Cape Teneron
Our final day walking began with an early morning lift in the back of a pick-up truck, where we had to hide under a tarpaulin cover to avoid being spotted by the village taxi driver. What a bizarre way to leave a village, still not sure if it wasn’t all a big joke. We were dropped at Vathia, the most photographed village of traditional fortified towers, and wandered the restored yet deserted hilltop streets. For the earlier inhabitants of the Mani, the height of their towers was a symbol of their power and prestige in the community. From these towers they could bombard those next door, conducting feuds of neighbour rage that often continued for years.
Continuing south, we took the track towards Cape Tenaron, stopping first for lunch in a sheltered bay. As we sat eating our lunch, two polecats raced through the group and disappeared down the cliff face, stopping briefly to look us over. Margaret, the oldest member of the group, identified them immediately; she had been sharing her extensive knowledge of wildlife and flora with the group throughout the trip and had made it all the more interesting for us.
It was her last contribution of information, as, later that afternoon and unfortunately so far back we knew nothing about it, she tripped and fell head first into a ravine. It is in situations like these that you see the wisdom of never walking alone, but we all do it, it’s one of the pleasures, that silence and solitude.
It was Phillada who suddenly noticed Margaret was missing and began to retrace our route. By the time she discovered Margaret, we had all pushed on to the lighthouse at Cape Matepan, the southernmost tip of mainland Greece. Here, there was once a great settlement and an important temple to Poseidon; today all that remains are a few tumbled-down walls and exposed mosaics, hidden in the long grass.
We spent the afternoon spread out along the shore, each with our own private bay and crystal clear swimming pool, blissfully unaware of the drama unfolding back with Margaret and Phillada. With no sign of our leader, we eventually regrouped at the nearest village of Porto Kayo where the news of Margaret’s accident filtered through.
By the time we returned to Stavri that evening, Margaret had returned from the nearest clinic following a painful tractor rescue and was sitting in a state of shock drinking brandy with Anna and Richard. She sat there with a huge bandage round her head covering a nasty deep cut and with the broken leg of a blue taverna chair strapped to her arm supporting an equally broken wrist. Both she and the chair leg travelled back to London the next day where more professional treatment could be obtained, infinitely preferable to a journey to Athens.
My wife was waiting for me at the airport on a cold wet British Sunday. “You look well tanned, the weather must have been good” she said. “Mind you, that couple look a bit pale, have they not been well?”
Read all four parts of Mani Madness
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
