17. On the Road to Thessaloniki part 2 1970

 

My ride that morning was much better than the day before.  I got a ride with a gentleman from Germany who had lived in Greece in the past and spoke the language.  He was on holiday hoping to visit some monasteries.  A few that we tried were not open for visitors or had a long waiting line.  The entry method was being hoisted up the side of a mountain in a basket.  He had given up on finding one and was thinking of heading on to Thessaloniki when we drove around a bend and we looked up and saw a small way station monastery on the face of the cliff.

As we got closer we could see a small footpath going up the side of the mountain.  We wanted to get closer but at the same time did not want to intrude.  We also did not know if anyone was there.  As we stood there outside the car, we could barely hear someone calling.  We thought it was a woman calling her goats but as we looked up, she was waving at us and urging us up the path.  We accepted her invitation and climbed up the path.  The man I was with appeared to be healthy and I was in pretty good shape at the time, but it still took us at least 20 minutes to hike up the path to the crest of their home/monastery/farm.

There were two people there.  It was an old lady about 60 or 70 and her mother.    Her mother stayed up there all the time because it took her too long to hike up the trail.  It took her (you guessed it) about 20 to 25 minutes to climb the path.  The younger one went down the path to catch transportation to town for supplies and then carried them back up the mountain.  She and her mother lived there and kept goats and chickens with a nice looking dog that herded the other animals for them.  They had a small vegetable garden off to the side where some flat space was available and a small barn like structure underneath part of their building for the animals.  She told us they lived there to take care of traveling and hermit monks that were passing through on pilgrimages to and from other monasteries and hermit caves.  I think by today's standards it would be called a Skete or way station.  They kept them fed, washed their clothes and basically took care of their worldly needs so the monks could spend their time praying and mediating.  They insisted they were not nuns but this had been their lay ministry for her entire life and most of her mother's.  I think they would today be considered female monks.

They invited us inside to see their home.  They lived in one room sharing a small bed, stove and a simple wooden table with two chairs.  They had a trap door down to the barn and, I think, a root cellar.  There was one window overlooking the valley that got both morning and afternoon sun and another window by the door that looked towards the path and their garden.  The walls were covered with religious paintings,  icons and one newspaper print of JFK that was printed.  Many of the paintings were painted on the walls and some were framed.  Which were icons and which were just painting I could not tell you.

The rest of the home was carved out of the sandstone rock and had two levels.  The top level actually consisted of an alter with painted icons, some painted directly on the sandstone walls, some painted on wood, and wooden hand carved icons surrounding the alter.  The cross was carved from stone into the window and glowed from the sunlight flowing through the window and surrounding the crucifix.  The lower level was the monk's cell with a small library in a wooden bookshelf and a small wooden cot.  A small workplace with woodcarving tools and paints also took up space in the cell.  There was another window through the stone wall but you could not look down from it, only up.  I was impressed much more with this place than the Vatican.  The faith of the two women, combined with the simple beauty and serenity left you with a feeling of peace and contentment.

After showing us their place, they insisted on feeding us, telling us this is what they did.  We sat down and they fed us a large bowl of a warm bean stew that I had learned to call pilaki in turkey, and a large hunk of bread slathered with goats butter.  It may have been the atmosphere but that was some of the best pilaki that I have ever had.  As a result of my travels and limited finances my stomach had shrunk and as I was getting near the bottom of my bowl, I asked the man I was traveling with (he translated for me) if it would be considered an insult if I did not finish my soup.  The local Greek custom was the same as the Turkish one and as he was telling me yes, the daughter was laughing and reaching over my shoulder and placing another ladle of pilaki in my bowl.  I think she understood English!  It was a long walk back down the mountain.