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.
Wednesday, 14 November 2012
Back on the road at last!
Collecting my cash from the post office was quite an ordeal. I can't tell if it is always like this: maybe Monday morning is pension collection day. In any case, it takes grim determination not to let all the old ladies push me out of the way. I had the chance to see how Greeks cope with queue-jumpers, but I am not good at it. After an hour and a half I have my cash. I tried to buy stamps once more, but I would need to join another queue, and I cannot face it. They are not really queues, but clusters of people circling for an opening like crows round road kill.
I get food, pay Giannis and, with his help, book a hotel in Kato Tithoria for tonight. This place is so non-touristy that neither of its hotels can be booked online.
I sort out my bike brakes, helped by cats who have learned that I feed them the left-over butter from my breakfast. The kitten plays with my Allen keys and one cat tries to sit on the saddle as I work. Cats are so naturally helpful...
Catching the train is simple, despite all the problems raised when I asked about it in advance. The conductor is stern but really helpful, as if I were a naughty child bringing a bike on a train.
In a carriage on my own, I have a picnic. It is a shame it is already dark, as the scenery is probably spectacular.
At the first stop two Greeks join my carriage. They are friendly enough and quiet, one might even say sleepy. They smell strongly of smoke and ouzo, and of alcohol sweated out. It is probably a mercy that they keep the door open, but it is freezing.
I couldn't find a list of stations we stop at, and the ticket office said they didn’t have one. So I am nervous about missing the stop or not having time to collect the bike from the guard's van. I try to guess the stations from my map, which marks part of the railway line. We make several stops I can't identify, then go non-stop for over an hour. I can follow the announcements, so it is silly to be nervous, and of course I get off at my stop with no hassle. It is dark: having fixed my lights, I ask a taxi-driver the way to my hotel.
Well, I easily find the other hotel... and pass it. At the point where I think I am about to leave the town, I see two women chatting and ask them about the hotel. They give me a piece of the delicious, warm apple pie they were sharing, then one dashes off. She returns in her car and drives back into town to show me the way. As ever, people are kind and helpful, I feel privileged to be treated like this.
It is around ten pm so I dine on yoghurt and raisins and get to bed early, looking forward to a cycling day at last, around Mount Parnassos.
I get food, pay Giannis and, with his help, book a hotel in Kato Tithoria for tonight. This place is so non-touristy that neither of its hotels can be booked online.
I sort out my bike brakes, helped by cats who have learned that I feed them the left-over butter from my breakfast. The kitten plays with my Allen keys and one cat tries to sit on the saddle as I work. Cats are so naturally helpful...
Catching the train is simple, despite all the problems raised when I asked about it in advance. The conductor is stern but really helpful, as if I were a naughty child bringing a bike on a train.
In a carriage on my own, I have a picnic. It is a shame it is already dark, as the scenery is probably spectacular.
At the first stop two Greeks join my carriage. They are friendly enough and quiet, one might even say sleepy. They smell strongly of smoke and ouzo, and of alcohol sweated out. It is probably a mercy that they keep the door open, but it is freezing.
I couldn't find a list of stations we stop at, and the ticket office said they didn’t have one. So I am nervous about missing the stop or not having time to collect the bike from the guard's van. I try to guess the stations from my map, which marks part of the railway line. We make several stops I can't identify, then go non-stop for over an hour. I can follow the announcements, so it is silly to be nervous, and of course I get off at my stop with no hassle. It is dark: having fixed my lights, I ask a taxi-driver the way to my hotel.
Well, I easily find the other hotel... and pass it. At the point where I think I am about to leave the town, I see two women chatting and ask them about the hotel. They give me a piece of the delicious, warm apple pie they were sharing, then one dashes off. She returns in her car and drives back into town to show me the way. As ever, people are kind and helpful, I feel privileged to be treated like this.
It is around ten pm so I dine on yoghurt and raisins and get to bed early, looking forward to a cycling day at last, around Mount Parnassos.
Tuesday, 13 November 2012
Another tiring rest day :-)
Having seen all the monasteries, I chose to walk into the hills and escape the tourists. Starting on the same monopatia as yesterday, I passed Aghia Triados and at the top turned left instead of right.
Climbing the path a second time I saw a few different things... There are holly oaks everywhere, with tiny leaves like holly and magnificent, large acorns. I suppose it makes sense, the small, tough leaves to defend against a harsh environment and a good start in life for the acorns that fall on such thin soil. This time I notice a smattering of different trees.. Some normal (though stunted) oaks; a hawthorn scarlet with berries but bare of leaves; elms only three feet high that could be any age.
The road forks and I can finally leave the tourist circuit. At the turn there is a deafening dawn chorus: as before it seems the mountains have delayed the sun and given the birds a lie-in. There are goldfinches wolfing seeds from huge thistles and trilling happily. There seem to be a lot of robins and blackbirds, but with all the oaks it is perhaps more woodland than mountain...it's just that the woods are four feet high.
As I head up on the smaller road towards Vlachaba, the next village, I finally see something I've been missing, jays (who love acorns). They cackle around in pairs all over the hillside.
The walk is beautiful, peaceful and fairly consistently uphill. Just before the village I turn back, a little worried about getting back in the light. I broke my watch early on, so estimate the time by the feel of the light. as I turn I reckon it is about 2pm. Since it's downhill on the way back, I can expect it to be quicker going back. I've come about 10km, which in the end makes this a fairly long walk: Google says 28km by road so I probably did 20 or 22k in all, allowing for the footpaths.
I must stop having energetic rest days!
I take a different monopatia on the way back, as recommended by Giannis. I have now seen every side of Meteora, literally, by bike and on foot. In some way this makes me feel I understand the essence of the mountains' shape.
The big picture of my walk is that feel for the surroundings, and seeing the characteristic pillars of rock dwindle to miniatures as I walk to the next mountain.
The gems of detail are gentians, hawks, butterflies and jays.
The monopatia brings me into Kalambaka close to the hotel. Another hour's walk takes me down to the train station to check that I can get to Kato Tithoreia, a good start point for cycling to Delphi. This time I am told I may be able to take a bike, but I shall have to ask the station-master on the day.
Legs are aching when I get back. Bah, rest days!
Climbing the path a second time I saw a few different things... There are holly oaks everywhere, with tiny leaves like holly and magnificent, large acorns. I suppose it makes sense, the small, tough leaves to defend against a harsh environment and a good start in life for the acorns that fall on such thin soil. This time I notice a smattering of different trees.. Some normal (though stunted) oaks; a hawthorn scarlet with berries but bare of leaves; elms only three feet high that could be any age.
The road forks and I can finally leave the tourist circuit. At the turn there is a deafening dawn chorus: as before it seems the mountains have delayed the sun and given the birds a lie-in. There are goldfinches wolfing seeds from huge thistles and trilling happily. There seem to be a lot of robins and blackbirds, but with all the oaks it is perhaps more woodland than mountain...it's just that the woods are four feet high.
As I head up on the smaller road towards Vlachaba, the next village, I finally see something I've been missing, jays (who love acorns). They cackle around in pairs all over the hillside.
The walk is beautiful, peaceful and fairly consistently uphill. Just before the village I turn back, a little worried about getting back in the light. I broke my watch early on, so estimate the time by the feel of the light. as I turn I reckon it is about 2pm. Since it's downhill on the way back, I can expect it to be quicker going back. I've come about 10km, which in the end makes this a fairly long walk: Google says 28km by road so I probably did 20 or 22k in all, allowing for the footpaths.
I must stop having energetic rest days!
I take a different monopatia on the way back, as recommended by Giannis. I have now seen every side of Meteora, literally, by bike and on foot. In some way this makes me feel I understand the essence of the mountains' shape.
The big picture of my walk is that feel for the surroundings, and seeing the characteristic pillars of rock dwindle to miniatures as I walk to the next mountain.
The gems of detail are gentians, hawks, butterflies and jays.
The monopatia brings me into Kalambaka close to the hotel. Another hour's walk takes me down to the train station to check that I can get to Kato Tithoreia, a good start point for cycling to Delphi. This time I am told I may be able to take a bike, but I shall have to ask the station-master on the day.
Legs are aching when I get back. Bah, rest days!
The secret paths of monks
Giannis said the post office sometimes opens at the weekend, so first thing I headed down just in case. No luck, however.
On the way back I was able to look around the 11th century Byzantine church, which was closed when I first tried it.
Many frescoes, of course. A sign saying "only monks, priests and nannies allowed" makes me smile. The place has character but I feel I know too little about this sort of architecture and painting to appreciate it, other than its age. There is a little mosaic that the guide says is a peacock, but I prefer to think this, and many other beautifully carved birds in the monasteries, is a phoenix, with its symbolism of resurrection. Outside in the wall of the church are a sun and a serpent, pagan carvings re-deployed.
I put my last few coins in the collecting box and head back for breakfast. Then I head up a monopatia, a "secret monk's path" in the direction of Aghios Triados, a monastery that was closed when I did the circuit. it featured in a Bond film, and you can see what a spectacle it would make. The secret path is well maintained and easy enough to follow. The climb seems surprisingly quick, in maybe 40 minutes I am in the monastery. It is fun to watch a cable car bringing a workman across with his toolbox... Much less effort than climbing down the path and back up.
Leaving the monastery I am back on the tourist trail, and the noise is a bit oppressive. Days on isolated mountains have left me intolerant of hubbub. Many visitors seem to be Russian or Bulgarian.
The last establishment now houses 30 nuns who are taking every opportunity to sell icons, postcards and other paraphernalia. It must be necessary for them, but seems a pity. There is a constant stream of pilgrims through the church. The press is less in the museum, however, and the parchments are well worth seeing. As well as the Poetics and some liturgy, they have some early musical notation, a little like plainsong.
The convent closes at 13.00 and as the buses buzz away with their swarms of visitors, I climb down from the road onto the mountain, to have a peaceful lunch looking out on the amazing view. I am still failing to identify many birds as they seem extra shy: there seem to be swifts around, and certainly there are finches.
Eventually I head back the way I came, past Aghios Triados and down the monopatia. I am overtaken by a young monk walking fast. I want to photograph him on this appropriate path, but am a little embarrassed to do so (it seems rude to regard a person as a tourist sight). By the time I have my camera out and it has chirped into life, the monk is well ahead on the path, which winds so much it is hard to see more than ten yards ahead. I do get one or two rushed pictures.
The monk pauses to sit on a rock and read. I dash past trying not to look as if I have been stalking him. It does add meaning to this place, that people still use its isolation and majesty for a contemplative life. I wonder how much the tourists intrude, though.
On the way back I was able to look around the 11th century Byzantine church, which was closed when I first tried it.
Many frescoes, of course. A sign saying "only monks, priests and nannies allowed" makes me smile. The place has character but I feel I know too little about this sort of architecture and painting to appreciate it, other than its age. There is a little mosaic that the guide says is a peacock, but I prefer to think this, and many other beautifully carved birds in the monasteries, is a phoenix, with its symbolism of resurrection. Outside in the wall of the church are a sun and a serpent, pagan carvings re-deployed.
I put my last few coins in the collecting box and head back for breakfast. Then I head up a monopatia, a "secret monk's path" in the direction of Aghios Triados, a monastery that was closed when I did the circuit. it featured in a Bond film, and you can see what a spectacle it would make. The secret path is well maintained and easy enough to follow. The climb seems surprisingly quick, in maybe 40 minutes I am in the monastery. It is fun to watch a cable car bringing a workman across with his toolbox... Much less effort than climbing down the path and back up.
Leaving the monastery I am back on the tourist trail, and the noise is a bit oppressive. Days on isolated mountains have left me intolerant of hubbub. Many visitors seem to be Russian or Bulgarian.
The last establishment now houses 30 nuns who are taking every opportunity to sell icons, postcards and other paraphernalia. It must be necessary for them, but seems a pity. There is a constant stream of pilgrims through the church. The press is less in the museum, however, and the parchments are well worth seeing. As well as the Poetics and some liturgy, they have some early musical notation, a little like plainsong.
The convent closes at 13.00 and as the buses buzz away with their swarms of visitors, I climb down from the road onto the mountain, to have a peaceful lunch looking out on the amazing view. I am still failing to identify many birds as they seem extra shy: there seem to be swifts around, and certainly there are finches.
Eventually I head back the way I came, past Aghios Triados and down the monopatia. I am overtaken by a young monk walking fast. I want to photograph him on this appropriate path, but am a little embarrassed to do so (it seems rude to regard a person as a tourist sight). By the time I have my camera out and it has chirped into life, the monk is well ahead on the path, which winds so much it is hard to see more than ten yards ahead. I do get one or two rushed pictures.
The monk pauses to sit on a rock and read. I dash past trying not to look as if I have been stalking him. It does add meaning to this place, that people still use its isolation and majesty for a contemplative life. I wonder how much the tourists intrude, though.
Useful info, avoid AmEx in an emergency
Ok, it could have been worse... I still have my passport and Giannis at Hotel Alsos is brilliant, lending me cash for food and completely relaxed about his bill. He also arranged for the local radio station to put out an appeal for the return of my wallet, though I have little hope...
It took 2 hours and three visits to report my lost wallet to the police. The only help from my insurer was to tell me to make a claim when I got home. They seemed amazed when I asked about an emergency cash advance.
American Express also proved useless, despite their ads. My platinum card claims to provide emergency assistance. Pah. I called 6 times or more. Was transferred all round Europe, to different insurers, cut off unexpectedly, endless rigmarole, after several hours on Skype had achieved nothing. Ooo
Finally, HSBC saved the day. They were efficient, charming and easy to talk to. They sent money via western union, to be picked up at the post office.
I wish I had tried HSBC first. The five hours I spent trying to get help from my insurer and from AmEx meant the prompt HSBC transfer reached the post office at 3.20pm, after they shut for the weekend. So I settled down to spend an extra three nights in Kalambaka.
I feel really let down by AmEx and by my insurer. This is all just inconvenient, but without an understanding hotelier it could be far worse...
It took 2 hours and three visits to report my lost wallet to the police. The only help from my insurer was to tell me to make a claim when I got home. They seemed amazed when I asked about an emergency cash advance.
American Express also proved useless, despite their ads. My platinum card claims to provide emergency assistance. Pah. I called 6 times or more. Was transferred all round Europe, to different insurers, cut off unexpectedly, endless rigmarole, after several hours on Skype had achieved nothing. Ooo
Finally, HSBC saved the day. They were efficient, charming and easy to talk to. They sent money via western union, to be picked up at the post office.
I wish I had tried HSBC first. The five hours I spent trying to get help from my insurer and from AmEx meant the prompt HSBC transfer reached the post office at 3.20pm, after they shut for the weekend. So I settled down to spend an extra three nights in Kalambaka.
I feel really let down by AmEx and by my insurer. This is all just inconvenient, but without an understanding hotelier it could be far worse...
Sunday, 11 November 2012
more ups and downs
Today's rest day I planned to cycle up to visit the crows nest monasteries. In the end I visited four of the six, and other stuff happened.
I carried tools and a basic medical kit, but even so a pretty light load! As you'd expect, it's a steep start. I have been searching for stamps for postcards for days, so when I see a shop advertising stamps (well, 'stambs' in fact) I pop in. Sadly, as everywhere else, 'stambs' are 'finis'. Oh well. When I come out of the shop a kitten is playing with the straps of my pannier, so I give it some cheese from my lunch sandwich. That proves popular...
Heading on, I soon reach the foot of the climb to the first monastery, St Nicholas. I lock the bike but cannot find my wallet. This is a pain, as each monastery asks a small entry fee. I don't feel much like heading back to get it and doing the climb again, so I walk up in the hope of persuading them to let me in. Instead, I meet a kind English chap from Lancashire who gives me ten Euros which will get me into all the monasteries. So it isn't just Greeks who help out strangers! He doesn't ask to be paid back, so I promise to donate it to charity.
Now I am able to enjoy the monasteries. They began in the eleventh century and at their height there were 24, now reduced to six. They are each spectacularly perched on a finger of stone, and each has its own character and treasures. My favourite is the first, St Nicholas, with its charming 16th century fresco of Adam naming the animals... the elephant, camel, snake, owl and others stand in line to be named. As I admire it I can hear the present-day monks singing "kyrie eleison" nearby. Or maybe it if a recording...
Moving on and (inevitably) up to Rousanou - now a convent or nannery as they are known around here. Here the highlight is a little room of frescoes, lit by tiny panes of coloured glass. Back over the tiny, vertiginous wooden bridge and down the steep path to the bike, for another mile or so uphill.
Varlaam stands out for the huge ancient wooden barrel big enough to live in and the apparatus once used to haul provisions and monks up to the monasteries. I like the story that when asked how often the ropes are replaced, the monks used to reply ' when the Lord lets them break'.
The next climb takes me to the biggest and once richest monastery, Megalou Meteorou. This is noisy with coach-loads of tourists. The kitchen and refectory are stately. There are amazing manuscripts, including classics such as Aristotle that survived through the monks' care. The highlight for me is the collection of costumes and photos that tell the story of resistance supported from Meteora, to the Ottomans and later the Germans.
Back down the hill at pace before climbing towards a lookout point. I recall again and again on this trip that 'horizon' means the girdle of seeing; the ring of mountains on all sides, on Olympus and here, makes the metaphor so straightforward.
Pedalling into the lookout spot I meet a car with British plates and a bike on the back, so of course we have a chat. Max has been travelling for a couple of months, but has only pedalled half the distance I have in two weeks. I try to persuade him that it isn't as tough as it looks. Well, it isn't!
We end up spending a couple of hours chatting, perched high on a rock shaped like a huge sack of flour. After a couple of weeks of pigeon conversations it is a pleasure to be more discursive. We agree to meet for dinner and head off in different directions, for me a descent so scary I take most of it at about 20 kph and resolve to adjust my brakes.
When I get back I find to my horror that, contrary to expectation, my wallet is nowhere to be found. I don't want to bore with the details. I spent the rest of the evening searching, informing the police etc. Max is lovely, taking me by car to the shop that had no stamps and to the police (the police report takes three visits, the bureaucracy is saddening). Then this patient man buys me dinner. Without company this would have been awful. At least with someone else there it is possible to laugh sometimes.
Back in my room I search yet again but no luck. It is hard to understand where it went between dinner last night and the monastery, so I go over everything I did, again and again. No luck, of course.
I carried tools and a basic medical kit, but even so a pretty light load! As you'd expect, it's a steep start. I have been searching for stamps for postcards for days, so when I see a shop advertising stamps (well, 'stambs' in fact) I pop in. Sadly, as everywhere else, 'stambs' are 'finis'. Oh well. When I come out of the shop a kitten is playing with the straps of my pannier, so I give it some cheese from my lunch sandwich. That proves popular...
Heading on, I soon reach the foot of the climb to the first monastery, St Nicholas. I lock the bike but cannot find my wallet. This is a pain, as each monastery asks a small entry fee. I don't feel much like heading back to get it and doing the climb again, so I walk up in the hope of persuading them to let me in. Instead, I meet a kind English chap from Lancashire who gives me ten Euros which will get me into all the monasteries. So it isn't just Greeks who help out strangers! He doesn't ask to be paid back, so I promise to donate it to charity.
Now I am able to enjoy the monasteries. They began in the eleventh century and at their height there were 24, now reduced to six. They are each spectacularly perched on a finger of stone, and each has its own character and treasures. My favourite is the first, St Nicholas, with its charming 16th century fresco of Adam naming the animals... the elephant, camel, snake, owl and others stand in line to be named. As I admire it I can hear the present-day monks singing "kyrie eleison" nearby. Or maybe it if a recording...
Moving on and (inevitably) up to Rousanou - now a convent or nannery as they are known around here. Here the highlight is a little room of frescoes, lit by tiny panes of coloured glass. Back over the tiny, vertiginous wooden bridge and down the steep path to the bike, for another mile or so uphill.
Varlaam stands out for the huge ancient wooden barrel big enough to live in and the apparatus once used to haul provisions and monks up to the monasteries. I like the story that when asked how often the ropes are replaced, the monks used to reply ' when the Lord lets them break'.
The next climb takes me to the biggest and once richest monastery, Megalou Meteorou. This is noisy with coach-loads of tourists. The kitchen and refectory are stately. There are amazing manuscripts, including classics such as Aristotle that survived through the monks' care. The highlight for me is the collection of costumes and photos that tell the story of resistance supported from Meteora, to the Ottomans and later the Germans.
Back down the hill at pace before climbing towards a lookout point. I recall again and again on this trip that 'horizon' means the girdle of seeing; the ring of mountains on all sides, on Olympus and here, makes the metaphor so straightforward.
Pedalling into the lookout spot I meet a car with British plates and a bike on the back, so of course we have a chat. Max has been travelling for a couple of months, but has only pedalled half the distance I have in two weeks. I try to persuade him that it isn't as tough as it looks. Well, it isn't!
We end up spending a couple of hours chatting, perched high on a rock shaped like a huge sack of flour. After a couple of weeks of pigeon conversations it is a pleasure to be more discursive. We agree to meet for dinner and head off in different directions, for me a descent so scary I take most of it at about 20 kph and resolve to adjust my brakes.
When I get back I find to my horror that, contrary to expectation, my wallet is nowhere to be found. I don't want to bore with the details. I spent the rest of the evening searching, informing the police etc. Max is lovely, taking me by car to the shop that had no stamps and to the police (the police report takes three visits, the bureaucracy is saddening). Then this patient man buys me dinner. Without company this would have been awful. At least with someone else there it is possible to laugh sometimes.
Back in my room I search yet again but no luck. It is hard to understand where it went between dinner last night and the monastery, so I go over everything I did, again and again. No luck, of course.
Downhill all the way
I had chosen Dheskati for a stopover because it was close to Meteora, where I planned to spend a day visiting the monasteries balanced on rock pinnacles. Meteora being famous for being ' suspended in the air', I was expecting yet more climbing and so left myself only about 50km. Amazingly, it turned out to be downhill almost all the way. Well, I definitely earned it yesterday.
Leaving Dheskati I moved into a different landscape again. Less steep hillsides, small fields ploughed by tractors that seem tiny by UK standards. The soil is a deep, rich orange-brown colour, enhanced by rows of yellowing beech trees (saplings rather than hedges).
These orange colours are complemented by a bruise-blue sky that promises heavy rain. In fact, it is clearly already raining not far away, swathes of blue reaching to the ground. The whole landscape is gentler and more colourful than the teal mountains, but it still has grandeur.
The grumbling weather makes me press on, passing inviting picnic spots beside a very Welsh-looking river. In less than two hours I am within 10 k of my destination. I have decided to stay in Kalambaka, the modern town, so I can walk to the station and check out options for heading towards Delphi by train.
As ever, that last 10 km becomes 18 and I keep worrying that I have missed a turning. I am clearly circling round the columns of rock and can even see the cliff-top monasteries...drifting away to my left...
The left turn eventually appears of course and before I know it I'm heading up to the central square. It is a shock to be surrounded by so many people after days of peace in the hills. As I pedal slowly up towards the Alsos Hotel, at a quieter end of town, I pass a bizarrely cluttered shop front that spills onto the pavement. It is adorned with sparrows, which are clinging to birdcages to steal the food from captive finches. The chirruping of sparrows and finches is delightful, but when I later walk past I can only feel grief for the goldfinches, 8 or 12 to a cage. The finches are more intent on pecking the bars of the cage than on eating their seed. Nearby canaries are singing away but the goldfinches, which have a beautiful song, for now do little more than chirp, mocked by the ebullient and uncaged sparrows.
The hotel is welcoming, the shower hot, and the view splendid. By 4 pm I head into town refreshed. The train station is a little disappointing. There is a direct train to Livadhia, twice a day at 5.30 am and 5.40 pm. I can take a bike but if the train is full I cannot board and I waste my ticket. The ticket office have no idea if the train tends to be full, all I can do is turn up, buy a ticket and hope. Not ideal. As I leave they decide I cannot take the morning train because I would have to change. This is a pain as it means I would not be able to press straight on to Delphi after the four and a half hour train journey. Not sure of the best choice here...
A dinner of four types of Greek salad makes a change from my usual takeaway souvlaki (which are delicious, with tomatoes and tzatziki, hold the chips...). Then back up the hill for a good (and early) night's sleep.
Leaving Dheskati I moved into a different landscape again. Less steep hillsides, small fields ploughed by tractors that seem tiny by UK standards. The soil is a deep, rich orange-brown colour, enhanced by rows of yellowing beech trees (saplings rather than hedges).
These orange colours are complemented by a bruise-blue sky that promises heavy rain. In fact, it is clearly already raining not far away, swathes of blue reaching to the ground. The whole landscape is gentler and more colourful than the teal mountains, but it still has grandeur.
The grumbling weather makes me press on, passing inviting picnic spots beside a very Welsh-looking river. In less than two hours I am within 10 k of my destination. I have decided to stay in Kalambaka, the modern town, so I can walk to the station and check out options for heading towards Delphi by train.
As ever, that last 10 km becomes 18 and I keep worrying that I have missed a turning. I am clearly circling round the columns of rock and can even see the cliff-top monasteries...drifting away to my left...
The left turn eventually appears of course and before I know it I'm heading up to the central square. It is a shock to be surrounded by so many people after days of peace in the hills. As I pedal slowly up towards the Alsos Hotel, at a quieter end of town, I pass a bizarrely cluttered shop front that spills onto the pavement. It is adorned with sparrows, which are clinging to birdcages to steal the food from captive finches. The chirruping of sparrows and finches is delightful, but when I later walk past I can only feel grief for the goldfinches, 8 or 12 to a cage. The finches are more intent on pecking the bars of the cage than on eating their seed. Nearby canaries are singing away but the goldfinches, which have a beautiful song, for now do little more than chirp, mocked by the ebullient and uncaged sparrows.
The hotel is welcoming, the shower hot, and the view splendid. By 4 pm I head into town refreshed. The train station is a little disappointing. There is a direct train to Livadhia, twice a day at 5.30 am and 5.40 pm. I can take a bike but if the train is full I cannot board and I waste my ticket. The ticket office have no idea if the train tends to be full, all I can do is turn up, buy a ticket and hope. Not ideal. As I leave they decide I cannot take the morning train because I would have to change. This is a pain as it means I would not be able to press straight on to Delphi after the four and a half hour train journey. Not sure of the best choice here...
A dinner of four types of Greek salad makes a change from my usual takeaway souvlaki (which are delicious, with tomatoes and tzatziki, hold the chips...). Then back up the hill for a good (and early) night's sleep.
Friday, 9 November 2012
Xenophilia - the Greeks really do welcome strangers
Got going by eight, into headwind as predicted. The nearby peaks meant the sun is late to reach down to me. After an hour of uphills I stopped for a breather, some yoghurt, and to listen to the birds. The delayed sunrise means I catch the dawn chorus. The birds hide assiduously so they are hard to identify. Among the small, chirpy ones there are certainly finches and warblers. There also seem to be flocks of fieldfares or some relatives.
The road rolls steadily on, up and down in equal part. Round one corner I have to slow for a herd of curious cows. Round the next bend I meet the cowherd. He is cheerful and chatty, offers me a cigarette.. He is impressed by my route, the climb yesterday, and cries ' bravo' repeatedly.
The route becomes a swift descent and surroundings turn from cloud-topped mountains to crops, even vines (which seem to need better soil than olives). At one point I pass a bank of tiny, wild crocuses, lilac. They are said to spring from Prometheus' blood, though I don't know if that refers to purple or saffron crocuses.
Making good speed into the valley, I have done 30 km by 10.30. It is finally warm enough to switch to shorts (the mountain air is cold, especially at 35 or 40kmh into a headwind).
I approach a cafe to refill a water bottle and am invited to join a couple of old codgers, Paulo and Giannis, who are knocking back ouzo, cloudy with water. I decline the ouzo but share their bread and omelette. The omelette is delicious, full of peppers that are piquant but with flavour, not just heat. Quite like some we grow at home, in fact. Paul and Giannis are delighted to feed me and order another capsicum omelette, this time with local cheese as well. Superb! They point at their wine-sack stomachs and claim they don't need the food. Giannis is proud of his dog, which he says he loves more than his wife.
We spend an hour chatting, the ouzo slowly disappearing (the omelette disappears rather faster: yum). Then I head off again towards Elasona.
By the time I reach Elasona, I have come over 40k downhill.. Which shows how high I climbed yesterday (about 1100m it turns out, in about 9km).
As ever, what comes down must go up, and there is a climb out of Elasona. The villages are small, the purported A road is uneven and the sun is hot. The headwind feels nice and cooling but I am conscious it is dehydrating, too.
There are lakes and rivers here... Cormorants hung out to dry like umbrellas after a thunderstorm, a tiny, diving grebe and a heron, soaring like a majestic airship.
As the heat grows the birds fall silent. I shelter in the shade of any tree that offers cover, though with the sun so high there are few places to escape it.
Although the road barely looks like a slope, I can only manage 6 kmh. Presumably it is actually steep, plus the heat and headwind must be making it tougher. Between pedalling pushing and pausing, I manage to progress, but the remaining 25 k is starting to look challenging. A white van and slows to offer me a lift but I smile my refusals. Within fifteen minutes I am regretting this. He clearly knew about the hill that was coming. I end up pushing for a few k. The mountain to my left is marked as 1150 m and I can see myself edging past it. I start to feel hope that I may be approaching the high point of the road. For 20 k there are no villages (and hence no options for an overnight stop) and this makes it hard to be sure exactly where I am. Once over that crest, it all gets easier. It is 3.30pm so the sun is cooling. The road curves down and even my faithful headwind is gentler. I must by going west, as it becomes hard to see with the setting sun in my eyes. Some uphill, but now it feels doable. I meet a French cyclist on his way to Istanbul. He assures me there isn't much uphill left before Dheskati, and I explain what he can expect on the way to Elasona. It seems right to wish that he "faites un beau voyage" the line from Verlaine popping into my head (it refers to Odysseus' voyage, so seems right for Greece). A lot of poetry rattles randomly round my head as I ride, which is quite a pleasure. Usually life is too hectic for it to surface.
As I reach Deskhati I ask an elderly man with a fishing rod if there is a hotel or domatia in the town. He assures me there is none and suggests I head for Grebena, 65 km away. It is now getting dark.
I have come across this before...after all, why should people know about hotels in their home town? I am fairly confident this town is big enough to have a hotel.
I ask in a cafe - they seem to think there is one near the church. A few chats later I find someone who speaks good English (he used to have a fish and chip shop in Sydney, NSW).
He directs me to the hotel. It is shut so I wander back to the cafe where I met him. He has gone, but the owner invites me in. Some broken German serves to explain the situation, and as I warm up they seem to be making helpful phone calls. I go with the flow. The cafe is warmed by charcoal on a grill, which is building a cheerful fug.
After an hour all is sorted, the hotel opens for me (no hot water though). I return to the cafe after my cold shower to thank people and share souvlaki from the grill. Ready for a good night's sleep. I have met so many welcoming and helpful people, today: it is a real privilege to encounter Greek philoxenia.
The road rolls steadily on, up and down in equal part. Round one corner I have to slow for a herd of curious cows. Round the next bend I meet the cowherd. He is cheerful and chatty, offers me a cigarette.. He is impressed by my route, the climb yesterday, and cries ' bravo' repeatedly.
The route becomes a swift descent and surroundings turn from cloud-topped mountains to crops, even vines (which seem to need better soil than olives). At one point I pass a bank of tiny, wild crocuses, lilac. They are said to spring from Prometheus' blood, though I don't know if that refers to purple or saffron crocuses.
Making good speed into the valley, I have done 30 km by 10.30. It is finally warm enough to switch to shorts (the mountain air is cold, especially at 35 or 40kmh into a headwind).
I approach a cafe to refill a water bottle and am invited to join a couple of old codgers, Paulo and Giannis, who are knocking back ouzo, cloudy with water. I decline the ouzo but share their bread and omelette. The omelette is delicious, full of peppers that are piquant but with flavour, not just heat. Quite like some we grow at home, in fact. Paul and Giannis are delighted to feed me and order another capsicum omelette, this time with local cheese as well. Superb! They point at their wine-sack stomachs and claim they don't need the food. Giannis is proud of his dog, which he says he loves more than his wife.
We spend an hour chatting, the ouzo slowly disappearing (the omelette disappears rather faster: yum). Then I head off again towards Elasona.
By the time I reach Elasona, I have come over 40k downhill.. Which shows how high I climbed yesterday (about 1100m it turns out, in about 9km).
As ever, what comes down must go up, and there is a climb out of Elasona. The villages are small, the purported A road is uneven and the sun is hot. The headwind feels nice and cooling but I am conscious it is dehydrating, too.
There are lakes and rivers here... Cormorants hung out to dry like umbrellas after a thunderstorm, a tiny, diving grebe and a heron, soaring like a majestic airship.
As the heat grows the birds fall silent. I shelter in the shade of any tree that offers cover, though with the sun so high there are few places to escape it.
Although the road barely looks like a slope, I can only manage 6 kmh. Presumably it is actually steep, plus the heat and headwind must be making it tougher. Between pedalling pushing and pausing, I manage to progress, but the remaining 25 k is starting to look challenging. A white van and slows to offer me a lift but I smile my refusals. Within fifteen minutes I am regretting this. He clearly knew about the hill that was coming. I end up pushing for a few k. The mountain to my left is marked as 1150 m and I can see myself edging past it. I start to feel hope that I may be approaching the high point of the road. For 20 k there are no villages (and hence no options for an overnight stop) and this makes it hard to be sure exactly where I am. Once over that crest, it all gets easier. It is 3.30pm so the sun is cooling. The road curves down and even my faithful headwind is gentler. I must by going west, as it becomes hard to see with the setting sun in my eyes. Some uphill, but now it feels doable. I meet a French cyclist on his way to Istanbul. He assures me there isn't much uphill left before Dheskati, and I explain what he can expect on the way to Elasona. It seems right to wish that he "faites un beau voyage" the line from Verlaine popping into my head (it refers to Odysseus' voyage, so seems right for Greece). A lot of poetry rattles randomly round my head as I ride, which is quite a pleasure. Usually life is too hectic for it to surface.
As I reach Deskhati I ask an elderly man with a fishing rod if there is a hotel or domatia in the town. He assures me there is none and suggests I head for Grebena, 65 km away. It is now getting dark.
I have come across this before...after all, why should people know about hotels in their home town? I am fairly confident this town is big enough to have a hotel.
I ask in a cafe - they seem to think there is one near the church. A few chats later I find someone who speaks good English (he used to have a fish and chip shop in Sydney, NSW).
He directs me to the hotel. It is shut so I wander back to the cafe where I met him. He has gone, but the owner invites me in. Some broken German serves to explain the situation, and as I warm up they seem to be making helpful phone calls. I go with the flow. The cafe is warmed by charcoal on a grill, which is building a cheerful fug.
After an hour all is sorted, the hotel opens for me (no hot water though). I return to the cafe after my cold shower to thank people and share souvlaki from the grill. Ready for a good night's sleep. I have met so many welcoming and helpful people, today: it is a real privilege to encounter Greek philoxenia.
A divine's intervention
I had doubts about this route when I checked it out on Google maps. But both my taxi driver and the hotel manager's brother urged me to take this route of the three options. Advice of this sort is tricky: people tend to worry about distance when the real limiting factor is how long the really steep hills last. Can they be cycled or will I be pushing?
Consensus was that the climb to Kurya is 25 km up, with 10km of switchbacks. At a cycle of 7 kph that is 4 hours plus rests. Pushing at 3 kph it isn't doable in the available light. So I have to stay in the saddle as much as possible. And minimise rests.
Had wanted to pay the hotel the night before, to get a really early start and climb in the cool morning as much as possible. No luck as there is nobody on the desk. Same issue on Monday morning. Eventually I pay and am on the road by 9. The hotel makes up for this by following me 10 km to give me my phone, which I left behind. This is lovely of them - and it's fortunate I asked advice on the route.
At this point, the climb begins. It is already very hot and I slog away at 7 kph.
It goes on and on and I go ever slower! At this rate I cannot make it in the light. As is traditional in such cases, the original signed distance of 24 k is still 24 k after 30 mins pedalling and a lot of sweat. No point grumbling, the journey is what it is and I cannot alter that.
Up and up, turn after turn. I look back and can see maybe 10 loops of my snaking path.
It is a real admission that I am planning to push for a while when I replace cycling shoes and helmet with sandals and sun hat. Although it is a first, I had planned this, and reckon the timing can still work if my guess/hope is right and the straighter route after the zig zags is gentler. Of course, there is a chance it is worse, as the zig zags are designed to make a very steep road manageable.
Not much to describe. this was a real challenge and had few good points. I got huge bruises from the front changer through failed attempts to restart pedalling, as the bike fell before I could get my second foot on the pedal.
People would stop their cars to chat. Where am I from, where am I going, how long am I in Greece, am I married, do I have children, what work do I do, am I German? I can now cope with this much discussion in Greek, with some gestures to help.
As I reached a fresh corner (the steepest part), a recent chatter reappeared, having turned his car and trailer. Bless him, he lifted the bike into the trailer with ease (!) and gave me a lift about 2 or 3 km. As we covered the ground I was aghast at the terrain, and really am not sure I could have done it, in the heat and tired as I was. I suppose it was only 2 to 3 hours at my present speed of 2 kph pushing, but I was needing rests even from pushing...
I have never accepted a lift when cycling before. They are not often offered, for the obvious reason that cars cannot easily take a bike. Father Aemiliou is a priest in Kurya where I am headed. He is charming, and drops me at a point where he says the bike will be ok. I thought he meant the uphill would become less steep, but in fact the road started to go down. The last 7 km, which I had been assured by two locals went up, actually went down. If I had known this I would have felt less anxious as I climbed so slowly.
That lift made all the difference. I reached Kurya at about 1.30 pm and decided to break there. I had only covered 32 km but they were some of the toughest of my life. I hardly ever push the bike. It is hard work and slow, and it tends to hurt my back. Of course, the load is heavy and the heat fierce. I suspect the road is exceptional, too. There is a strong headwind that means even as the road levels out I am still going at a snail's pace. All reasons for the earliest end ever to a cycling day.
Kurya is delighted with me...a Martian could not have been regarded as more bizarre. But everyone is charming and happy to take time to understand my feeble Greek. English is unusual here in the hills.
Caught up on blog drafts but couldn't send them as naturally there is no wifi. Early night as the wind hurtles through the shutters. Guess I shall still have a headwind in the morning....
Consensus was that the climb to Kurya is 25 km up, with 10km of switchbacks. At a cycle of 7 kph that is 4 hours plus rests. Pushing at 3 kph it isn't doable in the available light. So I have to stay in the saddle as much as possible. And minimise rests.
Had wanted to pay the hotel the night before, to get a really early start and climb in the cool morning as much as possible. No luck as there is nobody on the desk. Same issue on Monday morning. Eventually I pay and am on the road by 9. The hotel makes up for this by following me 10 km to give me my phone, which I left behind. This is lovely of them - and it's fortunate I asked advice on the route.
At this point, the climb begins. It is already very hot and I slog away at 7 kph.
It goes on and on and I go ever slower! At this rate I cannot make it in the light. As is traditional in such cases, the original signed distance of 24 k is still 24 k after 30 mins pedalling and a lot of sweat. No point grumbling, the journey is what it is and I cannot alter that.
Up and up, turn after turn. I look back and can see maybe 10 loops of my snaking path.
It is a real admission that I am planning to push for a while when I replace cycling shoes and helmet with sandals and sun hat. Although it is a first, I had planned this, and reckon the timing can still work if my guess/hope is right and the straighter route after the zig zags is gentler. Of course, there is a chance it is worse, as the zig zags are designed to make a very steep road manageable.
Not much to describe. this was a real challenge and had few good points. I got huge bruises from the front changer through failed attempts to restart pedalling, as the bike fell before I could get my second foot on the pedal.
People would stop their cars to chat. Where am I from, where am I going, how long am I in Greece, am I married, do I have children, what work do I do, am I German? I can now cope with this much discussion in Greek, with some gestures to help.
As I reached a fresh corner (the steepest part), a recent chatter reappeared, having turned his car and trailer. Bless him, he lifted the bike into the trailer with ease (!) and gave me a lift about 2 or 3 km. As we covered the ground I was aghast at the terrain, and really am not sure I could have done it, in the heat and tired as I was. I suppose it was only 2 to 3 hours at my present speed of 2 kph pushing, but I was needing rests even from pushing...
I have never accepted a lift when cycling before. They are not often offered, for the obvious reason that cars cannot easily take a bike. Father Aemiliou is a priest in Kurya where I am headed. He is charming, and drops me at a point where he says the bike will be ok. I thought he meant the uphill would become less steep, but in fact the road started to go down. The last 7 km, which I had been assured by two locals went up, actually went down. If I had known this I would have felt less anxious as I climbed so slowly.
That lift made all the difference. I reached Kurya at about 1.30 pm and decided to break there. I had only covered 32 km but they were some of the toughest of my life. I hardly ever push the bike. It is hard work and slow, and it tends to hurt my back. Of course, the load is heavy and the heat fierce. I suspect the road is exceptional, too. There is a strong headwind that means even as the road levels out I am still going at a snail's pace. All reasons for the earliest end ever to a cycling day.
Kurya is delighted with me...a Martian could not have been regarded as more bizarre. But everyone is charming and happy to take time to understand my feeble Greek. English is unusual here in the hills.
Caught up on blog drafts but couldn't send them as naturally there is no wifi. Early night as the wind hurtles through the shutters. Guess I shall still have a headwind in the morning....
Wednesday, 7 November 2012
Rest day.. walking on Mount Olympus
Lithohoro is a rather noisy, bustling town, a starting point for people who want to explore the mountain. I took a taxi up to the monastery below the first hut.
First, I walked down to the little chapel in the sacred cave where a spring rises. This feeds the Enipea river which has created the gorge down to Litohoro.
The walk to the cave is signed as taking 20 minutes, but I suspect it took me twice as long. The path is fairly clear, with some steps, but it is very uneven and follows contours of the gorge, up as well as down.
The cave had seemed at the start to be a side path from the main route down, so after filling my water bottle at the very source of the spring, I started back up. A little over half way back up, I met a group of walkers and asked if this path continued to Litohoro. They seemed sure it did, so I turned round and headed back to the sacred cave.
There I spoke more with one of the hiking party. She teaches German in a school in Ossa, and so we could communicate fairly well in German.
She invited me to join their group, which I did as it seemed sensible. Hiking alone is never a great idea. The hike was brilliant, dramatic cliffs, strange rocks, beech trees just turning yellow and of course the river, growing ever fiercer as we descend. It isn't huge but even at the tail-end of summer it is substantial.
I am in the front group of five, with my German-speaking friend. They keep up a cracking pace, so I am just able to keep up. Last summer I walked in the Caucasus with a couple of English ladies in their sixties, with similar energy levels. It turns out these ladies regularly walk on their home mountain, which is pretty tough (schlimm). Also, this is their fourth time doing this particular walk, so they know what's coming. They are keen to set a record and we do, making the bottom in about four hours. I leave them to wait for the rest of their group who are quite a way behind. A great walk, but not perhaps the day of rest intended. But how can I duck out on the serendipity that brought me to this spot unplanned? I would not have done the walk if I had stayed at the coast.
Tried out a much hyped eatery, Gastrodomio, but not impressed. It's hard to make myself eat the salty, un-appetising stuff. Try to think of it as mere fuel. I enjoyed last night's calamari more!
Back to my room to examine maps, as tomorrow looks fearsome...
First, I walked down to the little chapel in the sacred cave where a spring rises. This feeds the Enipea river which has created the gorge down to Litohoro.
The walk to the cave is signed as taking 20 minutes, but I suspect it took me twice as long. The path is fairly clear, with some steps, but it is very uneven and follows contours of the gorge, up as well as down.
The cave had seemed at the start to be a side path from the main route down, so after filling my water bottle at the very source of the spring, I started back up. A little over half way back up, I met a group of walkers and asked if this path continued to Litohoro. They seemed sure it did, so I turned round and headed back to the sacred cave.
There I spoke more with one of the hiking party. She teaches German in a school in Ossa, and so we could communicate fairly well in German.
She invited me to join their group, which I did as it seemed sensible. Hiking alone is never a great idea. The hike was brilliant, dramatic cliffs, strange rocks, beech trees just turning yellow and of course the river, growing ever fiercer as we descend. It isn't huge but even at the tail-end of summer it is substantial.
I am in the front group of five, with my German-speaking friend. They keep up a cracking pace, so I am just able to keep up. Last summer I walked in the Caucasus with a couple of English ladies in their sixties, with similar energy levels. It turns out these ladies regularly walk on their home mountain, which is pretty tough (schlimm). Also, this is their fourth time doing this particular walk, so they know what's coming. They are keen to set a record and we do, making the bottom in about four hours. I leave them to wait for the rest of their group who are quite a way behind. A great walk, but not perhaps the day of rest intended. But how can I duck out on the serendipity that brought me to this spot unplanned? I would not have done the walk if I had stayed at the coast.
Tried out a much hyped eatery, Gastrodomio, but not impressed. It's hard to make myself eat the salty, un-appetising stuff. Try to think of it as mere fuel. I enjoyed last night's calamari more!
Back to my room to examine maps, as tomorrow looks fearsome...
Oops, bicycle on the motorway.
Sped along the plain again before heading up the flanks of Mount Ossa. Amazing to be cycling up the source of a phrase. Pelion is in the distance. Quick snack overlooking a Mycenean hill fort. Am heading for the Vale of Tembi, recommended by the Lonely Planet guide.
As happened yesterday, it was really hard to understand and negotiate the motorway interchange. Pleased to get on the quiet parallel road. Until..
My nice quiet road simply came to an end, cut off by a barrier from the horrid main road. It didn't continue on the other side of the main road. No option then. Lifted the bike with 30 kg in panniers over the two foot barrier. (Who ever thought going back was an option? I hate going back.) My map shows that the motorway ends around here and becomes a main road, so I figured if I go a km or so on the motorway by mistake, there's no great harm done. The road just switches from motorway to A road, and the volume of traffic must stay the same, I reckon.
It eventually becomes clear that I am probably on a motorway. Worse, there is one lane in each direction, and no hard shoulder. I cycle carefully down a 2 foot strip between a white line and the cliff face to my right. Sometimes my tiny lane vanishes, usually on a tight bend that leaves me close to the rock. All I can do is cycle as fast and as precisely as possible and hope the cars and trucks miss me. I know there is only 12km of this.
After a while there is a lay-by where people can get coffee. I stop for a break, pretty worn out with the adrenalin. Terror plus physical concentration are really tiring. I ask and am told this is indeed the motorway and bikes aren't allowed. But they agree there is nowhere else for me to go. I try to estimate how far it is to the first exit. Not easy.
Set off, still scared. Fortunately it is only 3 km to the exit. Once clear of the awful din of traffic, I have some fruit and a drink of water. My route now is a long detour that will let me see and cross the legendary Pindus river. The Temba valley was always a strategic path into Greece, so I grew up reading about the battles around it.
The river doesn't disappoint. This is really agrarian country, I suppose an alluvial plain. Easy to get lost among the tiny roads and tracks, but several people stop to help as I scan the map, and their advice is spot on.
Village after village drifts by, I skirt the coastline, all peaceful after the hollering of the motorway. Trouble is, being on tiny roads between the sea and the motorway, I have no chance of finding the hotel I planned to stay in. There is simply no road from where I am to the town.
So I end up two towns and 5 km beyond where I planned to stay. Worse, the town I can reach is a further 5 km up the lower slopes of Mount Olympus. Hard work at this stage of the day, and inevitably it is getting dark. Still, serendipity is not far away, the view of the twin peaks of Olympus as I climb towards the Snipe gorge is worth the climb, and the day. And I find a lovely hotel, and eat a while tin of calamari and half a loaf. Yum!
As happened yesterday, it was really hard to understand and negotiate the motorway interchange. Pleased to get on the quiet parallel road. Until..
My nice quiet road simply came to an end, cut off by a barrier from the horrid main road. It didn't continue on the other side of the main road. No option then. Lifted the bike with 30 kg in panniers over the two foot barrier. (Who ever thought going back was an option? I hate going back.) My map shows that the motorway ends around here and becomes a main road, so I figured if I go a km or so on the motorway by mistake, there's no great harm done. The road just switches from motorway to A road, and the volume of traffic must stay the same, I reckon.
It eventually becomes clear that I am probably on a motorway. Worse, there is one lane in each direction, and no hard shoulder. I cycle carefully down a 2 foot strip between a white line and the cliff face to my right. Sometimes my tiny lane vanishes, usually on a tight bend that leaves me close to the rock. All I can do is cycle as fast and as precisely as possible and hope the cars and trucks miss me. I know there is only 12km of this.
After a while there is a lay-by where people can get coffee. I stop for a break, pretty worn out with the adrenalin. Terror plus physical concentration are really tiring. I ask and am told this is indeed the motorway and bikes aren't allowed. But they agree there is nowhere else for me to go. I try to estimate how far it is to the first exit. Not easy.
Set off, still scared. Fortunately it is only 3 km to the exit. Once clear of the awful din of traffic, I have some fruit and a drink of water. My route now is a long detour that will let me see and cross the legendary Pindus river. The Temba valley was always a strategic path into Greece, so I grew up reading about the battles around it.
The river doesn't disappoint. This is really agrarian country, I suppose an alluvial plain. Easy to get lost among the tiny roads and tracks, but several people stop to help as I scan the map, and their advice is spot on.
Village after village drifts by, I skirt the coastline, all peaceful after the hollering of the motorway. Trouble is, being on tiny roads between the sea and the motorway, I have no chance of finding the hotel I planned to stay in. There is simply no road from where I am to the town.
So I end up two towns and 5 km beyond where I planned to stay. Worse, the town I can reach is a further 5 km up the lower slopes of Mount Olympus. Hard work at this stage of the day, and inevitably it is getting dark. Still, serendipity is not far away, the view of the twin peaks of Olympus as I climb towards the Snipe gorge is worth the climb, and the day. And I find a lovely hotel, and eat a while tin of calamari and half a loaf. Yum!
Monsoon hits Greece....
It is hard to express what is brilliant about cycling like this. The pace is perfect to see the landscape and stop for sights, but unlike walking, one can cover a lot of terrain in a week. On this trip, one of the exceptional experiences is the scents - mostly from plants, sometimes inexplicable (such as a heady gust of honey). Sometimes interesting rather than fragrant e.g. goats. The goats here are wonderful, each different, bearded and piebald. They are endlessly curious- or perhaps as at home they expect any human to carry food.
Dogs worry me, but they have shown me that I can always put on speed if I really have to. I wish I could be like Christine, who just says 'aaah, he wants to play'. It seems she is right, but I used to walk a dog who went berserk when he saw a bike (or pram) and his plans for play were based around biting.
So, today more cycling. Great to do, a bit repetitive to describe.
Headed to the North of Evvia to take a ferry to the mainland. The change in vegetation was striking: even before landing. The whole landscape was bluish rather than green. The hillsides were clothed in olive trees, grey-green leaves and green-to-purple, rounded fruits weighing down the boughs. They are harvesting, so labour-intensive it seems to belong to a past world.
Quite hilly, a Mycenean tomb made a great lunch spot, then down to the plain of Thessaly. Olive trees heavy with fruit on all sides. Making good time on the flat but getting lost in towns..A perennial problem. It's easy to head out of town on the wrong road and go 5k before realising.
Then it started to rain, as had threatened all day. Then it got very dark and the hail started. With no buildings in sight, I pressed on. I passed a petrol station but it was on the other side of the road. It didn't feel safe to cross, with visibility about ten feet and waves scudding across the road, about 3 inches deep in flood.
I carried on -no point in not- and at last saw a chance of shelter, a hut by the side of the road, selling pots and pans. Not sure of my reception I approached, to be waved in with a welcome. The tin worker was an Armenian from Russia, who has been in Greece for twenty years. His fascinating tools, home-made clamps and jigs and his shiny pots and chimneys hung at all heights in the little shed. Waiting for the rain to lighten, we chatted in sign language and my minimal Greek. Oddly, I suppose inspired by ' weather' as a theme, I taught him the English word 'snowball'. He reckoned it was 100 metres to my destination. A little less time resting, or being lost in towns, and I might not even have got wet. But then I would have missed the pleasure of chatting with Gyorgy. Serendipity again.
In my seafront hotel by 3.30, I was almost scared by the sounds of metal things whacking other things. All kinds of bangs and crashes. The street had water streaming down it. I could not see as far as the sea, though it was only about ten metres away. It really felt like a tropical storm. I was happy to sit in bed and eat my picnic
Dogs worry me, but they have shown me that I can always put on speed if I really have to. I wish I could be like Christine, who just says 'aaah, he wants to play'. It seems she is right, but I used to walk a dog who went berserk when he saw a bike (or pram) and his plans for play were based around biting.
So, today more cycling. Great to do, a bit repetitive to describe.
Headed to the North of Evvia to take a ferry to the mainland. The change in vegetation was striking: even before landing. The whole landscape was bluish rather than green. The hillsides were clothed in olive trees, grey-green leaves and green-to-purple, rounded fruits weighing down the boughs. They are harvesting, so labour-intensive it seems to belong to a past world.
Quite hilly, a Mycenean tomb made a great lunch spot, then down to the plain of Thessaly. Olive trees heavy with fruit on all sides. Making good time on the flat but getting lost in towns..A perennial problem. It's easy to head out of town on the wrong road and go 5k before realising.
Then it started to rain, as had threatened all day. Then it got very dark and the hail started. With no buildings in sight, I pressed on. I passed a petrol station but it was on the other side of the road. It didn't feel safe to cross, with visibility about ten feet and waves scudding across the road, about 3 inches deep in flood.
I carried on -no point in not- and at last saw a chance of shelter, a hut by the side of the road, selling pots and pans. Not sure of my reception I approached, to be waved in with a welcome. The tin worker was an Armenian from Russia, who has been in Greece for twenty years. His fascinating tools, home-made clamps and jigs and his shiny pots and chimneys hung at all heights in the little shed. Waiting for the rain to lighten, we chatted in sign language and my minimal Greek. Oddly, I suppose inspired by ' weather' as a theme, I taught him the English word 'snowball'. He reckoned it was 100 metres to my destination. A little less time resting, or being lost in towns, and I might not even have got wet. But then I would have missed the pleasure of chatting with Gyorgy. Serendipity again.
In my seafront hotel by 3.30, I was almost scared by the sounds of metal things whacking other things. All kinds of bangs and crashes. The street had water streaming down it. I could not see as far as the sea, though it was only about ten metres away. It really felt like a tropical storm. I was happy to sit in bed and eat my picnic
Walking round Neolithic towns!
Headed into the hills to visit two Neolithic towns, Dhimini and Seskla. Dhimini first, a hill crowned with six circular stone walls. These were foundations for wooden houses with painted mud interiors. It's thought the walls were not needed for defence as the stone age farmers did not have time to fight each other. Until the coming of metal and money, there seems to have been no hierarchy, just collaboration. Dhimini has a street and houses of specialist potters and toolmakers. Some elegant pottery finds, too. Max population was 200 or maybe 300.
On towards Seskla, passing an amazing Mycenaean tomb. They unlocked it to let me in. It's the grand-daddy of the thole tomb I lunched at yesterday, but this one still has its complete dome, felt around 15 feet high. Awe-inspiring.
Hilly and tough going on the tiny, rough road up to Seskla. In the end, the road was so precipitate going down it felt as if the laden rear end of the bike might cartwheel over my head. Resolved to walk on the way back from this dead end to Seskla. Holes, gravel, sand and tractors added to the fun.
Seskla is 2000 years older than Dhimini. Very helpful curators with an adorable sheepdog puppy gave me a seat, chilled water and lots of info. Excellent audio guide, all funded by EU. Again, staggering to walk round walls 7000 years old, still about 2 feet high.
Walked some of the way back up the moth-eaten hill. Set off to Larisa across the plain. Spent an hour negotiating the motorway and side roads. Had fun carrying the bike over the sides of a bridge, this being the only gap in the barrier of the horrific main road I was stuck on. This let me walk down a hill to a minor road not on my map, which felt much safer.
Had to keep at it at top speed, non-stop to make the 40 km before dark. At one moment had to jump off the road to avoid a truck overtaking on the other side of the road. The truck missed me by feet but unfortunately the edge of the road was 9 inches below the road. Ouch, bike on top of me. Better than a truck, anyway.
Found a hotel after some searching. Stocked up on food (more weight, bah). Still amazed by the ruins. Superb!
On towards Seskla, passing an amazing Mycenaean tomb. They unlocked it to let me in. It's the grand-daddy of the thole tomb I lunched at yesterday, but this one still has its complete dome, felt around 15 feet high. Awe-inspiring.
Hilly and tough going on the tiny, rough road up to Seskla. In the end, the road was so precipitate going down it felt as if the laden rear end of the bike might cartwheel over my head. Resolved to walk on the way back from this dead end to Seskla. Holes, gravel, sand and tractors added to the fun.
Seskla is 2000 years older than Dhimini. Very helpful curators with an adorable sheepdog puppy gave me a seat, chilled water and lots of info. Excellent audio guide, all funded by EU. Again, staggering to walk round walls 7000 years old, still about 2 feet high.
Walked some of the way back up the moth-eaten hill. Set off to Larisa across the plain. Spent an hour negotiating the motorway and side roads. Had fun carrying the bike over the sides of a bridge, this being the only gap in the barrier of the horrific main road I was stuck on. This let me walk down a hill to a minor road not on my map, which felt much safer.
Had to keep at it at top speed, non-stop to make the 40 km before dark. At one moment had to jump off the road to avoid a truck overtaking on the other side of the road. The truck missed me by feet but unfortunately the edge of the road was 9 inches below the road. Ouch, bike on top of me. Better than a truck, anyway.
Found a hotel after some searching. Stocked up on food (more weight, bah). Still amazed by the ruins. Superb!
Rest day at the spa and beach
I'm not really a spa girl but in a place whose springs were talked of by Plato, Aristotle and Strabo, I had to give it a go. Especially as my muscles felt in need of pampering after yesterday.
I did a tour of the town early. Every single recommendation for food, sleep or spa in the Lonely Planet was shut. As were most other spas (spas is what Loutra does, eponymously enough).
After all the effort to get here, I decided to go the whole hog and visit the really posh place, one of Conde Nash's top ten spas in Europe, it seems.
First, I spent a few hours on the beach, reading and swimming in the fairly cool sea.
At five I headed to Sulla's Palace. Started by swimming in the ' sea water and hot spring water' pool. Not v good at sitting still, so swam on my back round and round a little island with a palm tree and sparrows. To avoid backache I alternated spin direction every few cycles. Hmmm fairly dull, really, a salty, warm swimming pool.
Inside was a warmer, hot-spring-water only pool. cascades and jacuzzis surged momently, every few minutes. Like standing under a waterfall, but less powerful and less exhilarating. Some fun trying to get the jets on my aching legs rather than shoulders as is intended. best bit was shut really but I sat in the dark trying not to be noticed. They called it a farmer's sauna, hot steam plus plants. Real plants hung in the middle of the sauna...rather nice.
Finally, time for the hot mud treatment. I did wonder how they take purportedly local mud and ooze homogenous sausages of it from a machine. Scalding! Leaned back and got wrapped in plastic and towels. V hot except for neck, which was rather chilly. Left alone to 'relax' I tried to pull the blanket up with my teeth. Got a mouthful of mud. surprisingly non-salty. Spat it out and wiped mouth on blanker as surreptitiously as possible. Still a cold neck so wiggled a lot to spread the hot mud. Quite fun squelching fingers. Felt more like torture than relaxation. I'm not good at sitting still. Relaxing tones in the background seemed to be based on the theme from Mash, 'Hey Jude' and Simon and Garfunkel. hmmm
I was unwrapped and popped in a hot bath with water jets. This really was torture. Does anyone do this more than once? It bubbled on for ages, me clinging to the sides of the bath for dear life (there was a footrest arrangement but I was too short to reach.
At last it was over. The massage that followed was the best bit, a deep massage that got at my tired muscles.
Well, it was an experience. The massage is the only part I would do again. Am still intrigued that this is supposed to be relaxing. I must be doing it wrong...
I did a tour of the town early. Every single recommendation for food, sleep or spa in the Lonely Planet was shut. As were most other spas (spas is what Loutra does, eponymously enough).
After all the effort to get here, I decided to go the whole hog and visit the really posh place, one of Conde Nash's top ten spas in Europe, it seems.
First, I spent a few hours on the beach, reading and swimming in the fairly cool sea.
At five I headed to Sulla's Palace. Started by swimming in the ' sea water and hot spring water' pool. Not v good at sitting still, so swam on my back round and round a little island with a palm tree and sparrows. To avoid backache I alternated spin direction every few cycles. Hmmm fairly dull, really, a salty, warm swimming pool.
Inside was a warmer, hot-spring-water only pool. cascades and jacuzzis surged momently, every few minutes. Like standing under a waterfall, but less powerful and less exhilarating. Some fun trying to get the jets on my aching legs rather than shoulders as is intended. best bit was shut really but I sat in the dark trying not to be noticed. They called it a farmer's sauna, hot steam plus plants. Real plants hung in the middle of the sauna...rather nice.
Finally, time for the hot mud treatment. I did wonder how they take purportedly local mud and ooze homogenous sausages of it from a machine. Scalding! Leaned back and got wrapped in plastic and towels. V hot except for neck, which was rather chilly. Left alone to 'relax' I tried to pull the blanket up with my teeth. Got a mouthful of mud. surprisingly non-salty. Spat it out and wiped mouth on blanker as surreptitiously as possible. Still a cold neck so wiggled a lot to spread the hot mud. Quite fun squelching fingers. Felt more like torture than relaxation. I'm not good at sitting still. Relaxing tones in the background seemed to be based on the theme from Mash, 'Hey Jude' and Simon and Garfunkel. hmmm
I was unwrapped and popped in a hot bath with water jets. This really was torture. Does anyone do this more than once? It bubbled on for ages, me clinging to the sides of the bath for dear life (there was a footrest arrangement but I was too short to reach.
At last it was over. The massage that followed was the best bit, a deep massage that got at my tired muscles.
Well, it was an experience. The massage is the only part I would do again. Am still intrigued that this is supposed to be relaxing. I must be doing it wrong...
Monday, 5 November 2012
Going a bit far...
This was a fantastic day (actually last Tuesday - ed.) that maybe got a bit out of hand...
I knew it would be tough climbing away from the coast and back up to the central mountain ridge. I was on the way by 8.15 and going well.
Climb went well. Fierce for around 20km but with the cool of the morning, it was a steady plough in the granny gear. A few scary hairpins where you worry someone will roar round the corner without expecting to see a cyclist doing 5 kmh... To be safer I ride well out from the kerb (err, hillside) to be seen sooner and to give me somewhere to run if needed.
Scents of pine trees gorgeous. There are also eucalyptus, which Odysseus would not have recognised. When the road itself is not in sight, you could imagine this as Homer's Greece..
Whee, a descent much sooner than expected ! Forgot how freezing it gets, whizzing downhill for an hour. The towns rush past. Beside me a pretty stream shaded by sycamores. Dry sycamore leaves cartwheel along beside me in the breeze. Clumps of tiny pink cyclamen become swathes...but no point in taking a photo as they are never far from a plastic bag or water bottle. Sad, when it so easy to imagine dryads in this dappled shade.
The descent is fairly tricky as yesterday's heavy rain has washed a lot of debris into the road. The hotel owner had warned of rockfalls, but these were tiny and easy to avoid without stopping.
The easy bit got me well ahead on miles, but all good things come to an end. There was still a mountain range (a little one) between me and the coast. This was a horrid slog much of the way, rewarded with views over the sea as I dropped down to Limni, the first potential overnight stop.
This is where the bonkers bit comes...
Got to Limni at 3.30 having done about 75 k. Feeling good and as it was all along the coast, decided to press on the further 25k to Loutra Edipsou, partly to enjoy its thermal waters and maybe a swim in a non-freezing sea. First 9k to Rovies went well, tho a little bumpy, down to 7 kmh on parts but also some good downhills. Then the sign said it was 20km to Loutra when it should have been 16 based on previous signs. Then terrain got horrid! I half expected it from the map. Very hilly, me down to 6kmh often. Descents risky because of lots of fallen rock. At one point climbed to 300m even tho sea in sight. Just a really bumpy coast. By 4.30 I thought it best to fit lights, tho it was barely dusk. One moped and one car passed me with lights on so I followed suit. Started to feel really weak and a bit dizzy, bad enough to have trouble controlling bike (v few cars of course). Water intake ok but took 20 mins to sit and eat a few biscuits from my emergency supply. Feeling better, pressed on. Dizziness better but v tired, not really sure I could make it, even though only about 12k to go.
I dodged a little 30 cm snake wiggling across the road. Sadly I failed to dodge a small fallen rock. Disaster... Instant puncture. Aaargh. The light was pretty dim by now. Front wheel thank goodness. Stone had pierced my kevlar tyre. Bah. Got on with it tho still feeling wobbly. Really struggled to get tyre back on. Worried about fading light. Eventually managed fine, but feeling v tired and a little panicked. By now fairly dark and not nice, esp as I had to watch out for sharp rocks in the beam of my good front light. And still having a little trouble with the hills. Shall pick uo some dried fruit I think, for instant energy. Chocolate is perfect, but melts in this climate. Pressed on and found my puncture had happened only about 2km out of town. Completely dark now. Took a while to sort hotel. Took a while to wash oil and grease off... as the chain came off three times during my dizzy period (bike gears were perfect all day until then so think I was just so tired I was stuffing it up)
Headed out to bring gone souvlaki pitta and beer. Also picked up some lovely sweet, seedless grapes from the back of a truck (literally). Back to hotel for food and sleep...
105 km, 2300m of climbing... Probably a bit much, but feels like a real ride.
I knew it would be tough climbing away from the coast and back up to the central mountain ridge. I was on the way by 8.15 and going well.
Climb went well. Fierce for around 20km but with the cool of the morning, it was a steady plough in the granny gear. A few scary hairpins where you worry someone will roar round the corner without expecting to see a cyclist doing 5 kmh... To be safer I ride well out from the kerb (err, hillside) to be seen sooner and to give me somewhere to run if needed.
Scents of pine trees gorgeous. There are also eucalyptus, which Odysseus would not have recognised. When the road itself is not in sight, you could imagine this as Homer's Greece..
Whee, a descent much sooner than expected ! Forgot how freezing it gets, whizzing downhill for an hour. The towns rush past. Beside me a pretty stream shaded by sycamores. Dry sycamore leaves cartwheel along beside me in the breeze. Clumps of tiny pink cyclamen become swathes...but no point in taking a photo as they are never far from a plastic bag or water bottle. Sad, when it so easy to imagine dryads in this dappled shade.
The descent is fairly tricky as yesterday's heavy rain has washed a lot of debris into the road. The hotel owner had warned of rockfalls, but these were tiny and easy to avoid without stopping.
The easy bit got me well ahead on miles, but all good things come to an end. There was still a mountain range (a little one) between me and the coast. This was a horrid slog much of the way, rewarded with views over the sea as I dropped down to Limni, the first potential overnight stop.
This is where the bonkers bit comes...
Got to Limni at 3.30 having done about 75 k. Feeling good and as it was all along the coast, decided to press on the further 25k to Loutra Edipsou, partly to enjoy its thermal waters and maybe a swim in a non-freezing sea. First 9k to Rovies went well, tho a little bumpy, down to 7 kmh on parts but also some good downhills. Then the sign said it was 20km to Loutra when it should have been 16 based on previous signs. Then terrain got horrid! I half expected it from the map. Very hilly, me down to 6kmh often. Descents risky because of lots of fallen rock. At one point climbed to 300m even tho sea in sight. Just a really bumpy coast. By 4.30 I thought it best to fit lights, tho it was barely dusk. One moped and one car passed me with lights on so I followed suit. Started to feel really weak and a bit dizzy, bad enough to have trouble controlling bike (v few cars of course). Water intake ok but took 20 mins to sit and eat a few biscuits from my emergency supply. Feeling better, pressed on. Dizziness better but v tired, not really sure I could make it, even though only about 12k to go.
I dodged a little 30 cm snake wiggling across the road. Sadly I failed to dodge a small fallen rock. Disaster... Instant puncture. Aaargh. The light was pretty dim by now. Front wheel thank goodness. Stone had pierced my kevlar tyre. Bah. Got on with it tho still feeling wobbly. Really struggled to get tyre back on. Worried about fading light. Eventually managed fine, but feeling v tired and a little panicked. By now fairly dark and not nice, esp as I had to watch out for sharp rocks in the beam of my good front light. And still having a little trouble with the hills. Shall pick uo some dried fruit I think, for instant energy. Chocolate is perfect, but melts in this climate. Pressed on and found my puncture had happened only about 2km out of town. Completely dark now. Took a while to sort hotel. Took a while to wash oil and grease off... as the chain came off three times during my dizzy period (bike gears were perfect all day until then so think I was just so tired I was stuffing it up)
Headed out to bring gone souvlaki pitta and beer. Also picked up some lovely sweet, seedless grapes from the back of a truck (literally). Back to hotel for food and sleep...
105 km, 2300m of climbing... Probably a bit much, but feels like a real ride.
Serendipitous wimping out
Up at six to start early on the climb back to the backbone of the island.
But after a night of asking myself what Martin would want me to do, I wimped out and decided to stay to get the bike sorted properly. This may be the last big town for weeks, and it has a big bike shop. Also I fancied getting a lower gear for those hills...
Bob also had bike probs - needing new disk brake pads. So we tried the bike shop together. This became a day of bike shops, eventually we both found help in the end from Iannis, a real star. From the cups in the shop it seems he used to be a mechanic for a top cycle team. He couldn't find me a lower gear, but he helped with some adjustments.
It was just as well I didn't set off, because the rain was torrential, with gales and spectacular lightning over the hills. I doubt I would have managed to cross the mountain. So, overall, a good decision to wait, even if I do feel I keep having rest days.
Bob also had bike probs - needing new disk brake pads. So we tried the bike shop together. This became a day of bike shops, eventually we both found help in the end from Iannis, a real star. From the cups in the shop it seems he used to be a mechanic for a top cycle team. He couldn't find me a lower gear, but he helped with some adjustments.
It was just as well I didn't set off, because the rain was torrential, with gales and spectacular lightning over the hills. I doubt I would have managed to cross the mountain. So, overall, a good decision to wait, even if I do feel I keep having rest days.
Saturday, 3 November 2012
Cheered down the street
The clocks went back overnight so I took the chance to get an early start. ABC were still snoozing so I left a note and set off.
It was not to be. Still having trouble with the gears, I threw the chain three times. Tried a couple of fixes, no luck.
As it was Sunday and a national holiday too, it seemed best to turn round (into a fearsome headwind) and request help again. For some train the cable was slipping back after changing rings. So I could get top gear but it wouldn't stay there.
I was really pleased to be able to spend more time with ABC who have done some amazing hikes and bike tours. We agree that being in charge of our own tour, with no guide, is where it’s at. It feels right, carrying everything with you that you need - self-sufficient. I would be worried if I didn't have what I need to fix the bike, or patch up injuries. And so many brilliant moments in my tours have been serendipitous, sudden route changes or recommendations from people met on route.
Lots more bonding over such views! It is hard to see why hiring guides to take you up Kilimanjaro or to the North pole is an adventure or challenge, compared with taking the responsibility for it all yourself, albeit in a less challenging environment.
A little later we set off together for Chalkidha. The streets were lined with cheering crowds as the three bikes breezed along the seafront. Of course, it wasn't really for us, and we were lucky to reach the end of the promenade before the holiday marching band came the other way.. Still, fun!
The run to Chalkidha was straightforward. Having negotiated another marching band, we looked down from our hotel's cafe onto the beautiful narrow channel between Evvia and the mainland, spanned by a small bridge. You can clearly see the fabled switch in direction of the sea's current.
A pleasant walk around the town, a super meal sharing various tasty Greek dishes.. Feels like the holiday is underway
Thursday, 1 November 2012
Half a blog onward...more Greeks being helpful
After two hours I had the small and middle rings working, so set off. In such hilly country, it's a nuisance to be without a high gear for the downhills, but without low gears I'm stuffed! I only had to pull the cable tighter, but without a fourth hand or bigger pliers, I had to wait till I could find someone to whom I might be able to explain the issue.
The hill was marked 10% for a few kms, and I pushed the steep bits. Once up on the crest on the middle of the island, it was fantastic. It's always magical, somehow, being able to see the sea on both sides, a steep, scrub-shouldered hillside leading down to each coast.
The crest was a nice ride, smooth with tough but doable ups and downs. Few cars and a good road surface let me get above 50kph, which I didn't manage for days afterwards. With heavy panniers on and the likelihood of a sudden hole or patch of gravel, I'm circumspect about steaming along.
Then came my big mistake...
Pootling through a busy village (only the second of the day), I was amazed to see a bike shop, with tools and (apparently) a mechanic in the doorway. Communication was hard but the issue was simple (please tighten this cable) and the symptom clear (not reaching the big ring). Helpfully, cigarette in hand, he put the bike, panniers and all, on a stand. He started to try the gears out...
He seized a tool and was suddenly forcing the front changer down and around from the position it has happily occupied for years.
I tried to remonstrate and to mime pulling the cable tighter. He waved me away.
His friend (no bike mechanic in Greece seems to work without an appreciative audience) meanwhile fiddled with the front changer. Not clear why...
The mechanic cried 'Problem!'. He turned to pick something from a bench and suddenly, he was hitting my derailleur with an adjustable spanner. He bashed and bashed, ignoring me, the derailleur getting more and more waney-edged.
He tried the gears again but (unsurprisingly, as he had not touched the cable) we still only had the two rings. 'Broken' he pronounced, taking the bike off the stand
This all happened in moments. I could hardly believe it. I set off again, my derailleur no longer a beautiful parallelopiped but all wonky and at an angle across the chain.
Down to the coast and a lovely run along the shore, grasses rustling in the stiff sea breeze.
I headed into Eretria, my destination, asking on the way for bike mechanics.. But all were shut, and tomorrow not only Sunday but a national holiday...
I quickly found a lovely hotel, flowers and vines wrapping it round. The landlady mentioned that there were three other cyclists staying there, Americans
Amazing luck! A chance of help with the gears and maybe to bend my poor derailleur back into shape, and without language challenges...
Christine, Bob and ten-year-old Anna are taking a year to go round the world on bikes (Anna up front on Bob's recumbent). Their blog is 3bybike.
Bob was brilliant. He put the twisted derailleur back in place and straightened it with pliers. Not as elegantly parallel as it used to be, but working. And we tightened the cable.
Pretty weary, I headed for a shower before sharing beer and kebabs with Christine, Bob and Anna. Well, Anna wasn't on the beer...
The wind all that night was violent, the hotel awnings making all the sounds of a harbour in a strong blow.
So, be wary of Greeks being helpful!
Wednesday, 31 October 2012
half a blog grrr technology. Greeks being helpful..part one
This was a varied day, blessed with the scent of wild marjoram, taste of a sweet spring and views of sea on both sides as I rode along the central mountain ridge of the island of Evvia.
I left Nea Styra, with a spurt to avoid an excited barking dog, and burbled through 5k. It was a bit dodgy getting into the little ring for low gears, so I stopped to adjust the front derailleur when I saw a steep hill approaching. I am not the fastest bike mechanic but it is vital to have granny gears for these hills!
Disaster, as I accidentally undid the screw fully and scattered the washer, bolt and nut into the scrub. I had to work at the very edge of the small, fairly busy road. Having undone the nut it seemed impossible to do it up again. I fought it for an hour, with no choice but to keep trying. Eventually a helpful Greek stopped his car, grasped the issue and my pliers (ignoring the hex key I was correctly using) and forced the nut into position. He dashed off with my effusive thanks. Of course, I was now at the same point I had been at an hour and twenty minutes earlier...
A little later I got to theorist where the two Amal rings worked but I couldn't get top gear
I left Nea Styra, with a spurt to avoid an excited barking dog, and burbled through 5k. It was a bit dodgy getting into the little ring for low gears, so I stopped to adjust the front derailleur when I saw a steep hill approaching. I am not the fastest bike mechanic but it is vital to have granny gears for these hills!
Disaster, as I accidentally undid the screw fully and scattered the washer, bolt and nut into the scrub. I had to work at the very edge of the small, fairly busy road. Having undone the nut it seemed impossible to do it up again. I fought it for an hour, with no choice but to keep trying. Eventually a helpful Greek stopped his car, grasped the issue and my pliers (ignoring the hex key I was correctly using) and forced the nut into position. He dashed off with my effusive thanks. Of course, I was now at the same point I had been at an hour and twenty minutes earlier...
A little later I got to theorist where the two Amal rings worked but I couldn't get top gear
Sunday, 28 October 2012
Made it to Marathon and ended up off the map
It has been three days since I had Internet access, so some brief catching up needed.
Fitting a new derailleur got me on the road on Friday 26th.
I wimped out of reclimbing the Pendeli hills and headed off to Marathon at a good pace on the main road out from Athens, which is pretty flat. Small pause to tie mudguard on with string. Mid-morning snack overlooking the mound in Marathon where the Greeks buried their dead after the battle. Somehow very poignant still, and my first real experience this trip of Greek wildlife, the scent of the dry plants and the coloured flicker of butterflies. Occasionally bougainvillea sends out a lasso of scent to encircle me. Headed off down a tiny road to the museum... No distances on signs and the bumpy road went on and on... Almost turned back but glad I persisted. Stunning finds, you can look down into tombs that are 5000 years old, only found in the 70s, so untouched by time. The superb museum has beautiful finds from these and from later tombs and temples nearby. Amazing to see pots 5000 years old. The Marathon plain is clearly fertile, vines, cabbages and poly tunnels everywhere.
Pushed on on a whim to ruins well off the main route. Very hot and hilly. Really welcoming girls at the ticket counter. A beautiful site, overlooking a sparkling, intensely blue sea. This is where Helen was born to Nemesis, whose temple still glitters in marble here. The story is that the statue of Nemeis was made from a lump of marble Persians brought with them to carve their victory monument, before the Greeks defeated them. You have to love the Greek sense of irony. The girls bring me a chair to sit in the shade while I eat my lunch. A kitten is so eager to join in, she jumps on my lap to grab bread. This kitten is not underfed, she is plump. Clearly the girls are kind to her as well! Kitten manages to beg bread and salami but draws the line at tomato.
Leaving at 3, I changed plan and headed for the ferry at Agia Marina to Evvia. The early sunset is a surprise, light is fading by 5.00 which doesn't leave much time for cycling in a day. This may affect plans. Fascinating old chap on the ferry talking about growing up on Evvia 70 years ago, and the famous Evvia winds and sea currents. Like most people I speak to, he is angry about what politicians have done to this country. People are having to work so hard for little, even for no money. Worse than the UK, tough for many ordinary people.
New Styra is pretty empty, set up for Germans, so a good breakfast is served before I head up into the hills. have no map but have managed to google a route on my phone. No idea of the hilliness, though, so expecting a tough day.
Fitting a new derailleur got me on the road on Friday 26th.
I wimped out of reclimbing the Pendeli hills and headed off to Marathon at a good pace on the main road out from Athens, which is pretty flat. Small pause to tie mudguard on with string. Mid-morning snack overlooking the mound in Marathon where the Greeks buried their dead after the battle. Somehow very poignant still, and my first real experience this trip of Greek wildlife, the scent of the dry plants and the coloured flicker of butterflies. Occasionally bougainvillea sends out a lasso of scent to encircle me. Headed off down a tiny road to the museum... No distances on signs and the bumpy road went on and on... Almost turned back but glad I persisted. Stunning finds, you can look down into tombs that are 5000 years old, only found in the 70s, so untouched by time. The superb museum has beautiful finds from these and from later tombs and temples nearby. Amazing to see pots 5000 years old. The Marathon plain is clearly fertile, vines, cabbages and poly tunnels everywhere.
Pushed on on a whim to ruins well off the main route. Very hot and hilly. Really welcoming girls at the ticket counter. A beautiful site, overlooking a sparkling, intensely blue sea. This is where Helen was born to Nemesis, whose temple still glitters in marble here. The story is that the statue of Nemeis was made from a lump of marble Persians brought with them to carve their victory monument, before the Greeks defeated them. You have to love the Greek sense of irony. The girls bring me a chair to sit in the shade while I eat my lunch. A kitten is so eager to join in, she jumps on my lap to grab bread. This kitten is not underfed, she is plump. Clearly the girls are kind to her as well! Kitten manages to beg bread and salami but draws the line at tomato.
Leaving at 3, I changed plan and headed for the ferry at Agia Marina to Evvia. The early sunset is a surprise, light is fading by 5.00 which doesn't leave much time for cycling in a day. This may affect plans. Fascinating old chap on the ferry talking about growing up on Evvia 70 years ago, and the famous Evvia winds and sea currents. Like most people I speak to, he is angry about what politicians have done to this country. People are having to work so hard for little, even for no money. Worse than the UK, tough for many ordinary people.
New Styra is pretty empty, set up for Germans, so a good breakfast is served before I head up into the hills. have no map but have managed to google a route on my phone. No idea of the hilliness, though, so expecting a tough day.
Thursday, 25 October 2012
Two half Marathons don't amount to a hill of beans....
The two bike shops to which I wheeled my heavy bike (a 2-man-lift, according to British Airways) did not have a mechanic til noon. And neither had the part. Oh well, this gave me time to walk up and down the gutter of a dual carriageway, looking for the pieces that had fallen off. And I found all 5 bits (the largest is about 15mm across). The nearer shop fitted the jockey wheel back and by 1pm I was able to set off (after the usual unpack and repack twice to find bike computer, and then a single missing glove...
Hot it was by then, and jolly hard work with 26 kilos on the bike. I can't yet lift it up or even down stairs, though partly that is a knack which I am sure will come back to me. The plan was a steep, 8% climb km through a park out of Athens, reaching roughly 700m height, and then on to Lake Marathon (which used to be Athens reservoir), the rest of the day to be a descent to the sea.
It was not to be. I huffed and puffed; the chain came off three times; he map was tricky and roadsigns rare, so I kept stopping to check each junction as I climbed. There is a paradox that if you are in a very low gear (yep, I was in the 1-1 ratio, one pedal turn to one wheel turn) it is hard to get going from a standing start. Several times I had to go downhill to restart.
Eventually I was sure of the route and starting to get good views back to Athens and out to the bay of Marathon. OK it was still on the bottom two gears, but it was fairly smooth. Suddenly crunch-graunch-boing the jockey wheel exploded again, the chain dived off the gears and everything came to a stop. I picked up all the bits again, and carried the panniers and bike one by one back to a shady tree I had just wistfully passed. The best bet seemed to eat and drink, so I enjoyed fresh bread, gorgeous tomatoes and salami as it should be (warmed by a hot sun), washed down with one of the four and a half litres of water I was carrying.
I reckoned I couldn't replace the jockey wheel, but I was halfway up a mountain... So I removed my chain and free-wheeled all the way back, which took 25 minutes ( I had to stop free-wheeling as I entered Athens, partly because the road flattened out and partly because freewheeling at traffic lights is peculiar and scary).
The slope stopped at Mary's house, so I borrowed the internet to check on good bike shops in Athens. No info. Mary. bless her, drove my bags back to the hotel (re-booked) and I pushed the bike a couple of miles through the traffic to the bike shop. They have now done a better repair, touch wood, and I am confident it will last.
So, tomorrow, back to climbing that hill. Planning on an early start to get a few miles in before the heat.
Hot it was by then, and jolly hard work with 26 kilos on the bike. I can't yet lift it up or even down stairs, though partly that is a knack which I am sure will come back to me. The plan was a steep, 8% climb km through a park out of Athens, reaching roughly 700m height, and then on to Lake Marathon (which used to be Athens reservoir), the rest of the day to be a descent to the sea.
It was not to be. I huffed and puffed; the chain came off three times; he map was tricky and roadsigns rare, so I kept stopping to check each junction as I climbed. There is a paradox that if you are in a very low gear (yep, I was in the 1-1 ratio, one pedal turn to one wheel turn) it is hard to get going from a standing start. Several times I had to go downhill to restart.
Eventually I was sure of the route and starting to get good views back to Athens and out to the bay of Marathon. OK it was still on the bottom two gears, but it was fairly smooth. Suddenly crunch-graunch-boing the jockey wheel exploded again, the chain dived off the gears and everything came to a stop. I picked up all the bits again, and carried the panniers and bike one by one back to a shady tree I had just wistfully passed. The best bet seemed to eat and drink, so I enjoyed fresh bread, gorgeous tomatoes and salami as it should be (warmed by a hot sun), washed down with one of the four and a half litres of water I was carrying.
I reckoned I couldn't replace the jockey wheel, but I was halfway up a mountain... So I removed my chain and free-wheeled all the way back, which took 25 minutes ( I had to stop free-wheeling as I entered Athens, partly because the road flattened out and partly because freewheeling at traffic lights is peculiar and scary).
The slope stopped at Mary's house, so I borrowed the internet to check on good bike shops in Athens. No info. Mary. bless her, drove my bags back to the hotel (re-booked) and I pushed the bike a couple of miles through the traffic to the bike shop. They have now done a better repair, touch wood, and I am confident it will last.
So, tomorrow, back to climbing that hill. Planning on an early start to get a few miles in before the heat.
Wednesday, 24 October 2012
Day one - parts of it were excellent!
Overall, a positive day. Sadly I shall lose my early start tomorrow since on my brief (but rapid) cycle to the hotel a jockey wheel fell off the rear derailleur. I shall have to wait til 9am tomorrow to get to a bike shop, and then hope they can help. Fingers crossed I just need a new jockey wheel. Worry about what BA did to my bike to achieve this but hey, it could just have fallen off from shuggeling in the hold.
Excellent parts of the day included my welcome by Mary, a friend's wife whom I had never met before. She was lovely, fed me home-made spinach pie and a lovely Turkish sweet that I'd never had before (started with Ekmek, which I thought meant 'bread' in Turkish). Seemed like pistachio-topped cheesecake on a base of baklava. Mary insisted on showing me the way to my hotel by car, which was a real help. The vast bike bag British Airways require is spending the month in her basement.
Getting the bike in the bag was a nightmare, it took two of us 4 hours. I was pleased to have rebuilt the bike on my own and replaced brake blocks in just an hour. Then of course the jockey wheel fell off.
On the whole, I have met several helpful and charming people today (at Heathrow especially) and have made it to Athens with an almost entire bike. So feels pretty good! Mary suggested a different route for tomorrow.
Excellent parts of the day included my welcome by Mary, a friend's wife whom I had never met before. She was lovely, fed me home-made spinach pie and a lovely Turkish sweet that I'd never had before (started with Ekmek, which I thought meant 'bread' in Turkish). Seemed like pistachio-topped cheesecake on a base of baklava. Mary insisted on showing me the way to my hotel by car, which was a real help. The vast bike bag British Airways require is spending the month in her basement.
Getting the bike in the bag was a nightmare, it took two of us 4 hours. I was pleased to have rebuilt the bike on my own and replaced brake blocks in just an hour. Then of course the jockey wheel fell off.
On the whole, I have met several helpful and charming people today (at Heathrow especially) and have made it to Athens with an almost entire bike. So feels pretty good! Mary suggested a different route for tomorrow.
Tuesday, 23 October 2012
First cut your soap in half...
First cut your soap into pieces and then (in my case) put the pieces in a sterile sample pot. Because any other soap container is too big and the little soap rattles annoyingly every time you go over a bump.
Then, cut the pages out of the guidebook that refer to places you don't plan to visit. In my case, most of the Greek islands.
My total tool kit with spares (tyre, tubes, spokes etc) weighs in at three and a half pounds, not much more than my bike lock (!). Have tried it all out and it fits, tent and all, with plenty of space into two Iberian panniers (bought on ebay cos the Karrimor replacements are nowhere near as good as the old ones, which sadly wore out after an estimated 20,000 miles).
This will be my heaviest trip ever. Quite apart from the extra pounds on me these days, when you travel with someone else the tent and tool weight is shared. Even when I'm carrying a heavier load than my companion, that's still less than I shall have for this solo tour. I did solo through Czechoslovakia a few years ago, but without a tent. Downhills will be fast!
My luxuries: moisturiser, skin toner and (I succumbed) a kindle. Wow, cycling with books to read, that really is a luxury and a first. Means I can have more than one guide book. And loads of free classic e-books (is that a contradiction in terms?). Still carrying the wonderful Richard's bicycle book which gives brilliant guidance that has enabled me to fix all kinds of things in the past. Plus he tells you how to kill a dog with a bike pump (this advice I have not tested, though I have been chased by dogs). Considered an e-book for the bike maintenance but just don't trust my ability to keep things charged or not to break the kindle.
Leaving tonight (by car), due at Heathrow around 6am tomorrow... I still prefer it when you just cycle down your own street and pedal a thousand miles.
Newsflash - planes are being delayed a few hours at Heathrow today. Not a good omen. My flight tomorrow is still on, for now...
Then, cut the pages out of the guidebook that refer to places you don't plan to visit. In my case, most of the Greek islands.
This will be my heaviest trip ever. Quite apart from the extra pounds on me these days, when you travel with someone else the tent and tool weight is shared. Even when I'm carrying a heavier load than my companion, that's still less than I shall have for this solo tour. I did solo through Czechoslovakia a few years ago, but without a tent. Downhills will be fast!
My luxuries: moisturiser, skin toner and (I succumbed) a kindle. Wow, cycling with books to read, that really is a luxury and a first. Means I can have more than one guide book. And loads of free classic e-books (is that a contradiction in terms?). Still carrying the wonderful Richard's bicycle book which gives brilliant guidance that has enabled me to fix all kinds of things in the past. Plus he tells you how to kill a dog with a bike pump (this advice I have not tested, though I have been chased by dogs). Considered an e-book for the bike maintenance but just don't trust my ability to keep things charged or not to break the kindle.
Leaving tonight (by car), due at Heathrow around 6am tomorrow... I still prefer it when you just cycle down your own street and pedal a thousand miles.
Newsflash - planes are being delayed a few hours at Heathrow today. Not a good omen. My flight tomorrow is still on, for now...
Monday, 22 October 2012
70 miles a day in mountainous country for a month. Do or die really. Haven't cycled more than 50 miles in a day or more than 2 days in a row for 5 years. Experience suggests the first week will be tough and then it will get better. Or I'll crash. Fingers crossed, brow furrowed, determined pout in place.
Mad rush to get everything ready, about 36 hours to go .. in which I also need to agree and sign the contract for a new job, compose ultimatums and cajolings for my builder, make sure bike is up and running, choose and pack all the tools, clothes, first aid, camping stuff, guide books, maps and an amazing amount of electronic fripperies. Am still half tempted to ditch the gizmos and go naked of technology. What swung it was that the new bike lights only charge on a USB and once I admitted that need, why not take a camera, phone and kindle.
And indeed, why not blog about the trip. No idea what my connectivity will be but there seems to be free wifi even in campsites so it should be possible. May end up with merely the odd update on facebook or linkedin. All part of the unplannedness of long-distance touring.
Am pretty familiar with the maps by now. Checked that the ferries needed seem to be running, tho this is mainly mainland. Have a notebook in which to blog to myself, already full of useful info.
Once all the rush is over, the bike is rebuilt and I start pedalling, it all gets a lot simpler: water, food and shelter to be found each day, in that order of importance. I look forward to that point, for now.
Mad rush to get everything ready, about 36 hours to go .. in which I also need to agree and sign the contract for a new job, compose ultimatums and cajolings for my builder, make sure bike is up and running, choose and pack all the tools, clothes, first aid, camping stuff, guide books, maps and an amazing amount of electronic fripperies. Am still half tempted to ditch the gizmos and go naked of technology. What swung it was that the new bike lights only charge on a USB and once I admitted that need, why not take a camera, phone and kindle.
And indeed, why not blog about the trip. No idea what my connectivity will be but there seems to be free wifi even in campsites so it should be possible. May end up with merely the odd update on facebook or linkedin. All part of the unplannedness of long-distance touring.
Am pretty familiar with the maps by now. Checked that the ferries needed seem to be running, tho this is mainly mainland. Have a notebook in which to blog to myself, already full of useful info.
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