WHEN Jim and I moved to the Mani region of southern Greece for our mid-life adventure during the country’s economic crisis, we set out to live as Greek a life as possible. We went to church services in the hillside village where we first lived, and also to the vibrant saints’ day feasts, held outdoors with lashings of barbecued goat and village wine.
We tried everything, with various degrees of success – and sometimes mild disgrace – when, for example, we didn’t understand some of the Byzantine rituals of the Greek Orthodox Church and made a few gaffes. We tried olive harvesting (back-breaking!), got in a lather with traditional soap making, and even tried the peculiar delicacy tsikles (small pickled birds) to please a neighbour (never again!).
The point of our Greek odyssey was to do (often crazy) things we’d never done before, and try a new way of life, without most of the cultural norms and cliches of Britain. Christmas had been a welcome revelation in the first year. More low-key and reflective with less of the Christmas hysteria of the UK: the manic shopping, the house fronts decked out like the Blackpool illuminations. Not that we’re knocking a British Christmas, but we’ve never been that into ‘festive-to-the-max’, unlike some British expats we met in Greece early on who were, and who complained bitterly that the Greeks “just can’t get Christmas right!”.
Whenever I heard that I used to do a mental high-five, looking forward to our first taste of seasonal serenity in our hillside village, where most locals were hard-working olive and goat farmers. So it would have been risky chopping down a ‘Christmas’ tree. And there was no need to tinselate our small Greek house into a rural glitter ball. As if! But villagers were there on the day, chapping on our door like the ‘wise men’, bringing us seasonal cheer, offering sweet biscuits, cans of oil and other treats.
Jim, Marjory and Wallace the terrier at their village house
View across the Messinian Bay from the couple’s second house
In the lead-up to our second Christmas in this region, we were renting a different house, not far away, close to the Messinian Bay, a traditional Greek home with folky sofas and paintings. Our landlords, a convivial Greek couple, Andreas and Marina, called around to see us regularly and usually with ‘deliveries’ – food and household offerings in eccentric pairings I’d come to enjoy: broccoli and floor cleaner, cabbages and firelighters!?
One November afternoon the couple were on the doorstep, Marina with several bulging plastic bags and a basket with a red pointy hat sticking out. That should have alarmed us straight off! Marina rushed, bag-laden, past us into the house with her usual Greek proprietorial charm, while Andreas hung back at the door, chatting. The imminent olive harvest was very much on his mind because in rural areas the whirring sound of harvesting equipment trumps sleigh bells every time.
Winter in Greece means olive harvesting which we tried with our friend Foteini, pictured on her wobbly blue ladder
While we chatted, we forgot about Marina for a while until we became aware of furious scurrying and hammering going on behind us.
“What’s happening inside, Andreas?” I asked him, almost too scared to look.
He rolled his eyes and offered an Olympian shoulder shrug. “Marina has just decorated the house for Christmas.”
“What!?”
Jim and I spun around and walked into the open plan sitting room/dining room. Whereas it once looked atmospheric and Greek, which is how we liked it, the place now resembled Santas’s Grotto at a John Lewis store. A big red Santa was lording it over the dining table and tinsel was strung over paintings and across the top of the open fireplace. No health and safety in Greece. On every available surface: flashing Christmas lights, more santas in pointy hats, reindeer trundling across the coffee table and so forth. We gawped, feeling mildly ill. Even Wallace, our feisty Jack Russell terrier, trying to doze in his dog bed, had been fixed up with clip-on red ribbons and other festive embellishments.
Wallace the Jack Russell terrier wondering if the festive stuff was chewable
“Here,” said Marina, thrusting two fluffy festive socks towards me. “For Christmas Day.”
“But Marina, it’s barely November. Too early for Christmas decorations, surely,” I pleaded.
Andreas shook his head. “I agree Marjory, but Marina LOVES Christmas, you have no idea!”
Oh yes I did! The living room – lit up and pulsating, lacking only a sound system for Christmas carols – told me so. Silent Fright came to mind!
“This old place looks better now, don’t you think?” she said, hands on hips like the presenter of a TV home makeover show. Except we felt like the teary owners you often see, pretending to be overjoyed with an unexpected vision of home-hell. In Marina’s mind, the theme park she’d whipped up was what she thought we craved, miles from home at this time of year. Ah, bless! She meant well, in that extreme kind of Greek way.
Jim and I laughed over it later and slowly began to dismantle some of her offerings, leaving a bit of tat in place and hiding the rest in the apothiki (storeroom), haggling over santas and sleighs, wondering which things Marina would be more likely to miss on her next visit.
Marina (with Jim) trying to find new ways to spin Christmas
Whenever she came inside after that, her quizzical eyes strafed the room, doing a kind of mental inventory, but to her credit she never remarked on the adjustments. Meanwhile, with a developing artistic flair, she set about making countless Christmas wreaths wound through with fruit, veg and other Magpie finds, decorating everything from cat flaps to clapped-out welly boots, as pictured, top.
But it’s exactly what we came to Greece for. Wasn’t it!?
The story of our Greek Christmas first appeared in a slightly different form in my second memoir, Homer’s Where The Heart Is, which continues the funny, candid story of us attempting to live in Greece like locals, starting with the Amazon best-selling first memoir, Things Can Only GetFeta.
If you enjoyed reading my four Greek memoirs and my first two novels, A SaintFor The Summer and How Greek Is Your Love?), set also in the Mani peninsula, Greece, you will love my latest novel, The Greek Proposal. This time I chose the wild Messinian peninsula nearby for this story of romance, mingled with mystery and family war secrets. It has a feisty heroine, Isla, two gorgeous suitors, plus a lovable sausage dog, Lou – small in stature, big on character! It also has a stunning location, near Koroni, inspired by the year we later spent living there.
The Greek Proposal: “A masterful piece of storytelling” “Terrific characters”. Five-star Amazon reviews.
For more information about Marjory’s Greek memoirs and two novels set in Greece, please click on the Greek Books tab on her website https://www.bigfatgreekodyssey.com
Have a Merry Christmas when it comes, and thank you for reading Marjory’s blogs and books and for your ongoing support. The author always loves to hear from readers on her website and reviews of her books are also kindly appreciated.
Marjory, Jim and Wallace fighting off pesky black scorpions in their house rental in the Mani
WHEN we left the comfort of our Scottish village for a long odyssey in Greece, we expected tricky situations now and then, but we never anticipated loads of scorpions sharing our Greek abodes with us. And other trials were equally disconcerting and scary. All part of having an adventure in a hot location? Absolutely, but only up to a point.
In the clutch of rural houses we rented in the southern Peloponnese for four years, there were things we never imagined: finding the bones of a recently slaughtered cow in the huge refuse bin across the road from the house; kounavia (like pine martins) and rats in the attic roof space of one old house, doing circuit training on the bedroom ceiling every night; one petulant Greek neighbour regularly shooting his rifle at nearby almond trees in pursuit of songbirds. The list could go on and on. And it gave me plenty of material for my Greek travel memoirs and funny tales to dine out on much later.
Wallace the Jack Russell was not amused by scorpion incursions and tended to head for the hills
But the scorpions were by far the creepiest interlopers. In the Mani (the middle peninsula of the three that hang down from the southern mainland), the black scorpion is prevalent. Though often not as noxious as the beige variety, it is still capable of a toxic nip. They plagued us in almost all our houses, hiding under household objects, in slippers, under the bed, in the shower recess, or sitting on the front door step – ringing the bell, if they could actually reach. Our Jack Russell terrier Wallace ran a mile when he saw them, and so would we, except we didn’t want to turn our backs on them. (See my book extract).
When we complained to our various landlords about critter infestations, they were often indifferent: a shrug, an arm wave, a comical grimace. One genial Brit in our first year took delight in saying: ‘Well this is Greece, not Kew Gardens.” Indeed.
While we adore Greece, it is also a place where things are unpredictable, chaotic, bureaucratic, downright illegal too at times. Some mash-ups you could sort, some you couldn’t.
Often we had to turn a blind eye to some rural shenanigans, like one neighbour who organised a small tanker truck to siphon out his large vothros pit (septic tank), but then ordered the driver to empty the sewage over another neighbour’s olive grove somewhat further away, instead of taking it away. Why? To save on transport costs? A sniffy act of revenge? Who knows? It was an olive grove we sometimes walked through with the dog. Not any more after the effluent dispersal. Even Greeks themselves encountering weird happenings would shrug: “This is Greece. Nothing goes to plan.”
But maybe that’s the appeal of living in Greece, the idea that every day brings you an experience you’ve never had in your life before. And isn’t that what adventure is all about, going well beyond your comfort zone and maybe learning a thing or two in the process, or being mortally zapped by a petulant scorpion, viper, kounavi, or the odd, disgruntled expat?
In the interest of balance, however, we also had very many memorable and entertaining experiences and the opportunity to befriend warm, generous and eccentric Greeks, who also featured in abundance in my books. Our four-year odyssey (three years in the Mani, one in Koroni, Messinia) ended up being one of the best things my husband Jim and I had done in our lives.
My first book about our adventures, Things Can Only Get Feta, covered the first year of our odyssey and has regularly been in bestseller charts on Amazon. It is currently on an Amazon ebook promotion (99p) for December in the UK store. (see link below).
To get you in the mood, I’m sharing a short edited extract from the book, dealing with scorpion lodgers. I hope you enjoy it.
There’s A Scorpion In My Slipper
ONE afternoon, Jim came in from a walk with Wallace and found me crouched beside the open storage area under the stairs – motionless.
‘What are you doing there?’
‘Scorpion!’ I said, my voice as tight as a circus high-wire.
‘What’s it doing?’ he asked, taking Wallace’s lead off and shutting him in the bedroom.
‘What do you think it’s doing?’ I was soaked in sweat and my knees aching from crouching on floor tiles for 20 minutes. ‘Skulking in the corner, sending Tweets from its mobile phone?’
‘Very cute. Let me see.’ He crouched down beside me and I pointed to the black critter in the corner.
‘Holy Mother! It’s got an erection, if you see what I mean.’ Only a man can see a scorpion and think of sex. The poisonous black tail was certainly very up though, and jabbing in our direction.
‘I’ve been trying to keep an eye on him all this time. We can’t let him escape or we don’t know where he’ll end up.’
‘Okay, calm down. I’ll look for the insecticide,’ said Jim and he ran upstairs and rattled about in the kitchen cupboards. He took so long that I thought I’d faint.
When we first came to live in our hillside village, a few of the expats took great delight in winding us up about noxious critters– especially scorpions. And Desmond our landlord hadn’t helped matters at the beginning when he mentioned finding scorpions in the stonework here before renovation. I knew then that we were destined to meet this hideous creature that looks almost prehistoric – the outsized claws, the pitch-fork tail at the back; half-crab, half-devil.
We had heard a story from an English expat called Derek, who seemed to be something of a scorpion magnet, having been bitten twice in a matter of months. The second scorpion, beige-coloured and more deadly, bit him painfully on the stomach while he was lying in bed. Derek claimed the critter must have hidden in his pyjamas while they were hanging on the washing line earlier. His wife managed to get the scorpion into a jar for identification and it required a midnight scramble to Kalamata Hospital, where he was not in good shape – and neither was Derek. Placed on an antibiotic drip, he survived the attack.
We were warned by Desmond not to leave objects lying on the floor in the house for more than a few days because if scorpions did come into the house they would hide under them. This was the first time Desmond confessed to possible scorpion interlopers. I had been clearing out the space under the stairs and moved a gym bag that had been there for weeks when the scorpion skittered out.
Jim came running back down the stairs, a spray can in his hand. ‘Okay, let’s hit it with this,’ he said, and sprayed enough insecticide under the stairs to poleaxe a brown bear.
‘Thank God we got rid of that,’ he said, after disposing of the scorpion outside.
‘They travel in pairs, you know,” I told him, recalling something I’d read.
‘Nonsense, of course they don’t.’ But if there’s one rule in life it’s this: whenever you say a thing won’t happen, it generally does. A few days later I walked into the bedroom and screamed like a woman confronting a hooded intruder with a machete. Jim came running in.
‘What is it?’
‘There’s a scorpion in my slipper!’ I shouted. Crawling around the inside rim of my sheepskin slipper was another black scorpion, bigger than the first one, its tail up and quivering in my direction.
As it happens, I found a third black scorpion some weeks later, trying to crawl into a crack in the stonework around the front door. Only its long tail was hanging out. This was the biggest one yet. We started to live in fear of more of them.
We told Desmond later about our scorpion infestation. ‘You’ve been leaving objects on the floor for too long and not moving them around the house like I told you to,’ he muttered like some grand master of the telekinetic arts….
For more information about Marjory’s Greek memoirs and two novels set in Greece, please click on the Greek Books tab on her website https://www.bigfatgreekodyssey.com
THIS month it’s 10 years since my first Greek travel memoir, Things Can Only Get Feta, was published and I’m thrilled to say the book is still going strong: a best-seller in various Amazon categories, despite a publishing drama early on. However, it has soldiered on with vigour and even found its way recently onto the syllabus of a Greek university course. But more of that later.
If you’ve followed my blog over the past decade, you’ll be familiar with how the book, about living in Greece during the economic crisis, came about. But if you’re just tuning in for the first time, in short: my husband Jim and I, and our famously bonkers Jack Russell terrier Wallace, left a Scottish village in 2010 for a mid-life adventure in southern Greece. It was during a British recession and a downturn in the newspaper industry, in which we both worked as journalists.
Wallace, above, and again with Jim and Marjory in Koroni
And what an adventure it turned out to be, settling in a rented stone house in a hillside village in the remote, wild Mani region. It was a working village, raw in places, sometimes well beyond our comfort zone but perfect for our aim of living a Greek kind of life while we freelanced for various publications in Britain and Australia to help fund our odyssey. Greece was on the brink of meltdown due to its devastating economic crisis of 2010. The country, with massive debts, had to accept a bailout from the EU and punishing austerity to go with it. An ideal time for journalists perhaps, but not for a trouble-free stay in beautiful Greece.
However, we went regardless and found ourselves in an ideal location, living amongst big-hearted goat and olive farmers. We made friends with many, particularly the inimitable Foteini, the eccentric goat farmer with her famously endearing taste for thick, clashing layers of clothing and rural mayhem. Ironically, it was my curious friendship with Foteini (pushing my imperfect Greek to its limits) that helped steer our path in the village. She also became an unlikely literary muse – who knew?! Her touching stories and her antics inspired me to start writing Feta, to record a rural way of life in the Mani peninsula (one of the three that hang down from the southern mainland) that I was sure was about to change forever.
Marjory with the unforgettable Foteini
The village of Megali Mantineia, where the author spent the first year of her Greek odyssey
Jim (back row, right) with the wonderful villagers and two of its priests at a celebration in Megali Mantineia
The first year in the village of Megali Mantineia, beneath the Taygetos mountains, exceeded all our expectations. It was challenging, fascinating, often hilarious, and sometimes downright frustrating. We dealt with macabre local customs, a health drama for Wallace, a hospital visit for Jim, critters (scorpions, lots!), eccentric expats, but mostly it was a lesson in surviving Foteini’s ramshackle farm compound, her strong mizithra goat cheese, and a slew of scatty, but endearing animals. At the end of the first year, we decided to stay longer in Greece, which grew to four years in all, living for the final year in the nearby Messinian peninsula, near Koroni. I wrote four best-selling books about our life in Greece, and two romantic suspense novels, also set in the Mani.
Some of the press coverage for the book in 2013
I started writing Feta in the freezing winter of 2010/11 in our stone house, my desk wedged up against the loungeroom window with a view of the snow-capped mountains. But I also had a view of the rickety back entrance of Foteini’s old village house, where she spent her evenings. Sometimes, she must have seen me at the window. Or perhaps she just sensed I was writing about our village antics, many of them hers, and she’d phone, particularly if she hadn’t seen us for a while. It was usually with the same humorous lament. “Ach, you’ve forgotten me already, koritsara mou (my girl)!” she’d say. “When are you coming for coffee at the ktima?”
The idea of sitting in Foteini’s draughty farm shack in foul weather beside a dodgy petrogazi (small gas cooker) didn’t always appeal. However, we did go now and then in winter, which I wrote about, including the memorable day Foteini came close to blowing up the shed.
Foteini on her donkey Riko, taken at her farm compound in Megali Mantineia
I had plenty of material for a book, from the adventures and mishaps of the first year, and I continued to add to the narrative over the next three years. Things Can Only Get Feta was published in 2013 by a small London publisher, during a long intermission in Scotland before we returned to Greece again. From the beginning, Feta did very well and sparked great interest, particularly in Greece in the summer of 2013. After doing a phone interview with the editor (Sotiris Hadzimanolis) of the Australian Greek newspaper Neos Kosmos, about our life in Greece and the book, Sotiris filed a similar piece to a Greek news outlet and from there, the story of our exploits went slightly viral.
Versions of it turned up in a slew of Greek publications and internet news sites with variations of the headline: “Scottish journalist besotted with Greece”. While there are many authors today, focusing on a much trendier, revitalised Greece post-crisis, 10 years ago the story of a foreigner having a love affair with Greece in turmoil was certainly more unusual. More than that, it struck a chord with long-suffering Greeks who had hitherto heard nothing but negative, often beat-up, reports in the international media. There were harsh criticisms of the country’s fiscal attitudes and work practices, whereas the story about Feta was a good-news story.
We had scores of messages sent to our website with notes of thanks for my Greek ‘ardour’ and my favourite comment of all time is still: “For your information, Greece loves you back.”
However, despite the book’s success, two years later, while Jim and I were now living in Koroni, I had a falling-out with my London publisher when he seriously broke the terms of our contract. (In publishing, be careful what you wish for!) Rather than allow the book’s success to be sabotaged, I legally forced the return of the book rights to me, and republished it myself in a very short time. This was no small feat, working on an old laptop computer from a hillside house with just a mobile phone and poor wi-fi, or often, no wi-fi. But nevertheless, once re-published the book had a fresh gust of wind under its wings and continued to do very well. Not long afterwards, I published the second memoir, Homer’s Where The Heart Is, and there are now four in all (see links below).
But Feta will always be close to my heart and I’m proud to say it was to become (and the sequels too) one of the very few books to be written in English about life in the economic crisis by a non-Greek living in the country during that time. It prompted Greek author Stella Pierides to suggest: “This book might become a future reference source about life in unspoilt Greece.”
It may have been a presentment of sorts and in 2021, I was thrilled to be contacted by a charming Greek girl called Panayiota, who told me that Feta and the following two memoirs had been offered on the syllabus of a literary course she attended in a northern Greek university, under the theme of how foreigner writers viewed Greek life during the crisis. She had written a paper on the subject. When I first started writing Feta in our Greek rural village during a cold winter, I wouldn’t have believed it would end up on a university syllabus. Or that Wallace may even have been the subject of some literary scrutiny. About time!
Wallace, up to his usual mischief on the first week of our Greek odyssey in 2010
I’m grateful to all my blog readers on this site (some of you have been following my Greek blogs since the beginning) and others who have read my books and shared my stories and had a laugh over some of our more daring, crazy exploits and those of the famously crazy Wallace. I’m grateful to those who still write to me to offer their feedback. One Facebook friend recently told me she has read Feta 10 times so far. “Feta is my comfort-blanket read.” That’s a first! Many reviews and comments have been humorous. “More than Feta, this book is a whole picnic hamper of delights,” said one Amazon reviewer.
It would be true to say that going to Greece and writing the books changed our lives for ever, and only for the better. The only note of sadness in our otherwise happy life was that dear Wallace, one of the stars of Feta, passed away at the age of 16 in 2017 after we moved back to Britain. We were devastated, as Wallace had been through all our adventures with us and had been a talisman, as well as a welcome distraction at times. Few Greeks we lived amongst will ever forget his antics I’m sure, and neither will the many readers who wrote to me after Wallace died with kind thoughts and wishes.
The main consolation I have in Wallace’s passing is that he had a wonderful life and hopefully his memory will live on in my Greek books.
The main stadium at Ancient Messene, which was no match for the shenanigans of Jim, Marjory and Wallace
Feta extract
If you haven’t read Things Can Only Get Feta, here’s a funny extract from the book of one of our crazier exploits, when Jim and I set out to visit the archaeological site of Ancient Messene (10th century AD), north-west of Kalamata. The only problem was we had Wallace with us and, as we’d discovered on an earlier attempt on Messene, only guide dogs were allowed inside this large gated site, even on a near-deserted January day. While we sat in the car eating chicken sandwiches for lunch, we mulled over how we could blag our way inside with the dog. Jim finally came up with a daring strategy. Inspired by the once-warring Spartans who’d also dreamt up unlikely ways to sneak into Ancient Messene, Jim planned to get inside with Wallace hidden in his rucksack . . . . .
“Okay. But there’s one big problem: how do we get Wallace to stay quiet in the rucksack and not start barking?” I said.
Jim thought for a minute. “It sounds a bit gross but we’ll put him inside with the last chicken sandwich. Then we’ll zip the bag at the top and leave him a little air hole. He’ll be busy eating. You know what he’s like about chicken.”
Wallace always had a thing about chicken because Brigit, his kind but eccentric breeder in Edinburgh, fed all her puppies with roast chicken, which was a disaster for feeding programmes later. It explained why chicken was the only food that the fussy Wallace liked unequivocally. He was so besotted with chicken that we had broken every rule in the dog-rearing manual by using the word ‘chicken’ on occasions where danger loomed and every other command was flatly ignored. I turned and looked at Wallace on the back seat. He was panting. He’d definitely heard the ‘chicken’ word.
I expressed serious doubts about the plan but Jim was more optimistic.
“Don’t worry,” said Jim, soothingly, “He’ll be okay in the rucksack. Remember the time we carried him in it when we were hill walking in Scotland and he hurt his paw and was limping? He was good and quiet then.”
“What would the staff do if they caught us with Wallace?”
“Call the cops, put us in the cells for the night. Feed us two-month-old mizithra cheese and village bread.”
My teeth started to ping. “Ach, let’s go for it!”
If nothing else, at least we’d have a bit of a laugh. And in a cold January in Greece, you can get like that, wanting a laugh, any laugh.
“Let’s try him out in the rucksack first,” said Jim, unzipping it and taking things out. First, we threw in a couple of Wallace’s dog biscuits and lifted him inside the bag, which was roomy. He didn’t like it at first but when he caught a whiff of the biscuits, he squirmed around inside to retrieve them, thinking it was a new game, better than hiding biscuits in shoes.
I wasn’t totally convinced, but Jim still seemed confident, and I guessed it was just a bit of a boy thing.
“Okay,” he said. “Get ready to leave now. Get all your stuff. As soon as we unwrap the chicken sandwich and drop it in, we’ve only got a few minutes or so to get through the gate and on our way.” He checked his watch at the same time, as if this was a finely tuned military raid.
We got out of the car and locked it. Jim put on the rucksack with Wallace in it and I dropped in the chicken sandwich, torn into several pieces, which was the messiest part of the plan, and zipped up the bag, leaving the air hole. The minute the sandwich hit the bottom, Wallace was down there like a deep-sea diver and the bag was wriggling like mad, then all went quiet. I could almost hear his lip-smacking enjoyment over the chicken. We walked quickly through the main gate, Jim stood to one side while I went to the small cabin window. I remembered the attendant from the first time we came here, but assumed she wouldn’t recognise me after a summer of foreign visitors. I asked her what time the site closed.
“Are you together?” the woman said, pointing to Jim.
“Yes?”
She looked at him with narrowed eyes. “Can I ask what’s in the rucksack the man is carrying?”
“Just lunch things,” I said in a nervous, squeaky voice. I glanced at the rucksack and thought I saw the edge of it was wriggling. Maybe she saw it as well.
Jim sensed the hitch, aware that Wallace was growing restless, eager for another chicken soother, so he started walking down the dirt track that led between broken columns and the outlines of ancient buildings.
“My husband’s impatient…big archaeology fan. Been reading all about Ancient Mess…”
“Okay,” she said, cutting me off. “But you must be back by 3.30 when the site closes.”
I turned and legged it down the track, smiling to myself. When I caught up with Jim I could hear Wallace starting to whine and the zip was coming further apart at the top as he tried to get his snout into the cool air. Jim walked faster. The site sloped down to an old amphitheatre and from there it was a short walk to a cluster of olive trees. Once there we were safe, out of sight of the entrance cabin.”
. . . . . or were we? Find out how the smuggling strategy panned out finally, one of many amusing adventures in Things Can Only Get Feta
To celebrate 10 years of Things Can Only Get Feta, the ebook will be discounted to 99p UK/US for three days on Amazon stores from Monday July 17. I hope enjoy it.
The book is available as an ebook and paperback on all Amazon sites. The other books in the best-selling Peloponnese series of memoirs, Homer’s Where The Heart Is; AScorpion In The Lemon Tree, and A Donkey On The Catwalk, are also available on all Amazon sites, the paperbacks also through Barnes & Noble, Booktopia in Australia, and independent bookstores.
Marjory’s latest book Wake Me Up For The Elephants is a travel memoir with a broader canvas: Africa, Fiji, Australia, Scotland, Greece, Ireland. It’s a collection of candid and hilarious tales based on real journeys many taken by Marjory as a journalist and described by best-selling author, Peter Kerr, as “Travel writing at its best.” The book is in part a prequel to the Greek series of memoirs on what the author’s adventurous life was like even before she embarked on the Big Greek Odyssey.
The ebook and paperback are available on all Amazon sites. To buy the Kindle version, in either the UK or the US, click on one of the links below:
If you have liked Marjory’s books, do consider putting a review on Amazon sites. It helps a book become more visible and is always appreciated by the author.
Part of the lovely plateia in Makrinitsa village, Pelion
NOT all Greek villages are created equally. Two villages can be several miles apart, with roughly the same background and geographical aspect, yet one will be thriving, with a plateia rimmed by busy cafes and tavernas, while the other is on the slide. Sometimes there’s no explanation apart from something that’s now lost in the natural twists of history.
When I was in the mainland region of Pelion last year I was strongly reminded of this fact and also how fiercely loyal and competitive Greeks are about their own village, no matter what shape it’s in. Jim and I had rented a villa in the south of the Pelion peninsula for a month. It was on the edge of a small village, which was quiet, with not many inhabitants apparently, but with gorgeous views down to the Pagasitikos gulf and well placed to access both this side of the peninsula and the other, on the Aegean. As people who don’t like touristy locations in Greece, we thought we’d done pretty well to find a comfortable house in this location.
View from the village of Metochi towards the gulf
Yet, while browsing in an old-fashioned souvenir shop in the coastal village of Milina, the black-clad owner of a venerable age asked us where we were staying. I told her Metochi, in the foothills behind. She pulled a great lemony face. “Metochi! Why would you want to stay there? There’s nothing there. Nothing but old houses. Pah! Here is better,” she said, waving towards the vista of crowded tavernas and sun loungers along the beachfront.
I laughed at her put-down of Metochi for being the poor relation to the buzzy, thriving Milina. In her mind Metochi fell into the second category of villages dwindling into oblivion. There are a number of run-down and abandoned houses in the centre of Metochi, that’s true, and it wasn’t hoaching with people, in September anyway. On the surface it was just a village on the way to somewhere else as it’s on the ‘main’ road from the popular town of Argalasti to the bigger village of Lafkos and then to the south of the peninsula. Lafkos is elegant with a large church and wide plateia (square) with classical houses and busy tavernas and cafes.
The elegant plateia in Lafkos village
Makrinitsa in the Pelion mountains is one of the most picturesque in Greece
The plateia is usually the hub of a Greek village and always a good indication as to whether the place is thriving or not, and it’s worth flagging this up when you’re in the market to buy a house in Greece. Some of the more remarkable villages in the Pelion mountains further north have sumptuous plateias, like Makrinitsa, set under huge plane trees and with a view down to the city of Volos. But Makrinitsa is well established with a stronger foothold in the region’s history. It has old churches with frescos and an impressive museum. This village has been the haunt of artists, writers and revolutionaries. Milies and Tsagarada are smaller mountain villages yet they too have obvious treasures. Milies has a public library with one of the largest collections of Greek and foreign books in Greece, with some of them dating to the 14th century. Its church of the Taxiarchon is also world famous for its acoustics. Tsagarada has a 1,000 year old plane tree in its beautiful plateia.
The surviving kafeneio in Metochi has rustic charm and doubles as a shop
A slightly forlorn sign on the plane tree in Metochi says: “Our village square.”
Metochi’s plateia was a ghost plateia during the day at least. It was large enough and well situated, high above the road under plane trees with incredible gulf views, and perfect to catch a cool afternoon breeze in summer. It must have been lovely once, with a traditional kafeneio on the far side, now closed, and a smaller one beside it, still operating for limited hours and serving also as a general store. The only time we saw people in the plateia was at night, men mostly, drinking beer and playing the board game, tavli.
At the top of the steps was a sign fixed to a plane tree saying: “Our village plateia”, which was a touching and yet forlorn message. Such as it was, many people obviously still took great pride in their plateia. But its semi-abandonment speaks of a village having lost its way somewhat, apart from some modern, yet discreet, holiday villas at its outskirts, surrounded by olive groves, where we were staying.
The deserted grill house in the village that is a quiet reminder of more convivial days in Metochi
The village had obviously had a different life once. At one end of it there’s a natural spring, spouting cool sweet water, where people still stop to fill up bottles. Across the road from the spring, there’s an abandoned psistaria (grill house) with its huge barbecue still visible at the front, for spit-roasting meat. The broad terrace here would once have been packed, especially on important feast days, but is now just an empty space where fallen leaves twirl in the wind and people park to fill up their bottles across the way.
This is a reflection of what’s happening everywhere in rural Greece, in hillside locations. In the Mani we found many villages that were beautifully sited with once-lovely stone houses that now seemed dead. In one village we found an abandoned kafeneio, its door hanging open and a collection of old junk and furniture piled up inside and old bottles and dusty glasses still on the wooden counter. It was as if the owners had hurriedly disappeared and left everything as it was. In another village we found a group of old people sitting around the front door of a crumbling stone house. There were five of them, most of the current full-time population, they told us rather mournfully.
The village of Metochi is not in such bad shape, not as long as an essential road cuts through it. It wasn’t vibrant and yet we liked its wound-down appeal, its solitude, the view, and no-one bothered us at all, apart from one village gossip. She regularly passed by on the road and one day stopped to ask a slew of personal questions, as Greeks often do, including how much we were renting the villa for because her daughter also had one to rent nearby if we were interested. Cheeky!
Greek rural villages at least are a world apart, whether they buzz or not. When you plan to live in one for any length of time you have to navigated them thoughtfully and choose wisely. Too quiet, too noisy, too parochial, or too steeped in difficult history, and you might be in peril.
A view of Megali Mantineia under the northern slopes of the Taygetos mountains in the Mani
The small sign on the main road to Megali Mantineia. It’s all you get. Blink and you’ll miss it!
When we settled in the Mani, southern Peloponnese, in 2010, for our long Greek odyssey, we picked a hillside village that felt remote, with the Taygetos mountains as its backdrop, but in fact was only a 15-minute drive to the outskirts of Kalamata at the head of the Gulf of Messinia. As it turned out, Megali Mantineia was perfect for us and our crazy Jack Russell Wallace, a type of dog that none of the villagers had seen before and thought resembled a small goat – and he often acted like one!
Megali Mantineia is a successful working village where locals still cultivate their vast olive groves and herd goats. We decided the best way to live there was to befriend Greek villagers rather than cultivate the British expats because we didn’t want to live an expat life. Not that trying to fit into any village as a foreigner is easy. It’s not. Had I not spoken reasonable Greek from a long association with the country and endless Greek language classes, I would have found it more difficult, as few of the villagers spoke much English. I quickly learnt the secret of fitting in was simple: go well beyond your comfort zone and leave all your preconceptions about life, up to a point, behind you.
Foteini, thrilled to have a copy of my first memoir which features her, and donkey Riko, on the cover
Riko grazing outside Foteini’s farm compound
When we first met the goat farmer Foteini – who features in my three Greek memoirs – she was riding into the village on her donkey. Conversing was a challenge as she spoke a heavy mountain dialect and things could easily have gone nowhere. But there was something so unique about her that Jim and I instantly took to her and when she invited us back to her farm compound (a place of rural junk and manic disorder) we never thought twice about it really. And so a strange and unusual friendship flourished, particularly between myself and Foteini. She certainly trounced all my personal preconceptions and, in her way, became a very unlikely muse. Our regular, generally very funny, interactions sparked my journalistic curiosity and inspired me to write the memoirs. How could I not? Fate had cast her on my path, on the very first day in the village.
Some of the villagers and priests from Megali Mantineia on a special feast day. Jim standing in back row, right
Since my first memoir, Things Can Only Get Feta, was published in 2013, readers have contacted me to confess they want their own Greek odyssey, which is lovely, and have asked for advice. I don’t have much really except for this: learn some Greek, talk to everyone. Go beyond what’s comfortable and take part in all the village celebrations (there are many during the year), and church services too because this is the best way to see Greeks as they really are. It’s a window into their society and shows villagers that you respect this, and their culture, and you’re not in the village just to have a remote, parallel life to them.
Before we finally returned to Britain, for personal reasons, we invited many of the villagers from Megali Mantineia to a farewell meal at one of the local tavernas. It was a bitter/sweet night and very sad to say goodbye at last. Everyone lined up to kiss us farewell, some bringing small gifts. One of the women, Voula, whom I’d also become fond of, hugged me and announced: “You’re one of us now Margarita (the name Foteini had given me). You’re a Maniatissa.” Maniatissa is the Greek word for a woman of the Mani. It was humbling to get the title; far better than a Queen’s honour.
Navigating the cultural terrain of a Greek village isn’t easy. It requires more of you than you sometimes want to give. But in the end, it offers you life experiences and insights you will struggle to find elsewhere.
Greek book offer
If you want to read more about life, drama and romance in Greek villages, my first novel A Saint For The Summer is currently on an Amazon ebook promo, 99p/99c (UK/US) from August 16 to 23. It’s a tale or heroism, faith and love with a narrative thread back to WW2 and set in the wild Mani region of Greece. One reviewer described it as: “An excellent read. I was hooked from the first page.” Another said: “The story made me laugh, made me think and made me cry a little.”
Peaceful Kaminaki beach in the north-east of Corfu
THE Durrells, the popular TV drama based on the memoirs of naturalist Gerald Durrell, has just started its second series in Britain. Once again it promises light-hearted entertainment in the glorious surroundings of Corfu, and follows the adventures of the slightly skint Louisa Durrell and her four children as they move from Bournemouth in 1935, searching for a cheaper, more liberating life on a Greek island.
The Durrell family from the popular ITV series
When we were deciding on locations for our own Greek odyssey back in 2009, ironically, we first thought of Corfu, as it was an island we had visited many times, particularly the northern part, which has spectacular beaches and historic mountain villages, such as Old Perithia.
Jim and Marjory in a taverna on Corfu’s nearby island of Paxos
We were quite in love with the beauty of the place for a while and its easy-going people, but in the end we decided against Corfu as, to us, it seemed the most ‘British’ of all the Greek islands because of its historic link with the UK and ironically probably because the Durrells’ association has lured more Brits there than anywhere else. Not that we had a problem with that, but for a Greek adventure we were seeking a totally unspoilt location, something rougher and wilder, and the Mani, in the middle peninsula of the southern Peloponnese, fitted our requirements perfectly. We were not disappointed.
Having watched all The Durrells’ episodes up to now, and read many of Gerald and Lawrence’s books, particularly Prospero’s Cell, a fascinating account of Lawrence’s time living at the White House in Kalami Bay, when life in Corfu was grittier and more authentic, I can’t help but wonder: if the Durrells were around now, planning a Grecian odyssey, would they really have picked Corfu? Or would they also have looked for a location with more edginess.
Chris Nye, writing for Greece Property Guides www.propertyguides.com/greece/news/ believes anyone wanting to ‘do a Durrell’ these days would be better off choosing Crete for its glorious landscape and affordable lifestyle, and he outlines a helpful comparison of current living expenses in Bournemouth and Crete and what kind of property you can find on this island. Incidentally, Chris is the brother of Simon Nye, who wrote and co-produced the ITV television series The Durrells.
The hillside village of Megali Mantineia, beneath the Taygetos mountains where we first lived in the Mani
Spectacular view from the north Taygetos looking down on Kalamata city, the olive oil capital of Greece
I can imagine the Durrells in Crete, no problem, but for sheer rawness and rural eccentricity, which Gerald Durrell’s books have in spades, I feel sure they would have gone for the wilder shores of the Mani as well. As a slightly unorthodox family, led by feisty, sometimes bibulous Louisa, they would have been looking for the kind of rural adventure that we were searching for, and you don’t easily find that in Greece any more. You need to go off the beaten track to places such as the Mani and the nearby peninsulas (Messinia, Laconia) of the southern Peloponnese, or the far north and north-west of the Greek mainland.
Local farmer Foteini became a good friend and eased us into rural life
I think the Durrells would have enjoyed reckless encounters with some of the local farming community in the Mani, as we did when we first settled in the hillside village of Megali Mantineia, in the shade of the Taygetos mountains. They would certainly have enjoyed our eccentric, donkey-riding farming friend Foteini, and her ramshackle farm compound. And Gerald at least would have relished our stone house with its scorpions, hornets and the big prowling kounavi, pine marten, not to mention a few fuzzy expats in the undergrowth.
I did love the scene in Episode 2 of The Durrells, where Louisa is holding a food stall to raise some much-needed cash for the family, selling her home-made English ‘delicacies’ to Greeks, like trays of toad in the hole (for non-Brits, that’s sausages baked in a pillow of batter). A philandering British expat called Hugh tries to justify his chat-up lines, saying it’s nice to make contact with interesting fellow Brits, but the petulant Louisa bats him off nicely saying she prefers to mix with the locals and not feel that she’s back in Bournemouth. Good for her!
One of the coves close to where we lived for part of our odyssey, with Kalamata city in the background
The Durrells have many adventures of the rural kind, with animals, guns and dodgy neighbours. And they have house rental woes. In reality, the family moved a few times in Corfu but the house most remembered was the Daffodil House, near Gouvia, a large sprawling Venetian mansion, which is depicted fairly accurately in the TV series as having plenty of ambience, but was pretty shabby and chaotic inside. The best family home they could get for the price. Like the Durrells, we also had plenty of rental woes, many of which I outlined in my three travel memoirs. I only wish we’d had the gumption though to refuse paying rent at times, as Louisa did in Episode 2, when the coquettish landlady called round.
Wallace and his animal magnetism
We had trouble finding suitable houses because we had taken our lovable but bonkers Jack Russell terrier, Wallace, with us. The house we rented in Megali Mantineia had its drawbacks, but was owned by an Englishman who was sympathetic to a resident dog. Wallace rewarded him and the village with a slew of antics, the odd breakout, and some distinctive barking, which I hope they still think fondly of! Every house we rented had issues/difficulties: industrial garbage bins, critter infestations, crazy neighbours, sparse furniture, though the problems were mitigated by stunning views. I will write more about renting in Greece in a later blog post.
Wallace and ‘guard dog’ Zina
The second property we rented in the Mani, from an entertaining Greek family, was a wonderful rambling place, with an olive orchard. It also had animals: chickens, rampant roosters, a big chained-up dog called Zina, plenty of stray cats, but also water strikes, Arctic winds whistling through in winter, and Orestes, the eccentric neighbour with a hunting rifle, who used to drive us mad, firing off rounds regularly, mostly at song birds perched in his precious almond trees. When he took his sheep out to graze nearby, he often carried a long hunting knife, for a worrying reason, which I revealed in my second memoir Homer’s Where The Heart Is.
Marjory, Jim and Wallace spent the fourth year of their odyssey in the nearby Messinian peninsula in lovely Koroni
The southern Peloponnese is the perfect location for a glorious life on the edge, for Brits seeking more than just sandy beaches and an easy, ouzo-flavoured lifestyle. Unlike the smaller confines of most Greek islands, pretty though they are, places like the Mani are BIG and diverse, with plenty of room to spread out and even discover your inner rebel/cowboy. Here you can lead the kind of life that you could only have lived in Britain decades ago. Or okay, at a pinch, you might still discover in the highlands of Scotland, or the wilds of Ireland.
If it was madness and mayhem that the Durrells of today were searching for, trust me, it’s all there in southern Greece. We had adventures we only dreamt about before we left the UK. But there are limits. I would never have flogged a tray of toad in the hole at the laiki, farmer’s market. No way! I think if I’d tried that, Orestes would probably have swung by and shot it!
Illustration of Jim and I taken from Womankind magazine
Our big fat Greek odyssey has featured this month in the international magazine Womankind www.womankindmag.com and is available in the UK at WH Smith stores. It will be out in North America shortly (through Barnes and Noble), or via the magazine’s website. I love the small illustration of Jim and I on donkeys in the Mani.
Marjory has recently a new book, a novel, set in southern Greece, called A Saint For The Summer. This is a contemporary tale with a narrative thread back to the Second World War, a tale of heroism, faith and love, described by the Chicago magazine site, Windycity Greek, as a book “that will renew your faith in mankind”. For more information, see the books page link, above.
Greek Easter service at Ayios Dimitrios, Koroni, Messinia
WHEN I think of Easter in Greece, I think of dyed red eggs, euphoria and feasting. I also think of mutant incense, terrier rebellion and ‘Ecclesiastical Knee Syndrome’.
The Holy Week (Megali Evdomada) is this week, and it’s the most significant date in the Greek calendar. From all my many years of visiting Greece, Easter leaves indelible memories for its sense of drama and anticipation. Much of the drama is supplied by the daily church services that are like small one-act plays of varying intensity and nail-biting climaxes that progress the story of Easter, which seems unique to the Orthodox Church. Even if you’re not religious, it’s a wonderful chance to see Greeks at their most reverent, and at their colourful best, with plenty of pomp, circumstance and sometimes unplanned slip-ups showing that the best rehearsed productions can be derailed.
When we were living in the hillside village of Megali Mantineia in the Mani (southern Peloponnese), the sombre Easter Friday service ran slightly amok when Wallace, our naughty Jack Russell terrier, disgraced himself, slipped out of our village house and raced along with the procession, turning a timeless ritual into a cross between a riot and a Crufts obstacle course for Jack Russells. The Friday service is the grand procession of the Epitafios, where a flower-decked bier, representing the crucified Christ, is carried through villages and cities everywhere in Greece, and is a magical event to witness.
Our village procession started at the main church, went up to the graveyard, so the papas could offer prayers for the dead, and looped back along village lanes towards the church again, with the papas and elders at its head. Wallace managed to invade it early on. I don’t think the villagers had seen anything quite like the hyperkinetic Wallace, weaving his way through the procession, a blur of white fur, and retrieving him required a bit of a miracle. It became one of the chapters in my first memoir Things Can Only Get Feta.
Marjory with naughty Wallace, the Easter procession buster
The services in this Easter week are awe-inspiring for their organisation, their props and those amazing psaltes, chanters, who advance most of the service and seem tireless. Even during the tough economic crisis, no detail was ever spared and for that you can only admire the Greeks. Yet sometimes nerves get the better of everyone. On one of the Thursday services in our first year in the Mani, which is a particularly long and devotional service, the poor deacon, standing beside the local papas, turning over the pages of the old hymn book, overlooked the massively smoking censer in his hand.
“The incense started off with fragrant puffs but quickly increased to billowing acrid clouds that shrouded the first few rows of seating. We started coughing and choking. If this had been an aeroplane, oxygen masks would have dropped from the ceiling by now.” (Things Can Only Get Feta, chapter 25).
Easter Sunday with the family who featured in Marjory’s second travel memoir, Homer’s Where The Heart Is
I have experienced Easter in many locations in Greece, from tiny islands to cities. In each location, the church services have been handled with aplomb. I have also found the same level of hospitality and kindness from locals, with many invitations to share the traditional Sunday roast with an extended Greek family. One of my first Greek Easters was in Crete, which I first visited in the 1970s on my first long odyssey to Greece. I had been living and working in Athens, but before I left I had taken a few weeks’ break in Crete with a friend. We were offered a tiny holiday house by an Athenian colleague. It was opposite the beach in a completely authentic, untouched area of the northern coast, east of Hania. While the area is, sadly, unrecognisable now from what I remember then, it was a glorious piece of old Greece, with a few nearby houses, a taverna across the road, a deserted beach and not much else.
My friend and I had planned to have a quiet Easter as we knew no-one there and we knew very little about Easter customs and protocol. On Sunday morning, however, there was a knock at the door. It was the farmer who lived up the hill behind us. He vibrantly announced Christos Anesti which I knew meant, Christ Is Risen, the salutation after the Saturday night service. He told us that for the traditional Sunday feast he was roasting one of his lambs and that we must come and join his family. There was no way we could refuse. He insisted.
So we went up to his house, where the lamb was turning slowly on a spit outside and the olive groves around us were filled with succulent meaty, herby aromas. A big family had gathered: grandparents, kids, everyone excited to be eating a proper meal after weeks of the strict Lenten fast. We had lunch at a long table surrounded by these wonderful, big-hearted people, whom I could barely talk to as I spoke only limited Greek then. Somehow we managed okay and enjoyed all the conviviality, the laughter and lusty cracking of the dyed eggs, an ancient Orthodox ritual that symbolises eternal life and becomes a contest to see who can crack everyone else’s eggs without cracking their own.
Boiled eggs are dyed red for Easter and decorated with other symbols of the season
Jim and Marjory enjoying the egg-cracking contest at a memorable supper with their Kalamatan friend Kostas and his lovely family
This Sunday lunch experience was during my first long but youthful foray into a foreign culture and I had never come across such inclusiveness and kindness before from strangers, even having grown up in friendly, knock-about Australia. This was unique and the memory has lingered.
Every Easter I have spent in Greece has taught me something more about the Greek spirit, the sense of filoxenia, hospitality and this unique culture. It has also offered me some unexpected, occasionally humorous, outcomes, and the odd devious medical problem which Jim and I came across during Easter, 2014, for our second odyssey in southern Greece, in Koroni. We had decided that we would set ourselves the task for Lent of going to every evening church service of Megali Evdomada, in a different church each night, which we had never done before.
Some of the chanters at an Easter service in Koroni, Messinia
We made it through the first part of the week no trouble, but by Thursday, which is a very long service, nearly three hours, depicting Christ’s crucifixion, we were starting to run out of steam. Jim developed a painful problem which he called Ecclesiastical Knee Syndrome (EKS) because there is so much standing up and sitting down during Greek services, and at this time of year, churches are slightly cold and bone-numbing.
“The service was longer than I ever remembered any to be, full of Greek I couldn’t decipher, and as I glanced around the church I saw many Greeks looking pale and wilted, with many of the men discreetly slipping outside for a quick cigarette in the cool evening air. As foreigners, we felt the need to stay, and endure, lest we be considered slightly soft or disinterested. Nine-thirty came and went in a strange agony of chanting, incense and a babble of high Greek. Unlike Jim, after a while I welcomed EKS, and every opportunity to stand up and feel my legs like an economy passenger on a long-haul flight to Australia which is what the service began to feel like.” (Chapter 2, A Scorpion In The Lemon Tree).
A Byzantine church in the Mani hills
But the Thursday service actually ended with a surprise, slightly controversial, climax that was worth the wait, despite distressed knee cartilage. And it was a dramatic lead-up to the finale of this week, which is the Saturday service. This is something that everyone should experience once in their lives, which in the Orthodox Church represents the resurrection of Christ. And on a less illustrious level, it also represents the end of the Lenten agony for many devout Greeks, who have lived for six weeks on boiled greens and water, or near enough. It represents the end of an ecclesiastical marathon. I have experienced this Saturday service in Greek cathedrals and also in tiny island churches and it never fails to be affecting and inspiring.
The moment when the church is plunged into darkness at midnight and a single lighted candle is brought out of the sanctuary by the papas and its light slowly shared to every other member of the congregation until the church is luminescent is a simple, yet thrilling spectacle. And if you are lucky enough to also hear a particularly good rendition of the hymn Christos Anesti (Christ is Risen) then you are truly blessed.
Happy Easter!
Καλη Aνάσταση! (Kali Anastasi) Have a good resurrection, as they say in Greece!
(To hear the Vangelis rendition of Christos Anesti performed by Greek actress, Irene Pappas, please click on the link below.)
Readers have made a pilgrimage to a Mani village to see the unique farmer, Foteini
AFTER my three travel memoirs were published from 2013, readers have been in touch to say they visited the locations featured in the books. Many have made it up to the hillside village of Megali Mantineia, in the Mani, where the first book (Things Can Only Get Feta) was set, and mainly in search of the inimitable goat farmer Foteini.
This unassuming rural woman, whom I met at the very beginning of our odyssey on a village road, seems to have struck a chord with many readers, as she has with me. Perhaps it’s her struggle to survive a tough farming life on her own, made harsher still by the Greek economic crisis. It is also, I suspect, her endearing eccentricities, her tendency to wear mismatched layers of clothing and oversized hats, shoes that look like Cornish pasties, and her odd habits, like washing skinned bananas before she eats them.
I recently called one of my favourite friends from the village, the lovely Stavroula (Voula), who lives near Foteini but unlike her, usually answers her village phone. Voula and I hadn’t spoken for a while and at first she thought I must be in Greece. She got excited at the prospect of a visit. When I told her I was in England she shouted vibrantly down the phone: “Well, when are you coming back here? We’ve missed you!”
It’s the quality I most love about rural Greeks, the fact that when they warm to you they are inclusive and caring. Their interest in you is like a big, delicious hug, and is irresistible.
Marjory riding Foteini’s beloved donkey Riko
I was told that all was well in the village and everyone was surviving the crisis, which was good news. The only recent news I could glean of Foteini, however, was that her beloved old donkey Riko, which I rode on my last odyssey in Greece (from 2014 to 2015), has been pensioned out to pastures sweeter and a new beast has taken his place, as Foteini uses her donkeys for her rural work. Riko was a gentle, stoical creature and he made an appearance in all my travel memoirs.
Foteini, however, continues to attract readers to the village. One American Facebook friend told me she went to the village just to find her and was ecstatic when she did, but was then very put out when Foteini rather stubbornly wouldn’t agree to a photo session beside the donkey.
Some readers have told me they have also gone in pursuit of Foteini, waving a copy of Things Can Only Get Feta, which features Foteini and Riko on the cover illustration, which must have amused her, or maybe terrified her perhaps, I can’t tell which. Some have bravely angled for a coffee in her ramshackle ktima, farm compound, which I wrote about at length, but no-one has pulled it off yet, I think. I am left amazed at so many sightings of Foteini when I had always thought of her as somewhat shy!
The village of Megali Mantineia beside the Taygetos mountains where we spent the first year of our odyssey
The church dedicated to the Virgin Mary, in the village
One reader called John recently sent me a long email telling me about his summer visit to Megali Mantineia. He was thrilled to drive along the main village road and find Foteini walking along it with Riko loaded up with wood. John told me that he stopped the car and jumped out, waving Feta, and shouting ‘Good morning’ in his best learner’s Greek.
“She came up to me and put her hand on my shoulder and spoke for about 20 seconds…,” he explained, “though I honestly couldn’t recognise one Greek word. Then she placed one of her big bronze-like hands on my hand. What an amazing experience. To most people this would probably not mean much, but to me it meant a lot. I asked Foteini if I could take her picture alongside Riko and she said ‘yes’. I was totally amazed. It was brilliant. My wife, who hadn’t read Feta at that point, said to me, ‘This has made your holiday, hasn’t it?’ And to be honest, it really had.”
Foteini uses her donkey Riko to transport firewood. Stacking it on a donkey is something of a rural art
At Foteini’s farm there is ingenious plumbing like this hosepipe and a soap holder fashioned from a sawn-off bottle
Recently in East Sussex I was invited to give some talks about my time in Greece at local book groups. I was not surprised to find that it was not Greece in crisis, or the recklessness of Jim and me – and crazy Wallace the dog – going on a mid-life odyssey that piqued their interest so much, but Foteini. They wanted to know all about her: how she lived, what her house was like, and about her outrageous horticultural couture. I passed around photos of her and the village and they were pored over. I imagine the women of peaceful, retiring Sussex have never come across anyone quite like her. Neither had I when we first started our Greek odyssey in 2010 in the remote southern Peloponnese.
Foteini became the most unlikely creative muse for me. From the moment I saw her riding Riko on that village road in 2010, wearing a massive straw hat, her donkey loaded up with ‘half a house’, she stirred my journalistic interest, initially, with her “promise of authenticity, tinged with craziness” as I wrote in Feta. It was Foteini who talked us into renting the small stone house we’d just viewed in the village. We dithered over it for many reasons. She merely said: “But why wouldn’t you take it?” Great journeys can start on such simple promptings as this. It was she who first christened me Margarita, a name that has stuck with me in Greece. But it was also her character that drew me to her, and against the odds, even with my rusty Greek language skills, she and I began the most unusual, and challenging, of friendships, which I described in the books.
Sweet and lovely Voula from the village, giving Marjory a hug
Foteini was not the only villager, however, who we came to love during our time in the Mani, which stretched to three years. There were other Greeks who became an indelible part of our lives, especially dark-haired, gregarious Voula, whom I have already mentioned, and her lovely mother, Nikoletta. When the pair sat side by side, they were like “two voluptuous bookends”. I wrote about them both in my first two books, where I had called them Eftihia and Pelagia, though sadly, Nikoletta passed away in 2012, which was a great loss to the village. There were also many other characters: Voula’s brother Yiorgos, locals who ran the kafeneio and tavernas, the farmer with the Paul Newman eyes, the ever gracious Leonidas. Yet still people contact me about Foteini (not her real name, by the way).
Giving Foteini a copy of Feta
When I first gave her a copy of the book on a visit in 2014, she grabbed it in her big meaty hands, turning it this way and that, with a look of wonder. Having anything published is an incomparable experience, but watching Foteini gripping her copy of Feta, a book she inspired in so many ways, ranks as one of the most satisfying moments of my life.
* * * * *
Riding Riko
When I had the mad urge to ride Foteini’s donkey Riko along the village road from her ktima, it took a bit of persuasion. Jim also needed a bit of prompting too, as I described in this extract from my third memoir, A Scorpion In The Lemon Tree:
“Foteini stared at me hard. ‘You want to ride Riko, on the road? Out there?’
‘Yes, just for 10 minutes. You know I won’t let anything happen to him.’
She scratched at her face, worrying a curly grey hair hanging from her chin.
‘You’d be careful wouldn’t you, koritsara mou? (My girl).’
‘Yes, of course, I will,’ I said, wondering if she felt this nervous when she took him out on the road, or did I just seem like a total rookie.
Jim was watching me with narrowed eyes. ‘What’s going on? I’m having a Greek breakthrough moment. I’m making out words and I’m not well pleased.’
‘I’ve asked Foteini if I can take Riko along the road for a ride.’
‘Oh, no way! You know how people drive in the Mani. A car will hit you both.’
‘Shhh! Stop fussing. Can a woman not have a moment of madness in her life?’ I said, remembering Zorba the Greek’s famous appeal for getting in touch with your inner rebel.
Jim shook his head. ‘Margarita, you have not been a woman bereft of mad moments, I seem to recall.’
‘I won’t be long, I promise.’
‘Okay. Margarita mou,’ Foteini said at last as she led the donkey through the main gate. She handed me the lead rope, which was all I had for reins, and for a crop, she gave me a thin piece of whittled olive wood.
‘Take him,’ she said. ‘You’re always giving me things. This is my gift to you. Enjoy it. And don’t be long.’
I brushed my legs over Riko’s sides to move him quickly down the road. As I went I could hear Foteini and Jim grumbling together, and Wallace whining. It was like a Greek chorus.”
My second memoir, Amazon best-seller Homer’s Where The Heart Is, which continues the story of our three years in the Mani, is currently on an Amazon Kindle promo for the rest of January at 99p (UK only). To buy, click the link: http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00WEC7YCY
For more information about this book and the two others in the series, including the latest, A Scorpion In The Lemon Tree, go to the books page on the website www.bigfatgreekodyssey.com or the books page on Facebook www.facebook.com/ThingsCanOnlyGetFeta
Hello, blog readers. I am happy to announce that my third travel memoir, set in southern Greece, is now available for pre-order on Amazon.
Called A Scorpion In The Lemon Tree: Mad adventures on a Greek peninsula, the book charts my second long odyssey in the southern Peloponnese with my partner Jim and our crazy Jack Russell dog, Wallace.
While the first two books were set in the Mani, the central peninsula, this one takes place in and around Koroni at the tip of the Messinian Peninsula, where we stayed for 14 months from early 2014.
Marjory, Jim and Wallace in Koroni.
At the window of Palio Spiti (the old house), described in the new book.
Why we ended up in Koroni, when we had our heart set on living once more in the Mani, forms the basis of the book and reveals how you can plan your life down to the last detail but it will be derailed in the end, especially in the wonderfully spontaneous, and sometimes chaotic, place that Greece is. There are more perilous and funny adventures along the way as we try to find long-term rental accommodation and finally come to terms with living in a house that we didn’t expect we’d end up in. If you read the book, you’ll find out why.
A lemon tree at Villa Anemos overlooking the Gulf of Messinia.
You might be wondering about the title, A Scorpion In The Lemon Tree. There are specific reasons why I chose this title and apart from being unlucky enough to have these pesky critters calling on us quite a bit, the title is a kind of metaphor as well, and you can make your own mind up about what the scorpion represents in the context of the narrative. And in case you’ve missed it, there is a scorpion in the lemon tree on the cover illustration. Can you spot it? Wallace the dog should give you a clue.
View of Koroni from its old Venetian castle.
The artwork was produced by the talented London artist Anthony Hannaford, www.anthonyhannaford.co.uk, who created the fabulous covers for my first two books. Once again, he has managed to capture all the colour and vibrancy of Greece. And cheeky Wallace got a front-row seat this time. I also have to thank Jim Bruce for his great editing and formatting of this edition www.ebooklover.co.uk
In this memoir we will make friends with a new cast of heart-warming characters, while connecting again with old friends in the Mani, including our dear friend, goat farmer Foteini, with whom we have several humorous encounters, as always.
Long sandy beaches along the gulf side of Koroni.
While we may have started our latest odyssey disappointed at not being able to live once more in the Mani, we fell in love with Koroni in the end. What’s not to love? It is in a remote part of the (left-hand) Messinian peninsula and I was surprised that there had been so little written about it in the past, so I am thrilled to be able to highlight this region and I hope I will entice more of you to visit. It is a haven of peace and quiet where you won’t see the outward signs of economic crisis, or the effects of recent migration to Greece.
Koroni is set beside a lovely old harbour, with a castle on a high acropolis above and narrow winding streets ascending to it. It is atmospheric and unspoilt, with the Messinian gulf on one side and the Ionian Sea on the other. On either side of the promontory are wide sandy beaches, old churches, and thriving villages within easy reach.
Over the coming months on the blog, I will focus on other aspects of Messinia, as mentioned in the book including some of the hidden corners of this area, and a few curious and unexplained phenomena, like The Hand of God Tree. Watch this space!
I hope you enjoy this memoir, the third in my Peloponnese series. Like the other two books, the narrative is such that you can read it on its own and understand what our travels in Greece have been all about, but you will get a better understanding of how we connected with this region, and its people, if you read the other books as well, starting with Things Can Only Get Feta. The first two chart our adventures from 2010, when we first left our Scottish village to relocate to a remote hillside village for a year, despite the economic crisis. But the year became four in the end. Four of the most fascinating years of our lives.
Enjoy the new book, which is currently available as an ebook and a paperback on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and other outlets. I thank you all for your ongoing support of my work. I always appreciated comments on the blog and if you have liked the books, a small review on Amazon will also be most welcome. It is the lifeblood of authors.
WE were recently invited to a village church on a Sunday morning by a local papas (priest), who promised there would be a lovely service. The church of Ayia Triada was celebrating the national feast day of the Holy Spirit (To Ayio Pnevma), which is part of the important Pentecost period in the Greek Orthodox Church.
We’d never visited the old and rather remote village of Mistraki, though we knew roughly where it was, and planned to get there by 8.45am for the last hour of the service. It was a pleasant drive on a sunny day up through the hills, where there are only a few scattered villages, with views down to the Messinian Gulf.
The splendid house of well-known, 19th-century resident Martha Kypriopoulou-Boziki
When we got to Mistraki, however, the village seemed deserted. Not a soul about, apart from two huge dogs lying across the dusty road. All the houses were shuttered and there was no church in sight, or even a kafeneio. No signs of life.
We parked the car and walked about from one end of the village to the other. It’s a tiny place with lovely old houses, mostly dating from the early 18th century. Many have been restored to their original glory but a few others lie in ruins. But where was the church?
It was past 8.45 when we began to walk up dirt tracks out of the village, looking for signs of a church dome peeking up from the trees, listening for the sound of chanting, but every path yielded nothing but more houses and goat farms. This was curious. Had we got the name of the village wrong? Was the church hidden deep in the fold of a hill?
After nine o’clock, we were still wandering about, convinced that having come all this way we would miss the service, and the small yiorti (festivity) we anticipated afterwards. We were disappointed.
“Let’s hope the Holy Spirit’s looking out for us and we’ll get a sign,” said Jim, more in a jokey, bantering way, as on our long odysseys in Greece we’ve always tried to make light of most difficulties we’ve encountered along the way, big and small. We trudged around a bit more. It was getting hot and we decided we’d have to give up soon and retreat.
Jim suddenly stopped and cocked his head slightly. “I can hear a tractor in the distance.”
There was a dog-tired, High Noon feel to the hillside settlement of Mistraki
He started running through the village, waking up dozing dogs and scattering dust, with me trotting on behind, trying to keep my best sandals from disappearing down potholes. Sure enough, I could hear it too and we sprinted up to the ‘main’ road just as a tractor with two men on board was rumbling by. We shouted and waved our arms, and thankfully the tractor stopped. The two men looked amused when we asked where the church was.
“It’s just through there,” said one guy in overalls, “Five minutes’ walk away.”
The church of Ayia Triada celebrating the feast of the Holy Spirit (Ayio Pnevma)
They directed us to the one dirt road we hadn’t tried yet, unsignposted, but with the remains of an old spring water outlet on the corner, which should have alerted us to a church nearby.
We thanked them and rushed along the track until the church appeared, in a clearing amid tall trees. The faintest sounds of chanting reached us now. We were late, but all was far from lost.
“Well Marj!” said Jim. “Did the Holy Spirit come to the rescue or what?”
I laughed. “Probably! It was a nice touch though, wasn’t it, sweeping in on a tractor. Very appropriate.”
One of the icons of Ayia Triada, depicting the presentation of Christ at the Temple
We burst into the church, a bit out of breath. Heads swivelled our way, and we were surprised to find a big turnout of locals in this old, restored church, with some lovely icons. And Papa Theodoros, dressed in his ornamental robe, was in fine voice, particularly at the end of the service, offering a spine-tingling crescendo to the chanting.
Genial Papa Theodoros, the main priest for the large rural community north-west of Koroni
This is an important service and celebration, coming on Monday, June 1, the day after the Pentakosti, the Pentecost, which falls 50 days after Easter Sunday and commemorates the descent of the Holy Spirit on Christ’s disciples.
After the service, the congregation gathered in the forecourt. These were locals, from several outlying villages too, who were among some of the friendliest people we had met in this part of Greece, near Koroni. They wished us ‘chronia polla’ (many years) and a good month, ‘kalo mina’. They were chatty and keen to know where we were from and what our impressions were of Greece. They were at least able to explain why Mistraki seemed deserted. There are now, sadly, only seven permanent residents left in this village, and they were all at the service.
Spit roasted pork is traditional for local celebrations in this part of southern Greece
At the edge of the forecourt, two men had set up a trestle table, with a whole roast pig on top, complete with head, and carved into chunks, and a set of scales nearby. The meat was not all destined for this venue, however, as the pair with their ‘roaming roasts’ would visit other locations that day for other yiortes.
The air was full of the succulent aroma of spit-roasted meat, yet there were no other signs in the forecourt of a yiorti – chairs, tables, or drinks – until the papas came rushing out of the church, dressed down in his black robe and, curiously, carrying a bulging plastic bag.
“Elate,” he called to us, with a wave, herding us towards a low stone wall under the trees. Perhaps because we were foreigners, ‘guests’, we were asked to sit down first and the papas unscrewed a large plastic bottle filled with local, honey-coloured wine and put a liberal dash in our plastic cups.
There was a lot of banter and laughter from the rest of the congregation behind him, watching as he pulled things from his bag: chunks of bread, sweet tomatoes, and goat cheese, paper plates, serviettes. Someone was summoned to collect a huge chunk of roast pork, wrapped in thick paper. It was placed on the wall and opened up for everyone to help themselves, and the wine was shared around.
It was an impromtu feast, and one of the nicest yiortes we had been to for its spontaneity and warmth, and its Biblical simplicity. Papa Theodoros is like no other priest we have met in Greece, and we were introduced to him months earlier while trying to find the key holder for a local Byzantine monastery. He is warm and approachable and has a nice sense of humour.
Although in his late 60s, I would guess, he would also be one of the hardest working priests in this area, with three or four churches to preside over, as well as a nearby monastery. Due to cutbacks during the economic crisis, few retiring priests are ever replaced in villages.
One of the colourful touches in the village
The time had passed all too quickly and people left with kind wishes for the rest of our stay in Koroni.
“Tou chronou, next year,” they said, a common expression meaning that we would hopefully all do the same again next year.
Indeed, I think we will. Next time, we may be less in need of the Holy Spirit, at least on church-finding missions.
Homer’s Where the Heart Is
To read more about village life in the southern Peloponnese and how the economic crisis has impacted on Greece, read my new travel memoir Homer’s Where the Heart Is. This is the sequel to my first memoir, Things Can Only Get Feta (first published in 2013) about the start of our three-year adventure living in the rural Mani.
To those who have already read the latest book, thanks for your kind comments and Amazon reviews, which are always appreciated.
Both books are available on all Amazon’s international sites. However, several Greek friends and readers have asked about buying the latest book in Greece. Apart from Amazon and the Book Depository www.bookdepository.com (with free overseas postage), Homer’s Where the Heart Is is not currently in bookshops in Greece.
However, if you inquire at any Public bookstore www.public.gr (some of which stock Things Can Only Get Feta), you may be able to arrange for the store to order the paperback from Amazon. And some independent bookstores will also do the same for you. I will offer more advice on this in the months to come.
If any readers have queries about availability for both books, please contact me via the contact page on our website www.bigfatgreekodyssey.com where you will also find a ‘books’ page with other information about the books.
I have had some very favourable comments also about the design and layout of Homer’s Where the Heart Is and for that I would like to thank the expert skills of ex-journalist Jim Bruce. Jim’s book editing and formatting operation, called ebooklover www.ebooklover.co.uk can help both indie authors and those seeking publishers. Jim can get your manuscript ready and in perfect shape for presenting to publishers, which is a great help in this highly competitive publishing market right now.
To buy either of my books please click on the Amazon link below:
Stemnitsa nestles on the edge of the Lousios Gorge.
ARCADIA! The word suggest images of pastoral bliss and goat-legged Pan, the god of shepherds, twirling around olive trees, playing his pan-pipes. It was a place that inspired the European poets and painters of the 18th and 19th centuries and suggested an innocent, golden age. It sometimes seems more of a mythical place than a real province. So, on a cool autumn day, we set off from the tip of the Messinian peninsula and drove north to discover what Arcadia is all about, and if it still has mythical charm. The excellent Cadogen guidebook, Peloponnese and Athens, describes Arcadia as “one of the best kept secrets of the Peloponnese … a place that seemed ancient even in ancient times”. I know just what that means now as Arcadia has a certain timelessness, sitting snug amid mountains and ravines in the centre of the Peloponnese.
Gerousia kafeneio, a little piece of traditional Greece
We were heading for the mountain eyrie of Stemnitsa, west of Tripolis. It is one of several mountain outposts in this region, including Dimitsana and Karitaina, but Stemnitsa is also claimed to be one of the 15 most beautiful villages in Greece. Dating back to the Middle Ages, Stemnitsa is built in giddy tiers up a precipice on the western slopes of Mount Menalo, at 1,100 metres, with a view down the long, deep Lousios Gorge.
Gerousia promises to be cosy in winter with its wood-burning stove
On the day of our visit it had a wintry feel so high up, despite being a warm day elsewhere. The main square is the heart of this old village, with tables and chairs under the walnut and cherry trees, an old church nearby, and a few tavernas and kafeneia. The Gerousia is an elegant old kafeneio with outdoor seating, but it wasn’t hard to imagine how, in deep winter, villagers would be huddled around the central wood-burning stove inside. It has a feel of how kafeneia used to be in Greece, and in case you can’t imagine it, there is a wonderful collection of old photos around the walls showing groups of villagers from last century sitting outside the main door. Sophia, the owner’s mother, is very friendly and obviously proud of the establishment, as it featured not long ago in a travel story in a popular Greek magazine. Along with coffee she serves some of the local sweets like skaltsounia, pastry shells filled with walnuts and honey. She was very taken with our Jack Russell dog Wallace hiding under the table. “He’s very quiet,” she said. I knew she was tempting fate and the minute her back was turned he sprang to life, like Pan chasing a woodland nymph and barked loudly, scattering a group of passers-by. Just another day in Arcadia! Before we left, Sophia gave us a small container of cherry tomatoes from her garden to take away, and insisted we try a couple first. They were sweet and delicious and it was a nice gesture of hospitality. But coffee followed by tomatoes? Don’t try it at home!
One of the arty village gates
The village is full of old-world charm with some quirky rural corners – great stacks of olive wood for the winter, donkeys tethered in gardens, gates and fences seemingly fashioned by crafty elves from sticks. It could have been a setting for a Brothers Grimm fairytale, without all the scary stuff. The village is best appreciated by walking up the narrow streets bordered by solid stone houses with heavy wooden shutters built for winter weather.
Cute donkey with a fringe on the top, and a traditional wooden saddle still favoured by villagers
The village is also renowned for its gold and silver smithery and there is school here in an old renovated building that teaches the craft. Several shops selling items made there and also a range of other traditional and modern jewellery, and at least one with more folky designs called the Politimes Dimiourgies.
Politimes Dimiourgies, one of several jewellery shops in the village near the silversmithery school
There are 18 churches here, from the 12th century to 17th century, though you will need to ask around or the keyholders. The church in the main square, Ayios Yiorgos, is open most mornings and has a nice collection of frescos and an intriguing relic in a silver box which is a piece of bone from the 13-century Peloponnesian saint Leontios. Most of the village is open in the winter and has some nice boutique hotels.
The spectacular Prodromou monastery hanging onto a rockface on the Lousios Gorge
One of the more curious attractions of this area are the three amazing monasteries built along the side of the Lousios Gorge, particularly the monastery of the Timios Prodromou. You can’t see the monastery from its parking area at the top of the gorge and a sign sends you on to a cobbled path that leads down the side of the gorge. Just when you think it can’t possibly be here, because there’s nothing but a steep-sided ravine, and trees, you look up and there it is, above you, a long mass of buildings clinging like limpets to the rockface, with some tiny, box-like structures with wooden buttresses underneath. It’s eerily quiet in the afternoon, hours before the monastery opens for visitors, and all you can hear are the sounds of birds and the Lousios river gushing way below, and maybe even Pan pipes when the vibes are right.
The bullet-scarred door of the monastery church hints at turbulent times
The Prodromou monastery was established in the 12th century and its church is also built into the rockface, with frescos from the 16th century. It hasn’t always been as quiet though. This area was the haunt of hero and clan chief Theodoros Kolokotronis, who was one of the leaders of the Messinian uprising against the Ottoman Turks that kicked off the War of Independence in 1821. During the war, he took refuge in this area and in the Promdromou church, securely locked by an impenetrable thick wooden door which was repeatedly shot at by the invading Turks and still bears the bullet holes to this day (see photo above).
Marjory and her woodland sprite Wallace at the ancient site of Gortys
A trip to this region wouldn’t be complete without a visit to the site of Ancient Gortys, further down the gorge from Stemnitsa. The site was established in 335 BC and was once an important shrine and centre of healing. In the river Lousios below, Zeus, the father of the Gods, was said to have been bathed as a child. Alexander the Great was so impressed with the site he offered his breast plate and shield as a tribute.
Some of the ruins of Ancient Gortys with the Lousios Gorge behind
There’s not much to see here now apart from fallen columns and crumbling walls amid ancient olive trees and clumps of wild sage. The original ‘spa’ and bathing area is still visible, with a curious wall of ‘cublicles’, each with a small stone depression in front, which may have been for foot bathing, and I can only assume the ancient Gortyians had tiny feet.
Bathing cubicles of ancient Greece?
Arcadia is an enchanting place that does feel rather ancient, a small corner of Greece that probably won’t change much because of its mountainous terrain. Perhaps the minxy nymphs and sprites that inhabit this blissful zone had taken control of our sense of direction but when we left late in the afternoon, with a long drive back to Koroni, we ended up driving west past the equally alluring town of Karitaina, with its massive castle atop a craggy hill, instead of heading south, and added another hour on to our journey. For more information about Arcadia and what to see, visit the Greek government website www.mythicalpeloponnese.gr
Wallace goes large in his backpack
He ain’t heavy, he’s a Jack Russell!
AFTER my book about living in the Peloponnese, Things Can Only Get Feta (Bene Factum Publishing), came out last year, a few readers contacted me about one of the chapters. They doubted that you could get a Jack Russell terrier to sit still in a rucksack. Readers might recall that we smuggled Wallace into an archaeological site near Kalamata after being told dogs were not allowed in. So, here’s a picture that shows it’s possible. But how did we keep him quiet for a while once he was inside? Well, you’ll just have to read the book … For details about the book and where to buy it and its sequel, Homer’s Where the Heart Is, Big Fat Greek Odyssey website, book page.
Visit Amazon to buy the book (Kindle version – new edition). A new edition is also available. Please remember that reviews on Amazon are always much appreciated, however small they are. Thanks for stopping by and your comments on the blog are always welcome too.
