Interview with the best-selling author Peter Kerr

Posted on June 12, 2013 by Marjory

Author Peter Kerr and his family

THIS week on the blog I am featuring the first of some occasional pieces from other writers, talking about their books and their experiences of getting into print.

Peter Kerr, best-selling author of the Snowball Oranges series of Mallorcan books, talks about his work. With a diverse background in record producing and beef farming in Scotland, Peter took the adventurous step of moving to Mallorca in the 1980s with his family to grow oranges, and he turned that experience into very entertaining books. He later wrote a series of mystery novels, and his latest work is an historical novel called Song of the Eight Winds.

Q: Why Mallorca and why orange farming?

A: We had a 50-acre beef and cereals farm in south-east Scotland but it wasn’t viable enough to make a good living when the recession hit in the 1980s. We needed to find another way of life – and fast. Fate intervened during a break in Mallorca, when my wife Ellie and I stumbled upon an orange farm for sale in a hidden valley of the Tramuntana Mountains, in south-west Mallorca.

We knew nothing about growing oranges, and although we didn’t consider ourselves to be creatures of impulse, we bought the farm on the spur of the moment anyway, seriously stretching our finances. This was to be one of those life-changing risks that few of us would gamble on, if we took time to think about it first.

A few months later, we had sold up in Scotland and were in our new Mallorcan home with our two sons – aged 10 and 19. The ups and downs of this venture are fully chronicled in the Snowball Oranges series. Foolhardy though this may have seemed at the time, the experience gave us a lot more laughter than tears, and a much broader outlook on life.

The first in the series of Peter’s best-selling Mallorcan books

Q: You were one of the first British writers to produce travel narratives about expat life in the Mediterranean. What made you want to start writing in the first place?

A: In 1990 I started jotting down random notes about the humorous aspects of our family’s experiences while trying to make a living growing oranges during the 1980s. Two years later, the jottings had morphed into the first book.

And there were plenty of disasters along the way that obviously made great anecdotes for the book, like the first morning, in December, after moving into our Mallorcan farm house. We woke up to find a neighbour banging on our front door, telling us the area had been engulfed in a freak snowstorm. To our horror, we went outside and found the orange orchards covered in a cold mantle of white, hence the title Snowball Oranges.

Q: While the first book became a bestseller, ironically it took a long time to get it published. Why was that?

A: It took eight years to get Snowball Oranges into print and in that time I was turned down by just about every publisher in Britain. I was told that the demand for this type of narrative travelogue had been exhausted by the huge success enjoyed by Peter Mayle’s Provence books (from the late 1980s). However, it seemed to me that there was still a huge demand for this type of travel book that hadn’t been fully satisfied. And my hunch turned out to be right. Snowball Oranges, without any special promotion, became an overnight bestseller when finally published by Summersdale in 2000, picking up a couple of book-of-the-year awards on both sides of the Atlantic, and spawning four sequels and a prequel, which have since been translated into twelve languages.

The Tramuntana mountains on Mallorca

Q: Your persistence in getting that first book into print will inspire others but what advice do you have for would-be authors in these difficult times for publishing?

A: Realise that writing ‘The End’ on the last page of your manuscript is, in many crucial ways, only the beginning of your work. Go back and revise everything over and over again until you can almost recite every page by heart. And then revise some more, ruthlessly cutting out or changing anything that you aren’t entirely comfortable with.

Publishers won’t read beyond the first paragraph of any submission that appears slapdash. This is even more important now that self-publishing is so easy to attain. However tempting it may be to take the fast track to seeing your work in print, make sure your manuscript is professionally edited and carefully proof-read before you submit it for publishing. This may cost you a little bit to achieve but it will end up being money well spent.

Q: The travel narrative genre burgeoned in the past decade. Do you think it has now run its course?

A: I think there will always be a demand for the ‘living the dream’ type of story. It’s human nature to suspect the grass is greener somewhere else, particularly if it also happens to be sunnier than it is at ‘home’. The market is flooded with these books now and only those with something different to offer will have the only reasonable chance of success.

Q: Your latest book is also your first historical novel Song of the Eight Winds, also set in Mallorca. What’s it about?

A: It’s an epic tale set in an interesting period of Mallorcan history, in the 13^th century during the Christian Reconquista from the Moors. It’s a period of history that has fascinated me and I thought it was ideal for a fictional account. It’s also a new creative direction and proves the old adage: “When opportunity knocks, don’t look through the letterbox before opening the door.”

To find out more about all Peter’s books and to order, visit his website www.peter-kerr.co.uk and follow him on Twitter @AuthorPeterKerr

© Text and photographs copyright of the authors 2013

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Things can only get feta …

Posted on April 7, 2013 by Marjory

CAN you have an adventure in crisis-torn Greece and not come unstuck? Can you take a mad Jack Russell dog to a rural region and not create havoc? Can you ever feel like more than an outsider in a mountain village that has changed little over the centuries?

You might find the answers to these questions, and hopefully have a giggle along the way, in the book based on my first year in the Mani, in the southern Peloponnese, due to be published in July this year. It’s called Things Can Only Get Feta (Two journalists and their crazy dog living through the Greek crisis) by Marjory McGinn.

In the first year of the big fat Greek adventure, along with my partner Jim (which I started writing about in this blog in 2010), we had such an amazing time, having travelled extensively through this beautiful region, and having befriended some wonderful local characters, that I wanted to shape it into a book so that other adventurers/armchair travellers could get a feel for this unique rural way of life.

Chairman: Wallace soaking up the sun in the Mani

Chairman: Wallace sunbakes in the Mani

I was encouraged by many of the regular blog readers who wrote to the website saying how much they enjoyed our mad meanderings in Greece, especially with naughty Wallace the Jack Russell in tow. A big thanks for that and I hope you enjoy the book.

For an outline of the book and details of how to pre-order it, click on this link to take you to the home page of our website: http://www.bigfatgreekodyssey.com

Visit Amazon to buy the book (Kindle version – new edition). A new edition of the paperback will also be available shortly.

Land’s end: Marjory and Wallace at the southernmost point of the Mani peninsula

Looking back

When we set off in early 2010, it was supposed to be for a year’s adventure only. We aimed to live in the Mani region (middle peninsula of the southern Peloponnese), but we had no idea of the exact location, or what our life would be like, or even if we would find a suitable place to live, especially in the midst of an economic crisis. But that’s the whole point of adventure – stepping right into the unknown and taking whatever comes your way.

The village we ended up in surpassed all our expectations, particularly with regard to the location and the wonderful local characters we met, some colourful British expats, and the mad escapades that would unfold. But other things were difficult, as we outlined in the blog: dealing with Greek bureaucracy, buying a Greek car, surviving the first scorching summer, dealing with alien wildlife (the critters, not the expats) – scorpions, polecats, snakes, hornets.

Then there was the problem of getting a tiny Greek village with typical zero-tolerance of ‘pet’ dogs to accept the crazy, barky, territorial Wallace. Many villagers had never seen a Jack Russell dog before and to their mind, he just looked like a small mutant sheep. To find out how Wallace’s immersion into Greek life panned out, you’ll have to read the book.

Branching out: Jim and Wallace enjoying the lush olive orchards in the spring

One year’s adventure turned into another and in the end we stayed almost three years in the southern Peloponnese, having loved every mad and magical moment. Then there was the Greek crisis, of course. I commented on this in the blog along the way and we did see some massive changes over the three years, particularly in the city of Kalamata where shop closures and business failures were a daily occurrence.

The austerity measures affected everyone in the region, sometimes tragically so, but one thing that never changed was the stoicism of Greek people and their enduring spirit particularly in the face of often spiteful criticism by the international media. Stories from outside the country that depicted Greeks as ‘lazy’ and ‘work-shy’ were not helpful, and yet anyone who has lived in the country will know just how hard most ordinary Greeks do work and strive for a better life, with no state handouts.

Water baby: Wallace swimming in a cove in the shadow of the Taygetos mountains

In our three years, we travelled the whole of the southern Peloponnese, through the Mani, Laconia and the Messinian peninsula, much of which we have already written about and many places we haven’t got round to writing about yet. I will post some short blogs on these, with photos, over the coming months, and general thoughts about Greek life, as we found it. So please keep reading, and your feedback, as always, is appreciated.

We are currently back in Britain for the time being but are keeping close ties with Greece and look forward to our next big fat adventure there.

Best wishes for a happy summer.

© Text and photographs copyright of the authors 2013

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Finding the real Zorba in the Mani …

Posted on November 5, 2012 by Marjory

Anthony Quinn as Zorba, with Alan Bates, dancing the sirtaki in the 1964 movie

APART from the Parthenon, Nana Mouskouri and blue-domed churches, what image or event totally captures the essence of Greece? For me, it’s the cinematic images of Zorba, played by Anthony Quinn, dancing the sirtaki on the beach to the Mikis Theodorakis’s theme tune – Zorba the Greek. The outrageous, lovably raffish Zorba is the enduring symbol of the nation’s spirit and stoicism. It’s no accident that during the international campaign earlier this year called We Are All Greeks, sympathisers world-wide took to city streets, linked arms and danced the sirtaki in support of Greece.

The character of Alexis Zorbas that Nikos Kazantzakis created 60 years ago in his book The Life and Times of Alexis Zorbas (translated into English as Zorba the Greek) is more than just a literary concoction, however. The real man behind the character was every bit as spirited. Legendary tales about him are kept alive today in an unspoilt corner of the Mani region in the southern Peloponnese.

It was here that Cretan-born Kazantzakis hooked up with Yiorgis (George) Zorbas in 1917 for a peculiar and risky venture in lignite mining that was doomed to failure for many reasons but was nevertheless spun into literary gold a few decades later.

The original small white house at the end of Kalogria beach rented by George Zorbas from a local family

To find out more about the real Zorbas, we set off for the secluded beach of Kalogria, near the village of Stoupa, to meet a young woman called Mary Georgilea, whose family have been closely associated with the Zorbas family for several generations.

She took us to the small renovated house on the beach, built in the late 19^th century by her great–grandfather Andreas Exarchouleas (pictured below) and rented out to George Zorbas when he first came to the Mani to be foreman of the Prastovas mine on a nearby hillside where Kazantzakis had become one of the partners in this venture. This was a time when the Greek government was offering incentives to mine lignite, a precious commodity in the war years.

The beach of Kalogria these days, out of season, is almost as deserted and peaceful as it was when the pair first came here in 1917. The small house with a red pitched roof is one of a pair built on the far right of the beach, not far from the well-known natural spring, the Prinkipa, that bubbles up cold mountain water between the rocks, like a natural plunge pool.

Mary Georgilea in front of Kalogria beach. Her great-grandfather Andreas Exarchouleas (below) rented out the white house to George Zorbas (bottom)

Kazantzakis had chosen to live on the other side of this quiet sandy cove from Zorbas in a simple hut made of wood and bamboo with nothing much inside but a table, chair and a straw-filled mattress. Yet it was here he spent much of 1917/18 writing and reading, leaving the gregarious Zorbas to deal with the lignite business, and village life.

Born in west Macedonia in 1867, Zorbas had worked in various countries as a miner before he came to the Mani, bringing his wife and some of their eight children with him, though they preferred to stay well away, living in the nearby city of Kalamata.

After working hours, Zorbas, then in his fifties, and Kazantzakis, in his thirties, regularly decamped to the shoreline of Kalogria with their supper – often cooked for them by a member of Andreas Exarchouleas’s family – for a long party session, either alone or with whoever had dropped by for the evening, over a few carafes of local wine, and Zorbas would play his bouzouki and sing. In real life, George Zorbas played the bouzouki, not the santouri, as in the book. The pair were famous locally for their rowdy beach soirees, in which they frequently danced along the shoreline, a fact that was immortalised in Kazantzakis’ book.

Stoupa beach, once a tiny fishing village, is now a popular tourist destination in the Mani

Mary, who lives in the nearby village of Stoupa and runs a villa rental business with her mother, was brought up hearing many outlandish stories about Zorbas from her grandfather, Yiorgos Exharchouleas, a well-known local resident. She says Zorbas was a unique character and faithfully captured in Kazantzakis’ book.

She also says that Zorbas and the writer more or less took over Kalogria beach in 1917 and scandalised and delighted Stoupa with their bohemian lifestyle. Stoupa in those days was a small, conservative fishing village with a few tavernas along the seashore and had seen nothing like this pair of outsiders, or their visiting friends – a cast of exotic international characters who descended on Kalogria beach and included famous Greek actors, intellectuals and one of Kazantzakis’ best friends, the poet Angelos Sikelianos.

But while Kazantzakis was a more reclusive and complex character, the locals instantly took to Zorbas’ antics, his bouzouki playing, his kefi (high spirits). Kazantzakis, as in the book, was the total opposite of Zorbas, the cultivated aesthete compared to the rough and ready miner. It was the most unlikely of friendships, yet Kazantzakis has written many times of his admiration and brotherly love for Zorbas.

In another of his books, the autobiographical, Report to Greco, Kazantzakis explains what Zorbas meant to him.

“For he had just what a quill-driver needs for deliverance: the primordial glance which seizes its nourishment arrow-like from on high; the creative artlessness, renewed each morning, which enabled him to see all things constantly as though for the first time, and to bequeath virginity to the eternal quotidian elements of air, ocean fire, woman, and bread; the sureness of hand, freshness of heart, the gallant daring to tease his own soul, as if inside him he had a force superior to the soul…”

To complete the search for the real Zorbas, Maria took us to the abandoned Prastovas area on a Stoupa hillside which has the original lignite mine the pair were involved in. The mine proved unsuccessful and had an early demise and now it is a rather wild and forlorn rabbit warren of tunnels oozing puddles of spring water.

The work at the mine had been hard and dangerous with around 200 workers employed in 1917, some of whom later remarked that while Zorbas was always there working like a mule, Kazantzakis was rarely ever seen, even in the stone ‘office’, that is now a dilapidated old house. He preferred to keep a quiet vigil at the beach hut at Kalogria.

Some of the local Greeks we spoke to about the legendary George Zorbas lamented the disappearance of great characters like him and say the economic crisis has cut the Greek hero down to size. But if ever Greece needed another unique, maverick soul like Zorbas – it’s definitely right now.

Nikos Kazantzakis wrote in Report to Greco of his great admiration for the inimitable George Zorbas

Report to Greco by Nikos Kazantzakis (Faber and Faber) translated by PA Bien.

A book about living in Greece

For more details about my book, Things Can Only Get Feta based on three years living in the Mani, southern Greece during the crisis, visit my website www.bigfatgreekodyssey.com or visit Facebook www.facebook.com/ThingsCanOnlyGetFeta

Visit Amazon to buy the book

For more information about the southern Peloponnese www.bigfatgreekodyssey.com

To leave a message, click on the link below.

Thanks for calling by.

© Text and photographs copyright of the authors 2012

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Will the crisis kill off unique Greek monasteries?

Posted on September 6, 2012 by Marjory

Dimiova women’s monastery high up in the Taygetos mountains in the southern Peloponnese

IT was sad indeed to hear of the death of one of the last two nuns at the unique Dimiova monastery, east of Kalamata, in the southern Peloponnese. Sister Christina, in her seventies, died last December after a long illness. I had met her and the Abbess of Dimiova, Sister Kiriaki, during a day-long ‘retreat’ at the monastery in 2012 and subsequently wrote a blog piece about my memorable experiences there.

With only the Abbess remaining now at this remote place high in the Taygetos Mountains, the future of this outstanding monastery, which houses one of the most revered icons in this part of the Peloponnese, will now be in doubt. There are only a handful of working monasteries left in this region, particularly for women.

During lunch that day at the monastery, it was Sister Kiriaki who remarked that the economic crisis had impacted drastically on the monastery, on its much needed repair and renovations and its ability to support more nuns. The two remaining nuns had been leading very humble, restricted lives even before the crisis began, but now the situation was much bleaker, as it has been for most priests as well in the Orthodox church, and the churches themselves.

In a few short years, the lack of funds throughout Greece will mean that many old monasteries will have to close their doors, apart from the highly visible and protected monasteries of Mount Athos. Already in the southern Peloponnese many have closed, due to lack of staff or because they are becoming derelict.

In a modern world where religion has less significance for many people, a common complaint (even from younger Greeks as well) is: “Why do we need monasteries?”

The Orthodox religion is an integral part of the vibrant Greek culture, but the issue goes beyond religion I think. These Greek monasteries, and many churches, are unique historic buildings and contain a wealth of outstanding Byzantine frescos that are surely as important to European art tradition as any Italian Renaissance masterpiece. Painted on the interiors of churches, often open to the elements, the frescos are fading and in need of regular upkeep, now mostly impossible in the crisis. If you are lucky, you might see inside one of these establishments once or twice a year on certain saints’ days.

The monasteries are also an enduring part of the communities that surround them and have, during difficult periods of Greek history protected communities, hidden Greek freedom fighters and have promoted the Greek language and its culture. If these great institutions close, and finally crumble into ruins, it will become near impossible to revive them in future decades.

One day in the future, Greeks will surely climb out of the economic crisis, but without these splendid historic and religious monuments, the country they inherit will not be the one we know today. And that would be a tragedy.

To give an idea of how special Dimiova is, I am posting here a slightly shortened version of the blog I wrote in 2012. If you feel strongly about the subject, do please leave a comment on the post.

WHEN my friend Gillian Bouras and I hit on the idea of going on a short retreat to the monastery of Dimiova, in the Taygetos mountains (southern Peloponnese), the plan had great appeal. Friends said we were crazy, but undeterred we went ahead with our strategy for a trip in early August in the lead-up to one of the holiest dates in the Orthodox calendar, the 15^th of that month, which is the feast day of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary.

Gillian is an Australian-born writer who has lived in the southern Peloponnese for over 30 years and has written extensively about it. We both had slightly different expectations for this jaunt but what we did have in common as writers was being able to gain access to this traditional and rarified way of life, still shrouded in centuries of Orthodox mystery, before it disappears altogether in Greece. At Dimiova, in the remote northern western slopes of the Taygetos, sadly there are now only two elderly nuns left.

The church dedicated to the Dormition of the Panayia at Dimiova was built in the 17th century

The preparation for this short trip was more protracted than I would have guessed. I had to enlist the help of a Greek friend who had contacts within the Greek Orthodox Church. Because monasteries are highly respected and guarded here, we needed authorisation from the head of the church for the Messinian region, Bishop Chrisostomos. And after many weeks of waiting, we were gratefully given the go-ahead.

Two weeks before the visit we were also required to meet Papa Sotiris in the hill village of Elaiohori. He was co-ordinating our trip and also takes the Sunday services at Dimiova and oversees its ecclesiastical well-being.

Papa Sotiris is a genial young priest with a modern outlook. Having worked previously as a businessman in Kalamata city, he gave up his career to join the priesthood, despite the fiscal sacrifice that entailed, and has not had one moment of regret. He was delighted (and a little intrigued) by the request to visit Dimiova, but there were certain conditions.

We had to be at the monastery 7am sharp. The clothing rules were strict: sensible dark/black clothing – long skirts, no bare arms or legs, sensible shoes, no bling of any kind. We were told the nuns led a simple and somewhat severe life, that they would be adhering to a semi-fast on the lead-up to August 15. The most vexatious rule was saved for last. There would be no talking at the monastery. No talking?

Although talking is not strictly forbidden, Papa Sotiris told us the nuns don’t like to talk unless they have to, especially at this devout time of the year. But since we wanted to write about monastery life, the no-talking rule was awkward.

“How will we be able to glean anything about the nuns’ lives if we can’t talk to them?” asked Gillian.

We were simply to find that out for ourselves, Papa Sotiris seemed to indicate rather mysteriously.

****

The Abbess Sister Kiriaki, left, Papa Sotiris, the priest at Dimiova, and Sister Christina

IT’S Friday morning at 6am when set off on our pilgrimage and it promises to be another scorching August (38C) day. The drive up the winding road with hairpin bends, occasionally with a scattering of rocks, from a recent unseasonable downpour, sets the right kind of reflective tone and we are both secretly wondering if we aren’t crazy after all with this monastery expedition.

The last few hill villages are left behind as we drive further into the Taygetos, having passed no other vehicle along the road, or seen another soul. But Dimiova, when it comes into view, tucked into a mountain slope, surrounded by fir and pine trees, is bigger than expected. The outer walls and monastery buildings are white and the tiled, domed roof of the church is poking up from the inner courtyard like a jaunty hat. I am now anxious to get there as I bump the small Fiat car painfully up the last steep, boulder-strewn metres of dirt road to the front gates.

A morning service has just started in the monastery church, dedicated to the Dormition of the Panayia (Virgin Mary). A bell tolls and the sound of the liturgy is sonorous and spine-tingling in this lonely mountain location. At the door of the church we are met by Sister Kiriaki, who is also the Abbess of the monastery, whom we are relieved to find does talk (though not volubly).

But she has rather charmingly forgotten why we are here or what they are to do with us. She looks a little weary but at least the modest bags of cold drinks and fruit we offer as gifts for our stay are met with a smile. The large watermelon is given an especially warm appraisal.

She ushers us into the church beside the other remaining nun, Sister Christina, who is wearing a similar long black robe, her head wrapped in thick long black scarf. Kiriaki returns with offerings of her own, prayer ropes called komboskini, comprised of thick knotted wool interspersed with small beads (rather like a Catholic rosary). We are to hold these during the service, taken by Papa Sotiris.

The church is a lovely example of early 17^th century design, with frescos painted in 1663 by the monk Damaskinos. The main focus of this church however is the old and much revered icon of the Virgin Mary (Panayia Dimiovitissa), and Child, which is claimed to have miraculous powers, as are many icons dedicated to the Panayia, though this particular icon attracts many pilgrims from all over Greece at this time of year.

Papa Sotiris, top, lighting the votive lamp in front of the icon of the Panayia Dimiovitissa. Above: the icon showing the bloodstain on the Virgin Mary’s face

The icon is best known for the curious mark on the Panayia’s right cheek, which is said to be a blood stain, and there are many theories as to how it came to be there.

Papa Sotiris at the end of the service explains a little of the history of the icon and tells us it is the general belief that the icon was damaged by a sharp blow with a knife or axe during the struggles of the Iconoclastic period of Greek history (8^th to 9^th centuries AD), when many icons in Greece were defaced or even burnt.

The icon, he says, had been brought here for safe keeping some time in the 8^th century, when the first monastery building was erected, and during a violent skirmish between the defenders of the icon and interlopers, the image of the Panayia was struck and blood sprang from her face. The signs of it remain today, hence its miraculous powers.

The monastery of Dimiova has always been one of the most important of the Messinian region and has a gripping history. During the 15^th century it was set on fire by the Turks during a local skirmish and rebuilt a century later, only to be attacked again by the Turks in 1770.

However, it survived and became a meeting place for some of the great revolutionary leaders in the Greek War of Independence against the Turks in 1821. It is said that some of these leaders, like the heroic Theodoros Kolokotronis, plotted the opening shots of the war, started in Kalamata on March 23, from within these hallowed walls.

The monastery is best known in Messinia for its annual procession (started in 1843), and the carrying of the icon from the monastery down to a church of Giannitsanika on the edge of Kalamata, a journey of over 13km, which takes around five hours.

After the service, Papa Sotiris offers us Greek coffee with several other parishioners in one of the lovely old dining rooms in the monastery. Despite the no-talking rule, Kiriaki, at least, is in good conversational form, perhaps enjoying a respite from their solitary life. Kiriaki is in her mid-sixties yet looks much younger with a fresh, unlined face.

Kiriaki’s story is not an unusual one in Kalamata. After the Second World War, along with many other war orphans, she was left, aged two, under a certain plane tree near Kalamata Cathedral. The convention was that youngsters were left here to be taken in by kind Kalamatans, but in Kiriaki’s case she was taken to Dimiova.

She has known no other life but this. It’s a fairly regimented existence, with a 5.30am start for prayers, a simple breakfast (they only eat twice a day) and then work in the fields and gardens, tending the monastery’s flocks of sheep and goats, cooking, and then retiring at eight or nine o’clock, depending on the season.

The winters here, says Papa Sotiris, are long, cold and dark, with very simple accommodation and heating. They have no TV, no computers and only one radio tuned into an Orthodox religious station.

“The nuns are allowed to speak if they want to,” explains Papa Sotiris, “But most of the time they choose not to. They find it peaceful not to talk.”

“They are like two canaries in a cage,” he explains with an ingenuous flourish, “It’s a lovely cage though, a lovely environment and they don’t want to fly out into the outside world.”

To us it seems a bit lonely and yet once it would have been otherwise. When Kiriaki was a child there were a few dozen nuns in residence, and earlier in its history, as a monastery for monks only, it was capable of housing up to 100 people. Over the years, though, as the older nuns have died, the numbers have not been replaced.

Many people come to Dimiova primarily to see the miraculous icon and it is kept under lock and key for most of the time. In this region there are many stories also about its miraculous powers.

Papa Sotiris says: “There have been many, many stories in the nearby villages of people experiencing miracles. Everyone has their own special story.”

The miracle that needs to befall the monastery at the moment, sadly, is funding. The monastery buildings and the church, which were partially damaged in the earthquake of 1986, are in constant need of maintenance and restoration. The monastery is always grateful for public donations, however small, to help this cause as one of the few working/occupied monasteries, for women in particular, in the Messinian region.

Over a simple but tasty lunch that day of black lentils with onion and sturdy village bread, Kiriaki tells us the monastery is suffering in general from lack of funds, like other church institutions here, because of the economic cutbacks in Greece.

With restoration work on some Byzantine churches, particularly in rural areas, already being scaled back, the future of monasteries like Dimiova and the gentle souls who inhabit them is more in doubt than ever.

Sister Kiriaki, top, hitting the traditional wooden talado, which is used to call the faithful to prayers or for meals. Above: Sister Christina in reflective mood

When we finally take our leave much later after the lovely esperinos, the evening service, for the long nerve-pinching drive back down the mountain, we are told to come back soon and are given more gifts of filakta, small embroidered pouches smelling of lavender, which, whispers Kiriaki in my ear, are to be worn near the heart “for protection”.

The flower garden in the monastery grounds is a place of gentle reflection

All the way down the mountain road in the fading light I feel sleepy with the heat but I have to keep my eye out for more scree over the road, but luckily it’s all clear. Neither of us feel inclined to talk, lost in our own thoughts.

Apart from the heavenly mountain setting and the history of the place that you feel in every well-worn corner of Dimiova, for me it is the two lovely nuns who are the spirit of the place. And unexpectedly inspiring.

At a time when Greece is rocked by harsh austerity measures, job losses, rising suicide rates, and loss of confidence, here are two people uncomplaining about a life pared down to the bone. Their simple life and their serenity has a way of cutting through all our modern worries like that church bell tolling down a deserted mountainside at seven in the morning.

* Donations for the church are gratefully received. Information about Dimiova through the Metropolis of Messenia www.mmess.gr

A longer version of this blog post formed the basis for the Chapter, Touching Heaven, in my second travel memoir Homer’s Where the Heart Is. For more information about this book and the first memoir Things Can Only Get Feta about my three years living in the southern Peloponnese, go to www.bigfatgreekodyssey.com/blog or order through www.amazon.co.uk

@ Copyright, text and photographs, Marjory McGinn 2016

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When will Greece be loved?

Posted on July 19, 2012 by Marjory

Putting the boot in: Greece doesn’t deserve to be bullied by its euro neighbours

IN the lead-up to the recent Greek elections (one and two), much of the world’s media had a great old time knocking the Greek character, having a laugh about tax dodgers and work-shy citizens. But if the rest of the world thinks that level of criticism will pulverise the Greeks, they’re wrong. Greeks created the word stoical – and they are its best practitioners.

At Kalamata Airport recently, while waiting for two Aussie friends to arrive from Athens, we overheard a tourist (northern European) having a strop with a young Greek guy at a car hire counter. The tourist was late returning his car and was anxious that he’d be charged for an extra day. The Greek guy assured him it was okay, he’d make a note on his form and make sure the visitor wasn’t charged an extra fee. But the visitor still wasn’t happy. As the Greek guy was writing his note, Mr Stroppy started up again, demanding that the guy sign the note on the form and also demanded to see his identity card as well.

The Greek guy was surprised but gracious. He said he wasn’t obliged to show his ID to a customer but took it out anyway to calm the tourist down. But STILL it wasn’t enough. “Write down your card identity number as well,” said Mr Stroppy, jabbing his finger at the form.

The Greek guy finally had enough (as had the rest of us in the car hire queue) and refused, putting his card back firmly back in his pocket, leaving Mr Stroppy to steam away at the counter. I wanted to cheer, but thought better of it.

Yet Mr Stroppy had to have the last angry word. “You know what, you have a lovely country here but you are all totally disorganised. It’s a disgrace,” he said.

The Greek guy just looked at him, shrugged stoically and got on with his work. I’m sure he’s seen worse, heard worse and has more to worry about than a pompous foreigner trying to kick major ass over a hire car.

A Greek acquaintance here who owns holiday villas in the Mani told us that a group of Germans cancelled their holiday a couple of months back because they feared they would get beaten up by Greeks while here because of recent harsh measures demanded by the Troika, and particularly by Germany. When we heard this story we thought it was both sad and ludicrous, that tourists are so uninformed and paranoid about coming to Greece. Get real! From our recent experience at the airport it seems to me that Greeks are more in danger of being beaten up by the visitors.

Flying the flag: OK, Greece isn’t quite like northern Europe – but that’s why we love it

Greeks bearing laptops

THE fact that Greece might be disorganised is completely unfounded. Sure, the country’s politicians faff about a lot and keep doing policy U-turns, but other services here, both private and government, run remarkably smoothly. We took our newly arrived Aussie friends to the telecommunications firm Vodafone in Kalamata to sort out mobile internet connections for their laptops, since they like to keep in touch with the outside world while on holiday.

When the guys at the Vodafone office tried to fit the USB modems they found they weren’t compatible with the couple’s very new computers. The guys would have to talk to techie colleagues in Athens so they could download software to fix the problem. It was all handled calmly and graciously, without any of the frowning or moaning you might expect elsewhere.

While the Vodafone guys were working on the couple’s computers they told us all to go for a coffee nearby, which we did in a favourite venue (Le Garcon on Aristomenous St), which is an oasis of serenity and coolness on a hot day (the temperature was around 38 degrees) as the outside seating area has overhead sprinklers delivering a continuous fine mist of icy water.

Half-an-hour later, we were amazed to see the two Vodafone technicians sprinting around the corner to our table, each holding aloft an opened laptop, much to the amusement of the other café punters. The techie guys needed our friends’ passwords in order to proceed. That was sorted, and off they sprinted again.

Our friends were gobsmacked. “That would never happen in Oz,” they said.

“Not in the UK either,” we added.

We well remember it once took us a month to get a broadband connection in Scotland with a well-known internet provider when we moved house. The corporate bumbling was immense, and so was the aggravation of having to ring an Indian call centre every other night to listen to the same old comedy routine of excuses and then promises of broadband by morning, which never happened. And so it went on. In Greece they don’t outsource to overseas call centres.

Hummus and hospitality

IT’S always gratifying to see Greece through fresh eyes. Our Aussie friends have been overjoyed by their stay in this region of the Peloponnese and only dismayed at the level of misinformation filtering around the world about Greeks. They have found good service and efficiency everywhere they’ve been.

And they are delighted that the old standards of Greek hospitality and kindness have not diminished despite the economic crisis. The couple are staying in an apartment in the Mani and every day their Greek neighbours have brought produce from their garden – fat, juicy tomatoes and cucumbers – and home-baked bread, olives, oil and much more.

Attention all moaning minnies from overseas. If you can’t be open-minded and generous towards Greece during its crisis, go somewhere else. Simple. I hear the Norwegian fjords are pristine and cool this time of year. Canoes are plentiful…

Birds on a wire: Our garden owls snuggle up side by side …

… and have a hoot with some amorous activity

Well owl be damned …

WE have said a lot lately about our little brown owl visitor. Indulge us, we’re new to twitching. We have found out the Greek brown owl is partly diurnal, which is why it appears on our power lines night and day. We started out with one, but now we regularly see a couple sitting on the power lines, sometimes smooching. We’ve had trouble getting a good picture of them. But now we have several, which we wanted to share. We promise to only mention the owls again if they are joined by their extended family … or develop some interesting high-wire routines.

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Greek wine’s keener than retsina, Wallace the guitar hero …

Posted on June 10, 2012 by Marjory

The good and the grape: A vineyard in the Nemea region of the Peloponnese

Jim’s writing the blog this month, marvelling at Greek wine …

I’VE just sipped a glass of the Blood of Hercules – and it was superb. Don’t worry, I haven’t joined the Kalamata branch of Vampires Anonymous in Greece, I’m simply enjoying a robust red wine from the Peloponnese.

I’m not a wine buff, but I do know that Merlot isn’t a magician, and I’m amazed at the high quality of Greek wine, especially Peloponnesian varieties – from cheap barrelled wine served in tavernas to award-winning bottles produced on wine estates.

Greek wine has come a long way since I first visited the country in the 1970s. In those days it was all jugs of retsina, with enough resin in it to varnish a 12-seater dining table, and bottles of cheap plonk called Domesticos – or more appropriately known as Domestos by British tourists who compared it to the germ-killing household bleach.

Today, there’s a wide choice of wine produced from more than 300 indigenous grape varieties across Greece. Over the past decade, on holiday trips to several islands, I’ve tasted some excellent wines, such as Santorini’s nykteri variety of white wine and Kefalonia’s Robola, another fine white wine sold in bottles with a distinctive hessian covering.

Vine time: Grapes growing on a smallholding near Kalamata

However, I believe the wines of the Peloponnese are the cream of the crop – and excellent value for money. At grassroots level, some of the loveliest wine I’ve tasted has been produced by village taverna owners and their families and sold for as little as three or four euros a litre.

A lot of mass-produced wine in the Peloponnese is sold in 1.5-litre plastic bottles, and much of it is “extremely quaffable” as one British expat and wine expert likes to tell everybody.

A summer favourite is chilled rose wine – a type I’d never touch with a barge pole in the UK and typified by the sweet Mateus Rose from Portugal. The Peloponnese rose is more red than rose coloured and far less sweet than the Portuguese stuff.

Some of the finest rose wine comes from the Monemvasia area of Laconia. Unlike the rest of Greece, most wines consumed in this region of the Peloponnese is rose, with red and white a long way behind. The Laconian vineyards are planted with varieties of grape intermixed in the correct ratio of white and red to achieve the bright colour and bouquet of rose.

Lovely trio: Two reds from the Nemea region flank the malagousia white wine

In Kalamata, there are two large-scale wineries producing some terrific wines – Inomessiniaki and Bio Vin, which are both near Kalamata Airport – visit their websites www.inomessiniaki.gr and www.biovin.gr Bio Vin wines are made by Ioannis Tsavolakis and come from strictly selected grapes, products of organic viticulture.

The best-known wine-producing area of the Peloponnese is Nemea, south-west of Corinth, turning out dry red wine cultivated from the local agioritiko grapes. One of the finest Greek varieties is called “Blood of Hercules” due to its deep red colour. You can pick up a bottle of decent Nemea red for as little as 3.20 euros in supermarkets in the Peloponnese. Visit the region’s website www.nemeawines.gr

However, try to find these lovely Greek wines in supermarkets in Britain and you’re wasting your time. The only Greek wine I’ve seen on the shelves in Tesco or Morrison is rough-and-ready retsina. As the editor of one wine magazine in Britain told me: “Greek wine is a small, niche market in the UK with little interest”.

Surely Greece, with its economy in meltdown, could seize the chance to boost its beleaguered exports revenue by promoting its superb wines in Britain. It could follow the example of Australian wineries, which came to dominate the British wine market by aggressive marketing – some Aussie wines were on sale in UK supermarkets at lower prices than in Australia. Along with tourism, Greek wines could help get the country back on its feet.

Big bouquet: Moschofilero white wine from the Mantinia region

Another great wine-producing region of the Peloponnese is Mantinia, north of Tripoli, which makes lovely white wine from the moschofilero grapes cultivated on the slopes of Mount Mainalo. One of the best moschofilero wines is produced by Ino wines (www.inowines.gr).

A favourite tipple is the malagousia white wine, sold for 3.99 euros at Lidl. This rare Greek variety comes from outside the Peloponnese and is cultivated on the slopes of Mount Kitheron, north of Athens. It easily rivals those tasty sauvignon blancs from New Zealand’s Marlborough region – bursting with a bouquet of exotic fruits …

Good God, now I’m starting to sound like a wine connoisseur. Someone pass me a tin jug of warm retsina and a dirty glass …

Paw player: Wallace gets to grips with the guitar

You aint nothin’ but a hound dog…

WALLACE our Jack Russell dog has amazed us with his enthusiasm for new hobbies: he’s already mastered high jumping, sprint running, surfing, motorbike riding. Now he’s gone for singing and playing guitar. Great stuff, but why can’t he sharpen up some other abilities as well, like picking the winning numbers for the Euro Millions lottery?

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Bravehearts of Kalamata, owl be seeing you …

Posted on March 29, 2012 by Marjory

Come the revolution: A freedom fighter leads marchers in national costume

THERE was a real sense of something big about to happen in Kalamata on Friday, March 23. As we walked towards the square in the historic centre of the city we kept being overtaken by kids tripping along in national costume (the white flouncy skirt and black pom-pom shoes) and young men in the same, but with antique pistols stuck into their belts.

In a kafeneion near the square, members of a brass band, in bright red jackets, were drinking tiny cups of Greek coffee, watching a dramatic line-up of priests, including Kalamata’s ample Bishop Chrisostomos, walking down the road from the city cathedral.

Men in black: Bishop Chrisostomos with priests from Kalamata’s cathedral

Not long after this, the festivities really kicked off for this annual event, which recognises the fact that the seven-year War of Independence against the Turks in 1821 really began in Kalamata, when local freedom fighters (part of the clans of the southern Peloponnese) liberated the city from the Turks, thus sparking the war. Although the rest of the country has its Independence Day on March 25, Kalamata still celebrates its original day of victory.

This was our first taste of the March 23 celebration in Kalamata. We expected a procession, dancing and flag-waving, but as we lined up on the pavement with the crowds, including our Kalamatan friend Babis and his lovely daughter Angeliki (who come to the celebration every year), it was clear there was a greater spectacle brewing.

Local hero: A Kalamatan man plays the role of war legend Theodoros Kolokotronis

There was a hush among the crowd seconds before a cavalcade appeared at the top of the road, in front of the cathedral, and cantered down towards the square – men on horseback, huge ghosts from the past. Leading them was Theodoros Kolokotronis (who led the army assault against the Turks in 1821), then Petrobey Mavromichalis, Mourzinos Troupakis, and assorted other freedom fighters, all in the traditional white skirt, waist coat, a clutch of pistols stuck in their belts. There was a ripple of applause as they passed.

After them came waves of marchers in national costume and school kids in uniform. Okay, locals have seen this display many, many times before but the excitement and awe seemed heartfelt all the same. And the guys who were dressed as the three historic freedom fighters are famous in Kalamata, and much loved by the crowds.

Our neighbour Kostas, who grew up in Kalamata, says the local guy who takes the role of Kolokotronis, wearing his distinctive red helmet, has been playing this hero every year without fail since Kostas was a boy (which is a little while ago), and there’s no signs of him reining back yet.

Girls aloud: Youngsters block their ears as canons are fired. Above: Other scenes from the parade

The celebration had special meaning this year with Greece having negotiated another EU loan to shore up its economy. The speeches by local dignitaries and the bishop were upbeat and dovetailed nicely with the spirited re-enactment in the square of the original March battle complete with sound effects – battle charge, blunderbuss and canon fire, and decibels pumped to the max.

Austerity measures be damned! There is no chance that Greece will ever cut back on these occasions, no matter what the EU bean counters say. The country that has survived earthquakes, wars, occupations and a military junta, isn’t too worried about cheque accounts that don’t quite balance.

Bird on a wire: This small brown owl has become a frequent visitor to our garden

Hootin’ in the Mani

FINALLY after the coldest winter since 1918 – or so our favourite Kalamatan waiter, Adonis (from the Argo at the marina) tells us – we have sun in abundance. The olive groves and mountain tracks are sprinkled with purple and red poppies, jonquils, freesias, daisies and lavender. And more importantly, the hot chilli peppers we planted last year are growing again.

For a few weeks recently we have had a regular visitor in the form of a small brown owl who comes and sits on the power lines near our front balcony just as the sun is slipping down behind the Messinian peninsula opposite, and whom we managed to snap a (slightly grainy) picture of.

On one of his latest visits he brought along his mate, probably to check out the antics of the small crazy white dog, jumping up and down on the balcony, barking. The fact they were not fazed in the least by Wallace’s daft antics says a lot for the composure of this tough little Greek owl.

Hot turkeys: Strutting their stuff in a Mani olive grove

Turkey fizzlers

CREATURES of all shapes and sizes have squeezed out of the woodwork suddenly. On a recent walk to an old monastery, hidden away in olive groves (but shut, which is often the case here where churches have splendid frescos inside) we passed a turkey farm, where two fat specimens were engaged in a heavy courting ritual, only they looked more like a couple of effeminate Sumo wrestlers in fluffy body-warmers. And I now know after gazing at these two why the prospect of a ‘turkey neck’ in later life is such a dismal prospect.

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St Theodora – the woman who turned into a church, Arcadian sojourn …

Posted on August 28, 2011 by Marjory

Branching out: The curious sight of oak trees growing from the roof of Ayia Theodora church

TREES grow in curious places and miracles abound where you least expect them – it would seem. On the roof of the tiny stone church of Ayia Theodora, oak trees began to grow after the building was constructed in the 10^th century and they’re still there today, their roots apparently reaching down through the walls of the structure towards the natural spring below. Why and how? It’s not clear. Locals say that in line with the curious history of the church, it’s a miracle. Structural experts and academics have visited and studied the church and have so far been unable to offer a scientific explanation for the odd tree growth or its longevity.

It is certainly the strangest and most oddly appealing church we’ve encountered in the Peloponnese so far. And it was especially to see this ecclesiastical phenomenon that we drove to the village of Vastas in Arcadia (a two-hour drive away) on a day when the temperature was nudging 40 degrees. The sun was blistering and yet, in the clearing of a forest where the church is situated, the atmosphere seemed cool and energising, with the natural spring that runs under the church oozing fresh, sweet water into a nearby stream.

The tiny stone church squats under the weight of the 17 trees that soar up from the tiled roof like a stiff-brushed hairdo of eccentric proportions. The curious thing is there is little trace of tree roots apart from a large knot of ancient wood breaking through the stone wall above the front door of the church and disappearing again into its structure. In the confined space inside the church, with its several icons of Ayia Theodora, there is no sign of a root system, however. From the outside, and apart from the front oak, the trees simply appear to be growing straight up out of the tiled roof itself, as if floating on air.

Knotty problem: The front of the church showing a section of tree root which has grown there for over 1,000 years

The local Greeks have believed throughout the centuries that this is a sacred place and that the structure is the miraculous form of Saint Theodora, who prayed before her untimely death for her body to be turned into a church, her hair to become a forest of trees above, her blood a river.

Saint Theodora’s is a curious story even for the Byzantine era in which it originated. In the 9^th century, the pious Theodora wished to join a monastery, yet for reasons we’ll never understand decided against a women’s monastery and joined a male establishment instead. After disguising herself as a young man, she changed her name to the male equivalent – Theodoros – and there began her earthly trials at least.

While on one of her many travels outside the monastery to raise funds for its charitable work, a young nun from a nearby monastery, who was pregnant, claimed Theodoros was the father of the child in a bid to protect her real lover. Again for reasons that are blurred with time, Theodora kept her gender a secret and decided to take the rap for the incident as a mark of compassion for the nun’s plight, and the saint was tried and sentenced to death by decapitation.

As the story goes, when the executioner and his cohorts saw Theodora’s naked body before her burial and realised her innocence, they repented their act and built a church to honour her good deeds and her martyrdom.

It was while she was awaiting execution that she uttered her prayer with the wish to be literally turned into a church. A curious story, of course, and while the church itself may not be on a par with other sacred shrines around the globe, and while so far as we know there have been no recorded miraculous healings, the church attracts thousands of pilgrims from all over the world, who come here to keep vigil in the shaded forecourt of the church.

Inside a mystery: Not a tree root in sight within the walls of the tiny church in Arcadia

The church has attracted many engineering experts over the years from Greek and overseas universities. None have so far been able to explain how the walls have been able to withstand the growth of roots through them over a period of more than 1,000 years without the tiny structure of the church being destroyed.

One Greek engineer noted that the weight of the trees on the roof would be around nine tons, which is four times greater than what would normally be tolerated by a structure of this size. Added to this, during times of high winds and rain there would be an even bigger, more disastrous load on the building.

However this odd phenomenon has taken root it is worth seeing for yourself, if miracles excite you at all. Certainly this part of Arcadia is a fascinating mix of stunning mountains and plains and is only marred by the power-generation plants outside the modern town of Megalopolis. It’s an important industry in this region, but the sight of two giant smoke stacks belching out pollution, at what is sometimes said to be Athenian levels, is slightly discouraging. At least they’re not visible from every vantage point and there are plenty of stunning beauty spots here, like the archaeological site of Lykosoura.

World’s oldest city: Part of the ruined Temple of Despoina in the ancient site of Lykosoura

Said to be the oldest city in the world, it has the intriguing, ruined Temple of Despoina (the Mistress) dating back to 180BC and situated on a peaceful hillside. The cult statue of the goddess Demeter was once situated here and this was the site of various ancient Mysteries we can only guess at now.

A short drive from here is Mt Lykaio, or Wolf Mountain, with staggering views of the southern Peloponnese on a clear day, and the Taygetos mountain range. It has a windswept Scottish highland feel about it, complete with bright coloured thistles growing on the hillsides and not a soul to be seen. There are tiny churches in the folds of hills, rusting signposts, and other ruined archaeological clusters with columns lying like bleached bones in long grass.

Greece or Scotland? Colourful thistles growing in the hillsides near Mt Lykaio in Arcadia

It was so swelteringly hot, however, that we had to forgo a walk up the final bit of dirt track that leads to the top of Mount Lykaio. Instead we drove back towards the plain and fell upon a natural spring water outlet by the roadside, where the water is cold, sweet and mythically refreshing. We refilled all our empty drink bottles, and later Wallace the dog jumped in to cool his heels. Or maybe he just thought that by immersing himself in the water from Wolf Mountain he’d turn into a tough-guy terrier.

Paws for refreshment: Wallace the Jack Russell cools off in the spring water that flows from Mt Lykaio

Back in the Mani, the church of Ayia Theodora with its crazy Einstein hair seems a world away and yet it is a strange co-incidence that brings it into clear focus again.

One afternoon we are swimming in a quiet cove where several Greeks are floating about under their hats when we get into conversation with a man who is paddling by. He tells us he is in the Mani for his annual August vacation, and that he comes from no other place but the village of Vastas, not far from the church of Ayia Theodora. We ask him: Is the tree growth miraculous?

He smiles under his white baseball cap and tells us that lots of smart university types have looked at the church and measured it and pondered over it. “No-one can ever explain it,” he says with a big Mediterranean shrug.

“So it’s a miracle then?”

He points to the sky. “Only the man up there knows for sure.” He winks and paddles off.

Double delight: Our first succulent figs of the season

First figs and sea songs

AUGUST has been sweltering. There’s hardly been a day when the temperature has been below 35 degrees, with not one drop of rain or a cloud in the sky. But August has brought the first figs and we have already raided nearby trees for our first supplies and stuffed ourselves silly with them, knowing that in a few short weeks they will all be gone. A lot like the Greek holidaymakers of August who swarm the Mani beaches and entertain us for hours with their manic beach capers and their sheer exuberance for summer, and for that first leap into a cool sea every morning.

Greeks are so completely at home by the sea, and uninhibited, that watching them at play there is a window into their eccentric souls. One morning in a cool sea as flat as a mirror I could hear a man, away out in the deep, singing at the top of his voice, for a good long while. He had a strong, melodic voice and was singing a variety of popular Greek songs, mixed with some opera. For want of something better to do, I swam out to him, and in the manner of most Greeks got straight to the point, asking him why he was singing in the sea.

“I sing in a choir in Athens,” he said, “and this is the best opportunity I get on holiday to practise at the top of my voice, on my own.” Time to leave then, but not before I had put in a request for a favourite Greek song and as I swam back to shore I could hear the first sweet bars of it drifting over the glassy sea. Where else but in Greece, eh? www.bigfatgreekodyssey.com

Marjory has written three memoirs about her adventures in southern Greece in which she also features a story about Ayia Theodora. Her latest book is A Scorpion In The Lemon Tree, available on all Amazon sites:

amazon.uk

amazon.com

Her two earlier books are also on Amazon. The first, Things Can Only Get Feta is currently on a promo on the British site for 99p. Amazon links below:

Things Can Only Get Feta

Homer’s Where The Heart Is

Thanks for calling by. x

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Easy road to Athens, 10 hot-spots in the city …

Posted on April 6, 2011 by Marjory

Best foot forward: An Evzone guard on parade outside the Parliament building in Athens

BEFORE we went on our recent trip to Athens, our first for many years, we were warned by other expats about how frenetic the city has become. We were told about bag snatchers around the tourist hot-spots, and their techniques were described in glorious detail by at least one expat. So we practised a few karate manoeuvres the night before, in readiness, and left with a tiny bit of trepidation.

We were also told by expats that we’d be bonkers to drive to Athens and that it was better to take the coach instead from Kalamata bus station. But having driven to Athens now, we strongly disagree with the doomsayers. The motorway from Kalamata was very smooth and pristine (especially the new section from Kalamata to Tripoli) and other drivers were mostly very restrained, which hasn’t always been our experience in the Mani. There was however the odd driver trying to break the land speed record while talking on a mobile.

The drive through the outskirts of Athens was a bit tormenting, but the Royal Olympic Hotel, where we stayed, offers a very detailed map on its website www.royalolympic.com for driving right to the hotel, and out again, which was brilliant. Once you hit the slightly down-at-heel outskirts of Athens, the sight of thousands of apartment blocks stretching to infinity is also a bit tormenting.

But the city centre is great. It’s buzzy and clean. Okay, it is quite crowded and very modernised in parts. It’s not the wonderfully exotic Levantine hub it once was, but it has great appeal nevertheless.

Majestic sight: The floodlit Temple of Zeus as seen from the rooftop garden at the Royal Olympic Hotel

As did our stay at the centrally located Royal Olympic Hotel, which offered us the upgrade of the Athenian Panorama suite with an eye-watering view across the road to the Temple of Olympian Zeus. Who wouldn’t want to fall asleep every night to the sight of 15 mighty floodlit columns?

We only had three days in the capital, which wasn’t enough, and a repeat visit is on the cards. It is possible, however, to see some of the main sights in that time, including the new Acropolis Museum, the Acropolis itself and the Benaki Museum. We also had time to take in the Ancient Agora, which is a huge, lovely site, if slightly neglected in parts, in the shadow of the Acropolis.

The Agora was once the social and political heart of ancient Athens, with temples, sanctuaries, libraries and meeting places. However, it was a men-only hangout and it was here that Socrates, Plato and Demosthenes came to argue the toss and thrash out the beginnings of our Western civilisation. Hard to see any reminder of that now among the fallen columns, ruined temples and broken walkways. Only when the wind rustles the long grass among the ruins do you get a whisper of the past.

But it was here that we identified the best public service job in the world – the Agora guards. They sit all day among the trees on plastic chairs, camouflaged as tired sightseers in their everyday clothing, guarding the antiquities and making sure there’s no hanky-panky in the undergrowth.

No head for heights: The statue at the Ancient Agora in Athens

One statue must give them particular grief. It’s a rather handsome but headless statue on a plinth of an Athenian thinker that must lure thousands of visitors for a look-here’s-my-head-on-a-Greek-statue photo opportunity, with the Acropolis looming in the distance for added creative appeal.

The day we were there we thought of doing exactly the same (well Jim did), but we were glad we didn’t try it. Some other wreckless soul was about to get his leg over the plinth when an Agora guard leapt out of her chair, sprinted over and admonished him loudly for the cultural barbarian he was and sent a few dozen tourists scattering for cover, including us.

Here’s our suggestions for other interesting sites, cafes, restaurants, and so forth, for anyone interested, and in no particular order:

1. The Benaki Museum on Vas. Sofias Avenue (www.benaki.gr) has one of the most eclectic and fabulous collections of Greek antiquities, icons, folk costumes, paintings. My favourite was the large collection of jewellery from antiquity to recent times. And the rooftop restaurant/café is very smart and seems to attract a bevy of well-heeled Athenian ladies and bon vivants. Not to be missed;

2. The old district of Monastiraki, with its flea market, tourist shops with tat we know and love, like those funny woollen slippers and cheesecloth shirts. And the old record/CD shops have great collections of out-of-date albums;

3. The Roof Garden restaurant on the top floor of the Royal Olympic Hotel is expensive but go up there just for a drink at the bar because the view, especially at night, of the Acropolis and the Temple of Zeus is stunning;

4. Visit the old fashioned grill taverna psistaria, the Ambrosia, with good food, generous portions and authentic atmosphere on Drakou St, off Syngrou Avenue (not far from the Acropolis Museum);

5. The Plaka. It isn’t what it used to be, Athenians told us. “The old neighbourhood is finished,” said one taverna owner. The ‘real’ people were moved on by the city’s bureaucrat planners to make way for the gentrification of the old Plaka houses, with their fabulous courtyards. I can’t comment on that but the area is still fascinating and full of tiny churches, small squares, and many fine restaurants. We ate at the Elaia in Erotokritou St, which is chic/traditional with good food and a nice atmosphere and a favourite apparently of film stars and other luminaries;

6. Melina’s café in Plaka, 22 Lissiou St, is worth a visit for its trendy bohemian chic and because it has the biggest collection of Melina Mercouri photos and memorabilia. Not because it was a favourite haunt of hers, the owner told us, but the collection was created to honour the life of this Greek icon. Zorbas Taverna, across the road, is also a nice venue (www.zorbasrestaurant-plaka.gr);

7. The Gazi area of Athens, near the ancient cemetery of Kerameikos, is also worth a visit. Gazi is a former industrial slum, now regenerated, with trendy bars, cafes, tavernas, but it’s a bit more edgy at night than the Plaka;

8. There seem to be very few city shops now selling folk arts – rugs, paintings, ceramics, jewellery etc, but the family-run Amorgos shop on Kordou St, Plaka, (www.amorgosart.gr) is a survivor, crammed with wonderful pieces. More museum than shop really;

9. The lovely 12^th century church of Panayia Gorgoepikoos, which apparently means ‘Our Lady who Grants Requests Quickly’ is an oasis of calm in Mitropoleos Square, where you also find the Cathedral of Metropolis, which houses some of the sacred remains of Ayia Filothei, a saint who once help the city’s orphans;

10. The Korres shop, on Ivikou Street, Pangrati, for the full range of its natural toiletries and make-up.

Freedom or death

OUR last day in Athens was the day before the March 25th Celebration of Independence. The War of Independence against 400 years of Turkish rule lasted from 1821 to 1829 and is still celebrated in great style in Greece, with marches and various state events, and one of its great catch cries is “Victory or death”.

On the 24^th there was a students’ march planned and altogether the city was gearing up for the next day’s events, with a huge police presence in the city and army and navy units milling around in front of the Presidential building. Here the famous Evzone guards were wearing their ceremonial white skirts, pompom shoes and gold embroidered waistcoats and doing their precision slow-motion changing of the guard.

Desperate plight: Beggar in Syntagma Square with a sign saying “Please – I’m hungry”

There was a lot of bustle in the area and some took the opportunity to draw attention to various causes, personal or otherwise, like the woman in a headscarf sitting quietly in Syntagma Square begging, holding a simple piece of cardboard announcing in Greek that she was hungry.

If this had been Glasgow at 11am, she’d have been high on Buckfast tonic wine, sitting in a shop doorway, with probably a skinny mutt in tow, and loudly abusing passers-by. But at least the countless number of migrants who usually swarm Athens selling their fake Gucci bags and pirate CDs weren’t in evidence because of the number of police around.

Athens must have one of the highest concentrations of asylum seekers in Europe, as they come here via some of the islands off the coast of Turkey and then move on through Europe, often towards Britain, as we know. It’s one of the aggravations of this city, along with gypsy kids forced to beg at tables who will come back again and again and pester you until you give them something. It’s confronting, and sad, but it still seemed like a small problem compared to the fabulous cultural offerings that Athens has.

Purple haze: A riot of colour from spring flowers

Flower power: Wallace has spring on his mind

Spring delivers

THE turnaround between winter and spring is so much quicker in Greece than in Britain, of course. It’s lovely to see all the wintry thin trees and shrubs coming to life again. It’s hard to believe that the spindly branches of the mulberry trees that decorate our front garden will, in about six weeks, be thick and dripping with fat, red mulberries. The olive groves and hillsides are also carpeted in daisies, poppies, lilies and wild orchids. With the olive harvest complete there is still work going ahead clearing orchards of pruned branches, which are stripped and chopped for next winter’s firewood. In our village a priest with long beard and hair, blue cap and gown, regularly drives past on an orange tractor on the way to his farmlands to look after his other flocks.

Big Fat Athens Oddity

WE were pleased to see that in Athens motorbike riders wear helmets, as opposed to Kalamata, where mostly they don’t. Maybe it’s because of a higher police presence in the capital. But we were dismayed to see one helmeted rider who was fed up waiting for the red traffic lights to change on a major road. He mounted the pavement and roared along the busy footpath, weaving his way around startled pedestrians, before rejoining the road further along and speeding off. www.bigfatgreekodyssey.com

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Losing our Elgin Marbles, the Acropolis rocks …

Posted on March 29, 2011 by Marjory

Simply marble-ous: The mighty Parthenon dominates the Acropolis in Athens

LAST week we sloped out of the Peloponnese for a trip to Athens, mainly to see the new Acropolis Museum for the first time. The museum, for anyone who hasn’t seen it yet, is outstandingly good, beautifully designed and the surrounding historic area of Makryannis, right beneath the Acropolis, is stylish too.

The design of the £110 million museum is inspirational, with glass floors in the main atrium area on each of the three floors and outside as well, where you can look down and see ongoing excavation work, which will take many years to complete, but one day visitors will be able to walk over ancient subterranean city streets.

This sense of completion, however, is not at all in evidence on the imposing third floor of the museum in the stunning Parthenon Gallery, where glass walls were created “to keep up visual contact with the monument” on the nearby Acropolis.

This is the gallery where the debate over whether or not the Elgin Marbles should be returned to Athens finally hits home. Until you see all the 5^th century BC sculptures and frieze panels lined up, for the first time ever, together with copies of the missing items that make up the ‘marbles’ collection, and which are now in the British Museum, you don’t realise the full extent of the Elgin heist.

And even if you weren’t the slightest bit interested in the debate before, you can’t leave the museum without having an opinion, either way. If you were passionate to start with, I promise you’ll leave feeling very cross.

Nearly half of the original carved marble panels that make up the frieze running along the top of the cella (inner colonnade of the original Parthenon building) are now in the British Museum (BM) which amounts to 247ft of them out of the complete 524ft. The frieze is a fantastic portrayal of an Athenian procession and includes many dozens of horses and riders, and many of the best-preserved are the ones in the BM.

Sad sight: Copy of a horse’s head (left) on the east pediment of the Parthenon – the original is in the British Museum

Fifteen of the best-preserved carved marble metopes, that were placed high up on the external columns and depict mythical battles, are also in the BM. Seventeen of the best life-sized statues from the east and west pediments (gable ends) of the Parthenon, which are the most stunning feature of this building, depicting the birth of the goddess Athena on the east, and the contest of Poseidon and Athena for control of Athens in the west, are also in the BM. They include the gods and goddesses of Greek mythology – Helios, Dionysus, Artemis, Hestia, Aphrodite.

It is the pediments most of all that are a sad reminder of the Elgin “looting”, as the removal is called in the museum’s short promotional film, shown continuously on the third floor, or “plundering” as the museum’s guide book refers to it.

One of the arguments for the BM not returning the ‘marbles’ was that the British claimed Greece couldn’t be trusted to guard them for posterity and that Athens’ pollution problems had already eaten away at the Parthenon and the other Acropolis temples and sculptures. Yet the new museum, which has state-of-the-art laser technology for cleaning its marble artefacts (and techniques are on display in the museum), makes a nonsense of this argument.

The museum was built with the intention of one day housing all the treasures of the Acropolis, including the stolen Elgin pieces, yet with so many plaster copies on display, it just seems to be playing a waiting game, like a jilted bride hoping her faithless lover will leg it back, yet not quite believing he will. I hope Athens doesn’t have to wait forever for Britain to do the right thing. But will it?

Even the official opening of this museum in June 2009 failed to inspire a solution and ended in a strop between Greeks and the British over the return of the treasures and even saw the Queen and Gordon Brown, the then Prime Minister, withdraw from the event. Perhaps Brown, who hails from Fife in Scotland, the site of the Earl of Elgin’s ancestral home, was feeling a tad ashamed.

Lord of the Loot

Thomas Bruce (no relation to the Jim Bruce of this website, we’re happy to say) was the 7^th Earl of Elgin when he took up the position of Ambassador to the Ottoman Court in Istanbul in 1799. He was given permission by the Athens government, then under the control of the Turks during the occupation of Greece, to remove a large hoard of statues and friezes, mainly from the Parthenon, that was dedicated to the goddess Athena in the 5^th century BC, the Golden Age of Greek civilisation. Elgin intended to use this distinctive collection to adorn his aristocratic pile, Broomhall House in Fife, with Grecian splendour.

However, when he returned to Britain, Elgin was ill and broke and found his exploits on the Acropolis had whipped up rancour back home that even drew a passionate retort from the poet Byron who said the antiquities of Greece had been “defac’d by British hands”.

In the end, Elgin sold the ‘marbles’ to the BM in 1811 for £35,000, a handsome sum in those days, but half the amount he had asked for.

Elgin claimed he had acted in the interest of the Greeks by keeping these antiquities safe for posterity, but in fact Byron was right. While Elgin was looting the items from the Parthenon with his band of local workers, he damaged much of the remaining original works, and sometimes took only the upper part of statues, leaving the rest behind. Many pieces that were not good enough for the BM sale, as well as other items from the Acropolis, still adorn Broomhall House, where Elgin’s decendants still live.

It does all beg the question – what does Britain really gain by keeping the cultural assets of other countries, supposedly poorer than itself? It might have seemed clever when Britain once had an Empire, now it just seems cheap.

www.theacropolismuseum.gr

To see a short film by Costas Gavras on the disasters that have befallen the Acropolis visit www.returnthemarbles.com

Sprawling city: The view stretching out across Athens from the Acropolis towards Lykavitos Hill

Love that rock

THE Acropolis itself, or the ‘holy rock’ as the Greeks still refer to it, is the most amazing place, with a view of the the city stretching out in every direction and even creeping up the lower slopes of the surrounding hills as well.

And despite ongoing restoration work to the Parthenon and cranes in evidence, workmen in hard hats, stone chisellers, crowds of tourists and stray, wolf-like dogs roaming the rock, the Parthenon still has incredible pull, even denuded of its sculptures, basically because the original design was a piece of perfection. Built to honour the Goddess Athena, this Doric temple has been hammered by more than the aristocratic follies of Lord Elgin, including earthquakes, sieges and explosions.

Tourists have probably been its worst enemy at times, and the Greeks have suddenly become quite paranoid about any desecration of its columns, and the whole environment of the Acropolis. There are many signs about the place telling you what you can and can’t do, which is quite prohibitive, including smoking, and making videos.

The sight of one young guy languishing on a bench of marble for a cute photo opportunity brought one well-built attendant with big Medusa hair flying out of her security cabin, waving her arms and admonishing the poor soul in front of a swarm of visitors. He’ll never do that again.

Movers and shakers: The Caryatids adorn one side of the Erechtheion on the Acropolis

It’s easy to see why the Greeks still love this place so much. It has become an enduring symbol of the Greek ability to rise above strife. Like the lovely Parthenon, the country has withstood the worst of troubles: foreign occupations, wars, juntas, earthquakes, economic collapse, tourist shops still selling collarless blue-and-white cheesecloth shirts, and Demis Roussos singing in kaftans!

More on our Athens jaunt next week ...

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