Two thirty in the am. Banging on the cabin door. ‘Meester waking up please! Ship is docking!’
Chios! Widely believed to be the birthplace of Homer, I’m not loving you right now.
On deck hundreds of young men were yawning and looking sorry for themselves.
Among them somewhere were George, George, George and Jason. And probably a few more Georges too. I’d met these four lads the evening before and stood them a couple of rounds. They were on their way to start their nine month’s of national service. The army has a large training camp here.
I drove away from the dock in the pitch black. Up and up the hillside, round and round the hairpins towards Nea Moni, the monastery above Chios Town. This was one of the places I’d come to see so I might as well aim for it. I wouldn’t get a room organised at this hour anyway.
It was a clear night but country dark. Pedro’s headlamps, which have the candlepower of one candle, were even more useless with the beam deflectors on. I took my time, nose on the windcreen. Groping like a blinking mole for the sudden drop-off that might send us to the bottom of a gorge.
Nearing the monastery I spotted a lay-by set into the pines and boulders. I parked up rather than wake the monks.
I considered sleeping on the ground but it was covered with small rocks and particularly vicious thistles so I wound down the seat and popped my coat under my head. Eerily quiet. In the distance the faint tinkle of a goat’s bell.
On the point of dropping off I heard soft footsteps approaching. I laid low but they didn’t stop. Who could be walking around at this hour? The stranger was probably thinking something similar of me.
Later on the wind got up and the trees were creaking and swaying above me. I got out to a ceiling of brilliant stars.
Biffo! My upturned face was hit by a small branch that had fallen from one of the pines so I retreated back to the car. The roof and bonnet bonged as pine cones bounced off taking away more of Pedro’s paint lacquer. It had become chilly so I unfolded the quilt and tried to catch a few more zeds.
John Gaskin’s excellent book – The Traveller’s Guide to Classical Philosophy – waxes in awe of Nea Moni.
‘It is far from the madding crowd and almost abandoned by worldly religion, but an aura of peace and ancient holiness lingers there and holds the pilgrim. Go there alone if you can.’
It was 8am. If I had a shot at that solitude then it was now.
Started up the lil’ donkey and we rolled down the hill. The monastery came into view as we rounded a bend and I stopped to take a pic. A magical setting with cypresses and olives and the boulder-strewn landscape sharpened by the creamy blue sky in the background.
As I took the photo a woman in a tiny car (even tinier than Peds) passed and waved. She turned out to be the curator and by the time we arrived she had opened up and was sitting with an iced coffee.
What a wonderous place it is. Three local prophets had foretold that Constantine – then in exile on Lesbos – would come to great power. When Byzantium became Constantinople these seers were rewarded by patronage and the founding of a monastery – Nea Moni – in 1120.
I walked in through main gate. The woman was feeding a motley crew of stray cats. A large priest emerged from a tiny house and beckoned me over to the church which he unlocked with an ancient key. Inside it was pretty extraordinary, with Byzantine mosaics and all kinds of arcane religious paraphenalia. I thought how much G would have loved it. A tinge of deep fondness for my wife of 27 years.
In the late afternoon I visited Mesta. One of the fortified villages that had been responsible for the mastic gum trade. These Mastic trees only grow in Chios and it’s gum is made into a chewable confectionery that was much prized by the Ottoman Turks who lavished those who produced it. Evidenced by Mesta’s most ornate village church.
I had a mastic ice cream. A very difficult flavour to describe. Certainly not available from your local builders’ merchant.
On the way back to my room at the harbour we detoured to Apostika. A narrow and single track road with terrific views over the mastic terraces and olive groves.
The beach at the end was deserted and the water lovely. Gin clear and just as refreshing. As I was drying off, a couple I’d seen in the village arrived for a dip. ‘You from London?’ the man said. ‘ I have a sister who lives there. Next to Harrods.’ I suggested that must be very convenient. ‘ God save the King!’ he said. ‘God save the King.’ I replied.
