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When
I awoke today I knew it was winter at last.
The mountains pressed close to the little island and the colours
had seeped out of the landscape, only the brilliant shades
of the bougainvillea still held the vibrancy of summer.
I walked down the old coast road to the supermarket. Once
the main road to Neorion, it is now little more than a donkey
track, and weaves reassuringly between some of the old stone
houses of Poros now more and more frequently interspersed
with the new breezeblock apartment buildings.
Still, it was easy to lose myself in the past as the first
wood fires of winter threw their smoke into the sky and the
new crop of oranges and lemons bobbed in the breeze.
The fig trees, much loved in the summer for their leafy shade
now stand awkward and redundant, soon to drop their leaves
and become stark statues in the winter landscape – but only
until one day when the first green shoots can be seen on the
branches, bringing the messages of spring and the promise
of summer to come.
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There
are few people about today, no sign of Eleni on the balcony
of the hotel, though the door is open so she can’t be far
away. One shout and she would appear, eyes sparkling with
laughter and curiosity. But I am in a hurry and don’t call
out for we have the whole winter for the chats and the gossip
which make up such a large part of the island life.
The supermarket is busy and hums with the bits and pieces
of conversation half heard coming from behind the fruit juices.
I slip easily into Greek, forgetting the earlier agonies of
trying to remember the word for cheese and then not daring
to ask for some because I had no idea how many grams I wanted.
Now though, there is even time for a joke before I slip out
and head for home. Gina meets me by the little church and
insists on escorting me back. She is a tiny blob of a dog
belonging to my Albanian neighbours and she has a personality
way in excess of her size. |
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I
call her the ‘levitating ball of fluff’ for she leaps very
high from virtually a standing position and with her coat
brushed she is almost as wide as she is long. Her daily visits
result in the rugs and furniture flying, for she has limitless
energy and closely resembles a whirling dervish.
Today she is in one of her more responsible moods as she escorts
me safely to the bottom of my mountain. And then, suddenly
I have the answer to the problem I have been considering all
morning, the problem that precipitated the walk to the supermarket.
Where shall I start this Odyssey of island life, my very own
Iliad? Of course, I must begin at the end, well an ending
anyhow. I must start with a leaving!
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You
can depart from Poros in many ways but most of our visitors
prefer to do it by boat, leaving the faster Flying Dolphins
to the people who live here and are anxious to reach their
destination, knowing that they will soon be back. But some
people do not know if they will ever be back and so it is
best to leave slowly, savouring the last sight of this magical
little island. You stand there watching the cubic houses of
the old town slowly merge into a picture from a child’s colouring
book. The blue dome on top of the clock tower stands out like
a beacon as it gets smaller and smaller, and it seems as though
there is a cord tying you to the place, a cord which stretches
as the boat moves away, faster and faster now, tearing you
from friends and memories and dreams. And something else,
but what? A sense of belonging perhaps? Familiar places pass,
the pretty bay of Neorion, with the bus trundling down the
hill to the local tavernas where newly made friends still
sit drinking coffee or beer for they are not leaving yet.
Love Bay, so aptly named (!) and Russian Bay with the little
island of Daskalion sitting low in the bay, its tiny church
a brilliant white against the blue of the sea. Next comes
the point light, sleeping soundly in the hot sun whilst a
friendly herd of goats cluster round its base for company. |
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And
now… but something is happening for the boat is turning and
within seconds Poros has gone and the cord snaps. You stand
looking back in disbelief. Was it ever really there, this
fantasy island in the Saronic Gulf? Well, if you never come
back you will never be completely sure!
Almost without thinking now you find yourself moving away
from the back of the boat, into the bar maybe with its noisy
computer games and that throb of Greek conversation which
never seems to stop. Or perhaps you just move to the side
of the boat and watch the dotted villages of the mainland
slide away. Certainly by the time you reach Methana your mood
will have changed and you will have started to think about
the rest of your journey home.
‘Home’ – such an emotive word.
Is it really just the place where your heart is? I think not.
Home is also the place where you understand the culture, the
traditions, the history and, of course, at least something
of the language. I have lived in Greece for quite a number
of years now and somewhere during those years it has begun
to feel like home. The first ‘leaving’ was terrible but the
first ‘return’ – well, that was something else. |
The
excitement really starts to build once you are safely aboard
the boat in Piraeus.
I suppose the Flying Dolphins are better for your return,
for you have been suffering a form of impatience to be there
that they are most able to satisfy, but we left on the boat
so let us return that way.
As the clock ticks onto the hour you hear the rumble of the
engines and the slight vibration as they settle into a rhythm
and almost imperceptibly you slip away from the quay leaving
the other ferries behind teasing you with their images of
Crete and Santorini and Mykonos.
The Pappastratos sign provides a familiar landmark until that
too slowly fades and you are leaving the hustle, bustle and
noise of the big city behind. Ahead lies the open sea, foreground
the huge oil tankers framed by the hills of Salamis.
Then they too disappear and you find yourself looking ahead
of the boat towards the outline of Aegina already visible
on the horizon. Aegina, the home of the Temple of Aphaia,
and Aghios Nectarios and Pistachio nuts. Well, we’ll visit
Aegina later.
Now there is just the image of the tiny white church on the
harbour front and the remains of the Temple to Apollo, no
time to see any more, for the Greek boats only stay in harbour
long enough to set down and pick up passengers and cars in
a heady mixture of shouting and engine revs. What seems at
first glance to be chaos quickly resolves itself into a highly
efficient operation and we are soon on our way to Methana. |
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It
is not unusual to find entertainers or raffle ticket sellers
on a Greek ferryboat, together of course, with the ubiquitous
seller of lottery tickets and instant success. So sit back
now and enjoy the music or the patter of the raffle ticket
seller – the Greeks will. And before long, the faint smell
of sulphur tells you that you are nearing the spa town of
Methana with its healing waters and its’ (hopefully) dead
volcano.
And the excitement is really mounting now, next stop Poros,
and you will be back, back on the little island whose images
have haunted you the whole time you’ve been away. The Poriotes
say that once you have been here you will always come back
and here you are! First the headland light, the ever- present
goats grazing peacefully at its foot.
Then the tension mounts unbearably for the boat starts to
turn and for a split second there is the thought that the
island will not be there, waiting, as you have imagined a
thousand times. Perhaps after all it was just a dream. But
no, slowly but surely the pyramid of the old town builds before
your eyes and the blue dome of the clock tower stands out
against the back drop of the mountains. Time seems to hang
suspended for a moment and then picks up speed. Russian Bay,
Love Bay, Neorion, all flash by until the loud speaker warns
you that you must be ready to disembark.
You plunge into the shadowy depths of the hold, claim your
luggage and stand with the other returning pilgrims as the
door drops down revealing a close up of the harbour front
before it crashes down into the quay and you are there. Kalos
oriste. Welcome to Poros!
What follows is a highly personal, totally biased glimpse
of a small Greek island, its people and its way of life –
with occasional forays into the highways and byways of Greece
itself. |
On
Understanding Greece.
I have always said that Greece is like an artichoke – you
pull off one leaf and there is another, and so you go on,
round and round, until you reach the heart. Or do you?
Well, sitting this morning in one of the harbour cafenion
I saw no reason to change my opinion. It was the first warm
day of what may well turn out to be the summer, and the first
tourists, totally unsurprised by the heat, were striding around,
their little white legs and bare arms already showing signs
of early sunburn. The islanders of course were still wrapped
in their layers of winter clothing or hiding in the shade,
already complaining of the sun.
I listened to the intrigues of the market traders chattering
on around my ears, providing a fascinating background of sound
to the coming and goings of the shoppers and the tourists.
Occasionally a half sentence raised itself above the general
cacophony of sound, hinting at darker political intrigues
or the rumour of someone’s downfall on the Chrimatisteria
……the Greek stock market. |
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Given
Greece’s history, and especially that of the last 100 years,
it is hardly surprising that there is a sub text to many an
ordinary conversation, whilst often even the mouths remain
shut, a slight movement of the head or an arm can communicate
a wealth of information to the perceptive eye.
Look at the recent history of Greece from the time of the
Turkish occupation, through the Second World War and the ensuing
civil war and you begin to realise how survival itself often
rested on these talents. And along side all that went the
need to slip into the shadows, under no circumstances could
you afford to draw attention to yourself, for to stand out
from the crowd could result only too often in torture or death,
or both. Even now many of the older generation run from a
confrontation and seem threatened by the slightest argument.
Not so the majority, however, to whom argument is the stuff
of daily life. I suppose not all arguments are about politics,
though it often seems that way, and I certainly think the
one I witnessed one particular warm summer afternoon had more
to do with politics than anything else, but my Greek was not
good enough to be sure. |
I
think it was around six in the evening and I was up in Poros
town, but about to set off for Askeli to shower and change.
As I entered the little main square I saw the one bus just
leaving and I decided to take the water taxi instead. I leapt
into the half full boat that I thought was about to leave.
But once seated I became aware that it’s owner was some way
down the line of boats and involved in an argument which was
becoming noisier by the minute. There were signs of impatience
amongst the waiting Greeks and one or two shouted down the
line for our owner to hurry up. Reluctantly he left his adversary
and moved back towards the boat, only to turn round and continue
the argument yet again. There were more complaints from our
boat and it’s owner returned, but just as he bent to start
the engine, some insult from the harbour front sent him running
back. One by one the Greeks started to leave quickly now until
only I and a couple of tourists remained, loyally sitting
there. Eventually I too gave up the ghost and set off to walk. |
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Later that evening, showered and changed I returned to Poros
Town to eat. It must have been around eleven thirty when I
re – entered the main square intent on returning to my bed
when I heard an all too familiar sound. The same boat from
early evening sat, half full of weary tourists whilst it’s
owner stalked back and forth; the same adversary shouting
back down the line. I shrugged and walked to the waiting bus,
there are some arguments you simply cannot win.
Only twice have I ever attempted to enter into a political
discussion here and I have promised myself I will never do
it again; not because of fear for my own sanity but because
of the quite awful furore it produced between the people around
me.
Not for nothing was alcohol banned on the night of the final
speeches before an election --- and that was until only a
few years ago. Of course like most things in Greece, this
never presented a major problem and if you sat in a cafenion,
the white wine appeared in the water jugs, the beer in the
coffee pots and the whiskey in the tea cups.
I don’t suppose any of the local police were fooled but, provided
everyone behaved themselves, they were prepared to turn a
blind eye. After all livings had to be earned and on a night,
often in winter, when almost all the local people were down
in the main square the opportunity to earn a little extra
cash was too good to miss.
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Election
speeches here rouse powerful passions, and a debate that rumbles
round the packed tables of the cafenia.
The candidates are mostly listened to with respect, but later
the blood rises and to have been sitting at the wrong café
table can cause problems and a serious argument. Politics
are a part of the lifeblood of island life, together of course
with sex, football and the weather.
You can hear the discussions echoing around and around the
centre square, though it is often unclear which particular
subject is arousing the passions, for the same vocabulary
seemingly works for all topics.
It is easy to find yourself sitting amongst a group of Greeks
listening to a conversation about the previous evening meal,
only to find, when you venture some comment on a particular
succulent steak, that the entire dinner table has exploded
with laughter. In retrospect it is easy to guess why, but
when your Greek is still somewhat hesitant then the potential
for deep embarrassment is unlimited.
As you can see, the hazards of social conversation at a Greek
dinner table are limitless …… though you may just have pulled
off another leaf from that artichoke. |
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Poros.The
week of Kreatini. [Meat Week]
The second week of Carnival here in Greece is called Meat
week because its’ Sunday is the last day on which meat can
be eaten before the Easter Fast. But we decided not to wait
for the very last minute and set out to enjoy ourselves on
the Saturday. Giogios, our Dance teacher had asked Sue, Andy
and I if we wanted to go out after the class with he and his
girl friend. Of course we took little persuading and 22.00
hrs. found us climbing the old streets of Poros to what used
to be Drougha’s and is now run by Theo but in much the same
traditional way. Inside is still the same huge log fire and
the food seems still to consist of what was freshest in the
market that day. We had Fava and Beetroot salad with a pungent
Garlic sauce. Of course there was the ever- present Greek
salad, and Gigantes and finally a huge platter of lamb chops
cooked on the open fire and suitably singed. It was delicious,
the wine too, fresh from the barrel and lightly chilled in
the cold night air. It all slipped down easily and, together
with the excellent company quickly produced the Kefi that
is an essential part of all Greek celebrations. So it wasn’t
long before the dancing started and George was shouted to
his feet. He danced beautifully and people were still calling
‘Bravo’ when the music for the Hasapiko started and Giorgios
pulled Sue and I to our feet. With George’s guiding hand on
our shoulders and a few whispered instructions to help we
danced well, and people’s faces were a picture as we walked
back to our table, I loved it all!
By this time we were chatting to the people at the next table.
They were not from Poros but lived in the mountain village
of Arachova near Delphi and were here for the weekend only.
But it was one of those evenings when people instantly become
friends for life and so we all went off to one of the harbour
bars to continue the evening there. A bottle of champagne
was bought to celebrate the dancing and we were invited to
Arachova anytime. Of course we all vowed we would go and Giogios
and I said we would dance to seal the promise but the music
was never right and the disco took over. Heaven knows what
time it was when I finally walked along the icy harbour front,
a half moon throwing sharper shadows than the street lamps,
but just as I was beginning to think longingly of a warm bed
a friend drove past in his car and delivered me safely to
my door. It had been another of those memorable Poros evenings
and I was only glad that I had been there to enjoy it. |
Poros.
April. I know it’s the 30th. April today because tomorrow
is the 1st. May and I must make my wreath of flowers. I have
made the base, rather successfully, though I say it myself,
and tomorrow I must go and collect the flowers. We are just
about recovered from Easter when, as usual, rather too much
food was eaten and far too much wine drunk. This year I was
invited up to a friend’s house….well, farm, in a valley right
on the top of Kalavria. The views are stunning up there, it’s
on the way to the temple, and on a clear day you can see as
far as Athens and just about make out the Parthenon. The house
is old, quite simple, with odd bits added on from time to
time, and it is all smothered in vines and bougainvillea and
looks romantic blending in with the background of pine trees
and eucalyptus. It was a beautiful day and the food and the
wine tasted amazingly good out in the warm sunshine. Greek
music came pouring out of the T.V. and in the short breaks
for adverts you could hear other music played loudly at various
homes across the valley.
It’s difficult to go far without hearing music on this island
and after a while it seems to enter into your blood stream
and become part of you. When you reach somewhere it hasn’t
penetrated the silence is awesome until you become aware of
other sounds, the sighing of the wind, the singing of a single
bird or someone far away exchanging a piece of gossip with
their neighbour. Sounds travel for miles here and often come
at you from odd angles.
So lunch was noisy and full of chatter too, until finally
this slowed down and the food stopped coming and the wine
glasses stood half full and unwanted on the table. Someone
was going back down the mountain with a car so I said my goodbyes
and thank you’s and begged a lift back. The sounds of other
people’s Easters drifted across to us and several times we
caught a glimpse of people dancing, but the kefi was going
out of the day and siestas were beckoning. I slid into one
of those deep, dreamless sleeps which are an essential part
of Mediterranean life and enable you to bounce up an hour
and a half later ready for whatever the world has next on
offer. Today was no exception and mid evening found me down
in Poros town sitting in a cafenion in the main square watching
several friends less restored than I, endeavouring to start
on the night’s celebrations. |
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Poros.
Summer.
It was Magda’s idea to go to Sirocco for the Bouzouki. We
had been out to dinner and were sitting having a late night
drink when a friend of hers passed by and told her it was
the last night of the summer up there. So we finished our
drinks and set off along the harbour front, round the headland
and finally up the steep, white steps into the open-air nightclub.
A hundred memories of other summer evenings briefly flooded
my mind but then the music reached down to take us high into
the night sky and hint at the evening ahead. It was only 1.00am
and early by bouzouki standards but there was already enough
atmosphere to hold us and make us glad we had come. I think,
between us, we knew everyone there.
The kefi was good, but only just beginning to move up to that
level which is necessary for a really great evening, so we
settled at the bar with a drink and sat exchanging greetings
with new arrivals and generally doing our best to help the
atmosphere along. It really wasn’t long before one of the
girls got up to dance the Sheftalia. She was from one of the
villages high up the mountain and was with an older man who
obviously adored her. She danced beautifully, every movement
controlled by the music and she was loudly applauded when
she sat down, her companion escorting her to her seat watching,
warily, for covetous glances from the younger men in the room.
After that the pace of the evening quickened. Some of our
best dances were there that night and the energy seemed to
spin from one to another. Tassos, Yiannis, Takis, Vangelis,
and finally Theo, who almost ran into the other dancers as
the kefi soared. Theo is a self-taught musician who writes
his own songs and almost lives for music. He danced divinely,
taking over the room, applauded and encouraged by the other
dancers. We sat on our bar stools forgetting the discomfort
of the metal fames and as Theo flew we flew too. Then I became
aware of Magda pulling at my arm. “Anna” She said. “Come,
its time to go.” I looked across the rapidly emptying bar
and then peered at my watch. It was 5.30am and already the
glow of dawn was creeping across the night sky over Askeli
bay. Someone, if not us, had danced all night! |
Poros.
28th Oct.
It was Oxi Day today……the day the Greeks said ‘No’ to the
Italians and sided with the Allies in W.W.2. At the first
Italian invasion a relatively small group of Greeks, badly
armed, single-handedly forced the Italians back over the Albanian
border, only to face another, more determined invasion in
the depths of a terrible winter. Many died fighting bravely,
until they were slowly left with no choice but to flee to
the mountains and continue fighting as Partisans. Today is
to honour these men and all the others who have died fighting
for Greece, and in a way it is like the British Remembrance
Day, though there are no red poppies. There are ceremonies
all over Greece, some more like a Military Parade, others,
as here on Poros, simpler but equally moving. I always try
very hard to attend for it is a big day here in Greece, but,
more importantly, the men who died, died for my future too,
and that of my family and friends. So this morning the bare
feet of summer were forced into shoes and the T-shirt and
jeans replaced with something more respectable and I joined
family groups and excited children, all heading for our main
square and the War Memorial there. This year I sat with Andreas
and Maria in one of the Harbour cafes surrounded by friends
and familiar faces. Then, as the ceremony started I remembered
another year. It had been hot then, too, and I stood with
Takis and Georgia, watching Leda as she marched past carrying
the Greek flag. It was a solemn and moving moment but, as
we kept the two- minute silence, the mid morning ferry boat
pulled into the harbour immediately behind the line of Dignitaries
and I knew it was going to hoot. With something approaching
horror, I felt the laughter rise up inside me until my stomach
was in knots and my suitably respectable face in danger of
splitting into a wide grin. Then I looked up onto the prow
of the ship, and there, standing so proudly to attention was
a little old man, a small Greek flag in his hand. The laughter
turned to tears and they streamed down my face. As so often
in this country, tragedy and comedy walked side by side. |
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TRIPS ON THE ANNA II
I don’t remember exactly how I came to be working on the
Anna II but I do know that it didn’t take long for me to
thoroughly enjoy myself and feel that I was very much a
part of the family who owned and ran her.
From the very first few trips we got on so well, which was
nothing short of a miracle really for I spoke no Greek and
they spoke no English. I did eventually teach Eleni to say
‘mineral water’ and ‘vegetarian’ and the Captain finally
came up with quite a number of nautical terms. But I think
what really bonded us together was the fact that we were
all blessed with a highly developed sense of the ridiculous
and if in doubt we simply fell about laughing. – And there
were quite a few opportunities for that. Inevitably, working
on the boat, we quickly created little rituals and one of
mine was sampling a roast potato when they were brought
up from the ovens prior to serving. This particular day
in Spetses was no exception but rather than getting my hand
slapped as usual I found three pairs of eyes anxiously watching
my reaction.
“Are they good Anna?” asked Eleni, somewhat over casually.
I took a careful bite.
“They’ve got sugar in them” I said.
“Sssh!” came the reply “What can we do? Mitsos put sugar
in them instead of salt and we have only just found out.”
I started laughing.
“O.K.” I said, “we don’t say anything, they won’t hurt anyone,
so we’ll just wait and see what happens.”
We served lunch and then I walked around the boat to see
if the passengers were happy. We always got one or two requests
for Eleni’s potato recipe but this day we were overwhelmed.
Everyone loved them and thought they were the most amazing
tasting potatoes ever. I just smiled and agreed that Eleni
was a very, very good cook.
As you have most probably realised by now Eleni is not exactly
a stereotype of the typical Greek wife. She is full of fun
and between us, as the Captain often complains with a twinkle
in his eye, we succeed in making his life very difficult,
especially in mid summer when we are all very tired and
irritable. We, however, think that he is a very lucky man.
The first time that we made the trip to the Corinth Canal
from Aegina we were all a bit nervous and very much on our
best behaviour. We left Poros at 6.30 in the morning and
arrived exactly on time to pick up the passengers at Aghia
Marina. From there we proceeded in stately fashion to the
Isthmus and then through the canal. We went on to dock in
Loutraki and then at the given hour we sailed back effortlessly
through the canal to the Isthmus again. From the Isthmus
we went to Angistri, from Angistri to Aghia Marina and from
Aghia we set off back to Poros, everything had been perfect.
As we sailed back into the harbour at Poros, I woke up the
sleeping Eleni and said, delighted to be back,
“Look, look. Poros”
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“Poros?”
questioned Eleni, “Oh praise the Lord, he’s found it at last!”
Surprisingly perhaps, it is rare for any of our passengers
to get drunk on the boat though they obviously enjoy a few
beers or some wine during the day, but on this particular
occasion there were three Scandinavian men who started drinking
before the boat left the harbour and went hard at it all the
way down to Spetses. They were absolutely no problem and apart
from a tendency to lurch as they walked around and a penchant
for falling on the other passengers from time to time, they
were perfectly well behaved.
I happened to be sitting by the bar when one of them arrived,
propped himself up and ordered a coffee and a sandwich. I
smiled in encouragement thinking that it was a sensible move
– and then watched in amazement as he took the coffee and
sandwich, lurched heavily and sent them spiralling down the
hatch into the kitchen. I grabbed him just in time to prevent
him following and then heard a horrendous series of crashes
followed by total silence. After what seemed an eternity Eleni
appeared half way up the stairs covered in coffee, an empty
cup in one hand and a broken saucer in the other.
“Oops.” She said. “What’s happening?”
The tourist fled, in his inebriated state he must have thought
her to be some sort of spiritual manifestation come to haunt
him, for he was remarkably quiet for the rest of the day and
never came near the bar again.
As far as I can gather by far the biggest problem the Tourists
encounter on their fearless sallies abroad is the troublesome
question of the toilets. Basically in Greece there are few,
if any, public conveniences of the type known and loved by
the Northern European tourists. If any do exist they tend
to be of the ‘hole in the ground’ variety and seemingly un-negotiable
by our foreign visitors. I must confess myself to be perplexed
by this attitude. But over the years I have been forced into
admitting that it is a genuine concern.
We do have lavatories aboard the Anna II. In fact we have
two, one either side of the entrance to the bar. For quite
a long time there was nothing to indicate which, if either,
was the ladies or the gents. I thought this was a sensible
factor for the toilets were identical and as far as I was
aware the foreign visitors did not have signs on the relevant
doors in their own homes. Anyhow, weren’t the Scandinavians
supposed to be pretty open about sex etc? Well, sex maybe,
but seemingly not toilets. So eventually two little signs
were bought and screwed on and all was well.
The next season, on the first trip, I checked our signs were
still in place, found they were and congratulated myself on
the start of the new season and what looked like a highly
organised boat. Alas, the gods must have been listening for
we were hardly out of the harbour when a lady came to me with
tears in her eyes. |
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“There
are no locks on the toilet doors” she said.
My heart sank for I knew the Captain and his family had been
working on the Anna all winter. As far as he was concerned
the boat was finished. Getting locks on the lavatory doors
was not going to be easy and I wasn’t even sure my Greek was
up to it. I assured the lady that the matter would be dealt
with as soon as possible (liar!) and spent the rest of the
voyage with my fingers crossed. All went well till we got
to Hydra, but there disaster struck.
Hydra has a very small harbour and these days we are only
allowed in it for two or three minutes in order to let off
the passengers. That particular day we were being severely
pressed by the Port Police to get out of the way for a large
ferryboat was heading rapidly towards us, bent on coming into
the same mooring. I always warn the passengers that they must
be ready to disembark and I thought that they were all off.
Tassos ran round checking the boat and, as a last resort,
banged open the toilet doors only to find a very large lady
sitting there, her knickers around her ankles. To say that
he was deeply shocked would be an understatement and the next
day the locks were on the lavatory doors. It’s an ill wind,
so to speak.
One of the nice things about the Anna II is the chance it
gives us to meet so many different people. Of course, we don’t
like everybody and there are some days we heave a sigh of
relief as the last tourist walks down the ramp and off into
Poros. But mostly we all get on fine. A vast number of people
really do come back to Poros year after year and most make
it onto the Anna II. Indeed, we have had people come back
especially for one of the trips and that gives us a great
boost.
But I think our biggest fan is Howard. He loves the Anna above
all else and his dream is to buy her (and us!) and take her
back to Liverpool and put her on the Mersey. He hasn’t managed
to do it yet but he hasn’t given up hope. Howard is confined
to a wheelchair but he and his mum come every year with a
selection of friends and relatives to help with the complications
of getting here. He says the Anna gives him the freedom to
do things he never thought would be possible and watching
him at the back of the boat while the dolphins play or the
seagulls sweep past the stern is to see someone pretty close
to paradise.
He is also extremely fond of Eleni’s cake, though he’s not
the only one. On the days she bakes it (specially if she knows
Howard’s in town) it always disappears very quickly and I
have to move very fast if I fancy a piece myself. Time after
time it arrives on the Anna a veritable perfection of a cake,
filling the air with the smells of home cooking. But this
particular morning something was wrong. We don’t talk much
on the Anna for the first hour or so but Eleni’s eyes were
doing a very good job of warning of some disaster or other
though not, I felt, life threatening, for there was a hint
of laughter there too.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Eleni’s cake is not good” she replied, “Eleni’s cake is flat.”
She was not wrong. In looks it resembled more a slab of shortbread
than a cake.
“What shall we do Anna, we can’t sell it.” I thought long
and hard and then broke off a piece and ate it thoughtfully.
It tasted great.
“This,” I said, “is obviously an island speciality cooked
to an ancient recipe passed on from Eleni’s grandmother. Of
course we can sell it.”
So we did.
And now it’s time to pick up the microphone and say “Good
morning ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of Captain Kiriakos
and the crew, I’d like to welcome you aboard the Anna. Sit
back and relax. It’s time for a little history. Don’t worry,
it won’t hurt!”
The section that follows consists of some of the talks I gave
on the Anna II as we were sailing around the Saronic Gulf.
They stand out a little strangely from the rest of the book
but are included because so many of our passengers have asked
for them to be made available. In fact it was on the insistence
of these same passengers that I started to write the book
at all, and then found myself staring in amazement as, like
Topsy, it just ‘growed and growed’! |
POROS
AROUND
The Anna II is not the only Poros boat to offer trips around
the island, indeed the other two, the Two Brothers and the
Giorgia Star are perhaps more suited to this trip, for they
are traditional wooden boats and rather more romantic. But
we use our trip as a chance to slow down the new arrivals,
put them onto Greek time and also give them a taste of the
local history and a feel for the island which is to be their
home for the next few days. We usually go on a Monday all
freshly stocked up with Eleni’s hamburgers and oven roast
potatoes. It’s an easy, laid back, five hour, trip but the
people love it and we’ve even had couples come back to Poros
just to sail round the island on the Anna. We seem to go
round in an anti clockwise direction though it hasn’t always
been so and might well not be again!
Anyhow, as we sail slowly alongside the harbour front towards
the old abattoir it gives me a chance to tell people that
the ancient name of Poros was Eirene, or Peace, and this
was the name which survived until 8th or 9th Century B.C..
Later the island adopted the name of Poros or Passage, possibly
after the water strait between the island and the mainland.
This water strait was so shallow until the last century
that it was possible to walk across it from Galatas. In
the early part of the 20thC however, it was dug out to accommodate
the big boats and so nowadays we must use the little water
taxis if we want to go to the mainland.
Poros is in fact two islands, the smaller one that has in
it the present day harbour and old town is known as Spheria
and thought to be named after King Shaeras. The second and
larger island is called Kalavria, which translates as “Fair
Breeze”, or maybe the name is linked to the pastoral god
Kalavrian Apollo who carried a shepherd’s crook and was
known to have been worshipped on the island. But whatever
the source of it’s names there is no doubt that Poros, together
with the City State of Troezan (more later) was an important
site in Ancient Greece and the area has continued to pop
up throughout history right up to the present day.
As we turn the corner (if one can do that on a boat) we
see the trees of the Lemonadassos spread thickly across
the lower reaches of the mountains of the mainland. This
is the biggest lemon growing area in Greece and until quite
recently was an essential part of the local economy. With
the advent of tourism it’s importance has declined and instead
it has become a delightful excursion you can make for yourselves.
Take a taxi boat across to Plaka or Aliki beach or stroll
out along the coast road from Galatas. Eventually the road
winds inland and begins to go uphill. Carry on walking until
you come to a small church on the right hand side of the
road and there you will find a donkey track disappearing
into the lemon groves. It may well have a sign post saying
‘Taverna’ but even if this has blown down or is not in evidence
you should follow the donkey track up the mountainside and
then, just as you are beginning to get really thirsty and
wish you had stayed on the beach, you will find yourself
on the threshold of the taverna.
“Ah,” you think, “water.”
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But
no, you want lemonade, for here they make their own lemonade
from the local lemons and it is delicious. Before the electricity
came they used to cool it under the waterfall but nowadays
it is kept in the fridge. The waterfall is still there though
and also some mysterious caves where the partisans may well
have taken refuge from the occupying Germans. Ask anyone in
the taverna and they will show you to where they are. When
you have eaten and drunk to your satisfaction come back down
the mountain and collapse into the welcoming sea until it
is time to take the little boat back to Poros together with
some delightful memories of views across the Saronic Gulf
and the friendly family who run the taverna.
But the Anna has sailed on by now, passing the little island
of Bourtzi with the remains of a 19thC Venetian fort. There
is something vaguely sinister about this island and hardly
anyone goes there. It is rumoured to be full of snakes but
there are other rumours too for Greece has a turbulent history
and Poros is no exception.
Appearing on the left hand side of the boat we can see Askeli
Bay, now in summer bustling with tourists, its sea front tavernas
just opening for the first of the mid day customers. Only
a few years ago this was a tiny fishing village with shepherds
and their flocks roaming the mountainsides. I was told that
during the Second World War a group of five women ran the
only Allies radio station in the area. I met one of them in
Spetses, another was Metaxas’ daughter who lived on Poros
until her death quite recently. There are ghosts there too,
a band of Troubadours who tread the coast road, playing their
music and singing, and up the river bed road and way into
the pine trees there is said to be yet another ghost, someone
who was murdered and walks unhappily, seeking the peace he
cannot find.
But the sun is shining too brightly for ghosts so from the
Anna let us follow the coast road up to the Monastery of Zoodochos
Pigi. This is a lovely walk and one you should do by road,
walking in the footsteps of George Seferis the Greek poet
and Nobel Prize winner for literature in 1963, and a frequent
visitor to the island. Before his death in Athens in 1971
he claimed that the walk to the Monastery was his favourite
on the island and was one he never grew tired of making. |
The
original Monastery was founded by the Metropolitan of Athens
in the mid 17th C, after he was cured of gallstones by drinking
water from the sacred spring still to be found by the little
church of Aghia Anagiri just outside the Monastery grounds.
It is also claimed that a silver icon of the Virgin Mary was
found here and provided the exact location for the larger
church. Inside this church is a fine wooden screen, said to
have been carved in Cappadocia in Asia Minor and some fine
icons of the Virgin and Child thought to have been painted
by the Italian artist Raphael Ceccioli in 1853. Rumour has
it that the bones of the ancient orator Demosthenes (more
of him later) were moved here from the Temple of Poseidon
at the top of the island, though they are now lost without
trace.
As you stand outside in the little courtyard, look up into
the giant Cypress for it is also said that during the Second
World War some intrepid Greek resistance fighters hid in its
branches whilst the Germans searched fruitlessly below. As
they searched they probably trod on the tombstone of one Bradnell
J. Bruce, a foot soldier who accompanied His Majesty’s Ambassador
to Poros, and then after travelling all this way, had the
misfortune to die of a local fever on 8th October 1828. I
often pop to say hello just so that he doesn’t feel too forgotten.
As you leave the Monastery and look across the sea and down
to the beach tavernas it is easy to imagine the boat from
Piraeus that used to dock here daily, bringing people and
goods from Athens on a voyage made pleasant by the live orchestra
on board which played classical music.
Ahead now is little Modi or Lion Island. From here it looks
like a lion couchant – hence, its name. It is said to be the
site of a powerful Mycenaean naval Station but it is so small
it is difficult to imagine how this could be true. Nowadays,
like Bourtzi, it is said to be over-run by snakes.
The Anna turns another corner now and there is Aegina silhouetted
against the lighter shapes of the mainland. We are sailing
at the back of Kalavria past a series of rocky inlets covered
in the rough scrub that loves to attack bare legs. The mountain
above us is Profitis Ilias and is the site of the ancient
city of Poros. This area was first inhabited in 10th Century
B.C.
The ancient city was actually built on the slopes of Mount
Profitis Ilias and extended down to the bay of Vaygonia. The
Temple of Poseidon was its crowning glory and stood on the
mountain-top above the ancient harbour. This Doric temple
was built around 520 B.C. originally with 12 columns. A limestone
stoa was added in 420 B.C. however, and this was followed
by others in 370, 350 and 320. It was well known throughout
ancient Greece and has popped in and out of history for many
centuries.
In the mid 7th Century B.C. the Council of Kalavria was formed.
Also known as the Amphictyon of Kalavria, its seat was in
the 8th century temple. It was a naval, religious and political
federation that sought to control a large area of the Saronic
Gulf. Amongst its members were Athens, Aegina, Epidavros,
Ermione and Naplion. It reached its zenith around 459 B.C.
but continued on until 3rd Century B.C.
At the beginning of the 5th Century B.C. the Persian invasion
began with the citizens of Troezan sending five ships to the
battle of Artemesian. This city state of Troezan (again, more
later) was situated on the mainland opposite Poros and is
known to have given shelter to the women and children of Athens
during the Persian wars. Then in 431 B.C. the Peloponnesian
wars began between Athens and Sparta. Now the Troezinians
sided with Sparta against Athens and took part in the attacks
on that city. These wars lasted until 404 B.C. and were to
virtually destroy the magnificence that was at the heart of
that great city of Ancient Greece.
By this time the Temple of Poseidon had become something of
a sanctuary, and was well known throughout the area. In 322
B.C. Demosthenes, the great orator, sought refuge here after
he had been implicated in a bribery scandal in Athens, though
there now seems to be some doubt over his guilt. The situation
at the time was so serious that, when they came to arrest
him he committed suicide by swallowing poison concealed in
his pen, first leaving the Temple in order to avoid desecrating
the sanctuary. |
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Demosthenes
was one of the great orators of Ancient Greece. Born with
a terrible stutter, he walked along the seashore as a young
man, shouting above the waves with his mouth filled with pebbles.
He continued doing this until he overcame his handicap.
Pausanias recalls seeing his tomb in the Temple in 2nd Century
A.D. but it is difficult to place now for alas, little remains
of this important site today. In 1760 A.D. most of the stones
were removed to Hydra on the authority of the Archbishop there
and used to build a monastery. It is also rumoured that quite
a few of the stones helped to build some of the older houses
in Poros Town – a rumour I’m sure is right. There is a statue
to Demosthenes standing opposite the petrol station where
the three roads meet. Unsurprisingly there is a story about
this statue!
After I had visited Poros for the first time I was clearing
out a high shelf in my flat in London getting ready for some
building work. This shelf mostly held books I had inherited
after my grandmother had died and included some rather nice
early editions of “Jane Eyre” etc – books my grandmother had
declared to be ‘racy’, and thus created in me an early and
abiding interest in the classics. Amongst these novels was
a largish book entitled “People of Poros”. I nearly fell off
the stepladder and was soon sitting on the floor engrossed
in this find of which I had no previous recollection.
It was indeed about Poros, the Poros immediately before the
start of World War II. An American had visited there for the
second time and this was an account of his visit. He left
as war was declared and must have missed meeting Henry Miller
by months. How my grandmother came to have it, I don’t know,
for she never went further than Sheffield and never talked
to me of Greece.
Anyhow, in the pages of the book is an account of an evening
in a little town taverna on Poros when some of the young bloods
of the town came in carrying the bust of Demosthenes. They
had been celebrating rather too well and, finding him on his
pedestal looking cold and wet they had decided to bring him
to the taverna for some good company. However, once inside
the taverna, they had grown impatient and hit him with a glass
to make him drink. They knocked off part of his nose, and
if you look at the statue today you will see that he is still
missing that bit of his nose – and not a lot of people know
that!
This whole area ceased to be inhabited in 395 AD when the
Goths invaded and sacked it. Anything that was left standing
was destroyed by an earthquake that is also thought to be
responsible for the ancient harbour and town being engulfed
by the sea. It is sometimes still possible to see part of
the buildings and the harbour wall along the sea bottom.
Leaving Ancient Greece behind for a bit, the Anna comes in
to Beesti Bay with its’ fish farm. This is one of the new
rural industries that have been introduced into Greece since
its entry into the EEC. The fish are exported mainly to Italy
though some find their way onto the Anna if Mitsos and his
brother Jiannis are in the mood to go snorkelling with the
gun. And for our guests too, it’s now time to plunge into
the beautiful clear water and drum up an appetite for lunch. |
Lazing
back on the Anna after two and a half hours of swimming, eating
and relaxing on deck, and now half asleep, we set off on our
round tour once again. As we emerge from Beesti Bay and look
down towards Aegina we see a tiny flat island and a group
of rocks sticking jaggedly out of the sea and providing a
permanent nuisance for boats of all sizes, especially on moonless
nights. Tall stories are connected with these lumps of rock.
The flat little island is always referred to on the Anna as
“Kiriakos’ island” I’m not sure if it even has another name
but one day several years ago we arrived at Beesti Bay to
find the water full of rubbish and looking extremely unappetising.
We tried several other small bays but always with the same
result. So, in desperation we set off to this small lump of
rock that, although covered with sea birds, somehow caught
the imagination of our passengers. They insisted on staying
and proceeded to have a great time there. Later I was asked
the name of the little island and, never one to disappoint
I informed them that it was called Kiriakos’ Island after
our Captain who had been the first man to step on it in recent
times. This delighted both the passengers and the crew – who
consist entirely of Captain Kiriakos’ family! A few days later
I came across one of the families who had been on the boat
that day and they expressed their disappointment on having
purchased a map of the Saronic Gulf and failed to find any
trace of Kiriakos’ Island. They cheered up considerably when
I explained that the island was too small to be shown on ordinary
maps and they would have to purchase one of the special sea
charts on their return to England. This they swore to do,
so it is perhaps just as well that this particular family
does not appear to have become one of our annual visitors!
Though they would still find Kiriakos’ Island as popular as
ever and now referred to as such throughout Poros!
The other, more vertical group of rocks have collected a romantic
story of a local sea nymph and the moon. The local fishermen
say this sea nymph lived around here many years ago and was
an excellent swimmer. She was probably the best swimmer of
any sea nymph known to man but, alas, she knew it too and
took to boasting about it. The moon overheard her and took
her to task, but she would not stop and finally, believing
herself unbeatable, she challenged the moon to a race around
the world. The moon told her not to be silly. He explained
that he travelled through air and was much faster but she
refused to listen and went on and on. In an attempt to stop
her, the moon finally agreed but insisted that if she lost
she would be turned to stone for a thousand years. He expected
that to settle the matter but she still refused to back down
and eventually the race took place. She swam and swam, going
faster than she had ever done before, but it was all to no
avail and she lost and was turned into stone, and there she
sits, a hazard to everyone and hated by most sailors. But
the local fishermen feel sorry for her for they say that on
a moonless winter night they can hear her sobbing and pleading
to be a sea nymph again.
I used to tell this story when we had a lot of children aboard
the Anna but now I am a little more careful for one little
boy became so worried about the sea nymph that he spent his
entire holiday trying to think of a way to help her, searching
the sea in the hope that the thousand years were up and she
was back as a nymph.
By the time the story of the sea nymph has been told we have
reached a point where Methana has come into view. This little
town is situated on a rocky peninsular off the mainland and
is best known in Greece for its once live volcano and the
thermal springs which this volcano brought to the area. The
volcano is long dead though it is possible to walk to the
edge of the crater through a village surrounded by the lava
dust. The thermal springs, however, are still very much in
evidence and are said to be beneficial for both arthritis
and rheumatism. The baths that house the springs are to the
right of the harbour and people come from all over Greece
to take the waters. On a day when the wind is blowing from
the North West the smell of sulphur covers the area. |
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But
Methana has a history too. Remains found on Mount Helena tell
us that the peninsula was inhabited from the earliest times.
During the Peloponnesian War the Athenian General, General
Nikias occupied Methana and established a garrison on the
isthmus. After his defeat in 421 B.C. Methana was linked with
Sparta. Then in 273 AD, according to the French geologist
Fougue (1867), the Methana volcano erupted for the last time
and changed the shape of the gulf.
Pausanias describes the eruption quite vividly and also tells
us for the first time of the hot springs which began to flow.
Strabo, in his account, adds that, after the eruption, the
area was unapproachable for days due to the great heat and
the smell of the sulphur. It was then that the island of Spheria
appeared and, together with the already existing Kalavria,
formed Poros. It is also thought that Methana was used by
Patrochus, a Commander of the Egyptian fleet. He renamed it
Arsinoe and made it into an important commercial port. It
stayed under the rule of the Ptolemy’s for a hundred years
and when they left they handed it on to the Romans, at which
point the seas became thick with Sicilian pirates.
But I think Methana has not given up all its secrets yet,
for only a few years ago a local priest started to dig the
foundations of a new church and he came across an ancient
grave with some fine artefacts in it. Now the archaeologists
are taking a new interest in the area and this is good news
for Methana and bad news for the priest for he will have to
wait a number of years before he can go on with the building
of his church.
It is early days yet but there seems to be emerging some links
with the Minoan period and this is causing small shock waves
to pass through learned circles for the Minoans were not thought
to have travelled this far.
Back in the main part of the mainland and just hoving into
view is the modern village of Trizinia, or Damala as it was
once called. It sprawls itself up the mountainside nowadays
but still evident just outside the village centre are the
remains of the city state of Troezan. And it is impossible
to tell the history of Poros without continually referring
to this City State and its history.
In ancient times the citizens of Poros were almost always
part of the State of Troezan, though in many aspects of everyday
life they retained some independence. This great City State
was originally inhabited around 3,000 B.C.
According to tradition the first king was named Orus, a name
believed to be Egyptian in origin. After Orus came King Althippus
who was thought to be the son of the god Poseidon and Orus’
daughter Liees.
I always think claiming parentage from a god is so sensible.
After all, if I were forced with the task of telling my father
that, although unmarried, I was pregnant, and had the choice
of naming a local farmer or a god, then I would certainly
go for the god. It would make my life a lot less unpleasant
I’m sure. And this seemed to happen quite a lot in ancient
times with Poseidon being very popular in the surrogate father
stakes. Poseidon was certainly often around these parts for
he and Athina had been quarrelling a lot about the land in
this area and Zeus had had to intervene and order them to
share it. So Poseidon had his temple on Kalavria and Athina
had hers under what is now St George’s church in the old town
of Poros. This point is confirmed by coins which have been
found here dating from 3rd – 5th Century B.C. and bearing
the head of Athina on one side and that of Poseidon on the
other. Anyhow, walk up to the temple at the top of Kalavria
one day and then tell me that Poseidon isn’t still around.
I always take him flowers or a gift of some kind and on the
whole we’re good friends – I’m convinced he has a great sense
of humour, very strange things sometimes happen while I am
up there. But no more, I must keep my counsel. |
So,
after Althippus came King Saron, who drowned in the sea whilst
out hunting and gave his name to the Saronic Gulf – a most
unfortunate way to achieve immortality I always feel, but
anyhow, that’s how he did it.
History seems to have drawn one of its net curtains over the
next bit, at any rate until the Achanaians invaded the area
led by King Pelops and his two sons Trizin and Pitheus. They
eventually ruled here and the area became known as – yes –
the Peloponnese. And this brings us to the birth of Theseus
who was to grow up to be the second most famous Greek hero
after Hercules.
Theseus’ story is a long and fascinating one – some say there
were even three Theseuses – and you must turn to more learned
pages than these for a detailed account of his life, but briefly
the story goes as follows.
Aegeus, King of Athens had no heir from two wives and, desperate
for a son, he left Athens to visit the oracle at Delphi. On
his way back to Athens he called in at Corinth and bumped
into Medea just prior to her expulsion from that city. She
made Aegeus swear a solemn oath that he would shelter her
from all her enemies if she ever sought refuge in Athens and,
in return she undertook to procure him a son by magic. Somewhat
heartened by her promise, for he had only received an un-interpretable
message from the oracle at Delphi (all about not untying the
mouth of his bulging wineskin until he reached the highest
point of Athens lest he die one day of grief) he then embarked
on another detour to Troezan. Here he met up with Trizin and
Pitheus who made him very welcome and ordered a great feast
in his honour. Pitheus was renowned as one of the learned
men of his age and he was said to be pretty big on friendship
being often quoted as saying
“Blast not the hope that friendship hath conceived; but fill
its measure high.” He founded the oldest known shrine in Greece
at Troezan, dedicated an altar to the triple goddess Themis
and taught the art of oratory in the Muse’s sanctuary there.
Three white marble thrones, now placed above his tomb, used
to serve him and two others as judgement seats.
At the time of Aegeus’ arrival his daughter Aethra was rather
down in the dumps. Her fiancé Bellerophon had been
sent away in disgrace and she was left languishing as a virgin
with, seemingly little hope of attaining the marital bed.
The welcoming party for Aegeus obviously turned into quite
a rave and during the evening her father got drunk and started
to come under the influence of Medea’s spell. Moved with pity
for the loveless state of his daughter he more or less threw
her into bed with King Aegeus and left them to enjoy themselves,
which they apparently did. Later that same night the goddess
Athene started meddling on behalf of Poseidon and she sent
instructions to Aethra in a dream, telling her to wade across
to the island of Spheria and meet up with him there.
Being a good girl – well, in one sense anyhow, Aethra complied
and Poseidon found her and had his wicked way too – you must
have begun to realise by now that Poseidon is a great one
for the ladies and pops up in the role of suitor/rapist time
and time again.
It will come as no great surprise to many female readers to
learn that next morning King Aegeus remembered urgent business
in Athens and began preparations for his departure. But he
was not a total cad for, on waking up in Aethra’s bed he told
her that if a son were born to them he must not be left on
the mountain to die or sent away but should be secretly reared
in Troezan.
Poseidon was obviously consulted at some point for he is reported
to have agreed that any child born to Aethra in the next four
months (? don’t ask!) should be known to have Aegeus as its
father.
Before King Aegeus sailed back to Athens he hid his sword
and sandals under a hollow rock telling Aethra that when the
boy had grown sufficiently strong to move the rock he was
to take them and travel to Athens where Aegeus would recognise
him as his son. And the rest, as they say, is history.
The stone is still there today and going to find it on the
local bus and then shank’s pony makes for a very pleasant
day out indeed. |
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There
are many stories about Theseus and it is well worth reading
them up in greater detail but one of the other fascinating
myths is that of Phaedra and Hippolytus, for this too largely
took place in Troezan.
Aethra of course gave birth to Theseus who eventually did
go to Athens and was recognised by his father. Later he married
Phaedra and they had two sons, Acamas and Demophoön.
But Theseus also had an illegitimate son with Antiope. This
son was called Hippolytus and had been sent to Troezan to
live with King Pitheus who adopted him as heir to the throne
of that City State, thus conveniently leaving the throne of
Athens for his two more legitimate relatives.
All should have been well, but of course it wasn’t. Phaedra
was the sister of King Dencalion from Crete and when she married
Theseus and came to Athens she brought with her the cult worship
of Aphrodite. Before that, however, Antiope had encouraged
the worship of Artemis and Hippolytus and had built a new
temple to this goddess at Troezan. Aphrodite took great umbrage
to this and to punish him she made Phaedra fall in love with
Hippolytus when he attended the Eleusinian Mysteries while
Theseus was away in Thessaly. This love quickly turned into
an obsession and Phaedra, taking advantage of her husband’s
absence, followed her passion back to Troezan. There she built
the Temple of Peeping Aphrodite, situating it so that it looked
into the gymnasium where each day a naked Hippolytus would
keep himself fit by running, leaping and wrestling. It is
said that Phaedra would jab the leaves of a nearby myrtle
tree in frustration whilst she watched unobserved. Later she
followed her love to the All Athenian Festival and spied on
him again. She told no one of her passion but she ate little
and slowly wasted away, so much so that her old nurse guessed
what was wrong and urged her to write to Hippolytus before
she grew too sick to do anything. This Phaedra did, proclaiming
her love, her conversion to the cult of Artemis, and further
urging Hippolytus to revenge the murder of his mother by paying
homage to Aphrodite and going to live with Phaedra. Hippolytus,
being one of the few Greek princes with honour was horrified
by the letter and went to Phaedra’s chamber to remonstrate
with her but she tore her clothes and rushed through the palace
shouting for help and claiming that she had been ravished.
Before anyone could stop her she had hung herself from a convenient
lintel and left a note condemning Hippolytus.
When Theseus was given the note he ordered Hippolytus out
of Athens never to return and then he remembered that Poseidon
had given him three wishes so he wished for the death of Hippolytus
– a death that he wanted to take place that very day. One
must be very careful about wishes that have been granted by
the gods for they tend to have a rather fast and literal result.
Hippolytus left Athens at full speed. His chariot and four
horses raced towards the Isthmus. Here he was engulfed by
an enormous wave and from its crest there sprang a great dog
seal (or it may have been a white bull) which caused the four
horses to swerve towards the cliff. Hippolytus managed to
prevent them all from going over the cliff and raced on pursued
by the monster. The horses were terrified and swerving wildly,
and they headed unseeingly towards a wild olive tree. The
reins caught in one of the branches and the chariot turned
over and was shattered on the rocks. Hippolytus was helpless,
caught in the reins as he was thrown against the tree, then
onto the rocks and finally dragged to his death by his horses.
By this time the monster had vanished.
Legend has it that Theseus travelled to Troezan at the speed
of light and arrived in time to be reconciled with his dying
son. Whether or not this is true is open to considerable dispute
but it is said that the tombs of Phaedra and Hippolytus lie
side by side in the Temple at Troezan near the myrtle tree
with the pricked leaves. It is a beautiful spot to visit in
the spring, the whole area rich with wild flowers and rare
orchids peeping from behind the palace stones. But the atmosphere
is heavy and however bright the sun a long shadow seems to
fall across the whole area, as though there has been one tragedy
too many within its rich and honoured walls. Unlike the temple
of Poseidon on Poros there is no sense of life or laughter
and it is with a feeling of relief and a small shudder that
you climb out of the valley and head towards the Devil’s Gorge.
Here you find dramatic scenery, rushing water and a bridge
held up by three perfectly normal devils!
Leaping forward to the Byzantine era, Emperor Leon VI renamed
Troezan and called it Damalas and then after the fall of Constantinople
to the Turks in 1453 the Greeks ceded three castles of the
Agolid to the Venetians. The castle of Damalas was one of
these and it remained in Venetian hands until 1531.
While we have been treading through ancient history the Anna
has been sailing slowly on, leaving Trizinia to disappear
behind the boat and Poros and its little blue domed clock
tower to appear ahead of us. We are nearly home but first
we must pass by Russian Bay with its little island of Daskalio.
First the bay, and its crumbling building that always produces
a string of questions. |
“Why
Russian Bay?” Well, Greece has a tradition of trading with
Russia that goes back to the reign of Catherine the Great
and is still continuing to this day. The first president
of Greece, appointed after the successful revolution against
the Turks, was one Capodistrius. He was serving as Foreign
Minister in the court of the Tsars when he was summoned
back to Greece in 1827. He came back to tales of heroism
and great sea battles, for during the Turkish occupation
(approx 1470 – 1821) Poros had, like Hydra, amassed a good
sized commercial fleet and this was well equipped to play
a substantial role in this war of independence. Poros’ ships
were moored in the natural harbour on this side of the island
and you are now sailing over the site of some pretty ferocious
sea battles and the graveyard of many fine ships.
After Independence had been declared Capodistrias stayed
on Poros from April until June 1827, and in September 1828
the Ambassadors of the three Great Powers, France, England
and Germany met on Poros before conferring with Capodistrias
on settling the boundaries for the New Greek State.
Later, as part of a thank you to Russia for allowing him
to return to Greece, and also for the more practical help
they gave Greece in the fight against the Turks, Capodistrias
built the trading station. It was destroyed once during
the continuing fighting but almost immediately rebuilt.
It ceased trading when the communists took control of Russia.
At that time there were two Russian ships in the harbour
here both with sympathetic leanings towards communism. When
they heard of the successful overthrow of the Tsar they
made preparations for a fast return to Russia and as they
left the Greeks say they fired their guns in celebration
and knocked down half the trading base, leaving it in much
the same condition that we find it in today.
The little island of Daskalio has on it a tiny church dedicated
to all school teachers for it is said that there lived on
Poros a lady teacher who fell greatly in love with one of
her male colleagues. Alas, he did not return her affections
and one day in despair she rowed out to the island and then
walked into the sea and drowned herself. Her parents built
the little church on the island and dedicated it to her
and her fellow teachers. This small island was also used
during the Turkish occupation as a secret school. Here the
local children were smuggled across and taught their language
traditions and history, often at the risk of imprisonment
or worse.
Next comes Love Bay – a name that needs little explanation,
for it is a bay that holds memories of many secret rendezvous
from both the past and, I’m told, the present!
The Anna is going faster now, anxious to be home, the bay
of Neorion lies sleepy on our left for it is mesi-mera –
siesta time and all sensible people are asleep building
up energy for the long evening ahead.
Neorian is a pretty little bay and one of my favourite places
on the island. I wave hopefully to friends in the seafront
tavernas and think of Yiannis Ritsos the poet, who comes
often to Poros and likes it here very much too.
Ahead of us stands the Naval Station, originally a royal
palace and once the main base of Greece’s professional navy.
Now it is used mainly to train its national service boys
before they are returned to their families a little fitter
and more independent than when they arrived.
Before the Anna settles gently into her moorings there is
one treat left in store and that is the house of Galini.
It is the Italian style red brick house standing on the
Neorian road and I fell in love with it the first time I
saw it. It was built by an Athenian family with strong interest
in the arts and was once well known for the fame of its
visitors. Alas the guest book has disappeared but certainly
Lawrence Durrell, Henry Miller and Georges Seferis stayed
here before the 2nd World War. But there must have been
many more names in that book for Poros has many exotic visitors
and quite recently has played host to Prince Charles, ex
President Bush and Edward Kennedy whilst, closer to home,
the list is endless.
The Anna is resting at her moorings now and its time to
head for home. The little harbour front is almost deserted
but I glimpse a movement out of the corner of my eye. Something
moved towards the edge of the old town. I look again but
nothing stirs. Was it perhaps Athena seeking the remains
of her ancient temple?
Maybe, because one thing is certain, anything is possible
on Poros. We are in Greece and everything is OK!
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