The Island of Pelops

October 7, 2023, is a sunny day in Milan. Since morning, in this light, I’m WhatsApping with Afrooz in Tehran, and I decide to call her. A lively, joyful conversation—French with that Farsi accent becomes a wonderful language. Suddenly, everything feels possible. Isfahan, Shiraz, Damavand, Yazd, Yazd, Yazd—a delicious word savored endlessly—become within reach. Iran, so longed for, is finally here. Pure joy, absolute enthusiasm. Six months to plan and relish a trip before living it.

Then I open *Le Monde*.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

Frozen. Empty. No. We decide to wait, not to give up right away, pretending to believe—just a little, just to keep from collapsing—that with this wretched human race, the worst isn’t necessarily certain. It is.

So... meh, Madeira? The Azores? Uzbekistan (a pale substitute)? New Zealand? Greece. Again, always. Nestling into the only European promise we’ve been given. Indulging in illusions, for the pleasure of it.

So, train from Milan to Ancona (9 AM–12 PM), a typically Marchigiano lunch (Italy is paradise for food lovers), a stroll through the city, then at 4 PM boarding the *Olympic Champion*. Arrival in Patras the next afternoon, car rental, and off to Lepanto—Nafpaktos today—to reminisce about glorious victories and pay tribute to Cervantes, who lost a hand there before writing.

That’s the plan, anyway. The train is unusually on time. The ferry, replaced in the meantime by the *Hellenic Spirit* (why not? Even if it’s less suited to the season), is 3 hours late, then 4, no 5, then finally 6—oh wait, 7. And on top of that, it’s pouring rain in Ancona, and the port waiting room closes at 6 PM. Great...

At 11 PM, the ferry’s lights emerge in the pitch-black night. We jostle through the downpour, board, and sleep well in a cozy cabin with the white noise of the engines. Then:

23 hours of rest. Of forgetting.

11 PM, pitch-black night, clouds so thick it seems impossible—the ferry docks at Patras. The Albanian and Turkish truckers, along with the bikers, got off at Igoumenitsa. Here, groups of high schoolers and a few French campervan travelers on vacation disembark. The Citroën, a C3 with a trunk model I’ve never seen before, glides along the empty highways and ramps, takes the "Rion-Antirion," the world’s longest cable-stayed bridge for 4 months before the Millau Viaduct opened, for the modest sum of 15 €, and reaches the rain-soaked cobblestones of the once-heroic and now very modest town.

Lepanto... A bland seaside town with its generic tourist shops, a charming but tiny port cluttered with scaffolding, the statue of the Spaniard, just one meter tall (was this literary giant really that short?), under a gray sky that doesn’t exactly invite lingering.

So, off to Olympia, a week after the Olympic flame passed through, currently drawing journalists as the *Belem* sails through the Corinth Canal. Peaceful, springtime Olympia. Olympia that makes you want to wander the site, savoring the bygone era and the gentle air.





Olympia, whose museum showcases the perfect balance of classical Greek art.

The modern town of Olympia is of no interest: a main street with tourist shops, hotels, and restaurants, and perpendicular streets with more of the same.

The first goal of the day is the Temple of Apollo Epicurius at Bassae. What draws you in more than the heavy monumentality of this Doric structure is the site itself, lost in the mountains. The road twists and turns a lot. It winds through rugged landscapes interspersed with fertile valleys where the metallic green of the olive trees competes with the dark, matte green of the Mediterranean maquis.

The site is indeed stunning, rugged with its holm oaks dotting the tender spring grass where an elderly Greek man is gathering wild plants—the delicious *xorta* found on menus. The temple, however, is wrapped in white plastic sheeting, too close to the columns to admire the building’s structure. We leave it to its plastic solitude and head back on the road toward Messene.

A tiny road where flowers nibble at the asphalt. A stop under an immense plane tree shading the tables of a small eatery in a village lost in the mist. Greece wouldn’t be the same without these giant plane trees casting shade over its squares. A pleasant conversation with the restaurant owner, who’s peeling potatoes. He made his fortune in Athens, in the tourist chaos of the city, before longing for more serene places and opening this delightful inn in this remote hamlet. Unfortunately, it’s too early for lunch—I’m sure he cooks to perfection.

The farther south we go, the thicker and more mysterious the mist becomes, as the wind blows. It’s only upon arriving in Messene that the brain finally registers, helped by the yellowish hue: this opaque mist surrounding us isn’t due to humidity but to fine mineral particles suspended in the air. The Sahara is sending its airborne emissaries.

The site of the ancient city founded by Epaminondas, Sparta’s rival, is impressive. Very vast, with remarkably well-preserved ruins. And then, there’s hardly a crowd, and those who are there seem ghostly in this yellow, hazy light.

Late in the afternoon, as the wind picks up and the suspended sand darkens, we reach the small coastal town of Petalidi through a plain of ugly concrete and corrugated iron buildings, with bamboo whipping in the gusts. It was chosen for convenience, being at the start of the Messinia peninsula, our destination for the next day, ready to continue on to the Mani region. But the choice also turns out to be wise because of what it is: nothing, a place clearly forgotten by mass tourism that ruins so much of Greece, just a Greek spot, unadorned, worn down. We stay in the brand-new residence of a Romanian couple and eat, two nights in a row, at the only taverna open—a seaside terrace with mismatched furniture, mountains of grilled sardines to the sound of the waves and the Greek language, the only guests being the locals.

The next day, the sun shines brightly again, the sand has settled, and the air is still. The day begins with a good *frappé metrio me gala* (medium sweet with milk) on the quay in Koroni, where delivery tricycles and motorbikes rattle by. The town is pretty, flowery, and sunbathing by the sea.

The upper town is dominated by a vast citadel housing a monastery overflowing with flowers and thus charming—well, almost charming...



Orthodoxy and death... Orthodoxy is death when you look at the Russian Kirill.

Then Modone, today’s Methoni, with its immense Frankish, Turkish, and Venetian citadel (it’s always the same ones, but I’m unsure of the order—and I don’t care). A vast grassy space ending in a small fort jutting into the waves.



Lunch in the noisy, sputtering German crowd on the port with fried squid dating back to the Venetian era, then we head to our final destination of the day: the Palace of Nestor floating on a sea of olive trees.

Sheltered under a metal awning, only the foundations of the walls and a few floor coverings remain, but well-made explanatory panels help visualize what the home of the wise old man once was.

The weather is mild, even cool in the shade, and the place is absolutely peaceful.



"O Nestor, son of Neleus, greatest glory of the Achaeans, you ask where we come from: I will tell you. We arrive from Ithaca, shaded by Mount Neion, and I come here for my own sake, not on public business, as you shall hear. I seek news of the glorious fate of my father, the divine Odysseus, steadfast in suffering, who, they say, once fought beside you and brought down the city of Troy. As for the other warriors who besieged Ilion, we know how each perished by cruel death; but Odysseus alone is hidden from us by Saturn’s son. No one to this day has said where this hero lost his life—whether he fell on the mainland, struck by enemies, or was swallowed by the waves of Amphitrite. So I throw myself at your knees, begging you to tell me of Odysseus’ sad end, whether you saw it with your own eyes or heard it from some weary traveler. For surely his mother bore him to suffer! Spare me neither pity nor kindness; tell me faithfully all you have seen. If ever my father, the valiant Odysseus, fulfilled in deed or word what he promised you amid the Trojan people, where the Achaeans endured so much hardship, remember it now and tell me, I implore you, the whole truth."

The weather is uncertain, but it fits perfectly with the ruggedness of the Mani, the central peninsula of the Peloponnese, the wildest and most austere part.

The coasts are rocky, with rare and tiny beaches. This keeps the area free from the summer tourist hordes, and only high-end tourism has developed here, making it expensive—more so than the rest of Greece.

It’s known for its architecture: villages of massive towers, true fortresses that housed proud families, the indomitable clan chiefs waging merciless wars.

We opt for a two-night stay in Gerolimenas (the old port in English), far out on the western coast. The turquoise waters invite a swim—refreshing, *very* refreshing!

Tired of the car, we spend the afternoon reading on a terrace in the sun, followed by a little stroll on foot around the area.

The next day is dedicated to exploring the villages at the tip of the peninsula, the most characteristic ones.





We end with a hike to Cape Matapan, or Tenaro, the southernmost point of continental Europe. The trail is narrow, rocky, and often very steep with sheer drops over the sea—proper footwear is a must. But the walk is wonderful, expansive, fragrant with herbs, and peaceful.

On the way back, I’m tempted to buy one of those solitary towers dotting the landscape, line its walls with books, and stay there—in the wind, the shimmering sea, and the hum of pollinators. Letting the world go on without me.

A gentle turn of the wheel to the left, the car glides toward the sunlit broom bushes clinging to the rocky terrain, a gentle turn to the right, and it heads toward the sparkling sea. The road winding along the eastern coast of the Mani is pure driving bliss. And if you roll down the windows to let the air tousle your hair and the sweet, melodic Greek music from the radio escape, it’s pure, concentrated joy—like an espresso.

As the last towers disappear in the rearview mirror, Scoutari Beach comes into view on the horizon. No one around, just a church, a taverna—should we stop? During the swim, still invigorating, a fisherman’s boat docks at the pier. The fisherman heads into the taverna with his crates. Once we’re dressed, we follow him in and have him show us his catch: small tuna, sea bream, and more. He weighs it to set the price, and off we go to the terrace with ouzo and olives while they grill the fish to perfection. We’re the first customers of the season, so we’ll only pay for the fish.

By late afternoon, after a tedious drive through vast orange groves, we reach Monemvasia. We chose a hotel on the mainland with a view of the rock, and the town is just a short walk away. The moment we pass through the gate in the surrounding wall, it’s clear that staying outside the walls was the right call. The village is a full-blown tourist attraction, a maze of narrow, cobblestone alleys worn smooth by footsteps, lined with shops catering to visitors. Monemvasia is best at dawn, between 5:30 and 7 AM.









The silent dawn is also the perfect time for a whispered conversation with the poet who once made this his first home and now rests here as his last. Clumsily, with a thick needle and coarse thread, he sews the buttons on the coat. He talks to himself: Have you eaten your bread? Have you slept peacefully? Could you speak? Reach out? Did you remember to look out the window? Did you smile when someone knocked at the door? If death still exists, it comes second. Freedom always comes first.

Still such a beautiful and now rare command of language—so much so that you could enchant us even with a nighttime tale in a deserted, fog-shrouded port! The images are already varied and well-chosen.

As for Greece, in just two posts you’ve already refreshed my memory. Actually, you’ve refreshed me altogether.

Thanks! :)

Sparta... We know that little or nothing remains of mighty Lacedaemon, but since it gave our language two precious adjectives—laconic and spartan—embodying essential sobriety and humble austerity, a stop to remember it is a must before reaching Mystras. The archaeological site, though heavily ruined, is still pleasant in spring with its wild grasses, olive trees, and pines. Plus, you can admire a fine example of hyper-kitsch martial statue!

Back in the day, Leonidas’ motto was "Come and take them!" before it became "Making pralines accessible to all."

It’s scorching hot, and the steep slopes where Mystras’ ruins sprawl aren’t exactly inviting in the early afternoon. We decide to stop for the night at a campsite offering bungalow rooms as nice as a hotel, complete with a large pool. A restaurant on the plane-tree square serves delicious stuffed vine leaves with a tangy lemon-egg sauce (avgolemono). This’ll let us explore the Byzantine city in the late afternoon, when the light softens.

Mystras was once a vast city—40,000 inhabitants at its peak in the 15th century. A wealthy one, too, with thriving trade. All that’s left now is the Frankish castle overlooking the site, a massive palatial complex, numerous churches, and a few monasteries—or what’s left of them. Mostly, it’s a gorgeous walk through wildflowers in early May.

Today's goal is Nafplio. I'm a little nervous, and I was right to be.



Nafplio could be pretty. It was the first capital of modern Greece, back when Athens was still just a small Ottoman town. That’s given it some stunning 19th-century architecture—elegant buildings draped in bougainvillea. But that beauty draws crowds, *so* many people, packed elbow-to-elbow in bars and restaurants. And the crowds bring tacky touristy crafts, with shops gutting the ground floors of those beautiful old houses. Just enough time for a greasy gyros (yum!) before we bolt.

Since we’re here, we stop to check out the Frankish citadel overlooking the city. The views of the Gulf of Laconia are gorgeous.

For the night—well, two nights—we’ve set our sights on Tolo. A quiet seaside resort in early spring, not particularly charming except for the lovely gulf it sits on. While picking the town was relatively easy in this area, choosing a hotel was trickier: dozens line the waterfront. My partner has a good nose for these things and picks the Solon. It’s one of the first hotels in the resort, built in the late 1950s. Actors from the newly created Epidaurus Festival used to stay here. Maria Callas had her suite on the top floor. It has a slightly old-fashioned, vintage vibe that’s actually quite charming. A terrace, a few steps, and the sea is right there. And it’s less bracing than in the Mani region, which is just how we like it.

In search of sustenance, we explore the town and, at the very end near the mini-ferry dock (which sets sail for who-knows-where), we find a taverna with tables set up on a pier: the sea to the right, the sea to the left, and on the table, a pantagruelian *fritto misto*—triple the size of Italian portions.

The next morning is dedicated to Epidaurus. While I remembered its theater—indelibly etched in my childhood memory (I’d been here before, 47 years ago)—I’d completely forgotten it’s part of a vast archaeological complex, which dilutes the tourist crowds.







It’s pleasant to sit on the theater’s steps, to chuckle at the vocal experiments of passing tourists testing the acoustics, to imagine Aristophanes crafting a witty comedy from such antics... Then to stretch our legs in the beautiful park before hitting the road for Mycenae.

Mycenae...

An unbroken column of processionary caterpillars, occasionally pausing for a selfie/Instagram moment... We greet the lionesses and make a quick exit. Back to Tolo and a swim before returning to the pier.

The trip is drawing to a close. My partner wanted to fly back, so I seize the chance to show him my favorite neighborhood in Athens: Exarchia, the anarchist, alternative, intensely creative district that’s doomed to disappear. Police, helmeted and wielding batons and shields, guard the metro station construction site that will "revitalize" the area and turn it into an Airbnb hotspot. We need to enjoy Exarchia while we still can—and fast.

Elsewhere, endless lines stretch outside museums, crowds trample through Plaka or Monastiraki.

Our full day in Athens lets us visit the Niarchos Foundation near Piraeus. After so much antiquity, the modern design by Renzo Piano is a breath of fresh air—truly stunning, airy, luminous, full of gardens. And filled with Greeks, mostly students.









See you soon, dear Greece.

When will Afrooz and I be able to plan an Iranian adventure?!

Hang tight for the comments—give it time for the overtourism chatter to pop back up on VF! And thanks again, I loved everything about it.

October journal. 2024. I didn’t even know VoyageForum was back, so day by day, I’m catching up on my reading now. __

Your words describe, sketch, color, and scent your walks, your treats, your discoveries—it’s such a joy for me as a reader. Going through this story feels so good...

Thanks for this story—it took me back four and a half years!

Summer 2020, so... I’d done a nearly identical trip (but in reverse, and my account was way less poetic ) with the joy of seeing all these sites almost deserted ("thanks" to the uncertainties around Covid).

Hi Dolma and you,

Glad you enjoyed reading about this Greek stroll.

Muriel, I remember reading your Peloponnesian travel journal that sweltering summer. You also went to Cythera—which we only saw from the mainland, unfortunately—even though the urge to board a boat in Neapoli was strong. And in the mountain villages around Dimitsana, which we skipped due to the iffy weather at the start of our trip, if I recall correctly.

Catherine

Well done on the memory! 😉