Safe Return Doubtful

The road from Ambelakiotissa to Ano Chora is typical of what I have been driving for the last few weeks as I have meandered from north to south down the spine of the Pindos mountains. 10 kilometres took 45 minutes, initially down steep-sided hairpins 350 metres vertical descent to the Kakkavou river. Here is a picnic area created by the local people, particularly one local guy who made signposts for local footpaths, also maintaining them himself until 3 years ago when age caught up with him. There is a footpath between the two villages through the gorge, taking in a stone bridge from the sixteenth century also, but it has fallen into disrepair, and in such a gorge, this means it is now impassable.

From the river the road then climbs 450 metres, creeps around the side of the mountain on a section washed out 5 years ago, and repaired only in the mist basic of ways, before arriving at Ano Chora.

Though Ano Chora receives many more visitors than its neighbours, its population in winter is only 11. My pictures show the infrastructure for visitors, smart hotels, several cafes and restaurants, a craft shop, but thereby lies the problem. More than 90% of the properties are second homes or holiday lets.

One cafe and one tavern remain open all year. I took coffee at the cafe this morning, then Roja and I headed down into the gorge on foot. Our destination was the old community of Souzika, of which only their church remains, built in 1873. For a while it was looked after by the folk of the village, in 1932, who moved to one of the nearby communities, and these days, to their descendants. The church bell is of particular significance. When Souzaika was inhabited it rang out on special days, Christmas, Easter, Epiphany, the Dormition and Nativity of Theotokos, in all 14 times a year. And it still does, though situated in such a remote place few people other than those gathered, hear it.

We were back at the van for mid-afternoon as the weather was forecast to change. The predicted rain arrived a bit later than expected, but with it quite a significant temperature drop, just 8C at 6 pm, and thundery rain showers. Winter is coming.

In a break between showers I walked the few hundred metres into town, it being Friday. There’s a few visitors for the weekend, many of the houses are owned by people from the nearby cities of Nafpaktos and Patras. The tavern doesn’t seem very welcoming from the outside but inside the landlord was extremely hospitable. Particularly to Roja. Outward appearances can deceive.

In his little English he called me Volkswagen Man, then told the couple on the adjacent table some details of my van; a kitchen with an oven, heating even. That much Greek I can understand. There’s no chance of anonymity in these small villages at this time of year. The few residents all know me already; the miserable cafe guy with the salubrious but inhospitable premises, the old guy who walks his bulldog past me twice a day, the guy painting his hotel across from me, the woman in the craft shop who haloos me each time I pass. Such is off-season Kravara village life, and it’s a pleasure to experience.