Anguish in Argolis

It is our last night in Greece.

Our table on the terrace of the hotel has been specially chosen for us by our host Vasiliki to ensure we have a view across the citrus groves of Argolis towards the hilltop fortress of Larissa. The daylight fades and the floodlit castle is visible above the shimmering lights of the city of Argos some 12km away. Sadly, Carolyn and I are alone. Vasiliki our host, is super-attentive bringing a special bottle of wine and giving us a history lesson as she serves artichokes in a lemon sauce, cooked by her mother in the kitchen. She is the last in a line of the hotel owners on this trip who have enchanted us with open armed hospitality and tender personal histories.

She tells us that Argos is the oldest continually inhabited city in Europe, starting with a Neolithic settlement at the foot of Aspida hill, and then about 1500 BCE becoming a major Mycenaean stronghold when the first fort was built on the summit, using the huge stones typical of their citadels.

Her father was an air force pilot who fled to France during the years of the colonels for being a suspected communist. He worked in the hospitality industry sending money home to his family. When he was allowed back in the seventies, he had enough saved to build a small hotel. He had loved Saint-Exupéry’s Petite Prince and wanted to call the hotel after it, but the chief of police was deeply suspicious accusing him of being a royalist (not a good stance with the Greek royal family in exile) and asked why he had chosen a French, not a Greek book? (The irony of falling foul of authority for being serially a royalist and a communist was lost on Plod-opoulos.) He chose the name La Petite Planete instead, telling Plod that the Greeks had discovered the planets, and although the name being linguistically xenophilic, he nevertheless gained the appropriate approval.

So this is where we end our trip – in the fertile plains of Argolis within walking distance of the ancient acropolis of Mycenae, just up the hill. It is rightly called Cyclopean as the later ancients believed that the massive stones could only have been placed by giants. All over the world we marvel at ancient lithic creations that now defy comprehension as to their creation without iron or machines, and this is no exception, but it is fascinating that it would appear to have been the case even in classical times; they didn’t know either. The lintel on the Treasure of Atreus being a case in point. A monumental piece of rock suspended above the threshold of a perfect trapezoidal threshold. How the heck? Etc. Memorable indeed.

How lucky we have been to have seen so much in the last ten days. Olympia, ancient Messene, Mystras, Mycenae, Epidaurus, all different but all unforgettable and spectacular in their own way. Carolyn loved the multi levelled ruins of the settlement at Mystras, tumbling down the hill from the fortress crown. We were all wowed by the theatre at Epidaurus, alas too busy to test its acoustics, and I just had to walk through the site of the Ascelpium and pay homage to the invention of the multi-disciplinary clinic. Of course, you would feel better here, the setting, the care, the expectation; the snakes were irrelevant! We were captivated by the beautiful Messene which in contrast to the big sites was totally deserted. Here you can breath the essence of a city state, with its grandeur and order, inward looking and prosperous, until another squirmish with ambitious neighbours.

We entered the well preserved theatre where I was able to recite Cavafy’s Ithaka which Carolyn could hear well enough to record from the top of the upper circle. I copy it below; such an appropriate poem for our trip with its beautifully languorous route to the conclusion that it is better to travel than to arrive.

We sit outside while bats silently scribe the balmy Hellenic night with tantalising arabesques. We will miss so much of the Hellenic word when back home tomorrow.

Hellas: Greece. A pre-Greek word, perhaps from helios the sun, laas rock or stone. A land of sun and rocks. Or perhaps laos, ‘people’, created in mythology from the very rocks of the land. Inanimate becoming animate, inorganic becoming organic. Here, as everywhere in this country, mythology lives in every space, every ruin, every dot on the map. Agamemnon’s home just up the hill. This cave the birthplace of Dionysus, that hill where Zeus ravaged a water sprite. The Peloponnese themselves, named from Pelops the son of Tantalus who in his arrogance thought himself above the gods, who he invited for dinner serving up his son as the main course. The gods seeing through his arrogance somehow uncooked the lad but sentenced his dad to be forever hungry and thirsty.

But it has not been all mythology and ruins.

‘What are we doing today?’ Jennifer would ask, ‘a few more stones?’

Not just! Special towns and cities; Aeropoli, Methoni, Nafplio often with charms remaining only partially explored. Monemvasia an extraordinary medieval city with tiny streets with no space for a car or even a golf cart. Nafplio a gem of Venetian style with shops to match. Surely, we have to come back here and explore some more?

Attractive small hotels ran by committed hosts proving that the Greeks continue to treat foreigners (xenia) with open arms and generous hospitality, underpinned by motivations other than profit. The delightful Rex in Zacharo, another family hotel with a great story, boasting wonderful airy rooms, beautiful decor and a breakfast to die for. Nadina even giving us little goody bags to see us on our way. Evening meals would generally come to less than €130 for the ten of us including ouzos, beer and wine. In parts of France or Switzerland we could have paid that per head!

Then there is the landscape and scenery, so varied and unexpected. Magnificent mountains some over 2000 metres, switchback roads through deep gorges, surprising valley floors, here full of lush vines, there fruit trees or walnuts, almonds, and figs. The Mani, sacred to all who grew up deifying Leigh-Fermor, disappointed in some ways with its arid landscape of rocks and scrubby bushes but salvaged by charming small settlement with crumbling tower houses above intimate beaches with mountains plunging into the sea. Forested hillsides with an alpine feel, broken by poor hamlets, depopulated and crumbling, giving way to a better roads through low hills with posher villas in sight of the sea. Always interesting, ever captivating and appealing

And then the lunches and dinners. Simple meals with healthy food plonked in the middle of the table for sharing, along with the inevitable kilo of red and white. Lots of laughter and fun, punctuated by moments of anxiety about a new noise under the floorboards or a misfire. After a swim in clear waters and maybe a stroll or a chance for a moments siesta but usually not, back on the road for an hours invigorating drive to the next nights stop.

An hour of checking the cars – known universally as ‘fettling’ – and then to dinner and another round of best evers; ‘this is the best pie I’ve ever had’ or ‘these are the best beans I’ve ever tasted.’ And perhaps a bottle of Metaxa and the beam on Eric’s face as he declares ‘you know this stuff isn’t half bad’ and rushes off to buy another bottle.

So many things to recall that make up the patchwork of memories now burnt into the hard drive. But what makes these trips so special are the people that make up the team. What great travelling companions. Knowledgeable, resilient, considerate, humorous drivers and fettlers, and their tolerant, fun and skilful navigators. Always a problem to solve, always a collective solution forthcoming, always with humour, never rancour, nobody looking at their watches or muttering. Always one for all and all for one.

There is a fine balance to be struck between taking ownership of ones own problems and sharing when the need arises. These guys know their cars so well, they have been doing this sort of thing for years and driven tens of thousands of miles, mostly getting home but accepting that the catastrophic breakdown may be around the next bend. It is a privilege to have them as travelling companions. This collaborative affiliative and can-do mentality is unique to the Nash Club, unspoken but palpable, and underpins these ‘raids’ as they are called. Why do it? Why drive valuable and oft temperamental cars three thousand miles over dodgy roads when a charter flight and a hire car can arrive at the same destination cheaper and with greater certainty? It is not just us. Why sail to the Faroe Isles in a small yacht when the Scilly Isles are much nearer? Something to do with a challenge, but lots to do with fun and sharing with brilliant friends. Something to do with Ithaka. A lot to do with life, and as Eric affirms not letting age catch up with you.

The sun has set on our tour, but not quite as we had wished. We are alone tonight, the others are boarding the ferry at Patras. Why? Because two days ago we had that catastrophic failure that we all dread. A big bump in the road, a very big bang and a terrible noise. The back axle had broken. The team were fantastic and rapidly we had a breakdown vehicle on the way, happily rescuing us from the roadside before dusk. The car will have to be repatriated and we will fly home. Happily, insurance will cover most of the costs.

But the memories will include the good bits and not that nagging sense of failure. What a bugger.

As we sat in the car after it had come to a grinding halt and all Carolyn’s worse fears became reality, I turned to her and said I would not ask her to come on another raid. Next year we would do a weekend Saga break to Worthing.

I just hope she doesn’t keep me to it.

Ithaka

As you set out for Ithaka

hope your road is a long one,

full of adventure, full of discovery.

Laistrygonians, Cyclops,

angry Poseidon—don’t be afraid of them:

you’ll never find things like that on your way

as long as you keep your thoughts raised high,

as long as a rare excitement

stirs your spirit and your body.

Laistrygonians, Cyclops,

wild Poseidon—you won’t encounter them

unless you bring them along inside your soul,

unless your soul sets them up in front of you.

Hope your road is a long one.

May there be many summer mornings when,

with what pleasure, what joy,

you enter harbors you’re seeing for the first time;

may you stop at Phoenician trading stations

to buy fine things,

mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,

sensual perfume of every kind—

as many sensual perfumes as you can;

and may you visit many Egyptian cities

to learn and go on learning from their scholars.

Keep Ithaka always in your mind.

Arriving there is what you’re destined for.

But don’t hurry the journey at all.

Better if it lasts for years,

so you’re old by the time you reach the island,

wealthy with all you’ve gained on the way,

not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.

Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey.

Without her you wouldn't have set out.

She has nothing left to give you now.

And if you find her poor, Ithaka won’t have fooled you.

Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,

you’ll have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.

P J Cavafy