In loving memory of those dear ones who have journeyed on ahead of us…
You were the one who first told me about that island, your eyes were lighting up with excitement every time you spoke about something you loved. I needed no further persuasion to be convinced. It was a time when you were fully devoted to the trowel and pick, before you allowed yourself to be lured by the temptations of that other science, which was never quite big enough to match your openness. I’m trying to recall your words about the island. What period did the excavation concern? How long did you stay? Faded fragments in my memory. Only your eyes remain, smiling at the mere mention of it. For years i wanted to come but the difficulty of reaching it always discouraged me.
And yes, when the time finally comes, everything seems to fall into place on its own, as if it had been waiting for you all along. In just a few minutes from Thessaloniki, in a small propeller plane with only a handful of passengers- a stoic four legged creature among them, unmoved even by turbulence, and a tiny little she- devil in angelic camouflage who treated the seat in front of her as a kickboxing target-we landed at the miniature airport. I had read beforehand about public transportation, which proved to be ..inadequate. What is one daily bus route worth if it does not coincide with your arrival? My fellow travellers, far better prepared than i was, vanished in seconds with rental cars or pre- booked taxis.
A mishap on a trip is nothing but an adventure -as long as one can wait somewhere shaded, and not under the merciless august sun. A local man renting cars called a cab for those of us who had been left behind, and that’s when the first surprise hit us. The taxi driver turned out to be quite the character- think of a grandmother, mother, and mother-in-law rolled into one. As she drove, she commented on the usual delays of the Thessaloniki flight, offered an impromptu guided tour, juggled her household chores (a call to remind son to take the food out of the oven etc), and even promoted her daughters’ business in Chora. This woman was a true multitasking marvel!
Second surprise: the airport belongs to the Hellenic air force, which means military checks, guards, and other such trappings- while if the idea of a NATO base goes through, you can kiss civilian flights goodbye and take the ferry instead.
In this land, Thetis, the sea nymph, once attempted to conceal her son Achilles, in a desperate did to outsmart the prophecy that foretold his downfall at Troy. On this island, cherished for its nymphs, you were just another, an Hamadryad, a nymph of the trees, born alongside an oak, nurturing it, protecting it, and ultimately perishing with it. Yet i seek the traces of your footsteps in this earth. I yearn to discover where your gaze lingered, what stirred your hurt, what made your breath deeper and your soul serene.
Skyros Chora stretches out, bright and white, basking on the slope beneath the remnants of the Byzantine castle. The houses -like watchtowers- overlook fields, sea and the nearby beaches of Molos and Magazia. As you make your way up to the castle, the narrow alleys become so intertwined that houses, chapels, monastery and the castle itself seem to merge into one another. This is the very place where the locals sought refuge from pirates and would- be conquerors- ‘visits‘ that were all too common. The Monastery of Saint George, nestled beside the castle, provided divine aid in times of danger, affecting strength and solace when it was most needed.
Yet the island’s social structure divided the inhabitants into castes, each with its own neighbourhood, church, cemetery and traditional dress. If the church of the “Kotsambasides”(the nobles) was the Archontopanagia (the noble Madonna), for the shepherds it was Panagia Lemonitria (merciful Madonna) . As for piracy- it is an entire chapter of its own in local history, and my research into it intrigues me, while adding yet another reason for your absence to ache. What is certain is that over the years many locals grew wealthy participating in the looting of passing merchant ships. Piracy and trade brought to the island a remarkable tradition of precious imported objects- decorative pieces, vases, fine tableware from across the known world- symbols of prosperity, sometimes stored inside the castle for safety.
Third surprise: on my first night on the island, an almost purifying rain fell like a cleansing balm after a long held sob. I had never experienced rain on an island before and i welcomed it as a warm greeting. As if the tears i’ve kept buried within me found their way out…
The next day exploring the nearby beaches revealed surprise number four: If an unsuspecting alien landed on Skyros island, it would conclude that the island was experiencing a post-
War II American baby boom revival. Children everywhere. I know you adored them, and i will comment no further (is there such a thing as an adults- only island?)
At the small charming hotel, the staff is equally youthful- full of energy, restlessness, and that enviable coolness of their generation“We’ve seen everything, we expect nothing”. Among everyone, the gardener- a foreigner- felt the most familiar to me. He was around my age and always immersed in his work. Whenever he encountered a guest he would smile shyly and lower his gaze , almost as if to say: “I’m sorry for being here, taking up space in the world without asking for it.”
Overwhelmed by the noise of the classic immortal Greek family, we set out to explore the island by car. They say Skyros was once two separate islands that fused into halves entirely unlike each other. The southern part, mountainous, rocky and barren, is called Vouni (Mountain). Here lie a vast sheltered natural harbor that could tell many stories from the days when large commercial and warships sought refuge there during the Ottoman times- or later, when pirates prowled the Aegean, and when the British used it as a naval station during World War I.
The northern part, in contrast- Meroi- is forested and fertile. Its woods once sheltered small herds of the famous Skyrian horses, a breed found only here and in the Shetlands Islands. Today the remaining animals are protected in an NGO sanctuary, where volunteers from around the world come to work and leave reviews that are not exactly flattering.
As dusk settled we arrived at Atsitsa, a place that completely captivated me. This quaint settlement tucked away among the pines, culminated in a rocky beach. With just one taverna, a handful of lodgings, and an overwhelming sense of tranquility. I read that once upon a time the Anonymous Mining Company of Skyros operated iron and nickel mines. By 1912, roughly 300,000 tons of chromite iron had been shipped out. After that, the venture ceased to be profitable; the permit was revoked in 1951, and the company dissolved. All that remains are ruins- the administration building, workers’ houses, part of the loading staircase waiting in vain for wagons that will never come, heaps of ironstone, fragments of the loading bridge now fallen into the sea.
The sunset brushed over the memories of the place and of my own past. We found ourselves sitting at the quaint little tavernas, almost without realising it, like background characters quietly taking their spots in a scene from an Angelopoulos film. That gentle nostalgia wrapped around us- a bittersweet, aching reminder of another time. The elderly gentleman of the family didn’t wait on us; instead, he played the role of our host. Surrounding us were mostly foreigners- couples and solitary figures lost in thought. At the next table, a woman turned to me, seeking assistance with translation. We exchanged a few words, each of us casting greedy glances at the sunset dancing with the sea, and then at one another, as if silently asking, “you see this too, right? Isn’t it magical?”
As the sun finally sank below the horizon, the tavern family- three generations strong and accompanied by two dogs- set the table for their shared meal. Emerging from the kitchen, storeroom, and various rooms, they came together around one large table: the elders, a newborn baby, a loyal dog resting at their feet, and a playful puppy smashing about. I recalled years back, on a journey to Apulia, when i stumbled upon a courtyard filled with an extended family enjoying lunch, the men ready to rise in unison at the sight of intruders. But here, there were on intruders. – only witnesses to a dinner that, while not a secret, exuded a quiet sense of sacredness.
From this point on, I’ve decided to stop keeping track of surprises. This is where the miracles truly started.
On the last day, i always set aside time for my personal vows. I made my way to Brooke Square and the Faltaits Museum, starting my ascent to the town beneath a cloudy sky. It was still early, and the streets were delightfully quiet. As i strolled along, people greeted me with cheerful “good mornings” and i responded with a smile. At a crossroads, a passerby asked before i even had a chance to think, “Where would you like to go?” I truly value this sense of immediacy and the inherent kindness in such interactions.
I pressed on until the land opened up before me, revealing a ledge at the edge of the world, where human footsteps cease and nature spreads its wings. This is Brooke Square- a simple circular threshing floor marked by the statue of the English poet Rupert Brooke and its center. It depicts a strong, naked figure, symbolising eternal youth and poetry. Brooke was only 28 when he lost his life serving in the Royal Navy during World War I, before laid to rest in the soil of Skyros.
And here you are. I see you, your hair tousled by the wind, struggling to roll a cigarette against the gusts. Here, on this threshing floor- the poets’ square- you used to come to sift through your thoughts, letting the wind carry, leaving only the grain behind- what had the weight to take root within you, to nourish and grow. Yes, back then, you would smoke, your hair flowing long, and you sang like an angel: “Red lips i kissed, and reddened mine…and on my handkerchief i wiped it, staining the edge of the shore and the middle of the sea..”
As i made my way down a few steps, i arrived at the Faltaits Museum, which turned out to be mush more than just a museum; it was a gem of a house, a true sanctuary of history, folklore and art. The Faltaits family dedicated themselves for generations to a concept they refer to as ‘communities’, embodying a certain collective spirit, while i can’t quite define it, the place itself felt like a treasure trove of memories, beauty, and generosity. I found myself captivated by the wealth of exhibits- Skyrian wood carvings, intricate bronze pieces, traditional costumes, delicate embroidery, and woven textiles. Whenever i needed a moment to breathe in the beauty, i gazed out the window at the endless blue horizon before diving back into the historical archives. There, i delved into the Ottoman period and beyond , exploring the proclamation of te Filipino Eteria and the Patriarch’s denunciation of the Greek Revolution.
The works of Manos Faltaits resonate deeply with viewers, as he stated, “with painting, i give that i cannot express in words”. His artwork presents figures that engage the observer with an authenticity that can evoke a sense of introspection and unspoken emotion. As the closing time approached, signaled by a courteous announcement, i took the opportunity to acquire a few items from the gift shop- tokens intended to extend the experience, fostering the illusion that a piece of this remarkable place would accompany me. How misguided my assumptions were about what was to come…
I bid you farewell here, but not in a final sense. I now understand that we will always come together at this place, sharing our own private ritual, just you and me.
Fish (fly-replete, in depth of June,
Dawdling away their wat’ry noon)
Ponder deep wisdom, dark or clear,
Each secret fishy hope or fear.
Fish say, they have their Stream and Pond;
But is there anything Beyond?
This life cannot be All, they swear,
For how unpleasant, if it were!
One may not doubt that, somehow, Good
Shall come of Water and of Mud;
And, sure, the reverent eye must see
A Purpose in Liquidity … (Heaven, Rupert Brook)
As we departed from the island, the familiar little group reconvened at the airport- our brave dog, the ever- persistent little demon and the others. Among the treasures i brought back from the museum was a book containing the testimonies of Greek survivors from Nicomedia, thoughtfully compiled by journalist Dimitris Faltaits. This book was destined for my mother’s home, a place where those precious memories truly belong.
As i delved into its pages, a heaviness settled over me- a reality that no one should have to bear. Suddenly, while reading the chapter on Kara Tepe, i stumbled upon my mother’s grandfather recounting his escape from the massacre. What i had long thought to be merely a family myth- that his story was captured in a book- turned out to be true. The shock and emotion i felt were beyond words. It wasn’t just about finally having answers for my beloved uncle’s years of searching; it was also about the realisation that this was your gift to me, i knew it deep down.
You can visit:
ninetasland.com 