Mycenae is supreme. First I stand before the lion gate, an image I've known by heart since I was a child. The romance of Schliemann's ' discovery' of the realities of Agamemnon, Clytaemnestra and other heroes, epic and tragic, was a magical inspiration to generations.
Ok, it seems Schliemann hammed it up a bit. When he wrote 'I have gazed on the face of Agamemnon' the wondrous gold death mask was in fact of a man born 300 years before Agamemnon. Which, to me, is yet more amazing. So long ago, so beautiful. A replica of that gold mask is in the museum here, iconic.
Stepping through the lion gate, on the right is a 'grave circle' built around 1650 BCE. It is so human, so fashioned, so intended: and built by people unimaginably remote from us. For some reason the perfection of this monument bring me to tears.
This makes it so clear how much humans share, across millennia. And the world focuses so on difference.
Climbing on towards the palace on the top of the hill, it's a surprise how small the building was. It makes Sophocles' Electra much more believable, somehow. Reading of the murder of Agamemnon in his bath, in this palace, it was hard for me to make sense of the logistics... I imagined him surrounded by attendants, in a bath a long way from the throne room and his murderous wife, But the palace is essentially a large throne room with a hall and two adjacent rooms - so this is just a domestic murder in a small house. Much more believable. I feel delighted with this clarification.
The unexpected treat is the cistern. Around 1250 BCE the Mycenaeans dug under their walls, three fights of steps down into stone, and built a cistern to receive water brought from a nearby spring. I never knew they built such things in the bronze age: it is a privilege to walk to the bottom of the high, arched passageway (lit by my front bike light!) and wonder at their ingenuity and skill. This cistern of course gave the citadel water in a siege.
I spent over three hours on the citadel before heading for the great museum. A lot to see and to breathe in. In this time a Japanese tour party comes and goes. Although their guide is disruptively loud, it is easy to be patient as they soon wend their way and leave the world to silence and to me.
The museum is fantastic... Schliemann's finds from "Agamemnon's" tomb in grave circle A, golden treasure. Linear B tablets (wow, wow, wow, another childhood inspiration, as amazing as the Rosetta stone). Clay pots that would be beautiful to use at home. Figurines, frescoes, glass (when was that invented?? I've no idea). Brilliant.
After the museum I visit more tholos tombs and grave circle B. The museum has shown me that dozens, if not hundreds of graves have been found in the neighbourhood, many unlooted. It seems amazing, perhaps it is just a natural result of a small place being lived in for so long.
I walk back up to enjoy the lion gate once more, before the site closes. The whole experience has been staggering.
I switched hotels to stay at La Belle Helene, where Schliemann stayed, also Alan Wace who excavated Mycenae for years, and many others. It is a little basic... No en suite or wifi, but made up for by the photos and articles going back to the 1870s. The owner's great grandmother owned the inn then, and married one of the locals who helped with the early digs. The family were involved with the excavations for generations. I stay in Agatha Christie's room... other renowned visitors include Karl Jung, JP Sartre and many others. A slice of history.
What a day. Dreams come true.
Wednesday, 21 November 2012
Tuesday, 20 November 2012
Whiteout in the wild Wets
Today became frightening, after a straightforward start. The first 15k sped past, down from the acropolis of Levidi and through a plain of fields, baring dark brown earth. Very little traffic, being Sunday morning.
Inevitably, the road headed upward, onto the flanks of Mt Oligirtos at 1935m and alongside Lirkio at 1808m. As I turned the bend of one hairpin a rainbow spanned the two slopes, reflecting off the cloud.
The cloud is close enough now that I feel its dewy clamminess on my face. As I climb higher, the cloud grows thicker and wetter. It still isn't raining, but it's wet enough to switch to a waterproof jacket and put the lights on. With the poor visibility, it feels safer with a reflective, bright yellow top. It is demoralising though, to see how quickly the tail-lights of an overtaking van dwindle to nothing in the gloom.
Parts of the climb are very steep, especially the hairpins. I walk some of it. With visibility down to 20m and sometimes less, I review my situation. I have come about 20k and reckon there's between 7 and 10k of climbing left. I ate a good breakfast, I have plenty of food and water. I don't feel cold yet and I have decent warm clothing. On the downside I am already wearing every bit of warm clothing I have, and I don't have winter gloves so I am losing heat through my hands. Overall, it doesn't seem too risky to continue, and there's nothing to be gained by going back, I'd only have to do the climb again tomorrow, with no guarantee the weather would be any better. Only three cars pass as I climb the next 7k and start the descent. The word whiteout seems to fit. There is almost no colour difference between the road, the cloud ahead and the cloud above the grey barrier to my right. Everything is dirty white, with a dull glow rather than light. It is surreal and eerie. There is no sound but my wheels on the damp road.
Gradually, as I descend, the cloud thins and I can see further, colour returns and it feels easier to breathe. A motor cyclist passing me gives a thumbs up. He doesn't know what's ahead of him: but doubtless he'll be fine, like me.
At one bend I startle a gang of goats: they probably can't see much either, and have wandered onto the side of the road. As I pass they hop over the safety barrier, one after another.
Another 5k and I can see properly and feel safe enough to turn off the lights. The descent is magnificent, of course, munching the miles. I am almost startled when I speed through a patch of warm air. It feels an age since the air was anything other than cold and wet. In fact, three hours since I set out, I've come 30k. It's only minutes before I have come 40k.
This was an ambitious day even without the weather. I knew there would be a climb between the two high mountains (both invisible, perhaps surreally absent, the whole time). My fallback is Nemea, but time is running out and I really want to see Mycenae and Tiryns. So if I can I want to manage the extra 25k to Mycenae. Worst case there is a mountain between me and Nemea and another between Nemea and Mycenae.
As it turns out, the run to Nemea is easy enough. I can almost imagine the Nemean lion terrorising the neighbourhood before Heracles turned the lion into a cape. The crops change from cabbages to grapes and it seems I am cycling a wine route. The mountains are now 40k behind me, still wrapped in cloud as they recede.
In Nemea, which isn't that big, I get lost but eventually find the route up (of course) to Ancient Nemea. I am in two minds about visiting the site and museum, but not knowing how hard the ride to Mycenae will be, I press on.
There is a very steep, but short hill ahead of me, complete with excitable dogs. Then the ride becomes a breeze and it seems I barely have to pedal before I have covered 20k through olive groves and orange plantations, to reach the turn to Mycenae.
There is a bit of a hill into town, as one would expect on the approach to a hilltop citadel, but I am soon in the hotel, planning the next ride. It was a heck of a ride, testing mentally as well as physically, but I wish I had another 20 k or so to go. It felt as if so much of the ride was downhill, it's disappointing not to be really stretched. I've always preferred uphills to down, and a tough day to a rest day. Looking forward to seeing this legendary place.
Inevitably, the road headed upward, onto the flanks of Mt Oligirtos at 1935m and alongside Lirkio at 1808m. As I turned the bend of one hairpin a rainbow spanned the two slopes, reflecting off the cloud.
The cloud is close enough now that I feel its dewy clamminess on my face. As I climb higher, the cloud grows thicker and wetter. It still isn't raining, but it's wet enough to switch to a waterproof jacket and put the lights on. With the poor visibility, it feels safer with a reflective, bright yellow top. It is demoralising though, to see how quickly the tail-lights of an overtaking van dwindle to nothing in the gloom.
Parts of the climb are very steep, especially the hairpins. I walk some of it. With visibility down to 20m and sometimes less, I review my situation. I have come about 20k and reckon there's between 7 and 10k of climbing left. I ate a good breakfast, I have plenty of food and water. I don't feel cold yet and I have decent warm clothing. On the downside I am already wearing every bit of warm clothing I have, and I don't have winter gloves so I am losing heat through my hands. Overall, it doesn't seem too risky to continue, and there's nothing to be gained by going back, I'd only have to do the climb again tomorrow, with no guarantee the weather would be any better. Only three cars pass as I climb the next 7k and start the descent. The word whiteout seems to fit. There is almost no colour difference between the road, the cloud ahead and the cloud above the grey barrier to my right. Everything is dirty white, with a dull glow rather than light. It is surreal and eerie. There is no sound but my wheels on the damp road.
Gradually, as I descend, the cloud thins and I can see further, colour returns and it feels easier to breathe. A motor cyclist passing me gives a thumbs up. He doesn't know what's ahead of him: but doubtless he'll be fine, like me.
At one bend I startle a gang of goats: they probably can't see much either, and have wandered onto the side of the road. As I pass they hop over the safety barrier, one after another.
Another 5k and I can see properly and feel safe enough to turn off the lights. The descent is magnificent, of course, munching the miles. I am almost startled when I speed through a patch of warm air. It feels an age since the air was anything other than cold and wet. In fact, three hours since I set out, I've come 30k. It's only minutes before I have come 40k.
This was an ambitious day even without the weather. I knew there would be a climb between the two high mountains (both invisible, perhaps surreally absent, the whole time). My fallback is Nemea, but time is running out and I really want to see Mycenae and Tiryns. So if I can I want to manage the extra 25k to Mycenae. Worst case there is a mountain between me and Nemea and another between Nemea and Mycenae.
As it turns out, the run to Nemea is easy enough. I can almost imagine the Nemean lion terrorising the neighbourhood before Heracles turned the lion into a cape. The crops change from cabbages to grapes and it seems I am cycling a wine route. The mountains are now 40k behind me, still wrapped in cloud as they recede.
In Nemea, which isn't that big, I get lost but eventually find the route up (of course) to Ancient Nemea. I am in two minds about visiting the site and museum, but not knowing how hard the ride to Mycenae will be, I press on.
There is a very steep, but short hill ahead of me, complete with excitable dogs. Then the ride becomes a breeze and it seems I barely have to pedal before I have covered 20k through olive groves and orange plantations, to reach the turn to Mycenae.
There is a bit of a hill into town, as one would expect on the approach to a hilltop citadel, but I am soon in the hotel, planning the next ride. It was a heck of a ride, testing mentally as well as physically, but I wish I had another 20 k or so to go. It felt as if so much of the ride was downhill, it's disappointing not to be really stretched. I've always preferred uphills to down, and a tough day to a rest day. Looking forward to seeing this legendary place.
It has to be said - et in Arcadio ego
Yes, I did cycle through Arcadia, today so I mean the quote literally. No allusion intended to a blissful afterlife. Perhaps I'll
acknowledge an element of that other interpretation of the phrase, nostalgia for one's youth.
But Arcadia came late in the day. I began with a glorious spin through alpine meadows, beside tiny, exuberant streams - marred only by exuberant dogs. I started a flock of starlings, hundreds if not thousands, whirling over my head in silence for twenty or thirty seconds. They felt almost close enough to touch, sweeping over my head first from the left, then back, then from the left again. It was uncanny but not frightening: I have never seen them flock from so close, and never so soundlessly.
Later, hot from a long and tough climb, I happened to stop near a telegraph pole and spotted a tree-creeper circling it. At the top he trilled a proud cock-crow. I paused, holding my breath, to see if he would drop back down and dance the maypole again, as they often do, but with another happy trill he was off.
Sooner than expected I reached the very top of the gorge, above the source of the river that created the little railway's backdrop. A Greek flag flaps sturdily at the high point, from where I can look down into three valleys, each with its road to this pass. Inevitably there is a little shrine. High in these mountains (at around 2000m) there are few roads, and the crossroads does seem noteworthy.
About 3k into the descent I notice a huge weeping willow, incongruous so high up. Next to it is a water fountain, so probably the willow enjoys its own spring water. This is at a switchback turn where I can see for miles up and down the huge valley. I see no houses yet beside the willow is a small church, probably holding 20 people. The large bell in a separate tower seems too large the church, but it must call people a long way.
Downhill for miles now, moving in the next 30km from Alpine meadows with goats to fertile meadows with crops. The aspect of the mountain must make a difference, as I am still high up. A patch of warm air hits me in a gust, a pleasant surprise, and I realise how cold the air has been, despite the heat of exercise. As I started from Kalabrita my breath hung in the air as steam, another first this trip. Autumn is well underway now.
On the edge of Arcadia I take a little detour to visit "Pausanias' vine", a rambling monster of a plant that is said to be three thousand years old, vast and old when Pausanias wrote of it in the second century AD. It is rather disappointing, really, big and messy, balanced on big plane trees. I had planned to eat my lunch here but am driven away by the endlessly agitated dogs. I can't help thinking of Marvel's "vegetable love" that he said would grow "had we but world enough and time". For some reason I always imagined the vegetable love as a giant cabbage. Imagining it as a giant vine doesn't really help. To a modern reader there is no getting round it, vegetable is a silly word in this context.
As I pedal through the autumnal landscape of the real Arcadia several Autumn poems run through my head. One is prompted I suppose by the notion of nostalgia for our youth's Arcadia. Roughly.. " tell me, Margaret, are you grieving over Goldengrove unleaving.." (lovely word) tum ti tim tu tum ti three four, "it is Margaret you grieve for ". Even in my teens I thought the poet (um, GM Hopkins?? Not sure) made a good point, even if the rhythm is rather overbearing. The landscape is different, less harsh than the mountains, and the streams less precipitate. You can see why this land was cherished in ancient times for its well-watered fertility. For me, though, Pan no longer feels close to this place, it is too populous.
The weather becomes quite threatening as I reach the 45k mark. The approaching cars have their lights on, always a bad sign. The obvious thing to do is to stop for lunch and hope the weather blows over. Great lunch largely stems from a great breakfast... Hardboiled egg, sandwiches, cake and an orange. The dark clouds seem to have moved to the right while I was eating, but the cars still have their lights on so I switch mine on and don my bright yellow waterproof.
The remaining 20k to Libidi is uphill all the way. Sweltering in my "breathable" Gortex jacket I am pleased that I haven't had to push the bike since I left Olympos behind. It is probably easier terrain, rather than my fitness improving! I think these more civilised mountain roads have been built with more forgiving gradients.
So I persistently climb, always with an eye to the dark cloud which never quite reaches me. It takes over an hour to find a hotel. Guides should not be allowed to say"200m from the main square" when every road in the town branches from the main square. I keep asking people and go round in circles. I find a four star hotel that is full. I know there are at least two other hotels in this town. I ask again and again and eventually ask in a honey and sweet shop. The assistant is very sweet herself, she invites me to warm myself at the wood-burning stove and fetches me water, urging me to sit down. She speaks little English but phones her mother, who arrives by car and takes charge. Mother speaks good English (another daughter is studying in London). She phones around, everywhere is full except one, so I have little choice. She gives me a local specialty sweet, a crisp pancake dripping with honey. She is proud of the beautiful decor of her family shop, extraordinary embroideries done in the 1920s, good paintings of flowers and family portraits. It truly is delightful and I feel lucky to see it. She then drives ahead of me to the hotel - very slowly, as it is a hideously steep and very convoluted route. Again, it is wonderful how kind people are.
The hotel has fantastic views on all four sides: it really is the high point of the town. I still prefer the wild mountains! I spend a very cold night that feels more wintry than autumnal.
But Arcadia came late in the day. I began with a glorious spin through alpine meadows, beside tiny, exuberant streams - marred only by exuberant dogs. I started a flock of starlings, hundreds if not thousands, whirling over my head in silence for twenty or thirty seconds. They felt almost close enough to touch, sweeping over my head first from the left, then back, then from the left again. It was uncanny but not frightening: I have never seen them flock from so close, and never so soundlessly.
Later, hot from a long and tough climb, I happened to stop near a telegraph pole and spotted a tree-creeper circling it. At the top he trilled a proud cock-crow. I paused, holding my breath, to see if he would drop back down and dance the maypole again, as they often do, but with another happy trill he was off.
Sooner than expected I reached the very top of the gorge, above the source of the river that created the little railway's backdrop. A Greek flag flaps sturdily at the high point, from where I can look down into three valleys, each with its road to this pass. Inevitably there is a little shrine. High in these mountains (at around 2000m) there are few roads, and the crossroads does seem noteworthy.
About 3k into the descent I notice a huge weeping willow, incongruous so high up. Next to it is a water fountain, so probably the willow enjoys its own spring water. This is at a switchback turn where I can see for miles up and down the huge valley. I see no houses yet beside the willow is a small church, probably holding 20 people. The large bell in a separate tower seems too large the church, but it must call people a long way.
Downhill for miles now, moving in the next 30km from Alpine meadows with goats to fertile meadows with crops. The aspect of the mountain must make a difference, as I am still high up. A patch of warm air hits me in a gust, a pleasant surprise, and I realise how cold the air has been, despite the heat of exercise. As I started from Kalabrita my breath hung in the air as steam, another first this trip. Autumn is well underway now.
On the edge of Arcadia I take a little detour to visit "Pausanias' vine", a rambling monster of a plant that is said to be three thousand years old, vast and old when Pausanias wrote of it in the second century AD. It is rather disappointing, really, big and messy, balanced on big plane trees. I had planned to eat my lunch here but am driven away by the endlessly agitated dogs. I can't help thinking of Marvel's "vegetable love" that he said would grow "had we but world enough and time". For some reason I always imagined the vegetable love as a giant cabbage. Imagining it as a giant vine doesn't really help. To a modern reader there is no getting round it, vegetable is a silly word in this context.
As I pedal through the autumnal landscape of the real Arcadia several Autumn poems run through my head. One is prompted I suppose by the notion of nostalgia for our youth's Arcadia. Roughly.. " tell me, Margaret, are you grieving over Goldengrove unleaving.." (lovely word) tum ti tim tu tum ti three four, "it is Margaret you grieve for ". Even in my teens I thought the poet (um, GM Hopkins?? Not sure) made a good point, even if the rhythm is rather overbearing. The landscape is different, less harsh than the mountains, and the streams less precipitate. You can see why this land was cherished in ancient times for its well-watered fertility. For me, though, Pan no longer feels close to this place, it is too populous.
The weather becomes quite threatening as I reach the 45k mark. The approaching cars have their lights on, always a bad sign. The obvious thing to do is to stop for lunch and hope the weather blows over. Great lunch largely stems from a great breakfast... Hardboiled egg, sandwiches, cake and an orange. The dark clouds seem to have moved to the right while I was eating, but the cars still have their lights on so I switch mine on and don my bright yellow waterproof.
The remaining 20k to Libidi is uphill all the way. Sweltering in my "breathable" Gortex jacket I am pleased that I haven't had to push the bike since I left Olympos behind. It is probably easier terrain, rather than my fitness improving! I think these more civilised mountain roads have been built with more forgiving gradients.
So I persistently climb, always with an eye to the dark cloud which never quite reaches me. It takes over an hour to find a hotel. Guides should not be allowed to say"200m from the main square" when every road in the town branches from the main square. I keep asking people and go round in circles. I find a four star hotel that is full. I know there are at least two other hotels in this town. I ask again and again and eventually ask in a honey and sweet shop. The assistant is very sweet herself, she invites me to warm myself at the wood-burning stove and fetches me water, urging me to sit down. She speaks little English but phones her mother, who arrives by car and takes charge. Mother speaks good English (another daughter is studying in London). She phones around, everywhere is full except one, so I have little choice. She gives me a local specialty sweet, a crisp pancake dripping with honey. She is proud of the beautiful decor of her family shop, extraordinary embroideries done in the 1920s, good paintings of flowers and family portraits. It truly is delightful and I feel lucky to see it. She then drives ahead of me to the hotel - very slowly, as it is a hideously steep and very convoluted route. Again, it is wonderful how kind people are.
The hotel has fantastic views on all four sides: it really is the high point of the town. I still prefer the wild mountains! I spend a very cold night that feels more wintry than autumnal.
Monday, 19 November 2012
Serendipity returns
Awake early, I had to wait for the bakery to open before I. Could head off. My plan was to go as far as I could manage along the opposite shore, first crossing the amazing suspension bridge.
This iconic, graceful span is the world's longest cable-stayed suspension bridge, 2880m long and 90 feet wide. It reminds me of those designs we made as children, a curve created by arranging dozens of straight lines at regular intervals and various angles between the arms of a right angle. I always loved the way straight lines indisputably between them formed a curve. This bridge sketches such curves against the sky.
At the hotel they recommended I join the bridge by climbing some steps, and after a couple of false starts this proves good advice. The wind is still frighteningly fierce and I am quite nervous as I start the crossing. At the foot of each tower, to give access for maintenance, the path is replaced with a steel grating, placed level with the surrounding road surface. There is no way I will cycle over these slits opening on the sea so far below. There is not enough room to wheel the bike on the small remaining path of tarmac. So I walk over the horrid grid, telling myself a grid is probably less liable to catastrophic failure than any single piece of metal or glass could be. I still hate walking on it. But then I have been known to lie down in the floor of a glass lift, so overwhelming is my fear of heights. So, cycling an extra 100km or so just to cycle over this bridge suddenly seems a really daft idea. To be fair, despite the strong gale that twice shifts me laterally across the cycle path, there is no sensation of movement of the bridge, and I cross easily enough, dismounting for each grid.
At the abrupt end of the cycle path I am surprised to find that I am expected to carry my laden bike down 55 metal steps (each one a grid). It annoys me that someone deliberately designed this: what were they thinking?
From this point on the ride becomes pretty grim. Although it's pleasantly lumpy like yesterday's coastline, the traffic and its noise are unending. I am running parallel with the motorway but of course it is a toll road and so lots of traffic is on my road. I have seen the same in Italy, a new motorway empty while trucks batter the surface of local roads made by pouring tar over uneven cobbles. It's a good argument against tolls!
The villages come and go, a new name being posted as soon as I pass the sign saying the last village is gone. GK Chesterton writes of a London bus journey being passing through thirteen separate vulgar cities all just touching one another. This feels the same, although my spirits are lifted by occasional views over a vivid dark sea. On and on through dust and smelly, noisy streets. My legs feel strong but after 50k my head is hurting and I feel bewildered and exhausted by the relentless noise. The road is narrow, too, so I have to pay attention constantly to my position and the overtaking vehicles, sometimes only inches from my knee.
On a whim and with little hope I head left down into one village to see whether the famous track and pinion railway is running. I arrive 40 minutes before it's due to depart for the mountains, Serendipity is such that I feel I have to take this trip. I cool down with a freshly-squeezed orange juice in a cafe with free wifi that lets me chat to Martin. Perfect!
The ride up 800m to Kalavritsa is stunning, as we follow the narrow river gorge. At times the train seems to hang over the river, suspended on nothing... The squashed and tortured rocks visible as we pass recall the titanic forces that shaped this mountain so long ago.
I add warmer clothes as we climb, and an glad of it at the top. I am sorry to be too late to visit the museum in memory of Nazi brutality here, the families herded into the school house to be burned, and every male over 14 shot. Greeks speaking of this town mutter that now Germany wants to run Europe again: this gives me a different way of thinking about the anti- German feeling that abounds here. Maybe fiscal hegemony is the new means of invasion: but however grim, it is no massacre. The protested austerity seems necessary to me, and no invasion plan.
A walk around town for provisions and then the usual early night, sweetened by delicious honey morsels from the nearby bakery. It was a great idea to head for the hills and escape the relentless drone of traffic. Here the silence is broken only by barking dogs and the church bells.
This iconic, graceful span is the world's longest cable-stayed suspension bridge, 2880m long and 90 feet wide. It reminds me of those designs we made as children, a curve created by arranging dozens of straight lines at regular intervals and various angles between the arms of a right angle. I always loved the way straight lines indisputably between them formed a curve. This bridge sketches such curves against the sky.
At the hotel they recommended I join the bridge by climbing some steps, and after a couple of false starts this proves good advice. The wind is still frighteningly fierce and I am quite nervous as I start the crossing. At the foot of each tower, to give access for maintenance, the path is replaced with a steel grating, placed level with the surrounding road surface. There is no way I will cycle over these slits opening on the sea so far below. There is not enough room to wheel the bike on the small remaining path of tarmac. So I walk over the horrid grid, telling myself a grid is probably less liable to catastrophic failure than any single piece of metal or glass could be. I still hate walking on it. But then I have been known to lie down in the floor of a glass lift, so overwhelming is my fear of heights. So, cycling an extra 100km or so just to cycle over this bridge suddenly seems a really daft idea. To be fair, despite the strong gale that twice shifts me laterally across the cycle path, there is no sensation of movement of the bridge, and I cross easily enough, dismounting for each grid.
At the abrupt end of the cycle path I am surprised to find that I am expected to carry my laden bike down 55 metal steps (each one a grid). It annoys me that someone deliberately designed this: what were they thinking?
From this point on the ride becomes pretty grim. Although it's pleasantly lumpy like yesterday's coastline, the traffic and its noise are unending. I am running parallel with the motorway but of course it is a toll road and so lots of traffic is on my road. I have seen the same in Italy, a new motorway empty while trucks batter the surface of local roads made by pouring tar over uneven cobbles. It's a good argument against tolls!
The villages come and go, a new name being posted as soon as I pass the sign saying the last village is gone. GK Chesterton writes of a London bus journey being passing through thirteen separate vulgar cities all just touching one another. This feels the same, although my spirits are lifted by occasional views over a vivid dark sea. On and on through dust and smelly, noisy streets. My legs feel strong but after 50k my head is hurting and I feel bewildered and exhausted by the relentless noise. The road is narrow, too, so I have to pay attention constantly to my position and the overtaking vehicles, sometimes only inches from my knee.
On a whim and with little hope I head left down into one village to see whether the famous track and pinion railway is running. I arrive 40 minutes before it's due to depart for the mountains, Serendipity is such that I feel I have to take this trip. I cool down with a freshly-squeezed orange juice in a cafe with free wifi that lets me chat to Martin. Perfect!
The ride up 800m to Kalavritsa is stunning, as we follow the narrow river gorge. At times the train seems to hang over the river, suspended on nothing... The squashed and tortured rocks visible as we pass recall the titanic forces that shaped this mountain so long ago.
I add warmer clothes as we climb, and an glad of it at the top. I am sorry to be too late to visit the museum in memory of Nazi brutality here, the families herded into the school house to be burned, and every male over 14 shot. Greeks speaking of this town mutter that now Germany wants to run Europe again: this gives me a different way of thinking about the anti- German feeling that abounds here. Maybe fiscal hegemony is the new means of invasion: but however grim, it is no massacre. The protested austerity seems necessary to me, and no invasion plan.
A walk around town for provisions and then the usual early night, sweetened by delicious honey morsels from the nearby bakery. It was a great idea to head for the hills and escape the relentless drone of traffic. Here the silence is broken only by barking dogs and the church bells.
Day of rest in Delphi
I am the world's slowest visitor to museums and archaeological sites, as will be attested by anyone who has waited for me. So I am a little concerned that the site and museum are only open from 8.30 til 3. I buy my ticket at 8.31 and walk up the sacred way through the donated treasuries and plinths of plundered statues to the temple of Apollo. He ran the famous oracle although he probably supplanted an earth goddess very early in history.
The site is well-labelled and it is also possible to sneak to less frequented spots to feel the spirit of the place and imagine how it would have looked when all those plinths and columns still bore their statues and golden tripods. It also allows the wildlife to shine, from butterflies to redstarts and nuthatches. Redstarts in particular seem to love ancient ruins, presumably for the insects lurking in crevices in the stone walls.
One of the features here is the polygonal wall of huge, irregularly-shaped rocks fitted neatly together to leave few larders for birds. The redstarts are hopping about the more collapsed walls.
The amphitheatre seated 5000, which isn't the largest; but it seems to extend into the mountain, which rises above the seats all around. And behind the small stage, in the distance, rise more mountains. It must have been awe-inspiring to watch a performance.
What remains standing, and the guiding info, give a good feel for how everything fitted together when this was a point of pilgrimage for the ancient world. But the museum fills the gaps with amazing reconstructions of the temple facades, the triglyphs and metopes. They favoured complex battle scenes, famous mythical melees between gods and heroes and amazons or giants. Most of the amazing offerings have long been looted, or re-assigned by the Romany empire. A few have survived by accident, enough to amaze. The votive offerings from the 8th to 6th centuries BC are particularly stunning. Another gem is the bowl with Apollo multi-tasking - pouring a libation while playing the cithera. And ancient music notation! The representation of a religious ode carved into stone in 128 BC. My favourite piece is probably the life sized statue of a silver bull, 2.3m long. The staggering extravagance of this seems to have been typical of the offerings, which of course is why so many are long gone.
After the museum I head for the temples of Athena just down the road, surrounded by olive trees just as they were thousands of years ago. The place has been taken over by a group of meditators. I overhear their tour-leader explaining how the outer circle of pillars collects energy and focuses it into the centre of the circular tholos building: sigh. They have a right to enjoy and participate in the spirit of this amazing place, but I don't understand why you would choose to meditate in a silent group, surrounded by milling tourists and photographers, rather than heading for the tranquility and beauty of the mountains. Each to their own.
Dinner is substantial as I have a ride of 120k planned for tomorrow, and bad weather is expected ( which never makes things easier).
The site is well-labelled and it is also possible to sneak to less frequented spots to feel the spirit of the place and imagine how it would have looked when all those plinths and columns still bore their statues and golden tripods. It also allows the wildlife to shine, from butterflies to redstarts and nuthatches. Redstarts in particular seem to love ancient ruins, presumably for the insects lurking in crevices in the stone walls.
One of the features here is the polygonal wall of huge, irregularly-shaped rocks fitted neatly together to leave few larders for birds. The redstarts are hopping about the more collapsed walls.
The amphitheatre seated 5000, which isn't the largest; but it seems to extend into the mountain, which rises above the seats all around. And behind the small stage, in the distance, rise more mountains. It must have been awe-inspiring to watch a performance.
What remains standing, and the guiding info, give a good feel for how everything fitted together when this was a point of pilgrimage for the ancient world. But the museum fills the gaps with amazing reconstructions of the temple facades, the triglyphs and metopes. They favoured complex battle scenes, famous mythical melees between gods and heroes and amazons or giants. Most of the amazing offerings have long been looted, or re-assigned by the Romany empire. A few have survived by accident, enough to amaze. The votive offerings from the 8th to 6th centuries BC are particularly stunning. Another gem is the bowl with Apollo multi-tasking - pouring a libation while playing the cithera. And ancient music notation! The representation of a religious ode carved into stone in 128 BC. My favourite piece is probably the life sized statue of a silver bull, 2.3m long. The staggering extravagance of this seems to have been typical of the offerings, which of course is why so many are long gone.
After the museum I head for the temples of Athena just down the road, surrounded by olive trees just as they were thousands of years ago. The place has been taken over by a group of meditators. I overhear their tour-leader explaining how the outer circle of pillars collects energy and focuses it into the centre of the circular tholos building: sigh. They have a right to enjoy and participate in the spirit of this amazing place, but I don't understand why you would choose to meditate in a silent group, surrounded by milling tourists and photographers, rather than heading for the tranquility and beauty of the mountains. Each to their own.
Dinner is substantial as I have a ride of 120k planned for tomorrow, and bad weather is expected ( which never makes things easier).
Going like a train
I don't know why cyclists talk about going like a train, but I know the feeling well. It is when your legs feel strong whatever comes and nothing seems to tire you. It is within you, it isn't just about the terrain. Sometimes it just happens, a combination probably of rest, nutrition, hydration and mood. I have left far better cyclists standing when this feeling descends.
All of today is a train ride! Eating up the miles, as a good friend used to say. Village after village whizzes by. The terrain is lumpy.....meaning up for a km or three and then down again. No climb is longer than 6k and the descents all seem more than I have earned in the climb. Starting at quarter past eight I have come 70 km before noon. As the wind gets stronger it becomes clear that it is often helping me out - unusually for a wind!
I wonder, not for the first time, about the shrines along the way. Some are definitely personal memorials, others seem to be tiny chapels. They are often at crossroads which seem places of superstition or divinity in various cultures. I think they may once have been sacred to Hecate; in Sri Lanka one cuts a bough or two to offer at the shrine of the spirits of the crossroads, and in England, various unfortunates would be buried at crossroads. Worth considering what gave such places power and whether these Greek shrines also reflect that power.
By 2pm I have come 100km and reached Nafpaktos, once Lepanto, where a decisive battle was fought with the Ottomans. It feels at war with itself today, in the dust and sudden heat, as cars race everywhere. The police direct me and all the cars away from some great gathering. somehow I am through the whole town before I know it, and it seems best to carry on rather than stay the night as planned. The wind is ferocious now, whipping up the docile Mediterranean into waves that batter the beach. The wind seems to be along the channel of the Corinthian Gulf, and I don't fancy crossing the bridge in such a strong cross-wind. So I settle for stopping at Antirrio, the start of the bridge, even though I feel strong enough to carry on further.
I have time to look around at the ferries, the bridge and the lighthouse as the sun sets and skies darken. Having stocked up on for tomorrow, I am helped by the receptionist to understand a takeaway menu. It is fairly straightforward, especially if you say the transliterations in your head. I have to ask what a klamp pitta is and it is only when I hear it pronounced as "clab" that I realise it is some pita bread version of a club sandwich! I kick myself for not working this out, as I know perfectly well that "mp" is pronounced like "b" in English. Another comic error arises: I ask about an ingredient I don't recognise and am told it is vegetarian. I order a pita with this filling, wondering if it is aubergine or chickpea, tofu or what. It disappoints somewhat when it turns out to be ham! I know ham and sausages are considered vegetarian in Italy, so I am not too surprised.
All of today is a train ride! Eating up the miles, as a good friend used to say. Village after village whizzes by. The terrain is lumpy.....meaning up for a km or three and then down again. No climb is longer than 6k and the descents all seem more than I have earned in the climb. Starting at quarter past eight I have come 70 km before noon. As the wind gets stronger it becomes clear that it is often helping me out - unusually for a wind!
I wonder, not for the first time, about the shrines along the way. Some are definitely personal memorials, others seem to be tiny chapels. They are often at crossroads which seem places of superstition or divinity in various cultures. I think they may once have been sacred to Hecate; in Sri Lanka one cuts a bough or two to offer at the shrine of the spirits of the crossroads, and in England, various unfortunates would be buried at crossroads. Worth considering what gave such places power and whether these Greek shrines also reflect that power.
By 2pm I have come 100km and reached Nafpaktos, once Lepanto, where a decisive battle was fought with the Ottomans. It feels at war with itself today, in the dust and sudden heat, as cars race everywhere. The police direct me and all the cars away from some great gathering. somehow I am through the whole town before I know it, and it seems best to carry on rather than stay the night as planned. The wind is ferocious now, whipping up the docile Mediterranean into waves that batter the beach. The wind seems to be along the channel of the Corinthian Gulf, and I don't fancy crossing the bridge in such a strong cross-wind. So I settle for stopping at Antirrio, the start of the bridge, even though I feel strong enough to carry on further.
I have time to look around at the ferries, the bridge and the lighthouse as the sun sets and skies darken. Having stocked up on for tomorrow, I am helped by the receptionist to understand a takeaway menu. It is fairly straightforward, especially if you say the transliterations in your head. I have to ask what a klamp pitta is and it is only when I hear it pronounced as "clab" that I realise it is some pita bread version of a club sandwich! I kick myself for not working this out, as I know perfectly well that "mp" is pronounced like "b" in English. Another comic error arises: I ask about an ingredient I don't recognise and am told it is vegetarian. I order a pita with this filling, wondering if it is aubergine or chickpea, tofu or what. It disappoints somewhat when it turns out to be ham! I know ham and sausages are considered vegetarian in Italy, so I am not too surprised.
Thursday, 15 November 2012
Dr Gradus ad Parnassum
The silly title refers to a piano suite I once played, by Debussy I think. It runs round my head all day as I cycle. It is amazing, to be climbing Mt Parnassus: like being inside a myth.
The elderly hotel owner is lovely. He makes me a Greek coffee and we have a more complex conversation than I have managed in Greek so far, simply because he doesn't seem to be able to imagine that I don't understand. He is very patient repeating and I use my best guesswork, and we get by. He draws me a map of my route, with tips about where to turn and with all churches clearly marked. Inevitably I turn just past Aghios Paraskevi. There are churches and villages everywhere called Aghios Paraskevi: to me it means "St Prepared" and I can't help thinking of Baden Powell.
Once off the main road and climbing towards Dhavlia, it is picturesque. They are harvesting olives, and everyone returns my "kali mera" heartily, clearly finding me funny. I like the way people say hello in the street, and start every conversation with "good morning", "good evening" and so on. It happened less in Meteora, I suppose because so many are tourists. It is good to have this friendly courtesy back.
The air is lovely, the mountain majestic to my left. Above the olive slopes it is bare rock, mostly grey but orange where there has been a fall of rock.
I stop for breakfast at a high point, looking down on olive groves. Cypress trees are dotted around the landscape, brushstrokes of dark colour pointing upwards as straight as the tails of happy kittens. These are the most distinctive new part of this landscape, other than the bare peak at my back.
Past the church up a steep and bumpy concrete road and I emerge at a water fountain. I am on the outskirts of Dhavlia. The road is steep down to the left, steep up to the right. I have no idea which way should be mine.
I ask a pair of telecoms engineers in a van, who stop for water at the fountain. I know within seconds that they cannot help (their first suggestion is that I go back the way I came, 18k to the main road). I smile a lot and wait for them to finish debating together and offering me advice, and thank them heartily.
With misgivings, I head off downhill as the road surface is better in that direction and it may take me to a junction where I can orient myself. This happens very quickly and I head back the way I came. From this point on it is a steady, grinding climb, apart from one hairpin bend that whizzes down for 3k and then crawls back up. There was a dirt track cutting out this 6 k detour but I didn't trust myself not to get lost. My experience of such short cuts is that they are always a bad idea: roads diverge, take vertiginous climbs and give way to rubble. I keep reminding myself of this as I labour up the far side.
The really tough bit sees Mt Parnassus (2550m) on my right and Mt Kirfis (1560m) on my left. The shade of Mt Kirfis keeps me cold, despite the continuous effort. It's a good road, a constant gradient that doesn't wear me out and in about 90 minutes I reach Arachova at a height of 960m. It is a pretty village, pasted tight over an outcrop of rock. I hardly draw breath on the decent, as I dash the remaining 8 k to Delphi in minutes. It seems steeper going down, but then it always does!
Hotel has a lovely balcony overlooking the bay of Corinth. I dry off in the sun after my shower, eating tinned calamari and bread. I swap bread for wine with the American couple on the next balcony. Once the sun has settled behind the mountain, stealing the remaining warmth and the sparkle of the sea, I make it an early night as usual! Looking forward to enjoying the "belly button of the world" tomorrow.
The elderly hotel owner is lovely. He makes me a Greek coffee and we have a more complex conversation than I have managed in Greek so far, simply because he doesn't seem to be able to imagine that I don't understand. He is very patient repeating and I use my best guesswork, and we get by. He draws me a map of my route, with tips about where to turn and with all churches clearly marked. Inevitably I turn just past Aghios Paraskevi. There are churches and villages everywhere called Aghios Paraskevi: to me it means "St Prepared" and I can't help thinking of Baden Powell.
Once off the main road and climbing towards Dhavlia, it is picturesque. They are harvesting olives, and everyone returns my "kali mera" heartily, clearly finding me funny. I like the way people say hello in the street, and start every conversation with "good morning", "good evening" and so on. It happened less in Meteora, I suppose because so many are tourists. It is good to have this friendly courtesy back.
The air is lovely, the mountain majestic to my left. Above the olive slopes it is bare rock, mostly grey but orange where there has been a fall of rock.
I stop for breakfast at a high point, looking down on olive groves. Cypress trees are dotted around the landscape, brushstrokes of dark colour pointing upwards as straight as the tails of happy kittens. These are the most distinctive new part of this landscape, other than the bare peak at my back.
Past the church up a steep and bumpy concrete road and I emerge at a water fountain. I am on the outskirts of Dhavlia. The road is steep down to the left, steep up to the right. I have no idea which way should be mine.
I ask a pair of telecoms engineers in a van, who stop for water at the fountain. I know within seconds that they cannot help (their first suggestion is that I go back the way I came, 18k to the main road). I smile a lot and wait for them to finish debating together and offering me advice, and thank them heartily.
With misgivings, I head off downhill as the road surface is better in that direction and it may take me to a junction where I can orient myself. This happens very quickly and I head back the way I came. From this point on it is a steady, grinding climb, apart from one hairpin bend that whizzes down for 3k and then crawls back up. There was a dirt track cutting out this 6 k detour but I didn't trust myself not to get lost. My experience of such short cuts is that they are always a bad idea: roads diverge, take vertiginous climbs and give way to rubble. I keep reminding myself of this as I labour up the far side.
The really tough bit sees Mt Parnassus (2550m) on my right and Mt Kirfis (1560m) on my left. The shade of Mt Kirfis keeps me cold, despite the continuous effort. It's a good road, a constant gradient that doesn't wear me out and in about 90 minutes I reach Arachova at a height of 960m. It is a pretty village, pasted tight over an outcrop of rock. I hardly draw breath on the decent, as I dash the remaining 8 k to Delphi in minutes. It seems steeper going down, but then it always does!
Hotel has a lovely balcony overlooking the bay of Corinth. I dry off in the sun after my shower, eating tinned calamari and bread. I swap bread for wine with the American couple on the next balcony. Once the sun has settled behind the mountain, stealing the remaining warmth and the sparkle of the sea, I make it an early night as usual! Looking forward to enjoying the "belly button of the world" tomorrow.
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