The Ionian April 2013

The Ionian April 2013 Volume 4. Issue 1 www.theionian.com COMPLIMENTARY/∆ΩΡΕΑΝ Please recycle: give to a friend or neighbour when finished.

The Art of Surviving Winter Page 4

The Necromanteion of Ephyra: the Oracle of the Dead Page 6

A Lifelong Love of Corfu Page 9

Kalamarises April 2013 www.theionian.com The Ionian 1 Page 8

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The Ionian Contact us: Website: Email: Founding Publisher: Publisher: Managing Editor: Advisory Board:

www.theionian.com admin@theionian.com Justin Smith Barbara Molin Barbara Molin Yannis Dimopoulos Ryan Smith Ian Molesworth Lee Gillson, Barbara Molin Graphic Arts Barbara Molin Barbara Molin

Copy Editor: Layout: Printing: Advertising: Subscriptions: Distributors: You can download The Ionian free as a PDF document from our website. The Ionian is published monthly approximately on the first day of each month. Publication is for informational purposes only. Although The Ionian has made every effort to ensure the accuracy of the information contained in this publication, the publisher cannot be held responsible for any errors or omissions it may contain. The opinions expressed by the contributors are not necessarily held by the publisher. Published in Canada.

Cover Photo: Wild Horses of Kefalonia. Photo

by David Evans. Having studied photography at Wiltshire College Salisbury, Dave worked as a studio-based commercial photographer in England. He now lives on Kefalonia and his main interest is landscape and location photography. www.kefalonia-captured.com. To purchase any of the photographs or to submit your own for a cover shot consideration please email us at: editor@theionian.com

Welcome back...

It was a long and difficult winter for many of us, with an unusual amount of rain in the Ionian as well as the continuing economic struggle. But spring is here once more and we all look forward to the rebirth of nature and a more prosperous summer. And so we begin the new season with the theme of death, rebirth, food and love.

Maddie Grigg shares with us her eerie visit to Mesopotamo on the mainland coast between Parga and Preveza. In her story, “The Necromanteion of Ephyra: the Oracle of the Dead” (page 6), she describes this historic site where once long ago Odysseus, while homeward bound, is said to have spoken to his dead mother as well as the soul of the blind seer, Teresias, Barbara de Machula, on the other hand, speaks of rebirth and how it is possible, regardless of the economic situation, to live well in winter in Greece, with some creativity, a green thumb, a bit of elbow grease and a positive attitude in her humorous look at living off the land in “The Art of Surviving Winter” (page 4).

Odysseus, our returning hero, or rather his home, Ithaka, features once again in “Kalamarises,” (page 8) as G.W. describes his arrival to Vathi harbour by sailboat and shares with us his family’s favourite restaurant, the Tsiribis.

Then, in “Life Long Love of Corfu,” (page 9), Maddie Grigg interviews a Corfu born writer, Maria Strani-Potts who recounts her idyllic childhood and offers nuggets of wisdom regarding the island’s future.

Finally, a big thank you goes to David Evans for his beautiful cover image of the Wild Horses of Kefalonia.

Please download from our website (www.theionian.com) your 2013 Photo Calendar featuring the winners of our Photography Competition. We will be awarding prizes to the winners in April. And feel free to submit your best images of the Ionian for our next competition to editor@theionian.com.

Enjoy reading... ~~~_/) Barbara Molin

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beautiful chicken house was checked, no eggs yet… And again no eggs…

At some point, the neighbours had eggs, the whole village was full of eggs, the whole area! People around offered Bob free eggs to soften his disappointment of having an egg-less chicken "menagerie."

Then one morning, the sickening truth hit him as he listened to a raw and loud cockcrowing from the chicken coop.

And then all ten started their masculine song at once!!! It was now obvious that the seller tricked poor Bob and sold him a male harem, suitable for spaghetti and so Bob, like a true Greek made sure the Barbara de Machula guys shortly ended up in the freezer.

The household was quiet again, a bit too quiet! We found a nice stray dog somewhere, and Bob fell in love with him. After the chicken episode he needed a friend. But Bob's new friend was after revenge, and chased the neighbours’ chicken, without remorse. if you sweet-talk to them.

Now the friendly neighbours started Let's start with my ladies. I have five of complaining, this is unheard of! Obviously them and it is a thoroughly feminist he needed to thoroughly train his dog and s I write this, winter is not giving up enterprise. No rooster, girls only. During teach him not to upset the chicken. But, all the winter they stopped laying eggs, to my easily. his chicken are gone!

What to do now? disappointment, because I got used to It has been a long, wet experience, and And that is where my ladies volunteered having a delicious present on my plate some storms did not end without causing to help out graciously.

Just one chicken damage. But I am insanely happy with my every morning. At least one! would do the trick.

So one day, one of my new little greenhouse; it takes gardening to But hey, after some reading I learned that ladies went to visit Bob for a week or so. a new level. The seed beds To train the dog. are nicely arranged on trays, Then the sickening truth hit him one My chicken were still egg-less, but and some seeds show green not the one that stayed at Bob's! promises of plants to be, and morning as he heard a raw and loud Immediately she produced two (!) we dream of the abundant cockcrowing from the chicken coop. eggs. I was shocked. I told the crops we will harvest in a few remaining four at my house, that they might go in the soup if they would not it is normal for the ladies to take a break in make eggs immediately. winter, change "clothes," and have a little But I also noted, that the chicken house rest, like we do. So I had to wait for a sign was somewhat poorly. So I urged my of spring, and an egg would be a true sign, loved one to make a new chicken house, wouldn't it? with a sleep, eat, rest and egg I spoke to my dear friend, Bob, the compartment, nice and roomy, with English photographer with a Spanish heart, several doors and soft hay on the floor. who shares my passion for a fresh egg in An incredibly beautiful residence the morning. Maybe you remember him, I appeared, one even I could easily live in, if wrote about his pig eating his chicken I were a chicken of noblesse that is. After through the fence, and later Bob eating his pig but not quite…

So anyway, from a street seller he bought a batch of fresh ladies, to be gently employed and encouraged to make nice months’ time from now, when it is truly perfect eggs. But the summer.

We survived the winter in crisis, together ladies were quite young and needed a few months with Greek and expat friends who stayed here in Greece. I connected with some new to become productive. friends, who share my passion for several Bob knows how to treat his ladies, and they things such as growing tasty stuff, became a respectable size, exploring Greek crafts like making mentally and physically. yummee cheese, or sausages from bio meat or raising chicken that may lay eggs Yet, every morning the

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together with the wild asparagus we pick from our land with thankful care and respect. It is spring!

We have great plans for summer. My blue cheese making tests are in full swing, and we are going to plant tobacco because we want to take smoking to a higher level, maybe even try to make cigars.

We want to have all fruits and veggies from our greenhouse, and the garden, just several days of hard work, the castle was ready and the old chicken house could be because we like the idea of growing our own food. removed‌ And there, behind the old Some friends will start to make true house, we discovered a row of eggs ! How English sausages; they studied all unfair!

I threatened my ladies with chicken soup, winter in the UK with a master sausage maker, and they will use meat from but they had been laying eggs for some time!!! They didn’t consider the old house happy animals. Some friends are keeping as suitable for safe egg-laying and so they bees, some will dive for the caviar of the sea urchins. put their valuable treasures under the My little goat will have a brief affair with premises‌ shame on me! a nice gentleman, so she can have a baby I made up with them by giving out nice and milk. The chicken ladies will get some treats and a good supply of yummee extra lady friends, now that the cage is big worms and salad, wheat and corn. Now every day they all make a treasure for me, enough. We will have some guests in the guesthouse, with and without painting and I cherish each egg and cook them

lessons, and I will have a few more cello pupils and we will have the beautiful view every day. We are ready!

Barbara de Machula is a long time resident of a house near a monastery on a mountain near Palairos. She is a writer and a painting teacher. www.paintingholidaygreece.com

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The Necromanteion of Ephyra:

discovered the necromanteion, and Homer’s images were fresh in my mind. My husband and I stopped off for a look while on our own epic journey from the UK to Preveza, not on a ship but in a 1969 VW Beetle convertible.

We parked in the village and walked up the hill and along the dusty path, the sun beating down hard on our backs. We could see the ruins, which date from around the 3rd or 4th century BC, and the 18th century monastery that dominates the site. But, Maddie Grigg strangely, the place was still and empty. When we reached the entrance gates, we discovered why. They were locked. It was a Monday and the site was closed.

So we did what any determined pilgrims of et up your mast, spread the white sail and sit ancient sites would do down in the ship. The North Wind will blow her on her way; and looked to see if and when she has brought you across the River of Ocean, you there was another way will come to a wild coast and Persephone’s Grove, where the in. We trudged around tall poplars grow, and the willows that so quickly shed their the perimeter until we seeds. Beach your boat there by Ocean’s swirling stream and found a hole in the go on into Hades’ Kingdom of fence. It was just my size – Decay. There, at a rocky too small for my husband I put one foot on the steps and then but pinnacle, the River of Flaming who bowed to my greater Fire and the River of stopped. I had seen too many films passion for antiquity.

Lamentation, which is a branch ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘You go where this sort of action always of the waters of the Styx, meet in. I’ll wait here on guard.’ and pour their thundering streams So I crawled through the preceded disaster. into Acheron.’ hole, climbed over a few So speaks the goddess Circe to Odysseus as she directs him to boulders and I was in. I had the site all to myself. I wandered the underworld and a consultation with the soul of the blind seer, around in a bit of a daze, through entranceways and gazed at the Teresias, on the hero’s epic journey from Troy to his homeland signage explaining the purpose of this ancient place. of Ithaca.

the Oracle of the Dead

‘…s

Homer’s powerful and terrifying description of this god-forsaken place is a far cry from the peaceful setting of the Necromanteion of Ephyra today. The archaeological site, discovered in 1958, is just off the main road from Parga to Preveza at the village of Mesopotamo.

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Pilgrims came here to learn the news of the living and the future by communicating with the souls of the dead. After several days of eating a strict diet (which more than likely contained hallucinogens to enhance their experience), the pilgrims were led into an underground chamber where the priest would do the business and put them in touch with their loved ones.

Afterwards, the pilgrims were sworn to secrecy about what had happened in the terrible subterranean chamber. They were threatened with the wrath of Hades, the god of the underworld, should they reveal what they witnessed.

I passed sign after sign before reaching a hole in the floor and a metal staircase going down into the darkness. I put one foot on the steps and then stopped. I had seen too many films where this sort of action always preceded disaster. So I pulled my foot back and returned to the fence where my husband was outside, sitting in the shade of a tree, looking at a tortoise patrolling the necromanteion’s perimeter.

Three years later we were back, this time having checked that the site would be open.

Before going in, however, we took a boat ride up the lazy River Acheron from Ormos Fanari. The bald and gaptoothed captain reminded me of Charon as he recounted the tale of Odysseus and then the myth of poor Persephone and her tooclose encounter with the god of the underworld.

Up at the necromanteion, the gates were open and we were free to roam the site without fear of being bundled down an underground chamber by an angry archaeologist, because this time we paid to get in.

Down the metal stairs we descended, my husband naturally going first, and we were in an eerie chamber. I was so pleased I had not ventured in on my own three years before. It was surprisingly small. But the mustiness and damp was evocative of ancient rites.

Recent studies suggest the archaeological site was nothing but a fortified farmhouse, with the underground chambers used for storing grain.

Whatever the site’s true history (and who will ever really know?) it is hard not to feel some eerie connection with the ancient world and its magical beliefs when you are at this spot. You can imagine, at the top of this small hill, when you

look out on the plain around you, with the mountains behind and to the right of you and the sea to the west, that once upon a time it was indeed Homer’s rocky pinnacle, surrounded by the waters of the Styx.

And if you screw your eyes up tight enough, you can just about make out Odysseus, his boat on the shore, as he heads towards the waiting figure of Charon the ferryman.

Photos: Maddie Grigg, and B. Molin

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shall speak to her in English to emphasise how cosmopolitan she is becoming, and she will nod and smile politely and pretend to understand.

Mrs. Molfesis will leave the kitchen to look after itself and come to sit in the window, looking out over the tables and the harbour. We shall reach up to shake her hand, and she will say “Kala” to indicate that her back is not too bad and she is pleased we are here, and we shall say “Kala” to mean the year has been OK and we are very happy to be back.

Maybe we shall all wave our hands in front of our faces to agree how hot it is

By G.W. this year.

Dimitris will eventually emerge again in a clean shirt and floppy trousers, and perfect his imitation of being busy: to bustle once round the taverna carrying The Tsiribis Restaurant, Vathi. A busy day in the 1980s. Photo: Dimitris Molfesis an order-pad, loudly humming the Pink Panther tune, before gravitating to his own chair at the high end of the taverna where his cigarette is still alight and his glass of Scottish Tea (whisky and a lot of water) is never empty. ailing into Vathi, the capital of Ithaca, is a little like Towards the end of the evening, when we’ve resolved difficult approaching Falmouth on a beautiful summer’s day, except that issues like how many portions of squid we should have, or which the mountains are higher, there are no buildings in sight except a day we should be back because then Mrs. Molfesis will have tiny chapel on a headland, and no other boats either, except a prepared her butter beans dish (Gigantes : oven baked in tomato couple of cruisers moored in a cove in the distance. This is the and herbs: available in many places but nowhere as good as here), gulf of Aetou, and the pilot book speaks of strong gusts of wind, Dimitris will send over a tray of Metaxa, which is the sign to join but we’ve never experienced them there. The approach takes him at his table and meet his friends. about an hour from the time the engine is started as the mouth of Ithaca is becoming more prosperous, not least because men the gulf is reached. who left in the fifties after the earthquake and to avoid the poverty In the distance behind us in of isolation are returning to renovate the heat haze there might be Dimitris foresees a future lording it their family homes following a ferry from Italy moving in a holiday hot-spot surrounded by successful careers elsewhere in towards the mainland.

Europe. beautiful young women...

Coming from the north we One year we met an Ithacan dentist skirt a headland and briefly from North London who discussed the hear the cicadas before moving out across the gulf: Odysseys’ West End Theatre much more eruditely than we could manage, capital lies beneath the mountain ahead, but it is invisible until the regretted the poor nutritional habits of his fellow-islanders’ last moment, when it is possible to see the almost circular harbour children and feared future colonisation by junk-food chains. He through its narrow entrance. insisted we visit his high-ceilinged and darkly furnished home, We are heading for a small jetty immediately inside the harbour, hung with photos and paintings of his parents and full of books. opposite the small town, and right next to a taverna. Golden Once we had a conversation with a man called Xenophon, who moments in the holiday include our first arrival here. (We shall be asked from under hooded eyes “Do you like Germans?” The next back next week, or the week after). half-hour, which remained on a theoretical rather than personal We glow with the comfortable feeling, which follows a properly level, acted as a reminder of Balkan tensions within the EEC. judged mooring. The sails are stowed: they can be tidied later.

The name of the restaurant (we should give it the preferred title Sweat-stained hats are thrown in the cockpit, and relatively clean having eaten there) is taken from Mr. Molfesis’ radio call sign tee-shirts found to add a degree of formality. The person who when reporting ship-movements to the Royal Navy during the jumped ashore with the mooring lines probably stays there; the war. Most years we discuss the marina which is about to be built rest of us climb down and walk the twenty yards to where Dimitris with a European grant. Luckily progress is slow: a dozen concrete is clearing the last of the lunch tables. blocks were placed in the harbour five years ago, which “Welcome home!” he says. There will be time later to hear subsequently sank through the sand to just below water level, and about the rest of the family: meanwhile Dimitris brings us beers the old men say they knew it would turn out like that. and lopes off for his afternoon sleep, leaving the door open so we Dimitris foresees a future lording it in a holiday hot-spot can help ourselves during the afternoon. We shall swim, sit in the surrounded by beautiful young women spending Euros like water, shade of the big olive tree, persuade ourselves we don’t need to but irony is his strong suit even when taking an order for fish walk into town until much later, open another cold Amstel beer, soup. His usual greeting is “Kalamarises”, because he enjoys the regret getting a soft drink because it attracts the wasps, dodge little idea that English people don’t know the difference between “Good boys on mopeds when going back to the boat for a book, decide to morning!” and “Squid!” swim again instead of reading.

Reprinted with permission from the book, “From the Deck of Your Later on, one of the waitresses will arrive and start to tidy the Own Yacht,” by Mike Jakeways. chairs ready for the evening. She will say “hello” shyly, and we

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‘Jim has been the biggest influence in my life,’ Maria says. ‘He is an extraordinary man, a fantastic poet, writer, linguist, and for thirty five years a brilliant British Council official, who represented British culture and other interests in many countries overseas in the best Maddie Grigg and most acceptable way.

‘I felt all that was coming the first time I met him.’

Jim’s publications include The Ionian Islands aria Strani-Potts is the Corfu-born and Epirus, A Cultural History and Corfu author of The Cat of Portovecchio: Corfu Blues, an anthology of forty years of writing Tales and the Kindle e-book When The Sun about Greece, prose and poetry.

Goes Down: Island Stories.

Their daughter, a television and radio Cat is a fascinating, literary glimpse into broadcaster, lives in Washington with her how Greek village life used to be. Maria has husband, who writes the Lexington column for real hopes and fears for her native land, which The Economist. Their son is a litigation expert she continues to visit with her husband, Jim and special counsel with a Bermuda law firm.

Potts, a former director of the British ‘We all love Greece, and it hurts to see the Council. The Pimping of Panorea, a way it is at the moment.’ shortened version of which appears in Island So what does Maria think the people can do Stories, is a modern-day fable of what can about the current crisis? happen to a beautiful place when development ‘My view is that the Ionian Islands must start goes unchecked. producing their own food again. They need to As a ‘trailing wife’, Maria has travelled the her father’s study. re-invent agriculture,’ she says. world with Jim and lived in Ethiopia, Kenya, ‘The first book I ever read was a children’s ‘We have the best climate in the world and yet England, Greece, Czechoslovakia, Sweden and simplified version of Robinson Crusoe in we grow next-to-nothing. Our milk, meat, Australia. Her home is now Dorset, England, Greek. I loved it. I was not into Greek lemons - from Argentina and Turkey - oranges, but she visits the Ionian several times a year. mythology and ancient history all that much. I all products that thrive in our climate, are ‘We usually go to the beautiful village of loved the Brothers Grimm, Hans largely brought in from Vitsa, Zagori, near Ioannina,’ she says. ‘They Christian Andersen’s tales, outside. We have destroyed have been so careful with the architecture up Dickens and, of course, Penelope most of our fish stock. We there.

Delta, and the other Greek writers continue to destroy it She still loves remote, Greek beaches ‘which who wrote for children. through fish farming and aren’t full of rubbish’ and she thinks Greek ‘I think my biggest influences chemical interventions. food is the best in the world. But she has mixed came from Papadiamantis, ‘Tourism is a good, clean, views about her homeland.

Theotokis and Laskaratos (my easy economy but unless, ‘I feel like a political dissident and my father was a huge fan) and many like everything else, it is feelings towards Greece are mixed and often regional Greek writers. When I planned responsibly and angry.’ was about ten, I started reading meticulously, it will Maria was born in Corfu Town, not far from foreign literature in translation. continue to be a monster the Cavalieri Hotel, in 1946.

‘Early on I came to develop a and a culturally destructive ‘In Corfu, we swam every day for nearly six taste for 19th century novels from element in our lives.’ months of the year. All socialising took place around the world, books which I Maria continues to write beside the sea. In the winter, even during the read then and re-read today. For and is currently pulling cold spells, we enjoyed the warm sun and the me this period contains some of together diaries she wrote blue skies known as halcyon days. I used to the best literature ever written. before she had a laptop. love (I still do) looking for limpets on the ‘Apart from Greek literature, I ‘My writing is and will remain a needle in a rocks, scraping them off and also like Swedish, British, haystack, if I am lucky,’ she says. ‘I do not eating them. We used to search Czech, and American literature. want to be a needle in a global haystack, so I for sea urchins, pick them up and My taste has expanded write for my family and for myself. My take them home to eat with fresh according to the countries where grandchildren love my stories. My books are bread, olive oil and lemon.’

I have lived. often the subject of their “show and tell” days ‘I remember summer nights ‘I hated feeling uninformed at their schools. They are sincerely proud of playing with my friends in the about the different countries my me. I love that.’

Upper Square (Pano Platia) until husband worked in and where I Maria and Jim are now based at Poundbury, late at night. The scent of had to live for a number of the Prince of Wales’s new town near jasmine, lemon, orange and lime years. From day one I tried to Dorchester. blossom, as well as various sea get to know the place through ‘It takes me ten minutes to drive from my smells are still with me. its literature and newspapers. house in Dorset to Overcombe Beach, near ‘My childhood was magical ‘Now, I try to stick to the Weymouth, to enjoy the water and the sea food. because of that sense of security Classics. Life is too short. I I am so lucky. and freedom. Nobody want to leave this ‘However, I do miss having the accompanied me to school, even world having read the good weather all the year round when I was as young as six. classics.’ and being able to open my ‘Corfu was such a safe place - not many cars, Maria graduated from the School of windows every morning to gaze no crime, no nasty people around. We trusted Slavonic and East European Studies at at the sea, the boats, the everybody. We all knew each other’s business the University of London.She met her seagulls, and smell the so it was obvious whom to avoid. Children British-born husband in Corfu in 1967. seaweed.’ could go anywhere without fear.’

After they married, she became a Maddie Grigg is a writer and Maria was the only child of well-educated “trailing spouse”, taking care of her an editor. She lives, with her parents with a love of literature. She was two children and helping her husband husband in a small village on surrounded by books, with one or two volumes promote and represent British culture Corfu. of an encyclopaedia always open on the table in and the “British way of life” overseas.

A Lifelong Love of Corfu

M

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