Small excerpt from my book currently under revision.
As I was driving along, enjoying the pleasure of the journey and the beauty of the landscape, I was enchanted by this splendid vision.
I slowed down to a stop and pulled over to the side of the road.
An expanse of still water lit by the red of the sunset opened up before my eyes. Coots and herons lazily pawed about, occasionally dipping their heads into the shallow water to get their dinner.
In the magical stillness that I admired and in the total silence that enveloped the place, a small house floated in the middle of the lagoon.
I took my reflex camera, mounted the telephoto lens and got a better view of the pretty little building with its sloping roof.
There was a veranda at the front to enjoy some shade on long hot summer days, what looked like a well, and finally a bell tower.
Only then did I realise that it was a small church.
Only some time later did I realise that it was dedicated to St Nicholas, the same saint as in my home town.
Countless times I have returned to this place to admire it from the most diverse angles.
On a mistral day, you can see the midnight-blue waves crashing against a rock barrier protecting a lagoon of crystal-clear water.
I was on the other side of the Atlantic on a remote island in the Tobago Cays.
Instead of olive trees there were palm trees and instead of a small church there was a fisherman’s hut. Corals replaced the rocks in a beautiful coral reef, but the beauty and feeling of absolute peace and the conviction of being as close to heaven as one can get was the same.
During one of my usual little strolls around here and there, I happened upon a little place that is now very famous but at the time of my first visit was quite unknown.
Bibi and Pepi physically nodded their heads in support of Alina, while Tarallo didn’t even come close, more interested in the living organisms of the marshy slime in which the half-rotten wooden pillars of the bridge were sinking.
I simply said “ok”.
I took my reflex camera and, being careful not to walk in the middle of the planks, many of which were and still are missing, I passed the swamp one step at a time.
When I reached the other side, I had the distinct feeling of being in another world.
A sand wedge divided the swamp from the lagoon.
Beyond the dune, one of the most beautiful beaches I had ever seen stretched as far as the eye could see to the right and left.
My first thought was to turn back and let the rest of the troop cross the bridge, which we did countless times over the years.
But I wanted to enjoy that moment and keep it all to myself.
I began to stroll along enchanted by the gentle roar of the wave breaking on the shoreline, accentuated by that of the big sisters breaking the barrier.
There aren’t too many trees down there, just fragrant bushes of Mediterranean scrub singing along with the wind that blows through their slender branches.
In the background, tiny and almost invisible, is the small church of St Nicholas.
I started walking on this tongue of sand in a north-easterly direction and the little church became more and more visible as I got closer.
I was out of my terrestrial dimension, I remember that I did not even take pictures so as not to violate the bliss of the moment.
I was in a place where time no longer counted, as if the bridge was the access to a passage in space and time.
It was as if I could detach myself from my body and see it walking on the beach, alone on a tongue of sand between a marsh and an immaculate lagoon.
The feeling was that of living inside a bubble where the spirit of the place tells you its story.
And then an almost blurred figure appeared, becoming more and more real as it got closer. She was beautiful and looked like a goddess from ancient Greece.
She had red hair and was galloping a fast Serbian horse.
She did not speak, but her gaze was stern. It almost seemed to say, “What are you doing in my land?”
He stopped, turned his head towards the island, then pointed at Acarnania and galloped away fast.
I continued on and arrived at the end of the sandbank.
From there the island seemed within reach, all I needed to do was cross the shallow, crystal-clear water.
I heard a rustle behind me. I turned around and a splendid Serbian horse, similar to the first one, was grazing there.
Then from the island I heard the laughter of a child, and sharpening my eyesight I saw him running naked and happy, splashing around next to a larger figure, a man lying blissfully in the shallow water.
He was the representation of happiness and seemed to radiate an aura of peace around him.
He noticed my presence, and from a distance waved to me.
I answered the greeting and then I heard Alina’s voice say, “who are you waving at??”
It was like waking up from a beautiful dream in the same place as the dream.
I must have looked like a complete idiot since even the dogs were looking at me, turning their heads from side to side like when they hear an alien sound.
“ah that’s it… nothing, I thought…” and I found myself looking towards the island again.
Only there was no one there, and neither was the horse that was behind me.
“You didn’t happen to notice a horse on the way over here, did you?”
“A horse?”
“Yeah, one of those, you know, with four legs, nice and fast.”
“no I didn’t notice any horse, I just noticed that you’ve been gone for two hours and I had to come look for you! You don’t know what a mess it was to get the dogs to cross the bridge! Tarallo didn’t want to know and went straight across the marsh!”
Tarallo was unwatchable, it was muddy and of another colour….
“Mmm… nice place, eh?” I said.
“Yeah… beautiful indeed… to stay in for some time.”
“Yeah… but Gypsy wouldn’t be able to cross the bridge,” I said. (Gypsy is our camper van.)
“No, I don’t think so, but we could take a shower, come back, pitch our tent here and stay the night…”
“Eh, that’s not a bad idea… we wouldn’t be the first ones to do that…”
“No, of course not… while you were off somewhere, I had time to read some history about this place…” said Alina.
“And…?” I pressed her.
“Seems that in the past, a hermit lived here on the island of St. Nicholas.”
“It’s dedicated to St. Nicholas?”
“yes… it used to be a temple dedicated to Aphrodite Aeneid.
As far as I’ve read, someone called T. Mamaloukas wrote about a man who lived there with his wife called Eva Palmer and his son Glaucus. Looks like the son had learned to swim before he could walk.”
“Ah…”
“Yes, from what I read, he was naked most of the time.”
“And how did this happy family live?”
“Fishing and hunting, his wife Eva liked to dress up like an ancient Greek and ride her beautiful Serbian horses. They often went hunting together across the way, in Acarnania.
“She must have been a beautiful woman, with her thick, red hair.”
“Ah, that’s it…”
“what? You usually like these stories..” asked Ali.
“Yes yes indeed I do. And what was the man’s name?”
“Angelos Sikelianos, and he was a poet.”
I inhaled deeply, then said, “yes, you would have plenty of inspiration here….”
“Yeah… shall we pitch the tent?”
“Some other time. Today let’s leave them alone…. We just met them…
Today the beautiful Diavassidia beach, wrongly called Gyra, is a popular tourist destination.
There is a small wooden kiosk with a thatched roof, deckchairs on the sand and the silence is sometimes disturbed by the hum of the electric generator that powers the refrigerators, but only on calm days. When the Mistral blows the hum is absent as the generator is positioned downwind of the beach.
The bridge is always shabby but safe, as long as you don’t walk through it in 200 at a time.
It is a beautiful place, where by looking carefully and sharpening your senses you can detach yourself from the music of the speakers and the hubbub of the people.
You just have to wait for the sunset and walk a few steps further towards the island of St Nicholas to rediscover the peace of the place and immerse yourself in the mystical atmosphere that permeates it, the same one that must have inspired the poems of Angelos who lived here for real as a hermit with his wife Eva who, as well as galloping on her horses, loved to dance the zorba in a bare version;
with his son Glaucos who really learned first to swim and then to walk;
with one of his granddaughters, the indomitable 17-year-old Sasha, whose thick black hair he shaved off as a punishment;
with a couple of servants and three or four fishermen.
They stayed on the island until 1951, the last year of his life as free and wild as the place he had chosen to live it.
Take a few steps further, and who knows, maybe with a little imagination you might spot the footprints of a Serbian horse galloping by.
Is it possible to get to the st.Nicolas church on small islet by boat? Or is it shallow enough just to walk there? Is it maybe forbiden to visit?