In order to go further south from Kyparissi, I would need to cycle along the mountain road to Pistamata, which is considered to be the most dangerous drive in Greece.
However, Storm Ianos, brewing off the western Mediterranean coast, had strenghtened to a ‘Medicane‘ and due to hit Southern Greece over the coming days, pummeling the area with heavy rain and winds until Sunday. I was advised not to attempt the trip, even by car, until the maelstrom had passed.
Naturally devastated by this news, I was left with no option but stay a few extra days in the most beautiful village in Greece, housed in a cosy cheap hotel, eating delicious breakfasts and dinners washed down with litres of local rose wine in-between visits to the beach and chatting with the friendly locals.
I went off for a swim, to ponder this terrible situation 😜
Of course I could have made a dash for it, but by midday I knew the decision was a wise one. I watched from the beach as heavy clouds enveloped the mountaintops, obscuring the road high above. I would have been blind on that treacherous road.
The sun still baked the beach, and conditions were ideal for cycling up and around the village with it’s challenging steep hills, returning frequently to cool off in the water, and taking-in some work calls.
The local people respond with a smile to a simple ‘Kaliméra‘ (Good morning/day) or ‘Yiá sou‘ (Hello) and really appreciate the little effort it takes. In contrast I always found the Dutch would ridicule my accent and grammatical errors, while Czechs would just tell me not to bother, because the language is ‘too hard’. Older Greek men always give a surprised grin when greeted with a military-style salute or a simple tip of the baseball hat.
In the evening I sat outside a restaurant and asked to be taught how to properly drink Ouzo. Instead of it being an aperitif, as I had always thought, or a digestif, Ouzo is meant to be sipped (after addition of a generous splash of water) in accompaniment with small plates of food. There is no rush, consume that aniseed goodness in a slow, contemplative way. While I had no dinner partner, I frequently exchanged a raised glass and a ‘Yia Mas!‘ (cheers) with the local men sitting nearby. I was pretty mashed by the time I got back to the hotel.
At that stage it was raining heavily, with strong gusts. But the weather didn’t worsen overnight.
Up before the sun peeked over the surrounding mountains, I was intent on getting to grips with the two punctured tubes. I had the beach almost to myself and it was eye-rubbingly gorgeous.
Morning view from the tent, Fokianos
After a swim, I was approached by an elderly couple from Innsbruck, who had just arrived in their camper. Seeing my bike forlornly dismantled, they offered me a spare tube. But it was too small; I’m sporting larger 29 inch wheels. I gladly accepted their offer of coffee though. Lovely people, we had a skeletal conversation in German about must-visit areas of Greece.
Then it was time for microsurgery. I stood waste-deep in the still, clear water, a piece of chalk in my mouth, and I hunted-down every leak in both tubes. I had those suckers patched in minutes. They dried in the sun while I had breakfast of crushed emergency biccies, a freddo from the now opened beach bar, and another swim.
After putting the bike back together, I headed off along the new coast road to Kyparissi which, in the morning sun, looks like a freshly-cut wound on the mountaisides. It’s not far away, so I vowed to take my time after yesterday’s exertion, thus spending long periods sitting on the roadside to admire the awesome Aegean vistas. I kept my promise to wave back at the Austrians from the ridge, and they duly reciprocated.
The bike had started to act up again. So I thought, ‘right you bastard, I’m going to sort you out once and for all‘. I pulled-in and spent nearly two hours re-seating the tyres, aligning the brakes and the gear derailleurs, greasing and oiling all moving parts, tightening every bolt. My earlier tube repairs were holding up though, which made me happy. I would be seriously screwed if I couldn’t roll, and there are no bike shops around these parts. Every local who drove past offered me help, but I was on top of it. Nice people here, very friendly! By this stage I was looking the real road-warrior: covered in black grease with sweat dripping from my nose. A walk-on part in the next Mad Max movie would be guaranteed had George Miller driven past.
The remaining jaunt to Kyparissi was very pleasant. Few cars passed me in either direction, the road surface was basically perfect and the climbs, when they came, were immediately rewarded. It was hot but cloudy, with a nicely cooling sea breeze all along.
It was mid afternoon when I turned the last corner before town, and it looked the ticket. I availed of another fully-clothed swim on a tiny beach near the adjoining village of Mitropoli then, almost horizontal, drifted-onthrough the narrow whitewashed streets of Kyparissi. Is this the prettiest town in Greece? I don’t know, but it’s definitely up there!
Kyparissi
Starving, I stopped at a restaurant terrace overlooking the town beach and had a delicious souvlaki with potatoes, peppers and lime-butter sauce.
Late lunch
It is permitted to camp on the beaches here, but the cute Hotel Paraliako enticed me. I got a room for 30 Euro. The host, Stella, gave me two slices of cake, straight from the oven, topped with candied orange slices. I devoured them on my private terrace. A perfect welcome 🙂
Welcome to Hotel Paraliako
Earlier, while munching the souvlaki, a man looking like Richard Dawkins walked-by. I played with the idea of hunting him down to extol my passionate defence of Lamarck. But then I said ‘fukit’ and opted instead to sup a beer on the balcony, listening to the local women chatting over dinner below. I don’t know what they were eating, but it smelled damn tasty!
After a really enjoyable meal at Poulithra harbour, I headed back to the campsite, intent on a good night’s sleep. But I got very little. Of the majority German caravaners, several had brought large dogs for the journey, and these spent most of the night barking. At 4am I could take no more, pulled-on my hoodie and went to the beach. I happily slept there until just after sunrise, being woken by the heat of the sun.
I had some work to do before setting off – a teleconference at 9am – so I prepared for that, went for a swim, then patched-up the inner tube from yesterday’s thorns. It was also a chance to wash my clothes. Efforts were fuelled by several double espressos, both warm and ‘freddo‘. I finally got away from ‘die Hunde‘ at 2pm, and went looking for the road to Kyparissi.
I consciously decided not to look up any details on Kyparissi before travelling. Vassilis had waxed about how Lady Di and George Bush had found solitude there, due to its inaccessibility by road until recently. But all he had to say was that it was worth the effort to go there; enough of a recomendation for me!
But first I had to negotiate the mountains over to Fokiano, and there were two posible routes. I canvassed for opinion from a group of local lads, who promptly formed a committee. Their adjudication was to take the longest route because, although both involved significant climbs, the shortest way was far too steep for a bicycle, even though they didn’t know anyone crazy enough to go either road. Also, there would be far less traffic. I put my faith in them, loaded-up with water and headed off.
No shit! Can you see the road up there?
I was immediately climbing and could see trucks above, slowly coming downhill in first gear. Gulp! I put the head down and tried to get a steady pace going. Then: pssssssssst. Oh crap, another puncture! Same wheel as yesterday. Again, I was resigned to my fate and parked up to begin repairs. Thankfully, changing to the re-patched tube wasn’t too much trouble, but I could now only hope that I had found all the puncture holes. I was unable to find an obvious cause of today’s puncture. I was looking for thorns and found none. After carefully listening out for air seepages, I concluded it was a damaged valve. Bummer.
Oh dear!
Passing truck drivers all gave a friendly wave or honk when saluted. Most of them were laden with ore of some kind, from a quarry uphill. Several passing locals stopped to ask if I needed help. Heartening! By now it was 3pm, so I resigned myself once again to a day of little mileage, hoping instead to cover the 35km to Fokianos before dark. Touch wood, I would have no more bike troubles today 🙏
Long story short, I climbed for 25 solid km along the mountain ridges, and it was exhausting in the heat. But the higher I went, the more spectacular the surrounding scenery. I had the road almost to myself, so I could maintain a momentum. Glacial pace, yes, but momentum nonetheless, for three solid hours that tested me physically and mentally.
I came from waaay down there
At one point I cursed the sadism of the road builders, and even considered turning around and gliding back down to Poulithra. But I knew that a reward would eventually be on the other side, in the form of a glorious descent back down to sea level. It did, and it was worth it.
I conquered the bastard
It was dusk when I first saw Fokianos. An incredible sight, no camera could do it justice in the poor light. I parked at a bend in the road and sat there for a while, drinking-in the glory of it. The road to Kyparissi was visible, newly cut into the mountainsides, stretching into the distance.
My first view of Fokianos after a day in the mountains.The freshly-cut coast road to Kyparissi
I allowed gravity to bring me there. My back tyre had by now noticeabley deflated and needed a shot of air to finish the day. It was completely flat when I arrived at the beach, and by then it was dark.
Fokianos is a beach with a couple of bars, only one of which was open. The barman looked me up-and-down when I asked for a menu, then consulted the owner about my suitability. I must have looked a state: parched, hungry and covered in sweaty bicycle grease.
But they served me; two chunks of beef smothered in spaghetti. Tasteless really, but I didn’t care as I made light work of it.
By now it was pitch black. I dragged the deflated bike to the other side of the beach, flung the tent up on the shingle, and collapsed outside it. A cute kitten appeared looking for food. I didn’t have any, but it stayed around anyway.
Based on existing maps, it seemed simply impossible to take a coast road all the way to Monemvasia, so I was steeling myself for a brutal day of sustained inland climbing in oppressive 37 degree heat.
I was a little annoyed with myself to have woken late on my make-or-break day. I dropped in to the campsite reception to have a strong coffee. The owner, Vassilis, was sitting outside smoking rollies, doing his accounts. We struck up a conversation that kept me there until 11am. It was more than worth it.
A riotously funny, well travelled man, he told outrageous tales about his time working the Saudi oilfields. We laughed at our mutual experiences working in bars in the US, and the generally messed-up state of world affairs.
He gave me a lot of recommendations for places to visit, and told me not to rush to Monemvasia. He advised a stop on the beach at Poulithra. Crucially, he pointed me to a new coast road between Fokanios and Kyparissi that is not yet marked on any maps – including Google. Brilliant! This will save me a lot of sweat, while allowing me to visit Kyparissi, reputedly the most beautiful village in Greece, which was otherwise only accessible by sea. I thus started my climb into the hills with a great deal of optimism. Also, the traffic was much lighter, it being Monday, and the Athenian day trippers back at their desks.
After the initial ascent I was greeted with a long, gently descending twisting road to sea, with gorgeous scenes. I wanted to stop and take snaps, buy I wasn’t about to waste that momentum, and the cooling breeze it afforded. When I did stop, it was to redistribute weight – mostly the 4 litres of water – which was causing a slight wobble. I gave the bike a once-over because I needed to place my total faith in it today.
Just then a work call came from Brussels, so I had to whip out the laptop and hold an impromptu teleconference outside a roadside garage, much to the amusement of the two auld lads slouched nearby.
Everything was going nicely, the climbs were not too bad, and there were a couple of exhilarating downhill stretches:
On one of these, as I was cruising at over 50km/hr, I felt a sudden skid and a wobble. I thought it might be an oil patch; the road was hot and I had noticed that my tyres sounded quite ‘sticky’ in some sections. But this was more serious: my first puncture. Hooray!
Far from being upset, I saw this as a right of passage for any tourer, and a chance to implement my repair skills honed months ago on the kitchen floor. But first I needed to properly assess the damage, and for this I would need to get off this narrow road. So I started walking with the bike to the next sign of habitation and safety. Then the phone rang, Brussels again, and I spent 30 minutes talking to a colleague who believed I was sitting at my desk in Prague. If only she knew 😁
Off I pushed to the next town of Leonidio, visible 5km away and, tantalisingly, downhill. I chanced sticking my thumb out at passing pickup trucks, while pointing at the flat tyre. No sympathy was forthcoming. This was still a dangerous road so I spent my time lugging the bike to opposite sides at the many bends. After a while I came to a shaded lay-by and decided to bite the bullet: begin the repair and hope that some saintly van driver would spot my pickle and offer a lift.
Pity wasn’t needed though because I had the wheel off and tube out in seconds. Inspecting the tyre I found 7 embedded thorns. Another hazard to watch for! Some had completely entered the cavity, so I spent several minutes carefully ensuring they were all accounted for. I replaced the tube and flicked the tyre back on, using my bar of Palmolive and the last of my water to lubricate the rims. Pumping until I heard that satisfying ‘pop’ that signified all was nicely seated, I reloaded the bags and glided down to Leonidio for lunch, including a celebratory chocolate milk.
Roadside repair – not too shabby!
Leonidio is a quaint looking town with narrow streets, lots of locals perched outside cafes passing unintelligible comments as I sailed past. But the town suffers from the common Greek inability to sweep up, and the stiff breeze blowing through the streets only served to widely distribute the horrific stench from open bins. Such a pity!
Leonidio – pretty but smelly
Poulithra was only 10km away though, so I popped over at a nice pace, to set up camp on the beach outside of town. I met a couple of friendly elderly Germans who were curious about the bike, and I swam on the amazing beach nearby.
Paralia Poulithra
So, not much distance today, about 40km, and still some way from Monemvasia by road, but Kyparissi is close by and yes, I could confirm that there is a spanking new coast road all the way there. I also broke my touring cherry by fixing a flat under challenging conditions, so all is good.
I may be a few days behind schedule but, as I see it, it just means more time to spend in Greece. Fantastikós!
Yesterday’s breakers had given-way to a perfectly still sea, into which I ran and blindly dived, head-first into a blacmange of giant jellyfish! Luckily they weren’t stinging today.
The beach south of Astros
After stretches on the beach I caught up with the Sunday news and was really saddened to see that Navid Afkari had been hanged in Iran, despite his obvious innocence. What is it with these evil clerical bastards? If we really tried we could create heaven on earth. But no, let’s spend our time promoting misery and poverty, as if these are divine virtues for which we will be later rewarded. Fuck that shit!
The campsite was basic, and seemed to be populated exclusively by Greeks, who were very friendly. I had saluted one caravaning couple as I walked to dinner last night, and when they saw me returning from my morning swim, they came over to my tent to give me a fresh cup of strong, gritty Greek coffee. How sweet!
I grabbed supplies in Astros and rejoined the coast route south. The target today is the island town of Monemvasia, 84km as the crow flies, but 141km by winding road that goes inland and, it seems, into the mountains. I probably won’t make it but I have nothing else planned apart from the occasional swim, and to prepare for some work calls on Monday morning.
Several km further, I could see the road ahead snaking up a mountain. This time I would be prepared! I pulled in to a garage and made straight for the ice cabinet. The lady attendant was not pleased to have been disturbed from doing absolutely nothing and grudgingly accepted my 2 Euro for a 4kg bag of ice. She then watched, slack-jawed, as I loaded some cubes into my water bottles and lashed the remainder to the bike. I threw an electrolyte tablet into one bottle and moved-on.
Have ice, will kick mountain’s ass.
I’m definitely in backcounty now. The drivers here are insane and I’ve witnessed some scary scenes where locals in tiny bangers come screeching around corners, thinking that just blasting their horn will be enough to save them from careering into the nearest olive grove. This seems to explain why there are so many dollhouse chapels around. I even passed a mini chapel wholesaler!
Sad, but unsurprising, since motorcycle helmets seem optional around here
I am being super-alert, not taking any chances. Nevertheless, I would like my tiny memorial chapel to be bright green with red frilly curtains, a bicycle instead of a cross, and a bottle of Paulaner Weissbier inside 😁
Seriously though, as the road veered inland the tiny hard shoulder disappeared, and I was beginning to feel quite exposed. I sat in the shade of an olive tree and studied the map. Sure enough, this was the only road that would bring me back to the coast, so I opted to walk the bike on the opposite side of the road, to face oncoming traffic, until the situation would improve. No Monemvasia today.
The fine line between death and self-destruction
Never mind! The views were once again worth it, I stopped at the top of the climb, put some ice cubes in a T-shirt and soaked up the vistas while the meltwater trickled through my helmet, on to my baking noggin, and all down my back. Bliss!
Although the road was still narrow and winding through tight rocky canyons, I felt confident enough to take on one long downhill section, icy T-shirt now wrapped around my neck. Due to the corkscrew bends I could roll faster than the traffic, and I left those suckers in my wake.
But then it was upwards again, this time to a cliff road hugging the coast profile. In a car, some people may be daunted to drive along here. On a bicycle I really didn’t feel safe, but I had no alternative but to press-on. Even though it was mid afternoon, out came every piece of fluorescent clothing I had, and I turned on the blinking lights, front and back.
Up there!
It was treacherous but manageable. Whenever approaching a U-bend in the road, I’d find the safest spot to stop and listen out for traffic. If all was clear I’d go hell-for-leather to the next safe spot. Rinse and repeat. This may seem overly cautious, but the idiocy of drivers must be factored-in, and indeed there was some ludicrous overtaking going on. The situation wasn’t helped by the large amounts of detritus – mostly glass and bits of crashed car – that littered the side of the road. My right arm and leg oozed blood from being grazed by the outstretched vegetation. Ever been whipped by an unripened olive? Believe me, it stings! 😄
I must admit to feeling a little deflated after a while. Was it to be like this all the way south? Am I doomed to a constant game of cat and mouse? Will I ever sup Freddo cappuccino on the terraces of Monemvasia?
But then, like a miracle, a group of local teenagers on mopeds came blazing up behind me. No helmets of course. We exchanged thumbs-up and they formed what seemed like a protective escort around me, holding up the traffic behind. They willed me on for a kilometre or so before speeding off, honking and howling. That really lifted the spirits 🤟
I stopped for late lunch at a tiny roadside restaurant. They only had moussaka left. It was barely lukewarm, and the bread was hard, but it didn’t matter; I gladly wolfed it all down. Then a quick dip at a nearby cove before remounting. Feeling much better!
I been recommended to stay a night at Zaristi campground, near the town of Tyros. I happily saw that it was only a few km down the road, so that would be my new target for the day, have a beer and really study tomorrow’s route.
Zaristi was tricky to find, but what a nice place! Well kept campground with an almost deserted shingle beach doused by crystal clear Aegean water. The owner, Vassilis, welcomed me loudly and gave me the pick of spots, right on the shore.
A few surly looking, leather-skinned German couples looked me up-and-down with suspicious beady eyes. Sure, you’ll have that. Beer time!
