Mezapo: three men in a boat.

If you bothered to read the last post you will know that I crashed out that night on the terrace of a restored stone house just outside the settlement of Mezapo. This strange little place crouches in the corner of a lovely bay some five kilometres broad and enclosed on its western side by a long spit of land, rising at its end to a high promontory, known as The Tigani, or ‘Frying Pan’. I arrived at dusk to find the place alarmingly quiet and, in the case of kato, or lower, Mezapo, more than two-thirds wrecked into the bargain.

Despite the striking nature of the location, my night on the terrace proved unremarkable. There were no mosquitoes, for which I was grateful. And my long day of tramping had left me sufficiently weary that the continual yahooing emanating from a cluster of lights on the distant hillside failed to disturb me. Nor was I bothered by the gunfire which, coming from roughly the same direction, crackled and popped into the early hours of morning. The latter was, after all, a Maniot tradition. Pity the poor bastards who along with their pensions, tax exemptions, 20 hour weeks and what have you were compelled to surrender their weapons as well. In fact, since my arrival in the Peloponnese four weeks previously I had often considered that it might be worthwhile to have a firearm of a small and innocuous calibre tucked away in my rucksack. Not for self-protection against any unruly natives, but simply for firing into the sky, a la the Maniots, at particularly joyful moments.

I woke at first light, which is, I’d discovered, a regrettable side-effect of sleeping outdoors. From somewhere nearby came the buzz of what sounded like an out-of-condition lawn-mower. Raising my head above the low stone parapet that enclosed the terrace, I saw the little runabout that I’d noticed in the adjoining bay the previous evening zipping out across the water. A man sat in the stern, hand on the tiller. The vessel carved a neat incision, gently iridescent around its unfurling edges, in the dark, velvety surface of the sea. I shook my head, amazed at the juxtaposition of such simple beauty with my feeling of mild irritation at having nothing to eat for breakfast. Along with the wine, I’d forgotten yesterday morning to buy anything that might serve the purpose and I didn’t hold out much hope of finding any coffee in Mezapo. The sun hadn’t as yet risen and my surroundings, calm and motionless in the absence of wind, were tinctured with what struck me as a moody shade of blue.

I didn’t hang around, cause you tend not to when you’re on the road. Packing with a speed and expertise I’d insensibly acquired over the last few weeks, I shouldered my rucksack and, casting a final backward glance at the place of my overnight halt, set off through the ruins in the direction of what a sign informed me was the upper part of town. Somewhat confusingly, the way led downhill. It was a fact which, under the circumstances, I thought it best to ignore. Instead I ran my gaze over the houses that lined both sides of the narrow and distinctly unevenly-paved street. These were without exception ramshackle and undistinguished in appearance yet, unlike the neighbourhood in which I’d spent the night, they were at least more or less intact and, I assumed, had people living inside them.

Not that one would have known, because the whole place seemed to be asleep. This unfortunately included the proprietor of what I assumed to be Mezapo’s only taverna, which was located up some stairs on the left side of the street as I descended towards the sea. Its door was bolted. With my hopes of a finding a cup of coffee dashed, I continued downhill past a large stone church to a small and secretive cove where ominously dark water lapped at a crescent of shingle backed by low orange cliffs. Here I encountered a trio of fishermen about to set forth in an aluminium boat.

A solitary cat, black as night, sat on the quay, ears pricked, observing proceedings. These were, as I soon discovered, pleasingly singular. The air smelled of brine and all three men looked dishevelled and hungover. They also appeared to be too large for their boat. One of their number, a particularly heavy and ungainly fellow whose faded jeans hung unbecomingly low on his bulging hips, almost didn’t make it, having left his run until the boat had drifted a precarious distance from the dock. Some anxious moments, accompanied by frantic shouting on the part of all concerned, passed as the man’s feet groped for the elusive deck. Both I and the cat, looking on entranced, feared for the worst.

Yet somehow disaster was averted as, with the help of some less than gentle manhandling by his companions, the man was hauled on board where he landed, on his ample posterior, with a crash. The dingy shook and shuddered under the impact upon expanding rings of foam before miraculously falling still. It seemed an opportune moment to announce myself.

“Kalimera,” I said, which, as everyone should know, is Greek for ‘good morning’. To my surprise, all three men turned and, acting as if nothing untoward had happened, said “kalimera” back.