My festival happened to be that of 15 August 1940, that fatal day when an Italian submarine sank the cruiser Elli as it lay at anchor in the harbour, all dressed from top to toe with flags, in honour of the Virgin. Had my own steamer not been dawdling, we should have arrived in time to eyewitness the explosion. Mercifully, we arrived an hour afterwards, when the poor Elli had vanished leaving only a great puddle of dark oil on the calm sea. Flags and lifebelts floated everywhere and the survivors battled with the shock-waves of indignation which had swept over the whole city.
The actual declaration of war was a month or two off; but nobody watching the scene in Tinos had any further doubt about its imminence, nor indeed about its outcome. (Nothing that subsequently happened to the Italian army was in any way surprising.) It would be impossible to overstress the ignobleness and tactlessness of this base attack; if you wanted to drive the whole Greek nation fighting-mad, you could not do better than level such an insult at Tiniotissa on her great day, when the sick had come from so far to seek her help. Coming ashore, I saw a new expression on the Greek countenance – a silent, enraged, resolution which boded ill for the enemy. The whole town had been stirred like a beehive, and it buzzed with indignant life. In the harbour, the divers were busy about the patch of oil, and a corvette had appeared to help. Strangely, there was no weeping, no public lamentation, as there is so often. The uncanny silence showed me that the weight of this mortal insult went right to the depths of the Greek heart and could only be expunged now by war. As night fell, things settled down a bit; a seaplane came and more small craft. But the sense of shock expanded; roundabouts and swings were hushed, and radios were turned down reverently in the lounge of the ship, which had now decided to spend the night in harbour and return to Athens on the morrow.
It was prudent to wait, for nobody could be sure that this incident did not herald an out-and-out attack on the rest of the fleet in Piraeus. Conflicting messages flew everywhere, the frail telephone and telegraph system on the island became strained with anxious dignitaries asking for solid information. The sick, too, wondered if, in the case of a general outbreak of war, they would find themselves marooned. But underneath these surface anxieties there stirred an overwhelming sense of determination, rooted in anger at an act of desecration. It was as if the insult struck back beyond the civil war into ancient times – for here in Tinos there had been one of the most famous wonder-working sanctuaries of antiquity, dedicated to Poseidon and Amphitrite. I was sure the old sea-god would take such an insult to his shrine very ill, and from then on I knew that the Elli would be revenged, with his wholehearted aid and approval.
That night, walking about the buzzing town, I had my first glimpse of the famous shrine. It is not very distinguished as architecture, though the approach to the main bastide is rather splendid – a slow-flowing staircase of stone which led up to where the bays with their arches opened. I walked between a double row of recumbent figures, some sleeping in twisted positions, some moaning, some quietly talking to the friends who had accompanied them here. The deep surf-like boom of a service was beginning. The long lines of the recumbent forms, wrapped in their rags and shawls, propped on pillows, or laid on stretchers, had their presence indicated by tiny night-lights, wicks afloat in saucers of olive oil, which cast a dramatic pallor over the scene. I was reminded of the contoured hells invented by Brueghel; and then as I advanced through the bays with the arches, I seemed to see a Victorian steel-engraving of the lazaretto at Scutari. Miss Nightingale was making her first scandalized visit. The crowd was so great that I did not trouble with Tiniotissa herself that night; I just stood for a while, hardly able to draw breath, feeling like one of a clutch of sardines sunk deep in oil. The smell of wax and garlic was overpowering. I realized only afterwards that that evening I had been present at one of those historic moments when the fate of a nation hangs on a simple yes or no. It was like the time in the Persian Wars when, after terrible tergiversations, cowardices and every kind of dirty trick, a lot of people who cordially detested each other, suddenly decided to join forces for an afternoon and unstitch the Persian Fleet (Poseidon willing); or it was like the arrival of the Spanish Armada, which suffered much the same fate of hubris at the hands of a group of gentlemen who could not bear the sight of each other. That night Greece knew she must say ‘No’ and win her war.
By rushlight and moonlight all was enchanting, and I walked the streets of the little town for an hour, wrapped in the pleasure and sadness of my thoughts. Even in the dark, the town was dazzling white, giving off light like a distant star; and everywhere the smell of frankincense descended from the church, eddy after eddy, pushed by the night wind into the narrow alleys and squares of the town.
Upon the dark escarpments of the Venetian castle I thought I detected some darker brush-strokes – cypresses? This tree, which runs wild in Greece and can be seen rising in groves from bare rock-faces over the blue sea, is really an exotic; I mean that it came originally from the Himalayas with the Phoenicians, and was planted in Cyprus – that orphan among Greek islands – about, I think, 1000 BC, whence it worked its way into the Greek décor. Once adopted as a symbol of the immortal soul and equally of eternal death, the Greeks pressed it into more practical service. Perhaps the impulse came from Egypt, where it was used for mummy-cases because it was so long-lasting and relatively impervious to termites. Its durability also made it a desirable coffin-wood for Greek heroes, and perfect for the masts of their war-craft. It is curious that something which, to the peoples of the east expressed only joy and beauty should, in coming west, become associated with death and the after-life. The island of Cyprus probably took its name from the tree. I have seen it also used extensively in the interiors of Greek houses, where it has a characteristic smell, deliciously astringent, and is waxed or oiled or varnished.
I went on board to sleep that night, but preferred a deck-chair on the boat deck to a bunk in the stifling cabin. An uneasy slumber seized the town, though the light in the cabin of the radio-operator burned all night, and one could hear the relentless clawing and scratching of the ship’s radio and the land telephone. At dawn, I cadged an ouzo and a Turkish coffee from the sleepy steward and was informed that we would be staying all day in harbour and not leaving before midnight, ‘if then’. Everyone everywhere was waiting for the war to burst like a swollen boil. While this indecision continued, I decided to have a look at the island – or as much of it as I could with the help of the local bus system.
By daylight you notice sharply the straggling and inchoate forms of the town, and the frankly inadequate architecture of the Tiniotissa’s church. The church is disappointing, considering that many a chunk from Apollo’s Delos shrine has been run into the walls! But the night had yielded one miracle; a deaf girl had suddenly had her hearing restored, which was heartening news for the sufferers who still awaited their turn. It was a confirmation, too, that it would take more than an Italian submarine to perturb the Virgin in her work of healing. Yellow and cavernous with fatigue, the faces of the sick were worth seeing again for a moment. I realized why, when a great dignitary of the King was dying in Athens, a summons had been sent for the famous icon, which was transported to the bedside of the dying person to intercede with Charon on his behalf. This also happened at the death of King Paul, and many of my friends were confident that the Tiniotissa would obtain his recovery through intercession.
Tinos is only some twenty-seven kilometres long, and not too difficult to explore, though the general impression it conveys is disparate. Perhaps this is because it is not only the home of the Orthodox saint but also one of the strongest Catholic corners of the Cyclades; and while all is peace and apparent harmony between the faiths there is a lack of intellectual harmony among the people. The Catholics tend, without reason, to behave snobbishly, which irritates their fellow Greeks. In addition, Tinos, being so central, has had more to do with corsairs and other marauders than neighbouring islands, and been repeatedly attacked and ravaged by them; the
pirate Barbarossa is one of the most picturesque corsairs (1537) who laid waste the island, though the Catalans (1392) had already passed this way. The slight disharmony between the two faiths may be caused by the Catholics having taken little part in the movement of liberation during the insurrection of 1822. They contented themselves with retiring inland to a mount called Xynara, where they built themselves a stronghold of churches and convents and schools, waiting for everything to blow over, which it eventually did. Whatever the reason, there are two currents of feeling flowing through the island, and this makes its character unclear.
The prettiest part is the interior, which contains a bewildering number of villages, sites and Venetian citadels, which are worth a visit if you have the time, and can find the bus. The bus that carried me was full of livestock and covered with drooping flags in honour of the Tiniotissa – drooping from the heat, that is, which proved to be intense. The razzle-dazzle of the whitewashed villages with their coloured washing floating in the breeze was eye-catching enough; but in those pre-war days one knew the café would be full of stray cats and fleas, and that sleeping in the church on a camp bed would mean being bitten to death by bed bugs which had come over from Turkestan with Genghis Khan.
The one fine anchorage, Panormus, is on the Andros side, where the capital town might have been wise enough to pitch its tents. Panormus is so close to Andros that this would have conferred a sense of joint identity to them both. They are separated only by a small strait, but the tides tend to swirl and swell mightily in these seas, and even quite experienced sailors are sometimes surprised by a turn in the weather and forced to run for cover.
I came back to town in somewhat erratic fashion, having accepted a lift on the back of a motorbike driven by a young farmer who was anxious to try out his English – which as far as I could judge was a form of dialect Swedish in which only one phrase, ‘Very good’, stood out.
On the way back I saw several more pleasant villages, some in dusty rock-country without much shade; and my friend’s much-vaunted wine was not up to much. In one place called, I think, Asproti, I saw a frieze of girls with heavy antique-style water pitchers going to the fountain. Those ascending with an empty pitcher carried it on the hip, these descending with a full one bore it on a small coiled headcloth on the head. Backbreaking work, but they were as gay and as talkative as jays, and their pleasantries had lots of edge. There were also snakes on the road. We rested for a while in the heat of the day and did not reach the town until dusk. I was relieved to find that my ship had not as yet left, and invited my host to drink and dine with me. He was tremendously impressed by all the stories he was told about the sinking of the Elli, and dragged me from kiosk to kiosk in order to get more and more first-hand, even eyewitness, accounts to take back to his village on the morrow.
Among his other purchases I noticed a wilted chap-book of divination from dreams, which would doubtless see him through the winter; I did not make fun of him about it, and now I am glad because I was informed long afterwards that the peasants of Greece believe that dreams provide clues which will lead them to a buried treasure. In default of treasure, a man (and, especially, a church which is low in funds and poor in congregation) can perform much with a wonder-working icon. The Tiniotissa was miraculously discovered on the very day when the Greek standard was lifted against the Turks, thus giving religious sanction to the battles. I took a last look at the church with my friend before going aboard that night. He proved most knowledgeable about the wonderful thank offerings which constituted the treasure-store of the church – bibles galore with jewel-studded covers, gold and silver plate in quantity, embroideries of oriental silk in fabulous design and ancient workmanship. He explained too the shreds of infected clothing gummed to the pillars with wax – either ex-votos for services desired or thanks for services received. As for the silver-foil trinkets hawked outside the great doors, the poorest peasant could afford at least one, and so, according to my friend, the whole mass of whorled and worked candelabra which lighted the Virgin’s church came from such humble peasant offerings. Much later, in Athens, I came upon a book which confirmed almost everything he had told me. That night we parted, never to meet again. I did not get a chance to see Tinos for many a year, as by April ’41 Greece was invaded. But nothing that I have so briefly recorded here needs to be changed or amended. The Tiniotissa is even more wonder-making today than ever, and many are the cures she performs every year. Power to her arm, and Poseidon be with her!
If Tinos gives you an impression of irregularity Andros will do little to dispel it, for this is another handsome, rugged island with its harbours built on the hither side. The town of Andros is picturesque enough but, once you have crossed the ample plain of Messaria (preferably in early spring when Mount Kovari is snow-capped and the fields are full of flowers) and come upon the ancient site of Palaeopolis, you will recognize yet another of those champion harbours of the ancient world, which seem to speak of epochs before the pirates came and forced the island people to move further and further inland. There is little to see but a few shattered sea-marks, a straggle of walls; an outline in X-ray of the ancient site and the modern village is still relatively undisturbed, probably due to rather irregular form. But the site!
Its story is hardly any different from Naxos and Tinos; and with Naxos it shared an ancient cult for that enigmatic and capricious composite god Dionysus. In Andros the approved version of the god suggests that he spent his whole time travelling about with a dozen false passports; he appears to have come from Boeotia. In this corner of Greece, the festivals of which we have any record sound like grim, orgiastic affairs, where the Bacchantes sacrificed, perhaps young boys. The god’s influence spread down into the Cyclades and, at Lesbos and Chios, just across the way, human sacrifices also took place, which were later replaced by ritual flagellation …
There is something a little sinister about the deep valleys of Andros in the mid-afternoon, when the sizzle of the cicadas drives one to sleep, where the vegetation is deep and often one cannot see the sea, so that the island seems much bigger than in fact it is. Andros is about the same size as Tinos, but its aspect is more rugged and less variegated. It has much the same historic pattern also – lonian, Cretan, Phoenician – but so far no wonder-working Virgin has been dug up. Its lack of antiquities will always protect it from the more strident forms of tourism, but it already has good hotels, whose cuisine is no worse than anywhere else. The star turn is Paleopolis and perhaps the island is more to be commended to sailors and campers than visitors requiring sophisticated comforts. The famous Hermes of Andros is no longer here, but in Athens; and the medieval celebrity of the place, which flowered with the sudden discovery of mulberry silk and made the Andros weave celebrated as far as Avignon, has dwindled away to nothing. The Andriots now turn their eyes to New York and Sydney where they hope to make a decent living, though it is sometimes difficult to persuade them that they will have to pay a high price for such a standard of life. But after overflowing Tinos, a weekend in Andros could well prove a delight, because the bathing and underwater-fishing are extremely good.
Syros · Kythnos · Kea
I have placed these three together because they are less interesting, further off the track, and historically less well endowed than their more beautiful neighbours; they won’t compare with Naxos and Paros. They vary in importance, however, and Syros must be put squarely on the record because, though on the decline, it is still a centre of radiation for sea-traffic. In the 1870s, before steam came, it was very important as a marshalling yard for all sea movements, and almost all notable travellers began their Cycladian tour by touching here. All Victorian travel memoirs mention it, and one could make up an amusing anthology of comments about the island in the days when the harbour thronged with costumed visitors, Turkish and Greek. It was from here that one tried to find a passage for Smyrna or Alexandria. And while the island is bald and graceless in comparison with many others, it has its own dignity.
Som
e eight thousand Catholics live here, so the island has the same flavour of dispersed intentions as Tinos; but the harbour is fine. Today travellers are well looked after, but it is difficult to forget that the frock-coat of Gerard De Nerval caused roars of laughter; that he was dubbed ‘Catholikos’, snubbed as a Frank, and then nearly raped in a windmill by an old crone. However, he was only one of many travellers bound for somewhere else who had to wait for a ship here. Since the last war, Syros’s importance has once more started to decline, though it is the administrative chef-lieu of its group, and has a big role to play in radio and telephone communications, being a staging-post for this type of traffic. Once ashore, there is not much to see and even less to know historically. Yes, the compass was invented here by the philosopher who taught Pythagoras mathematics. But De Nerval and the frock-coat … that is more fun. Then Byron, Chateaubriand, and other seasick geniuses have left us descriptions; and after them came Curzon and Newton and that breed of curious, highly educated statue-snatchers and essence-squeezers. Melville wrote a fine poem on the harbour … It is in their shadow that modern Syros lives. And its position still enables it to be an octopus so far as maritime traffic goes.
From here to Kythnos. ‘Nobody ever comes to Kythnos,’ said the first man I met on the island, a disgruntled old priest on a mule, sporting a taffeta sunshade. ‘Why should you?’ It was a fair question, for there is nothing to see except the village, nothing to eat, and nothing much to write home about. If it were not surrounded by such glorious islands it might manage to insinuate some of its charm (it has real charm) into the minds of those travellers who would compare it with Naxos or Santorin, which form part of the same little constellation. It is unfair but that is the way the world wags.