August 22nd: Alexandroupolis in North-Eastern Greece

On August 22nd 1972 I was in Alexandroupolis in north-western Greece.  After a month lazing around Greece we were now driving to Istanbul.

We had stopped in Kavalla to buy food in the stalls around the harbour and drove on through the increasingly Turkish looking towns and villages of Thrace.  We stopped for a coffee in Alexandroupolis, a modern town on the coast, did some shopping and drove back a few miles to find an empty spot by the sea to pitch our tent.

Everyone in Greece who knew we were heading for Turkey implored us to be careful and take better security.  One thing which bothered them was the fact that the Land-Rover had no lock on the bonnet so you could easily get in and steal things or change the settings and so on and so forth.  So in Alexandroupolis we found a padlock in a general store and the next morning went to a garage to get it fitted.  The garage owner absolutely refused to let us pay anything for this, arguing that it was his duty as a Greek to ensure that we were not robbed by any of those Turks.

We carried on across the border at the Evros river and into the empty barren hills of European Turkey.  After an hour we saw our first camels and drove on to the Londra Campsite in the western suburbs of Istanbul.  We quickly discovered that Turks were every bit as friendly and helpful as Greeks.  They were amazed that we had managed to spend a month in Greece without having all our belongings stolen.

Road in European Turkey, 2008:  Picture by Dimitirs Kilimis,  CC

July 28th: Loutro in Southern Crete

On July 28th 1978 I was in Loutro on the southern coast of Crete.  I was spending a couple of weeks walking and hitching in western Crete before heading for Asia.

I was up well before dawn to cross the little bridge away from Agia Roumeli and start the coastal path to the east.  The best part was the first, in the dawn light along the water's edge to the Byzantine church of Agios Pavlos which stands isolated by the coast.  Thereafter I no longer had the trail to myself but had to share it with three German students; I didn't walk with them, but I was always aware of their presence.  After Agios Pavlos there was a beautiful stretch through pines as the sun came up.  Then it was more open and more barren with the path climbing higher away from the shore, and more than once I lost my way.  The day became quickly hot and sunny and there was very little wildlife to be seen.  As well as the Germans there was activity in the water.  There were fishermen in a little caique off the coast, attempting to fish using dynamite, so there was a little explosion from time which ruined the silence but added to the atmosphere.  Eventually I came to the first Loutro castle, only three or so kilometres before Loutro itself and I had thought I had not reached halfway.  There was a perfect beach for swimming, ideal as midday approached.  In Loutro I took a quick look around and found a place to hang my hammock.

Loutro was a small harbour off the roads completely, but serviced by boat or trail.  It had been a  bigger and more important town in the past, with remains from many periods, Ancient Greek, Roman, Venetian, Turkish.  It sits opposite Tobruk in Libya and had trade links there.  That year there was a small colony of Europeans camping out in the ruins and swimming off the rocks near the stony beach.    A few were hippies but most were the usual run of young summer foreign visitors.  There was very little new building among the houses in the village, a couple of cafes, a couple of restaurants and one or two places renting rooms.  In future years Loutro would clean up its act and ban camping. 

Cafe by the Dock:  My picture taken in 1983

Next day in the evening I sat outside the cafe by the dock which was run by an old couple and only had two tables.  The day had been relentlessly hot and seemed timeless as I had not seen a watch.  I saw an older man with grey moustache, net hairpiece, green serge trousers and leggings, heavy boots with two leather straps and black over-shirt.  He was leading a donkey with supplies in woven bags, plastic bags and feta tins to carry them off into the mountains.  The people of the village sat around to talk.  The Sofia, the passenger launch to the town of Chora Sfakia further to the east, was tied up at the dock.  A larger boat was anchored much further out and little boats had gone out to collect supplies or sell fish maybe, some boats had even come from along the coast.

Old Agia Roumeli:  My picture taken in 1983

Some days before, I had taken a series of little lifts getting from Chania up to Omalo, through pretty, sleepy mountain villages and slept the night on the terrace of the hotel with the moon rising about midnight.  The walk down the Samaria Gorge was by contrast disappointing, feeling like a charity walk, it being Sunday and hundreds of Greek and foreign excursionists filling the staircase and narrow defiles.  Agia Roumeli at the sea was often derided as a place to stay but I enjoyed it after the last boat had left.  I slept on the sand and ate and socialised in a friendly taverna.  I walked up to the castle in a cooler evening air and got a different perspective  on the place, seeing the old, dying traditional village on one side and the new village by the sea, built at first to accommodate families moved from the village in the gorge and then developed, only slightly, for tourism; the concrete Rent Rooms blocks were certainly unappealing.  Another day I got up early to walk back up the gorge to the old, cleared Samaria village; I looked for a side trail and when far enough up it for silence and solitude, I sat under the trees and wrote in my notebook:

Now sitting in what seems like one of the wildest places I've ever been, narrow steep rocky gorge, a little way up, full of little trees of different sorts, sounds of cicadas and water coming through the trees.  I've walked up through prickly abandoned terraces thick with herbs, through blackberries and overhangs, past deserted houses and a church.  I'm day-dreaming of wild places I've been, when suddenly a kri-kri, lovely, vicuna brown, white below, long straight horns, stops by water where I can see it as I write. 

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July 27th: Sivota on Lefkas in Greece

On July 27th 1972 I was in Sivota on the Greek island of Lefkas.

Sivota in 1972: picture by Pete Brown, in my possession

I was driving the Land-Rover around Greece with Hilkka, looking for nice spots to stay and pass a final month before entering Turkey for the drive east.  At Kalambaka we had picked up a hitchhiker, an Australian dentist called Pete, and he stayed with us a while.  We crossed the Katara Pass to Metsovo and Ioannina, and then we went on to Dodona to visit the ruins of the oracle.  This area was full of a party of French people driving Citroen Traction Avants; there must have been sixty or seventy of them spread out over a wide area.  Finally we hit on Lefkas as an island we could drive on to and ended up at the little village of Sivota where we asked to pitch our tent near the water's edge and were welcomed.  By chance we found there Vasilis, a Greek Australian passing the summer back home while his family tried to find him a wife.  He became our host and we were able to offer transport to him or his family and friends.  I remember taking Vasilis on a tour of villages; the main purpose was to go to Madorochoria so that he could check out, incognito in the Land-Rover, a girl his family was proposing for him.

On this day we took another man from Sivota, Iannis, and his family to visit his mother in Poros, a pure white little town built on a low cliff above the sea some miles to the north.  We were served baklava and ouzo in the house, went to a cafe to buy some ingredients for lunch and then went to the beach for a swim.  Lunch was chicken and chips and salad.  After coffee on the balcony we split up:  Hilkka went with the women on a house to house social call while I took a stroll with Pete over the hill above the town; I remember coming back and standing by the church eating russet pears which were just getting soft.  A perfect day in a town unused to foreigners.

There was a little cafe on the waterfront in Sivota where we took coffee and wine, and a taverna a little way apart which catered to the yachters who liked to hitch up here and were the only form of tourism.  The villagers were genuinely sad I think when we left.  The women came to visit us bearing gifts including  a huge bottle of olive oil for sunbathing.  They also took us to pick a large bag of rigani (wild oregano) which caused the odd moment of consternation at customs checks in the following months.

Sivota in 2007:  Picture by H.P.Burger,  CC

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July 9th: Metsovo in Northern Greece

On July 9th 1978 I was in Metsovo in northern Greece.  I'd been in Metsovo before and liked the town.  It was renowned as a centre of Vlach culture, the Vlachs being the semi-nomadic Romanian speaking shepherds of northern Greece and elsewhere in the Balkans.  A little of the culture was still evident during this visit, especially on the evening of this day, a Sunday.  I wrote in my notebook:

Metsovo:  My picture taken in 1984

Sunday night kurso in full swing, it must be about 10.30 and my usual cafe is full as I try to get service. Earlier I had to hide in my room from the hordes of tourists thronging the central square, but now it's no longer full of tourists, just a few visitors like me.  I had a good meal at the Athinae, soup, keftedes and beans and the strange-tasting local purple wine.  Heard a couple of elderly Belgian teachers discussing in Italian with some locals the differences between Italian and Vlach, demonstrating that the words are remembered even if the use of the language is dying.  Certainly on Sunday the clothes survive as the ladies put on their best, even some of the forty or so year olds, maybe younger ones as well.  Big wool skirt in a sort of tartan plaid, heavy embroidered blouse and velvety very short jacket and a kerchief on their hair, sometimes a brocaded velvet kerchief, but the wife of the guy who runs the most sympathetic tourist shop has a bright green silky sort of long jacket - very smart I expect.  The old men wear their black, but they're not in evidence tonight.  But it's an active night for the locals, Sunday.  Some women wear "gold" coins in their kerchiefs, all wear an apron, some well-woven, their hair in braids.  One wears a very fine brocaded dress, but it seems like fancy dress.  How like normal Balkan costume is all this?

Although there was a lot of building going on, there were still a lot of old houses, particularly higher up and there were still well-tended gardens with onions and courgettes and beans and fireflies flicking among them in the evening.  Metsovo was also a great base for walking in the hills.  Twice I wrote in my notebook:

View over Metsovo:  My picture taken in 1984

Have climbed a little mountain opposite Metsovo, down to the river and up to a village where I had a coffee, and on up the tracks, passing an old man with wood who was cheerful and a costumed family higher up where it's forested, and on up the mountain to the pass ridge and up to the highest local peak.  Beautiful views all round.  To the south a scarcely touched valley with fields and some logging with snowy peaks to the right and the highway on the ridge opposite.  To the east is a long ridge which is rocky with a ski-hut and to the right a long grassy slope higher than this one with a beacon which would be nice to climb.  Walking through the trees was beautiful, spruces, pines, beeches, birches, juniper, coal tits and crested tits.  On the top is a grassy circle above the trees covered with flowers and insects.  It's all beautiful, not exactly quiet because of the road building and wood working, but beautiful.

Again I have come up into the mountains, this time to the northern side and again it's very good though I had my doubts at first, as the ridge I had picked led to the top of the ski lift and beyond it was the road to Katara.   It got much better as I came over the top of the escarpment above the Ioannina road through a really dense meadow with a stream running through it and a fountain where I changed water, and then up to an old track which had been built as a road, but not for cars, winding around a couple of densely wooded little valleys, till I reached a ridge where I had lunch overlooking the main valley among pine smells and goat bells jangling in the distance.  Then I climbed the higher more northerly end of the ridge, and can see a ridge continuing for miles and miles, going towards the high snowy peaks which I can see now, one of which might be Smolikas.  A goatherd was on the top when I came, tending an injured sheep; now he's moving the flock, calling "capra, capra."

I had left London on June 29th, taking the night ferry to Ostend.  From there I hitched through Belgium and Germany and over the Swiss border near Basle.  A truck-driver who gave me a lift pointed out a sawmill before Luzern that had a shelter outside and I curled up there in my sleeping-bag with the rain pelting down and traffic roaring past.  The next day I hitched on into Italy over the St Gotthardt and past Lake Lugano.  My final lift took me right to Milano Centrale, where I got the overnight train to Brindisi.  I had to pass the day there before putting up my hammock on the night ferry to Igoumenitsa, still a little dock with a scruffy township around it in those days.  After four nights without a bed I slept long and hard in Ioannina, an old favourite of mine from the sixties.  I visited the island, watched the shadow puppet show by the lakeside and noted that the little kestrels still nested in the city walls.  I was relieved to find that some things in Greece were still the same, at least on the surface.   I planned a few weeks in Greece before heading to Turkey and then to Afghanistan and India.

Metsovo:  My picture taken in 1984