AT LAST KYTHERA AND SOMEONE'S 15 MINUTES OF FAME!
We are now heading out of the Ionian Sea toward the Sea of Crete, a tortuous journey which involves, for the sake of ease and simplicity on my part, a bus ride all the way East across Greece to Athens, and then South to the little port of Neapoli, on the very Southern most tip of the Peloponnese, where, after an over night stop, I will board a ferry and steam into the Sea of Crete, bound for the island of Kithera. Everyday moving further South and everyday moving towards the Aegean, the very heart of the Greek Islands.
The bus to Neapoli was about 7 hours in total. I had the dubious pleasure of sitting next to an elderly and scented man – scented form his armpits and scented from both his mouth and voluminous rear which seemed to work alternately and sometimes, suffocatingly, together. Bodily functions of which the old boy either didn’t know were malfunctioning or was too brazen to care. Whatever, I was getting the full benefit. Worse, the bus was full, I could nt move seat either. Through the lush broad fertile plains of Sparta, over steep mountain ridges, passing hillside monasteries, shepherds tending sheep and goats. Through vertiginous passes affording breathtaking vistas of wooded mountain scenery in the soft evening light, as we headed toward Sparta itself.
The journey to Kithera, involving an overnight stop to boot is almost medieval in its execution. Like changing horses at a coaching inn.
Neapoli & the finest dinner in Europe.
Nearly 11 that night we reached Neapoli – 13 hours on a bus in total from Zakinthos, 15 hours on the road and still not reached Kithera. I am exhausted. Neapoli, not unsurprisingly, has taken on a Nirvan-esque mantle as a consequence, like a haven for a tired swallow in need of rest on its migration. To me it seems a rather wonderful place, simple, unpretentious, unspoilt and very Greek. It is a friendly, sleepy town, on the water’s edge and full of character. After booking into the Hotel Aivali, an evocative little family run hotel with sepia prints of the little harbour in the 1930s and 1950s adorning the wall, I made my way out into the night to find something to eat – I could hardly walk I was so wrung out. Across the road, adjoining the beach was a tiny shelter of a taverna, O Volas where a couple of dark bearded hard’uns were having what looked to be the last beer of the evening before heading off into the darkness to seriously do someone over. I was bid to sit down and, a refreshing Heineken by my side, I suddenly realised I had left my book in my room. The old taverna keeper told me not to worry, he would put my beer and its glass back in the fridge for when I came back. To my shattered mind, it was such a genuine heartfelt gesture, a small act of kindness, trust and humanity. My much needed beer was even more refreshing on my return to the table for a meal of which I cannot remember what but one that was so revitalising and rekindling that I merely relay it for that simple act on the wonderful old boy’s part. A small token which has a significance in my memory out of all proportion: it perhaps goes to show that its not always the meal that counts, its as much the spirit and atmosphere within which it is served – ask me later when we reach Symi about a delicious dinner served with all the feeling and warmth of Uncle Fester and Frankenstein’s Monster.
The Hotel Aivali is full of character and charm. At breakfast the owner comes to me, puts his hand on my arm and asks me what I want for breakfast, showing me the Kithera ferry at rest at her mooring across the bay. “We will wait to see if she comes round”. I ask what happens if she doesn’t “come round”. “Taxi?” “No, there is no taxi, I find something for you, but now we wait and sea if she gonna come round.” Over my coffee, I could see the ferry dithering in the bay, almost teasing the passengers with their bags, cases, boxes, crates, freight & cargoes destined for Kithera. First she was stern in, then stern out, starboard on, starboard off, then …will she, wont she come over to the main quay or do we all have to run for it. The Patron didn’t seem remotely bothered, she is probably just doing her usual showing off before finally making her mind up. At last the Captain gains a spurt of confidence, he has made his mind up, and she speeds her way toward the main quay.
A smart compact little ship, the Andreas II. Her officers were the smartest dressed I had come across so far, immaculate in brilliant whites and forage caps as they processed and marshalled us on board. I, it appeared, was the only foreigner to embark that morning. The steward at the bar is King Juan Carlos of Spain, either that or there has been a terrible mix up in Madrid somewhere along the line. He pours coffee in a regal manner with pomp and ceremony: careful, measured, deliberate little moves.
KITHERA
Crossing busy shipping lanes with groaning container ships and white decked bulk carriers plying their way to and from the Aegean, after an hour or so, we make Kithera’s tiny “port” of Diakofti. Diakofti is hardly a port, it is a taverna, slab of concrete and a clutch of fishing boats sheltering behind a breakwater. As if to serve as a reminder of the treacherous nature of the waters around Kithera, near Diakofti’s entrance sitting at a very awkward angle is the a large menacing dark hull of a wreck, the “Norland”. Its bow stuck high in the air like an attacking shark’s nose, tired derricks hanging down from its near vertical deck, redundant anchor cables flap loosely in the water. It is a sinister monument and sends an eerie shiver down my spine.
At the port, I am met by Paddy Beeley. Paddy, a former officer in the Irish Guards, is a tall refined looking figure with simply enormous feet. If Paddy took his shoes off you could use them as a school bus: one for each end of the island. His feet are so large he has had to send to England for some special gardening boots which he jubilantly receives in a sort of mini ship container from the post office. Hardly fashion accessories, he, later, insists on wearing these tug boat things as long as I promise not to tell anyone. I promise. I forget to tell him I cant keep secrets.
Paddy moved to the island about three years ago with his delightful ramshackle tumbling and playing family and, of course, “Buster” the equally ramshackle and dishevelled dog. A “child of love” best describes Buster’s breeding. If Buster were a human being, I think he would be along haired far out heh man hippy. Paddy, now a consultant working to the City of London, I have inadvertently scrambled from his bed as, poor man, he only got in from London late last night. I note he hasn’t shaved, moreso because I shaved my four days growth in particularly precarious conditions that morning especially to meet him. Paddy concedes that he had meant to shave but as I had woken him up it was either a question of his shaving or being late – we roar with laughter.
Before Kithera, I had never met Paddy. His mother, who I last saw as I left Venice for the Ionian Islands, is my sister’s godmother, so I had some leverage in this instance. A Cambridge classicist and former officer in the Irish Guards, he is a fund of knowledge – some useful, some totally inconsequential and utterly useless. A wealth of amusing anecdote, he simply cannot stop talking – in this respect we are too alike and I quickly detect that the next few days on Kithera are going to be a refreshing tonic after my stultifying experiences on Zakinthos.
Kithera is XYZ km across and at one point in the Middle Ages had a population of about 15,000. The resident population now is about 3000. The majority of the 15000 were slaughtered mercilessly by the pirate Barbarossa in a dastardly raid on the now deserted island capital of Paliochora from which numbers never really recovered. The Venetians, in the Northern end of the island typically did little to help the beleaguered islanders in their plight and merely watched on while Barbarossa and his men threw most of the men and women off the cliffs to their deaths. It is a special island which is a secret the Greeks keep to themselves, you almost feel as if you are intruding on a private party.
Everyone here seems to know everyone and Paddy, when not talking to me, or at me, spends the rest of his time yassooing, waving and nodding at the rest of the islanders even I suspect when they have never met. Admittedly, this is quite hard for an island of this size.
The bus to Neapoli was about 7 hours in total. I had the dubious pleasure of sitting next to an elderly and scented man – scented form his armpits and scented from both his mouth and voluminous rear which seemed to work alternately and sometimes, suffocatingly, together. Bodily functions of which the old boy either didn’t know were malfunctioning or was too brazen to care. Whatever, I was getting the full benefit. Worse, the bus was full, I could nt move seat either. Through the lush broad fertile plains of Sparta, over steep mountain ridges, passing hillside monasteries, shepherds tending sheep and goats. Through vertiginous passes affording breathtaking vistas of wooded mountain scenery in the soft evening light, as we headed toward Sparta itself.
The journey to Kithera, involving an overnight stop to boot is almost medieval in its execution. Like changing horses at a coaching inn.
Neapoli & the finest dinner in Europe.
Nearly 11 that night we reached Neapoli – 13 hours on a bus in total from Zakinthos, 15 hours on the road and still not reached Kithera. I am exhausted. Neapoli, not unsurprisingly, has taken on a Nirvan-esque mantle as a consequence, like a haven for a tired swallow in need of rest on its migration. To me it seems a rather wonderful place, simple, unpretentious, unspoilt and very Greek. It is a friendly, sleepy town, on the water’s edge and full of character. After booking into the Hotel Aivali, an evocative little family run hotel with sepia prints of the little harbour in the 1930s and 1950s adorning the wall, I made my way out into the night to find something to eat – I could hardly walk I was so wrung out. Across the road, adjoining the beach was a tiny shelter of a taverna, O Volas where a couple of dark bearded hard’uns were having what looked to be the last beer of the evening before heading off into the darkness to seriously do someone over. I was bid to sit down and, a refreshing Heineken by my side, I suddenly realised I had left my book in my room. The old taverna keeper told me not to worry, he would put my beer and its glass back in the fridge for when I came back. To my shattered mind, it was such a genuine heartfelt gesture, a small act of kindness, trust and humanity. My much needed beer was even more refreshing on my return to the table for a meal of which I cannot remember what but one that was so revitalising and rekindling that I merely relay it for that simple act on the wonderful old boy’s part. A small token which has a significance in my memory out of all proportion: it perhaps goes to show that its not always the meal that counts, its as much the spirit and atmosphere within which it is served – ask me later when we reach Symi about a delicious dinner served with all the feeling and warmth of Uncle Fester and Frankenstein’s Monster.
The Hotel Aivali is full of character and charm. At breakfast the owner comes to me, puts his hand on my arm and asks me what I want for breakfast, showing me the Kithera ferry at rest at her mooring across the bay. “We will wait to see if she comes round”. I ask what happens if she doesn’t “come round”. “Taxi?” “No, there is no taxi, I find something for you, but now we wait and sea if she gonna come round.” Over my coffee, I could see the ferry dithering in the bay, almost teasing the passengers with their bags, cases, boxes, crates, freight & cargoes destined for Kithera. First she was stern in, then stern out, starboard on, starboard off, then …will she, wont she come over to the main quay or do we all have to run for it. The Patron didn’t seem remotely bothered, she is probably just doing her usual showing off before finally making her mind up. At last the Captain gains a spurt of confidence, he has made his mind up, and she speeds her way toward the main quay.
A smart compact little ship, the Andreas II. Her officers were the smartest dressed I had come across so far, immaculate in brilliant whites and forage caps as they processed and marshalled us on board. I, it appeared, was the only foreigner to embark that morning. The steward at the bar is King Juan Carlos of Spain, either that or there has been a terrible mix up in Madrid somewhere along the line. He pours coffee in a regal manner with pomp and ceremony: careful, measured, deliberate little moves.
KITHERA
Crossing busy shipping lanes with groaning container ships and white decked bulk carriers plying their way to and from the Aegean, after an hour or so, we make Kithera’s tiny “port” of Diakofti. Diakofti is hardly a port, it is a taverna, slab of concrete and a clutch of fishing boats sheltering behind a breakwater. As if to serve as a reminder of the treacherous nature of the waters around Kithera, near Diakofti’s entrance sitting at a very awkward angle is the a large menacing dark hull of a wreck, the “Norland”. Its bow stuck high in the air like an attacking shark’s nose, tired derricks hanging down from its near vertical deck, redundant anchor cables flap loosely in the water. It is a sinister monument and sends an eerie shiver down my spine.
At the port, I am met by Paddy Beeley. Paddy, a former officer in the Irish Guards, is a tall refined looking figure with simply enormous feet. If Paddy took his shoes off you could use them as a school bus: one for each end of the island. His feet are so large he has had to send to England for some special gardening boots which he jubilantly receives in a sort of mini ship container from the post office. Hardly fashion accessories, he, later, insists on wearing these tug boat things as long as I promise not to tell anyone. I promise. I forget to tell him I cant keep secrets.
Paddy moved to the island about three years ago with his delightful ramshackle tumbling and playing family and, of course, “Buster” the equally ramshackle and dishevelled dog. A “child of love” best describes Buster’s breeding. If Buster were a human being, I think he would be along haired far out heh man hippy. Paddy, now a consultant working to the City of London, I have inadvertently scrambled from his bed as, poor man, he only got in from London late last night. I note he hasn’t shaved, moreso because I shaved my four days growth in particularly precarious conditions that morning especially to meet him. Paddy concedes that he had meant to shave but as I had woken him up it was either a question of his shaving or being late – we roar with laughter.
Before Kithera, I had never met Paddy. His mother, who I last saw as I left Venice for the Ionian Islands, is my sister’s godmother, so I had some leverage in this instance. A Cambridge classicist and former officer in the Irish Guards, he is a fund of knowledge – some useful, some totally inconsequential and utterly useless. A wealth of amusing anecdote, he simply cannot stop talking – in this respect we are too alike and I quickly detect that the next few days on Kithera are going to be a refreshing tonic after my stultifying experiences on Zakinthos.
Kithera is XYZ km across and at one point in the Middle Ages had a population of about 15,000. The resident population now is about 3000. The majority of the 15000 were slaughtered mercilessly by the pirate Barbarossa in a dastardly raid on the now deserted island capital of Paliochora from which numbers never really recovered. The Venetians, in the Northern end of the island typically did little to help the beleaguered islanders in their plight and merely watched on while Barbarossa and his men threw most of the men and women off the cliffs to their deaths. It is a special island which is a secret the Greeks keep to themselves, you almost feel as if you are intruding on a private party.
Everyone here seems to know everyone and Paddy, when not talking to me, or at me, spends the rest of his time yassooing, waving and nodding at the rest of the islanders even I suspect when they have never met. Admittedly, this is quite hard for an island of this size.
posted by Harry Bucknall at 3:55 AM
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