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.