My Kingdom for A Donkey
Corfu was my summer. And when I say summer I dont necessarily mean in terms of the weather (which incidentally was for the most part sunny – though still a little chilly at night) but in the sense that my time here felt like a ‘real’ holiday. A holiday from my holiday of boats and planes, cities and trains.
The good times were not to begin from the moment I set foot on the island however, for to fully appreciate the Corfu experience that was to come, I would first have to experience the opposite. (For this is the way of the universe). And when I say opposite I mean that this first experience of Corfu would turn out to be the antithesis of everything the word ‘holiday’ means to me. I might even go so far as to say (ominously), that it went against everything I believe in…..
It was rather a suprise to me of all people, to find myself on Corfu. I knew I was going to Greece, Id booked a bus ticket to the Italian port of Bari – but it was a whirlwind decision that brought me to Corfu in deckclass on an overnight ferry (thats chairs only for 11 hours incase you missed the flashing cue-sympathy-now light) rather than to Patras on a ferry in the luxury of a cabin with a bed and a pillow. I think it was just one of those things that happens when you’re travelling – make a split second decision and end up in a place you never expected, somewhat suprised in spite of yourself.
As Id only a vague idea before leaving Italy that I might possibly be able to ferry to Corfu and so continue down the mainland passing through Meteora, I arrived in Corfu with no idea of what to expect and no accomodation. I guess if I were to dredge up some association with the word Corfu from my mind, if I had any preconceptions of a Greek island, the image would’ve held a beach, a few palmtrees, some quaint whitewashed houses, maybe a monkey or two, and little else – perhaps a freshwater oasis where I could quench my thirst should I get tired from playing with the monkeys.
And so maybe you can imagine my disappointment when after a night of fractured dreaming spent with my body wedged beneath an armrest in an attempt to stretch out, I arrived numb and bleary-eyed in… a city. No palm trees. No monkeys. No beach. And drizzle. Drizzle! Nobody told me it rains on Greek islands. I’ve never seen a picture of a Greek Island in the rain. But then going on that logic I guess if I really thought about it I’d have to admit I’ve never seen a picture of a Greek Island with monkeys either.
So disillusioned and glum I spent the obligatory half-hour wandering aimlessly around the port until I found a cafe and sat down to consider my options. If I ignored the urge to jump back on a boat and find an island with palmtrees and monkeys, I was basically left with two options of accomodation that met my budget. One good. One not so good. Unfortunately the good option was unavailable to answer the phone and so I rang the disconcertingly named Pink Palace and booked a bed. I was suprised when a woman appeared seconds later to whisk me away to my chosen accomodation, waiting and ready to pounce….
The first tiny jingling of an alarm bell began somewhere at the back of my brain when I saw the place. It is PINK. And it is BIG, sprawling down the base of a slope, edged by two giant pink buses.
The ringing intesified on entry to the pinkness when I was offered a shot of ouzo – pink of course (A little liquor to pacify? To dull a rebellious mind perhaps?).
A siren wailed when I was sat down to a 15minute speech on the rules and promotions (!) of the hostel.
A fog-horn sounded when I found myself seated at dinner surrounded by characters from the OC in their beachwear, eating traditional Greek camp-slop.
There was something disturbing about the place, something eerie about its location in the middle of nowhere, everything ready and available to you in one giant Pink Party House. Everything was controlled by reception and their pink ouzo – all one needed to do was hand over the cash and one need never leave….
It hit me once Id locked myself in my room as I sat listening to the drunken mating calls of the OC-ers as they surrounded the hostel: This isnt Corfu. This is Little America, with a few olives thrown in on top to create a poor illusion of Greek authenticity. That night I desperately rung my only other option, until finally someone answered and agreed to rescue me the next morning.
I unlocked my door and snuck out early while the night-creatures slept, hiking through the wilderness to the nearest bus-stop where I was picked up, arriving at Sunrock Hostel in time for breakfast. And no ordinary hostel breakfast: Omlettes, eggs, French toast or pancakes (also affectionately known as honey-fried balls as they really are nothing like pancakes and very much like honey fried balls). The family-run hostel sits over Pelekas beach and has a great common room/dining area, small rooms with bathrooms and balconies, and they serve dinner which actually tastes like real Greek food – probably because it is real Greek food.
As soon as I arrived I felt better. There were only three guests and not one of them was wearing a bikini to breakfast – a good sign. I was lucky enough to have the opportunity to join these 3 normally clothed people in hiring a car and we set off to see the island. If I hadnt had a chance to see Corfu in this way I would have come away with a completely different and limited experience of the island. As it was I got to see Greek life in action – albeit rather slow action. Fields of vines being worked by women in headscarves, olive groves, donkeys and their passengers, roadside shrines ever-lit by a tiny flame. We drove to the south of the island, climbing mountains (at least one) and stopping at beaches along the way, heading back only after sunset.
The next three days I spent hanging out at the beach during the day, hanging out at the hostel during the night. I went for two swims during my few days on Corfu. Thats one swim more that I went for during the whole of summer in Ireland.
It was reluctantly that I left Corfu for the mainland (not least because I was leaving at 5.30am), heading for Meteora and its famed cliff-top monasteries. Luckily it seemed not only Corfu was immersed in summer sunshine but the whole of Greece and the weather played nice for the rest my travels.
I arrived in Kalambaka with a friend met along the way, after a journey of many hours, in heat incongruable to carrying a 15kg pack and two other bags. I wish I had a donkey. Or a strong monkey. Kalambaka is the town that sits below Meteora, a surreal moonscape of weathered stone rising far above. We booked in to KokaRoka rooms at the base of the cliffs and I lazed away the afternoon preparing for the big climb ahead.
The next day I set off in the morning hoping to beat the heat. The track up was hard going, unreasonably stony and steep – again the need for a donkey presents itself. But I made it up on my own two legs and marvelled at the view before me. Meteora rises up seemingly out of nowhere in the middle of a vast valley. How the rock formations came about is not known but some people believe the area used to be covered by an ocean, and after a moonscape, Id say thats exactly what it looks like – an ocean-floor scape.
I made my way along the road that leads between the six monasteries built on the outcrops of stone that make up Meteora. Before the road was built monks were hauled up to the monasteries in nets or baskets. I cant imagine how they went about actually building the monasteries, most of which start right at the edge of the drop, leaving little room for a builder-monk to manuvoure.
I was disappointed to find at 10.30am that at least 6 coaches had beaten me up and were at the time releasing their throngs of tourists into the first monastery. See, if I had a donkey I could have woken up much earlier and slept on the way up, thus beating the crowds. Alas I was donkey-less and was thus forced to experience the serenity and sacredness of the monasteries with mobs of rowdy sightsee-ers. And all the while donning a most attractive and flattering elastic waistband skirt to hide my immodesty.
I made it to three of the six monasteries, saving the best, the Grand Meteoron til last. It was the most impressive in terms of size, and the balcony overhung with cherry blossoms, but also because it had real skulls in it – cool.
The next day we set out for Athens, hoping to board a train we were told was full but which we had been sold tickets to anyway. We met up with some people we had spoken to the evening before and waited for the train…which we were to find was indeed full. And so it was that we found ourselves, five adults or so it would appear, seated in the seatless yet unexpectedly comfortable in all its padded glory childrens play carriage. They really should make all the carriages this way. Each of the four walls and the floor is padded with mats and there are giant foam shapes to play with and everyone has to take their shoes off before getting in and if you pull my hair I’ll tell my mum. We spent the trip playing cards with the only true child in there, a kid of about seven whose mother seemed somewhat wary of the company her child was keeping and kept walking past to peer through the window.
Six hours later and we arrived in Athens, worlds away from the slow paced island paradise of Corfu (and no donkeys to be seen) ready to explore the world that was ancient Greece.
Tags: Greece
Em