It took time to get here, over high mountains, against numerous bike troubles on difficult roads, and being enchanted by Kyparissi for a week. But that’s the beauty of solo bicycle touring: total flexibility and freedom in the face of the unknown.

Up early to watch the sun rising over the back of town, and without actually yet seeing it, I munched a cheese sandwich while planning the morning. Work beckons.

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Armed with laptop, I jaunted over to the island bridge and ascended to the town gates. As suspected, bikes are not allowed inside, and you can understand why once you enter.

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The location is indeed spectacular, and the town itself is split into a still inhabited lower section, and and upper section which is now a giant open air museum, dominated by the church of Agia Sophia perched on top.

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I spent an hour just randomly walking around, happily getting lost in the narrow maze. But work was calling, so I installed myself on a rooftop cafe and dispensed with necessary tasks. Pleasant views and cute finches surrounded as I tapped-away and sipped on several freddo cappuccinos.

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Of the two swimming piers I passed on the way back to the mainland, I couldn’t resist jumping off one into the deep clear water and floating there to take-in the sumptuous surroundings.

Overall I was feeling stronger and fitter than in a long time. Although recent exertions had dispensed with much of my midriff fat, it would need a lot more work. My belly’s function had now changed to a bag needed to hold the huge volumes of fluids I had to consume on the road, so a zillion more crunches would be required to regain anything close to a six-pack. Buns of steel though! 😄

Back at the apartment I finished-up the residual work for the day and educated myself on the history of Monemvasia, in advance of a proper mid-afternoon inspection. Good to see were the many maps, info boards and signposts giving visitors a good understanding of the place, in sharp contrast to the older sites up north.

Monemvasia is a Byzantine town with a rich history. Considering it’s strategic location, it has changed hands numerous times over the centuries. The Venetians held it on several occasions, flipping between local powers and the Ottomans until being finally liberated when Greece gained independence in 1821. There are 26 churches in all, mostly Byzantine, which changed function to mosques or Hamams (bathhouses) while the Ottomans were in town. Wikipedia does a much better job of explaining, but here’s a bunch of pictures:

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It’s undoubtedly a stunning location, a photographer’s dream or nightmare due to the wealth of angles. Indeed there were a number of fashion shoots in progress, with pouting models and leering onlookers.

There are many extremely cute houses, workshops and tourists stores, yet quite a few empty spaces from neglected buildings that are now rubble. Some abandoned lots are for sale – for a pretty penny I’m sure – and there were significant constructon works ongoing.

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However, while it is a must-visit, there’s no way l would live in the town, due to the constant streams of dour-faced Northern Europeans traipsing through your garden. Of course, I was one of these interlopers for the day, except I was definitely smiling throughout, sometimes mouth agape in awe. I visited off season and in Corona times, but it was busy enough. I don’t know if it would be so pleasant with the high season hoards. So I felt really lucky to have experienced it under the circumstances.

Early evening was spent sipping freddos on another roof terrace, soaking-up the sunset, and with the incongruous sight of two orthodox priests opposite knocking back an array of fancy cocktails. Seems like the life!

Tomorrow is an early start to bike south 40km to Pouta, and from there the ferry to Elafonisos and Simos beach, which several Greeks have recommended I visit. Adrian, who has been on his own adventures by car, is driving down for a last piss-up before heading home to Berlin. It guarantees to be a laugh.

Riding back to the apartment I couldn’t resist one last dusky dip. It was awesome.

It was a restless night, not with thoughts of tax woes or sorrow for leaving Kyparissi, but by strange sounds coming from the mountain.

Several times I was woken and sat on the balcony for a better listen, the whole village quietly asleep below me. It was ghostly, ethereal, almost human, like a beckoning whisper or a warning from the Gods. Probably the winds blowing through the rocky canyons, it did send shivers down the spine, but I also found it oddly comforting. Certainly the most unusual sound I have ever heard.

After work calls I discussed the route for the day with the hotel handyman, who felt obliged to help because he thought I was nuts, saying I could die up there. His tips turned out to be pure gold!

I thanked Stella and her assistant and hit the road, beginning with a sharp ascent and, admittedly a heavy heart when I reached the edge of town.

For days, people had been warning me of the treacherous ridge road to Pistamata. But I found it quite pleasant. Sure, it was a demanding climb, and the narrow cliff road was littered with rockfall which created deep pock marks. But it allowed a close-up view of Mt Parnonas and its sheer walls, from which huge limestone chunks had recently fallen. I found it all fascinating and spectacular, with the contrasting background of Kyparissi below and the turquoise Aegean beyond.

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I reached Pistamata in no time then followed the morning’s good advice to swing left towards Lefkas, which afforded a long and thrilling downhill through several mountain villages. Resplendent in a luminescent yellow cycling shirt, the villagers I passed generally gave a gobsmacked or bemused reaction to my ‘kaliméra‘ as I whizzed past. It was fun!

Physically I was feeling well up for it, though this time I made sure to have a good fruity breakfast. There were some short climbs, but the best part was the exhilarating 15km descent back to sea level, which made me punch the air as a road sign confirmed I was then only 25km from Monemvasia. The gods were with me, no doubt.

I flitted over the undulating roads to my destination, stopping for a much-needed dip on a deserted beach.

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Deciding against slumming it with imperious Germans sitting outside their over-the-top camper vans, I found a cheap apartment 2km outside Monemvasia and settled-in for the night, knackered but happy. I’ll explore town in the morning.

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.

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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.

I awoke to a gusty-but-sunny Kyparissi, clouds over Mount Parnonas, and a massive breakfast.

The manager, Stella, told me that I would be the only guest that weekend, as everyone else had cancelled due to the incoming storm Ianos (Janus). Not wanting to be a nuisance, I offered to forego breakfast for the next few days, and would be happy with just a nescafe and some of her delicious orange cake. She apologised for not having any left, and promised to bake me a new one, despite my half-arsed protestations.

Otherwise, I stocked up on snacks and wine in the tiny local shop in case the storm got so bad that the few the restaurants would stay closed.

Everyone seemed unconcerned by the incoming weather front, but I was shocked awake from an afternoon nap (yeah, what about it?) when a gust nearly blew my balcony door from its hinges.

I went out for an ultra-strong Greek coffee and began walking several km along the southern headland towards the tiny chapel of St. George (Aghios Georgios). Yes, that St. George, the patron of England, but also of Ethiopia, Georgia, and the Spanish regions of Catalonia and Aragon. He was of Greek descent and is widely venerated in all major Christian sects, including the Orthodox church, as well as in Sunni Islam.

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Sitting at the tiny harbour there, I could see the waters beginning to churn and the unusual sight of waves being blown back out to sea. The brain couldn’t compute. The mountaintops were still visible, but dark clouds hovered over and spat their rain down. Everything would then go calm for a few minutes until the next series of swirling gusts would whip things up again. There was no one else around and I sat there quite peacefully for a good hour, watching hell break loose above.

On the return, another tiny path tempted me upwards and this felt more ancient. Stepping over craggy stones to avoid the lines of soldier ants, and surrounded by butterflies who might have been looking for shelter, I imagined this as a pleasant afternoon stroll for Odysseus and his Mum.

Beginning to wonder if it might lead nowhere, it suddenly opened up into a clearing surrounded by a circle of large stones, within which were seven ancient olive trees. It’s not marked or signposted, but something about it felt significant, as if it were a former meeting place for local dignitaries, or where sermons to the gods may have been held. I know that 7 is the sacred number of Apollo. It was certainly man-made, and there were stone terraces nearby. There was evidence of recent bonfires. I would need to enquire back in the village.

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I also stumbled upon what appeared to be an abandoned well, though the stonework looked less ancient.

On the way home I stopped for a swim at a tiny cove. It was raining and the water was colder than usual, but I was happy to wallow there, in my own giant private bath, looking out on the bay. What a pleasant afternoon that was. Didn’t meet a single soul. All mine, mine I tells ya!

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When I eventually arrived back at the hotel I could smell that Stella had been busy baking. She proudly presented me with a hot slice of her latest creation – apple pie – and a bottle of water. What a star! I sat on the steps of the hotel and made it disappear in seconds, while talking to her young daughter (who has surprisingly good english for her age!).

After a glass of wine it was next door to the Kamares grill for a slap-up of gyros, spuds and peppers, washed down with a half litre of an incredible rosé straight from the barrel. Yesss! Total price 6 euro. The English couple at the next table bickered incessantly. If you can’t be romantic in a place like this then it’s time to move-on, c’mon guys!

I walked around the village in the dark, exchanging pleasantries with the old ladies sitting outside; ‘kalinychta‘ (good night). Janus appears to be weakening and heading south. Still, no regrets whatsoever for staying-on in Kyparissi, probably the nicest place I’ve ever been. I’m hanging around until Monday at least.

I passed the English couple again, they were getting it on. That’s the spirit!