Nine Summers Read online

  ‘This is the best selection of mezzes we’ve ever had,’ we told him. He beamed, and said that the lamb was ‘very, very fresh today’. I had a vision of a lamb having its throat slit that morning. Felix had lamb, I had fish. Felix’s appetite was in fine form. Just then the owner approached us with two glasses of ouzo. But as ouzo plays havoc with me, Felix swigged both glasses when the owner wasn’t looking. A number of people started to dance, waving their arms and thumping their feet. I was mesmerised, but Felix looked as if he was about to pass out after the double hit of ouzo. We paid, thanked the waiter and complimented the owner, who told us to come again and try the seafood platter.

  In the morning Felix looked better, but the pain in my neck and shoulder was unbearable. My arm was so weak, I let the coffee cup drop, then burst into tears. Felix fed me painkillers. By lunchtime I’d improved.

  ‘The forecast is good, let’s move on to Mongonisi,’ Felix said. ‘It’s only 6 miles down Paxos island. We can stay there a couple of days, sleep and read before we move on through the Levkas Canal.’

  ‘Great.’

  As we approached Fiskado, at the northern tip of Cephallonia, a young man waved when he saw us making for the quay. He tied our rope to a bollard between small fishing boats, then stood at our bow, eager to make conversation. Tall, gangly and wearing a long, loose shirt, he struggled with a few words of English and German. ‘You know Greeks in Australia?’ he asked us.

  ‘Yes, we have a close friend, Marea Gazzard. Her father came from Antikithera. She’s a well known artist.’ But we didn’t think he understood. He wanted to know where we intended to go next. When it transpired that we were on our way to Turkey, he looked miffed and left us for the bar.

  ‘He’s much too young to have experienced the Graeco-Turkish War of the 1920s. But his parents or grandparents probably did, and in this part of the world, ethnic animosities are passed on like folk tales, down the generations,’ Felix said.

  Across from Fiskado in the Northern Ionian is Ithaca, which, according to Homer, was the home of Odysseus. At the top of the hill near our anchorage stood the ruins of his palace, and the romance of anchoring in these waters appealed to us. The next day we moved down the narrow strait that separates Cephallonia and Ithaca, tucked into a tiny bay and stayed there two days, to re-read parts of The Odyssey and also Tim Severin’s The Ulysses Voyage.

  When we’d left Corfu and started sailing through the Greek islands, we hadn’t realised how different it would be from the coastal sailing of France and Italy. We had no particular itinerary in this part of the Mediterranean, other than to sail towards Turkey. The Greek Islands are at the heart of the idea of the Mediterranean. An azure sea and sky, rocky islands, whitewashed houses, olives and pines, gulls, the smell of the sea, tavernas…We followed winds, and put down anchor wherever a village or bay attracted us. In France, Italy and the Adriatic we enjoyed talking to local people. But we found it hard to communicate in Greece, so we spent much of the time alone in quiet bays.

  Once, a fisherman motored into a bay we had to ourselves, put down an anchor and threw out a net. He was an old man with a sun-beaten, lined face, in a dark jacket buttoned up against the breeze and a faded fisherman’s hat. He sat gazing at the water, as old people often do, content to bathe in the sunset and perhaps think of the past. After dark, we watched him go down into his cabin and light an oil lamp.

  ‘He looks so sad…alone.’

  ‘Yes, he does.’ Felix put his arm around me.

  At dawn I climbed into the cockpit to look for him, but he was gone.

  The days were blissfully uneventful. We moved slowly from place to place. The heat in the cabin was excruciating, so we cooled down by jumping overboard. At night the scene and sounds changed. We watched the moon rise, stars appear and silver ripples on the water. We heard the smack of flying fish and listened to the sensuous sound of water lapping against the hull. Then, when night closed in, it was time to turn on the oil lamps, and later, tuck in under a sheet with a glass of wine.

  ‘How can one convey this utter peace?’

  ‘Write about it,’ Felix said.

  ‘I will. If we do it together.’

  Navpaktos (formerly Lepanto) is reputed to be the most perfect little medieval port in the Mediterranean. When Venetians commanded the Gulf of Corinth, this was their principal port on the Greek coast. But by 1571, when the most famous naval battle between Christianity and Islam raged outside this port, Venice had already lost most of her Aegean possessions, and appealed for help from other Christian powers. Venice took the brunt of the Turkish assault and the battle was hailed a Venetian triumph.

  With its castellated walls and castle at the top of the hill, Navpaktos looks like a toy town. Five yachts and a small ferry were in its tiny harbour. We were barely able to go in, turn and come out. After two nights in the Gulf of Corinth we made for the Corinth Canal.

  We had heard a lot about the high cost of going through it. ‘Whatever you’re supposed to pay, they’ll charge you double!’ we’d been warned. But we were excited by the anticipation of going through this famous waterway.

  ‘It was £100 instead of £40,’ Felix said when he came out of the office at the southern exit of the canal. ‘…But the thrill was worth it. Now let’s pull in to Korfos for the night, and move on to Kithnos tomorrow.’

  ‘You’re right, time to celebrate.’

  As Galatea approached Mykonos, the view from the sea was a moving postcard. Seagulls circled, boats sailed in and out, clusters of white houses appeared to have grown out of rocks. Windmills and church spires had turned this barren island into a tourist attraction. The atmosphere in Mykonos Town was busy, crowded and cosmopolitan, which contrasted with the simpler mood of other islands. We preferred to stay off Ornos, at the south-eastern side of Mykonos Island. There, we swam ashore and sat at a table under a cane awning, digging our toes into the warm, white sand. Galatea rocked at anchor some metres away. Only four other guests were in the restaurant. A smart young waiter in black trousers and white shirt handed us a menu.

  ‘Are you from that boat with the Australian flag?’

  ‘Yes. Your English has no accent.’

  ‘Sure, I’m from Melbourne. Greek-Australian, came to Greece a year ago.’

  ‘Are you here for an extended holiday?’

  ‘No, I plan to join the Greek Army.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘I want to fight for Macedonia. Macedonia is Greek.’

  Someone called him. ‘Excuse me, I must go and help in the kitchen. Try the fish. It’s very fresh today. Enjoy Greece.’

  One visit to Mykonos Town, with its razzamatazz, was enough for me, but Felix wanted to go again. ‘You go. I’ll stay on board.’ He was back soon, a little shell-shocked. ‘It’s the first time I’ve been propositioned by a male. The place has changed since we were here ten years ago.’

  The island of Levithia is the antithesis of Mykonos and different from other islands. Apart from a few sheep and goats grazing, we saw neither people nor houses.

  To anchor in the bay of an uninhabited Greek island, where rays bounced off a rocky foreshore at sunset and coloured the water a burning copper; to hear the murmur of waves rolling onto the shore, the occasional shriek of a gull, the whistle of breeze through the stays; to have books, wine and music; to feel the other there, exchange a look, a smile, was solitude and freedom at its most perfect.

  It blew hard on the leg from Levithia to Kos, our last stop in Greece before heading to Bodrum in Turkey. We backed into the long quay in Kos. It was packed with foreign yachts flying large Greek flags. No sooner had we tied up than two yachties approached, looked up at our Greek courtesy flag and said, ‘You won’t get away with that flag.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Not big enough.’

  ‘But it’s the regulation size.’

  ‘You wait. The fellow from the port authority will tell you it’s not big enough. His mission is to make every yacht buy a large Greek fla
g. Look, here he comes.’

  A small round man in navy uniform with a peaked hat, dark intense eyes and an aquiline nose approached.

  ‘This flag not big enough! You must get new one!’

  ‘I bought it in London at the yacht shop. It’s regulation size. In any case we’re moving to Turkey tomorrow.’

  ‘I won’t sign your exit papers without a bigger flag.’

  ‘Where am I supposed to get a bigger flag?’

  ‘Over there, there’s a shop. You can buy a flag there!’ he pointed, and moved off.

  Felix looked apoplectic. ‘For goodness sake, don’t make a fuss. It’s not worth it.’ I tried to calm him down.

  ‘He does this with every boat that comes in,’ a Dutch yachtie commented as he passed. ‘It’s his cousin’s shop,’ one of the Englishmen chipped in.

  Felix was in a lousy mood for the rest of the evening. In the morning he was very quiet. After breakfast he went to the shop to get a flag.

  When he climbed back on board with the new flag, and picked up the ship’s papers to take to the harbour office, I went with him.

  The harbour master looked up from his desk. ‘You have the big flag?’

  Felix held it up with two hands, ‘Here.’

  ‘Not big enough.’

  ‘It’s the biggest they had in the shop!’

  ‘I will go tell them to get more bigger ones.’

  ‘We want to leave Kos now!’ Felix snapped. ‘OK, give me your papers.’

  We left Greece in a huff. A strong Meltemi, the prevailing summer wind in the Ionian and Aegean, blew force 5 to 6, and we did 7 to 8 knots with just a mizzen and headsail all the way to Bodrum marina — the best sail in weeks.

  ‘Dear Greek gods!’ I said, looking up at the perfect sky. ‘Thank you for the idyllic weather in the Ionian and Aegean.’

  ****

  Hi Kids,

  We’re in Bodrum. Alias ancient Halicarnassus, where Herodotus was born in the fourth century BC, during the reign of Mausolus, who built a vast tomb for himself here, thus giving the world the word ‘mausoleum’.

  The town is dominated by a spectacular castle on a high peninsula at the harbour entrance, built by the Knights of St John in the fifteenth century as a fortress and stepping stone for their assault on Jerusalem.

  Our marina is the most efficient we’ve seen so far, with repair facilities, a mini supermarket, telephones, fax machines and anything you could wish for to make us yachties happy. But most impressive are the luxurious marble showers and toilets, not to mention marble floors with scattered Turkish rugs. The people are friendly and helpful.

  On our first evening, we ate at the marina restaurant, under a blaze of stars and a full moon, with an unobstructed view of the floodlit castle and bay. Our waiter, a medical student from Istanbul, tall and slim, a perfect charmer, is here for the summer vacation to earn next year’s university fees.

  I can’t tell you how excited we are about seeing you all in Turkey. Meanwhile, we’ll check out places to take you. We’d like to sail from Bodrum to Antalya, but are unlikely to go further. We’ve been told by a Turk that when God made Hell he was dissatisfied, so he created flies and Mesopotamia. Anything past Antalya, he assures us, is close to Mesopotamia.

  Dad still gets extremely tired, but ignores it. My neck, shoulder and tingling arm drive me crazy, and I also try to ignore it. The heat is our greatest problem.

  C’est tout for today, lots of love from the two of us

  Until the middle of the twentieth century, Bodrum had been an unspoilt fishing village with carts and donkeys trudging along its dirt roads. It was now a busy tourist centre, the streets clogged with cars, trucks and tourist buses. Along its long, curved esplanade, gulets, Turkish tourist boats, were busy with day-trippers and holiday-makers. Hotels and whitewashed holiday homes had proliferated, and in recent years it had become a Turkish Riviera for beach seekers and yachties.

  In the bay, luxury yachts flew flags from Hong Kong, Monte Carlo, London and the Bahamas; sailing yachts, local ferries and ships motored in and out of the harbour. The water was a froth of wake. There was an incessant hooting of horns, frenetic activity and blaring music. Bodrum was a loud place. But it was the Castle of St Peter, looking as if it had risen from the sea, which captured our attention.

  The colours of the stone changed continuously during the day, from gold to apricot, to yellow and ochre. At dusk the towers and ramparts glowed amber. When night fell, floodlights turned it into a fairytale castle.

  Inside, this former fortress was a museum, supposedly the best of its kind in the Mediterranean. Many of the exhibits had been recovered from sunken galleons dating from the Bronze Age to the Christian Era. As one local told us, ‘For people interested in history or underwater archaeology, this museum is paradise.’

  I stood on the saloon steps and gazed at the Castle of St Peter through a forest of swaying masts, circling seagulls and fluttering flags against a clear blue sky. From the boat next to us came the sound of jazz and the aroma of Turkish coffee.

  ‘Ah, that smell of coffee. Shall I go to the mini market and get Turkish coffee to replace the Greek?’ Felix stood on the aft deck and looked around, wearing that Cheshire grin that indicated nothing required immediate fixing.

  ‘As long as you remember to call it Greek coffee when in Greece, and Turkish coffee when in Turkey, there’s no difference. Yes, I’d love some. Apart from that, all I want is to stroll through markets, or stay put somewhere in a quiet bay for at least three days and do nothing.’

  ‘Done. But how about if I look for a tour of villages before we settle down to read?’

  We were in a group of eight in a mini bus, which tore along the dirt road, zooming past walkers on the side of the road, smothering them in dust. But the women in chadors and men leading donkeys continued on their way, unfazed by their proximity to heaven.

  ‘I hope the driver said his prayers before setting out,’ I said. The tour guide swayed from side to side as he walked from the front to the back of the bus, dispensing Turkish eau de cologne into cupped hands. A little later, he offered cold drinks. It was hot, and I fell asleep.

  The first village we visited was set on a steep hill. It was famous for kilims, a type of woven rug its residents produced. We walked up a curved alley lined with whitewashed houses and looked through open doors, down corridors and into courtyards where women sat on stools embroidering and chatting. Children ran to the front door and checked out the strangers walking past. In a small outdoor café men were smoking pipes and drinking coffee.

  ‘We shall go first into a house where you will see women weave carpets. After that we will go upstairs and see the finished products.’ We entered a courtyard and crossed into a workshop. Two boys stared at us, then turned their attention to their kite, while a little girl shrieked with delight as she hugged a baby lamb, and three chickens ran around pecking seeds. A pleasant smell of farm animals and herbs permeated the courtyard.

  In the workshop, four women were busy at their looms. Gentle, dark faces wrapped in headscarves looked up and smiled, while nimble fingers continued to flit across the threads. Each of the women was working on a different traditional motif.

  ‘I shall explain to you the difference between flatweaves and knotted carpets, and point out the traditional motifs, and the meaning of the various symbols,’ the guide said, before starting on a long dissertation. But I was more interested in the expressions on the women’s faces as they continued to work, undisturbed by the visitors. One of them looked about 16. Was she married? How did she see her life, her future? Did she want to stay in the village? Did she have ambitions to go to the city, to join relatives in Europe?

  The home, a basic structure with several buildings around a courtyard, looked as if it accommodated an extended household. A man explained to the guide that in this household they wove flatweave carpets used as floor or wall coverings. It had only been in recent times that these were woven for sale. Previously they had been i
ntended only for personal use.

  We moved on to another house in the same village to see women card and spin. They used wool shorn from their own sheep, and coloured them with vegetable dyes, a secret method they passed on from generation to generation. Chemical dyes were cheaper but didn’t retain the colour as well. At the end of the demonstrations we were invited onto the roof deck for refreshments. The view was vast and open, overlooking a green valley of herb bushes and wild flowers as far as the sea. A stream of cool air and aromatic scent wafted onto the roof. We sat on kilims, spread on a concrete floor, under an awning of dry palm leaves. A slender woman with dark eyes and pale skin, swathed in a long blue dress and headscarf, circulated with a platter of thin crisp titbits with a spicy topping, while a younger girl with long black hair carried a tray of soft drinks and ayran, a refreshing Turkish drink made with yoghurt. Turkish music drifted up to the roof from below.

  Felix and I sat next to our guide and chatted. Slim and clean-shaven, with melancholy eyes, Ahmed was a thoughtful young man in his 20s who had the habit of continually pushing back a forelock that irritated him. He told us how keen he was to improve his English, so we invited him to visit us on Galatea.

  When it was time to leave, we thanked our hosts. The women smiled and bowed. On the bus, Ahmed dispensed eau de cologne once more.

  The second village was a warren of houses. We walked past the village square to the mosque. The bearded mullah, wearing a cloth cap and fingering beads, was expecting us. ‘The mullah is the most influential person in the village,’ Ahmed told us. ‘Apart from religious duties, he is in charge of the education here.’ The mullah led us into the small mosque, where the floor was covered in magnificent rugs. ‘This is the centre of village activity,’ he said, ‘and my role is to bring people back to old ways.’

  Traditionally, the mullah explained, the family unit, both nuclear and extended, was strong. For generations it had been ruled by the oldest male. Everyone knew their place, their rights and obligations. But in the middle of the twentieth century, when people left their villages to find work elsewhere, old traditions changed or fell apart. Within Turkey, many migrated to the towns and cities, which offered new opportunities, education and greater personal freedom, thus accelerating changes in traditional values. It was this rapid social change that was largely responsible for the enhanced status and influence of religious leaders in the villages where people were poor and less educated.