Greece Travel Blog

Hundreds of people buzzed around in the excitement of the scene, many of them backpackers. It was almost midnight by the time we stumbled into the sweaty throng on the dock at Corfu Town. Despite the hour, the air was muggy and close and it was unpleasant to carry the gear. Michelle sat on a concrete pedestal beside a group of high-spirited Italians while I set off to find somewhere for us to stay.

We spent the day organising ourselves and looking around the town. Corfu Town (Kerkyra) is located next to a bay in the northern half of the east side of the island. Its history is intertwined with that of the rest of the island (and indeed the Ionians) and the Venetian influence is much in evidence. Narrow lanes are packed with jewellery shops, tourist souvenir stores, restaurants, cafes and news agents. Many of the old buildings are still lived in although one has to wonder at how practical this would be given the state of the sewerage. Sadly most of these buildings, as they are in Venice, are slowly crumbling into dust. The nazis didn’t help the situation at the end of the war when they bombed the place, razing a quarter of the town. Neither did the giant earthquake of the fifties. The writer, Lawrence Durell (who lived on Corfu) describes Kerkyra as such:

“The architecture is Venetian; the houses above the old port are built up elegantly into slim tiers with narrow alleys and colonnades running between them; red, yellow, pink, umber – a jumble of pastel shades” [See pictures]

The town is looked over by two forts, namely the old and new. The almost impossibly complicated history of Corfu has resulted in an almost paranoid fortification of the town to guard against sea attack. These are lit up impressively at night and now serve as a pleasant backdrop for the diners who sit at outdoor tables along the newly revamped promenade.

Between the promenade and the seafront is the most unlikely thing. A cricket pitch. Apparently it was put there by the British who, leaving the island, left a passion for cricket amongst the locals, who still play games in a small league. Alongside the cricket pitch are the ornamental gardens known as The Spianada, where trees provide cover for walkers and parked motorbikes alike.

We walked by the seafront along the top of a wall, looking down at some bathers splashing around in the clear waters. Albania looked so close it seemed a viable proposition to swim there – if only one could avoid the numerous giant ferries that plough through this stretch of water. The road traffic was more of an immediate nuisance.

We booked an apartment in a villa on the side of Mount Pantokrator, just north of Pyrgi. The closer one gets to the mountain the more peaceful the scene becomes. As we climbed higher on the coastal road, leaving the devastation of Ipsos below us, the ground becomes too rough and sun baked even for the most enthusiastic developer. Tracks lead off the road at right angles, many of which were unmarked or not signposted.

We were led to a villa up a steep escarpment that the motorbike couldn’t handle and eventually stopped. Much to our surprise, the villa was more than we had imagined it would be. Although not a huge expenditure, we can’t afford to get used to this level of luxury on our forthcoming travels; not unless we return a lot sooner than we planned.

On the first evening I decided to take a trip up the mountain on the motorbike to see the sun set. Michelle, tired after the day’s exertions, stayed behind with her patchwork. At first a winding road led past tavernas and cafes overlooking the bay of Ipsos. Private villas became the norm for the next mile or two as the road, climbing ever higher, snaked up in a series of switchbacks and hairpin bends. The countryside was pure olive groves at this height, with black nets spread out at the base of the trees.

Soon the villas became less in evidence. I decided to stop and look down on the bay from a convenient roadside vantage point. Turning off the engine for a moment, all I could hear was the sound of birds and the cicadas. Further up the road still, I passed through the village of Strinylas where elderly Greeks sat on chairs in the street and my passing was noted with interest. I raised my hand to a few of them by way of greeting and they returned the gesture with a smile. Still, I felt guilty about driving through, disturbing the peace with the engine’s high pitched whine.

The road still climbed after Strinylas although it was long curving bends now rather than switchbacks. I sensed that I would soon be at the summit and, had I continued, would reach the watershed point quite soon and roll on down to the north coast. I stopped at a spot by the side of the road to observe the panorama of the lower hills to the west, the sun now sinking down to their level. From this height the narrow coastal strip, with all of its dubious attractions and suicidal development, seemed lost far below. Here, high above it in the clear air, peace prevailed. The only sounds I could hear were the muffled tinklings of goat bells. Presently I heard a shepherd calling to them, “Ach, ach, ach”, but I couldn’t see him or any of his animals amongst the fir trees below that shot out of the barren scrub like jets of green fire.

I turned the bike around, not wishing to be stuck on these mountainous roads after sundown, and rolled it back to the villa, down on the lower slopes. We sat outside in the evening watching a pair of large green locust-type insects as they walked along our towels on the washing line. It wasn’t until the next day that we noticed they had impregnated the material with a number of eggs, each similar in size and form to a grain of brown rice.

We visited a monastery one hot afternoon. The Moni Pantokratora stands on the summit of the mountain at 906m. Although our AA road map of Corfu indicates that the road to the top was little more than a dirt path, we discovered that it has now been sealed all the way. The most astounding thing about this monastery, which was apparent to us even from the ferry on the way from Italy, is that a giant, Eiffel Tower-like communications mast has been bolted onto it. The red steel structure, replete with satellite dishes and barbed wire compounds with ‘Keep out’ signs stands at least ten times the height of the monastery.

One would have thought that priests would have managed to negotiate a fair deal to have allowed the positioning of the mast, however, the compound looks in dire need of money. The monastery itself is a smallish building, the top half of which is undergoing complete redevelopment. A young Orthodox monk with black robes, a black beard and long black hair done up in a ponytail caught our eye in the chapel. Although somewhat diffident, he spoke some english and explained that the chapel was built nine hundred years ago. Inside it was a riot of silverware and iconic paintings. Although he seemed happy, if slightly nervous, to show us around, the monk had other things on his mind that day. We had noticed on our way up to the summit a cloud of smoke coming from the other side, billowing brown clouds in the white heat of the midday sun. From the monastery it was possible to see that a bush fire had started in the scrubby area covering the eastern face of the mountain. It had already consumed a large area of vegetation and was advancing on two fronts across the face. A village lay in the path of the flames but, looking more closely, I realised it was an abandoned village. The houses had no roofs and the sandy coloured buildings blended immaculately with the scrubland setting. It must have been Old Perithea, abandoned by inhabitants fed up with being attacked by pirates back in the Byzantine era.

Having spotted beaches in the distance from the mountain, we engaged the scooter and rolled steadily downwards. Cacti grew by the sides, almost all of them damaged and parched-looking, amid thorny bushes and ancient olive trees. A warm breeze (we’ve yet to experience a cool one) was a portent of our arrival at the coast as we joined a much busier road that ran parallel to a long sandy beach.

Delighted that there weren’t many people at this beach, presumably because of a current lack of amenities, we waded into the still waters while inquisitive fish swam around our knees. The water was deliciously cool after a dusty fly-blown day and we floated about in the shallows, relaxation seeping into our bodies.

That night I awoke in the pre-dawn, the only time when the thermometer dips below twenty five degrees, convinced that we were not alone. Looking round to my right I saw a pair of cat-like ears atop a pair of glowing yellow eyes within striking distance of my right arm. I jumped up in shock and the creature disappeared silently through the grilles on the window and in the blink of an eye. “What’s going on ?”, Michelle asked, alarmed at my sudden spasmodic movement but still half-asleep. “There’s a cat in the room”, I said. “Chivers”, Michelle sighed as she rolled over and went back to sleep. I lay in bed, my mind spinning, thinking “Was there really anything there ?”

By Jasonhep; excerpts, edited byGreece Travel Blog

Cf. Images of Corfu

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