Saturday morning continued the cyclical trend of calm sunshine followed by bursts of wind and spitting rain. The TV news carried breathless reports of the flooding elsewhere on The Peleponesse, but there was still plenty of time for a swim before the hurricane arrived.
While warming myself on the hot shingle, a heavy downpour arrived to chase the few remaining tourists away. It didn’t relent, so I eventually surrendered and pedalled back to hotel, thoroughly drenched. Parking-up in the garage, there was another touring bike there, belonging to Mat – a Frenchman living in Amsterdam. He was smoking Camels on the hotel porch and we naturally began chatting about the trials of biking in Greece.
We sat on the steps, watching the rains intensify while downing Stella’s apple pie and several bottles of wine we gladly shared with passing locals. It wasn’t long before the downpour subsided, to be overtaken by an evening of fresh breezes, souvlaki, beer and laughs. As the locals predicted, Mount Parnonas had protected Kyparissi from the Medicane.
It turned out that Mat was following the same route – but from the opposite direction – so we could advise each other on the roads ahead. Our motivations and experiences were hilariously similar. Like myself, he had taken the plunge last year, bought a touring bike and bags, and shared my disdain for roadside litter, crazy Greek drivers, constant thorn punctures, ‘social media’ and cynicism.
In both our cases we were the first and only cycle tourers that either of us had met in Greece. Well, apart from those three unfriendly French arseholes with their flashy bikes and support van who had shown-up in town the day before. In contrast, Mat was a really cool, unpretentious guy.
Sunday morning was bright and breezy. I helped Mat fix his brakes and saw him off towards Fokianos. Stopping at Mitropoli for a swim, I also checked my emails. Wish I hadn’t. Among them was an incredibly nasty letter from the Dutch taxman demanding money that I had certainly already paid. Threaten me willya? I resolved there-and-then to close my business on Monday and move it to another country. Fuck those ignorant mafioso pricks. I was furious!
I calmed myself by climbing the hill overlooking the village, to have a closer look at two stark-looking trees that I had admired all week. They must have stories to tell, and indeed there were several abandoned dwellings nearby. Not ancient, but old enough to be historic. I sat there a while, still fuming at robotic officialdom, and wondered what it must have been like to live there with those spectacular views in such a wild and remote place, up on that barren hill. Modern life, even with all it’s advantages, can seem so petty and nasty in comparison.
Later, I headed to the only restaurant I had yet to sample. Run by a gracious elderly couple, I took their recommendation to try the beef stew. An enormous portion was put in front of me, along with fried spuds and a gargantuan green salad. Easily the biggest meal I’ve ever eaten, it was ‘nostimótato!‘ (delicious!). The accompanying jug of barrel rosé was very good indeed, as was the dessert of intense candied citrus rinds. I felt so much better, and yet even more resolute to ditch the Dutch.
After dessert I sat there for several hours, sharing rollies and untranslatable comments with the old men sipping coffee. It was time well-spent, planning my assault tomorrow on the taxman, as well as Monemvasia, which I would reach a week later than scheduled. Sure, I had setbacks – unexpected mountains, bike troubles and a hurricane – but I happily resigned to my fate, and felt privileged to have spent a wonderful week in beatiful Kyparissi.
I am definitely coming back.