LIFE, WITH ORANGES

Volos is an attractive little city with a long history stretching back deep into antiquity, and although large parts of the old town were destroyed by the devastating earthquakes of 1954 and 1955, some older buildings still remain. Orange trees line many of the streets, and at this time of year their plentiful fruit provides a cheerful blaze of colour. I’m told the oranges aren’t sweet, being of a variety best used for marmalade, which probably explains why they don’t seem to get picked by passersby. Good – I like seeing them.

Many years ago, when I was still in primary school, we had a calendar which featured Moncreid’s “Still Life with Oranges.” I loved that picture – I could almost taste the succulent oranges. The green jug was similar to one we had, we too had bone-handled knives, but the kilim on which they rested fascinated me. It spoke to me of far-off lands, of fairy tales and exotic peoples, of different ways of life. I was enthralled.

georges-daniel-monfreid-nature-morte-aux-oranges — Still Life with Oranges

Oranges, lemons, mandarins and other varieties of citrus fruit abound now. Buy them in the street markets, choose at the supermarket, get them from greengrocers, or stop to shop from a tiny roadside stall.
“Are they sweet?” you ask as you climb out of the car.
“Absolutely! Here, taste.”
The seller will whip out a knife and peel the succulent fruit in a second.
“No, no, that’s OK, ” I usually say, “I believe you.”
A bag or two is filled, a euro or two is handed over, a word or two about the weather is exchanged. Everybody’s happy.

The tables in the fruit and vegetable markets would complain, if they could, about the huge heaps of citrus stacked upon them. Oranges, oranges and still more oranges. Even though the produce market is packed with fruit and vegetables, with fresh fish and cured meats, with olives, cheeses, herbs and flavoured olive oils, preserves and sweetmeats, breads and baked goods that would surely tempt the gods, it’s the oranges that are the most distinctive. You can’t miss them.

The fruit and veggie market is always lively, a meeting as well as a marketing place, with buyers and sellers alike chattering and yelling. The news of the day is announced and pronounced upon, gossip’s passed back and forth, babies and children are fussed over, and all the while supplies are bargained for. Produce inspected, weighed and the sale concluded, the goods are tucked into bags and baskets as the shopper continues on their way. No need to hurry. Lots to see. Much to talk about.

If it’s in season, you’ll find it here.

P1290893 [HDTV (1080)] — Well…it is an open-air market

HATS! CHAIRS! TABLES!

The south wind, that most unwelcome bearer of Sahara dust, has been blowing wildly most of the week, yielding occasionally to the rages of the competitive west wind. So choking has the dust been that the elderly and those suffering from breathing complaints have been strongly advised to remain indoors.

Newspapers the world over run banner headlines to the effect that the weather is nuts, has gone mad, is weird, strange, odd, ominous. To hear some tell it, the end of the world is upon us. So must the Ancients have believed when Aeolus, heeding the command of the gods, opened his bag of tricks and let loose the four winds.

Who has angered the gods this time? No idea, but someone up there on Mt. Olympus was certainly livid enough earlier this week to demand that Aeolus really let rip. Unpleasant as the south wind is, it’s no match for the west wind in full throttle. All through the long Monday night it ranted and roared, pounded the coast, sent shutters shuddering, surely terrorized many creatures, and kept us awake. Nor was Aeolus instructed to bag his west wind again come morning, with the result that it grumbled along, squabbling with the south wind until late yesterday.

Wind is hardly uncommon here on the Pelion Peninsula where the many islands and inlets of the Pagasitic Gulf, together with the hilly and mountainous terrain, interact to influence the weather patterns. The Pag is beloved by sailors, its merry breezes with their sudden shifts in intensity and direction providing challenges to amateur and pro alike.

The locals have a delightful vocabulary of expressions to describe the effects of what Aeolus is offering: kapelato, kareklato, trapezato being among my favourites. Kapelo is a hat, karekla is a chair, trapezi a table. Well, what he unleashed on Monday night had no difficulty lifting tables, none at all, as was soon obvious to us in the morning when we set off for Volos. We took the coastal road which is practically deserted at this time of year and shortens the trip by a good 15 minutes. West wind’s temper tantrum had littered the beaches with debris. Branches, rocks, stones are objects of nature,

but the heaps of plastic and other examples of man-made items hurled up by the sea are an eyesore, though in fairness some had clearly been dislodged by force of wind and wave.

Parts of the road had sheared off in the violence, making the narrow road more challenging still,

but what brought us to a complete standstill was the large tamarisk tree, torn from its position between the beach and the road, blocking any further passage.

Hubby was unfazed, stopping the car to get out and survey the situation.
I carried on knitting.

“We left with plenty of time to spare,” he reassured me as he returned to the car. “I’ve a handsaw in the back – soon take care of this.”

I continued knitting; he appeared to be rummaging about longer than I’d expected.

“Rats!” he announced (or something similar). “I must’ve forgotten to get it back when I lent it to Costa.”

Well, that put a spanner rather than a saw into the works. I abandoned the knitting in favour of documenting the incident for posterity.

Ron moved on to plan B.
“I’ll use the tow rope to pull it out of the way,” he said, uncoiling it from the collection of hydraulic jacks, oil, jumper cables, tire pump, and sundry other items apparently essential to our survival when traversing the Balkans. (I might mention here that my emergency supplies typically run to plenty of knitting and chocolate.)
“It won’t take long.”

He worked at securing the cable to the tamarisk and then to the car’s bumper, yelling at me to get well out of the way as he climbed back in to start the car.

Waves crashed, spray spat, tires screeched, stones crunched but the tree budged nary an inch. Again he tried. Again the collection of sounds filled the air. Again the tree resisted.

Ron climbed back out to retrieve the cable, I climbed back in. There was no option but to retrace our journey and take the upper road. Now considerably delayed we were grateful for the cell ‘phone though it was some time before we could get a signal and let it be known we were running late.

We stopped at the first inhabited property to advise of the obstruction which would need a chainsaw to clear away completely.

Missions in Volos accomplished – which included hubby purchasing a handsaw – we returned via the coastal road. The tamarisk had meanwhile been chopped up and stacked at the side of the road by some public-spirited soul; Ron had missed his chance.

“TO MARKET! TO MARKET! TO BUY…?”

Street markets are a common sight throughout Europe. Many towns and cities grew from ancient beginnings at crossroads where merchants from exotic parts set up bazaars to buy, to sell, to swap news, to plot, to scheme. In short, to engage in all the activities man is capable of.

Several of these markets are historically significant, well documented in book and film, essential destinations for tourist and trader alike. There is much to explore, both in open air and covered street markets, while the careful observer will note that little has changed with respect to human behaviour. Sadly now in certain countries local markets are fast becoming targets for those whose twisted minds seek to sow horror and carnage.

As one travels further and further east across the Balkans, away from the sophisticated culture of urban areas and deeper into the simpler life of isolated rustic communities, the street market has much more in common with its ancient counterpart. The exchange of goods, especially fresh produce, is vital to the well-being of the community. It is not unusual, even today, to encounter people clad almost entirely in handmade garments, people who have never gone beyond their village of birth.

On to the fun! Friends have been regaling me with stories of their fantastic buys in recent months, and as it’s been some time since we visited a Volos street market, we decided to do so this past Friday. Small neighbourhood markets take place on most days, typically offering fish and fresh produce, while the Wednesday and Friday markets are the largest with regard to clothing and household goods.

They can be huge, occupying several blocks, so these markets are required to rotate their locations in order not to inconvenience residents and shopkeepers on a regular basis. There’s a roster determined by the municipality, but because the clothing markets are situated in an area of upper Volos, away from the town centre, it’s not strictly necessary to know exactly where they will be held – it soon becomes obvious as you drive along where the hustle and bustle is.

It’s also apparent that parking is a problem: the streets are narrow, the vehicles numerous, the obstacles many, the crowds large. Nothing for it but to get stuck in. Literally. You can see why we don’t often go. Hubby dropped me at an intersection and went off to sandwich the car somewhere; thank goodness for cell ‘phones which make it possible to locate each other in the throng.

We often joke that you can clothe yourself from head to foot as you meander through the stalls, such is the variety of goods on sale, from shoes and socks, underpants and some rather improbable-looking bras, to sweaters, coats and headgear. You can eat too, if street food’s your thing – souvlaki, sausages, grilled corn on the cob, the ubiquitous sesame bread twists. The smells are tempting but I confess to a certain reluctance to sample them.

You can take care of personal grooming; you can accessorize; you can clean, carpet, curtain and cushion your home; dress up your dining room; brighten your bedroom, and toss a few new tschotsches about while you’re at it. Depending on your taste of course.

While you may occasionally see a soul selling some interesting item from the ancestral home, the bulk of the goods consists of cheap imports though lately it’s clear that stock has been obtained from defunct business enterprises. This is where the bargains are to be found, good quality clothing in particular – if you’re prepared to rummage through the piles stacked on the trestle tables. Designer pieces turn up – sometimes with the labels removed which I’m told is the practice when prestigious names clear their overstocks – to the delight of the savvy buyer.

Most of the vendors are Roma people, often referred to as gypsies – an offensive term. The Roma in Greece are settled in tightly knit communities, are citizens, and aren’t as a rule itinerant. Their native language remains intact, and certainly here in Greece the Roma are fully bilingual. (It’s worth noting that the Roma I recently encountered in Bulgaria speak a different Roma dialect, as well as Bulgarian.)

The Roma and their history have been of interest to me since childhood, but I’m not going to elaborate on their culture now – I’ll drone on about it another time.

What all the vendors do have in common is their patter, pitched at ear-splitting volume. Roma women often sit atop the tables stacked with their wares, tossing garments at would-be shoppers:

” Come on, my love!” they bawl.

“Look at this beauty! Where will you find such a bargain! Don’t think for one moment you would pay this pitiful amount in the snooty store!”

Their helpers dart about, taking the money, retrieving the goods, cajoling the doubtful into a purchase.

“Girls! Girls! Would I lie to you? Would I? You think I’m selling things? Am I selling things? I’m not selling things, girls, I’m not selling! I’m giving it away!”

All good fun. I’ve never encountered rudeness, I must say, and find it absolutely fascinating, though I’m not made of stuff stern enough to spend a lot of time in the raucous atmosphere.

P1290855 [HDTV (1080)] — **Market’s end**

LOOKING OUT, LOOKING IN

You’ll have gathered by now that I’m fascinated by architectural details. Our modern buildings – so many of them concrete and steel – do not generally feature the kind of decoration possible on a much smaller scale. That’s not to say that contemporary structures aren’t frequently stunning, combining form and function to spectacular effect. Think the Sydney Opera House, the Louvre extension, the Shard…the list is long and the debate endless, and in my experience greatly enhanced by a glass or two of vino.

But I digress. I want to share more of downtown Plovdiv’s many charming windows. How fortunate that we visited during winter, when the numerous large trees that provide welcome summer shade had tossed away their leaves, allowing one to see most of the windows clearly.

They’ve really captured my imagination. Who was looking out? And when? Who was looking in? And why? Bulgaria’s history is tumultuous. Like that of all the Balkans, peaceful periods, often accompanied by relative prosperity, were frequently fractured by uprisings, war, occupying forces. Dissent, distress and despair were looked upon by these windows, but they also provided a view of happier times, of freedom from fear, of rejoicing and dancing in the streets. Those looking out surely waved to those looking in, and when occasionally I caught the eye of someone at their window, we both waved, and we both smiled. Maybe they wondered about me.

Who were the craftsmen who created these details? Such skilled artisans must have been in demand. Were they resident in the area, or did they travel from workplace to workplace? Were they given free rein to embellish the structure as they wished, or did the homeowner have specific requirements? Was the work a source of pride and satisfaction to the craftsman, or was it regarded as merely a means to provide an income?

Enough of pondering. Many of these buildings are destined for demolition, that different kind of destruction inevitable in areas subject to renewal. Bulgaria’s moving ahead, but is somebody looking back and documenting these little gems?

WHAT A DIFFERENCE A DAY MAKES

The weather worm has turned, and the snow I commented on in the previous post arrived overnight on Wednesday. But it did so very quietly. Sneaked up. We were forewarned of the impending change, but it came without fanfare. No whipping wind. No roars of rage. Nary a rattle. Odd, as it typically comes smashing in as though to remind us how helpless we are, and how beholden to its whims.

I wonder what’s going on up there on big O-mountain? Zeus and Hera have barely whispered to each other for several weeks, so is this snowfall a sign that they’re gathering up their strength for a monumental row and aggressive show of Zeus’s force yet to come?

P1080513 [HDTV (1080)] — **It’s only just begun**

The birds were rather taken aback, for as fast as I put out seed, so did the snow blot it out.

P1080515 [HDTV (1080)] — **What’s going on?**

Agitated tweets trilled from the shelter of the bougainvillea which shook and shimmied with all the activity, while I made several careful excursions across the icy terrace to replenish the buried seed. Pretty much in vain for it was almost immediately covered up again

P1080520 [HDTV (1080)] — **Here comes my pal. The food’s under there…somewhere.**

The birds persevered, and so did I, but Thursday was not a day of happy feasting for them, and only by noon Friday did the feeding situation improve. Night falls quickly at this time, so there wasn’t much chance to eat their fill.

P1080558A [HDTV (1080)] — **Saturday, and all is well!**

A FEATHERY CHRISTMAS FEASTING

The weather here on the Pelion is weird, as I’ve already mentioned in “EATING BREAD AND HONEY…” and is a major topic of discussion. Everyone has an opinion, everyone has a tale to tell of weather past, present and future. Some predictions are dire: “Well do I remember the winter of 19-whichever…; how we suffered in 20-whatever…” accompanied by heavy sighs and headshaking. The audience falls respectfully silent and the prophet of doom is gratified. Souls of more cheerful disposition take an optimistic view: “Isn’t the sun wonderful? It will surely continue, so enjoy!”

There are reasons for the seasons though, and much as we revel in the unexpected warmth, it really shouldn’t be so. We need rain, and we need it badly. We need snow, snow that will melt gradually and replenish the water table. We need some freezing to control pests which will otherwise inflict themselves on man, beast and plant in the hot months. Perhaps it’s reassurance that we need the most in these turbulent times; things do not stay the same, not even the weather.

Nature is also confused, blooming far too early – one can’t help but wonder if she’s about to get a stinging rebuke. Probably.

P1290702 [HDTV (1080)] — Fruit and blossom on the same tree in late December

The bougainvillea beyond the kitchen window should have been bare weeks ago, but is putting out new flowers as though challenging the elements. Bees, wasps, hornets and great big bumblebees are busily buzzing and bumbling all through the short daylight hours.

P1290539 [HDTV (1080)] — Can you see the bumblebee?

It’s strange to hear excited twittering in the branches at this time of year. Migrant birds have long since arrived to build numerous nests among the colour, jostling with the resident sparrows, all seemingly unaware that their shelter might be devastated by a north wind as sudden as it’s vicious.

P1080443 [HDTV (1080)] — Caution! Fledglings

I put seed out for the birds each day

and although Raki regards this as his own personal playground, his half-hearted attempts to assert himself are largely ignored by the nimble birds who retreat in a flash to the branch and leaf of safety.

P1290531 [HDTV (1080)] — Hope springs eternal

There they hide, chittering at him until he loses interest and retreats to the comfort of an armchair. The sentry bird up in the olive tree trills the all-clear, and back the feasters come.

The weather will surely change, these birds will move house and take up residence throughout the property, and I will continue to provide seed for them. But Nature is cruel, and some of these birds will be food for the raptors. Life goes on.

A WINDOW INTO BULGARIA

We recently spent a few days in Plovdiv, Bulgaria, driving up from the Pelion and crossing the border outside of Serres. We’ve travelled quite a bit through Balkan states, but this was our first visit to Bulgaria, nestled deep in the heart of the Balkans.

It will take me time to process my impressions, to reconcile what I saw and heard with the very little I knew of the country’s history and its warm-hearted people. Of course, it can be argued that a few hours of driving through small towns en route, together with a somewhat hair-raising encounter with rush hour traffic in historic downtown Sofia, hardly qualifies one to make pronouncements, but first impressions do frequently find their mark, which in this instance make us eager to return for further exploration.

Bulgaria’s history is long, and long has its geographical position subjected it to invasion. Social turbulence, hideous conflict, unspeakable horrors have dominated the country since time immemorial; the Ottoman Occupation lasted here even longer than in Greece, and finally ended in the Independent Bulgaria of 1878.

Not for long, sadly, for immediately post World War Two Bulgaria was gripped, choked by Communism. The Soviet-era scars remain, both in the hideous concrete structures built to house the populace – visible memories of poverty, fear and repression – but also in the recollections of those who lived through it.

Plovdiv, the second largest city, is ancient. Its buildings are a fascinating mix of architecture; there’s a Roman city, there are mosques, temples and churches, museums, theatres, and dwellings of historic significance. The city was home through the ages to peoples of all ethnic groups, religions and cultures; it was a crossroads of commerce, a thoroughfare of tradesmen, a meeting point for many minds.

Bulgaria was admitted to the European Union in January, 2007. Plovdiv’s inner city is undergoing urban renewal – the inevitable signs of rapid development apparent in the many construction sites, with their scaffolding scarring the facades of graciously genteel buildings. Steel and glass modernity is juxtaposed with gems of bygone architecture, and in some cases is even imposed upon these older buildings in that the lower levels have been updated – plate glass windows and doors – whilst the upper levels remain untouched. So far.

The wealth of architectural detail and ornament still to be seen is quite stunning. Many are the photographs I took while ambling in a very small area, some of which I’ll share with you in the next few posts.

“EATING BREAD AND HONEY…”

Strangely warm weather continues, and although it’s very pleasant indeed it can only be a matter of time before the inevitable change occurs, unleashing nature’s pent-up fury. Hubby made his way to the upper village this morning to run errands, but I chose to stay home, wandering around the garden that will all too soon be storm-lashed and dejected.

The humming and the thrumming of bees – these are wild and not belonging to any beekeeper – competed with the raucous screeching of the gulls overhead in a frenzied buzz. Do bees sense that this is an exceptional time? Are they somehow aware of this extended period in which to gather food? By now there’d usually be at least some snow on the mountain, while the bees would be hunkered down in their hives, deep in the forest.

My thoughts turned to honey. Honey was long known to the ancients, who greatly appreciated it, singing its praises in story and verse. The Pelion region produces honey which can only be described in that overused phrase: fit for the gods. We have never tasted anything like it anywhere. Ever.

The beekeepers can be seen through the warm months, as busy as their bees, moving the wooden hives about the countryside, up the mountain, near to ancient springs, deep into valleys and fields dense with native plants. It’s the variety of pollen the bees feed on from the hundreds of different wild flowers, the heathers, the fruit trees, that give the honey its unique taste and texture. Infused with a myriad of flavours, the golden liquid is so thick you can scarcely pour it.

My various furry companions heard the returning car before I did, darting off to welcome Ron home and check on what might be forthcoming.

P1280383 [HDTV (1080)] — Raki, ever helpful

He too had been busy. “Look, I got quite a few jars of honey from Stathis to see us through the winter.” Serious winter’s still a way off (I hope) and I’m not sure that much of Stathis’s delicious honey will last that long. He’d also brought bread, still warm from the bakery, thick with grains and seeds. Now that’s definitely not going to last!

And yes, the glorious weather is also about to end – the forecast is for a significant change to sweep in overnight. Wind and rain, thunder and lightning – all the weather gods will be doing their bit in this performance. Our bees will be glad of the food stocks they’ve so carefully stored in their hives.

SHEEPISHLY….

Yesterday a very dear friend gently asked if I’d abandoned this blog; I’m startled to see that it has been quite seriously neglected. The summer was busy, stuff intervened, and here we are, headed into a winter which has generated much discussion as to what we might expect of the weather.

The summer was exceptionally hot, with record-breaking temperatures and barely a drop of rain. The heat continued well into autumn, and it’s still unusually warm. A prolonged period of heavy rain coincided with the turning back of the clocks, resulting in darkly gray, sunless days which rather discombobulated most folk, accompanied as the drabness was by a temporary drop in temperature.

Talk of severe winter peppered every conversation, with many of the older folk making pronouncements: “When you have seen as many winters as I, you know it will be a heavy/light one this year.” Such statements might be countered with: “Ah, but you forget the winter of 19-whatever when we had floods / bizzards / a mini ice-age / tropical heat / tornadoes…” The speaker would be accompanied by much nodding or shaking of heads, spirited talk of past weather related events breaking out among the participants, while the occasional modern philosopher might quietly remark: “The weather will be what it will be.”

Who can truly predict the weather? Maybe the shepherds know something I don’t because driving into Volos yesterday we encountered several flocks being moved, though whether to fresh pasture or to their winter pens I couldn’t tell.

P1280307 [HDTV (1080)] — Shepherd and shepherdess, accompanied by their sheepdogs, urging their large flock down the main road which runs along the spine of the Pelion Peninsula and links the villages to Volos

On our way back from Volos we stopped to get gas, whereupon I spotted a shepherd urging his sheep along a nearby side road into an olive grove. The garage owner who knows me and my passion, for I’m always knitting in the car or while waiting for our olives to be pressed at his busy modern mill, was amused at my interest in the sheep.

Very kindly, he instructed his young Albanian helper, Panos, to take me to the action. We crossed the busy road, stumbling on through the fields with me clutching my camera, while Panos kept grabbing me lest I trip. The shepherd gazed in bemusement as Panos explained to his compatriot that I’d like to take photographs. The sheep clearly had no problem with this plan for the interruption enabled them to feast on the luscious fresh growth of weeds which has sprung up after the rains.

P1280320 [HDTV (1080)] — Spot the goats in the woolly mass.

Panos speaks excellent Greek, the shepherd is less fluent, and both have a smattering of English obtained from that ubiquitous teacher, the television. My Albanian consists of two and a half words interspersed with a lot of gesticulation, the universal language in these situations.

We had a lively conversation. The shepherd raises sheep for their wool which he sells in Albania where it’s handspun and woven on ancient looms into blankets. I’ve handled some of these. Coarse and very heavy, they certainly don’t approach a product even remotely luxurious, but they’re warm, hard wearing and much needed in the harsh Albanian winter.

We spoke of knitting – a craft with which both men are very familiar, speaking fondly of the work produced by their grandmothers. Panos told the shepherd that I knit “round and round and round”, which rather fascinates him, accustomed as he is to socks being knitted on 5 needles, but garments being worked flat, back and forth.

He also, sweet lad that he is, said that I’m very young to be knitting! I imagine that knitting falls to the older womenfolk in their remote villages for the younger ones will be busy with farm chores and child-rearing. Perhaps I should knit each man a soft, warm winter cap. Panos’s grandma might be surprised to examine a seamless hat.

P1280325 [HDTV (1080)] — The garage attendant on the right, and the shepherd.

After another 40 minutes of driving, we turned off the main road and began working our way down the track to our house. Evgenia was rounding up her flock in fields overlooking the Pagasitic Gulf, as the shadows lengthened and the placid turquoise sea turned, in Homer’s words “wine dark.” We stopped for a quick chat as we haven’t seen her for some weeks.

She’s a lovely soul, always cheerful and rather child-like, very fond of ice cream which we often bring her in the summer, but she was distressed. One of her gorgeous Greek sheepdogs is missing, and she fears he may have been poisoned. We offered sympathy, tried to jolly her up a bit, and urged her not to delay returning the sheep to their pen where they would be milked. Apollo was moving his chariot rapidly across the sky, taking the sun away from us, urging us all to go home.

IMG_1807 [HDTV (720)] — Evgenia and Friend

BOATS

BOAT: A vessel constructed for transport over water.

P1270606 [HDTV (1080)] — **The Argo in Volos Harbor**