Land of the Gods favours its winter visitors

Press, 3 February 1981, Page 24

Land of the Gods favours its winter visitors

By

KEN COATES,

of Christchurch, who is working a term in

London as correspondent of “The Press.” .

Christmas in Greece may not bring sunshine and blue skies, but it can bring delight and a touch of adventure among people as friendly and hospitable as any in the world. Off-season- travel has the tremendous, advantage of avoiding hordes of summer tourists. Prices too are down to rock-bottom, with a charter flight to Athens and return from Luton (an hour’s bus ride north from London) costing only £9O each (about SNZ22O). . Avoiding big hotels that could be anywhere in the world can bring pleasant surprises and encounters with families who run them. A comfortable Athens hotel at £4 (SNZIO) each a night, plus rolls and strong black coffee for breakfast, was perfectly adequate Taking a taxi from Karaiskaki Square meant joining the gigantic, inching, honking, hopeless traffic jam of central Athens which causes even.the traffic police to lose interest. It was quicker to walk. Doing so provided the opportunity to inspect the multitude of stalls, street-side hawkers and cacophony of vegetable and meat markets. The Acropolis of Athens sits high on the dominating rock that made the city the centre of the ancient world. Fumes from swirling traffic, nearbyindustry, and jet aircraft have badly eroded the splendidly proportioned buildings over the past 20 years. Fortunately, the value of what isleft is recognised, much more than in the days after the war-when it was proposed to turn the Parthenon into a casino; A recent proposal to inject chemicals into the marble could still save the unique remains from crumbling decay. An early-morning jog through the markets and narrow streets and on to the nearby hill crowned with the ruined marble monument of Philo-

pappus, a Greco-Syrian, who was Roman consul in the second century AD. provides that unforgettable spectacle of the rising sun catching the symmetry of the pillared Parthenon.

When we hired a small Fiat we were warned about the habit local police had of unbolting and removing' the wheels of a,car parked illegally. It would cost 5000 drachma (about: $120) to get the wheels back, they warned. It was an easy distance, once free of the cloying city traffic, to Loutraki, .Greece’s largest spa overlooking the Korinthian Gulf. A few Christmas decorations hung in the almost deserted main street. A loudspeaker played carols. On the outskirts on Christmas Eve we found a comfortable hotel with central heating working. We also engaged the undivided attention of the chef who «a the off-season doubled as waiter (there was only one other couple in the vast dining room). Greeks eat their evening meal much later than New Zealanders, and by 7 p.m. we were starving, in spite of attempts to stave off the pangs of, hunger in our room with white fetta cheese made from sheep’s milk, salami, bread, biscuits and a bottle of ouzo, a colourless spirit with a peppermint flavour. A grilled steak, and excellent Greek salad with more fetta cheese, diced cucumber, tomato, slivers of onion, and lashings of olive oil made a welcome and excellent meal. Local white wine can be rather off-putting to the vis-

itor; an inheritance from antiquity, means it is often mixed with resin, hence retsina reminds -the newcomer of turpentine. ! . Corinth (Korinthos) is today an unremarkable town with not even a shadow of the splendour of the ancient city, the forum of which was on higher ground, reached from the seafront by a stately avenue. There were once arcades, shops, places of worship, small temples and administrative buildings, as well as the city’s three ancient fountains. Above the town today, surrounded by a few seedy souvenir shops and small houses, only a few squat Doric columns of Apollo’s sixth century B.C. temple remain of classical Corinth, destroyed by the Romans in 146 B.C. and rebuilt by Julius Caesar 100 years later.

In its heyday, Corinth was one of the most popular centres of pilgrimage for the whole of the Greek world. Ail who came deemed it well worth the visit, due in no small part .to the priestesses of love who lived in the luxurious temple. High above the city is the ancient fortress of Akrokorinth, on a rocky crag, successively defended by Byzantines, Franks. Venetians, and Turks.

Further south lie the ruins of the prehistoric citadel of Mycenae. They were closed on Christmas Day, but we could still get a good view of the walls of huge stones built around 1350 B.C.

Taking pot luck with hotels introduces an element of surprise: the road to Olympia, headed into the mountains and on to a plateau, and the wind-swept town of Tripoli. Definitely not inviting. We drove through a couple more villages with the highcountry becoming more wooded and wilder. About dusk, the welcoming sign of a motel beckoned. We should have guessed from the crammed car-park. It was full. Back we drove to the nearest village, Vitina; the young lady at the biggest hotel was most helpful (the Greeks always are), but the village’s entire hotel resources were fully taxed. Nothing for it but to press on along the winding, precipitous and narrow road, which local drivers swung along with panache. .“Langadia, hotel, Langadia,”

smiled an encouraging petrol-pump man.

About an hour (and countless hairpin bends) later, we came to the lights of Langadia, clinging to the mountainside. We drew up at the one and only hotel, the steps of which led past the dining room at street level, which doubled as . the village restaurant-cafe. “Full,” gestured mine host. It really began to look like a Christmas with no room at the inn. ,It called for some dramatic gestures, Greek-style. “Vitina; hotel, one, full; hotel two, full; hotel, three, full; motel, 'full, Tripois full,” we intoned with tragedy and despair.

The eldest son was called. He knew a little English, and inquiried politely whether a room in a house would do. We almost fell on the fellow with gratitude. It was 8 p.m. We were weary, cold, and very hungry. A small boy was called and lifted on to my wife’s lap in the front seat of the car, so he could show us where to go. There, having received a phone call, was a tall, elderly Greek woman with work-hardened hands, smiling and gesturing towards some steps. We climbed to an out-building above the house. It was very simple, had two hard beds, and was very cold. We took it gratefully, and returned to the cafe where the assembled were playing cards around a huge stove or watching a television set with a rolling picture which vacillated between two channels. though no-one seemed to mind when the programme changed. It was the simplest Christmas dinner we had ever had — a grilled lamb chop each, some shredded raw cabbage, with fetta cheese and olive oil, bread and wine. •

The night was bitterly cold and frosty. Back in our room, we found each bed had only two thin blankets, and there was only cold, running water in the wash-room. Huddled together in one bed utilising all blankets, and wearing socks and jerseys, we spent a passable night. The next morning dawned clear and bright. We were ushered into the house and into the best room, with a pre-war wireless set in a place of honour. We were served two tiny cups of steaming black coffee, and two small sweet cakes on- a lace-covered plate. Grandma, clad in black, with no teeth and permanently bent fingers, made appreciative noises as we looked through the family photo album, prominently displayed.

When we asked for the hill, the tall lady of the house demanded 800 drachmas (about $2O), as much as the A class hotel back at Loutraki. We did not have the heart to quibble. Life is hard in backward Greece, and we also made up for it by buying a couple of gaily coloured and beautifully handloomed mats for a knock-down price at the local store where the proprietor complained of lack of business during the winter. Our descent was through arid, rocky country, reminiscent of parts of the Alexandra district, Central Otago. Only here, the sheep were in flocks of no more than perhaps 20, long-wooled with bells around their necks, and they followed the shepherd: or were supposed to. Near one village, a family and neighbours were gathered watching a pig being slaughtered, and women led donkeys laden with the burdens they have carried for centuries.

In the valleys, some of the villages were squalid, reflecting hard times and

low incomes. Attitudes have changed little, it seems. One group consisted of a woman bearing a heavy crowbar across her shoulders while her husband walked ahead, with his hand on his strapping son’s shoulders. Another woman, carried a heavy log of wood. , After a night on the outskirts of j.Patra, where the hotel had an orange grove ’ extending down to the beach, we crossed by ferry to Antirio. From there, after a stop at an idyllic fishing village,- with its ancient fortifications restored, it was an easy drive up to Delphi, the mountain sanctuary of Apollo • that became famous for its oracle. A simple mountain village has been transformed into an incongruous collection" of hotels and souvenir shops, but nothing can mar the view down the gorge, with the silvery green of the olive trees stretching to the blue Gulf of.ltea. Here, too, the absence of a crush of tourists -made wandering among the . ruins of the sacred way and temples, a f -rare pleasure.