The Blue & Yellow Post

Counting down to our evening flight off this magnificent island of Keffalonia, one of the Ionian Islands off the coast of Greece.

I’ve been on Kefalonia for two weeks, and was lucky enough to see Myrtos beach, arguably one of the most beautiful beaches in Europe. I also visited Ithaca, a blessedly beautiful place with tiny beaches, emerald turquoise water finished with chalky clean-white stone edges, and countless tavernas and fishing boats, ancient men on scooters, minis full of coptic priests and menus that had half the items unavailable, and chilled golden beer, mousakka and calamari - all for 10 Euro. Actually every lunch and dinner, by the way ended up costing about 10 Euro - wierd!?

Ithaca is an island made famous in and by Homer’s myth. See Ithaca and find peace. I think that’s true actually. I put it down to the  fact that Ulysses wife, Penelope wove the qualities of fidelity, love and peace into her tapestry and in doing so formed the sustainable bones of that Ithakan myth. At the heart of this peace is trust that the future would bring the return of her wayward husband.

Our Ithakan guide for the day, unfortunately lacked the charm of a greek accent, seeing as though she was from Britain. The Island of Keffalonia seems to have more Brits than Greeks. Myrtos beach was full of them, baking themselves with a frightening lack of sun-screen and if I might add, good taste in swim-wear. But there you have it. These British holidayers seem to have made Shirley Valentine a new religion.

Ithaca had a different feel to Keffalonia. It was peaceful, it was also picturesque, full of tiny protected harbours, pocketted by a soft palette of stone buildings, overhanging bouganvillea, faded shutters and spilling over rusted balcony railings. Everywhere you look was a blinding chalky white stone path leading further on to a vista of unspeakable beauty.

On Keffalonia, yesterday we found ourselves driving one way up the back passages of Assos, a tiny village built beneath a ruined castle. Looking up the steep sloping road, it took approximately 2 mintues to decide that the icecream was far more appealing than a sun-drenched climb up the fortress road. Yes, Castles and Ruins can lack both intrigue and the necessary charm late on a hot day especially when competing with Norgen-Vaaz tirimisu and rasberry ice cream.

So packing all our travel gear, our books, our sun tans and our hangovers (yes if you do drink toooooo much Retsina you will get a headache!), my sister and I are visiting an internet cafe prior to the trip to the airport.

Lasting images of our stay: goats with bells herded by wise and thoughtful dogs; old women in black who didn’t need to be costumed for their extra role on the 1940’s Captain Corelli’s Mandolin filmed a few years back on this island; Onassis style boats moored in tiny harbours; white stone roads that are impossible to traverse without at least one stumble; cypress pines that reach up into a star-filled night like cathedral spires; siestas where the shops shut for 3 hours after lunch; olives and fetta, Retsina and cool clear deep still water where the colours make you laugh out loud with heady delight.

Yassoooooo.

The scene was unlike any I’d seen or painted before. The structure was drenched in sunlight. Sharp shadows were cast by the gnarled olive trees, and dappled light defined a myriad of stone walls that ran in random lines

 I had no idea what part of the structure was what as I tried to capture the scenes punctuating points; A collapsed roof, arched windows framing bold stone wheels and fragmented wooden presses, rusted gates, broken steps and rugged stone walls.  

How many years before had a family run this Olive press? Who was it that had lived in the   adjacent homestead?  When did they close shop and in what circumstances? Now the home was boarded up -  its green wooden door and shutters, faded and stripped of color, were banded by steel cross bars. Intruders like myself could only guess what lay behind them. The many memories, stories, dreams, history were forever locked away behind resilient sun-drenched stone.

Was the Press in operation when Byron walked these island roads? Was the press as old as Francis of Assisi who had also lived on the Island?

The white chalky stones and terracotta tiles now fallen and almost embedded in the ground, are now awash with tiny white flowers, as abundant as the butterflies and bumble bees that traverse  them. There is continual movement in this still stone ruined landscape. The wind now and then carried what sounded like laughter and the wonderful whooshing sound of the greek language.

The Press stands near the villa where my family and I are holidaying. It is one of many ruined buildings that seem to characterize Greece. From the splendor of the Acropolis and Delphi to these tiny roads around the Islands, the land seems to be at peace with transience.

Sometime later in the week we’ll travel to Ithaca – a destination that has been on my wish-list for many years. From the villa we can see Ithaca. On Friday, we will catch a small boat from the town of Fiskardo, 10 minutes away. We will walk on the ancient land trodden by the Greek hero, Ulysses and we will see what he saw. And will we go the land of the lotus eaters, and stay away as long as he did?

When I was little I pored over the Greek myths of gods and heroes. I watchd the movies in the 60s that tried to recreate the stories of Ulysses, of Jason and Argonauts and the Trojan War; the struggle between destiny and a personal hunger and striving for love, for eternal glory or to meet your destiny – no matter what.

A few days ago, I was at Delphi, beneath the mountain of Parnassus. Our guide told us myths and stories all the way from Athens. And as we passed the intersecting roads where Oedipus met his fate, and killed his father, I cried.

I cried because there as an actual road from which this extraordinary story took seed. I cried because there is something extraordinary about stories that last as long as that. I cried because I was now walking the same path that many seekers had walked. It was the Delphic Oracle that told Alexander the Great he would conquer the world. It was the Oracle that foretold of wars and caught Nero out on his plan to murder his mother Agrippa. And it was the Oracle that was built from bees wings and wax.

I could do with much, much more of these Greeks.

I had a farm in Africa…  well actually I had dinner in Athens, in the Plaka, with my most extraordinary nephew!

We are  thousands of miles from home. I am holidaying in Athens with my twin sister and her twins, Michael and Georgie, our closest girlfriend Rosey, our beautiful niece madeline and tomorrow my sister Gabby.

So wer’e here miles from home and we are counting every blessing, every sight, every sound and every part of the story.

We spent the day in Delphi. Well my sister, Cate, Rosey and I went to visit the Oracle, whose advice “know thyself, and “no excess” (what dumb advice is that!) made us gob-smacked with awe, so much so that all we could do - on the return to Athens was retreat to a quiet taverna, order a gin and review the photos and mental shapshots of the day.

How do you explain  to your dinner companions what it was that made you cry at Delphi? How do you translate that moment of gob-smacking, oh-my-god-I’m really here- response to hearing the guide say “down to your right is the road where Oedipus met and killed his father”. How do you explain why you want the Oracle to tell you, in 2008 what you you should be doing  with the rest of your life?

It was my nephew who asked me “what was it that was so special about delphi”?  

“It was my nephew who “twittered” with me today - and read what I saw at Dephi (while I was seeing it)

It was my nephew who offered to show me and Rosey around Lycabettus Hill tomorrow,

And it was my nephew- who at 4 years old told me to “go home to Australia and find myself a husband” (which, for you disbelievers, I did!).

It was my nephew who get’s what moved me today, who sees me in pursuit of gnosis and beauty.

I love you kid.

Before I do anything I must blog! I am facing the usual list of things to do before one goes on holidays, but I don’t want to start any of them, until I dump a yellow post.

It’s strange that I’ve become so dependent on the feelings I register after a post. It helps make sense of stuff. And that’s just what I need right now.

This morning I’ve been at sixes and sevens. I missed an appointment - even though I was on time! Caught the wrong bus which went on a wierd route to finally drop me off at my childhood neighbourhood of all places, after which I then had to walk 2 kms to get to where I wanted. And I haven’t even left the country!

It’s as if I’m walking in a parallel place, where everything is upside down or back the front and time seems to accelerate and stop at once. So in this state, I’m increasingly confused and unsure of just about everything. There’s an astrological concept called “Mercury Retrograde”, where things get mixed up and go wrong. It feels like that, but I expect it has more to do with the anticipation of and distractions about my impending journey to the other side of the world.

Yesterday I was lunching with a good friend who is also preparing for an exciting new opportunity to do with work, and we were talking about baggage, shadows and expansive mind-sets. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a woman who seemed so familiar it stopped me in my tracks. I realised it was my cousin Cath who I haven’t seen for years. She was walking past the building that now houses Dairy Farmers, my late father’s employer.

It was a lovely conjunction of the past and future, and I took it as an omen and message from Dad that he was watching out for me, and would watch out for me on the journey ahead. As we spoke, I noticed how my cousin has the features that mark our family: the sort of nose or forehead or eyes or smile, voice, earthy nature and shared memories that connect us in a single blood line. And once in that space, you immediately re-connect to that time of childhood and family gatherings. It’s a very comforting feeling because it is so familiar.

So, this morning, as I found myself accidentally deposited in the streets I used to walk as a child, I said a silent prayer to all those in that familial bloodline who have always watched over me. In particular my granny, my aunts and my 2 mothers. One blood mother and one step-mother. As it is mother’s day tomorrow I have decided to  place a flower on their graves in thanks for the time we spent together.

Time is so fleeting that we often have to run to keep up with commitments, appointments and tasks. Have I done all I should do? Will there be time to fit in another…? Perhaps I should pack an extra….? What if I get caught out without a ….? The list is endless, and the anxiety intense especially when travel is involved.

Time get’s all out of kilter on a trip. Time differences, cultural differences, language differences heighten the experience, and much of what we achieve on the travels are relished more after we return than when we’re in the middle of them.

Right now my darling sister Gab is in Romania and emails us her fabulous impressions spelt out in a paragraph: so few words but packed with remarkable vistas and visuals. A sort of 10 second grab. I know, though that behind those grabs are the normal anxieties that come with not understanding the language, missing the hotel because of the signage, hoping that the train will arrive in time to make the connection you need in order to arrive on time somewhre new.

So it goes and this time next week I’ll be in a completely different place and space. Walking down neighbourhood roads a light year away from those I walked down today. And I’ll see and smell and hear a miriad of new impressions. But before all of that, this yellow post is one of prayer and thanks to my ancestral and familial line, and in particular to my darling parents for their generosity in affording this remarkable next journey.

Bring it on.  

Once upon a time a simple little family lived deep in the woods of a land far away.

The husband was an old wise man. He had 2 children who were simple of heart and mind, called rooney and trooney. His much younger 2nd wife he named Beauty. He died in tragic circumstances and around the same time his simple children disappeared never to be seen again. So Beauty was left alone in the world.

She decided to pack up her possessions and leave the wooded house she’d known for the last 13 years. Her only possessions of worth were the cloths she had woven since being a little girl. She came from a long line of weavers and each generation added something unique to the craft. Beauty’s talent was an ability to weave almost intangible cloth, as light as wind, as soft as water and as bright as the sun.

Beauty could also embroider the cloth in such a way that it came to life and anyone who looked on it felt a deep longing and was immediately transported into the scene itself. Why it was even said, beauty could embroider feelings, such was her skill.

Most of beauty’s work had been sold at market. But she packed up what was left of her work into a parcel which she carried on her head. And she set off on the northern road. She walked most of the day, through all sorts of landscapes until she saw some farming lands in the distance. Coming closer to the verdant fields, she noticed a single cowherd and some dairy cows. He was herding the cattle into the barn.

Beauty asked the cowherd if she could spend the night in the barn along with the cows. He simply nodded. Beauty was touched by his gentle nature, and felt sorry for the cowherd who only wore the flimsiest of cloth. She reached into her pack and handed the cowherd a fine blue cloth the colour of midnight. Embroidered with the sun, the moon and a thousand tiny stars, the cloth was large enough to envelope the young cowherd, so that he disappeared into the night.

Beauty settled on the warm hay in the barn and was so tired she fell deeply asleep the moment her head touched the ground. The last thing she heard were the murmurs of the night and a single voice singing softly to the moon.

The following day there was no sign of the cows or the cowherd – for they had set off at first light to graze on other fields. She ate some cheese and bread from her pack and walked further on the northern road.

The road turned and twisted into a deeper darker wood. The ancient trees reached towards the sky, forming a cathedral like canopy above. She looked upwards marvelling at their grandeur and missed her footing, tripping on an exposed root. Down she tumbled – flat on her face in the mud.

Oh dear oh dear, said a voice to her left, what a mess you’ve made.

Beauty looked around for the voice and saw an orange dog and blue lynx.

Blinking twice at these strange figures, she heard the lynx chortle,

What a fine mess you’re in – you should have looked where you were going.

Beauty scrambled to her feet laughing, you’re right of course lynx – but if you could show me the way out of the woods I can dry off in the sun, and it will brush off – you’ll see. Perhaps, if you could also show me a river, I could wash my face and hands as well.

The lynx laughed, and pushed past her so quickly Beauty almost lost her footing again. But she chased after lynx until they emerged in the sunlight.  Before she could thank her guide, lynx disappeared.

Beauty looked at this new vista – a field of wild and splendid poppies, as red and bold as the eye could see. Overwhelmed by the sight and the warmth of the day, she surrendered to the impulse and lay flat on her back gazing up in wonder at the sun above her. She was soon asleep - dreaming of embroidery the colour of crimson blood and rubies. When she awoke the sun was low in the sky and she knew she needed to quickly find another place before night fell.

She walked down to the river that ran through the poppy field and saw her reflection. Beauty laughed so hard at the messy sight she saw, she lost her footing and fell headlong, pack and all, into the fast flowing river. Beauty grabbed at overhanging branches but was unable to grab hold of anything for any longer than a minute – for the river current was too strong.

Just surrender, the water murmured, just go with the flow.

Beauty could do nothing else but give in. The river raced past fields of lavender, of sage or rosemary of thyme of sunflowers and finally a field of cotton, with their puff ball flowers she knew so well.

The river finally slowed and the water became golden and shallow. Beauty was able to stop and stand up on some rocks.

Thank you river, for I would never have made it this far without you. But the river was silent and she started to think she imagined hearing that voice earlier.

With the sun almost set, Beauty made her way to a nearby Cotton Mill. The door was open and inside the millers wife was setting the table for dinner. Beauty asked if she could dry off by the fire.

Well you’d better, laughed the miller, for you are drenched through and you’ll catch your death if you stay like that.

Beauty sat by the warm fire and unpacked her fine cloths – spreading them around her to dry as well. The miller’s wife watched all of this with greedy eyes – for she could see how valuable the cloth was. Beauty turned to thank her for her hospitality and the miller’s wife quickly set her features into a smile, hiding the greed and envy behind a warm and generous grin.

She fed Beauty a fine dish and poured goblet after goblet of wine, drugging the last goblet with a sleeping draught. Beauty was so hungry she ate it all and swallowed all the wine, marvelling at how wonderful it made her feel. She forgot all her sadness and fear of the future. Before long, she was sound asleep snoring as loudly as the pigs outside.

When she awoke she was on the side of the road with a very sore head and no parcel of cloths. Realising the miller’s wife had stolen them, Beauty started to wail and cry for all that she had lost and for her own stupidity.

So loud was her wailing that a passing tailor heard the din and stopped to scold her. Now the tailor was a wily fellow with a ready smile, a quick wit and big heart. But he had a twisted leg and walked with a limp. It certainly didn’t slow him down for he was born like that.

Now stop it right now, he scolded Beauty. Not given to self-pity himself, he said, why you have your health, you seem young and healthy, what could be so bad? You can come with me and I’ll put you to work in my shop.

Beauty was so startled by the tailor’s abruptness, she agreed and followed him to the next town where his shop was already set up and well established.

And so they worked together for many years. She embroidering and weaving cloth finer than ever before, with images of poppies, and cows and fields of sunflowers.

The tailor grew to love her and she him. Eventually they married. And people came from far and wide to see their fine work and buy as much as they could make.

One day many years later they heard that a miller’s wife had been robbed and murdered.

And of the cloths she stole from Beauty? Why some say one cloth forms the sail on a pirate ship, another forms the tent of a gypsy fortune teller, and another hangs in the queen’s own chamber. As fine as ever before.