Time to Rock

Visions of Greece in various media are almost invariably the same, and come from views of the islands: flat calm, crystal clear, blue waters; a matching and cloudless sky; white buildings, shining out in the blazing sun. Monemvasia upholds, albeit unwittingly, the environmental stereotypes, but save for a few churches eschews the ostentation of pure white buildings. Perhaps it's the mainland versus island thing, maybe it's the former history as a fortress, the lower town dominated by the ruins of the upper town on the cliffs above, but it does nothing to harm the picture postcard perfection of the location.

The drive south-east had us passing through surprisingly lush green countryside. Again preconceptions had Greece as an overwhelmingly arid landscape, and while it is undeniably dry, the olive groves and lime trees thrive amongst the dusty beige soil. We pass through a number of small towns which are all, without fail, inescapably chaotic. Cars are left at angles to describe higgledy-piggledy to perfection; artificially narrowing the dry, cracked, rough roads, with the stop-go intentions of those coming the other way or from side streets or around roundabouts especially only to be guessed at (on some there is the old French 'priorité à droite', others the preference given to 'gauche', but at no point any signs indicating which of the methods will be on use for that particular little patch of circle); old men pilot asthmatic scooters with bags of shopping hanging from one or both ends of the handlebars, with other bags clasped between knees; the melée occasionally added to when someone stops to complain at another whose driving or parking they object to, but in so doing manage to bring all directions to a standstill.

Two thoughts spring to mind: in the towns I'm not surprised we've seen so few cyclists (as I'm always on the lookout); and out of the towns I'd still genuinely trust a Greek driver more than a French (or Belgian or Swiss, take them out of their own country and they drive like loons!). On the roads between towns the Greeks become almost patient, in their own fashion. They won't ride bumper to bumper, but where the roads widen will then take their chance to overtake. Now yes, there will be traffic coming the other way, or it will be round corners, that much is true, but a concurrent convention has the driver being overtaken, or even in the case of slow drivers pre-overtake, moving as far right as possible (there are often wide strips of run-off on the main roads) so as to facilitate passage. This comes as a particularly useful tool for me as I attempt to remain within the prescribed speed limits, though signs defining such appear few and far between, while for the average Greek such limits appear something of an abstract notion (in terms of both far exceeding them or barely reaching half the figure).

Cars themselves range from brand new looking shining examples, to the far more numerous old and only half-living little pick-up trucks. I'm not sure if Greece has the concept of an MOT, but one thing is certain is that back in the UK more than half the vehicles on the road would simply be condemned...

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Monemvasia juts out from the sea like a popped cork caught in suspended animation. It's reminiscent of Mont St. Michel in the north of France, but stands out more rugged, with seemingly less certainty about how you can possibly access the town. But a short causeway and a good road lead right to the city gate (where it's prudent to relieve yourself of a passenger and luggage before turning round to seek out a parking space somewhere back along the road to the causeway - it's somewhat busy and understandably not really a place with cars in mind).

The uneven cobbled streets are narrow, accentuating the need to usher fellow tourists to the side to permit passage, as they gawp in the windows and doorways of little shops peddling such wares as local Malvasia wine, small figurines of knights, and purses adorned with the Beatles. Cats lie sheltering from the heat under café tables, which wait impatiently for lunchtime to arrive. The feline inhabitants seem more numerous than in Mystras, bigger and better fed, yet more prone to a variety of skin complaints (and in one case an otherwise attractive and healthy ginger tom who is missing his right eye, but who seems sauntering up tree branches and onto the red tiled roofs despite his monocular drawback).

Our hotel is at the opposite end of the town ("Do not be disheartened," explains the girl at the hotel office just inside the city gate, with perfect Americanised English, "It is only 250 metres.") which seems an eternity dragging cases over the rough surface, in the heat, dodging becoming an unwitting backdrop to a dozen German holiday snaps, and uphill. But it's worth it for the view from the stone balcony over the rooftops, out to sea, and beyond to the finger of the Peloponnese we plan to walk tomorrow.

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Eating in Greece has become something of a battle of wills, with the attendant and expectant cats occasionally a saving grace. The simple fact of the amtter is your hosts like you to eat well. At lunch even the nice American couple behind us find it hard to clear their plates. We resolve, meanwhile, to have but a selection of appetisers and a Greek salad. Now in the UK the appetiser dish would see some smaller versions of the menu-listed items, something to give you a tiny taster, with the whole making up the normal starter size. Not so here as a huge plateful arrives with six or seven full size starters, alongside a Greek salad which is a mountain of fresh tomatoes with a similar peak of bread. The evening meal follows the same principle, with the owner sitting down with us, running through the items she clearly sees as the best on the menu. We choose nought but seemingly small dishes (that naturally turn out to be nothing of the sort, though in fairness still tasty) and then despite turning down the offer of dessert, a plateful arrives at the table regardless.

Along with restaurants, it seems good bars are not in short supply in Monemvasia, and the carefree pouring of gin brings to mind the Pintxos bars of San Sebastian. Certainly not a thing to be complained about, and indeed makes it more likely we'll return on our second evening. The bar of choice also continues my Greek schooling, with the barmaid correcting my attempted guttural 'efcharisto', to a softer and more fluid 'efharisto'. It strikes me as having possibly hit on regional variations, even in the short 100km or so we've come from Mystras, but it's a pronunciation I can hold to, so it'll stay with me the rest of the trip unless further corrected.

Walking home the stars are striking, and as more darkness falls our distance from a true population centre is made clear by the burgeoning Milky Way becoming perfectly visible to the naked eye. I have to be dragged away from the balcony and numerous attempts to capture the sight on camera...