More than anywhere in Greece I have yet been, I noticed many locals cycling around near Monemvasia, which was great to see!
I could take my time today as I was making a short 40km hop to catch the ferry to Elafonisos from Pouta. Emails and admin sorted, I thanked the kind owner of Kritikos Rooms, Eleni, who gave me good advice on route options for the day. Even so, she grimaced at the thought of me cycling over the mountains. Nae problem!
Adrian had called to say that, unfortunately he would be unable to drive down to go ‘on the lash’, so to temper my disappointment I treated myself to a lazy lunch at the harbour, finally hitting the road after 2pm.
The first 10 km were a gentle push south along the coast road, which then began to undulate wildly before turning into a sustained climb inland. As expected from my chat with Eleni, the route soon tranformed to perfect new road surface, designed for fast travel to the town of Neapoli. This meant steel barriers and a meagre space for me to safely pedal. However it was quiet and I knew that I was allowed to cycle there. This was confirmed in weird style, when an old gentleman with long white beard and antique aviator googles came from the opposite direction on an e-bike, casting me a nonchalant, almost dismissive, flick of the hand. It was a real WTF moment, the first cyclist I have met on the open road in Greece.
The road continued to swirl upwards around the mountain for 6km. It occurred to me that Greek roadbuilders, instead of taking the path of least resistance – around the obstacle – seem to prefer sending you up as high as possible. There may be strategic reasons for this – Akropoli are perched everywhere at highest points – but it feels sadistic from a cyclist’s perspective. Obviously though, the road network here was only designed with motor vehicles in mind.
After reaching the highest possible point, I was greeted with a steep, frankly terrifying, descent almost straight down. I could see Neapoli on the plain below, with the turquoise Aegean in the background. It took mere minutes to get down to sea level, but with a treacherous wind that knocked me from side-to-side, testing my brakes and my nerves to the max.
I sailed the last 10km to Pounta on a flat road through olive groves being watered by Indian immigrant workers, most of whom gave me the same bemused, curious looks I was by now familiar with, lots of smiles and thumbs-up.
It was windy and overcast when I reached the ferry pier. Pleased with my time, I waited an hour before a boat came to whisk me and several cars the ten minutes across to Elafonisos. Price 1 euro, bicycle free.
On disembarking I wasted no time in cycling to the other side of the island and to marvel at the reason I came, the highly praised Simos Beach. Yes, it is a nice beach and all, but the approach was littered by half-built carbuncles, haphazardly spread around, and abandoned concreted lots plastered with tag graffiti. Horrible. No planning permission obviously, hubris frozen by economic collapse.
I pitched-up at the local campsite, a very strange place. It was off-season, it’s restaurant and bar were closed and the Minimart therein was devoid of stock save for ridiculously priced water, cheese and sugary snacks. And it was filthy. Never mind, I pitched-up and cycled back to Elafonisos town.
On the way I pulled-in to take a call. Some guy passed me on a noisy, piddly quad bike spitting smoke, his girlfriend on the back. They made some intelligible comment, but it was smart-arse from their looks. After my call ended I quickly caught-up and then overtook them on an uphill section, comfortably seated. Funny as hell. He desperarely chased me into town. Several times I would slow to let him catch-up, then shoot-off ahead again. I sat on a wall and smilingly waved as they passed, looking sheepishly irritated. All mouth, no trousers. It was my entertainment for the evening.
Dinner outside the best-reviewed restaurant was disappointing and over-expensive. The main dish was inedible and was removed from my bill when I pointed out it wasn’t what I ordered. I picked-up supplies and poked around the narrow streets. It felt like a formerly popular holiday island that had been supplanted by others, and thus left to die. Surprisingly run down.
I cycled back to the tent in the pitch black, stopping to admire the lights of Neapoli and the mountainside villages just beyond. On arriving, my salutations to other campers went unanswered. Whatever. I sat on a bench, headphones on, drinking a packaged freddo. I was soon blinded by a floodlight switched on by a staff member. When I asked if it could be dimmed again he gave a curt ‘no’ and then stood in front of the switch, arms folded and glaring. WTF is his problem? I laughed and went to the beach instead for a bit of peace.
Earlier, when checking-in, the woman was rather brusque and huffed when I asked for a receipt. Receipts are a recent concept in Greece, imposed by EU rules and to clamp-down on the massive tax fraud that helped get the country into its current mess. I wouldn’t mind, but there was a huge sign on the counter expressing this reality and laying out the requirement. This is the most expensive campsite I have yet used, 15 euro per night for my tiny tent, 10 euro to use the laundry. When pitching-up, another staff member had passed in a van and glowered at me as if I had committed some terrible crime. I didn’t understand this hostility. Is it because I arrived on a bike and not a camper monstrosity with German plates? Meh.
The people around here seem a different breed. Surely the mood will have lightened by morning?