The Greek Islands (5 page)

In all this, there is something faintly sinister, faintly
menacing
. Little pockets of wind moving about on bare hillsides, the swish of the sea; then an enormous stillness without echo. In the midst of a siesta or in the middle of the night, one is suddenly completely awake and on the
qui vive
, one does not know why. A thrilling moment of anxiety intervenes; as if on the veldt one awoke in one's tent to hear a lion breathing at the entrance. A sudden loneliness assails one. And then, abruptly, the influence, the ghost, the cloud – whatever it is – passes; the
wind revives, and the whole island echoes once more like a seashell to the deep reverberations of history. Yes, other islands off Dubrovnik are just as beautiful, but they seem to hold
nothing
. Here you live in a flower-bed of Greek mythology and poetry, to which sooner or later you succumb because you
realize
that all these fruits of the brilliant human imagination are not fanciful chimeras but simply facts – the facts of Greek life and nature. And it comes with quite a shock to realize that the roots of our own cultures are buried in this rocky soil. There is no help for it, we are all Greeks, as Shelley once said.

If you set out from Nydri in Lefkas, a pretty little port, you will have to skirt a number of small islets which confuse
perspectives
and outlines, and will find yourself wondering how on earth the mariners of old ever managed to operate before the first maps were available. They must have depended not only on star-sightings, but a profound memory-ability to remember distinctive features. In these waters it is notoriously difficult, for the island shapes shift with every movement and appear to superimpose themselves one upon the other; outlines mix and cohere, and often what appears to be one whole island turns out to consist of three lying together in the direct line of vision. On the map all is clear. The little stone bundles have names like Taphos (tomb) and Arkoudi (bear).

Ithaca and Cephalonia lie side by side – though the latter is much longer, indeed the largest island of the Ionian group. Ithaca, which reverberates with the Homeric legend, is a delightfully bare and bony little place, with knobbly hills, covered in holm oak, which come smoothly down into the sea, into deep water which is rich in fish. The intimacy of the scale and the rapidly shifting levels make a drive about it as
exhilarating
as a trip on the old-style scenic railways of a funfair. The channel between Ithaca and Cephalonia is about two
kilometres broad, approximately the same as the channel which separates Corfu from Albania. The entry into Vathy harbour will set the atmosphere for a first visit – it is most remarkable as well as beautiful. The bare stone sinus curves round and round – it is like travelling down the canals of the inner ear of a giant. One is seized with a sense of vertigo; will the harbour never come in sight? It does at last, buried at the very end of this stony lobe of rock. It is small and not particularly distinguished, but the clearness of the sky and the purity of the water strike one with a sense of pristine cleanliness. The population of nine thousand is that of a small market town. They are friendly and welcoming people, too, and easily befriend the traveller; which is most useful when one needs a guide to visit the Nymphs, say, or the Eagle Mountain – about the two most pleasant
excursions
in the island. Nothing could convince you more that this was the island of Odysseus than recalling it while actually on the spot: ‘It is a steep little island impracticable for horses, but not too badly off in spite of its smallness. It is good for goats …' The harbour of Vathy is obviously the old Phorkys, where the Phaeacians deposited Odysseus on his return home, though they did not escape the wrath of Poseidon on their return to Paleocastrizza – or Cannone, whichever you prefer. It is true that the Grotto of the Nymphs (which requires a small scramble, possibly with a guide) is rather further from sea level than the text suggests, but this is a small point.

According to Homer, Ithaca was the capital island of a group comprising most, if not all, of its close neighbours, and it is well situated to enact this role; it is a dream-haunt for the sea pirate; and, if it had one defect, this was perhaps that it was poor in olives and grain, so that it must always have depended on imported goods. Its position is a dominating one – rather like Hydra's – and Odysseus would have been the right sort of piratical and resourceful king to keep a firm hand on it.
Inevitably, of course, the topographical descriptions in the Odyssey have set the scholars bickering. The Homeric sites are not all a-hundred-per-cent satisfactory from the point of view of identification; but, without being too indulgent or too
gullible
, one can certainly believe in the fountain of Arethusa and the Raven Cliff which sheers away up some forty metres into the blue sky. One can also combine a bit of home-made piracy with piety and scrabble about in the Grotto of the Nymphs, in the hope of finding something left over from the treasure that Odysseus buried there under the direction of Athena.

The present Marathia is where they say that the piggeries of Eumaeus were situated; but this is drawing a bow at a venture. The most vexing of the topographical problems is the site of the town and the palace of Odysseus. Inevitably, two schools of thought have grown up which hold diametrically opposite opinions about the site. One pitches it at the port of Polis on the north-west corner of the island, and the other at Aetos, right on the midriff, the narrowest point between the two land masses. Meanwhile, a third candidate has started to become manifest with new excavations at Pelikata, which, it is pointed out, is admirably situated from a strategic point of view between the bays of Port Polis and Port Phrykes. All that is certain is that there are signs of settlements which were certainly inhabited at the appropriate Mycenean time.

Does it matter? Yes, in a profound sense it does, even though presumably we shall never be certain of our ground in this game of classical hide-and-seek. The little island is full of atmosphere, and we can enjoy it all the more because of Homer's descriptions and by joining in the paper chase of the scholars. It is certainly the right place in summer to pitch a tent or rent a room
chez
l'habitant
; it is equally right to re-read the relevant passages in the
Odyssey
and see what you feel about the sites already chosen. Nobody is happy about all of them – but
there are several which can be accepted without demur. The holidaymaker, however, will have most pleasure if he rents a little boat at Port Snow (Hioni) and paddles among the rocky headlands.

While on the subject of holidays in the remoter corners of Greece, there are some bits of important advice to give to travellers.

It will be a long time before Greece becomes sophisticated in the bad sense, and in the remoter country places old-fashioned manners and a cast-iron sense of hospitality, as ancient and as sacred as any in classical Greek tragedy, are the order of the day. Inevitably since tourism came within the reach of every man, there have been influxes of the wrong sort of tourists who did their own country's reputation little good, and whose manners shocked the peasants. There are also problems of travelling alone (especially if you are a woman) or being timorous because you don't speak the language. Nevertheless, hospitality is still sacred to Greek people. In any of the above cases, the thing to do, in order to establish your
bona
fides
as a serious traveller who merits respect and assistance, is to call on the mayor of the village in which you have a mind to stay; if he does not speak French or English, he will produce the village schoolmaster, who usually smatters in one or both. Ask the mayor to direct you to a family of decent standing in the village which rents rooms. It is not simply a question of finding a room; the simple act of enquiry not only proves that you are serious, but also puts you under the official protection of the village. From then on, woe betide anyone who lets the village down by disrespectful behaviour of any sort.

The second point worth labouring, for those who come from the north, is that for the most part you will be eating in taverns, not in smart restaurants – which anyway only exist in the very centre of Athens. The
taverna
is cheaper; you can eat well and
usually outdoors, and it is as friendly as a club. It is like a seventeenth-century ‘ordinary'. The thing to do is to march straight into the kitchen to inspect what is being cooked. Nobody takes this amiss; indeed it is expected. Nor will any fuss be made if you should find the lunch or dinner not sufficiently interesting and decide to go elsewhere. At first this procedure may seem to the traveller embarrassing and rude, but he will rapidly accustom himself to it.

It is Ithaca that prompts this short, and I hope not
superfluous
, homily; this offering of simple tips that never seem to figure in official guide books, and that make a difference to one's peace of mind and well-being in Greece. Ithaca, the home of Odysseus and therefore of hospitality, is a good place to start this procedure, especially as there is not an over-abundance of hotel accommodation there. The pretty little town of Vathy was savagely knocked about in the big earthquake of 1953, which accounts for its curiously disembodied air; the rebuilding has been haphazard and tentative.

What would be the basic requirements for a sea-dog's lair – the central citadel where the faithful Penelope might spend so many years yawning at her loom? An eminence, first of all, to give as good a view as possible of the surrounding country. The command of one or more harbours. Lastly a place with a bit of green land nearby or round about it where, in times of peace, one could farm a little, pasturing cattle or goats. Alas! These somewhat meagre requirements are satisfied by more than one site on the island – which proves that we still need archaeologists, however exasperating they may seem.

The great journey of Odysseus in the poem by Kazanzaki takes on a heroic and semi-mythical flavour, as if it were an ancient chronicle or a sort of collective poem; its mammoth size creates this feeling. Nor is Kazanzaki the only modern master to write about Ithaca; of all unlikely poets, C. P. Cavafy
pitched one of his finest longer poems here – though in his hands and mind the journey was more a metaphysical
adventure
than anything else. It was a journey through the whole of his life, and as much an interior journey as anything else:

It unwinds slowly and beautifully, suiting the measure to the meaning. ‘Take it easy, don't hurry your journey, better take years, so that at last when you arrive you are old, not expecting Ithaca to make you rich. She gave you a marvellous journey, and now has nothing left to give. And if you find her poor, well Ithaca won't have deceived you. By now you will fully understand what all these Ithacas of men can mean.'

A correspondent, wrote:

The less said the better about the site which popular local folklore describes as being the ancient schoolhouse where Homer learned his alphabet … though the view is pleasant enough. This time it is the village folklorists who are being tedious. And yet, so vexing is this whole business that one would not be surprised one day to find out that the obstinate village tradition has a glimpse of truth in it.

If one wishes during the calm season to take a passage from Pissaetos across to the island over the way, Cephalonia, there will be time for a farewell drink on the top of Mount Aetos. By now amateurs of classical Greek will have been delighted to see how many place names are marked with an ancient Greek name. (
Aetos
, Eagle;
Korax
, Raven) and so on. Whatever the puzzles and problems of ancient history in Ithaca there is
something
attractive, even bewitching about the little island, which looks so like a Henry Moore sculpture thrown down anyhow in to the sea.

Nor will the contrast with its bigger brother do anything to qualify its undoubted charm, for Cephalonia is the complete opposite. Superficially it has many of the charms of Corfu; wonderful landscapes, spacious bays. And yet, a sort of
reservation
rises in the mind even as one is enjoying a swim at one of the finest of all Greek beaches. The landscape is large, massive and kindly – and the hills look polished like a Swiss sideboard. The inhabitants are kindly, if somewhat brusque, and have a fine, long reputation for political intransigence and the will to freedom which endeared them to the heart of Byron. They are
good mountaineers and good soldiers, and against them the suavity and smoothness of the Corfiots savours a little of
Venetian
softness, brought about by the cloying beauty of their island. Here all is rough and energetic. True, there are no sites to visit, and nothing much to do except admire the scenery, but even this is sometimes rather a relief after too much slavery to the guide book. No, there is something which renders it rough and rocky like the accent of the inhabitants. First of all, it seems to have harder winters than the other Ionian Islands – snow really lies on the top of the mountain range where Mount Aetos rises to some five thousand feet. Then the big, raw-boned
valleys
seem awkwardly disposed, running from north-west to south-east. The island is about thirty miles long, and very broad at the southern butt, while in the north it narrows to a mere three miles opposite Ithaca. There is no doubt about its
handsomeness
, which makes any reservation sound preposterous. But atmosphere is important, and Cephalonia has not much. It is big-boned, lost, a little wistful; although those who stay become very attached to it, and its natives are the most violently patriotic of all Greeks, reminding one in temperament of the Cretans.