censored skiathos journal (part 4)

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There is a raging storm outside. I just went for a walk hoping to be able to get to some high ground to take it in the better. Just as well it seemed too far away, as the rain is now coming down, in the space of a couple of minutes, in torrents. A proper medieval Mediterranean panjandrum of a storm. The windows rattle, the sky cries wrack and wreaks havoc, the hills are turned to negative for a flash of a second, like some hideous stripping of veils. Initially it’s stupendous, but as it closes in around you, as the relentless bombs of lightning strike, you realise that there’s something fickle, unkind, vicious, in its make-up. Looks fine from a distance, but find yourself out in the middle of dat holy shit and you is going to feel sorry before you feel better.

Nevertheless, good for the plants.

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It was overcast this morning, and I woke early – 8am, having finally slept properly – no insomnia last night, asleep soon after midnight. So I decided to maximise the walking weather. I set off for Kastro (hard to resist) at the Northernmost tip of the island, apparently the ‘capital’ until the mid nineteenth century or so, the site best protected from marauding pirates.

The walk there took two and a half hours, I think. It was a trek, indeed, up and down hills. I’m glad I chose today for it. At the top of one of the hills I was briefly almost chilly in my T-shirt, the sky still clearing after the storm. Kastro itself is an interesting space, a bit of a Tintagel-Upon-Med. Most of it is ruined, the only buildings left being several chapels, where I lit more candles. On the plan, it showed where the wall surrounding the community would have been, and also pointed out the site of a mosque, which seemed interesting, though I couldn’t find any trace of it now. It was also interesting to see ruins of walls and houses, of which there are far more, not just in Kastro itself but along the track leading to it. There’s very little sense of the past on this island, (not that it is too monstrously stuck in the present or the near future). Seeing the scrabby ruins, you suspected that there must be secret, hidden spots in the wilds, somewhere, which still mean something to the locals, which have meant things for centuries.