34 - Our Family Friends: A Country Walk

It was an August morning, some days before the ‘Dormition of Theotokos’ on the 15^th, the Orthodox holiday especially distinct amongst the Pontian faithful and marks the end of ‘holidays-by-the-seaside’ for most Greeks, when Nikos took us, a bunch of carefree children enjoying their break from school, for a hike in the countryside that surrounded his father’s village of which he knew too well: to proudly demonstrate the paths he walked as a child and the hidden spots amongst the groves and the orchards, where he played with his mates and maybe found love; places and times over the memory of which the older the man gets, the more nostalgic he feels.

We descended the dirt uneven roads, carved by the grooves opened by the winter rains, that led out of the village towards the fields. We crossed dried streams, under the foliage of thirsty planes and climbed trunks of fallen trees. We made sticks from the fallen tree branches to fight the nettles and weeds that blocked paths untrodden for ages. We lurked in fear for wasps, lizards and snakes, on guard for leaping locusts we did not want to harm. Only light, engulfing the ever-resilient trees and the vegetation that defied the drought, under a spotless blue firmament and a relentless sun, indifferent to our travails. In that unrivalled serenity, our outstretched ears could hear sounds of summer: the buzzing of flies, bees and buzzers and the persistent loud chorus of tireless male cicadas, our footsteps on the ground, the dry branches cracking under our steps. Human beings, voices and movements, apart from shepherd Nikos and his flock of children who faithfully followed him, were absent from as far as we could see and hear. With the calm voice from the top of our phalanx, he named places, old trees, derelict farm houses, haunted to our imagination, told us the little history of each one. It was his village, the place where he grew up and he was looking back to his own childhood, perhaps trying to relive some of that time. Everything around seemed familiar, its presence there and then made sense to him.

In an orchard of peach trees, we quenched our thirst from the water of a well. It felt fresh and cool. On a bench under the shade of a shanty we ate the peaches and medlars we picked along. The sun began his decent behind the ridges of the Pieria mountains on our way back home. Nikos guided us through a different route, which felt longer as we were getting tired from the hot and sweaty August day, but its light started playing hide-and-seek behind the treetops and was fading. A barely perceptible chill of the late afternoon was welcoming nevertheless. But Nikos wanted to awaken our tired spirits children's souls and reignite the feelings of adventure, to unleash more butterflies in our guts, make us forget the tiredness and the hunger and the thirst: with a serious face he feigned doubts about our way back amid the unfamiliar wilderness and the fading sunlight. We had to find a path that led back home before dusk!  Perhaps, he added, we might be caught up by the darkness of the night in that lonely place with its alien creatures and terrifying sounds. ‘He would not have wished it, but, hey, such things can happen!’ We listened to him with open mouths and an anxiety mixed with excitement of walking in the darkness. That we were a company led by a brave leader was a consolation. Eventually, before the sun disappeared behind the mountains, the first houses of the village emerged through the foliage of the trees of an orchard. We relaxed and longed for food and rest.

The day became a milestone: as a first acquaintance with the desolate and serene world of the countryside, far from the noises of the neighborhood and the city, which was choking by tall buildings and cars, spreading at pace in the woods and devouring the country around it, multiplying its inhabitants. But that day and the impression it left on me became the inspiration for an essay at school, under the vague and unimaginative theme: ‘Describe a Memorable Day of Your Summer Holidays’. It was read in front of the class and earned the teacher's praise.

The week in Katahas, in Nikos’ family home, with its little pine forest, its groves and orchards, the dry stream, the workshop of Kalevras, was one of the rare occasions I felt on par with Billy. It helped of course that we played away from the ‘society’ crowds that gathered in their apartment, but also helped because I saw him sheepish looking down on the floor, humbled one of his father's telling offs I had not witnessed before. The noises we made and our giggling from the room we shared, that continued despite the reprimands from his parents, prevented Nikos from Greek man’s ritual of an afternoon nap. As a guest I escaped the telling off, although I was equally responsible for the racket and the lack of consideration we displayed. Nikos frighteningly loud voice could only be compared with that of Father’s; it was decorated with offensive words, like "Donkey! Tramp!", and some swearing, and had the immediate effect of shutting our mouths for the whole duration of Nikos’ nap and beyond. The lambasting of boys by the thundery voices of fathers temporarily defeats spirits and, sometimes, as it is in my case leaves inedible marks, if not scars, in the soul that are carried through into adulthood. After the dressing-down Nikos grabbed Billy by the arm and threw him out of the house ignoring my presence. I stood faintly hidden behind the door of the small room, straining to contain my laughter in a throbbing chest, to keep my lips pursed from smiling. With Nikos’ ferocity and Billy’s abashing, for the first time in my presence, I felt that distinct feeling of Schadenfreude, the joy with someone else’s misgivings. I followed Billy to the yard under a shelter, where, after we had vented to laughter by Billy’s theatrical mocking of his father's wrath, we continued in a low tone of voices our quiet board games.