Horizon Scanning

Ancient history is (I was going to say literally, but I'll stick with figuratively) the bedrock of Greece, and in this area there seems a glut of places just crying out to be visited. The two main 'must see' sites are Epidaurus (which we ambled around yesterday) and Mycenae (which, it appears, should be pronounced 'Mikenes' to match the Greek, and which we headed to today).

This is a place where history and myth combine, being the home once-upon-a-time to Agamemnon and his crew (including Clytemnaestra, who always sounded to me like a female genital complaint). Here they lived, fought and (to the most impressive end) are buried. The tombs at Mikenes are a wonder, the prize example being just a little before the main site, and for some reason called the 'Treasury of Atreus'. This one is attributed to the resting place of Agamemnon himself (probably on account of it being the grandest, but now believed to be for an earlier king), and is (as all the tombs are) basically a large 'beehive' construction. Tiny beehive dwellings are well known in the archaeology of Scotland, but these are on a truly immense scale. The acoustics inside are utterly bizarre, with footsteps reverberating, giving each pace a weight and importance of its own. For some reason the effect transfixed me, and that's before considering just how old this construction is (around 3,250 years since it was built), pondering how on earth they could have moved the huge slabs of rock (the lintel above the doorway weighs 120 tonnes, and remains the largest in the world).

Ancient Mikenes itself is perched atop a crag, commanding views of the surrounding countryside, and but for some notable exceptions is another collection of rocks... Thankfully there are more elucidatory information boards.

The Lion Gate is another piece of improbable engineering, a huge slab (carved with two lions, hence the name) hanging over the entrance; the granary building just beyond are just ruins, but intriguing with its cyclopean walls (so called, here and in other places, as they were the types of wall using slabs so large they were thought only to be built by a giant cyclops); and then there's the cistern.

This last is simply a set of steps into the hillside, where once there was a water supply. It doesn't sound much, but in one 180 degree turn you are plunged into utter, all-consuming darkness. With worn smooth and broken steps it's the type of thing that would never pass a UK risk assessment. But everyone, old and young, seemed to want to pass down into this space. And somehow, once an American couple had gone before us and then turned back for the top, we ended up with the damp, dark place to ourselves. There's modern graffiti and a sloppy mud floor at the very bottom, and yet there's a weird appeal to being there. The climb back (fortunately one of us remembered to take a small torch) reinforces the darkness, with no hint of light until within touching distance of the u-turn and twenty steps or so from ground level once more.

Blinking into the light we see a tour group arrive and praise out fortunate timing as a Golden Year gaggle make their way into the abyss.

* * *

The site at Nemea, half an hour's drive or so away from Mikenes, is mercifully empty of the tour buses that plague the car park at the more famous site. In fact there is only one other small group of tourists as we arrive, and they're in the process of leaving. It's a pretty little place (sadly the small museum which was promised as excellent is closed), split over two locations. The main area contains scattered remains of baths, with sinks and terracotta plumbing perfectly visible. There also stand five or six columns of a temple, which you can scramble around, touching stone hewn more than 2000 years ago. These columns are the result of some remarkable restoration work involving the University of California and Greek counterparts, putting the columns back together, using the pieces that are lying scattered about. Some may question the purpose of all of the effort, but there's an undeniable interest and intrigue in wanting to see more of those immense columns going up.

Lunch is taken at a taverna by the side of the road between the split locations, thankful for the canopy over our hastily tableclothed plastic table. An older German couple are sat at a table seemingly moved under the shade of an olive tree to sit directly in front of their parked car. Away in a corner of the car park sits a small group of presumably itinerant grape pickers (for the Nemea is awash with grape vines) who look of eastern European descent. A tractor driver pulls in, has a single beer while we wait, then goes on his way, while a minibus driver takes advantage of a gap in proceedings, dropping off his Australian cargo at the site we've just left, for a cold drink and a chat with the owner. It all seems convivial, but Greek is one of those languages, like German or Arabic or Russian, where the friendliest conversation can seem to be like a long-running feud. The owner passes us the menu, then proceeds to read it out to us in a heavy accent only rendered decipherable by being able to read along, and not long after we receive another monstrous salad between us, massive red tomatoes crowned by a slab of feta cheese.

Part two of the Nemean visit is perhaps the more interesting, taking in an ancient stadium that formed part of the Panhellenic Games (the most famous being the revived Olympic Games, which for the ancient Greeks was only one of four major sporting events). The track is there, the sun reflecting off the white earth, making it seem impossible that any athletic endeavour could be undertaken (I resisted the temptation to strip naked, as the Greeks were, and test the assumption), the sloped sides only having ever contained a few stone seats, though around 15,000 spectators would be held in the thrall of those performing. There's an atmosphere here, the spirits of the competitors living in the dust, with some pleasure taken from knowing you're stood on the very space where two millenia ago cheers and adulation cried out.

There are remains of the water tracks that ran around the outside; and of the starting gate, the holes in the stone for the roped poles now used again in recreated games (now fully clothed, and including female competitors). The best aspect, however, is the discovered and excavated tunnel that runs from the once grand warm-up, de-robing and oiling room, into the stadium itself. Now fully dug-out (again by members of the University of California) you can enter the stadium in the same way as the athletes before you. It's a truly superb feeling.

* * *

The problem with touring Greek archaeological sites on a Monday is simply that they all appear to close at 3pm. Every other day sees the doors stay open to six, or even eight, but Monday is a day of earlier rest. We're leaving Nemea's stadium just as the clock arms strike perpendicular and a German gentleman pleads at the gate to be let in (Greece is an odd place when it comes to rules - times are set in stone and for anything you pay for, including road tolls, you must get a receipt otherwise you're not obliged to pay; whereas rules of the road, from speed limits to stop signs to traffic lights, can safely be ignored). This means that post-Nemea our attempts to see the site at Tiryns (an impressive fort just north of Nafplio) and a magnificently steeply raked auditorium at Argos, are dealt a cruel blow of impossibility.

* * *

The old town again entertains us for the evening (though a touch quieter than the previous evening) as well as providing the obligatory keepsakes that had, until now, proved unappealing (being such things as 'museum copy' jugs and pots, or t-shirts declaring just how much I Heart Greece or believe that This Is Sparta - which it no longer was...). But having seen the stores the night before Nafplio provides some olive wood and worry beads.

The latter, little strings of beads called komboloi, are a staple for Greek gents, and at virtually every café they can be seen passing individual beads between fingers or swirling the whole string and grabbing. The theory is that they take your worries away, though the explanation I read says that they are simply a fidget toy. For someone like me, who finds it hard to get rid of worries, and is always having to be told to sit still, these could be a godsend either way.