Shortly After November 17th

November 17th is a highly charged date in Greece. Polytechniou commemorates the 20 or more students who were killed by the tanks of the right-wing junta during a peaceful protest at Athens Polytechnic on this day in 1973. This atrocity marked the beginning of the end of the military dictatorship, and the re-emergence of Greece as a modern, democratic republic - only two and a half thousand years behind schedule.

A terrorist organisation has used the name November 17 to assassinate the odd diplomat and set off occasional bombs for hazy anarcho-nihilist-extreme-Left purposes over the years. It's only recently, under heavy pressure from the US and UK, that the Greek government appears to have made any effort to eradicate them. Several ringleaders await trial - presumably planned as a pre-Olympics PR exercise.

[OK, this is out of date; they were actually sentenced a week or two after I wrote this piece. Multiple life sentences all round.]

It's a day for remembering the dead, but more importantly for remembering their cause. Today, we witness a few marches, mostly objecting to American imperialism. America has never been fully forgiven for the role the CIA apparently played in assisting the colonels' coup in the first place, while NATO (of which Greece is, truculently, a member) has become especially unpopular since the bombing of Kosovo. In that war, instinctive Greek sympathies were with the Serbs, their Orthodox Christian brethren, rather than the Kosovo Albanians. Greek antipathy to Albanians runs shockingly deep.

Needless to say, the marchers also express their disgust at the war in Iraq - universally condemned here, as it was all over Europe. The marches make us feel a little left out - we'd like to be back in London this week to join in the protests against Bush's pre-election Buckingham Palace photo-opportunity - sorry, I should say state visit.

So for us, November 17th simply means a holiday, and a chance to take a trip up into the mountains. Five of us squeeze in Andy's antique Toyota Corolla, which bravely struggles its way up steep hills, unaccustomed to the load. We're overtaken constantly by impatient Greek drivers. The siga, siga (slowly, slowly) mentality extends to most areas of Greek life, but not driving. By the side of the roads, you see shrines containing icons, an oil lamp and a bottle of (presumably holy) water. These mark the sites of fatal accidents, and they're alarmingly common - on a mountain road such as the one from Ioannina to Metsovo, there's one or more on every hairpin bend.

Metsovo, our destination, is at an elevation of over 1000m, and the road up through the mountains is stunning. Typically, we've picked a grim, foggy day out of the glorious sunny spell we've been having recently, but it lends an atmospheric gloominess to this landscape of pine-covered mountains and sharp crags. The narrow, winding road makes for slow progress though (unless you're a crazy Greek), and it's hard to believe this is the main road to Thessaloniki and the north of the country.

Greece's interior wasn't meant for motorways. They're trying though: we can see signs, sometimes above and sometimes below us, of a massive road-building project. It's part of the multi-million euro New Egnatia from Istanbul to the Adriatic. Half-built bridges tower over narrow gorges, while tunnels have been blasted through the rock: it's the sort of engineering project which you assume doesn't happen anymore. God alone knows when they'll have it finished, mind. There's talk of mass embezzlement: surely not...

When one particularly stunning mountain vista opens up before us, we persuade Andy to stop the car, so we can all get out and take the same foggy photo. There's a sharp chill in the air here - Preveza feels like a long way away. The poor car finds the subsequent cold hill start too much to bear. It stutters, coughs and dies. Before we've drawn lots to decide who we eat first, another car stops and gives us a jump start.

Metsovo turns out to be round the very next corner. It's an attractive, if touristy, small town of stone and slate, narrow streets and plane trees, spilling down the steep side of a valley. Should have brought money for Christmas shopping: there's an array of colourful hand-woven rugs, olive wood carvings and local delicacies. We make do with some thyme honey and smoked cheese.

The original inhabitants were Vlach shepherds - an ethnic group unrelated to the Greeks - and the atmosphere here seems closer to the rest of the Balkans than Mediterranean Greece. Having written that sentence, I should confess to never having been anywhere else in the Balkans. Nor have any of us. We all agree, however, that it's very Balkan, and nod our heads knowingly.

On our way back (the mountain road is twenty times scarier in the dark) we stop off in Ioannina, the largest town in Epirus. It's a bustling place, with a large student population and, judging by the marchers, a lot of communists. It's beautiful, too, spreading along the shore of a large lake with the mountains ringed around. From the road above, the city lights arcing round the dark, dark lake are quite a sight.

Ioannina was an important centre in Ottoman times, and the old Turkish quarter is well-preserved: there's a fine mosque on the shore of the lake, ghostly white under the flood lights. I vow to come back to Ioannina soon - I think, after all, it deserves to be seen in daylight. Byron spent some time here, as a guest of Ali Pasha. The infamous tyrant (Ali, not Byron) was finally murdered on an island in the lake.

But forget this historical stuff (historic or historical? This was a question from one of Sharon's students. Economic or economical? Hysteric, hysterical... oh the joys of conversation with EFL teachers!). We somehow find ourselves in a Tex-Mex restaurant called Poco Loco - not the kind of place you'll find in Preveza. The food is surprisingly excellent, but why the kangaroo signs on the walls? Much as we love Greek gastronomy, Mexican food is something we all miss about England (though not as much as Indian. And then there's Chinese, and decent Pizzerias... O for English food!).

It gets better: we find a bar that stocks beers from all over the world, each with its own special glass. A 10% proof amber quadruple brew from Belgium makes a welcome change from the ubiquitous and virtually indistinguishable Amstel and Heineken lagers.

The Greek national drink? There's ouzo, of course, retsina, Metaxa brandy... Judging by the TV advertising, though, the biggest market is Scotch whiskey. Greeks aren't heavy drinkers, though. When our Anglo-Irish contingent is together on a Saturday, we probably outdrink the whole of Preveza. No, I know it's nothing to be proud of.

Greek university = radical activism with tangible political results. English university = getting pissed. Discuss (or don't bother, go to the bar instead).