The Peloponnese: Sunday

All of Sunday's photos.

We slept long and well. I woke, dozed, woke and so on; eventually up at 9:15 and we all went down to breakfast. Served in the entrance hall; plenty of other folk about, possibly there for the rally. Breakfast was: sweetish bread, a variety of homemade jams, a gingerbread biscuit cake and a slice of homemade chocolate cake; later what appeared to be toast but was actuallly a cheese and ham toastie; D and E got through theirs but we didn't. Orange juice, water and coffee. We finished up after eating outside to play some whist.

Behind our table was a repro of a picture: idealised peasants gathered round a wall on which they trace the inscription "et in arcadia ego". Which I know from Brideshead revisited, describing the first sweeping up of the main character into the new world. However, M looked it up and apparently its from a painting by Poussin, and the wall is a tomb (this isn't obvious in the picture, it is folded into the background) and so the text becomes "even in Arcadia there is death".
Being in Arcadia is a strange thing; of course, it is not the mythical land of peaceful meadows that the West made it. Its a mountainous, rural hinterland quite akin to central Corsica, or the French alps, or somesuch: quiet, backward. And hot, in summer.

And so, really later than we should have been, to visit the monastries and the gorge. *Now* I have the geography fairly well in my mind; before, I didn't, and without it things are very confusing. Dimitsana is high above the East side of the gorge of the Lousios; the gorge itself is limestone and the river very deeply cut into it, so you can't see it except from close to. Any of the roads heading down into the gorge are slow and switchbacky, no matter what the map may show. For bonus points, many of them are pot holed in places, and in others gently slipping away.

First to Moni Emialon, which is sort-of a bit beyond the water-power museum, and a small cute church. Anyway, its the easiest to get to, and very quiet. It claims that you ought to be properly dressed (no shorts, etc) and to be shut from 1 to 5; but I'm not at all sure either were enforced. Since we weren't properly dressed we crept in quietly and sat in the courtyard; we didn't try to go into any of the buildings. It was lovely and shaded. Being Sunday morning, we could guess that any monks were likely at their prayers. There was a large central ?walnut? tree, its trunk painted white as all courtyard trees here are, and in lieue of a church tower it was hung with bells. So we sat in the cool shade appreciating it and the stillness, craning our necks up to the limestone cliff that overhangs the place. And stroked the local cat.

Then, back along the road to the water power museum, which we visisted because it was there, and because D and E like water wheels. Its actually quite good: the style there (because there is a lot of vertical fall) is different from the English. There was a fulling tank (a large conical pit into which a jet is directed to swirl stuff around) a nice pic of an old shepherd in full garb (I have a copy); a video on tanning and some skins and stuff; a gunpowder mill (this area was a centre during the War of Independence).

Just before we got back in the car I remembered the cute-old-little-church and went for a look; its stuffed full of icons and religious pix and, oddly, double headed eagles. Which I thought was Austro-Hungarian. Lovely and cool inside. Some greeks with kids came in, talked noisily and without a trace of reverence, and then just at the end the 6-7 years olds spontaneously kissed the pic of Jesus before leaving.

And so on - its now, well, middle of the day and hot out, though cool in the car with the AC on. We now have a choice and end up going to Moni Philosophu, which involves winding all the way into the gorge and up some of the far side. There is a "new" bit - 1691 - and the very old but now abandonded bit, from 900's. Arriving, there is a courtyard with more very welcome shade, then a proper-looking monk (cassock, beard) welcomed us with water (very welcome) and a sweet, gave a very brief description in English and a rather longer one in Greek, and then we looked around. The "new" church is small, indeed tiny by the standards of say English parish churches, but painted inside and filled nearly with a vast chandalier far too big for it, and delightfully cool.

After that, to the "old" bit which is signposted as 800 m away, the guidebok says 400 but don't believe that. In the noonday heat its a hot walk and D in particular got a bit grumpy. So that when we got there, it was a bit disappointing: its in ruins, and what you see are the old walls under the overhanging limestone cliffs, all much deeper into the gorge than at Emialon. And you can climb up inside to the church right at the end. In the right frame of mind, in quiet, you could sit still and try to think about how it might have felt to live here as a monk; but in the noonday heat with two somewhat grumpy kids, it was more like a pile of stones. And so back.

Thence, back to Dimitsana via the northern route, arriving about 3:30 I think, as the rally was finishing. To a cafe - the one opposite the old one where all the old blokes sit at their individual tables watching the world go by - since we're all hungry and thirsty; I have two cokes. Giant beans, sausage, greek salad, tzatziki. And some more whist.

M and I would both like to see Ancient Gortys, but D and E would rather, errm, not; so in a fit of compromise we agree that in the evening we'll go down and look and they won't. In the end we leave a bit earlier, at 5:30, and happily the roads - once off the main road, and past the potholed section near the top - aren't too bad, so it takes about half an hour. We only find the "asklepeion" which is of mysterious purpose; and a bit next to it with massive thick walls, or foundations, but the plan of which they outline is hard to interpret; perhaps it was for a row of colonades. There's a road/track leading to the acropolis, but also a path up by the river (oh, and also a teensy chapel) and so we follow that path, which wends up the west side of the gorge until crossing on a new bridge (apparently there are ruins of the old one, but we couldn't see it; also nearby the remains of the Moni fulling mill, not exciting) and then upwards and we end up at the Moni Prodromou (aka Moni John the Baptist) which was the one that the lady of the hotel had shown us pix of and recommended. It is probably the most impressive of the three, since the buildings are stuffed under the overhang with balconies leaning out in what looks a most precarious manner. Rumour has it that you can rent rooms there. We didn't go in; it was 7:30 and again there were "please dress properly" signs; though there were also a row of robes hanging up that maybe you were allowed to borrow.

The views as you come *up* the gorge are far more spectaculr than those looking down; so were I to recommend anyone visting this area it would be to get up early, park at Gortys, have a quick look at the site then, and walk up to Prodromou while its still fairly cool. If you had anyone prepared to go back and drive the car round, you could then walk on to Philosophu I think.
Back down takes half an hour, then I wade out into the river but don't swim - it really is quite cold. And so home, stopping to admire the sunset over the Arcadian hills. Indeed we got to see it several times: in the valley, the sun was behind the hills; as we climbed out it rose.

And back to the same taverna in Dimistana for dinner: stuffed tomatoes (which was actually a stuffed tom, and a pepper, and an aubergine); tzatziki; spinach pie (spinakopeta?); "salt pork and eggs" (pork omlette) and green beans. I'm currently winning the whist competition. The sky is pure deep blue when we start and black when we finish.

The Peloponnese: Saturday

Our family holiday this year, inspired to some extent by me reading "A History of the Peloponnesian war" by Thucydides. And by us not having any better ideas. The Peloponnese is not the islands and its not Athens, its a somewhat unfashionable backwater containing delights like Mycenae. M booked us flights into Kalamata airport, a car, the first two nights stay in Dimitsana - which I and you had never heard of - and we took it from there.
Here's your handy helpful orientation map, and guide to the days:

• Saturday: fly in to Kalamata, drive to Dimitsana
• Sunday: the Lousios gorge and monasteries
• Monday: drive to Loutrakis (coastal strip just N of Corinth); evening trip to Mycenae
• Tuesday: Petachora
• Wednesday: drive to Olympia via Patras and the bridge
• Thursday: Olympia, and drive to Gialova / Pylos / Sphacteria
• Friday: in place
• Saturday: drive to Kalamata and fly out.

Far far more pictures than you could possibly want to see are on flickr.
Leave at 2:15, Gatwick parking and bus in no hassle, fail to get a coffee in the airport as the queue was too long and by the time we'd got it, there was no time to drink it; on the flight to pre-booked seats all fine (don't waste your money on speedy boarding), flight fine, I snooze all the way - I haven't been to bed, this being the last night of the bumps.

Flight say 3 hours, 8:40, and they are 2 hours ahead, so 11:40; and we're out of the airport of Kalamata at 12. There's a lady with a sign with our name which I wasn't expecting (and didn't see, but M did) for our Europcar hire, and we pick that up, and off we go. Into the interior.
Stop at Megalopolis for a cafe in the town square, and also buy somewhat randomly chickpeas, cheese and a nectarine to be going on with lunch; the cheese shop in particular being genuinely rural with not-for-show wooden tubs of feta. Roads initially good, becoming rural and mountainous later as we head up into the interior; we're in Arcadia which is perhaps not what you'd expect from the std classical allusions. Just outside Megalopolis is some architectural remains, which we decide to pass by.

Just before the village, at about 1, we're stopped by the police: there's a rally going on, and we'll have to wait (for either 15 or 50 mins, its not clear, but it turns out to be 15). It turns out to be the practice round for tomorrow: a variety of semi-homespun cars zoom round the corner, up to the start-line tent, wait (guy with starter flag, another guy with a wooden chock on a pole so they don't have to brake), then Go! And after 15 mins, so do we, into the village, narrow street, and find our hotel, park with some difficulty - we haven't yet got used to Greek-style "anywhere you like" parking.

Settle into the hotel, which is cool and has a shaded interior courtyard cool even in the heat of the day. I forget the rest of the afternoon and evening: we ended up eating without Daniel who was dead to the world; on a terrace (formally the town square, but invaded by the two tavernas nearby) overlooking the hills.

Here's a pic (actually taken on day of departure, but it didn't change much) looking northish. The main road is hard to see; look for the telegraph poles.

Book review: Hallowe'en Party

Hallowe'en Party is a crime story by Agatha Cristie featuring "Hercule Poirot, the renowned Belgian detective". I picked it up because a friend of my daughter was reading it, and finished it that day.

Pros: well, there's a mystery to solve. And there's some (rather heavy handed) social commentary. And there's a wonderful girl called Miranda in it, just as there is in reality.

Cons: its all rather formulaic. Though to be fair, calling an Agatha Christie formulaic is like calling peas green.

I won't describe the story; wiki has done that. Its a variant on the mansion-house-murder theme, where there are a carefully limited supply of suspects. There is one nice twist (see footnote 1) but otherwise the identity of the murderer (see footnote 2) isn't too hard to see.

Things that are objectionable:

1. Superintendent Spence, a retired police officer, just happens to have settled nearby. Blimey, that's a bit of a co-incidence, no? And an essential one: not only does he short-circuit the evidence gathering, he also provides an entree for Poirot to people who would otherwise not have talked to him.

2. Although the investigating detective is nominally Poirot, nothing in the book depends on this, or reflects on it in any way. In particular, the thoughts and reactions of the detective to the social situations he comes upon are completely un-Belgian; they are in fact the thoughts of a well-brought-up-Englishwoman, viz Agatha Christie. Or, put another way, the book would have been better as a Miss Marple story. This includes the way he looks at houses, gardens, interiors, people. I object to this because its part of the "formulaic"ness of the book; its really a storyline / plot, with generic characters inserted to fill it out. The detective might just as well have been called X and the characters A, B, C and so on (indeed the children sort-of are; there was an Ann, a Beatrice, and I forget the others but I think a C too).

3. There's some social commentary; after all a child has been murdered, and although she is careful to point out that no sexual assault took place, the crime places that and similar ideas in our minds. Many of the characters rabbit on, in a not entirely convincing way, about how the world has been getting worse recently. And there's stuff about how nutters who should have been locked up are at large; possibly this was a political issue in 1969 when the book was written. And then, it turns out that two slightly dodgy teenage boys are the saviours of Miranda, even though they wear red velvet jackets. Or something; I forget the details. Anyway, my point is that's all a bit heavy handed.

So, there you have it. Perhaps I ought to try reading an early Poirot, and see if its any better. By contrast, I recall reading a Maigret ("Maigret au Picratt's", and yes I was pleased with myself for reading it in the original French) which was full of character.

Footnotes

1. The one nice twist is that Joyce really is a liar. We're all set up to believe that this one time she actually told the truth - about witnessing the murder - but it turns out she was lying about that too.

2. Murderers, of course, but I didn't want to say that in the main text.

Book review: Daughter of smoke and bone

Yet another of the books I've read on Saturday mornings in Waterstones. And for that purpose, its fine: undemanding, fun. Read all about it: Daughter of smoke and bone.

But - and its the usual but - it is ultimately forgettable, derivative, formulaic. Perhaps its the book someone who would have liked to be a 17 year old art student in Prague would have written. The initial ideas and environment sits well, the odd situation is nicely set up, but as so often it falls down in trying to make sense of the initial setup (if three's a war over there, and one side has doors into here, then why mess around with teeth? Buy guns! And so on).

And yet, if part two appears and is any good, I'll likely read that too.

Stanage with Daniel and Jamie

I took Daniel and his friend Jamie climbing. To Stanage, naturally (see-also Stanage, Youth 2010 and Chatsworth, Old Man from earlier this year). Nearish to Black Hawk area, stuff like:

• Black Hawk Hell Crack. S(hiny) **
• Sociology, S
• Two tier climb VD
• Cakestand VD
• Crack and Corner, HVD 4b

There are more pix on facebook, if you have permission to see them.

Debris Art

Phil and Sarah and Helen and David came to visit, to celebrate my birthday. We went out to a restaurant that friends of theirs, who had owned a restaurant near them, had moved too - theabbotselm.co.uk.

But the reason for this post is to put up this pic, which I took with my phone, and was I think from a "picture" made by Helen:

Now we are fifty

And so, I am fifty. No particularly momentous thought occurs to me, and nothing seems suddenly changed, which is unsurprising.


Perhaps a picture will replace a thousand words? Here I am in the course of a walk with Rob near Milton-under-Wychwood.