Elatochori, where we spend the night, claims to be a skiing village, which is strange as it is only 700 metres above sea level and the warm sparkle of the Aegean Sea is visible in the distance. On further questioning it seems that in years when they have snow, the locals flock up for the day to slide down a grassy meadow, and have a glass of raki or two, before it all melts. This is not the trois vallees!
Adam is up early taking pictures of the sunrise as he fits his new chain and is chipper by breakfast time.
What a fine Nashman he is! He had driven the car out to Anita’s home in Slovenia well before our departure and then taken the ferry to Greece, for a week in Corfu before joining our party. He wears his car like an old pair of shoes and drives it effortlessly and with the skill and confidence of half a lifetime. They have taken the car everywhere; Sicily twice, Corsica, the Dolomites loads of times, Slovenia, France, the Pyrenees, twice for winter skiing, even New Zealand, anywhere there might be good mountain roads to drive and an absence of people. Nothing phases him – of course things break or go wrong – but then you fix them. Or stop for a beer first, and then fix them.
Our Hotel, which would not be out of place in Bavaria, with sombre dark doorways, brown-wood furniture, and cabinets of porcelain in alcoves in the gloomy interior, serves us the usual breakfast mix of yoghurt, toasted cheese and ham sandwiches and various sweet cakes and pastries. Carolina appears very bright and breezy, enthusiastic about the coming day. The graded exposure programme appears to have worked rather well; the worst has happened and we are alive to have breakfast, now we fear nothing! The equipage assembles and sets off, looking forward to the run to Meteora and the monasteries in the sky.
Today as everyday so far, I am driving in a t shirt in warm sunshine, the air-conditioning in the car keeps us cool. Every day the terrain reminds me of the delightful Indian saying ‘same, same, but different’. The palate is the same, the tones familiar, but the shapes and textures vary. In the north the hills were swathed in dense evergreen forest, here there is an agrarian dominance. Every ridge of hills brings a new valley with different patterns of vegetation and cultivation, different plants and colours, new vistas and horizons. Yesterday we passed miles of cotton, rows of snow touched bushes covering the arid valley floor, leaving white wind-blown bolls of fluff, to line the scrubby verge. Today it is much more verdant, we have vines and maize, interspersed with woodland, tobacco and beans. The roads are a joy, gentle curves and gradients with no traffic, the villages few and far between. The occupants of the occasional roadside tavernas look up in surprise and pleasure as we rumble past, a hand raised in a half wave, with perhaps a nod of approval, or maybe disbelief.
We come to a road junction attended by two policemen and a patrol car. They take an interest and wave Robin to a halt. We don’t think we have done anything wrong, but Robin looks anxious and asks what the problem is.
“Nothing” is the reply “photo-stop.” They are affable and relaxed while they enthusiastically take photos of each other, draped over the cars from every angle, accompanied by typically Greek humour.
“Where you going?”
“Meteora.”
“Ah, Meteora, oraios, poli oraios.”
Meteora is indeed lovely; it is wonderful and extraordinary. The setting is magical and the constructions gravity defying. The ardour required to scale these peaks and build the monasteries is staggering, it is a another of those ancient places (like Macchu Pichu or the pyramids) that really do defy comprehension, but as a visitor experience it has sold out in a vulgar and demeaning way. Alas the experience is mostly about mammon; God has fallen by the wayside. The Lonely Planet guide lists it as the number one ‘must see’ site in Greece, and even in late September and amidst pandemic restrictions it is pretty busy. What it would be like at peak times one can only imagine. Our charming hotel receptionist tells us we should beetle up the mountain asap to see the sunset, instructions that we follow. But clearly this is a tick box exercise on the list of tourist experiences not to be missed, and every possible vantage point is already occupied by pixel snapping hoards. It is pretty but underwhelming, and we retire for a pleasant meal in a taverna in the town of Kalambaka, served by a pretty owner who practices her English by telling us how useless her hapless husband is, who stands in the shadows totally uncomprehending of the vitriol spilling in his direction. We return to the hotel and Carolina and I stand on the balcony and watch the full moon rise over the ancient pillars of rock. This at least is private, meaningful and untainted by commerce.
The next day we visit the interior of one of the monasteries to see the over restored frescoes and sanitised and manicured interior. The stone paving is immaculate, the flower beds perennially floral, the signage multilingual, the rules enforced by a battalion of understandably grumpy servants, and there in the background the shadowy figure of a lugubrious monk, clearly not living on gruel and pulses or clambering 10,000 steps a day up the limestone pillars. The shops sell icons and tatt to the undiscerning.
We move on.
It is another brilliant day of azure skies and baked air, the ride always captivating with the smells and colours of the Mediterranean.
Hosios Loukas is totally different.
Walking into the sacred eleventh century Katholikon, I immediately felt a sense of calm sanctity, and extraordinarily Robin and Carolyn spontaneously said the same. Here the simplicity of the interior stonework is easier than the frenetic frescoes of some of these early byzantine churches. This octagon-domed church, built over the bones of the founder, carries in its fabric an essence of peace and devotion, of retreat and observance, of calm and commitment. It is joyful in its harmonious simplicity. Next to it is the oldest church in Greece a simpler cruciform building erected by the founder a thousand years ago.
It is a Sunday and a olive tanned tot is passed amongst god parents and incanting monks for a baptism. Even the presence of elegant Greek thirty-somethings does not detract from the perfection of the setting and warmth of the ancient stonework. Here the flags have been smoothed by a thousand years of feet shod in simple sandals, not replaced for the polymeric soles of designer trainers. Mature plane and ilex shade an informal square, water runs into a font, massive arches slant to buttress the intricate walls of the Katholikon. But there is function here too, the olive mill, and stables remind us of the daily graft of monastic life. This is more how a monastery should be; down to earth but near to God, glorious in its earthy simplicity and spiritual integrity.
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