There are obviously many things to see in Greece, but also a limit on how much broken, headless, collapsed or reconstructed stone stuff I can maintain an interest in. Ergo I suggest a trip out to the Lepida waterfall as a bit of a change. It is known to be a bit dry in the heat of summer, but this is winter and it’s done nothing but rain since we arrived. I excitedly pack a very nice picnic and off we tootle.
After an hour or so’s driving, Deirdre the sat-nav slut keeps wanting us to veer off onto various dirt tracks. All the options she offers looked pretty dodgy, so we try to find another route, and our drive gets longer and longer. At one point we climb up the side of a mountain by navigating ten of the sharpest hairpin bends I’ve ever encountered. Our ears pop on the way up, and again on the way down again. I consider it worth it though, because … waterfalls!
Eventually we submit to the will of Deirdre and let her take us down a track – until it becomes a lot more rut than road. A sign says the waterfall is a mere 2km further on, so we park up and start to walk. We pass tracks in the dried mud that I think might be deer, mainly because I always want to see deer. But Steve says, no, those are goat tracks. We argue about it a bit and then I stop bothering, because I know we are going to see deer.
It is a surprisingly long 2km, as it turns out, and so it is hours later that we reach the waterfall. Except there isn’t any water and nothing is falling. Not a drop. We see where the waterfall has been though, but it doesn’t help; we sit in a totally dry riverbed to eat our picnic.
On the way back we hear bells. Cowbells? No, said Steve, I told you already – it’s the goats. I really want it to be cowbells and deer tracks, but of course he’s right. They all flood across the road in front of us and eye us with deep suspicion. Then they all trundle up the opposite hill, and have almost disappeared when we hear … the sound.
To start with I mistake it for an odd bird call – some kind of magpie, perhaps? It was incredibly shrill and loud and goes something like, ‘Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-ya, eeeeee-ya eeeeee-ya eeeeee-ya eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-ya.’ Yup, not a bird, just the goat-herders calling them back.
We start the long drive home and immediately hear clonking noises from under the car. Steve checks all around and under the car, but can find nothing. Then we hear a bang, as if we’ve driven over something. We pull off the road into an old lady’s driveway and discover one very flat tyre. It is almost as flat as the frog I’d seen on our walk to the waterfall: the poor thing had been squashed by a farm vehicle, and then a dog had come and pooped on its head. This helps me keep things in perspective – whatever kind of day I’m having, that frog has had a worse one.
The old lady comes out and points to a garage a couple of minutes up the road, so we carefully hobble up there, (Nibbles is a Smart car, and they don’t carry spare tyres – that’s how they stay so light). The guys at the garage can’t help us but they tell us about somewhere that might, about 4km back the way we’ve come.
They pump up the tyre so we can get to the new place, and it lasts all the way. God knows how, though, because when the flat is removed, they find a hole the size of a fifty pence piece and the inside has completely shredded.
But we are incredibly lucky in that, whenever we’ve broken down or had a problem with either vehicle, we’ve found the right people to help us nearby. So even though they have to go and find a new tyre for us, it is all sorted within half an hour.
So then it is back down the ten hairpins to a road that is merely very bendy, and has a sheer drop to one side. Despite the double white lines in the centre and the lack of visibility, a horn-honking lorry overtakes both us, and the lorry in front, in one hit. Well, he has a death-wish, I think. We catch up with him later, and see he has a banner stretching all across the back of his lorry, hanging below his number plate. It reads, (in English?) ‘In memory of my beloved Uncle.’ I can’t help wondering if he’s run him over.
They are very keen on remembering lost loved ones here, especially by the use of roadside shrines. We’ve noticed this all over Europe but the Greeks seem to have taken it to the next level, and blurred the line between shrine and chapel rather effectively. Our local garden centre offers all the usual shrines, but also this rather nifty shed-sized job at the back.
And a local business has done even better – because you never know how many times in your working day you’re going to need a quick pray.
On another occasion, we go to Kalamata for the afternoon. Why? Because someone once told Steve it was really lovely. Did he check this, on Google, for instance (because my idea of ‘lovely’ could be different to yours)? No. And I suspect the dead of winter is not the best time to see any beach resort, you know what I’m saying?
But the Greeks give really good church. It’s always the most impressive building in the town/city/village/business forecourt, and Kalamata has a wonderful example of this – the Church of Ypapantis.
And, as with all Greek churches, the inside is even better than the outside.
At the front are pictures of saints with 3D silver relief panels over them, just exposing key points of the pictures underneath, like the faces, hands and feet. Nearer the door is an ornate shrine that people steadily approach to kiss, kneel and pray before, and leave offerings beside. A bottle of wine that is gifted is picked up pretty smartish. One lady even crawls penitently across the carpet, on her hands and knees, before kissing the shrine. I don’t claim to understand that kind of devotion, but I find it touching all the same.
At the beach end of the town is the Municipal Railway Park, which some websites claim is a theme park, where you can ride on steam trains and all sorts of shit. Not true. Maybe it was once, but now it is a place where a lot of old trains, carriages, and engines are rotting away on the grass. You are allowed to climb all over them but I didn’t fancy falling through the floors and gouging my legs on rusty iron. Interesting to look at though, and the kids still have fun.
Easily our most successful trip out was to the island of Spetses, with Joe. I finally get to see some Greece that is a bit more akin to my foolish imaginings of it. Small, quiet, peaceful and pretty.
We wander along the beach, skim stones, discover the harbour, have an over-priced lunch (where we are offered a choice of ‘scrumble eggs’ or ‘scrabbled eggs’), and got fleeced by the guy in the water taxi. Perfect, just perfect.
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