Lawrence
Durrell wrote that “Greece is the country that offers you the discovery of
yourself”. He was a man who would know something of this; he spent a great many
years living and writing in Hellas. Guy Gavriel Kay took a different view of
this ancient land, penning that “too much of Greece can sear the soul”, and all
gifts it offers us are large. These are sentiments that I have come to
understand. I have been to Greece, tasted those gifts, found aspects of myself,
and seared myself with the burning summer sun, and chilled winter rains. But to
me, Greece is more. It is an aspect that is difficult to explain. It is a land
of colours, and the experiences found there are defined by those colours.
March
3, 2014 – 18:57, a Memory of Sun
The sky
holds to it a memory of the sun. Slipping soundlessly into the sea, traces of
light remain, scoring the undersides of the clouds in faded pinks, and
lacklustre oranges. The gloaming settles on the cliff face opposite my veranda,
across the valley. This period of un-day, pre-night is chilled. Already the
varied greens of the mountain slopes fade out to black. Village lights shine
now, pushing away at the encroaching dark, keeping it from doorways and street
corners.
Distantly,
these halogen angels spark to life in Pentati village, almost hidden from view
by the mountain’s shoulder. The clouds flee south, riding the gloom away from
the oncoming night. Sitting to think, I watch their retreat. My thoughts do not
stray far; to words, phrases, my private conceit with language and my facility
therein. To capture this gloaming moment with my pen, the dark coming on by inches.
Olive and cypress merge into a uniformed darkness. To know that the burdened
limbs of the lemon trees near my terrace exist, sagging under the burden of
fruit, but to be unable to see them.
The
final ochre stains leave tendrils in the western sky; not fading, but dulling,
into night. Too soon yet for stars, caught now between the day that was, and
what is still to come.
March
4, 2014 – Once, Great Black Eagles
I am the
only person yet awake. The sky, which had cleared to starlight and a sliver of
moon the night before, is once again painted grey. I climb the slope behind our
hotel, into the olive groves owned by Spyros, our congenial host. The track is
steep, the clay soil wet, and sticks to my shoes. Nets are piled neatly under
the trees, ready for use next year, when this crop of olives comes due.
There
is a great deal of bird song, but unlike my father, I lack the skills to
identify the species. I see only flashes of brown as the birds flit furtively
from branch to branch. I mount the switch backed track, listening to the rush
of water below. A creek pours loudly over the rocks below, a cascade beside
citrus trees bright with fruit. Spyros has told me that in this valley there
are grey eagles which roost in the pines and cypress. I don’t see any, just the
momentary flits of smaller birds, which sing in the dawn glow.
Away
over the sea, rain approaches. A wind is picking up. I return to pots of fresh
coffee and orange juice squeezed that very morning, from fruit gathered along
the creek I had been walking beside. Clouds begin to fetch up on the slope
opposite, hiding the jagged summit in rain. It falls heavily, muting even the
upwards thrust of the cliff that defines this village’s geography.
Once,
great black eagles roosted upon that monument. Twenty odd years ago Spyros
remembers seeing a great many. But the town grew, the increase of light and
noise seemingly driving the raptors away. Now, a few transient black shapes can
been seen migrating by, but none call back to Agios Gordios to roost, not for
more than 2 decades. Where these birds have gone, Spyros cannot say. He only
knows that they have disappeared from here, from that colossus that was once
their home.
March
5, 2014 – Colour and Grace
The
wind-cold clouds lash the salt lakes of Lefkimmi with rain; an iron grey sky,
filled with a damp that settles deeply into your bones. My father and I wander
through the wet, seeing the white caps breaking upon the teeth of the wind,
away south of the island. These salt lakes are not protected from the sea by
much, fragile looking berms of weed strewn earth.
Graceful,
wading with dignity, the flamingo’s move away from us, wary. The pale, muted
pink of their bodies stands out boldly in this flat light. I crouch, and amble
forwards quickly, a shambling run, hoping to draw closer to these majestic
waders, close enough to photograph.
As one,
the flock lifts off. I stop, and kneel, snapping as quickly as I can. The
flashes of their undersides is vibrant, deep and rich, set against the black
of their wing feathers, and the sombre sky. Up, away into the rain they lift,
gliding away to a distant quarter of the marsh, where they resume their meal. I
feel oddly exhilarated, the bright plumage and graceful flight exciting me. I can’t
help but wonder where these birds might be from, or where they will go on to
from here; to Africa perhaps, to the Great Rift and the Soda Lakes?
Spoon
bills wade near a hummock as we head back to the waiting hatchback, rejoining
our companions who stayed sensibly dry, but who missed seeing those pastel
birds in flight. The drive around the south of Corfu has been an experience.
Tiny winding roads wending their way through switchbacks, up and down the sides
of mountains. Idle terraces of olive trees, and the wash of water everywhere;
in places, mud slides are in evidence, in others, sections of roadways have
fallen away precipitously in the deluge.
We
drive back slowly, rarely making it beyond second gear, via Pentati. Olive
groves as old as Time itself, all gnarls and whorls, line the way. The sea
breaks far below us. More water falls from the sky, sheening the road. The road
itself appears solid, unlike its twin on the other side of Agios Gordios, which
has seen a large portion fall away two days previously. The worry this causes
the people here is palpable. The road brings in people and money to the town.
They hope that the government will see fit to fix it. Cars can still eke by,
but the larger green buses don’t have the same luxury of space. The people
hope, but in Greece, hope has become a cheque that the cash starved government
refuses to cash.
I can’t
help but think of those brilliant flamingos, all colour and grace, winging up
into the dour grey of this bone chilled sky.
Greece;
the gifts it has bestowed are large. Colours and experiences mingle. It burns
deep within me, and I have found more than I had hoped.
