The Zagorohoria – Other Side of Greece (Part 4)

Despite the lingering effects of our multi-day bug, we were bursting to get out of Ioannina. Chris, the boys and I jumped into the car and headed out of town in the general direction of big mountains.  

Before long we were climbing up a steep, precarious, valley side. The road zig-zagged back and forth, offering ever better views of the land we had left behind. Up onto the top and we were on the edge of the Zagorohoria. A famed region in Greece, made up of a series of small mountain villages scattered over 1000 square kilometres of the Pindos mountains. There have never been many people here (I understand that the permanent population is currently under 4000!), but for those that have called it their home, the harsh geographical setting have provided much protection against the coming and going of overseers.

You can spend weeks exploring the nooks and crannies of this region, but we were lucky that the part closest to Ioannina contains some of the most spectacular scenery. Across a small section of upland plateau and the land before us suddenly fell away in dramatic fashion. A real Roritania moment, as we parked up on what felt like the edge of the world.

To our right, the higher land was wrought in two by the Vikos Gorge, falling hundreds of meters down shere cliffs to the torrent of the Voidomatis river. Moving to the centre of the vista, the gorge widened out into a more curvaceous valley, backed by snow-capped mountains and riveted by smaller hills in between. To the left, the mountains on each side abruptly halted, creating twin gates to the flat, fertile land which lay beyond.

Over this remarkable scenery were scattered small groupings of traditional stone houses, linked by age-old mountain paths. We jumped back in the car and took the snaking road down into the midst of the valley. We passed a couple of these hamlets on our way down to the bottom, where the land was green with forest and thicket. After crossing the light blue-green waters of the Voidomatis, we climbed back up the fast rising far side of the valley towards Papingo.

Papingo is one of the larger villages of the region, parked a fair way up the increasingly steep slopes of a mountain. As well as being home to many beautiful buildings, an old bell-tower and, as we were delighted to discover, fantastic local dishes, it provided as magnificent views as one could hope for. Further into the mountains than our first vantage point, the Vikos Gorge dominated to the front, rising up on both sides, before corrugating off into the distance. It resembled the Grand Canyon, but with foliage. It excited me to think that brown bears still lolloped out in those wilds. The views behind were much worse, as large bulk-heads of granite burst out the top of the mountain, clung to by the remains of the winter snow.

Stopping as often as possible to take in the surroundings from different angles, we drove back down the mountain to the river floor, before heading up the other side by a different road that took us to the east and further into the Zagorohoria. Far too soon, we were back into the uplands, leaving the splendid, frictional destruction of the Voiomatis river behind.

As the road and land calmed, we passed more hamlets, flanked by orchards and populated mainly by goats. In the middle of a field to our right, I noticed a large but low stone building, topped with tiles and a small dome. Stopping off to take a closer look, we discovered a centuries old Orthodox Church and a wizened old man. He produced a large key and let us into a treasure. Stooping through the low door, we entered a dark world of pristine saintly icons. Passing through and looking up to the dome, every surface was detailed with intricate frescoes, telling dozens of tales. Faded by goodness knows how many years, the richness of artwork was still clear to behold and had their intended impact.

Limited by the daylight, we headed back to Ioannina, descending from the heights of the Zagorohoria via another twisting, precipitous road. We had caught a narrow snapshot of the region, but had seen more than enough to understand why the Greeks hold it so dear. One to venture back to with much more time, a stick and some sturdy trekking boots.

Ups and Downs in Epirus - Other Side of Greece (Part 3)

I immediately liked the feel of Ioannina. The modern part of the town seemed much like any other, but the narrow old streets leading down to the medieval castle walls had a pleasant buzz, old style charm meets student energy – Ioannina is a major university city. This was our base for the coming few days, from which we planned to explore the wider and wilder region.

After our trip to Drymades (see previous post - http://walter82.blogspot.co.uk/2014/07/family-history-on-albanian-frontier.html), we set out on a wide circuit through the surrounding valleys. As the mists cleared, we saw chunky mountains boxing in sharp narrow valleys. It is one of those rare regions where every turn brings a new marvellous view. A joy to drive on small windy roads, past the occasional goat herd impediment complete with accompanying shaggy shepherd.

We stopped for lunch at a restaurant in an old stone house at the foot of the mountains.  Our elder kid charmed the waitress and Chris' papou complimented the tasty local dishes. I felt the initial symptoms of a bug coming on, but did my best to shrug it off with a paracetamol and some local wine.

We drove on a short distance, before parking up at a sudden break in the mountains. This was the entry to the famous Vikos Gorge. By some estimates the deepest gorge in the world, measuring at points half a kilometre deep. This was another level of beauty. Ahead and rising sharply up above were a parallel set of green-clad cliffs, split by the cobalt blue rushing waters of the Voidomatis river. There is nothing quite so refreshing as the sight, feel and taste of fast flowing mountain streams. I just wanted to dive in. Instead, I climbed atop a traditional stone foot-bridge which crossed the river at the opening of the gorge. The region is famed for these precariously curvaceous, arched bridges, which have an air of Rivendell. Gazing up the gorge, a couple of rainbows set off the scene.

Moving on, we passed along another wider valley and up to the town of Konitsa. A pretty town nestled into a mountainside and giving great views of the cultivated river valley that spreads out beneath. It is also a centre for adventure sports. My big tip for those looking to climb, white-water-raft or take on other similar adrenaline activities in a stunning out-of-the-way place, is come to Konitsa in Epirus. With its setting and natural resources, it really could be the Queenstown of the Balkans.

As we set off for the final leg of our journey back to Ioannina, Epirus gave a gift. Driving down the winding road from Konitsa, I caught a glimpse of a huge bird circling. I ground the car to a halt, jumped out and stared in wonder. Crossing in front of me was as big a bird of prey as I had ever seen, golden-brown in colour. It was a Golden Eagle, a bird I had wanted to see ever since reading animal books as a small kid. It soared above the valley beneath us, swooping further and then nearer, passing right in front of us. A fantastic sighting.

Completing the circuitous route, we headed back to Ioannina along a high ridge road, providing magnificent views of the valleys and ravines below. Just for effect, double inverted rainbows crossed the landscape. Not a bad end to the route.

BUG RIDDEN NASTINESS

With traveling you have to take the rough with the smooth. The next three days in Ioannina were rough. Soon after arriving back from our big day on the road, I spiked a temperature and flu came on with a vengeance. I could barely leave my sweat-ridden bed for the next 48 hours. Not an ideal situation when you are travelling with an 8 month year old and a 22 month year old. In a word, it sucked.

Fortunately, the others were still fine the next day and did another big drive through the mountains of the Tzoumerka region to the south of Ioannina. From the rave reports from the trip and resulting photos, I can confidently say it is well worth a trip. High mountains dropping to isolated valleys, populated with a light scattering of age-old villages and a host of wild and semi-wild animals. It was great to see Nikos so excited. He had wished to visit Tzoumerka for years.

By the time they arrived back, our small one was ill, then Christina, then Vasilia, then our elder one. Great times. Instead of adventures in the mountains, we were quarantined in a small hotel room with 2 small ill children. The few times we did get outside we were caught in a constant cold drizzle reminiscent of England in the worst of February. Miserable.

Nola made the sensible decision to drive Nikos and Vasilia back to Athens before Nikos caught the flu, leaving Christina and me and the kids to salvage what we could of our holiday.

RECOVERY AND A GLIMPSE OF THE PAST

After a full three days, we had mended sufficiently to take a few tentative walks around old Ioannina. Thankfully, the weather had also turned. Winter was giving way to the gentle sunshine of early spring, which helped our spirits.

We walked along the shores of the lake beneath the high medieval walls of the castle. In the daytime there were many birds, at dusk thousands of bats flapping around over the water (and overhead as Chris found out on our first night when one pooed in her hair!). Through high gates, we entered the old castle. Via winding alleys, we made it to each of the two citadels which sit at opposite ends of the castle. These retain remnants of the Ottomans, who ruled the region for nearly 500 years right up until 1913. The Greeks have destroyed most traces of their over bearers, but thankfully, the castle of Ioannina still contains the Fethiye Mosque and Aslan Pasha Mosque, now housing museums. 

Visiting these buildings gave a glimpse of a time so purposefully forgotten. A time of despotism, but also enlightenment and learning. Where now there is predominantly Greek homogeneity, there were once Turks, Greeks, Jews and Slavs living not as equals, but in relative calm.

Looking out from the top of the citadel walls over the lake to the mountains beyond, I was struck that Ali Pasha would have stood in the same spot, looking over a domain that once encompassed most of Albania and North-West Greece. Now it is a pretty back-water.

Largely back in the game, our next stop was the famed Zagorohoria...

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.