Quite unexpectedly, we ended the day at the Pramataris in Monemvasia. It’s not that we hadn’t hope to visit the tiny town on the sea. It’s just that the plan had been an afternoon stop with an evening return to Nafplion.
But a morning agenda, at least when traveling, should be no more than scribbles on a napkin, discarded if and when a whim arises, or when necessity requires it.
So we set off after a late breakfast, navigating a series of seemingly connected towns until reaching the open road. Late though it was, fog still spread across the valleys like thin silk over a beautiful body.
At just about noon, however, the sun took over, allowing us to appreciate isolated structures doting the landscape.
For a while we were tourists, pointing at this and that
while cruising at 100 km/hr.
Something was amiss, though, and we knew it. Then I heard the voice of William Least Heat Moon (Blue Highways). Pa did as well:
Had I gone looking for some particular place rather than any place, I’d never have found this spring under the sycamores . . .
And the next moment there it was, a thin grove of olive trees it appeared, calling for attention.
We pulled over onto a thin pad of loose rock just large enough for the Suzuki. Not far to our left was a miniature tower of some kind. Pa suggested it had a religious significance. From our vantage, there was only a window. But stepping around, we discovered a door with a latch.
Opening it revealed an Orthodox icon of the Blessed Virgin behind a votive candle.
A closer inspection revealed a flame rising up.
This was a sacred place.
Our initial reaction was not to intrude. But we sat with it, arriving at the mutual belief that it was an invitation. After paying our respects, each in our own way, we moved on.
Just beyond was a well defined road,
that led to another.
Soon though, it was just a broad path amongst the trees.
And there we lingered, appreciating the old masters,
and a young student
that would be a master some day too, if all went well.
Nearby was a patch of grass,
with early spring flowers making their appearance.
And beyond, an old evergreen,
its fruit clustered like family.
We would liked to have stayed. Had we a tent, we would have. But there was still the plan to reach Monemvasia, so we continued on.
Making our way by Google maps, we continued south, unaware that an error had been made.
Admiring the stunning scenery,
it was apparent we’d begun a gradual ascent. No signs for Monemvasia, but Google was keeping us on track.
Time passed and a different sign.
Surely Monemvasia was just beyond.
A few minutes, give or take, and we came upon the tiniest of villages calling for our attention.
Our destination but 2.6 km beyond, we had time to linger.
We would liked to have stayed, but the sunlight was waning. So we continued on, following the only road possible.
After a time, however, the road ceased to be and a broad rocky path took its place. But it soon narrowed, clinging to the side of a mountain. We were only 1 km from our destination, so why? It must be that we were entering through the back door.
And then Google: “You have reached your destination.”
It turns out a pin had inadvertently been dropped in the middle of the Monemvasia wilderness.
We had to turn back.
Harrowing might be an overstatement. Perhaps not.
But we made it, eventually reaching the turn for Monemvasia. Stubborn Dutch that we are we continued on, arriving in an hour at that tiny town on the sea and the Pramataris Hotel.
There, dear Ursula, rented us “a very special room,”
with a view.
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