Family History on the Albanian Frontier - Other Side of Greece (Part 2)

The most important part of our trip to Epirus was a return to Drymades, the home village of Christina’s giagia (granny), Vasilia. This is where Vasilia had grown up and generation upon generation of that branch of the family had lived out their lives. It was a pilgrimage to go there with four generations of the family - Vasilia and Niko, their daughter Nola, granddaughter Christina and great-grandchildren Nikolaki and Alexi (our toddlers).

For us Brits, links to the ancestral family village have been largely severed by the best part of two centuries of industrialisation and post-industrial life. For Greeks, this link is much closer. Greece has moved into modern times much more recently. Athens may have half the country’s population, but most of that expansion has happened in the last couple of generations. Whether through cousins, property or just childhood memories, people are often still connected to their roots. Vasilia’s nuclear family may have fled the civil war to the other end of the earth (Australia), but she eventually found her way back to live in Greece and then on to visit Drymades. This was her first trip back for nearly a decade.

The trip to Drymades is not an easy one. From Ioannina, which one should not forget is itself a long bloody way from anywhere, it takes a couple of hours on increasingly narrow and windy mountain roads. As we drove, the surroundings were drenched in low grey cloud and intermittent heavy rain. While this hid the mountaintop vistas, it added a sense of the wilderness. Sparse yet green narrow valleys rose fast to mountain slopes. Every so often I caught a glimpse of the heights through breaks in the cloud and wished for a brighter day.

Drymades is one of a group of forty traditional inter-related Greek villages spread on each side of the Albanian-Greek border. As is so often the way, mighty powers - in this case as part of the break up-of the Ottoman Empire - concocted a border which clove centuries old communities in two. Neighbours now belonged to different nations. With the onset of the Cold War, this hastily jotted line would form part of Churchill’s Iron Curtain. Neighbours were now officially enemies, although I somehow doubt the separated villages viewed it that way.

We took a right turning branch of the road and stopped off in the village of Pogoniani for a brief walk. This was a very familiar place to Vasilia, being the head village of the group and gave me a good indication of what to expect in Drymades. A reasonable collection of grey-stone houses, but very little to no sign of life outside four old men sitting at the Café Neo. On we went to even smaller roads, down the side of a valley, then winding up the steep other side. We had arrived.

Drymades was larger and grander than I had expected. By that I do not mean particularly large or grand at all, but just more so. A village of around thirty traditional stone houses, clutching to the hillside. At its centre was a beautifully built church and courtyard, from which the land dropped sharply to the lower part of the village. The cloud had lifted a little, and from the churchyard wall, views stretched for miles across the sparse valley. On the opposing mountainside I could just make out another small village. On asking, Vasilia informed me that I was looking at Albania. That came as quite a surprise. The poorest country in Europe was but a stone’s throw away.

It was fascinating to listen to Vasilia recall previous occupants of this and that house as we passed. Details and context bring a place to life and, being all but abandoned in winter, this key was needed to unlock the colour behind the rain-soaked buildings.

I could feel her sense of loss at the place that had once been. Fortunately, near the bottom of the village we bumped into one of the four remaining inhabitants (yes four, the permanent population had recently doubled from two!). Some passing words about Drymades’ latest gossip lifted the mood. On we went down the winding road towards Vasilia’s grandmother’s house. What we found was a ruin. A collapsed-in pile of stones covered in moss and fern. On first impressions, one could have reckoned it abandoned for centuries, but the reality was that the harsh mountain climate had turned a home in which Vasilia played as a child back to nature in less than 50 years.

On our way out of the village we took a diversion onto a wide outcrop of rock, covered in lush grass. Stepping out to the edge, Vasilia showed us the remains of the millstone, where her mother and other women of the village would group together to crush wheat with the help of a stubborn donkey. I have seen photos of the place still active in the 60’s, Christina’s mum and aunt rolling in the crushed wheat as small children. Now it is little more than a couple of out of place looking stones amongst nature. It resembles more a paleolithic site than a place of recent labour and life.

The visit to the millstone was a stark reminder that the village of Vasilia’s youth was not far removed from the middle ages. The people had no electricity, automobiles or telecommunication. Religion was central to community life and beasts of burden were a key commodity, a sign of wealth and prosperity. A past and people left behind.

As we moved on, I can’t deny the sombre mood created by a combination of long gone memories, current realities and the closed in weather. Our visit was though a very touching experience. It is amazing to think that for centuries a large portion of my wife’s ancestors dwelt in such an isolated, wild and beautiful place. Greek civilization clinging high up into the Balkans, amongst snowed in valleys and the odd wolf. I am so glad Vasilia took our boys there.

TO THE BORDER

Now realising just how close the border was, I wanted to touch it and ideally cross it. A quick change of plan, one turn up the road from Drymades and we found ourselves at the border post. A small hut occupied by a couple of very bored looking Greek soldiers in full combat fatigues. This high road between uneasy neighbours is only open to foot traffic and the single lonely crossing for miles and miles. For sure the most remote border post I have encountered on my home continent, the sort of place you expect in central Asia, not 70 km from Corfu.

With a little Greek granny persuasion, sight of my driving license and a scribble on a clip-board, the guards let me through the Greek barrier. Sensibly leaving the assorted members of the family behind, I excitedly jogged down the stretch of no-man’s road. Down a hill and round a slight corner I got sight of the Albanian border crossing. Now across the half-way point and on Albanian soil, my instinct to try and negotiate my way through the barrier was negated by a couple of very large Alsatians barking with a vengeance. That was enough for the day. I saluted and jogged back to Greece.

A TALE TO DEPART

Of the many stories Vasilia shared on this trip, from searching the mountains for lost pregnant goats to agonising multi-day walks to see a doctor, there is one that I think most fitting to share.

Exploring the mountain paths as a child on the border with Albania, she was shocked by the sight of someone quite unlike anyone she had seen before. In wonder, Vasilia ran home and told her family about what, or rather whom, she had seen. A small man in military uniform with a round face and strange flat eyes. No one believed her. The excited imagination of a little girl.

It was many years later that the clouds lifted and Vasilia understood what she had witnessed. Albania had been a communist country in the grip of almost complete isolation from the world. One of its few allies was Maoist China. Vasilia had witnessed a Chinese military adviser touring the borders. A chance occurrence which shows how the extreme politics of the 20th century not only tore people apart, but brought together the most unlikely of people.

Le Tour de Wharf

I work in Canary Wharf, London. A glass and steel faceless veneer on top of what were once the world's busiest docks. As with anywhere, there are good things and bad things about the place. For me the latter outweigh the former. I am not a fan. As ever though, it is worth looking to the positive and today Canary Wharf was a great place to work, for the Tour de France whizzed right by as part of its all too brief stint through the UK.

I am an unabashed amateur cyclist. From being clueless of all things on two wheels only a few years ago, I am now ever so slightly less so. My struggles on a few gentle cycle tours here and there have given me colossal respect for what the pro-cyclists do. They cycle mental distances, for mental amounts of time at mental speeds. And, to continue that theme, it does not get more mental than the Tour de France. The ultimate of cycle races and biggest annual sporting event in the world.

TOUR TIME

After a lunchtime recce, we managed to find a pretty decent spot on Aspen Way at the north end of the Wharf. The Tour was due to race along this polluted bit of road before plummeting down into the Limehouse Link and on to the Mall.

We turned up 40 minutes before the riders were due to pass and the roads were already lined a few people deep. There was an excited buzz. It was very odd to see all these bankers clinging to the barriers on a grubby east London road, mixed in with kids, pensioners and the odd tourist.

Having moved three times in search of an ever so slightly better vantage point, we eventually stuck to one place and patiently awaited the 196 riders. Slowly but surely we edged our way to the front, significantly helped by a mass exodus of onlookers to the other side of the road when the stewards were looking the other way. As more crowds poured in, it became increasingly clear that the stewards were only there for show. No one was going to listen to them.

The first radio cars and police motorbikes of the cavalcade that leads in the race proper zoomed by, increasing the expectation. Life's little laughs brought an isolated heavy shower right onto our heads for a dozen or so minutes, catching most unprepared. The Canadian tourist next to me looked rather smug in her full cagoule.

The frequency of the cars increased and a loud speaker attached to a voiture official announced "five minutes, cinq munutes". You could feel the shared anticipation. This was the cue for my part of the crowd to lurch forward from the outer safety barrier to line the inner edge of the road, cutting off the view of many to the side to loud boos. Herd instinct took over and I made sure I was at the front of the cue.

More and more cars zipped past and then, before I had time to take it in, the leader approached and pelted past. Acclimatising to the situation, I was on full alert when Chris Froome powered round the slight bend, dragging the 190 plus man peloton in toe. A tight "V" behind him suddenly became a wide block of man and metal. Before I knew it, the edge of the peloton whooshed past me within 30 cm. I was literally knocked back by the gust of air spat off this lycra clad wall. It was like standing by the side of the road as a lorry speeds past too close for comfort. It was exhilarating. I muttered an impromptu expletive.

And then it was over. At 50 kilometres an hour they do not stop to say hello. The peloton was followed by a jam of horn honking, bike laden touring cars and a couple of stragglers. Soon they were past and it was really over.

Rather wet and very satisfied I headed back to work.

To the North - Other Side of Greece (Part 1)

To most, the images of Greece that jump to mind are of islands, beaches, the aquamarine Med and, one would hope, ancient temples. Following recent events, there may also be a splash of rioters and torched EU flags. As I have now discovered first hand, Greece has another less well known but equally spectacular side. To the mountains and the North!

Out of Attica

In early spring last year we teamed up with the Greek family (having married a Greek, I am fortunate enough to now be part of a big Greek family) and jumped into a couple of cars with 420 kilometre of roads ahead of us to the province of Epirus and Greece’s north-westerly borders.

To reach Epirus from Athens there are two very different routes. One on a south-westerly heading, the other north-easterly. When combined they do their best to circumnavigate the almost impassable Pindus mountains which lie at the heart of mainland Greece. On the way out we chose the south-westerly path.

Once out of Athens’ ugly sprawl we soon crossed the Isthmus of Corinth, passing high above and over the Corinth canal. The canal is a marvel of 19^th century engineering, cutting a deep, narrow trench between sheer cliffs, thereby artificially separating the Peloponnese from the continent.

Our road then took us across the north coast of the Peloponnese for a long stretch almost all the way to Patra, Greece’s third city. This is a stunning bit of road. It hangs to the thin stretch of coast between the mountains of the Peloponnese to the south and the Gulf of Corinth to the north, whose calm turquoise waters soon give way to the Pindus Mountains as they rise up from the depths, guarding the mainland.

Unfortunately, the simply atrocious and dangerous state of the road makes it difficult to take in much of this vista. A project to fix this “highway” was stopped mid flow when funds ran short, leaving a swerving, pot holed, cone lead death trap. As the Greeks would say “Krisi, Krisi” (“Crisis, Crisis”). Needless to say the suicidal tendencies of the Greek driving public do not help matters.

Ever a country of dichotomy, we eventually turned off this third world track onto one of the most remarkable bridges I’ve seen. Crossing back over to the mainland, the Rio-Andirrion suspension bridge, re-joins the Peloponnese to the mainland. The huge structure is designed to counter the joint problems of a soft shingle-sand base and the regular earthquakes which shake the region (not a great combo for stability).

The views from the span are fantastic. I was behind the wheel, but where possible flicked my eyes to the right. Just out there, nearly within reach, was the small patch of sea which played host to the Battle of Lepanto. A defining moment in the history of Europe, where a grand coalition of Catholic ships defeated the fleet of the Ottoman Turks and in doing so played a major part in halting the conquering of further European lands by that mighty empire from the East. To think that earlier that day on other side of the Isthmus of Corinth we had passed Salamis, where the Athenian fleet came out on top in a no less significant sea battle against the Persians. If the Europeans had lost either of these battles, the concept of East and West would look significantly different today. I can’t help it, but feeling the presence of such history thrills me. I take no fascination in the blood shed (in fact, it appals me), but the significance draws me in. One of the reasons I love Greece.

Not far from the bridge, via a scary emergency stop on the highway so not to violate a well hidden red light, we found ourselves in the town of Messolongi and took a pit stop to explore. The town has its fair share of the usual uninspiring Greek modern urban architecture, alongside a splattering of interesting sites. 

The city walls and moat provide an indication of the strategic importance of the place. An evocative cemetery pays tribute to those who died for the cause in the war of independence against the Ottomans. Grand grave memorials remember the sacrifice of many including, interestingly, Lord Byron. In a spat of romance he joined the Greek cause and succumbed to malaria in this small outpost of Europe.

That unfortunate fatality provides a convenient link to what I found most interesting about Messolongi, its remarkable setting. Within 5 minutes’ drive from the town centre, we could have been in Louisiana. A large shallow lagoon and humid micro climate have produced an ideal setting for the breeding of gazillions of mosquitos, Byron’s fatal foe, and water birds.

Through this lagoon cuts an extraordinarily narrow strip of land which sits a fraction above the water level and barely has room for the road that runs along it. Driving along it was a weird sensation. Looking out the side window, the water was so close it felt as if we were driving on top of the water.

At uneven intervals huts on stilts hover above the water with rickety mini bridges joining to the road. Fisherman cast wide nets from narrow boats and areas of lagoon are partitioned off for fish farms. The place is littered with sea birds. Of the hundreds we saw bobbing on the water and circling in the sky, a couple just so happened to be of the pelican variety. Fantastic. In short, it is nothing like anywhere I have been in Greece.

Leaving all too soon, we were back in the car and heading north to our home for the next few days, Ioannina. As we chewed up the kilometres the hills swiftly rose up around us, before becoming mountains. We were cutting across the edge of the Pindus range. At points the drive was very beautiful, cutting through narrow valleys. Eventually the land opened up into a large, flat plain shielded on all sides by more mountains. In the middle of this plain sat a sizeable lake and around this lake clung Ioannina, the historic, cultural and ruling epicentre of the region. We had a lot to explore and nearly a week to do it.

Copenhagen - Tivoli vs Christiania

Adopting a sample approach, the following are four short happenings from 24 hours in the Danish capital.

ONE…

Grabbing some takeaway fuel for the night ahead, I started a conversation with an incredibly pissed off and sultry looking serving lady in a take out. After initially doing her best to ignore us, she about turned, became friendly and went on a tirade against Denmark. She was from Lithuania, had come over for work a couple of years back and clearly resented her hosts. She described them as condescending and racist towards Eastern European migrants. This was interesting given my only positive experiences of the Danes, but no doubt illustrative. The lady had fire in her eyes.

TWO…

After a few more drinks we sauntered into the peculiar anomaly that is Fristaden Christiania (Freetown Christiana). Amongst the Copenhagen canals, lies an island which was at the core of the European flower power movement. A mini San Francisco ’69, in the early seventies this place was taken over by freedom toting, spliff toking hippies. They even declared independence as a sovereign state, barricading the bridges from the Danish state. A lot of police raids and public debate later, Christiania and its ageing hippies remain. I had only vaguely heard of the place before, but being recommended as an interesting sight by a local lady in the hostel bar we thought we’d give it a go. 

In the day the place is apparently inviting, complete with all types of clever ecologically minded housing designs (it has a permanent population of over 1,000) and invitations to tea. At night it had a vaguely intimidating atmosphere. Walking through a branded gate and down “pusher” street the place felt distinctly dodgy. The overwhelming feeling is one of shadows. Dark except for the odd patch enlightened by some form or other of neon green strobe light (tackily enough often in the shape of a hash leaf), we shifted down the path past derelict looking buildings and eyes peering out of the darkness.

We eventually reached the “centre” of Christiania dominated by a bar and surrounding weed stalls. A bit like Amsterdam, but far less welcoming. A good portion of the locals clearly did not want foreigners around. Ignoring such sentiment we went to the bar and grabbed a round of local beers (yup, Christiania has its own brewery producing really quite delectable beers).

The place was packed with quite probably the oddest assortment of people I have shared a drinkwith. On the one hand you had the core hippies from the original movement. With long grey hair, fisherman’s pants and brightly covered clothing, their exuberance seemed to shed off their age (remember the flower power movement is 45 years old). Alongside them were a good number of West Africans, students, a small  sprinkling of tourists from all over and random uncharacterised elements. 

The great thing was that everyone was mixed up and together in what became an increasingly exuberant atmosphere of WTF let’s party. Whether reggae or trance, 60 year old hippies were twirling around with young Africans, drinks were shared and a small Nepalese (I guessed) man was strutting his lonesome stuff as if this was the best thing that had ever happened to him… Leaving was like awaking from a dream, reconciling back to normality.

THREE...

Fuelled with a significant brunch, we gingerly wandered through the charming streets and sights of old Copenhagen. We eventually found ourselves passing the palace of the Danish royal family. Being a long time Londoner I have oft cringed at the tourists posing next to the Horse Guards near Buckingham Palace. We soon discovered that the Danish royals are guarded by very similar looking guards complete with bear skin hats. With the shoe on the other foot, we jumped straight in for the quintessential tacky photo. Now I get it.

FOUR...

With Uwe back on the bike heading home to Rostock (mental guy), Dave and I headed to the renowned Tivoli gardens, the second oldest theme park in the world. Situated at the heart of the city in both a geographical and emotional sense, we thought it would be rude not to. What we found was strangely alluring. There are many worse ways to spend a lazy Sunday than kicking back on a Victorian deck chair under the sun, in the middle of a pristine lawn and before a gilded stage trooped by a brass bad. It felt like the Danish equivalent of Lords. Very civilised indeed.