The Blue & Yellow Post

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.