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One of the many joys of the Mani, the southern most finger of the Peloponnesus, is that there are no direct flights for there is no airport. This makes the journey to get there more interesting and the destination less crowded. I flew into Athens on Olympic Airlines out of London, picked up a hire car and headed west towards Corinth, then south to Tripoli. The evening light had that peculiar Greek candescence; for the night here arrives slowly, fighting for every inch of ground to mask with its creeping colourless shade. It was dark by the time I found the road to Nafplion enclosed by a steep-sided black valley. Far away, a strange illumination appeared on the horizon like a low slung constellation; its identity slowly revealed by its shape as the Castle of Palamidi, the ruined Venetian fortress that watches over Nafplion and the Argolic Gulf.
The town was quiet. I asked directions from a shopkeeper who was about to shut up shop. Without not so much as a hiccup, he locked up, jumped on his motorbike and courteously guided me through the maze of little streets to the front door of my pension. Dimitri, the proprietor, made me welcome as did Vangelis, his large Macaw, one of twenty such feathered friends he owned. By now, it was 10 pm and the Orthodox Easter well underway. Looking down from my window, I watched two adult choirs dressed in black, each chorister clasping a lighted candle, shuffle rhythmically to the slow beat of a lone drummer as they acted out that most moving of offices, the Epitaphios, or Funeral of Christ. Between them was sandwiched a saintly relic encased in a glass reliquary draped with a rug of flowers, a bier borne shoulder high by privileged penitents. Setting off to find a taverna, I found our way blocked by another larger procession, this time following a full-size crucifix; there was no option other than to dive into the front rank and wriggle like an eel into a side alley. At last, I found a small taverna where I dined on salads, shashlik with local wine and free cigarettes. There is no culinary pretence in Greece, only honest cooking with fresh ingredients, a style one could describe as 'The Necessities of Life".
As dawn broke on Easter Saturday, I was woken by the mighty sound of a red-jacketed brass band marching under my window. This had the galvanizing effect of propelling me out of bed and up the 999 steep steps (built by Bavarians apparently) of the Palamidi fortress until I was perched like a chuff on its precipitous battlements, overlooking the old walled town of Akronafplia. Spring flowers attached themselves to every nook and cranny, yellow mallow, dark crimson poppies, valerian, crown vetch and prolific campanulas. The city of Nafplion is today one vast café, its narrow streets choked with bougainvillea, rickety tables and reed-covered chairs. That evening was full of surprises. In the main square, café habitués suddenly lit candle and assembled before a platform crammed with ornately dressed patriarchs. Chanting began, candles clutched tightly and then, on receipt of some mysterious signal, the night erupted into a cacophony of bangers, thunder-flashes and fireworks for they say here 'Christ won't wake if we don't wake Him'. Children began to cry, car and fire alarms triggered, yet the faithful stood motionless, grasping at their flickering flames. I retired to the north, a refugee from this impromptu battleground, and re-emerged in a smaller, more densely packed square. Here on a garlanded iron dais, a cluster of clergy were intoning the mysteries of Easter; a bishop in golden robes under a bonnet of jewels, a bearded black-hatted archimandrite and half a dozen priests. But the Greek state also celebrates the resurrection judging by the platoon of camouflaged soldiers standing loosely to attention and the presence of the heads of the police, harbour authorities and fire service in their full regalia. One could sense an enviable pride, shared equally by the old, middle-aged and young. Back at the taverna, a special Easter lunch had been laid on - a soup of chopped lamb's kidneys mixed with creamed spinach, baked Easter lamb, very bland save for the mound of mustard on the side of the plate and sweet, sticky, delicious baklava. By 3am, St Michael's angelic host had retired to bed, the last pockets of devils well and truly dispelled.
I planned a quiet Sunday and drove south to Astros through orange and lemon groves where I picked up the Sambatiki coast road and followed it south to Tyros. The town is delineated from the sea by a small road on one side of which are café and on the other their tables and chairs; white fishing boats skipped lazily on the green and blue ripples as I speculated on the lifespan of my waiter as he weaved between the cars. At Leonidio, where a lone pilot-less hot air balloon floated across the face of the red limestone cliff, the heavy haze hanging over the town turned out to be the smoke of a hundred charcoal grilling lambs. I turned inland, up a twisting gorge and then, with the arrival of rain, headed for Paleohari, a dot on the map in the wild Parnonas Mountains. As luck had it, there was a small taverna there. Two lamb carcases were sizzling away on a spit in a tumbledown shed; a young man in a white coat was chopping up a well-cooked leg with a hand axe. My welcome, as ever, was warm and in more senses that one since I was shown to a table next to a wood-burning stove exuding heat. By now, the temperature had plummeted, rain had turned to sleet, and the winds roared angrily. Wine was produced in tin mugs, salads and baked potatoes arrived and my order for lamb was taken by the kilo. The world as portrayed on TV has passed Paleohari by. The lamb was delicious, its taste amplified by the music blaring out, by the cigarette smoke that curled incessantly around the walls and the noisy chatter of the villagers.
With one more day based in Nafplion, I drove south east to Sanditi beach, a remote cove presided over by a long-abandoned government hotel complex that stubbornly defies demolition. Lunch at Kantita, a small boat-building village, proved a test in patience. Sitting among two dozen tables of happy eaters, I was ignored until I went through the motions of leaving which instantly triggered the miraculous appearance of a waitress. The squid and octopus, which had been hanging on a washing line in front of the restaurant, duly arrived but proved tough and chewy.
Now it was time to move on to the Mani; my stay at Nafplion had been akin to a plane stacked above a busy airport for I had been unable to make a booking at my hotel in the Mani over the busy Easter period. Good roads brought me in four hours to Gythion, a bustling coastal town that lies at the apex of the Laconian Gulf which divides the two peninsulas of Mani and Monemvassia. I crossed the mountains, emerging at Areopolis overlooking the Messinian sea and reached Geroliminas soon after 3pm. The village, consisting of two small hotels, a few pensions, four tavernas, some ruined stone warehouses and twenty or so houses, surrounds a small harbour, once visited weekly by ferries from Piraeus but no longer. On the west of the harbour, a long cliff wall stretches out to the cape. The Kyrami Hotel is a stylish conversion of a group of old stone houses; my room was in a small courtyard, sheltered from the sun and the sea breeze. Longing to stretch my legs after the journey, I walked to Ano Boularii, a nearby village of tall stone towers. These structures are characteristic of the Mani, serving as defended houses against both pirates and vengeful neighbours. Blood feuds were common here, and often resulted in full scale war between the aggrieved parties. The last one was quelled by the Army in 1870. Efficient fortifications they may be but as domestic architecture the stark towers leave much to be desired. Just beyond the village, I found the exquisite little 11th c. Byzantine Church of Agios Stratigos or St Michael The Archangel. Constructed in stone and brick, the church with its mini-exonarthex, tiny naos and little three-apse bema was a miniature version of the classic Byzantine cruciform design. Not unexpectedly, for I knew it had wonderful frescoes, it was locked, The farmer next door told me that the key "was 50 kilometres away!" At first I misheard him but when I studied the expression on his face, the magnitude of the distance between me and the keys struck home. Returning to Gerolimena, I wended our way through Kato Boularii, then crossed a small steep river bed and picked up the road to Ochia. Half way to the village, a track to the harbour was marked on the map and although there was no physical sign of it, I set off across boulder strewn fields and finally emerged exhausted on the cliffs above Gerolimena. There had been no track! Red-footed falcons swooped down on me as I made my way slowly along a treacherous track that descended to the sea. No doubt at one time it would have been bustling with heavily ladened donkeys making their way up to Ochia. Dinner at the Kirymai proved to be sophisticated, urban and international which was dislocating; however, to be fair to the Grand Chef who operated the restaurant, he advertised similar establishments in Athens, Dubai and New York.
Byzantine churches were what I had come to see, so the next day, I headed north to the little village of Aghia Kiriaki where I left the car and walked towards the sea before turning west to follow an aubrietia carpeted path signposted Panagia Agatia. It led through dense vegetation, thick with euphorbia, mullein and verbascum, along the cliff until petering out at a tiny church tucked in below a lofty limestone escarpment, about 400 foot above the sea. This was the Church of the Holy Virgin or Hodegetria - "She who shows the way". Fortunately it was unlocked, so I was able to observe the wonderful 12th c. fresco of St Michael, still dressed as a Roman soldier for the Crusaders had yet to arrive in these parts. Surely this church must once have been the dwelling of a hermit or a place of retreat for it was so remote, totally cut off from the villages and from the sea. Further to the east and more inland, I came across the Church of the Episkopi. Nestled in a tiny fold in the ground and surrounded by old olive trees, it is quite invisible until one stumbles upon it at the end of a track of dense foliage and prickly pears. Once again it was locked but I managed to peer through the window on the south wall and make out faded frescoes of saints staring back at me through the gloom.
Even in late April, by midday day the Mani heats up to 30 degrees, making a trip to the beach highly desirable if not a necessity. I found a secluded bay at Almiros, south of Alika; the rocky inlet surrounded by cliffs made for a perfect spot. An old fortified tower clung stubbornly on a knoll overlooking the beach, watching over the abandoned fields with their high stone-walled boundaries. The previous day, I had looked for the Church of St Panteleimon in Ano Boularii in a rather desultory fashion. Its whereabouts had certainly not been immediately obvious, so I returned that afternoon with renewed determination to find it. Crossing the river just above the modern church, I strode along the track that leads to Kitta and after about 500 meters, spied what looked like a stone roof just beyond an ancient oak tree. Scrambling over collapsed stone walls, braving thickets of thorn trees, I emerged on an old donkey track which led to the structure I had seen from above. It was indeed the Church though it doubles up as a donkey shelter these days. Open to the sky, for the roof of the naos has long gone, the bema and the marble frame of the iconostasis had survived as had a number of superb frescos, including a panel of the Last Supper with the shiftiest Judas I've ever seen.
With several hours of daylight left, I decided to walk up the valley to Leondakis, a small hillside village above Boularii, returning via Pepo, an isolated hamlet notable for a flying bridge between two tower dwellings. Wonderful wild flowers, stirred by the evening breeze, waved at me as I followed an old donkey track - a kalderimi - off the hill. Calls of Golden Oriels emanated from the stream bed, synchronised with my progress down the valley. Shrikes weaved and ducked in front of me and I sighted a far-off cuckoo. The venue for dinner that evening was changed to a modest taverna along the harbour wall; grilled meat, fried fishes and mounds of fresh salads justified my decision.
This would have been a good week to have been a Greek. Last weekend was Easter, Monday St George's Day and today, Thursday, May Day. However, there was no sign of holiday crowds in The Mani as I returned to Aghia Kiriaki to explore the Tigani isthmus, which dominates the bay of Mazepos. A natural stone causeway, dotted with circular stone huts once used by salt collectors, leads to a hilly promontory, on which can be found a veritable microcosm of European history. Starting in 1300 BC, one can detect the remains of a Cyclopean Bronze Age fort, the tell-tale signs being the vast rocks used for foundations. How the megalithic masons lifted these stones is a mystery. Then, from documents, we know there was a Byzantine Cathedral here in 833 in the reign of Leo The Wise; one can still clearly see its foundations and some of its walls remain partially standing. But the intriguing question is whether Tigani was the site of the great Frankish Castle of Maina in 1206. There are other competing sites but what can be said is that it would have been inconceivable for the Frankish Knights, who after all were no slouches at defence, to have left this key promontory undefended. After the fall of Constantinople in 1453, Tigani regularly changed hands between the Venetians and the Turks, only ending late in the 17th century. During the Greek War of Independence in the 1820s, we are told that there was a military outpost here. With such a history, it would not be surprising to feel a sense of unease and disquiet but the ghosts all slumber here amidst the washed white stones and broken marble plinths and beams, watched over by the Gods who reside on the snow-capped peaks of the Taiyetos Mountains. Soothed by the gentle rhythm of the waves breaking on the point, dulled by the heavy scents of the wild flowers and herbs, there are no unquiet spirits here.
On the way back to Alika, I stopped at Kounos to look at the two little 'exohori' (single barrel vaulted structure) churches of Agios Giogios and Agios Nikolaos. No doors, no floors suggested ruin but to my delight they were covered with frescos of saints and Military saints, Archangels, a stern Pantocratic Christ and an open-armed Mother of God, the Panagia Playtera. Although the originals were most likely 12th c., there was much evidence of over-painting in 17th and 18th centuries. Just occasionally, a bit of plaster had come away to reveal the original large-eyed, humanistic Saints for the artist had not yet been subjected to the strictures of the Painters' Manual of Mount Athos. These are the faces of leaders, men and women who look you straight in the eye and urge you on to greater deeds. The symbolism of these faces matters as much as the very words of the Bible. The 12th c. church at Ochia with its 19th c campanile and the little 13th c church at Keria, distinguished by the use in the construction of its walls of old marble relief from more ancient sites, completed my morning's haul of Byzantine heritage.
In the valley to the east of Kitta, one of the largest villages in the area, lies the hamlet of Kalonii, the start point of the ascent to Aghia Pelaghia, a small church astride the ridge at 2,000 foot. The track snakes its way up through the scree, sometimes on a solid stone donkey path, at others on great slippery slabs. From the top, there is a grand view over the Capo Grosso peninsula and north to Stoupa. Three Albanians - "Where you from? London; Where you from? Tirana." - were working on the roof of the church, applying large dollops of cement between the flat stones on the roof. The inside was crammed with icons of the Saintly Pelaghia, a tired, middle-aged woman. There are in fact three St Pelaghias but only one foots the bill for this desolate outpost of God and she is the harlot of Antioch who renounced her wicked ways after hearing Bishop Nonnus preach and went to live in a cave on the Mount of Olives outside Jerusalem. The other two were much younger, one threw herself to her death rather than loose her virginity and the other was tortured to death for converting one of Diocletian's sons to Christianity. Bidding goodbye to the small donkey who had hauled the sacks of cement up the same path I had come on, I made it back to Geromilinas in time for drinks at a new taverna; 'mine host' was a retired sea captain who gave me a potted history of the village since 1940. In a nutshell, the civil war had decimated the population and most had upsticked and gone to live in the Piraeus suburb of Athens. A few remained, eeking out a living until the advent of tourism which improved, albeit it marginally in this part of the world, their economic prospects. A bearded priest with big black eyes and oodles of charm joined us. Papas Nikos was the Parish priest of Ochia, a divorced man with between 6 to 11 children depending who you listened to and a drink problem. His companion was a handsome Polish girl called Dorothea, who tries to take care of him, his infirm mother and some of his children. It is a curious but endearing arrangement - Catholic girl looks after Orthodox priest; she speaking little Greek and he even less Polish!
Areopolis has little charm as I discovered the next day after trudging round it in search of a bank. A new square is connected by a small street to the old one, where most of the space is taken up by the Cathedral of the Archangel Michael. Areopolis or Tsimova as it was called in 19th century, was the home of Petros Mavromichalis, scion of one of Mani's great families and a leader of the Greek War of Independence. But not wishing to get bogged down in the minutiae of 19th century Maniot politics, I headed back to Geromilinas, past the Trissaghia Church which lay just off the main road. Three barrel vaulted churches lie side by side, like yachts tied up in a heavenly harbour, Yet the scene was by no means idyllic since at some stage the authorities had erected a steel girder frame over the top of the Trissagia, presumably meant to be covered in sheeting to protect the monuments it encased. Half-finished, it squatted like a rusty rib cage of some giant mythical beast. Virtually a ruin, the centre exohori has magnificent frescos - the Panagia Playtera over the Sanctuary and three well-preserved paintings - the Teaching in the Temple, the Last Supper and The Betrayal. The marble iconostasis still stands, its lower panels intricately carved compared to the rough construction of the rest of the vault. I suspect they may well have come from somewhere else. Nearby was what Greenhalgh described as "One of the finest Byzantine Churches in Greece," The Church of St Barbara at Erimos, invested by armies of wild poppies and chrysanthemums. It was certainly in excellent condition with cloisonné style brickwork and good marble ornament as was its next door neighbour, the early 11th c. Church of Ayios Sotira (Our Saviour) with its unusual open porch surmounted by a little dome of bricks. Refreshed once more by the cool green waters of Akimos Bay, the afternoon was spent wandering across the barren Kokinoghian fields of Cape Matapan, the Greek equivalent of Land's End and strangely similar. To the east of the Cape is the sheltered anchorage of Porto Kaghio, overlooked by the village of Achilio. Many a bloody skirmish has been fought here as the inhabitants resisted pirates hell bent on abducting them and selling them in the Ottoman slave markets. Alas, they rarely won.
My stay so far had been confined to the west coast of the Mani, so I decided that a circumnavigation should mark my last day and reached the small fishing port of Kotronas on the Eastern side from where I began my journey south. A valiant attempt to drive up to the Monastery of St Nicholas was aborted when the road became too steep; no wonder it was now uninhabited. The eastern shoreline of the Mani is altogether different from the west. Due to the lie of the land where the hills fall away vertiginously into the sea, there is little room for villages and even less for cultivation. With the exception of Kokala and Aghios Kiprianos, there is scarcely a house until the road climbs up to the hill village of Laghia and then descends to Alika, past another mountain village called Tsikovia, a pretty place with avenues of trees.
How does one say farewell to such an atmospheric place as The Mani? My answer was to go in search of a final church and I climbed up onto the ridge of the Cavo Grosso in the late afternoon sun. Perfect stillness held sway with only the waft of the gentlest of breezes. Larks chattered as I made my way along the faint tracks of hunters through dense thigh-high vegetation, mainly of thorn and gorse. There must have been a large settlement here at some time, maybe even megalithic judging by the size of some of the stones and the many cisterns. I later discovered it to be Hippola, a fortified site for the villagers in the valley below to retire to in times of danger. Indeed similar to the bergfestungs of Transylvania, where the Saxon villagers would decamp to until the Ottoman hordes had passed them by. I headed south, past two tumbled down towers, and there, in the midst of nowhere, I spotted a hint of a barrel vault, its open end black to the eye with shadow. As I approached, a terrific peal of bells rang out, not a call to holy orders but cowbells attached to frightened animals who skedaddled as soon as they saw me. They had reason to flee for when I reached the Church of St Philip, it had been long converted to a byre and a cosy one at that. Somehow, despite its four-legged congregation, traces of frescos had managed to tenaciously cling to the plastered stone walls; a nativity scene with the three kings could just be made out as could the heads of several anonymous saints. On my way down, I found another tiny church, The Church of Panagia, which had been converted into a storeroom. Not a fleck of fresco had survived.
Returning to Athens the next day, I found one more gem of a 12th c. Byzantine church at Glezou. The key was in the door of St Michael The Archangel - known in Greek as the Taxiarch or Brigadier in charge of the Heavenly Host- presumably in preparation for Sunday Morning Service. It provided a rare chance to inspect an interior and the marble beams that formed the ties under the cupola were of exquisite craftsmanship. On the exterior, St Michael's had the dubious honour of being the only church with four corner buttresses, suggesting either it sat on its own personal earthquake fault line or was badly built. Two hours later I was in Mistras, the great Byzantine capital of the Morea from 1262 to 1460. It is hugely impressive but impersonal and lacking in any intimacy. The well trodden paths to St Sophia - The Royal Chapel - St Nicolas and Pantanassa were full of families dutifully shuffling along in wonder and awe of this once great city. When I reached the Church of Pantanassa, it was crowded with talkative tourists. I had been spoilt by the wild valleys of the Mani, my privacy protected by the remoteness of its little churches. My heart had been lifted to hitherto unattainable heights when I discovered the 1,000 year old remains of the churches of St Panteleimon and St Philip; my spirit had soared heavenwards when I stood in the naos of Panagia Agatia, looking across the sea to the snowy outlines of the Taygetos Mountains. There was no such uplift in Mistras.
The Pantocratic Christ, stern, wise yet forgiving, The Panagia, the All Holy, all suffering Mother of God, the Taxiarchs led by the martial Michael, the feisty Founders of the Church, the Military Saints - George, Demetrius, Mercury, Procopius - and the massed ranks of heroic Saints who make up the Menologion, all were to be found in The Mani. Painted on plastered walls by itinerant 11th century zographs or artists, their faces are unmistakably Greek, ringed with jet black unkempt hair. They had to be for otherwise how could they relate to the shepherds and fishermen who stood listening to the mystical intonations of the priest, all the time grateful of the mural distractions around them. The over-painting of the 17th and 18th century was a continuum of this localized style, paying little attention to the Painters Manuals of Mount Athos. Now hidden in ruined churches screened by thickets and undergrowth, these frescos surely must possess an almost miraculous quality or else how can their survival be explained. It was their indomitable, invisible spirituality that touched me deeply and will stay with me forever.