From Soggy Exmoor to the Parthenon

Every conversation in the UK at the moment begins with a variation on, ‘Well, it’s still freezing cold and soaking wet, but here’s hoping for better weather ahead’. I’m wearing three layers in my office. Will the neighbours snigger if I retrieve the logs I removed from my fireplace to store in the garage, anticipating warmer weather? With the rain currently lashing at my windows, I doubt the neighbours are outside to see what I’m doing. It’s May tomorrow, for goodness’ sake! Gimme a weather break!
Oops. Nearly forgot. I just had a weather break. I took my first trip to Greece earlier this month with my horse-riding buddy. If you read last month’s blog, you’ll remember I debated whether to take my heavy coat with me. Would I survive the chilly trip to the airport without it? Would I survive carrying it around in the Athens heat if I took it? As it turned out I took it with me, and proceeded to wear it the whole time I was riding horses on the car-less island of Hydra. Even Greece can be chilly, but it was a nice break from the rain.

HYDRA, GREECE

The old seat bones reminded me I hadn’t been on a horse in quite a while but oh, the joy of it. The scenery, the smell of leather, the muted clip-clop, gentle nickers as horse greeted horse. The rhythmic hip sway that rekindled memories of other horses, in other parts of the globe. Gentle, kind eyes and sure feet carrying me safely around the island; every moment just delightful.
I hadn’t been anywhere horses were the main mode of transportation before. Mules, donkeys, and horses lined the streets, ready to carry everything from building supplies to suitcases from the main dock. People rode in a side saddle manner. Their flat-topped saddles look uncomfortable to me, especially as their heads remained constantly swivelled to the side to see where they were going. I rode side-saddle on many occasions in my youth. I can’t say it’s the most comfortable of positions but at least in the English side-saddle you are facing forward. Maybe Hydra style is less damaging on the hips though so pick your poison: neck ache or hip ache.
Out of season, Hydra presented itself as friendly, with fabulous cuisine at every small taverna or large restaurant. The sunsets shocked my rain-soaked English psyche. During the high season, our guide told us with rolling eyes, the place becomes a tangle of bodies and suitcases in the narrow streets. He held his head in his hands, a sense of despair. It gets hot, too. Extremely hot. I’m glad we were there in April, the trails to ourselves and the views unimpaired by the masses, even if I did need a jacket.

ATHENS

Athens proved warmer than Hydra. The heavy coat remained in the suitcase and the linen jacket came out for the first time since Tuscany, a year ago. We got up early to be at the Parthenon before the crowds and I highly recommend pre-crowd visits. By the time we left a couple of hours later, the line to enter the site heaved with people and photos could only be taken over heads, tour guide flags on poles, and that mortal dread, the selfie stick.
In the early morning tranquillity, however, I found this ragged, ransacked, scaffold-supported temple a strangely moving place. All those childhood classes on Greece Mythology, the mental images of Greek goddesses and multi-headed creatures, sea gods and bolts of lightning from tridents, it all meant something here. Covered in scaffolding, the building still exuded quiet, solid timelessness.
I watched the restoration projects in progress. I’m sure the scene has looked familiar throughout history: men with chisels, hammers, and ropes. The cranes may be something the original builders would have appreciated. Piles of stone waiting to be restored and replaced are nothing new. This place has spent its entire career surviving various whims; torn down, rebuilt, repurposed, vandalized (Mr Elgin, looking at you, among others!) and reinvented. It’s been a munitions storage warehouse (which exploded causing tremendous damage and loss of life) a mosque, a Byzantine church, and a Roman Catholic cathedral. Yet still the ancient bones stand tall and the caryatids of the Erechtheion remain beautiful as they gaze out over the centuries. I needed a quiet moment to sit alone, humbled by it all.

EXMOOR
It’s still raining as I write this, back in England. Yet the rain sounds cosy and homey after a spell away. When I lived in the desert of Southern California I dreamed of rain, of the colour and life it brings. I can see my garden full of flowers and all the rubble from our construction project. It doesn’t look quite like the piles of rock around the Parthenon. For one thing it’s all wet. But it’s my pile of rubble, my home, my sanctuary away from marauding masses and worldly chaos. If I have to take the rain to live on fabulous Exmoor, in beautiful England, I will. Gladly.