Are you sitting comfortably? I'll beg... *whistle*

Seeing the sights of a country is not best achieved by taking a motorway route through it, but sometimes it's the only option with pressing matters ahead. In this instance we're leaving Kardamili for Nafplio, roughly two and a half hours drive north. I'd usually be an advocate for the scenic route, but Nafplio is ringed by some of the most important historical sites in Greek history, and we're only there for two nights, so to see as many of them as possible we need to make a visit somewhere in the afternoon of the transit day. Like I say, pressing matters.

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Epidavros (or Epidauros) is home to one of the most impressive amphitheatres still standing, which could seat around 15,000 people (and which still does during show season). It is a truly marvellous site and sight, stretching up to 55 rows. Just don't try to sing in it.

As we arrive a group of schoolkids are gathered with a teacher in front, and they begin to sing. And sing pretty well. My only regret is that we aren't yet seated above to take in the demonstration of the acoustics that such singing will clearly give life to. But the performance is cut short in any case as a shrill whistle blows out, and from a hut looking out onto the theatre strides an officious woman who barks a simple instruction, "No! It is not allowed!"

The schoolkids disperse (with audible groans of disappointment), but as we round the side to take in the theatre from above, entering it roughly halfway up the height, there has clearly been a get-together and a remarkably cunning plan concocted. Sure they can't sing, but if they simply speak the lines in unison there can't be any complaint. The demonstration begins again, but it takes fewer than 10 seconds before they are stopped in their tracks again. The whistle and shout comes from an equally officious chap who has also taken strides out of the hut.

It seems the actual prescribed method to test the acoustics is simply to clap. Nothing more. People have clearly been told this and just walk into the middle of the stage and slap their hands together. Their friends aren't sitting higher, there's no-one to tell them, "Yes, that was clear," they just clap a couple of times and then wander off, strangely satisfied with the action. Then a little later on an older German group arrives, gathers, and starts singing Frère Jacques in perfect counterpoint. The whistle takes seconds to arrive, but the Germans plough on, through simple unawareness that this would be wrong to do. The whistle increases in volume and a couple turn heads, presumably to see who might be doing something to be getting whistled at in such a manner. Slowly they break down, the official rooted to the spot on his little mound with his little shack, blowing harder each time and now belting out admonishment.

I'm still at a loss as to why this is unacceptable, when shouted conversations are permitted (two Frenchmen being particularly amusingly over the top with gestures framing, "Extraordinaire! J'ai entendu tous parfaitement!"

Much of the rest of Epidaurus can be more easily classified as 'a pile of rocks'. There are building layouts and streets of rubble that defy much interpretation as (and this seems the case at many Greek sites) the boards explaining what you're looking at are either cracked, faded or illegible in the sun; or simply say something like 'Hegethion, where some people lived'. The stadium, meanwhile, is currently off limits, and I'm told off in the small museum for placing a hand briefly on a plaster cast recreation pillar as a large tour group makes its plugged-in automaton way back to the door, blind to all but the speaking orange boxes hanging rounds their necks.

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Nafplio was the first 'modern' Greek capital, from 1930 to 1933, as freedom was wrested from the Turks. From our Pension high above the city, behind a long-abandoned massive monstrosity of a hotel, having driven through the more up-to-date sprawl, it's hard to imagine. But dropping a few flights of steps and passing through a dark alley, you're suddenly in the old town, and struck by the vibrancy. Shops are open late, bars are packed, there are restaurants by the score all spilling out into the streets. There's a liveliness not even hinted at by our lofty position, but during the nights, walking amongst this relaxed yet revelry-laden atmosphere is one of the joys of continental holidaying.

The small streets have a French or Italian feel, occasional pastel colours and black wrought iron railings abound. There's a 'Hotel Grande Bretagne' overlooking a square by the harbour, with kids driving hired electric buggies around, handbrake turning in front of promenaders, and stray dogs competing with stray cats for the affection of tourists. In the main square hawkers are selling bubble machines and little light-up helicopters that are fired into the night sky by catapult, slowly tumbling back to earth where children vie with each other to be the one to catch it. The shops are selling worry beads, and olive wood products, as well as impractical looking shoes, and heat-improbable leather jackets. Stores selling random home furnishings testify the ongoing cool of the Union Jack, which adorns cushions and make-up bags and t-shirts. There are two shops, within twenty yards of each other, entirely dedicated to the world of Vespa. And amongst the inevitable tourist tat, one shop that proudly proclaims it has 'hundreds of magnets' (having once seen an American throw a strop in Barcelona because the tourist shop beside the Sagrada Familal had no fridge magnets, I know they'll have at least one happy customer).