And did those feet...

We are back home and have been for a week.

I had hoped to write a page or two about the latter part of our trip but the I just couldn’t find the time while on the move. Driving for most of the day, combined with a bit of fettling and checking to keep the wheels turning, and the mandatory time for beer and food, left little time for tapping into a keyboard.

There is always lots to say, and I would like to write more about the experiences to be tasted in La belle Hellenica, but also there is a risk that travelogues can become self-indulgent and boring.

I would have liked to write about The Pelion Peninsular, that verdant, ragged, hook of hills and forest that encloses the Pagacitic Gulf, in the shadow of Mount Pelion. Another of the charms of Greece is that the Gods and myths are everywhere. Here Pelion is named after Peleus the father of Achilles, and was the home to Chiron the centaur, tutor to various superheroes such as Jason, Theseus, and Heracles. But that’s not all. Eris, a bit part goddess, was not invited to the wedding of Peleus and Thetis. She passed an apple inscribed ‘to the fairest’ to the vain triumvirate of Thera, Athena and Aphrodite. This really caused a stir; well the Trojan wars anyway. Netflix eat your heart out.

No evidence of goddesses or heroes for us as we scale the winding routes to Lafkos, our destination in the Kalderimi at the southern end of the peninsular. But this is a more intimate landscape, still rugged but on a smaller stage, with every bend revealing a new vista of abundance and Mediterranean plenty – and green, so green.

It is not surprising that this patch attracts tourists and expats; the charms of its beauty and seclusion along with an extensive network of restored monopatia, (the stonewalled footpaths that we love walking on Andros) sheltered beaches and unspoilt villages, make for a truly Aegean experience. This is where Stanley Johnson retreats to when escaping covid regulations, albeit that I hate to acknowledge the implications of good taste and sound judgement. Not surprisingly the faces and voices of the folk in the tavernas and shops of Lafkos are from further afield than the cluster of pretty houses around the bell tower in the square. This is a retreat for many escaping Northern European congestion, attitudes, and climate. And they will find something special here, with knots of sophisticated like-minded souls finding their own privacies within the open-armed hospitality of their hosts. Note for self: must come back to explore further.

Our journey onward took us to Thermopylae, the site of the famous engagement between Leonidas with his 300 Spartans and 150,000 Persians. Nowadays the terrain loses some of its power, as the sea has retreated and the ‘narrow pass’ is now a wide plain where 300 men could barely shout to each other. We stood and admired the memorial and the appropriately muscular statue of a Spartan warrior. What is not mentioned is that along with the 300 Spartans there were 700 Thespians. Why no statue to them? Perhaps they exited stage left before the battle, reciting pages of Sophocles.

Delphi was different again.

A place of wonderment with a vibrant sense of timelessness in a magical setting. It was a baking day and that somehow seemed fitting as we clambered up the steep earthen paths to the miraculous stadium at the top. This had to be a place of baked earth and dust to add context to its ancient status. Two features etch my memory. Firstly, the site became important about 600BC, but was still functioning in 400 AD. That will be a thousand years then! Also, extraordinary to find that Hadrian had built the stadium. He got around a bit that fellow. Secondly, I kept hearing bird song. Invisible songsters in the cypress and myrtle, not timid or occasional, but insistent and vigorous. Who would have expected that? I can’t help but transpose Blake Greek shores and imagine other tramping feet in ancient times. Were there birds chirping 2500 years ago when a troubled soul clambered up the steep hill to consult the Pythian Oracle? (No relation.)

It is time to go home.

A long ferry trip from Patras to Venice and meeting Peter Kite who was to be my co-driver and navigator back to Blighty. Mostly it was about long days in the saddle, but we wanted to drive the Stelvio pass, and as many others as we could fit in. (In fact Susten, Fluela and Oberalp.) The Stelvio is sacred turf to ‘Nash owners as it was part of the formidable Alpine trial that Frazer Nash won for three consecutive years from 1932, without, as the publicity of the period affirmed, ‘the loss of a single point.’

We had to do it. But it is tricky as the hairpins need to be taken at speed to help the car slide round. Without this the turning circle is so awful it is impossible to get round the apex. Peter was brilliant hanging out of the car to see if the road was clear, but even so we were only missing the walls by a matter of inches.

All through Switzerland and into the Vosges, the weather held out but our luck ran out in northern France when the heavens opened. We don’t have a hood, just good all-weather gear, and when the rain is really heavy it is better to lower the windscreen as without wipers it becomes totally opaque. It wasn’t that cold mercifully – not like it must have been in 1935….

That was the year the then owner – a Sebag Montefiori – entered it in the Monte Carlo rally. They didn’t do well, sliding off the road in the frozen wastes of Sweden and then losing the supercharger. They somehow limped into Paris although having had to withdraw from the event. But the lovely thing is we know how the car looked on its homecoming as Sebag-Montefiori commissioned the Earl of March (who owned a model making company) to make three models of the car, for him, his co-driver Grant Ferris and the mechanic Fenson. I only know the whereabouts of one of the models (and of course the other two may not have survived) now owned by Sheera Brinkman, Grant Ferris’ daughter. The instructions were to make the model of the car in the state it returned – complete with bruises and abrasions, along with the arctic kit – but that adds to the charm. What a delight it is.

We fared better arriving home with no serious problems after 3000 miles of European tarmac.

Time to muse on the tour....

There are lots of things to say. What extraordinary cars Archie made! There are plenty of large 'grand touring' vintage cars (Lagonda, Vauxhall, Bentley etc.) that will convey plush owners to the Cote d'azure in carpeted comfort. There are also a few old cars that are fun to throw around hairpin bends, but to have a car that will cope with a stretch of motorway at 70 if need be, and yet behaves like a go kart on mountain roads is remarkable. These are cars that are meant to be driven and in general are owned by lunatics that like driving them. (In 2019 the Bolzano Raid saw 89 cars drive to the Dolomites.) The other point is that they are fixable by the roadside (albeit that this is frequently required!)

Would it have been the same trip if we had done it in a hire car?

I don't think so. Apart from the sense of achievement and pleasure in the driving, the added factor is the camaraderie. Robin and Andrea with their humorous calm, organisational skills and attention to detail, and Adam and Anita, whose sense of fun and unflappable enthusiasm was reassuring and infectious, were perfect co-raiders.

Nashing is a state of mind - probably categorisable as a psychiatric condition - but one that happily leaves its deluded sufferers with a smile on their faces and a blissful unawareness that there is anything the matter at all.

Would I go again? For sure - tomorrow. Would Carolina? Mmm. Ask her!