Saturday and church

It’s Saturday today, so naturally, we went to church. Not just any old church, either, but a very old and special one, the Monastery of the Blessed Virgin Mary of Paleocastritsa, the origins of which certainly go back to 1494 when they started keeping regular records, and presumably for a considerable time before that. The monastery occupies the top of the largest headland in Paleo bay, almost in fact an island, as there is only a narrow strip of land comprising two car parks and some tourist traps joining it to the mainland. Once past these, however, you climb a steep and twisting road up through the olives and emerge into a different century.

The monastery is a fully operative place of worship, contemplation and retreat, though it also welcomes members of the public to tour its precincts and marvel at the 15th century church at its heart. On passing through the gate, your first sight is a long, cool, collonade, crossed with arches and filled with vines and other vegetation. This is the space that runs between the church cloisters and the original olive oil mill, now used as novitiates accommodation. At the end of this cool green space rises a small flight of steps, to an upper courtyard. Here you find a small museum and gallery, stuffed full of intricate and ancient icons, painstakingly rendered on boards, richly beautiful, intensely coloured and embellished with gold leaf. Many of the icons on display were more than 500 years old, and as vibrant and uplifting today as when they were created. Here too were displayed a number of ancient bibles and other religious texts, lettered or printed on velum, some bound in covers of solid silver, others richly engraved in leather of highly decorated and enameled. That such rare and valuable artifacts could be so simply and trustingly displayed was a welcome reminder that honesty and faith do still exist in some hearts and communities.

On then to the church itself. This was hugely impressive, bar the hordes of noisy children running around, but when they eventually bored of this and went to find someone else to annoy, there was time to pause and reflect on the beauty displayed. It is a simple space – a large rectangular box, with a flat ceiling and one main door set in the centre of the long, southern wall. At the east end, an altar, in the main part of the church, a few pairs of simple seats. The walls were paneled, but it was the decoration above these that was simply breathtaking. Once your eyes had become accustomed to the dim light, frescoes became clear on almost every surface. The ceiling was also magnificently painted, and silver chandeliers hang at intervals to provide a little illumination. It was a rare privilege to be able to stand in such a sacred space, and one longed for a few less bus parties to share it with. Though their financial contributions must be both significant and very welcome, I imagine the peace which returns when the gate finally closes behind the last sightseer is equally much anticipated.

Passing thoughts...

Driving to work this morning, quietly bemused by the apparently endemic incompetence on display. OK, advanced driving teaches that it is the drivers absolute responsibility to be accountable for his (or her) own vehicle and actions, to proceed at all times in such a way that you can anticipate the actions of others and be able to avoid the consequences of any unexpected event - braking distance, knowing what's beside and behinid you, watching not just the car in front but six or seven vehicles ahead. Simple vehicle control is an essential skill, but it is but the very first step to becoming a competent driver.

So, what to do about the 2-tonne truck bimbling along in lane 3 or 4, clear road to his right, and chaos behind? Not the RTA's proposed minimum speed limit, that's for sure. He's doing that. It is his relative speed that's important, not his absolute. If he wants to drive slowly, or his vehicle is incapable of more, then it should be in the rightmost lane available. Not slap bang in the middle of the faster-moving traffic.

This morning was classic example. I was driving at a steady, legal speed in a clear lane, obstructing no-one and making good progress. And I was breaking the law. Because I was in the empty, right-most, 'slow' lane, and there were plenty of oblivious numpties trundling down the middle. The usual trains of tailgaters crowd the left lane, flashing lights and agression all too evident in their rush to be first to the back of the next queue. So that lane is unsafe. Next is equally crowded, and frequently invaded by those forced out of the overtaking lane to the left. Next is full of Fancy buses and overladen white Toyotas with too many labourers on board, travelling at insane speeds just inches from the minibus in front. Next is our trundling truck, oblivious to the traffc swerving left and right to pass him. Next is more or less clear. And then there's me. Undertaking the lot.

And then a solution occured to me. Make the offender not the undertaker, but the undertaken. If you are driving at less than the posted legal maximum, and there is a clear lane to your right, you are the one committing an offence. Simple. Good lane discipline, courtesy, and basic driving common sense would make a huge difference to our roads. And until that day dawns, I will continue to make good progress in the empty, 'slow' lane...

Less CLEAR by the day?

Interesting comment in today's Gulf News, another in the ongoing and increasingly public spat between Dubai Police and the RTA. Brigadier Mohammad Saif Al Zafein states on the record what I and many others have thought and said privately, that any form of Toll is ineffective unless there is a credible alternative - public transport, metro, alternative untolled routes and so on, none of which presently exist. Buses are too few and overcrowded, the metro is some years from operation, and many of the necessary alternative roads are either pipe-dreams in the RTA or routed through residential areas - Shk Zayed Road traffic diverted to Al Wasl and Jumeirah Beach Roads, anyone?

This is the first time I have seen in print any suggestion that SALIK should be delayed. I wonder who's feifdom it is?

The full story can be read HERE

Also, will anybody admit to being involved in some of the most excruciatingly crass radio commercials ever foist upon an unsuspecting public?

Driving miss crazy

Just back from that Alladin's Cave of automobilia that is Al Awir car souq. Wow. It has been a year or so since I last cruised these crowded forecourts, and the place has become even more impossibly crowded than ever. Once parking was difficult, now it is impossible.

However, though the traffic is worse, the cars are better. More of them. Better condition. Lower prices. If you're into cars, this is definitely worth a afternoon's hot exploration.

Highlights for me were a beautiful old Mercedes convertible in creamy white, perfectly restored, and 427cu Cobra. No LM10s this time, but plenty of other exotica.

I wonder how long before the inevitable happens and the site has to double in size?

Southern surprises

Thankfully, we escaped, and carried on south, to Benitses and beyond. Benitses? Club 18-30 was invented for it. A colourful, tacky strip-mine of tavernas, tourist markets and island discos, with the odd karaoke bar and Irish pub thrown in for variety. On we pressed, hoping to find Peristeron, reputedly a local favourite and blessed with the clearest waters on the island.

Missed it completely.

Only when we got to Messongi did we realize that our intended stop-off was buried somewhere behind all this crass commercialism. Pity, it would have been fun. Fortunately, better things lay ahead. At Messongi we turned West, intending to cross the isthmus and see Korission Lake. Almost on the turn was a roadside stall, selling the season’s first pick of strawberries. Screeched to as much of a halt as our trusty little Fiat can manage, and went over. The farmer himself came out, helped me choose the best punnet, wished us ‘calipaska’ and looked mighty pleased with his first sale of the day. And the strawberries were fabulous. On to Korission.

The lake is actually a large body of fresh water, lying adjacent to the sea on the western coast of the island, and a bizarre and beautiful place it is too. Flat, fen-like land planted with olives and grapes gives way to reeds and marshland, before one final corner, and there it is. How it remains fresh, and why the sea doesn’t breach the tiny strand which is all that protects it from the Med is beyond comprehension. Yet here it is, large as life and twice as beautiful. Inexplicably undeveloped too, and long may it remain so.

On the way in we had passed a small sign boasting ‘the only original and authentic Corfiot wines’ so we had to stop in on the way back. Delicious they were too, and suitably refreshed, we continued on our wobbly way. Honest, I only sipped, and definitely never swallowed. Never…

Choosing to stick to the coast, and the (orange) minor rather than (red) major roads down which we had just traveled, led us through some spectacular scenery and delightfully undeveloped villages. The road threaded through endless olive groves, sometimes offering us glimpses of the precipitous coastline, sometimes of the mountains to our right. And underneath our tyres, countless crushed olives, and the resultant slick of highly aromatic oil. No wonder the roads get slippery.

Through Sinarades, and eventually Pelekas and its weird non-junction, then rapidly back up the same road we had come down earlier in the day. Lunch was definitely needed after original and authentic Corfiot wine, and we had spotted a likely looking taverna earlier in the day. Perched high on a bend, it boasted that all the oil used in cooking came from its own factory. How could we refuse? Pitched up, were invited into the kitchen to meet wife and lunch, and felt completely at home. This is Greece at its best, homely and welcoming, proud of its food and passionate about the ingredients.

Curious, then, is how thin the veneer of tourist development, how short the distance you need to travel to encounter the other face of the island. Barely a hundred yards separates the tat from the trad, but unless you have independence of spirit or a willful nature, you are unlikely to encounter this richer, more rewarding side. Go off the beaten track once in a while, take the road less traveled, and your visit will be all the richer for it.

A Particularly Good Friday

Spiros was empahtic. He even drew a line on the map.”Don’t go south. I like North East, plenty of places here you go. South – you go south, and you have no day.” If he had a floor to spit on, I’m sure he’d have done it.

Of course, we don’t need much more of an invitation than that. Across Spiros’s line we went. On reflection, his may actually have been sage advice, rather than that inbuilt antipathy all northerners seem to have for anyone born or living south of their lofty station. Think of Italians’ opinion of Puglians, or the American view which even formalized it in a line with a name. Wonder which way round New Zealand works – are the residents of South Island hardy and industrious, regarding their Northern neighbours as idle and indulgent? Anyway, we were going to find out.

In many ways, today’s drive sums up of many of the surprises, contradictions and delights of this compact island. Spiros’s view that a day traveling south was a day wasted is perhaps shaped by living here, because in reality total journey time north coast to southern tip is probably less than 4 hours on the main roads. Perhaps what he meant was the time spent in endless, snaking traffic jams trapped behind a tourist bus is time wasted, and he would be emphatically right. These roads were not designed for such behemoths, despite what their indisputably talented drivers may seek to achieve. In actual fact, we went quite far south relatively quickly, and it was only our perverse vacationers’ preference for the squiggly bits that stretched our round trip out to around that same 4 hours actual driving.

So, first destination, the main road down the spine of the island, and the hill town of Pelekas, from where we would cross to the east coast and visit some of the more traditional local villages. The road itself was a real treat, relatively flat and straight, and allowed me to try the ever-willing Fiat in fifth. Fairly thrums along, though at higher speeds there’s not a lot of traction, and it understeers determinedly through fast bends. Think go-cart with a roof.

However, our chosen road was a delight for other reasons. This is working Corfu, far away from the tourist traps. We passed a pharmacy, a bakery, a building supplies merchant, a tractor showroom, a plumbers yard, the garden center, several truck/farm workers vehicle garages, a stone cutter, a ceramics factory, and a short runway where several boys were flying their radio controlled helicopters. In short, everything you need to actually live and work on this island, as opposed to the bachanallian fortnight experienced by most.

Anyway, managed to navigate to Pelekas, and through Pelekas, though it turned out we didn’t need to. Our intended road was at the foot of the hill, in the other direction, at one of the weirdest junctions I have ever encountered. Four major roads approach this intersection, but there is no direction, sign, or control. It seems as if the road planners couldn’t agree, and so left the actual road blank. Who has right of way? The bravest. Got through, and then almost immediately took a detour, to the villages of Kamara (devastatingly pretty, tiny, and with a town square the size of your back garden), and Alepochori. Our ever-reliable map showed a through road looping back to the main route, so we pressed on, along one of these sinuous mountain ridgebacks through olives and mist. Having crossed through territory that may as well have been marked ‘here be dragons’, we came to Agii Deka. No road gets to there, but we did. Down a squiggly bit which is marked on the map, and rejoin the main road. Civilisation at last. Other cars. People. Traffic. Buses. Traffic jams…

We have reached Achilleon, apparently the summer residence of Kaiser Willhelm. Can’t tell you any more than that, because it was full of tourists and buses and nowhere to park. Today is the Friday before Easter, an official holiday in Greece, and so a day on which many local people do have time off to go and relax. It is also at least three weeks ahead of the generally acknowledged ‘start’ of the season, on May 1st. So if the chaos we encountered on the first holiday ahead of the official rush is anything to go by, Spiros’s advice was well intended indeed. What this place would be like in high summer, I shudder to think.

None so blind...

..as those that won't see. The ever-reliable RTA are insisting that their misguided minimum speed limit will go ahead anyway, and have started wheeling out spurious statistics to attempt to justify their actions. One such was the inistance that trucks would have to observe the 60kph minimum - and it just ain't going to happen. The two-lane rolling truck park that is Al Khail Road is often at a standstill, and rarely proceeds above walking pace. What are they going to do - book every single lorry between Sharjah and Jebel Ali? The new rule is both ineffective and unenforceable, and so will be ignored by all those who drive without consideration for others anyway.

What is desperately needed is not a minimum speed limit, but education. A general principle, that slow-moving cars (and mini-buses, pick-ups, filigree trucks and Nissan Sunnies with phone-distracted drivers) should move to the right-most clear lane, not trundle along as a mobile obstruciton in blissful ignorance of the chaos around them. It's a simple enough concept - if there is a clear lane to your right, you should be in it. Always. That way, the lanes to the left become progressively more clear, and suitable for faster traffic. Speed differentials are relatively small between adjacent lanes, leading to easy movement between them (remembering to indicate, of course). Slow traffic shares road space with slow, fast with fast. And everybody gets along just fine. Imposing, and attempting to police, a minimum speed limit isn't the answer. Wake up, RTA.

Thunderstorms and chicken

So, having struck out on the internet thing and given up on trying to find a laundry (really will have to wash socks in a sink!), we turned around and set off in the direction originally intended. First sign, Potamos. Better Half tells me this means river, and is the root of the word hippopotamus (meaning River Horse). True enough, there was a small culvert with some water running through it. And a sign saying Potatoes. Whether this was the original river after which all others are named remains a point we will long debate…

Our actual destination is Glyfada Beach, on the West Coast, hopefully free of the rain that has dogged us for the past couple of days. It is less tumultuous today, but still very definitely rain. En route to Glyfada, we will pass through Afra and Pelakes, and so off we head. This part of the Corfiot hinterland is very different from the mountain communities of the past days. Here it is industrial, suburban, grimy, run-down and plain shabby. Cars rust beside the road, rubbish lies uncollected. On one major retaining wall (built, I imagine, to hold back half a mountain), there is a long skein of very colourful graffiti, some of the tags much more cleverly executed than others. The decoration of this wall seems to have been officially sanctioned, in the hope, I imagine, that by providing this space the authorities will dissuade the artists from decorating others. Later evidence suggests they were not successful.

At two-thirds of the wall’s length, the graffiti changes. Gone are the overall colours, and now the bare concrete shows top to bottom, save for a single, regularly repeated motif. A shamrock, in green, outlined white, at around six foot intervals, all the way to the end. No explanation, no obvious reason, just the same symbol time after time after time.

We found Pelakes eventually, and the sign to Glyfada beach. This road does the usual, descending the cliff in a series of reasonable turns, sometimes rough, sometimes repaired. At the foot is a built-up tourist village, deserted at this time of year, and the most magnificent beach. Today, there are large double ended curlers of at least six feet in height dropping onto the shore, but nary a surfer in sight. Pity, because it was a perfect curl, and I have no idea how common an occurrence. So we stood in the rain, and wondered at the litter, and the graffiti (that shamrock again), and the general air of neglect and dilapidation, and were saddened. Did not stay long.

The other side of the headland leads down to Mirtiotissa beach, much more scenic and less commercially exploited. Probably because the road is such challenge. The map shows orange, which means metalled (though we are beginning to realize that what the mapmaker understands and what we do may differ by a country mile or two). Anyway, after a bit of nice tarmac, and then some washed out gravel with rocks poking through, and then some washboard concrete, we reached the sea, and the end of the road I was prepared to travel. It went on, muddy and defiant, but I chickened. I know our trusty little Fiat has stoutly answered every task we have set it, but this was a test too far. Besides, it was raining again.

Pity, because Miritiotissa beach is spectacularly beautiful, and especially so with a big sea rolling in. Black rocks, turquoise sea, explosions of white as each succeeding wave smashes onto the shoreline. Wonderful. And there were myrtle bushes growing right beside where we parked the car. One to come back to.
Back to Paleo, then, by way of the minor coastal road. First to Ermones, and then through Marmaro and Kanakades. Our back road resembled nothing more than a cratered farm track for much of its distance, the reason for which only became clear at the far end. First we passed the bulldozer that had been raking off the tarmac, presumably in preparation for a new surface to be laid. Then we encountered the old tarmac, and immediately understood the need for renewal. Worse even than the cratered gravel! It did improve eventually, and we drove very slowly through some perfectly bucolic landscape. This is a fertile plain behind the coastal mountains, verdant and productive, planted extensively with vines. Clearly prosperous, this provided a wonderful agrarian contrast to the industrial poverty earlier encountered.

Gardelades and Liapades face each other across the valley, and despite what our trusty map says, there is a connecting road. That is for tomorrow. Tonight we have thunderstorms and chicken, a good Corfiot stifado flavoured with lemon, garlic and parsley, preceded with the Sapphire found earlier, and accompanied by the most magnificent soundtrack nature can provide. Roll on thunderstorm.

Wednesday, probably...

Today, we go south. That was the agreement. So the very first place I drove to was East, towards Corfu Town itself. I was actually traveling in hope of finding an internet café, and had spotted a potential source of information in a small parade of shops opposite Gouvia Marina. Oh, and there was an off-license there as well.

First things first, the Cava Barrellas. Nice, modern shop, with lots of familiar brands on display, and a welcome variety of Corfiot and Greek wines too. On previous trips we had encountered a label called Xatsimichalli (it looks more exotic in the original Greek), the products of which are simply sublime. We picked up a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, and turned to find the price. Nothing on the bottle. Nor on the shelf. In fact, no prices anywhere. Turns out you had to take your considered purchase to the large central control desk, where one of the two ladies behind the counter would proceed to spend a significant amount of time on the computer trying to find the figure you want. Not a simple process, and I have to wonder what would have happened if I wanted to browse wines by price and not style? You’d be there for weeks. Judging by the antics in the car park outside, several of the patrons already had, and had been quality checking their purchases in the process. Think I’ll just stick to the local stuff, a litre and a half for $2.50, filled into recycled mineral water bottles and still labeled as such.

Next, the internet shop. All I want to do is send a couple of emails and check the weather forecast. Nothing too technical. And this place billed itself as an Internet Business Centre. Fine, except they had no internet connection, couldn’t tell me where there was one exactly (“you could try the main square in Corfu Town, I think there’s some there”), and I drew a straight blank when suggesting using a bluetooth and the mobile phone. That’s one for when I get back.

Actually, being beyond the reach of technology I take for granted has been a revealing experience, and suggests a number of business opportunities. If every café on Pataya Beach or on Goa can have a connection and provide free wi-fi in exchange for regular purchase of coffee or beer, why not here? There are tourist facilities at every single beach, tavernas on every bend, rooms in every villa, so why not a little satellite hub in each location? More homework.

Still means we haven’t seen or heard a news story in over a week. No TV. No radio (at least, none in a language I can figure out). No internet. Nada. The only thing to read is books. Now there’s a concept – pay for content once and it’s always available, you can share it with as many people as you like and it works all over the world…