Little Kea is also off the beaten track, though the actual distance from Piraeus is only some forty sea miles; it, too, has no great splendours to offer, but ardent campers and walkers would find the abandoned convent of St Marina a tempting spot to spend a weekend. Fly-blown villages, flea-tormented and silent; dogs and cats scratching themselves to death in the dust. And the terrible ennui that comes with such blazing isolation in the noonday sun. Yet the windmills turn and turn throughout these islands and their message is one of silent content.
Seriphos · Siphnos · Kimolos · Milos · Sikinos Amorgos · Pholegandros · Ios
I do not think I shall be accused of taking my islands too lightly, if I now attempt to deal with a job lot of pretty, but very similar islands, which have considerably less to commend them in terms of monuments, though their charm is undeniable. Seriphos and Siphnos sound like the Heavenly Twins, and are very similar in size and scope. Kimolos and Sikinos are hard to visit, and harder to escape from, owing to their position off the beaten track; frankly it is not worth the trouble to do so, unless you are as determined and thorough about your Aegean as old Theodore Bent – who wrote the real classic on the area.
Iron-stained Seriphos speaks of poverty and silence, and its drear reaches of rock induce a mood very different from the heart-lifting ones induced by Rhodes or Mykonos. Livadhia is a trim little port to lie in for a summer, if you have a private yacht; if not the place is more likely to suit novelists, or suicides of other kinds. Siphnos lies hard by, and this again is a pretty place, but today has no trace of the riches for which it was celebrated in antiquity. The seams have run out, the times have changed. Milos (where the ‘Venus de’ came from) is a damnably dull hole of a place, with a magnificent bay so large that it could welcome the whole Allied Fleet, both during the Crimean War and the war of 1914–18.
Sikinos and Amorgos are rather sinister islands with little to commend them, though the villages are pretty and the inhabitants kindly; the anchorages are poor and, if you managed to get stuck there, you would wilt with boredom like an unwatered geranium. Pholegandros is another which would appeal only to solitaries. I knew a painter once called Chloe Peploe who spent her summers there alone in the little village, painting. Political exiles used once to be sent here to cool their minds.
The exception among all these is little Ios, the most poetical and beautiful island of its size in this part of the Aegean. Homer, they say, came here to die – an inspired choice. So many cities claim to be his birthplace; only Ios claims to be where he died. His so-called tomb – why ‘so-called’? – lies on the northern flank of Mount Pirgos, a marvellous site where the wild grass rustles in the north wind and the weary climber, unpacking his lunch, turns his eye towards the East, towards Asia and the distant plains of Troy.
Everything about Ios is full of the calm poetry of its quiet green glens and vineyards, its tiny spotless town, its safe and beautiful small harbour. One should make an effort to step ashore here and taste the felicity of its silences, fractured only by some distant church bell or the braying of a mule. Even the wind seems lulled, and in Ios one sleeps the full sleep of early childhood. Happily nowadays the main island boats make a call here twice a week, so that you can stay ashore for a few days and pick up the boat on its return journey. You will have no regrets.
The Home Group
*
Salamis · Aegina · Poros · Hydra · Spetsae
Though many travellers coming from the north begin with these islands, I have reserved them for the last section of my book, because increasingly they resemble the outer suburbs of the Attic capital. In winter, of course, when the sea rises and the storms break, they are once more cut off and retire into their primeval grimness. But, even so, they are very near Piraeus, and the Greeks think of them as weekend islands. In summer they become deservedly pleasure resorts – which may be deplored, but cannot now be discouraged. The cinema has made them known, and the world of ‘juke’ and ‘hash’ has paid them the compliment of adopting them; hence the level of sophistication, in the worst sense of the word, has risen, and the qualities of peacefulness and remoteness have diminished. No matter: they cannot be scamped, they must be seen; and the pleasure and beauty they afford outweighs all the disappointments provided by bars and rowdy discothèques, and the presence of the cinema rag-tag-and-bobtail in the juky cafés. There is no doubt that Greece within the next decade will become the Florida of Europe, and one only hopes that good taste and good sense will prevent the atmosphere and the amenities from becoming totally unworthy of such a history and such a landscape. It is a matter of keeping one’s fingers crossed.
August is the cruellest month, and not only for Greece; it turns most of the fine European capitals into infernos – making taxis unbreathable, pavements almost too hot to walk on, café tables too hot to touch … And everyone goes away, the best restaurants close up like flowers, telephones go dead. Athens is as bad as any but it is saved by its proximity to the sea. One can, after all, swim twenty minutes away from the Acropolis, and dine in the tiny Tourkolimano harbour at Phaleron, jam-packed with choice fish restaurants and millionaires’ yachts. Night is cool to cold, sleep possible.
But best of all is to head for an island, and the nearer the better; Aegina, Spetsae, Poros, Hydra … they lie hard by, and a diligent businessman finds nowadays that he can commute from these nearby islands several times a week during the summer; hence their popularity. There is a hydrofoil link with Hydra which gets you back to Athens in a flash. And it is possible to make a day excursion to Aegina, which will let you visit the wonderful temple of Artemis Aphaia and return to Athens in the evening. However, this is a barbaric way to go about things, for Aegina, brown and dusty and touchingly elegant, deserves a more respectful approach by sea – riding out of Piraeus on the deck of a ship, watching the forms of the land revolve slowly around you on the blue turntable of water – the white, dice-like Parthenon receding, Hymettus turning pearl to molten violet, lilac to watered grey. The bare, shaven skulls of the surrounding hills slowly absorbing themselves into the night sky.
The ante-room to the islands is always Salamis, which is so clearly visible from the deck of a ship that you can follow with your eyes the momentous events of September 480 BC as if on a relief map. With binoculars, you can trace every crease and curl of the little inner harbour, from which the desperate Greeks made their winning sortie and toppled the Persian line of battle. You can get a bus or a cab in Piraeus that will clank you down to the old Venetian tower – the Devil’s Tower – which stands on the spot where once Xerxes set up his throne of gold to watch the apparently certain destruction of the Greeks and distribute honours to his Persian commanders. Everything is so small and local that the whole of this dramatic action is easy to visualize. But you need to realize to what extent the Greeks were already scattered in disarray if you are to see just how extraordinary was this victory of despair – which determined the fate of the whole Mediterranean life-style for some time to come.
The sombre facts were these: the Greeks of the north had given in and joined the Persians. Attica was lost. There was nothing left except the tiny fleet, the Peloponnesus, a few islands, and Athens itself. Also indecision had gripped the Greeks. The land forces had retreated to the Isthmus and were busy fortifying it, for most of the sea-captains were in favour of a strategic withdrawal there – which would have been a fatal decision, since there the Persian Armada would have had room to manoeuvre, while in the narrows of Salamis they would have to be winkled out. Themistocles balanced the pros and cons, and decided that if action must be engaged in it should be at Salamis. The Persians had two thousand ships and the Greek confederation four hundred. However, the lumbering mass of muscle-bound Persian ships floundered and flapped around in the shallows of Salamis and were picked off piecemeal by the Greeks. They drove the Persian line in confusion upon the very cliffs where the egregious Xerxes sat in his golden chair, waiting for the victory which was never to be. The action was decisive
– only 300 Persian ships escaped and hobbled back to Phaleron. Xerxes fled. Greece was saved.
From Piraeus to Aegina is only about fifteen sea miles and the voyage is a marvellous introduction to Greek scenery; you can glimpse whole sections of Attica, the Bay of Salamis, and the blue waters of the Saronic Gulf, at the end of which the island lies, a stepping stone for a summer holiday. You leave behind the pearly smoke of Athens out of which Hymettus rises as if from some stricken city of dream. Approaching Aegina, you round at last the long blank spit of Cape Plakakia and catch a glimpse of the remains of a once magnificent temple to Aphrodite. Then the town comes into view, with its pleasantly coloured forms set against the madder-brown patched land and the green groves of olives.
An attractive little town with a fine church, over which St Nicholas, patron saint of sailors, presides, thus reminding us that once this little island rivalled Athens in wealth and seapower. Indeed she was so famous in war that she held her own against the mainland for decades, only being finally reduced in 458 BC – so thoroughly that she was never to recover. The battle was long and gruelling, and the destruction of Aegina and deportation of all its inhabitants was the only way the Athenians managed to secure their victory over this fierce little sea-power.
For the traveller of today, the main thing is the great temple of Aphaia, and this can be reached direct by car or bus from the port. An alternative way, by boat and mule, may be quicker but is harder on the legs. Either way, you will not regret the trip, for the temple is pitched on a high wooded knoll, facing one of the finest views you could imagine. It is an inspired site which makes you want to linger on and watch the sunset as it wheels across the gulf. On a clear day you can pick out the Parthenon from here with the naked eye, and see behind it the craggy violet snout of Lycabettos. Way down below, the sea is full of tiny, crawling ships streaking the blue with their white wakes. The temple itself – what moon goddess ever had a temple on such a site? – is still relatively present, unlike that of Aphrodite in the plain below which has been reduced to one bashed column and a scrabble of foundations. The temple of Aphaia still has over twenty Doric columns to boast of, as well as part of an architrave, and it reposes upon an artificial terrace which itself covers the filled-in foundations of an earlier building. In this sixth-century slice, they discovered an inscription which told them that the building was sacred to Artemis Aphaia. Apparently Aphaia means ‘the not dark one’, which points the contrast to Hecate who is ‘the all dark one’. At one time the Minoans came up as far as here and the island was subjected to them, which has suggested to some scholars that the goddess may be affiliated or related to the Cretan moon goddess Dictynna. Be that as it may, there is no gainsaying the marvellous poetry of these ruins, and if this would be your first glimpse of ancient Greece you would not easily forget it.
On the other hand, Paleochori, the ancient capital, is a sad place, full of deserted gardens, tumbledown mansions, disintegrating forts, cracked churches. Once it was prosperous – one forgets that the island was occupied by Venice until as late as 1718. With the coming of the War of Independence Aegina regained much of her lost glory and became the temporary seat of the provisional Government and an active leader in the war. It is from this small corner of Greece, with such strangely dissimilar islands as Poros, Hydra and Spetsae, that the first great naval actions were mounted and financed.
In their holiday guise these islands have been so successful with tourists that transport to and from Athens is easy and various today. You can either do each one separately in a day, or do the four at once – throwing in a trip on the landward side to the site of Epidaurus (and by implication Argos, Mycenae, Nauplion), or simply getting off the boat for a night and picking up its successor the following day. From Aegina you begin to scout the mainland, and your boat will almost certainly put in at Methana, a stinking little place, baptized Dirtyport by the Greeks themselves. It smells like the entrance to Hell, though apparently it is a spa which cures skin troubles; the water whiffles with some sort of sulphuric stench. Nor is the land very enticing. But from here on the atmosphere becomes light, gay, whimsical, as if you had strayed into the fringes of some crazy water carnival. For the channel is full of boats, containing fishermen and tourists alike, and being so narrow, everything in it passes backward and forward with a few cables’ length each to each; and, being so Greek, it is not possible to pass too close without waving, drinking toasts, falling overboard and what-not. People undress and wave all their clothing in a paroxysm of bonhomie. Here and there in this channel, you may see the ominous back fin of a shark cut the surface, but everything is so suffused with innocent gaiety that you will feel the poor thing is only trying to wave too.
Poros is a most enchanting arrangement, obviously designed by demented Japanese children with the aid of Paul Klee and Raoul Dufy. A child’s box of bricks that has been rapidly and fluently set up against a small shoulder of headland which holds the winds in thrall, it extends against the magical blue skyline its long herbaceous border of brilliant colours, hardly quite dry as yet; the moisture trembles with the cloud-light on the wet paint of the houses, and the changing light dapples it with butterflies’ wings. As the harbour curves round, everything seems to move on a turntable hardly bigger than the hurdy-gurdy of a funfair, and you have the illusion that without getting off the ship you can lean over the rail and order an ouzo. And this sense of proximity is increased so that you seem to be sailing down the main street with the inhabitants walking in leisurely fashion alongside the ship. You feel that finally they will lay friendly hands upon the ropes and bring it slowly to a halt. The best description of entering Poros is that of Henry Miller, who captured the port in masterly fashion in his Greek travel book. It is not possible to exaggerate the charm of this little Aegean nook and the sense of elation it conveys.
Moreover, Poros does not ever seem so encumbered with tourists as Hydra; though this is an illusion, because it is so justly famous that there are always visitors as well as quite a number of residents. It is the happiest place I have ever known.
Just opposite Poros, on the mainland, lies Galata, another pretty and euphoric little village, with some of the same charms but fewer amenities. They are linked by convenient ferries and, if you wish to make excursions into the Peloponnesus, this is a good stepping-off point. Walking in Poros is highly recommended, because of its shady groves with pine-needle floors. Joined to its ‘mother’ by a narrow isthmus, there is a romantic little island called Calavria, where once an ancient and famous sanctuary to Poseidon was erected. There is not much left of the temple today, though the remains stand on yet another superb site. It was here, however, that Demosthenes took refuge, hoping that the Macedonian barbarians would not dare to desecrate so ancient and venerable a spot. When his hopes proved vain, he poisoned himself at the altar, or at least that is the story that Plutarch tells. It may well be the pines which make Poros so memorable. The woods seem resin-drenched, everything smells like a new ship; and riding into harbour in summer, you are enveloped by gusts of sharp pine scent wafted on the still water of the harbour. The whole island smells and shines like a newly varnished canvas – the green of olives and yellow of lemons; and stealing softly across the waters, come the steady drizzle of bouzouki music and the higher, more febrile drizzle of sun-drunk cicadas.
From here, you can also easily visit the ancient harbour of Troezene. In doing so you will realize that Poros is only just an island; once one could reach it from the mainland simply by wading.
After this carnival atmosphere, what a sudden contrast it is to hit Hydra! A barren rock, nude as a skull and waterless, it crouches there in the austere splendour of its nudity, glowering at you. It is as silent and watchful as a Mycenaean lion – though perhaps that is not the right choice of image to convey its sphinxine immobility and sense of indestructibility. A battleship perhaps? A great horned toad? We should really ask the painter Ghika to choose a suitable image, for he is the real poet of the island and in his pai
nting has gone as far as one man can to render Greek light and Greek stone. All the convolutions and curves of this labyrinth of walls and dazzling staircases coil and uncoil in his canvases, so that one finds oneself retracing the labyrinths of the inner ear as the eye slides down among the forms and drinks the bony colours of the glowing stone.
Hydra is only thirty-five sea miles from Athens; the time the journey takes being dependent on the number of visits the ship decides to make on the way. It is also very close to the coast – some four miles only – and, with its newly found film-fame, has become the Saint Tropez of this little group.
It is inevitable that after several successful films made here, people on the waterfront constantly hope for a glimpse of Sophia Loren – or of that other paragon of beauty and intelligence, Lambetti, whose portrait was framed so wonderfully by Michael Cacoyannis in The Girl in Black. But more fundamental to Hydra are the seamen it has bred and the fighting record of its ships, for the main thrust against the Turks during the War of Independence was given its impetus by the corsairs of this piratical lair. With wonderful conservatism and patriotism, these once-great seafaring families have hung on to their mansions and almost turned them into museums, which house not only remarkable furniture of the time but also every possible memento of the history of Hydra. It is as if, around the bowling-green at Plymouth Hoe, there still stood the manors of every Elizabethan mariner of renown – Drake, Raleigh, Frobisher, Grenville, and others – and as if these manors still contained unparalleled private collections of souvenirs of the battle of 1588 against the Spanish Armada … which would be treasure trove indeed for the visitor interested in English history. This is precisely what has happened in Hydra – the tiny harbour is backed by the solid, dumpy, private manors of those heroes who did more than anyone to set the stamp of victory on the Turkish war.