Delos - A slave to history

Greece – Delos

                                       A SLAVE TO HISTORY

Delos, I’d never heard of the place.  It’s a small island just half an hour ferry ride from Mykonos and it first cropped up when I was researching Mykonos.  I’d bought a Greek Islands travel guide and Delos had two whole pages devoted to it.
When we arrived at Mykonos our hotel loaned us a book and Delos had 33 pages dedicated to it.  I determined it was my one “must see” while staying at Mykonos. Getting there was a laugh; the 9.15 ferry had been altered to 10.00 and they said they would return at 1.00 or 1.30.  Lorraine, acutely aware of the time factor occurring due to our later exit to Santorini, pleaded with them for 1.00 or we wouldn’t travel.  They instantly decreed a 1.00 return; so much for timetables.

   

Leaving the harbour at Mykonos

We eased from the harbour and into the morning wind, passing by Agh. Gerogios Island and soon after arriving at the fabled place named Delos.  At first view it seems extraordinary that 25,000 people (our guide said 30,000) lived here at one time.  This tiny windswept speck of just 6.85 square kms in the Aegean Sea has a history, and what a history it is.
                        

Some of the wonder of Delos

According to legend, Leto had sex with Zeus (she wasn’t alone there) which greatly upset Hera, Zeus’ wife.  Fleeing the scene, Leto found that no-one wanted to know her because Hera had threatened destruction upon anyone assisting so Leto arrived at the almost uninhabited Delos and gave birth to the twins, Artemis and Apollo, whilst clinging to a solitary palm tree.  Thus the scene was set for Delos to become an island of worship and the temple building began.

Poseidonites Temple

The island then became a centre for commerce and, when it became a free trade port, the place boomed; the biggest money earner being slaves.  Ancient writers claimed 10,000 were sold here per day; this can be readily dismissed however; perhaps a few hundred would be more likely.  As with any Greek tale, you initially divide by 10 to get somewhere approximating the truth.

Still, standing on the island today imagining a multitude of ships plying trade back and forth almost beggars belief.  Though protected, the port is small and they must have berthed one on top of the other, as sailing ships were wont to do in the 19^th century, yet this was over 2,500 years ago.

Our guide showed us shops and houses, explaining sewerage systems (they were flushed with sea water to conserve drinking water), house construction (no windows to prevent malaria carrying mosquitoes from the lone swamp), the Italian agora (market place) and theatre, emphasising how important it was in Hellenic culture as it was free and troubadours used to travel around the Mediterranean to various venues.  Only males were allowed to act in plays and mostly males attended.

Sewer works for the theatre

I was fascinated with the fact that so many other gods had temples here and enclaves from different countries had their own ghettos on the island.  For example, the Poseidonites came from Beirut to worship here; had their own temple and own area where they lived.  Apart from Apollo, the main god worshipped here, there was a veritable horde of them, including Artemis (his twin sister), Hestia, Asclepius, Heracles, Zeus and even one dedicated to twelve gods.  Needless to say, Lorraine’s favourite will always be Bacchus!

More temple remnants

The greatest of the many statues dedicated to Apollo was 9 metres high, sculpted from a single block of marble weighing 32 tonnes.  They built a temple to it where it was supposed to reside but got the measurements wrong.  The statue was too big to fit in and so was installed outside where it could be seen from the harbour.  In 1416 a Florentine attempted to raise it, to no avail.  In 1675 its head was cut off and has been lost forever, but the torso and pelvis were also dragged away but for some reason were abandoned and still lie there whilst the Delos Museum has its left hand and the British Museum a section of the left leg.

There were a modicum of other things in the museum as well that promoted interest, most notably the statuary and mosaics; a worthwhile place to spend some time.
  

One of the few mosaics in the museum

From 700 B.C. the place started to flourish and, when later it became a free trade (no taxes) port from 314 B.C. to 166 B.C., with slaves the number one commodity, it boomed.  Eventually the Athenian league, in a cleverly disguised ploy to take it over, decreed that the place needed to be cleansed so all births and deaths had to take place on the neighbouring island of Rhenia, thus ruling out any hereditary type claims and then Athenians were implanted here using a ballot system, so popular was the place.

Later, when under Roman control, around 87 B.C. Mithridates Eupator, who already ruled all the countries around the Black Sea, looted the place to obtain money to hire mercenaries.  It is estimated that 20,000 people were slaughtered and that caused the demise of Delos.

During the ensuing centuries people would come and take building materials, leaving little for today’s tourists to savour, but enough to give a good outline of the place and cause one to enthuse about what an amazing place it was.

                                                                             The avenue of the lions is made up of cast replicas

The Avenue of the Lions, some temples and an area of houses behind the theatre still contain enough upright walls and columns to give you a general idea of how thriving Delos was in its heyday, and you can still imagine the agora with different kingdoms vying for a presence there and erecting ever larger facades to denote their presence.

The old harbour at Delos

Definitely a place worthy of your time if you’re in the area

   GOLDEN DAYS

 Words and pics by Ian Smith                  

My joy at being back in the motorhome and having a cup of tea knew no bounds; I salivated over every warm mouthful and relaxed, thinking of the morrow and a walk with Terry.

The third day dawned and it was the day I was going to Gleniffer Falls, somewhere beyond my campsite on Never Never Creek.  I hoped he wouldn’t turn up on time (7 a.m.) as the winter chill penetrated my clothing but, lo, there he was and with two passengers.  My hope of stalling him with a cup of tea dissipated and I hastily started packing.

               

                

                                                        Never Never Creek

He had Ben, a P.E. teacher at Dorrigo who is his next door neighbour and his grandson Charlie aboard.  So we clambered into the 2WD and, soon after, wished we were in a 4WD when we drove up the track to Cliff’s place, a strange assortment of edifices in various states of disrepair strewn across a bare patch of land and accompanied by abandoned motor vehicles.

Cliff, a man in his eighties, was there to greet us and was decidedly uninterested in my handshake and introduction as he sought to find out why Terry was a day early.  That hurdle over, he later wondered why Terry was locking his car as he figured that if we didn’t return in a couple of days he could look forward to adding to his car collection.

        

Cliff's Collection

We set off downhill to the creek and then turned left and started clambering over rocks, an act that didn’t cease for the next 7 hours.

            

                     Ben and Charlie taking a break

There are no trails here, no tracks to follow, just a seriously stony river not anxious to give up its secrets.  After a time I started asking Terry, he of the GPS, how far we’d gone and how long had it taken.  It must have sounded like the “are we there yet Mum?” that children are wont to cry but Terry was kind to me.  I was a bit shattered when I discovered that, after an hour, we hadn’t even gone a kilometre up the creek.

As each succeeding hour passed, and we digressed up a side creek, my legs started to tire as I scanned the horizon for the famous gorge that everyone else swims through but Terry said we could circumvent.  Finally it was visible and the nimble among us scouted ahead to see how bad it was.  Turns out it was a little too tricky to navigate so we took Terry’s diversion up the side of the seriously steep bank and scrambled our way skyward.

               

                      Charlie and Terry looking for a route around the canyon

At times the virgin route seemed almost impassable but, encouraged by Terry’s assurance, we soldiered on and pushed upstream before descending again to what I thought was Gleniffer Falls; but, no, it was a point from which you can view Gleniffer Falls.

                    

                                  The impressive Gleniffer Falls

I had been warned I may not be impressed but the opposite was the case.  After scrambling up a side chute of what I thought had been Gleniffer Falls, I gazed in awe at the distant spectacle of multiple falls in succession cascading off the distant mountain range. There, indeed, were the hallowed cascades.  I’d never realised just how high they were.  Ben proffered they were the highest in Australia but I ventured that someone had done the exercise and, accordingly, Wallaman was listed as the longest single drop in Australia though Wollomombi is claimed to be by other sources.  That still didn’t make Gleniffer any less impressive; for me, they are one of the best falls I’ve ever seen.

Sadly, to get up close to them really requires an overnight journey by the truly fit or an abseil off the cliff, neither idea holding any attraction for me.  All too soon it was time to head back, Terry of the time piece a little concerned that it had taken us 4 ½ hours so far and we’d only travelled a shade over 3 kms, which was a reflection on (a) how many photos I’d taken but, more seriously, (b) how rugged it was.

            

                                                            Golden waters in a side stream

As we trekked back, finding an easier route around the canyon, the pace was much quicker; after all, I’d already seen the gold I sought.  It had been in the side stream and, later, in Never Never as well.  The afterglow of the sun on high dashed itself on the gentle waters and there had been the enchanting gold, below the corrugation of ripples that fanned out from the base of a cascade.

               

                        The view was always special

With the increased pace came fatigue and I was the first to stumble, something I did three times and Terry five; trouble was my first and third stumbles were worse than any of Terry’s and my shin and back suffered accordingly, the rocks having re-affirmed their lack of give.  After not quite 2 ½ hours we were back, always with the feeling that Ben and Charlie could well have been home and showered in front of the telly if it hadn’t been for the old farts.

Still, it had been another memorable day, one I won’t repeat, but that didn’t make it any the less unforgettable, and I had found gold.

THE REALITY OF VENICE

                              

             Words and pics by Ian Smith

It's a happening ruin, in transit so to speak.  The crumbling plaster, exposed brickwork, flaking paint, bolts with brackets holding walls together, buildings at crazy angles, cables hanging from nothing going nowhere, streets so narrow at times you have to turn sideways to pass by other couples; the unevenness of the cobbles straining your legs.

It's a nightmare.  The population is in decline; people don't want to live there and who can blame them.  Modern living has almost bypassed this place.
The gondolier has found a client, a French couple with a pram and a group of Americans quickly follow in the second craft.  They both choose the 100 euros cheap ride as distinct from the 150 euros grand tour.  I ponder whether or not they accept cheques, my sense of humour not having diminished one iota.

Our window at the restaurant is adorned with African violets and imitation roses plus purple fake flowers set in crystals.  A scallop bottomed red curtain swings above us caressed by the zephyr that drifts though the window, its colour matched by the shop across the way selling Ferrari merchandise.

Our waitress is fluent in at least three languages and the couple next to us turn out to be Australian so, for a short time on our trip, language is not a problem.  They're from Sydney, an affable pair whose children are being minded by their grandparents.  They'd seen an Emirates special on T.V. and taken a punt, picking up a $1,200 airfare.  He's a civil engineer and his wife always wanted to come back to Italy, last seen 20 years ago.

Somewhere along the line we stumbled into the Santa Maria di Nazareth Carmelite church (aka Chiesa degli Scalzi, church of the barefoot), a late 17^th century edifice rebuilt by the Jesuits and designed by Baldassarre Longhena that once had a master fresco by Tiepolo in the nave until the Austrians shelled the place in 1915.  Ettore Tito repainted that area in the 1930’s but there is a lesser Tiepolo fresco still on the vault of the Ruzzini Chapel.  The church is the resting place of the last doge of Venice, Ludovico Manin, who died in 1802.

The most dazzling thing that catches your eye however is Giuseppe Pozzo’s sacrament tabernacle, encrusted with lapis lazuli which asserts the re-entry into Venice of the Jesuits.

We have been in Venezia for over 4 hours and still haven't reached the Piazza San Marco, deliberately strolling into courtyards, blind alleys and back streets en route.
We've managed eventually to get to the Ponte de Rialto and its graffiti, the bridge that had to be built in stone because its wooden predecessors had twice collapsed.  We noticed the crowd visibly thicken so we stayed with the crush, the number of shops also increasing to the point where that's all there is, until, suddenly, we're there.

Some hyped places are a bit of a let-down.  All the pre publicity drains the excitement of seeing a major attraction for the first time.  Not so here, its magnificence is overwhelming, its manner grand, its opulence dazzling.

I'm fascinated by the church, actually basilica.  Layer upon layer of visible history taunts your eyes.  Here a Roman mosaic, there some Renaissance work, elsewhere some Romanesque statues shoved into the walls.  It's like someone found all these bits of European history and put them all in one place in random order, but that’s what you could do when you were the prime traders in the Mediterranean.
Overall its Byzantine influence is dominant though, with the spectacular wall mosaics and the four bronze horses outside that came from the Hippodrome, in then Constantinople where it all started.  They were originally made in Chios, a Greek island that suffered an appalling massacre during the Ottoman takeover.

                      

Another thing of note taken from Constantinople in 1204 on the exterior is the statue of the Four Tetrarchs. It represents the inter-dependence of the four Roman rulers who ruled when the empire had been split up under the co-emperor plan devised by Diocletian. It is set into the southwestern corner of the basilica.

The 98.6 metre tall Campinale (bell tower) in the middle of the square is a 1912 rebuild after the original collapsed in 1902.  I ponder that it must have been something to see as it all came tumbling down.  The two tall columns are also eye catching, but I wonder just how many people have ever seen the third.  It’s buried in the silt at the bottom of the nearby canal because they didn’t quite manage to get it ashore.

Elsewhere Rosemarie is off shopping.  We'd checked out paintings earlier but now we're plunging into every glass shop available, and they are numerous.  She likes several items but ultimately buys nothing.  Many, I have to agree, are stunningly beautiful, their colours flowing through the glass like shattered rainbows and the ones shaped like birds I thought were really special.
We commenced our return journey towards the station after sunset and got lost, heading towards the Arsenale and still without a map before we began asking people directions.

That's when we came to the main route whose cafes and tourist shops are never ending.  When we reach the station we duck up a side alley to a shop selling paintings that we had visited earlier. 
After some time Rosemarie decides on two and I negotiate a cheaper price just before the shop closes, satisfied that for at least once in Venice we didn't get ripped off.
The only downer for the day was that my camera isn't working and our current landlord offered us his for which I was grateful.
I still take picture, many picture.....