A woman who's been staying on a boat in the bay asks me about the trail from Eristos to the monastery of Ayios Panteleimon, a well-known long walk of several hours across the highest mountain ridge on the island. I tell her not to attempt it alone in case anything happens, but that Ian at Ayios Andonis does it regularly and might walk it with her. He agrees, and I arrange to go along with them – I am now free to do things like this – but then someone tells me about an archaeological dig taking place in the valley below Megalo Horio, and since it's ending the next day, I decide I must go and investigate.
I'm lucky. When I walk there in the morning, following a dirt track towards Eristos, I find the archaeologist standing over a trench dug in the ground. She tells me they had planned just to fill in the hole today, but decided to excavate a little more of the wall. 'Palevoumeh akomi,' we're still battling away at it, says Irini. She's a slight, delicate-looking woman from Rhodes who wears flipflops with cats on them, and a straw hat with a flower on the side against the sun. Her appearance belies the difficulty and determination involved in her work. Her husband, a sculptor, has come along for a break and their dogs are tied in the shade nearby. Nikos, the farmer who owns the land and fortunately hadn't ploughed here, is digging under instructions from Irini. She watches his work. If she pushes him to keep going when he's tired, mistakes could be made and they have to work carefully. Good job Lisa isn't here.
To the north, in the gap between the mountains, the island of Nisyros is visible, while in the opposite direction I can see the Harkadio Cave, where evidence of prehistoric man was found. People have been unearthing things in this area since the 1950s. A small trench was dug when an archaeologist came in the 1970s. Last year, they started to excavate properly, then covered the site over to protect it – I saw some of the finds at that temporary exhibition in Athens – and this return visit is Irini's last chance to dig here. 'I'll never see it again. So I want to find as much as I can.'
They have discovered a loose layer of pottery, then a large layer of ash; she will run tests but believes it could be volcanic ash from Santorini, dating back to 1600 BC; this helps to date the findings. She shows me the intact foot of a cooking pot, perfectly conical; cups with a rib design. They found a cache of cups all together – they look like modern teacups with handles – plus storage jars, loom weights, a bronze fishing hook. It all suggests a household, a settlement. There's a brown and red wall of plaster and lime – perhaps wall paintings contemporary with Santorini's Akrotiri and Crete's Knossos. Most of the plain pottery was made here, while the decorative pieces, contemporary with the Minoan culture, were most likely imported from Rhodes and Crete. Perhaps little Tilos could have been part of that sophisticated network.
As they continue to scrape and sift, separating tiny shards of pottery from packed dry earth, occasionally finding something resembling a handle or the side of a jar, dust blows everywhere.
'This wind!' says Irini, exasperated. We stand up and look around, her eyes raised to the terraces on the hillsides. People probably always farmed on those terraces but they would need to find pottery to date them. I hope one day there is a bigger museum here, but I also love living surrounded by the mysteries of the past, some buried but untouched, scattered around.
Ian passes by the dig during the morning on his way to meet the Australian woman on the boat, to take her on the walk. I get a call 10 minutes later from the woman saying she can't make it as they may have to sail that afternoon, but it's too late to relay this to him as he doesn't have a phone; I try leaving a message with Stelios at the kantina but it gets somewhat scrambled. When I see Ian later in the village, he explains that he swam out to the boat in rough waves to find out what was happening, and was invited aboard for breakfast. Then he swam back and did the walk on his own.
I travel into the sunset, the huge fiery orb dropping slowly into the sea. Soon, the Diagoras is docking at Mandraki. I travelled to Nisyros years ago but this is my first time on our neighbouring island since I came to live here, even though I see its shape on the north horizon most days.
This trip is mainly research for an article, and I have resolved to learn more and make the most of living in such a rich region. Stelios isn't too busy now so Lisa stays at home with him. At the first hotel overlooking the water, Three Brothers, I take a room with a view of the sea over a bamboo garden, with a church to one side and a hillside filled with prickly pear bushes behind. I swing the balcony doors open.
In Mandraki, waves crash up on the rocks and the houses on the edge of the sea. I find the monastery lit up on the clifftop, and a brilliant crescent moon above; wooden balconies almost touch one another across tiny alleys, washing hanging to dry, and groups of women sit chatting on doorsteps, plant pots in every conceivable space. In the square, hidden in the winding alleyways, rembetika music plays at the kafeneion, and a sign reads Varda stenahoria – an old local phrase meaning 'sadness begone'. The owner tells me he's visited England; Liverpool, of course, when he worked on the ships. Two older ladies in almost identical blouses and cardigans sit smiling side by side on a bench, hands crossed in their laps, glasses in front of them of the cloudy local almond cordial, soumada. One of them gets up and walks away from the busy cafe to answer her mobile phone, shouting to someone who is clearly hard of hearing: 'Stin Nisyro! Ena nisi! S'ena nisi! Nisi! Neh, ena nisi! – I'm in Nisyros! An island! On an ISLAND! An ISLAND! Yes, an ISLAND!'
I start the next day at Koklaki beach: black pebbles, rough sea; a view of the green side of Yiali island – half pumice, half obsidian. I learned from posters in the square that turtles are nesting on another beach a few miles around the coast, and decide to walk there, stopping to see things of interest and talk to people. Beyond Palli are volcanic stone walls in dark greys and reds and a road seemingly to nowhere stretching around the island. I swim, read and fall asleep to the sound of sea on an empty stretch of beach. Woken by noise, I see goats reaching for caper bushes on the pumice cliffs above me, dislodging stones. I'm curious to take a peek to see what's over the headland – not expecting to find cows being herded from beach to hillside. At a restaurant that night, fish soup is recommended. 'What fish does it have?' I ask. 'Fish for soup.' Silly question. I also have a salad with Nisyros goats' cheese, which is tasty, hard and crumbly.
By the time the bus has climbed to the rim of the caldera the next morning, I'm already feeling queasy and hoping the brakes are checked regularly. The village of Nikia has stunning views across the blue sea to Tilos on one side, on the other all the way down into the centre of the volcano. After my eyes have been opened by a visit to the volcano museum, no stone is left unexamined as I follow a path through old abandoned settlements: scoria or basalt? I walk down to Stephanos crater, to feel the sulphurous steam rising up from the fumaroles, and listen to the rushing of hydrothermal activity below the yellow crystals, pause to feel a connection with mother earth. Then I continue on a monopati, a footpath, up through ancient hillside terraces, until I reach the dirt track and wind my way back around the other side of the island past little chapels and farms, as the sun starts to turn everything silver and gold. Up here somewhere by the defence wall are ancient cemeteries, where people were cremated with vessels of oil, wine, honey, figs and olives.
I leave it very late to buy my ticket home, almost wishing I'll have to stay. But I can come back any time. As we approach Tilos, I meet people who ask me to tell them about the island, and I point out the road that leads up to the monastery, Plaka beach, Skafi beach and the path to my house. When you live on a tiny island, you do have to travel sometimes to experience something different, but I always feel extremely lucky to be going home to Tilos.
Each of the islands is a small world in itself. Just as Nisyros was shaped by volcanic eruptions, the rocky mountains of Tilos are shaped by the old walls of castles, the terraces of ancient farms, the roaming goats that eat the trees. And our lives are shaped by unforeseen events and experiences, by every choice we make and everything we do. If I
hadn't gone into that pet shop while I was waiting for the car to be fixed, my life wouldn't be dog-shaped.
My plan is to go back to Tilos for a day, then on to Rhodes where I'll connect with another ferry to Crete to visit the tiny desert island of Chryssi off the southeast coast. But just as I'm about to leave Tilos, Lisa gets something stuck deep in her ear. We find her flapping her head from side to side to dislodge it, but there's nothing visible so it must be deep. I'll have to take her with me, to the vet in Rhodes.
Since none of the taxis at the port in Rhodes will take a dog her size – or maybe they just don't like the look of me – I trudge across the Old Town to the other side, my backpack heavy with clothes, computer and dog supplies. The vet finds a length of dry grass piercing her eardrum and says she could have gone deaf if I hadn't brought her in. He puts her to sleep while he buries his hand in her ear with a long pincer to retrieve it.
The boat to Crete, the Preveli, only travels twice a week and I don't have time to take Lisa back to Tilos. So the vet's office manages to book a cab that will take me and a very groggy dog to the port. I have to carry my still-drowsy 20-kilo dog (the vet weighed her for her anaesthetic) on to the ship and up all the steps to the topdeck dogs' accommodation. It's hard to leave her alone there in the cold in the dog cages, with noisy engines all around. There are just two dogs up there, shaking and shivery; I wish I could put her back to sleep.
It's warm and sunny by the time we arrive in Sitia in north-eastern Crete early the next morning. Unfortunately all the other dogs in town are awake and we walk to the palm tree-lined seafront followed by a pack of meanlooking stray canines, while other hounds bark and howl from balconies.
I have three days to take the bus south to Ierapetra on the south coast and a boat to Chryssi, before catching the Preveli back. But at the station I discover Lisa can't travel on the bus unless I buy her a cage and put her in the hold with the luggage. There are indeed days when Lisa deserves to be locked up in a cage… But not when she's on antibiotics and painkillers for a healing eardrum, having just endured a cold night on a ship. Alternatively, I can catch the Preveli straight back that afternoon, another twelve hours on the ship and all for nothing. I wonder if a car is the answer. And I wonder if I'll even find a hotel that will take a dog.
When I walk into the office of Minoan Car Rental, weary from hefting my backpack to the bus station and all around town after a fairly sleepless night, the man smiles at Lisa and she jumps up and puts her front paws on his desk. Out of kindness (and not just to get us out of his office, I'm sure) Michalis not only says he will rent me a car in the coming days, but rings around and finds a hotel that will take us, too. It turns out to be a very smart hotel right in the middle of the beachfront, called the Itanos. The nice young chap at reception feeds Lisa an almond when we check in.
Later I find myself looking at a lovely long stretch of beach on the edge of Sitia and thinking how nice it would be if they hadn't built a road right on top of it. In fact, the roads out of Sitia, this agricultural town, are full of huge, speeding lorries that would squish this Tilos-only driver like a bug at one false move. I cannot bring myself to drive a car on the first day, so instead walk to Petras, a kilometre east. Sitia might not be blessed with tranquil beaches, but it is rather blessed when it comes to ancient sites. Petras, occupied continuously from 2500 to 1400 BC, was used for the production of purple dye from shells and in later times wine and pottery were made here. The ancient warehouse once had massive pillars and storage rooms for rows of huge jars, and it was here they found the best preserved hieroglyphic archive of Minoan Crete – the inventory tablets and official seals of the palace. Also, cups and bowls that the personnel used for taking snacks to work – their lunchboxes.
Lisa isn't allowed on the town beach, so later we walk across the town and I see people swimming off the rocks near the entrance to the harbour, just below the road; it isn't beautiful but might be a good place to let Lisa go in the sea.
'Apogoreveteh! Not allowed!' women at the water's edge shout nastily, waving their arms, as if I'm deliberately breaking the rules and doing something terrible. And yet the town seems full of dogs! Wherever we go, stray dogs follow us or yappy dogs bark from balconies and every walk takes me past barking guard dogs. Thankfully, I manage to find a place to eat that allows me to sit with Lisa, and I drink some good local wine, and eat makarounes, soft local pasta with cheese, comforting and delicious. Walking around later, I get lost but discover a fantastic little shop that sells traditional local dairy products: yoghurt, staka (a heavy cream made only in Crete) and xygalo – a light and sour-tasting soft cheese made from goats' or sheeps' milk in the same way it was made in Minoan times.
The next morning, I find myself staring endlessly at the map with all its different roads, and thinking about what do when I rent my genuine Minoan car, and how much traffic there will be. Then I wonder about putting it off for a day. Small islands like Tilos are relaxing, I think, because you can go everywhere on foot if you like, with nature all around you. I chicken out of hiring a car yet again, and Lisa and I head for the hills. Passing the scrappy outskirts of town, with old bits of machinery, run-down or abandoned houses cheek by jowl with expensive new ones in different styles and colours, I see an intriguing sign and turn off to wander the ruins of an ancient city. Then, to escape the fast traffic and barking guard dogs at the roadside, we head into the hinterland where there is birdsong and olive trees.
I have no idea where I am going, but at noon we reach a village with an old Turkish fountain gushing with spring water. We continue up along paths through the woods, and two hours later we're at a little church high on a hillside in the middle of nowhere. Tired and hungry but exhilarated, I take off my shoes, lie down and listen to the only sounds: rushing water and the squawk of birds of prey circling above. Inside the church are beautiful, delicate paintings on wood. Far below is the coast. I don't have a good enough map to know exactly where we are, but I'm very happy to be up in the rugged hills, pleased to have ended up here.
The research trip is doomed: I haven't figured out what I'd do with Lisa since the island is a nature reserve and dogs aren't allowed. I go to see Michalis and tell him I'm terrified of driving one of his cars to Ierapetra, and he tells me he would therefore prefer I didn't, and everyone is happy. I don't really need to go just to write a paragraph about it. I decide I've done my best, ask a few locals about Chryssi, and make the most of Sitia instead, spending hours the next day at one of the best archaeological museums I've ever seen. I eat more delicious food washed down with local wine. It's been an adventure.
When Lisa and I catch the Preveli back to Rhodes, we sit in sunshine together all the way, munching on food from Sitia. I read a book and Lisa sprawls out across the deck, where everyone who passes must pay her some attention. She certainly leads me a merry dance sometimes, but she's worth it.
Back home, I enjoy some September days when I can hand Lisa over to Stelios, lie on the sand and fall asleep listening to the waves: such a simple pleasure.
Chapter 32
Tilos Devil
There are days when the sea is steely grey-blue, and olives are blackening on the trees. Now the kantina is closed, Stelios is free to come with Lisa and me on walks through the countryside, exploring, and he often takes her out in the evening on his own, visiting his friends. Back when I was wondering whether we should bring Lisa home, I truly believed that Tilos would be a perfect place to have a dog. It's not so simple, however.
Like many dogs, Lisa likes to chase things for fun, but as she grows up, we learn she can sometimes catch them. She can't do any harm to an adult goat, but Stelios and I let her off the lead on the path to Skafionce and see her catch a very young kid. Something instinctual takes over – she is half hunting dog, after all. She grabs it in her teeth and tosses it around like a rag. Whenever we try to catch her, she dodges away. The kid later dies, Menelaos tells us. He doesn't blame us, but Lisa has to be kept on the lead and cannot be allow
ed to run free. The countryside is full of goats that wander freely, but most belong to someone, and she could spot one on a hillside and be after it in no time. Sometimes I wish one of the goats with the massive horns would give her a fright by coming for her, but instead they always run.
Another farmer in the village shouts at me for walking Lisa past their sheep, because it scares them. On the other hand, I've been reprimanded for keeping Lisa on her lead. Some people insist I do one thing, others insist the opposite. I've been chastised for leaving her in the car for an hour, even with water and the windows open in the winter. Just as when I was pregnant, people don't hesitate to tell me what to do.
I don't mind people having an opinion but I get sick of people being negative and treating me as if I couldn't possibly have a clue. One day over the summer, when I allowed Lisa to sniff the grass in front of a seafront restaurant in the summer, the owner shouted at me, thinking I was letting my dog pee there. Another day I lost it when a woman started telling me what I needed to do, and I snapped back, 'It's my dog.' It started a big feud. Her boyfriend complained that the frappés I made were undrinkable. We never speak to one another again. It's not good to have enemies in such a tiny community. So much for my efforts to stay on good terms with people.
An Octopus in My Ouzo Page 24