Heraklean? Back in my shell...

Greek myth and legend is full of tales of derring-do, action and fate, bravery and divinity. Sadly we live in more pragmatic and logical times (except maybe in Texas), which means when two and a half hours walk away form our car, with no shelter, and a steadfast gate blocking further passage, I was fully aware that the swift appearance of an electrical storm virtually over our heads was simply looking for an earth as an outlet, and despite being by the sea we couldn't call on the favour of Poseidon to threaten the might of the lightning bolts of Zeus…

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The guide we'd read for Monemvasia gave one warning about the narrow streets of this Byzantine enclave: it gets really busy if there's a cruise ship in town. Walking through to head south on a coastal recce the streets in the morning did suddenly seem awash with British voices (complaining about, amongst many things, taxis back in Yorkshire), mostly attached to over-tanned jewellery-dripped middle-aged women. I hate to stereotype the cruise crowd, but I didn't need to in this case as they seemed to be doing a good, loud and brash job themselves. The snake of people continued the kilometre or so up the causeway as we located our car, and as we crossed back onto the mainland there was the Thomson Majesty, disgorging contents onto a tender to the shore. The guide also reckoned on cruise crowds having disappeared by 6pm, so our choice of a day out walking seemed neatly vindicated.

Up and over the hills down the middle of this particular Peloponnesian finger, crossing to the west coast, we end up following a dusty dirt track, under rocky hills to our left, sloping to the turquoise seas on the right. The car feels abandoned here in the wild western scrub and sunlight shimmer, but from here we're on foot, and somehow we've timed starting in the midday sun. Bring on the mad dogs.

As we get further from the car the landscape becomes strangely Isle of Harris in its aspect. The hills are mainly rock and scree with some vegetation clinging on gamely, heather-like; the rough, stony, uneven track winds its way through challenging coastal topography; the sea inviting in its blue hue. The 30 degree heat, need for two litres of water in each bag, and stops at every available piece of shade put an abrupt end to the comparison of course.

The scenery is breathtaking, and while the wildlife that had been hoped for is scarce, it all carries interest. Three times we stir up Golden Orioles, that skittishly fly off displaying their beautiful yellow colour in the sun; three wild tortoises lumber across the path, faster than they're given credit for, stopping and withdrawing as footsteps get closer, before disappearing entirely into the undergrowth as soon as our backs are turned; there are more Blue Rock Thrushes, always keeping their distance; there's a Hoopoe taking flight across our bows; and a herd of long-legged sheep to be walked through, seemingly under the control of a sun-lined and darkened farmer who watches us suspiciously from his pick-up truck the whole way, and defies a call of 'yassas' with an even harder stare of silence.

The walk itself is out to Cape Melea (or Malea depending which book you read), or a point just short of the Cape itself, as that is deemed too dangerous to walk to. The natural turning back point is a chapel two and a half hours from our start, which is where we came in. We've passed a small 'inconoclase', little shrines with bottles of oil and lit candles that litter the roadsides generally, and round the corner is the chapel. Except between the two is a gate, with barbed wire and a metal barrier and rope tying it all shut, together with a sign in Greek which could be 'Chapel Closed', or equally 'Here be dragons, turn back or be fried.'

This section of the trip feels like one of denial as the night before we'd discovered the whole of the ruined upper town of Monemvasia was closed for renovation, but undeterred we take a seat on the rocks to watch the sea and eat some provisions purchased on the way. It's at this point the dark clouds behind the hills, but growing in stature all the time, become noticeable. And then there are the rumbles. Deep, long-lived, growls from the sky, every 20 seconds or so, in the clouds gathering over our exit route. But the growls breed, and now they are virtually overhead, and large, warm drops of rain see us moving closer to the rocks.

I have to admit at this point to a certain amount of unease that didn't seem to be shared by Mel ("There's no lightning," she declared). Certainly the electrical storms we'd seen to this point had limited themselves to pretty displays entirely within the clouds themselves, but when you're underneath one there's an attendant fear of a stray downward bolt.

I cannot, however, offer you tales of flashes across the sky, or nearby trees being reduced to ash. Ten minutes or so later (though it felt longer), thoroughly soaked, though unelectrified, and the dark foreboding skies were slipping further west, with an almost clear line marking out the separation now into the perfect blue sky once again, and the promise of a hot walk back to the baked car, and plenty of time for wet clothes to dry out.

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That evening we were treated to another storm. After another excellent meal, with the waiter explaining just how much on the plate was local to Monemvasia in particular (primarily the wine and olive oil), as well as the Peloponnese (almost everything else), and a brief conversation on the referendum after we answered a query from him that we were visiting from Scotland, we had retired to the balcony of our room. And once more the growls came from the hills behind. Strangely here felt perfectly safe, and I sat out until someone flicked a switch and the wind gusted up in a moment, taking with it a good deal of rain.

Thereafter the light show was watched from the room window, advancing across the water to the next finger, the very one we'd been walking on earlier.

One quick word for One-Eyed Jack that I mentioned yesterday. He's a feisty soul, who sat by our table again tonight. I think a better name for him would be 'Dilios', since the gods saw fit to equip him with a spare.