The following morning I woke up to the sound of Byzantine hymns lolling through the streets of Kastoria.

I am not a religious man, but somehow this seemed appropriate. The voices were like the mosque calling to the faithful to prayer but without the wails and no roar of traffic in between. Down below the church tower, families dressed in their Sunday best already scurried to church. This was already far away from the Greece of Andros or Thessaloniki. The town was like an island surrounded by a sea of orchards, mountains and wilderness.
It was the first night I had slept well since I had got to Greece to start my job. Kastoria has that effect; it first soothes the nerves, then starts to disturb you. I got up, wolfed down a breakfast, wandered around the town and looked at the many churches and eighteenth century mansions before strolling along the waterfront.
The eighteenth century mansions were wooden (though with some stonemasonry at the supports) and totally unlike anything on the Greek islands. They had the Macedonian pattern, which was also the same in Anatolia, of the house looking in on a courtyard where several families living all around also had access, and could meet for a gossip or to exchange jokes and boasts. They also had tilting roofs and second-floor sections jutting out picturesquely over the cobbled streets.
Some were abandoned, some still lived in; you could see a parked car or smoke coming out of the chimney.
The Folkloric museum showed the inside of one of these houses, and was distinctly Oriental in its layout, with its divans and cushions, bright frescoes and arabesque fireplace. It was a glimpse into how wealthy merchants/furriers of the time lived.
I also came across my first sight of fur pelts drying in the sun outside the workshop of a furrier, who was not open. At a busy time, perhaps there would have been nothing sinister about it, or you would have been used to it; but the place was a still as death, and suddenly the air chilled. On a Sunday morning , away from the churches, only the twitch of a lace curtain behind closed windows reminded you that you were in a town, not a graveyard.
Deciding that I'd much rather converse with real people than the ghosts of the town, I turned up towards Mitropoleos, the main drag that beetled down the centre of the town, to catch people coming out of church. Jim was there, standing at the top in Omonia Square.
"Hello there," he said, parting from his family for a moment. "How do you like the school?"
"It's okay, but I haven't started teaching yet."
"No, of course not. Beware of Greek students. They're hard work."
"Aren't teenagers everywhere?"
"You got any adults?"
"One group - Proficiency." (The highest level of English)
"Proficiency and discipline problems - a contradiction in terms! But other levels - be strict. That's what the punters tell me."
"Thanks, Jim."
Later, I went out with Athina Kostara, the School director, for lunch with her family, and she explained that we weren't starting until Tuesday. On Monday the priest was coming in to bless the school. I would be expected to be there as he would bless all of us as well.
The following day, the teachers were all there waiting for the priest as well as waiting for books to be given out. Athina looked tired and busy; I chatted to Roula, Fotini and Helena. They told me: "Be strict with the students. If they love you, they'll work for you, but they must respect you as well."
My CTEFLA (Cetificate of Teaching English as a Foreign Language to Adults, later CELTA) course had never taught me much about discipline, because it was still assumed then that the majority of people you would be teaching would be adults. They had maybe one session on teaching Young Learners. One flaw in an otherwise great course.
I forgot about trying to be strict when the priest arrived. He donned robes, chanted in a low voice, read from an old Byzantine Greek-encrusted book, and dipped sprigs of basil in holy water and threw drops from there freely around at peoples foreheads, the classrooms, the director's office and the reception. More mysterious magic as he chanted for a while longer, closed the book and told us all that the ceremony was over. He then repaired for a coffee with the Director and the school secretary. I needed a coffee, too. I was starting to get nervous about the next day when I would give my first classes, and all these rituals brought the point home to me. Maybe it was the fact that I was surrounded by other teachers. Maybe it was the ritualised nature of these proceedings. Who knew why, the atmosphere was tense, the Director was busy, the other teachers and I made friendly, if polite conversation, but we knew that a lot lay ahead.