We are aiming for the Grammos mountain.
Driving through the tail end – north western – part of Greece, in the region of Western Macedonia.
Like a low rumble, turning into a rolling boil, the ground rises up dramatically all around us. We stop and ask a man at a precariously tilted petrol station the way to Aetomilitsa.
Aetomilitsa, some way ahead up the mountain before us, was the headquarters of the leftist rebels during the Greek civil war. The operation area for the camped, displaced, guerrilla fighters.
Holding the nozzle in his hand, petrol dripping to the floor, the man turns to us, his face struck in trepidation. “Min pate!” – Don’t go! He implores us. “Aetomilitsa? No, you must not go!”
Why not, I ask, now unnerved.
“The roads” he says, shaking a sad head.
“I went there once,” he tells us – of this journey of less than an hour or so from here – his voice falling to a rasping whisper as he leans a contorted face into the car window… “I will never go there again…”
The man is right though. The roads are poor. Up here in the most northern remote reaches of Greece, no one bothers to come and build or maintain any of the infrastructure.
Even the small roadside shrines that you see all over Greece – small raised-up basilicas, miniature domes with glass frontages that show candles and tiny wooden religious icon, that are placed at the sites of supposed miracles, or, more tragically, by families where a road accident has happened and a family member has been lost, have fallen into disrepair.
The usually fixedly-devoted bereaved have even given up here looking after the dotted sanatoriums on this forsaken road.
We drive over falling down bridges, picked with wide collapsing holes, as we climb further up one side of Grammos mountain. The views down on the ascent we’ve climbed up ripple away as far we can see.
We believe we have an end: a hostel, a lodge we’ve booked into. But we can’t find it.
Eventually we abandon the car and start walking over fields, blissfully ignorant of the mines that were left during the Greek civil war 70 years ago, designed for ratted-out skulking insurrectionary rebels, that nowadays blow unsuspecting goats sky-high in the air.
We continue to plough through these danger fields, searching, onwards towards a farm house we spot glowing in the busily dying sun.
As we crash on to the veranda, demanding to see the owner with complaints of awful directions, we noticed something is wrong.
The light in the open room is dim. Furniture is missing or pushed against – blocking out – dirty windows. A ring of bodies are sat on a crumbly unswept floor, eating from an old saucepan. The heads that turn to us are mohicaned, the styles are tattered, military uniform-looking.
The seeming leader of the gang rises to meet us, see what we want.
“Er…I don’t suppose this is the Grammos Lodge is it?” I say.
Of course it isn’t. We have instead landed on an anarchist co-operative group squatting in this old, holed-out building.
They show great concern at our plight, pouring over their old torn battered map of the area, some arguing and pointing, others at the back kicking stones with big boots, offering us smokes.
“You can stay here if you like”, says one of the anarchists, pointing to the shared quarters and grim camp beds. They offer us the food they have. It is very kind, but we are determined to reach our proposed accommodation.
We had come up the wrong side of this towering 8,000 foot mountain and there’s nothing to do but go down and try again.
Night has fallen fast as we climb closer to the real location of the Lodge.
We managed to get the owner on the phone and are told to take a tiny dirt track.
“Just to tell you,” the owner says “You will probably see a bear. It is possible. Likely, in fact. The thing to do is not to panic.”
Panicking the whole way, we see no bears in the end – only fleeing long legged hares, a head-down purposeful badger scurrying from our headlights.
Distant thunder and the mountain-top illuminated by odd flares of lightening as we finally arrive in the village of Grammos.
Next morning the sun-lit uplands we saw in the late afternoon the day before are wreathed in clouds, bursting to let go with their downpours within.
We sit at the breakfast table with a miserable couple in their waterproofs. They had tried an early hike to the cave on Grammos which had served as the civil war rebels’ hospital – something I had also wanted to see.
But, they tell us, a family of bears have set up their own camp in front of the entrance to the cave. They’d tried to get closer but the mother had raised up on her hind legs, the sound of a father told them he must have been close-by too. It was safe to say the cave was out of bounds.
Instead we take a walk up to the see the remaining walls of the anti-aircraft bases built by the communist rebels at the top of the peaks.
The climb looks tough but along the start we are accompanied by a 73 year old named Eudokia. She is a descendent of Vlach shepherds. Dressed in one long, complete, black, hard-material dress, old fashioned by hundreds of years, with just a belt tied round her waist.
Her Vlach family have died out and she alone now looks after a herd of 200 cows.
She is happy to chat for a while as we walk briskly but clearly gets bored by the pace we can offer and soon vaults a fence and is off, haring up the steep camber. Uncatchable.
The rain sets in and Grammos looks as bleak as its history.
We make our way back down the side of the wet mountain cascade to the Lodge, and sit eating bread and homemade honey with the owner’s parent and hear about the village we are rained in at.
There are only 25 people living here now. At one stage there were 3,000.
The village of Grammos has befallen two monstrous tragedies in its history. The first was when Ali Pasha – that man again: the butcher of the Ottoman empire who had previously haunted us through the state of Epirus – on one of his raids through the north of Greece had fallen in love with a Grammos village girl. When she spurned his advances, Ali Pasha burned the village to the ground in revenge.
Then a century and a half later, in 1949, with the communist fighters forced up into these hills but still resisting the Greek government forces – the government turned to its backer, the United States, who had just developed a new weapon they wanted testing and which they believed could quickly finish the Greek civil war.
And so it was that the Greek government dropped napalm on this village, and on its own people, and sure enough, one August day, the communists last stand was ended. As was the village we sit in now. Only the church left standing.
I stare out the window at a sky as angry as can be. The cloud sat solid on the unhappy scene.
This landscape has been a sad backdrop to many conflicts caught deep within it. The Second World War was played out in these highlands and gullies.
Tasos, the old man of the hotel, brings out an old, thick tin drinking flask. With a shaky hand he shows it to me.
“Koita…” he says – look – and points at a bullet hole that has pierced both sides of this flask.
Tasos pushes the flask to his breast where it would have hung when the soldier wore it. He turns the old vessel over and shows me where its owner had scratched his name. ‘Georgio Fabritsi’.
Tasos was a boy when the Italians came into this village, his father and the other men had tried to fight them back. Tasos found the flask buried while digging the land 60 years later. He now spends his time trying to find the Fabritsi family back in Italy to let them have back a piece, something, a memorial of their relative.
He scurries off, and when he comes back this time, he produces a photo. “Koita…” he tells me again. It is a new colour photo. It appears to be of a snake. A snake poking its head out of a hole.
“Ah. My father wants to know if this is true…” his son says to me.
“You are going to the Prespes lakes, yes? You will see a church there. In the small town of St Germanos. There is a famous legend about this church. On the 15th of August, Panagia’s day, the Madonna’s day, snakes come out of a hole in the floor. They come to protect the church, to protect the Holy mother. When my father went to this church on that day he SAW the snake. It was there! He took this photo of it… but he can’t bring himself to believe it. Can it really be true? Can you find out? Can you tell us?”
The weather clears slightly and so we decide we should try and make a move away from this rain-cocooned mountains.
Tasos stands in the doorway to say goodbye to us with his arm round his wife.
When a baby is born in these rural Greek areas it is the job of one of the boys to race around each village to tell everyone in the squares and bakeries and cafes the news. When his wife was born, it was the 8 year old Tasos’ job to spread the word of her birth.
He did it by telling everyone in each new village “Einai koritsi! Einai koritsi!” – a baby girl has been born. “And one day I’ll marry her!”
The baby girl’s family moved away, but 18 years later she returned to this village. Of course, Tasos fell deeply in love. One father asked the other father, as was the tradition then. And so, sure enough, the 8 year old Tasos’ prophesy came about.
The hugging old couple wave us away as our car picks up speed freewheeling down the mountain dirt track.
We have an appointment to keep with a musical professor acquaintance of R.’s in the village of Kryovrisi.
The large dark house – full of books, lamps, rugs and musical instruments – is one of just a very few in this village. The village looking down on a great sweep of low plain, checked fields.
And pylons and chimneys clumsily trying to hide behind hills.
This area of Eordaia is the centre of Greece’s real power… Four gigantic electricity stations provide three quarters of all of Greece’s electricity, pumping and burning all day and night.
While R. works on a book inside the house, I sit with the professor’s husband on the porch.
He has lived many years in the area, worked his way up from apprentice to one of the directors of one of the power plants. He tells me about Kryovrisi.
“You see this school..?” Vasilis points with his glass towards a sweet old school building sat in a small copse of trees, “There was no school there once upon a time. One man built that school. Built it with his own hands. Taught the few kids here on his own. Then one day he left. He left to join the fighting in the civil war. Later his sons joined him too.”
My story teller shifts his seat round and points his glass close behind my head.
“That was his house, over there.”
We turn to look at a broken down old building.
“His wife looked after it when they were gone. Just her and her young daughters. She would tell people in the village ‘I wish my boys would come back. Just for one day. I wish they would leave the fighting just for one day and come back to see their mother.’”
Vasilis goes quiet, looks at his drink.
“One day there was a knock on her door. Two men from the rebel army. ‘Your sons, they are here…” they tell her. ‘My sons? Here?’ she’s overjoyed, looking over their shoulders, desperate to see her boys.
‘They’re over there,’ they say ‘waiting in the woods for you…’
“There were thick woods here once upon a time” Vasilis’ glass does a sweep out in front of his house. “Thick woods all here… So she tells her daughters to set the table ‘Your brothers will be back home soon!’ and rushes to join the soldiers already walking to the woods.”
Vasilis takes a drink, “The daughters were waiting by that table the whole day.”
“Later the priest is walking back to our village through the woods. He sees the wife. Calls out to her. Wonders why she doesn’t reply…
Hanged. Hanged out there in the woods. Just for wanting to see her sons.” His glass goes down cheerlessly on the table.
“This country has much shame in its history. Much beauty, much glory, but so much shame.”
We spend the evenings in the nearby city of Ptolemaida. A beautifully ugly place.
The large main square – white pavestones, marble sculptures – is heaving every night. Adolescents, parading. In their best, cheap, clothes. Made up. Walking up and down, catching eyes. Dark skinned, dark hair and eyes. Exotic looking. Peculiarly attractive girls and boys. The sons and daughters of the electricity workers. A vivid working class community.
Everyone seems happy to help us: us, two lost, unpolished strangers. People want to talk, want to share. I instantly warm to the place. Even the middle aged ladies working in the bakaliko – the mini markets – are remarkably dressed-up. And flirty.
We stop for pitas. The customary Greek take-out. However, up here in this part of Western Macedonia they have their own idiosyncrasies. Rather than the usual pita bread they use the unleavened lagana bread, bread that everyone else in Greece only eats on the first day of Lent. And quite uniquely they serve giros kebab with beef. I don’t know why, but I order several anyway.
I am sad that we have to end our stop-over around Ptolemaida – an area sniffily looked down on by all the people I had told we would be having a halt here. The wisecracks about how living under the shadow of the power plants they’ll all die young, and we should take care not to stay too long there, just in case, don’t seem funny at all to me as we leave this kind, congenial city. But we have to keep moving.
Navigating round mountains means we’ve overshot slightly on our route, so we back-track a little west and then head north towards the huge lake on the border. But before we reach Greece’s gigantic Prespes Lake we hit the smaller – but still vast – lake at Kastoria.
We approach the town round its tray-flat lake. A rising and falling yelp of houses – all coloured only in white and orange – sitting up, before the mountains beyond.
And as we enter the town, something strange slowly reveals itself.
Every other shop is a large windowed store selling fur. Often with signs written in both Greek and Russian, and always with an incongruous picture – here, under the lavishly bright hot sun – of women models clutching fur hoods pulled tight round pouting faces.
Kastoria got rich years ago on the fur trade and looks now unlike any Greek town I’ve been to. Prosperous, clean, tidy. A little please with itself. A little unwelcoming.
The old town, higher up, is full of handsome medieval-style, Italian-style villas built by the first to have made their money on the fur trade in the 18th Century. Beautiful as they are, I still don’t seem to be able to get a feeling of any great enjoyment looking at this beauty, in these small squares.
It’s only from high up though that you realise that the great expanse of water you look over in Kastoria is only half of the Lake Orestiada. Kastoria is just a jetty, a spur, sticking out into Orestiada. There are tens more kilometres of lake, thousands more litres of ridged freshwater, hundreds of crouping flamingos, all on the other side.
As big as Oresitada is though, we’re soon on the move northwards to a lake 10 times larger. Prespes.
On arriving, we pull into the small village of Microlimni and stop at a quiet taverna on the Prespes lake front. It’s satisfyingly tranquil. A few people having a quiet late lunch. A dog asleep, breathing deepily, under a sedate sun.
Quite unexpectedly though, we notice things suddenly getting busier. People start arriving. More people than can fit in the taverna.
Rather peculiar looking people. People who look like they haven’t been out of their houses in 10 years. Village men uncomfortable in old suits. Farming women awkward in smart clothes. A large headed man, sweating heavily in his old, thick, best clothes, his bushy eyebrows ringing like two wet rugs.
Then, at the next table a young military brass band sit down next to us dressed in full fatigues, fussing and banging huge gold instruments. They are in turn shooed away by four medalled generals in large hats, carrying sticks who sit down importantly in their seats instead.
What can be happening? A crowd has gathered around a covered statue in the small village square outside. A row of rigidly stood soldiers have appeared and start singing – remarkably out of time – the Greek national anthem. A black collection of priests gather and anoint the crowd with swung, smoking thimyataris.
I walk out to see what’s going on just at a sudden moment of stirring in the crowd. Darkly dressed ladies who have been soundlessly crying into handkerchiefs lower them for a moment and stand aside with some reverence to let someone through.
And there I am. Face to face with Prokopis Pavlopoulos – the President of Greece.
No one seems to know what to do. His bodyguards, me, or indeed Pakis– the large nosed, slightly grotesque-looking President.
Eventually he sticks out a hand. I shake it.
“Bravo” I say. I can think of nothing else.
He pauses, a little puzzled. “Er…naste kala.”
He then makes his way to the statue and says some words to the crowd, and some tv camera that have arrived. He unveils a carved man’s face in solid rock as the sombre ladies gasp at handkerchiefs again and then he’s making his way to his presidential car. Turning to look at me, a brief wave of confusion crossing his face again before ducking inside, and he’s gone.
The police guard follows him with a roar down the quiet road, as does a second tuneless rendition of the national anthem, and he leaves this tiny village quiet again, sat unattached and trivial on its huge lake.
The residents file past me, some giving me looks, and eventually I find from one of them that a local, rural policeman here had been shot and was killed on the lake when he uncovered, by unfortunate chance, a smuggling gang out on the waters. Pavlopoulos was here to honour the local man with a statue.
I watch the villagers take off their old suit jackets and slowly start to breathe again. Plates and bottles of ouzo appearing on tables. A back gammon board is opened and cards dealt.
Having raced against the darkness stacking up over the water to get our tent pitched under trees on the lake front, we set off to explore the island of Agios Ahillios,
We drive along the strip dividing the smaller Mikri Prespa lake from Megali and walk across a floating pontoon bridge onto the island, enveloped in a black night.
We cautiously circumnavigate the marshy area of reeds, the looming churches and the few old, large residential houses. Groping our way in front of us in the dark.
Then, pushing through a thicket of trees, we’re suddenly confronted by the sight of a few hundred people, lit-up, sat facing us on a large grass sloped hill clearing.
A stage is illuminated in front of the bashed-about 10th Century Bascilica of Agios Ahillios.
Not knowing what’s going on, we take a seat with the crowd on the grass and wait.
Out from the wings comes Savopolous, the white bearded legendary entehno singer. The Bob Dylan of Greece, so people say. He is then followed by Eleni Vitali, another influential singer of Greek new-wave folk songs. For the next two hours hey play a set of Greek classics, and their own politically-charged songs, long into the night.
I see President Pavlopoulos sat in the prime seat in the front row.
By chance I have stumbled across a performance by two of Greece’s musical royalty here on a lonely island in Prespes – an area that only 30 years ago or so was completely deserted. The closeness to Albania and the history of the civil war meaning anyone wanting to visit the area had to be accompanied by a soldier at all times.
It seems quite incredible.
Pavlopoulos leaves before even halfway though.
We wake next morning on the strip of beach separating the two parts of the lake, a great grove of tall golden reeds around us, fortressing the water under a thickly bright sun.
I open the tent to this scene. And face a morning pelican looking in at us through the door, framed in our tent flap. Behind him a long row of cow arses are lined up, left to right – the owners drinking deep from the lake. These dwarf cows are peculiar to only this one area of Greece.
The pelican takes wing, away from us, over the lake towards the country of Macedonia straight ahead over the horizon. Mosquitos sail past us with a whine as we sit on the shoreline and drink in the scene, and drink camp stove Greek coffee.
We head towards the village of Agios Germanos. Stopping to buy beans and lentils – famous here in Prespes – in a shop standing completely on its own by the side of the road, like the last tooth in an old man’s mouth, surrounded only by miles of sun-baked fields.
The owner pulls out a bottle of tsipouro for us, shares the aubergines he’s frying in the old crumbly back room, chats to us, sits for an age and seems to forget we want to buy anything at all.
There are old, heavy, buff coloured stone houses dotted in scanty collections in the small villages as we approach Agios Germano. A water mill, the odd sun-dappled taverna.
We arrive at the 11th Century church that our old friend back in Grammos asked us to check for snakes.
I am more attracted at first by the newer, 18th Century, church next door. Eccentrically decorated with winged faces lining the wall, preposterous blue, sharp toothed, sea creatures decorating the pews and pulpits. A sign informing that women in bare clothes are not allowed in. And certainly no women (in larger letters, underlined) “in men’s clothing.”
The Byzantine church next door is a tight fit inside. The walls completely covered – festooned – in frescos – like majestic colourful 11th Century graffiti. I swivel my head round and round to take it all in. And then on the floor is a familiar looking hole.
Any sort of snake is very absent though.
I ask one of the villagers outside, tending the grounds – the 100 or so villagers here take responsibility to maintain the church – about the snake rumour. He seems amused at this.
“The children round here,” he points, circling his finger round the scorched mountains surrounding us “They go collecting snakes before August 15th. The priest gives them a few coins each time. And so out they go again into the fields collecting more and more. The priest puts all these snakes into the hole when he sees any people approaching his church.”
Another villager denies this. “No, no. Einai i Panagia! – It’s the Madonna…” He mock-angrily wafts his friends away and clasps my arm and pats it reassuringly “Einai i Panagia, einai i Panagia…” he repeats nodding, smiling kindly.
“They have sacks full! They come to the church with sacks full of snakes!” shouts back his friend from his grass cutting, laughing.
I decide not to tell the old man back in Grammos anything. Let him believe in his miracle in this town of old stone and bewitchery.
Psarades – heading back eastwards along the lake, back past Agios Achillios island that we can now see in the daylight, with its churches and the residents who say they regularly see the ghost of Greek hero Achilles, strolling slow and thoughtful, on the enclave – is busy.
Busy, that is, for an area that only has one bus each week: a scant service that often leaves the locals here stranded.
We sit in a humming taverna and eat the gigantes beans and the carp that are the two singular foods of Prespes (official information signs along the water’s edge with pictures labelling the different types of fish in the lake, insist of carp – grivadi – “This is the fish of Prespes. Do not order anything else to eat”). It’s a little bland to be truthful. As is the local white wine.
We get into an argument with a local fisherman sat on the taverna’s terrace. He’s quite drunk, in a skewwhiff dirty white captain’s hat, and we debate the price of a trip onto the lake in his boat. Eventually for 20 euros he leads us unsteadily down the small wooden wharf and onto his small boat.
The lake is quite incredible. Green jewel-glass, reflecting a sky holding a few let-loose silver-rimmed clouds. Deep and calm.
The boat chugs us out past the frowning cliffs. The old fisherman stops and points up to the high cascading shelf. There, next to a hole in the rock which had housed a lone 14th Century monk, is a large, perfect portrait of the Virgin painted on the rock. Still clear with deep reds and other colours. Like a 14th Century advertising poster.
We round a bend in the bluff and the rough-looking captain puts the boat towards land.
We land on a hidden bay and the fisherman nods us up a high flight of steps cut in the rock. We push up the steps not knowing what to expect and then, there, in a deep crevice in the rock, is a cockeyed ancient church jammed, tight, into the cave.
Built, again, by hermit monks up here 600 years ago. It’s a sweet-looking sloped church, the Church of Panagia Eleousa, crammed in whole below the rough cave slabs with, again, incredible frescoes. Including, sneakily tucked in among the Christs and the Virgins, the slightly incongruous two smiling monk artist responsible for the paintings.
Our old fisherman of Psarades is a proud Greek. However, along with Greek he also speaks Slavic. He speaks nothing but Slavic at home to his equally Greek wife.
It comes from down the years and from the confusion and the turmoil in this area during the Balkan wars when Greeks, Macedonians, Bulgarians united in a struggle against the Ottoman Empire. Older residents of this area still hold this mix of language and hold it passionately. The old man tells us he makes a point of speaking Slavic loudly when he’s out and surrounded by young people.
We carry on out further into the lake and then without warning our skipper suddenly cuts the engine and we drift forward silently. He points to the lake. “Etho…” he says. We look down on the water.
This is the point where the three countries sharing this lake, Greece, Macedonia and Albania, meet.
We bob for a while, in the silence, the lake lapping at the hull, all three of us thinking private thoughts, floating, buoying, from one country to the next out here in tranquil beauty.
Then, with a sigh, the old man starts the boat up again. It coughs, slowly reluctantt to start, and then chugs its way over the rippled expanse.
Back towards Greece, sat there at the shore all this time, waiting patiently for us.
And back to our road trip. The onwards tour of the huge sweep of land and mountains ahead.