monastic dwelling.

We sat exchanging recent experiences and marvelling at the scene, whilst above us eagles swept in soaring flight.

A breeze ruffled the grass, and Norman, in his usual charming manner, presented Audrey with a posy of wild flowers. Somehow, we all felt caught up in the magic of this delightful day. Over a picnic lunch we considered what it was that had induced men to seek such isolation, when one would imagine that their calling would be to go out into the world to spread the gospel.

As the Byzantine world crumbled under the weight of various invaders, so the first hermits came to Meteora. A monastic community developed, and was flourishing up to the second half of the fourteenth century, when many hundreds of monks lived an orderly life in a reasonably efficient manner. They worshipped, lived, and organised their defences as a group. Each monastery had monastic cells, a home for the aged, and a hostel for visitors, a refectory, kitchens, storehouses and reservoirs for water. From their ‘monasteries in the air’, the monks renounced the worldly life, fraught with civil wars and banditry, to follow a strict, simple existence devoted to worship and theological reading.

We decided to visit the monastery of Aghias Triadas, the Holy Trinity, that same afternoon. Our approach to it was over undulating, green pastures, but the initial view of the treacherous, sheer rock face, where one section of the original iron ladder could be seen many feet above, hanging like a straw, was food enough for thought about the early methods of access. Whether the alternative method of being hoisted in a basket was available for those with insufficient stability of nerve to climb the retractable ladders, we did not know. It is related that one hesitant traveller, when making a casual enquiry about how often the rope supporting the basket was changed, was promptly told, “only when it breaks.”

Fortunately, we did not have to worry about ropes, ladders or baskets. Steps have been cut in the rock, and we climbed these until we reached the entrance. A caretaker appeared, seeming pleased to have some company, and proceeded to guide us around the monastery. There were empty cells, and well-worn steps, the courtyard was overgrown, and what had been a library was now empty; the building had been abandoned.

Later, Norman told us that he knew of a good place to camp, and we followed his van and parked beside it.

The following morning dawned with Norman heartily singing at the top of his voice, and exclaiming about the wonder of the new day. A short silence was then broken by a few gurgled sounds of teeth being brushed. Looking out of the window we saw several swallows darting and gliding beneath a small, stone bridge, and somewhere nearby a cuckoo gave its repeated call. It was only six o’clock. After splashing our faces with cold water, we all sat eating our breakfast and gazing at the magnificent panorama about us. How fortunate we were.

Aghiou Stephanou, the monastery of St. Stephen, seemed to be sunk into the rock, in spite of its commanding position, and we found it the most easily accessible. In the church was a beautifully carved wooden iconostasis, and the pews were inlaid with mother-of-pearl. A cool, paved arcade was decorated with pot-plants, and beneath two arches hung a metal and a wooden semantra. These sounding boards are struck with a wooden mallet, usually in a three-beat sequence. This wooden one was badly split and worm eaten, whereas the curved metal arc looked incongruously like a rusty bumper from an old car.

Moni Varlaam, the monastery of Barlaam, is approached by a long flight of steps. Vestiges of an old string net, originally used to carry people and provisions to this virtually inaccessible monastery, hung from the hoisting tower above us. Once we were inside the building we could see how a solid, wooden capstan was used for this purpose. A simple trolley, moving on strip metal runners, brought the passenger or provisions from the scanty balcony into the centre of the hoisting room.

The last of the monasteries that we visited with Norman was the Moni Metamorphoseos, known as the Great Meteoron. It is the largest and the highest, being over, 1,750 feet. As we climbed up the stone steps towards it, the creaking windlass in the projecting turret above was raising some supplies. The interior frescoes were remarkable, if only for their vivid colouring, and lurid, rather frightening representation of Hell. There were also a number of beautiful, old icons, richly illuminated manuscripts and embroidered vestments, as well as a wonderfully carved, wooden cross. Norman, enthusiastic as ever, was buying coloured slides almost as soon as we had entered, and continually exclaimed at all the marvels before his eyes. He was particularly interested in Church architecture.

A stream of chattering, excited tourists began to make their way up the steep steps cut into the rock. A frail, long-bearded monk moved quietly behind the postcard stall. Now, we thought, it is time to leave Meteora, remembering only the peacefulness of the place. Norman, hardly able to tear himself away, accompanied us to the Land Rover and, as we left, handed us a card on which was printed an Irish verse of farewell. A final glimpse of the towering rocks, and then we were off again driving northwards, towards Yugoslavia. To the east the rising hills and Mount Olympus came into view, a fitting backdrop to this beautiful country.