I spend my life shouting at the telly, which I find quite therapeutic. I am particularly vocal during films where medieval castles are getting bombarded (I have sons – I’ve had to watch a lot of these), and all the equipment the invaders need are a selection of big ladders. I mean, for God’s sake, stick some spikes out of the wall why don’t you, or cover the gaps in the battlements with a sodding wrought-iron fence? If all the baddies have to do is climb up and climb in – well just do something, ok? (I’d personally favour a trench full of alligators.)
But the Palamidi Fortress in Nafplio (our local town where we over-winter in Greece) has actually nailed it, in my opinion. Big strong walls – tick, plenty of bastions surrounding the heart of the fortress – tick, high on a hilltop where you can see the invaders at least a week before they reach you – tick. In fact so high up it has 999 steps that trudge up to it. I’ll say that again: 999 steps.
In Vienna we’d climbed to the top of the tower in St. Stephan’s cathedral, but that was a mere 343 steps. I remember how my thighs complained (as my muscle tone is on a par with my gran’s old knicker elastic), and so before attempting the Palamidi, I do some training. By which I mean I use the stairs whenever I can (but probably no more than 20 at a time) and walk a bit more than usual. So, not that trained, really.
I also wait until my son Joe comes to visit, so he can climb the steps with me. Steve’s medical history includes a quad bypass, two stents and a stroke, so he’s getting sent up the long way around, by car, no arguments. But Joe is a bit of a mountain goat anyway. As a child he used to shimmy up the walls of the hallway and wait, arms crossed, until you walked below him. Then he’d drop to the ground behind you, giggling hysterically, while you furiously double-checked to see if you’d peed yourself.
So, the pair of us set off and, to be frank, my legs are aching on the short walk up the hill just to reach the steps. At about halfway I make Joe stop and come back down a step, so that when we got to the top, we’ll actually have done a thousand steps (this is what passes for fun in my head). I have to sit down a lot on the way up, but I can see the walls of the castle getting nearer and nearer and it feels do-able.
And this is where I think the Palamidi architects were so clever, because I reach those walls (having paced myself accordingly) and then find it’s merely a bastion – and only two thirds of the way up. Still, literally, hundreds more to do. But I push on, get to the gate, pay our entrance fees, and turn a corner only to find … lots more steps. The Palamidi is not flat, it seems.
But it is a stunning view, once blood has returned to my brain. From the top we can see the Bourtzi (which is another fortress, built on a rocky outcrop in the bay, and reachable only by boat). Honestly, these Nafplions knew what they were doing.
Nafplio itself is rather lovely. It was a major stronghold of the Ottoman Empire until the Greek War of Independence, and then it became the capital of Greece (until King Otto decided Athens was everything, and moved there instead). We sit at a café and watch sea bream swimming around by the quayside, and then walk through the narrow streets of the Old Town.
In the main square is a stone lion, which is worth a look, because over the years, children have happily filled the holes that delineate his whiskers with BB gun pellets. And there is another lion carved into a rock face just behind the local Lidl. He’s the Lion of Bavaria and commemorates the sad death of Bavarian soldiers in a typhoid epidemic. However, the locals believed it was death by cucumber (the Bavarians are said to have eaten too many) and consequently call the statue Agouroon (which means cucumber in Ancient Greek).
At the Archaeological Museum I find some more nipple-tweakers and a shocked-looking lady saying, ‘talk to the hand’. Feeling you, sister.
But my favourite is the Folklore Museum, which is a gem of a place – full of wonderful costumes, fabulous painted furniture, and traditional dolls.
And there’s this pair of twin dolls in their natty knitted gear. I like to think of them as representing my grandkids, Kit and Sky, if Satan was their dad instead of Laurence.
And that is it for our time in Greece, as we need to make our way back to the UK to MOT our vehicles, and catch up with family. This means driving through Albania again and – now that I’ve got over the shock of that – I am prepared to review my opinion of the place. Next time I’ll let you know whether or not I do.
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P.S. I found so many things about Greece to be brilliantly bonkers that I posted them on Facebook, under the title Greek Moments. If you haven’t seen them, I’ve reproduced a few of them here. I hope they make you smile the way they did me. Ciao xxxx
Greek moments:
And, finally,
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