I am in Greece, near Patra en route Athens. The monotonous heat persists. Grows. To leave Albania I crossed the Llogoria mountain range, breathtaking in both senses. I camped cramped at a panorama just beneath the pass, saving descent for morning glory. And so it was with much steeper down than up, hitting 44mph a thousand metres sheer above the Mediterranean; Corfu a dawn mist mirage. It was a good start to the day, soon perfected with sausage, eggs and flatbreads in Vuno. Three days later in Greece I met Michael from Frankfurt pedalling the other way and whilst I envied him Albania I really didn't those Llogorian switchbacks; my rollercoaster his hot slog.
Michael produced lunch from his panniers, a convincing Greek salad dressed in a large stainless bowl with marmalade and cheese sandwiches to side. As he apologised his tupperware margarine, not butter, and lamented lacking mayonaise I thought of my solitary sardine tin - my emergency supernoodles - and was again reminded of the different approaches available. After so many months of (enjoyable) kit-list fretting before I left it is good now, with almost 50 cycling days behind me, to find peace with my own routines; my own approach. But I enjoyed Michael's and the generous lunch. Imagine carrying salad... balsamic vinegar!
I am not averse to 'unnecessary' mileage (the very idea question-begs my whole trip sans-destination) and in Greece this is evidently a blessing. The cursive contours and macerated, leaky coastline give a daily lesson in the virtue-in-trials of the inexpedient route. The country is so cluttered with mountains, peninsulae, channels, sea-lakes and sounds that the scenic route is the only option. Not yet very Zen I sweat and curse the ups and backtracks, sing the downhills and constantly feel victim to some running joke between conspirational or plain clumsy cartographers and their inexact signwriting colleagues. I'm oft lost. Nevermind that most of the signs are Greek to me, they've all been graffitied to illegibility anyway. The bitter work of idle hands was my first thought.
But actually the Greeks look perfectly busy to me, industrious and enterprising in their crisis. Passing appearances of course but the only idlers I see thus far are the elderly gents installed in cafes all afternoon. Happily chattering Greek at me they're all interested in where I'm from (for once not only for football's sake), where I'm going and what do I think about Byron? And Merkel? (Greece's brother and Hitler's sister respectively). I expect Athens will be more telling and I look forward to a younger perspective; fingers crossed for Couchsurfing.
Michael produced lunch from his panniers, a convincing Greek salad dressed in a large stainless bowl with marmalade and cheese sandwiches to side. As he apologised his tupperware margarine, not butter, and lamented lacking mayonaise I thought of my solitary sardine tin - my emergency supernoodles - and was again reminded of the different approaches available. After so many months of (enjoyable) kit-list fretting before I left it is good now, with almost 50 cycling days behind me, to find peace with my own routines; my own approach. But I enjoyed Michael's and the generous lunch. Imagine carrying salad... balsamic vinegar!
I am not averse to 'unnecessary' mileage (the very idea question-begs my whole trip sans-destination) and in Greece this is evidently a blessing. The cursive contours and macerated, leaky coastline give a daily lesson in the virtue-in-trials of the inexpedient route. The country is so cluttered with mountains, peninsulae, channels, sea-lakes and sounds that the scenic route is the only option. Not yet very Zen I sweat and curse the ups and backtracks, sing the downhills and constantly feel victim to some running joke between conspirational or plain clumsy cartographers and their inexact signwriting colleagues. I'm oft lost. Nevermind that most of the signs are Greek to me, they've all been graffitied to illegibility anyway. The bitter work of idle hands was my first thought.
But actually the Greeks look perfectly busy to me, industrious and enterprising in their crisis. Passing appearances of course but the only idlers I see thus far are the elderly gents installed in cafes all afternoon. Happily chattering Greek at me they're all interested in where I'm from (for once not only for football's sake), where I'm going and what do I think about Byron? And Merkel? (Greece's brother and Hitler's sister respectively). I expect Athens will be more telling and I look forward to a younger perspective; fingers crossed for Couchsurfing.
 |
| Llogora |
 |
| Greek |
 |
| bridge to Patra |
Awesome pictures!! Keep them coming xx
ReplyDelete