Safe Return Doubtful

There was only one monk at the Valtesiniko monastery on Saturday, and on Sunday morning he called over to say that he was away for the day. I think he had expected that I would be visiting the monastery and would be disappointed that it was not open.

Roja and I took on a section of the Mainalon Trail that ran northwest of the village, opposite to yesterday. It climbed to the top of the village, about 150 metres of ascent, then headed out into the forest to a chapel, and after four kilometres to the ruins of a castle.

On Monday morning I drove on to Lagkadia, the terminus of the next stage of the trail. Lagkadia is a popular weekend and summer destination, situated as it is on a steep hill, with a height difference between the foot of the village and its head, over 250 metres. The main street has several hotels, bars and restaurants.

After a couple of hours on the trail here, I decided to move on. It’s not a quiet place to be based for the night. I drove on for half an hour to the south, and the village of Zigovisti, which has only ten houses occupied at this time of year. I parked up at the church in the centre, and was just sorting the van out for the evening when George called past. ‘What do you think of our village?’, he began by asking. Until then I hadn’t seen anyone, though Roja found a street dog whom he befriended. George told me I was welcome, and asked if I needed anything. Though the village gets a few campervans visiting during the season, one at this time of year is rare. A friend of his arrived, Peti, just off the bus from Athens where she works as a dentist. Like many in the profession I suspect, Peti doesn’t enjoy her work. She worked as part of a Dental Practice in England, and enjoyed that, then in a hospital in Athens, but now, in the latter part of her career, she has started her own Practice but finds it difficult to chase the debts of patients that owe her money. She has her mother’s house here in Zigovisti where she retreats to whenever she is not working, enjoying the peace and quiet of this time of year. She has excellent English, from her time spent in London. As the daylight faded and the temperature dropped, she kindly invited me to her house for coffee.

Conversation ranged from the history of the village, to the Greek civil war, to the future home of the Parthenon sculptures, to the King’s tie at the recent COP28, and of course travel, which we both had done plenty of. Peti’s grandfather had built the house after returning with some money from 10 years working in New York City in the 1930s, washing dishes in a restaurant. His wife, he grandmother, suffered depression and never settled. On one occasion the grandfather took her on horseback across the mountains to the north, to Patras, for some treatment for her mental illness, advanced thinking on his part for that time. Sadly though, she hanged herself here, in the house not long later. That left Peti’s mother and older sister to be brought up, during the civil war that pitched those on the right side of Greek politics against those on the left, by just her grandfather. The civil war actually saw more Greek dead than the World War that preceded it.

Memories of Zigovisti will stay with me a while, and I’ve only been here a few hours. Few times have I made so welcome.