Settling-in for the Winter

So, where was I? Oh yes, Mavrovouni, a tiny village 5km south of Gytheio. I’ve decided to bed-down here for a few months, for several good reasons.

Mavrovouni beach – time for another dusky swim

Firstly, with the catastrophic government failures of managing the coronavirus ‘up north’ there’s little point in travelling there now. Besides, I can’t even enter the Czech Republic for the next month. So after speaking to some locals there are already several options open for cheap apartments. I can keep working on my projects, with the option to do seasonal labour harvesting olives throughout November and December. I’ve found a Greek teacher, even though english is fairly well spoken around. Early crude attempts at the lingo have generally been appreciated with a smile. The Greek alphabet is a big challenge to start with though.

Secondly, my opinion of Gytheio has changed again. It’s actually a pretty interesting place and I’ve met some cool people here. The population is a surprisingly small 5,000, but this balloons at the weekends with the influx of Athenians. It seems they are despised for their showy arrogance and tendency to look down on the locals. There are lots of interesting abandoned buildings on the hill behind and I could see myself bagging one for cheap and doing it up. It makes a great base for exploring the surrounding area by bicycle, not just on the Mani peninsula, but north to Sparta and the archaeological sites nearby.

Cranae Island, off Gytheio. Legend has it that Helen and Paris spent a night here before sailing for Troy

Thirdly, I’ve committed now to helping at the local animal shelter for a few months at least. Currently there are 190 dogs on-site, and many more stray dogs and cats need to be fed daily at points around the area. The animal welfare situation here is pretty dire. Many of the dogs have been appallingly treated; chained for life, starved, poisoned, hit by cars, disease-ridden and dumped. Shooting strays seems to be a sick sport, and there are apparently people who would spitefully kill the dogs at the shelter, should they find it. Hence the location is a closely guarded secret.

On my first day I was collected by Jeroen, a Dutch former tax inspector (helloooo!) who gave up the rat race 10 years ago to live in the area. He and his wife volunteer with the two local ladies who established the shelter. We drove up into the mountains, about 15km mostly on unmarked dirt tracks until we reached an uninhabited valley full of terraced olive trees. As soon as we came over the final hill the dogs began barking in unison which, admittedly, was quite intimidating. Many of the dogs are allowed to roam free in the valley as a pack, and they ran towards the jeep, not in an aggressive way, but like a welcoming party for Jeroen. When I stepped out I was immediately mobbed by large pooches jumping up on me, covering me in paw prints and globs of saliva.

The next few hours was spent cleaning out the cages, refilling the food containers, providing fresh drinking and bath water. The dogs have a range of personalities from boisterous to timidly scared, but they all respond well to personal attention, which is just as important as feeding them. Some recent arrivals were in a sorry state and still fearful. By the end of the first 4 hours most of them had gotten used to me and were happy to mill around for pats and ear scratches. It was hard work but rewarding. I’m looking forward to learning all of their names and seeing how I can help in other ways, such as badly needed fundraising, especially for medicines and veterinary fees for neutering.

Otherwise, work has been busy, especially now with lots of enquiries about the Commission publication, which needs to be taken further. Sitting outdoors on the laptop affords plenty of chances for conversation and I’ve struck-up friendships with the campsite personnel.

Tuesday evening was spent drinking Retsina with Alve and talking with passers-by. Retsina is an interesting ancient wine but not my cup of tea, best described as vinegar flavoured with pine sap.

Wednesday saw Alve head to Crete with his velopede. He became something of a celebrity in the area, zipping around in his far-out machine, being constantly surrounded by curious onlookers taking photos and asking questions. On his last day we agreed to meet in town for lunch before seeing him off. I cycled ahead and surprised him by shooting a video of the velopede zooming past, so he could put it on his blog. That thing flies!

I’ve got Homer’s number

Sunday morning was a lazy one, a couple of swims, and replacing both tubes on the bike which by now had two slow punctures. Lucky I had the spares!

I wanted to have a proper look around Githio nearby, and had a tasty lunch there. But the town overall, despite the initial positive impressions, gets a solid ‘meh’ from me. Too many hucksters and ‘poseurs’ for my liking, and the areas outside the centre are typically run down and filthy. There is however a nice promenade that stretches for a couple of miles, full of evening walkers and – gasp! – cyclists!

Retiring to the campsite with a bottle of wine, I spent a comatose evening lolling about outside the tent before heading to the beach to look at the moon. And what a sight it was.

Maybe I was lucky that night, but the perfect conditions prevailed for some spectacular views. A bright, three-quarters moon with speedy cloud formations and distant storms incoming. It had it all: the beams of light poking out from behind charcoal black clouds, hitting the churning sea and bouncing back off the mountains. Wispy cloudlets with delicate purple-brown hues danced around the edges, and periodically the dark billows would sail over the mountain villages before dumping their heavy load and moving-on. Spectacular stuff, inspiring to any artist. I imagined Homer frantically scribbling the Iliad and Odyssey under such conditions, as if looking into the eye of Zeus. I was also reminded of the paintings of Turner, and what he spent his whole life chasing but never fully managed to capture. All I had to do was sit on a dark deserted beach and the glory revealed itself to me. It was simply mesmerising.

Monday was a work day. I installed myself in a cool little outdoor office on the campsite and dispensed with all tasks. It was looking like a busy week and, since my next destinations south would be rather remote, I decide to stay until Wednesday to ensure good WiFi for upcoming teleconferences.

Besides, there are some coastal villages nearby that are not so accessible, but within walking distance. Also, the campsite is particularly nice, especially since most of the weekender camper vans has disappeared first thing that morning. I also took the opportunity to repair the damaged tubes. I’ve had 8 punctures in the last two weeks, each time requiring several patches to plug.

Tuesday and Wednesday were much the same: little excitement, a few trips around on the bike, plenty of swims to cool down (it’s still unusually hot, around 32 degrees), and hours tapping away on the laptop in between calls and hummus sandwiches.

Thursday? In the words of the late Mitch Hedberg: ‘I’m tired of following my dreams. So I’m just gonna ask where they’re headed, and I’ll hook-up with them later’.

In that spirit, Friday was a day of total indolence, sleeping outside my tent for most of it, going for a swim when things got too hot, and drinking a bottle of the cheap local plonk.

Refreshed, Saturday was to see me back on the road south, however this was prevented by two events. Firstly the sight of an impressive-looking recumbent bicycle – more correctly a Velomobile – which pulled into the campsite; and secondly a chance contact with the local animal shelter, where I have offered to volunteer my help.

The Velomobile belonged to a retired Swedish mariner called Alve Henricson. It’s an enclosed vehicle, looking like a bobsleigh on wheels, with a trailer of two large solar panels. These provide power to charge the gearbox, which provides assistance when going uphill, or when the speed goes below 25km/hr. An impressive-looking machine!

Alve saw my bike and came over to chat. He immediately recognised my Big Apple tyres and we discussed the road conditions and our respective routes. He s a seasoned traveller and has cycled all the way south from Nordkapp, the most northerly point of mainland Europe, in Norway. He is the founder of the 202020 challenge, where similar-minded velomobile owners aimed to tour through 20 countries each, on their own bespoke routes, during 2020. Obviously the pandemic has dented this ambition, but I was still impressed with the mileage he has covered, and his general outlook. We went for dinner at the nearby beach tavern and spent a nice evening discussing the trials of touring, and life in general.

I also was in touch with the local animal shelter, the Melios Animal Protection Society. As I can’t get back into the Czech Republic for the next month at least (due to state of emergency and my expired residency permit), I’ve decided to overwinter in Greece. I can work the day job from here, and make myself useful in other ways. They were delighted with my offer, so I will be visiting on Monday to work out how I can provide some practical help. The animal welfare situation in Greece is quite poor, there are a lot of stray and abandoned dogs and cats, and I’ve come across some horses in a horrendous state. Also, something I’ve noticed is thatthere are surprisingly few birds around.

The shelter is run by two local ladies and three volunteers. So I should be able to lay-low down here in cheap accommodation, learn some Greek, and see where we sit in a few months’ time regarding the virus situation.

Sunday turned out to be a scorcher, so I opted for yet another day of sloth; reading, swimming and cycling around the local hills.

Day 27: Skirting the Laconian Gulf

Sleep came easy and I was unconscious for a solid ten hours. Starting out groggy and unenthusiastic, I felt much better after a few kilometres, even without breakfast.

My target for today would be Mavrovouni, 70km away, and my first stop on the Mani peninsula, the next ‘finger’ of the Peleponesse. I wasn’t going to kill myself however. Most of the journey would be on small roads hugging the coast of the Laconian Gulf, with only a couple of short inland stretches on yesterday’s highway of death.

It being Saturday, I hoped for less commercial traffic, and it seemed that my intuition was right. Also, the main road was more forgiving in this section, with a decent cycling space, good surface, and generally devoid of lacerating vegetation. The few dogs I met couldn’t have given less of a shit about some sweaty guy pedalling past.

The most poignant memorial yet, after my own brushes with death yesterday.

It wasn’t long before I was sailing through the streets of Papadianika, a mid-sized wholly Greek town. I passed a church hosting an Orthodox funeral, so I stopped for a coffee across the street to observe events, the atmosphere dominated by over-amplified chanting priests.

The deceased was carried out in an eleborate ebony casket and quickly driven away. I stood with the old men to pay respect. A group of young beer drinkers nearby looked me up-and-down, debated among themselves, then reluctantly got up to make a half-hearted sign of the cross. Once the hearse had departed a fresh round was ordered and the party really kicked off. It reminded me of the buzz in any rural Irish market town on a Saturday afternoon.

From there it was back to a quiet coast road with awesome cliff views, and a beach that seemed to stretch forever across the armpit of the Gulf. The route was softly undulating, allowing a satisfying pace, but it was hot and gusty. I hydrated at several fuel stations along the way, all of which were crowded with local men doing business, scribbling in notebooks over freddos. These garages are the social outlet in these parts, as there is nowhere else to congregate.

I wafted through endless olive and lime groves, and sleepy agriculture towns where locals were happy to exchange pleasantries. Much less pleasant was the immense amount of roadside litter and fly tipping. Disturbingly, a lot of this waste included discarded pesticide containers and application injectors, most dumped in eutrophied ditches. I took many pictures and will be chasing-up with the companies involved. This is not to excuse the Greek predilection for littering which, frankly, is a national embarrassment.

Overall though, it was a very pleasant day of trundling, perhaps the most enjoyable yet. There was a period of strong headwinds, but it turned into a typically lovely, sunny evening. 10km outside of Mavrovouni I parked at a layby to watch and listen to the huge breakers below, as the sun set on the mountains beyond. Shame about the toilet ‘facilities’ though.

To get to the campsite at Mavrovouni I needed to go straight through the large tourist town of Githio. I was expecting a standard Greek piss-up venue, but it’s actually a very nice place, with a long promenade leading to a centre choc-full of upmarket restaurants hosting mostly well-heeled Greeks, with their speedboats and yachts parked nearby.

Strangely and by coincidence, just then I had a recurring attack of jogger’s nipple. With such a debilitating condition I would need to spend Sunday recovering, and maybe dine with the jetset in one of these fine establishments 😜

But for tonight it was onwards to Camping Meltimi up the road. Now THIS is a campsite! Situated on a lovely beach, well-managed and reasonably priced at 10 euro per night. I found a quiet spot under an olive tree, pitching-up on soft grass. Then it was a walk along the sand to a nearby tavern for a dose of fried cheese, peppers and rice while listening to sweeping Greek ballads. No idea what they’re singing about, but it all sounds so damn tragic. Raki was poured down my throat in recompense.

No tragedy here though. Great day, good mileage, happy out!

Day 26: The road to Archangelos

Today was to be an easy one: roll off the ferry and down to Neapoli to pick up bike spares, then head north along the coast to the fishing village of Archangelos.

While packing, a smiling Dutch couple approached to ask about my route. They were also touring – albeit with camper van support. We compared notes and it turned out they had also come through Kyparissi and Monemvasia. They had been where I was headed over the coming days and told me to expect many treats. They had even met Mat a few days back.

I wasn’t sorry to leave Elafonisos, and I was in a jolly mood on the flat over to Neapoli. The bike shop was closed though. I asked around in the neighbouring cafés, but they could only confirm the obvious. So I phoned the listed number. The irritable lady on the line told me that someone might be there at 3pm. I really needed new inner tubes and a puncture repair kit, but didn’t feel like hanging around for 5 hours. I went for a freddo and to consider my options.

The next bike shop would be in Kalamata, and I knew from Mat that thorn punctures were assured before then. But I also had a patched tube ready, and a small amount of resin. I could probably poach some rubber elsewhere. Besides, I didn’t like Neapoli, it had a rather bad vibe about it, with lots of miserable and haggard looking residents milling about aimlessly. So I decided to risk it and set off north.

Luckily there was somebody in the shop as I passed. So I knocked on the window, to be ‘greeted’ by another irritated character. It felt like a huge imposition to purchase two tubes and a repair kit from him. He huffed and fumbled in his pockets for change and gave no receipt. As I was leaving I thought ‘no wonder the Greek economy is in the toilet’.

Onwards I went, safe in the knowledge that Archangelos was only 30km away, and there seemed to be no big mountains on the map, so it would be a short day on the road. What I hadn’t reckoned was that this road would turn out to be the most demanding and dangerous so far.

It threw everything at me: narrow, winding, no hard shoulder, busy with speeding trucks and arsehole drivers, steep climbs, vicious cross-winds, protruding thorn bushes, rockfalls, broken glass. And dogs, big aggressive ones that gave chase. One managed to catch up on me but I quickly dismounted and twatted it with my GoPro boom. It won’t be chasing cyclists again, even if they are certainly a rarity on this road.

The people around these parts seem to be a different breed. Impatient and abusive drivers would try to run me off the road. On the few short downhill sections they would come right up behind me and continuously honk, almost hoping that I would crash and burn. There were frequent insane passing maneuvers in both directions. Really dangerous stuff! Memorial chapels were all along the road. Go figure!

I did my best to ignore all the noise and focus on the latent hazards, but after 20km I was drained and my nerves were shot. Exhausted, I pulled into an olive grove to gather myself for a good hour. The view was specatular, even if my camera couldn’t capture it well.

Setting off again, this time with gritted teeth and a determination not to take any more shit, I soon reached the turnoff for Archangelos. Gliding down to the village was like entering a different world. The first thing I noticed was the Blue flag boldly flying over the beach, with info boards from the local enviromment committee, colourful flowers and neatly arranged recycling bins. Everything was clean and well managed, a really pleasant place to be. What a contrast from yesterday! Clearly the villagers take pride, and I respect that.

I swam at the small village beach – richly deserving of it’s accolade – and went for a really tasty meal nearby.

Simple but delicious- baked feta in olive oil, peppers and tomatoes.

My plan was to wild camp at the strangely-named Oink Beach a few miles away, but I felt I needed a proper bed, which I found for cheap around the corner. I ensconced myself outside a local bar which obligingly helped me to unwind after a really challenging day.

Simos: a real Greek tragedy

A good sleep-in was on the cards, let the leg muscles recover a bit. Salts also needed replacement.

Late morning was a chance to really sort out the bike, clean it and generally give it a decent servicing. The back wheel seemed to have a slow puncture. I was missing a tyre lever. Removing the tube revealed its location – it had been in the tyre cavity all along, since the last repair at Fokianos. D’oh! There’s a lesson there somewhere, but I’m not quite sure what it is.

The Bulgarians next door whispered among themselves while I dismantled everything, cleaned, greased, oiled and re-bolted. All was looking good but I would need to visit the bike shop in Neapoli in the morning, to buy extra tubes and a new puncture repair kit.

After another snooze I headed out to see all the fuss about Simos beach. As I noted yesterday, the approach road to the campsite was less than inviting, but taking the more popular route to the beach left me pretty shocked. The place is a horrid mess – see the photos.

All around are half-built carbuncles left to rot, the construction sites now filled with waste and smathered with crap graffiti. So this is the way to famous Simos beach? It’s a picture of corruption, greed and mismanagement. If I was a local I would be outraged. But I’m not, and they clearly aren’t.

At the beach head are a couple of bar/testaurants that were open. Shitholes. Plenty of tourists were drinking in the sun, oblivious or unconcerned about the fetid disaster around them. Somebody needs a good kick up the hole.

Would you eat or drink in a place like this?

The beach itself is a wonder, actually two beaches seperated by a narrow tombolo. Sandy with typically clean water, though shallow for a long way out.

The bars have extended their grubby tentacles down to the shore, with beach recliners costing 30 Euro per day. They were all occupied by white-skinned neophyte sunseekers clutching bottles of overpriced beer. All-over were dumped pallets with plenty of protruding rusty nails. Plastic straws and their wrappings littered the sand, along with other surprises just below the surface. I was hugely disappointed to see how they are ruining this beautiful place.

I was reminded of my meeting with Mat – the tourer from Amsterdam. We both marvelled at the litter and mismanagement of the Greek countryside. He put it elegantly: in northern Europe people think ‘this is my country, I should protect it’. In southern europe the attitude is ‘this is my country, I can do what I want’. Maybe a generalisation, but it certainly seems true in Greece from what I have seen. Simos was a new nadir.

Apart from all that, I did have something to celebrate. The EU Commission finally published a report I wrote last year – non-animal models of lung diseases. It seems to have been well received and I thought I could pat myself on the back for the fruits of some very hard work that actually means something for a change.

So I went to a tiny family run place down a backstreet. I had the place to myself and was made very welcome. As I was the only customer the owner invited me to eat with the family. The food was amazing: fried feta with honey, and the best Moussaka I have tasted, and a fishy stew. With barrel rosé wine naturally. It made a nice change from the rip off tourist joints on the waterfront. Really lovely people, restored some faith in the place.

The owner’s son recommended that I visit Diros caves near Aeropoli. Tomorrow I head north towards the fishing village of Archangelos.