by David Yeadon
We watched a competition shepherd become irritated by the erratic behavior of his dog. Whistles and angry commands of “come-by”, “away-here,” and “stand there” seemed to make no difference. “Dog’s either got a bad ‘eye’ or he’s not just payin’ attention,” said John. “They’re like that at times, showin’ off. Now look—he’s sniffed at something and he’s lost the sheep again. He took his eyes off and lost ’em.” The dog failed to complete the course in time and the disconsolate shepherd, reluctant to blame him, complained, “that Blackface had it in for us.”
I was curious how conditions were changing for the hill sheep farmer. “Well there’s still a lot of shepherds around,” John explained, “but they mostly whip about on motorbikes now. Some farmers have a hard time with three hundred acres—that’s enough for more than two hundred sheep, but even with subsidies it’s tight work. Ideal size is around six hundred or so ewes with ten tups for breeding in autumn—about seven hundred hill acres and some good inbye land near a stream for hay. Cheviot sheep are good but Blackfaces and some of your Swalesdale mixes breed better. A while back we got quite a lot of these rich ‘dentist farmers’ playing around but most seem to have gone into forestry now. It was a bit more complex than they thought. You’ve still some ‘heafing’ going on, especially on the open moors where you’ve got to teach the flocks their territory. In the past the shepherd used to live up there with ’em and then the farm was always sold with its heafed sheep. Then there’s still the dipping and clipping in May although wool’s lost a lot of its value now, and the September dipping, which used to be done by salving each sheep by hand with a mix of tar, Brown George (old fat), and buttermilk! Messy business that was!”
The little country show rolled along into the evening with a Punch-and-Judy show for the kids, a fell race, a pet dog competition, and a husband and wife bagpipe-and-drum team (“They couldn’t afford the whole band!”).
Off in a corner of the field the ancient game of quoits was being played using 5¼-pound cast-iron rings to encircle an iron post (hob) in the ground. The pitch was the traditional eleven yards in length and a skinny teenager, David Milburn, was impressing the old-timers with his skill as a “ringer,” and his ability to land the first of his two throws as a “gater,” which usually blocked his opponent’s quoit. His second throw, hurled in a flat “wibbly-wabbler” fashion, was aimed at knocking his own “gater” into a ringer. He was very modest about all the attention—“Jus’ been gettin’ th’ hang of it this year.”
The equally popular sport of Cumberland wrestling was the star attraction at the larger Alwinton Border Shepherd’s Show a few days later in the eastern foothills of the Cheviots. And here I made a big mistake.
“We need more in the All-Weights,” said the tiny woman keeping the lists of competitors. So I volunteered. It looked simple enough—one arm under and one over your opponent’s shoulders, nice tight lock grip across the back, then a bit of skipping and tripping to fell him. Best of three falls wins. Simple.
But no one mentioned I’d be matched against George Harrington, a Cumberland and Westmorland champion.
“It’s my first go at this,” I said lightheartedly as we walked to the wrestling area, ringed by scores of spectators.
“Makes no difference to me,” said George.
And it didn’t. I heaved and tugged and tried fancy footwork but I was soon back in the changing tent having been felled twice by this blond giant. “You didn’t do so bad out there,” he said peeling off his vest and colorful pants.
My shoulders and back ached for a week.
The walk north to Byrness offered more bouts with tussocky moors and segments of dank spruce forest. I saw three roe deer looking as fed up as I felt in the mushy earth but managed a grin at a place with the longest single name on the Pennine Way for nothing more than a modest farm. They call it Blakehopeburnhaugh, a wonderful kit-of-parts word consisting of “Blake”—a familiar place name in Northumberland; “hope”—a sheltered valley; “burn”—the border term for a hill stream; and “haugh”—a Norse term for flat land beside a river. As it was a farm they could have added a “garth” and a “helm”—Norse words for enclosure and cattle shelter.
Byrness came and went in a wink. I decided not to dwell on the fact that the last twenty-nine miles of the walk are said to be the hardest and loneliest of all. I was up over Windy Crag and Ravens Knowe and came to a rather undistinguished gate marking the border with Scotland. A brief moment of complacency, then off again across the grassy remnants at Chew Green of a vast complex of Roman camps, built alongside Dere Street, a major Roman supply road to the border country.
By evening it was obvious I’d never make Kirk Yetholm. My knees had gone to jelly and the sky was darkening rapidly. It was cold too. A mile or so below the trail I could see a barn in the claw of a narrow valley and decided to sleep there.
Part of the roof was missing, but there were bales of straw and hay stacked inside for winter sheep feed. Out of the wind, the place felt cozy, shards of cold moonlight flecked the hills outside and a freckling of stars filled the darkness. I made myself a warm niche, slipped into the sleeping bag, and would have been asleep immediately except for scurryings in the straw. I dislike invisible things that move in blackness. I whipped out the torch but the batteries were dead. Something eased up the groundsheet. I kicked violently and heard a squeal. Then came tiny mews and two fist-sized kittens nuzzled wet nosed, near my neck. I went to sleep, pacified by purrings.
At dawn a milky mist hung over the hills. The sun was no more than a dull ball, ghosting in grayness. Groping through half light I climbed back to the trail, strangely tired. Usually, when I’m in high gear, the landscape seems to do the moving for me; I float along, buoyed by breezes. But on this last morning, my legs seemed lifeless. The carrot at the end of the stick had withered. For days I’d been promising myself a place for rest and quiet contemplation but the momentum of the walk itself would not let up. Now it had ceased, twelve miles from frothy pints at the Border Hotel. I wandered with all the alacrity of a two-toed sloth, raddled and boned-out, merely wanting to lie down on the damp grasses and sleep.
Then suddenly it all changed. The sun yolked out from behind clouds, the mists slipped off the shoulders of The Cheviot like veils, revealing a soft summit and the long slope down through Hen Hole toward Kirk Yetholm. It was a day brighter than polished silver. I had to contend with a few boggy bits across the aptly named Black Hag, but after Burnhead Farm my springy step returned and I followed a good road for the last couple of miles.
I was joined by Tom Smith, a lean middle-aged man with a quick smile, who told me stories of cattle raids and ferocious border wars between the Scots and English during the fourteenth century and the gypsy “kings” who once ruled this part of Scotland.
Tom lived next door to the pink house in Kirk Yetholm that was the “palace” of Charles-Faa-Blythe, the last king of the gypsies. “They were so powerful round here in the mid-1500s that James V agreed to let them maintain their own laws even though they didn’t own any land. They were called muggers on account of they made mugs and pots and baskets and things out of horn. After Charlie died, his daughter Ester became queen in 1861, a real firebrand—she could out-shout anyone. We did a reenactment of her crowning last year at the Yetholm festival. They were quite a few gypsies came for that—it was so good to hear Romany spoken again—I got so much of it when I was a kid.”
So, full of tales and glorying in the crisp Scottish air, I came down into the pretty village tucked away in a fold of hills. I was now ready for a little mothering and warm muffins.
The bar in the Border Hotel was crypt quiet. Two old men, both with shocks of white hair, sat on stools sipping whisky and murmuring together in an unintelligible Scottish brogue. They gave me the briefest of glances and the barman looked nervously at my boots, suitably unmuddied for the occasion.
“A celebration pint, please” I said with pride. “I’ve just walked the Pennine Way.�
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“Oh aye” was the noncommital reply.
“Took longer than I thought,” I said in what I hoped was a modest tone.
The two old men continued their conversation without pause.
“It can,” said the barman, and slowly filled the glass.
And that was it.
No flags and no fanfares.
But a pair of weary feet wriggled in anticipation of gentler times ahead.
9. GREECE—KEA
Looking for Zorba
“If a man doesn’t break the string, tell me, what flavor is left in life.”
—Zorba the Greek by Nikos Kazantzakis
In spite of John Donne’s sonorous admonition that “no man is an island,” most of us possess a longing to find our own seclusion in the perfect secluded place. It’s a typical wish-list item, to discover the ultimate unspoiled island, preferably Mediterranean, ideally Greece.
The criteria are straightforward: it must be ignored by jetsetters, hidden from tourists, ethnically authentic, gastronomically pure, with friendly locals, beautiful scenery, and perfect weather. Most of all it must stimulate that essential spirit of Zorba—an anarchistic “only-one-life” perspective, exemplified by an enthusiasm for ouzo, a lust for lamb in all its forms, and an intense sense of harmony between land, ocean, and the individual spirit.
Well—I found my perfect Greek island entirely by chance. I’d planned an exploration of Skiros, Sifnos, and Folegandros, all of which I’d been assured possessed the epitome of the Zorba mood. But something somebody said on the flight to Athens, a whispered aside from a man who obviously knew his islands, sent me off in an entirely different direction. To the island of Kea.
So here’s my perfect island in a series of vignettes, glimpses of a small world that is sure enough of its own heritage and integrity to remain just the way it is for a long time to come.
I could have traveled from Athens airport to the ferry departure point at Lavrion by taxi but chose the local bus instead. I hoped for hoary locals, chickens, piglets on old twine, outbursts of ethnic folksongs—all the hullabaloo of foreign bus journeys that travelers love to relate to envious friends at home. In actuality the bus from Athens turned out to be an ultramod affair with tinted windows, red velveteen seats, and a bevy of well-dressed citizens carrying shopping bags from up-market Athenian stores. No folk songs with this lot.
But things improved as we left the interminable concrete boulevards of the capital and moved beyond the suburbs into the olive groves and village-sprinkled hills. The city shoppers disappeared, to be replaced by groups of black-shrouded widows hidden in shawls, sun-bronzed farmers with fat drooping mustaches, and a huddle of aromatic fishermen carrying yellow nets and food baskets brimming with fat loaves and bottles of wine. The driver had ceased his horn blowing and cursing at the antics of city motorists and settled snugly into his niche, surrounded by all the comforts of home—little colored lamps, two plastic Madonnas and five saint cards, family photos, a row of international flags above dusty postcards of European capital cities, a neat compartment for tissues and cigarettes, two sets of amber worry beads (komboloi), a Playboy rabbit sticker, and a rhinestone-studded holder for his can of soda.
Out of the city he was now king of the road, pausing in one village to negotiate some shady deal with one of the locals (lots of winks, nods, and handshakes), graciously helping old ladies on and off the bus, joking with the conductor (who held his book of multicolored bus tickets like the Gutenberg Bible), pausing again for a tiny cup of pungent Greek coffee delivered through the side window of his cab by an admiring taverna owner.
Every once in a while he’d reach into his tissue box and pull out a fresh white flower, smell it, suck one of the petals, and replace it carefully next to the worry beads. In between there were waves to people we passed, murmurs of admiration at the spritely young girls in the villages, and effusive greetings to friends lounging in the endless outdoor tavernas along our route.
A bus driver’s lot is indeed a happy one on the byways of Greece.
Lavrion seemed to be nothing but tavernas, lining the shady squares and boulevards of this otherwise undistinguished port town. How the Greeks love their leisure—sipping the days away around rickety sidewalk tables laden with milky glasses of ouzo, cups of thick Greek coffee and frappé (iced coffee), cold glasses of Amstel beer, and the inevitable retsina wine.
Beyond the town I could see olive groves on the dry hillsides, hazy and shimmering in the midday heat. Some of the groves had existed for centuries, filled with wonderfully grotesque trees whose trunks have exploded into separate serpentine forms, twisted and writhing beneath elephant-hide bark. They seemed tangibly alive like the contortions of an emerging Rodin creation, eternally in agony beneath delicate filigrees of silver-green leaves.
Eventually the ferryboat to Kea arrived. The Ioulis Keas II was a substantial two-deck affair, which until 1977 had been the famous “Ferry across the Mersey” in Liverpool, England. Gerry and his mop-top Pacemakers had sung her praises (she was then known as the Royal Daffodil), and now, here she was, making her two trips a day to this lovely six-by-twelve-mile island, an hour and a half from Lavrion. There were only a dozen or so passengers and a couple of cars. She looked very empty.
“Weekends you’ll see a difference,” one of the passengers told me. “A lot of Greeks in Athens have relatives over there. It gets pretty frantic Friday nights.”
The cooling meltemi summer wind from the north was blowing (“the Aegean air conditioner”), and we eased out into the evening light, rounding the barren bleached hills of Makronisos island, heading fifteen miles due east for the port of Korissia.
One of the crewmen decided to practice his English on me. “I like Kea very much. Not many people there—maybe fifteen hundred now. But it has much history—they have digged—dug—up a town near Korissia more than four thousand years old. Also on the back of the island, on the east side, there is—are—remains of a famous Greek city. They call it Karthaea. It is hard to get there if you don’t have a boat. You can still see pieces of three temples. This was a very important island—once many famous writers and strong runners came from here.”
I had bought a small guidebook on Kea in Lavrion, and my informant was indeed correct. The island had been a flourishing cultural nexus of the western Aegean around 500 B.C. And in spite of long periods of subsequent occupation by the Romans, the Byzantines, the Venetians, the Turks, and more recently the Italians and Germans, the island seems to have survived as a hotbed of nationalistic pride. Even as recently as the 1940s, it boasted a population of over 40,000, supported by a rich agricultural base on terraced hillsides and its role as a wood and coal refueling center for trading steamers from the north.
“There she is,” my crewman-companion pointed through the silvery evening haze at the island’s mountainous profile. It looked larger than I’d expected. As we came closer I could see the lines of ancient farming terraces supported by enormous boulder and fieldstone walls. Scores of tiny white farm-chapels dotted the slopes. The main town, Ioulis, was set well back from the coast on a steep hillside, in traditional Cycladean fashion. Sections of huge stone walls surrounded the 1100 B.C. “Kastro” castle and remains of a thirteenth-century Venetian fortress—an ideal defensive position against the once interminable pirate attacks.
On a hillside near Ioulis is one of Kea’s principal archaeological attractions, a twenty-foot-long lion carved from a solid slab of island sandstone in the sixth century B.C. I was too far away to see it.
“Never mind,” said my companion. “It’s not very good carving.”
Korissia hid her charms until the very last moment, as the ferry eased into the sheltered harbor. Then she appeared as if by magic, a tight, white huddle of houses, shops, tavernas, and kafeneion, lit by little lamps, alive with bouzouki music, fishermen mending nets, chickens and pigeons pecking among the quayside stones, and people walking together in the traditional evening stroll, the volta. A perfect
picture of Greek island life.
I had planned to stay at one of the two modest hotels here but instead was lured away by villagers to inspect rooms in private homes overlooking the harbor. Literally within minutes I was sitting on my own broad balcony, a glass of ouzo in my hand, my bags strewn across a pleasant apartment with kitchen and bathroom; the aroma of roast lamb wafted up from the two quayside restaurants. I had finally arrived and was already infatuated with the place.
The following morning I found an embryonic Zorba on the quay at Korissia. His name was Dimitrios, and he traveled with his friend Leos in a tiny ramshackle fishing boat around the Aegean. (Their craft was hardly visible among the dozen or so fancy yachts tied to the quay.) They were both in their twenties and went wherever the mood—and the fishing—took them. If the people of a particular island were friendly and bought their fish, they would stay awhile, docked each day at the quay, fishing every night from dusk till dawn.
I sat with them as Leos untangled the mile of hooked paragadi lines they used and chopped inky squid for bait. Dimitrios labored intently under the hot morning sun, filleting four midsize skates, which, along with a few kilos of mullet, were his total catch after ten hours at sea. He was disappointed.