Riding Pelion – Day 24

Pedro was there where I had left him. Not towed, not clamped, not ticketed and not damaged, at least no further damage.

It was early, around seven. We got out of town and headed west, the mountains rose up steeply ahead of us. They looked to be covered with some thick, dark green moss, so uniform was the bushy covering.

At a tollbooth, a very chatty young chappy.

‘Where you from?’

‘London.’ I replied.

‘You drove all the way?’ I outlined where I’d been.

‘I used to work in England, Portsmouth, then Southampton.’ I said I knew both very well. And got back in my car conscious of the rush hour traffic building up in my lane.

Then he reaches out and knocks on the passenger window. I wind it down.

‘You know the Isle of Wight?’

‘Yes indeed, I used to sail all around the Solent. Well thank you. Very nice to meet you.’

‘You too sir. Have a nice trip.’ he turned back to his computer screen. Barrier still not up. 

‘You know Ventnor? Spy Glass Inn?’

Sighing, I owned to many a pint of foaming ale at that hostelry.

‘I don’t like British beer.’

I smiled and hooked my thumb at the traffic backed up behind us.

‘Oh yes, sorry. I miss England.’ He put the barrier up. 

‘So do I.’ I shouted as we sped off. But in truth I didn’t really. This trip was going way too fast for that. And already I was thinking about my way home. I had been freeewheeling so far. Never planning more than a day ahead. Now I was working back from the deadline of the retun across the Channel. That felt a bit too much like work to me.

I stopped to fill up and let the guy get on with it, heading towards the shop. Through the window I saw he was using a red gun from the pumps, not the usual unleaded green one. In a panic I banged on the window. He looked at me but carried on filling. I ran back to him shouting to stop. 

‘What’s that you’re putting in?!’ I shouted grabbing the gun.

‘It’s 98, special, same price as 95 today.’

‘Okay… but unleaded yes?’ I had visions of having to drain the tank.

‘Ne, ne, ne…unleaded…endaxi?’

I examined the pump. It was unleaded. Why would they put a red gun on a green pump? Thank heavens! I made the gesture of a heart attack and he laughed.

Call it my imagination but Pedro seemed to scamper as we joined the motorway. I hoped the high octane tankful wouldn’t go to his head.

The mountains were close now. Very dark green with wet looking mist on the tops. I thought we can’t go over those surely? And we weren’t. Tunnel after tunnel took us under what I realised was Mt Olympos. I wondered what the gods would have made of that in ancient times. Then under Mt Ossa, by-passing Volos and onto the Pelion Peninsula.

We missed a turning and detoured through Portaria. A very nassssty place. As Smeagol might say. At the top of the Pagasitic Gulf (don’t sound great do it?) we turned left along a pleasant road alongside the sea. 

There was nothing between us and the water but the cafes had boarded out from the land. The waiters nimbly negotiating the traffic. Lots of people were sitting out in the sunshine, inches above the water. It must be really sheltered here to do that. It reminded me of the Lake District. That closeness to the water and small islands in touching distance.

Now up along a winding road into the mountains. Rather like the Ardeche. In fact the whole feeling was of rural France, not the Greece that we all conjure up in our minds. The variety of Greece had been fascinating and for me – I suppose naively – unexpected and very welcome. Not like a single country at all really.

We were very high now and I stoped to take some snaps, but couldn’t really capture the grandeur of it. The road had rugged rocks on one side and was cantileverd off on my side. Round and round the rugged rocks we went. Open areas with stacked beehives. 

Then diving into chestnut woods. Their spiky coverings lying in drifts across the road like piles of Tribbles. Giving way to maples and ferns.

I was looking for a guest house that Vlad had told me about. But had missed the turning. We had lost the satnav miles back so I went back. I had the hang of the narrow road now and when I could, looked ahead as the bends revealed themselves empty of traffic, so I could use all of the surface to go fast. The white line unlooping beneath us like a long piece of spaghetti. Rocks to the right, thousand foot drop to the left, great fun.

Spotting the sign I reversed up a bit and turned down a concrete road towards the sea. Slowing now to give the brakes a chance. I’d been pretty hard on them but there was no trace of fade.

The track became a cobbled together affair of rubble and infill and finally we  were there.

The place was built like a small castle and I was in one of the turrets. Opening the shutters I looked out like Rapunzel without the hair.

It had been a long day and I was starving so back on the road to look for a taverna. I went for miles back the way I had come. Stopping and asking locals. Then, on the right hand side, a glimpse of a tablecloth flapping in the breeze. Hard on the brakes, into reverse and a high-pitched whine from the gearbox and into a driveway.

A chatty waitress got me settled. I complimented her on her English and she told me that her mother had lived up in the mountains and didn’t want that life for her daughters so had got them into a school that taught English. But she said that when her mother was cranky, she and her sister spoke in English so their mother couldn’t understand. I remembered that when they were young, my two sons had a bit of a secret dialogue going on that G and I couldn’t make head nor tail of.

I had the cheese rolls with tzatziki. Then a ‘lamp’ knuckle on a bed of beetroot puree that left hot pink kisses on my napkin.

The phone buzzed. Allotments association again! Was this my life now. 

‘Just a reminder that the orchid talk will be held at the Age Concern rooms next to the Parish Council building.’

I set them to spam.