It was a region which I knew almost nothing about. My journey had been decided on a whim; a few weeks earlier I had been in Albania, staring in wonderment across the border to the Pindus mountains in Greece and feeling there must be something to discover.
And so inevitably I hadn’t given myself enough time for preparation before my departure. I hadn’t even read the guidebook. I had only booked a return flight to Preveza and a hire car for the duration of my stay. Preveza? A friend of mine asked. I had to admit, until I booked the flight, I hadn’t heard of it either.
The geographical definition of Epirus has changed over time and the modern region is only a part of what it was in antiquity. In ancient times it was bounded to the North by Ilyria, to the East by Macedonia and to the South by Thessaly. Today, an imprecise but succinct definition might simply be “the north-western corner of modern Greece”; with Albania to the north, to the west the Adriatic sea, to the East the town of Metsovo, whilst Preveza and the Ambracian Gulf make up its southernmost extreme. It is essentially a mountainous region, much of it made up by the high peaks of the Pindus mountains. But it is also characterised by significant, fast-running, abundant rivers which carve precipitous gorges between the mountains.
The Pindus is a land where two-dimensional paper maps are next to useless. A Cartesian-plane, mere x-y coordinates, explains nothing of the geography of the area and only when the z-coordinates are added does the geography of the region make any sense. It is a land suitable only for pastoral agriculture and is the realm of bears, wolves, eagles and lynxes.
In this wild and untameable scenery you would be forgiven for thinking that culture, learning and history had never arrived. But just as an absence of water in the soil only forces vine roots to grow deeper, so too in Epirus, the mountains have only made the colours of history more vivid.
In the Hellenistic period, under the rule of King Pyrrhus, Epirus (the names are indeed etymologically connected) was as powerful as neighbouring Macedonia or Rome. Already king of the Molossians and of the royal house of Aeacid, Pyrrhus became king of Epirus in 306BC.
Pyrrhus was a skilled commander who, at the behest of the city of Tarentum (modern Taranto) in southern Italy, waged war against the Romans. In a campaign throughout Southern Italy his armies won several victories – but at such a cost to themselves that their losses were not sustainable in the long term. Nowadays, even if we might not be familiar with the character of King Pyrrhus himself, we no doubt understand the phrase a “Pyrrhic victory”, which originates from those ill-fated victories of the Ancient King of Epirus.
In 295BC Pyrrhus married Princess Lanassa, the daughter of the Syracusan tyrant Agathocles, in what was no doubt a dynastic union. However, the marriage was not to last. Discontent with his infidelity, Lanassa left him a few years later to retire to the island of Corfu for a quieter life.
But Pyrrhus’s connections with Sicily remained and in 278BC he came to the aid of the Siracusans by lifting the siege of the city from the Carthaginians. He later captured Erice also from the Carthaginians and, eventually, drove them from the island completely.
Under the reign of King Pyrrhus, the region of Epirus took an important part on the stage of early history.
As it turns out, my hunch was right, and there is a huge amount to explore in Epirus. But as a consequence of my disjointed planning, I hadn’t left myself enough time.
After a night in Arta, I headed to the Tzoumerka region, where I had arranged to stay at the Hotel Lanassa – named after the Siracusan wife of King Epirus.
Along with the key to my room, the receptionist gave me a photocopied, hand-sketched sheet of A4 paper with lines like the palm of your hand scrawled on it. It was a map of Tzoumerka apparently: the Fate Line through the middle was the river Arachthos, the Heart Line was the Egnatia Odos, the Life Line was the Ionia Odos – and so on. It didn’t look like a tremendously promising navigation aid. Then with a red-biro, he proceeded to circle the places I should explore and the route I should take to get to them.
In due course, in my exploration of the region, this single sheet of A4 paper turned out to be the most accurate and most useful navigation guide I had. As I was later to find out, the road signs of the region seem intended for the local farmers in their four-wheel drive Land Cruisers. They give indication only of the village to which the road is heading but little information on whether the road is actually passable or not.
From the eagle’s nest of the Hotel Princess Lanassa at Kostitsi it seemed a stone’s throw to the opposite village of Tzoumerka, but in practice, it was half a day’s journey by car. In the days before the motor-car, who knows how many days journey it might have been? Who knows how many people would even have bothered to make the journey. Here in Tzoumerka, space and time have a different relationship.
The Tzoumerka region is characterised by the gorge of the Arachthos river – the same river that flows down through Arta – six-hundred metres beneath where I was staying in the Hotel Lanassa.
The following morning, I set off optimistically early. On Yianni’s map the road was drawn as a zig-zag – rather like the symbol for a resistor on a wiring diagram. On the ground, there was a hairpin bend every hundred metres and I never got out of second gear. It was like a descent into Hades but eventually, after what seemed like an age, I arrived at the river.
Beside the modern bridge across the river was the ancient Politsa stone bridge – a semi-circular arch supporting a bridge shaped like a shallow circumflex. Gathered around the bridge were knots of teenagers in lifejackets and blue canoeing helmets as they were being briefed before rafting down the river. It looked exciting but it was not my mission for the day.
On the other side of the bridge, I headed up the other zig-zag road up the hill towards Ampelochori and thence to Kalarites. Though only 35km on the ground it was still another hour and a half’s drive away.
On my way I stopped at the Iera Moni Kipinas monastery. This thirteenth-century monastery – though small – is spectacular. Chiselled into the cliff face, its stone facade sits flush with the mountainside. A narrow pathway takes you towards it, until just before the entrance you cross a rickety, sliding wooden drawbridge, constructed over the chasm below, and which could have been retracted by the monks in times of danger. Inside, you are in a narrow hall which serves as a narthex to one of the most exquisitely frescoed orthodox churches I have witnessed. The far end of the hall narrows into a corridor cut through the rock face and leading to what once would have been the cells of the monks.
I lingered little as I still wanted to get to Kalarites and I still had a long homeward journey.
Kalarites, as it turns out, is one of the most charming villages I have been to in Greece. Everything is a light-grey, monochrome stone. It is the same stone as the mountainside. The houses are stone, the walls are stone, the roofs are stone. One gets the feeling that even the windows would be stone if it were possible. But mitigating this monochrome stone are vases and baskets of pink, red and crimson geraniums. Little life stirs outside the two or three cafes in the small village square and after all the driving I have been doing, I rewarded myself with a Greek coffee.
I had been drawn to come here by its story as Kalarites had once been the largest centre for silversmithing in the Balkans. In Byzantine times, their largely ecclesiastical craftings of tabernacles, crosses and reliquaries where sought from all across the Greek Orthodox world – making them wealthy. And in the nearby town of Ionannina, I later find out, there is a museum dedicated to their fine filigree and chiselling: an art-form that even bears their name: gianniótiki (meaning literally, from Ioannina).
It was from Kalarites that the Voulgaris family originated. A family of itinerarant silversmiths, they opened a store in Paramythia before emigrating from Epirus to Naples in 1880. It was there they set up their jewellery store, Bulgari which is nowadays a household name.
A further point of interest of Kalarites is that it was originally Aromanian (or Vlach). These are a mysterious people, native to the Balkans but speaking a Romance language, similar to Latin or Italian. Are they the descendants of legions of Roman soldiers? We really don’t know.
Leaving Kostitsi the following morning, I was heading for the Zagorochoria, a collection of picturesque villages in the Zagori region of the Pindus, but my hosts at the Princess Lanassa had persuaded me to call in on Ioannina on the way. It turned out their persuasion was justified.
Set on the shores of Lake Pamvotis, there are few inland cities in Greece that inhabit such a lovely location. The old city is reminiscent of a somewhat dilapidated Ottoman town from somewhere in Anatolia. But it is presided over by the walls of the imposing fortress, which itself harbours a citadel of Ottoman houses. The Itskale – from the Turkish İçkale, or inner castle, is an impressive preserve of Ottoman buildings – two mosques, a Harem and other buildings. It is here one becomes aware of Ioannina’s erstwhile prestige.
For the history of Ioannina is almost synonymous with that of one man – Ali Pasha of Ionnnina.
Ali Pasha has been portrayed by historians as a ruthless double-dealer fostered by the chaotic Ottoman Empire – but in fact he was much more than that.
Born into the Bektashi sect of Muslims in 1740 near the town of Gjirokaster in modern-day Albania, he grew up in a family of successful brigands and bandits. As the Ottomoan administration was indebted to the ethnic Albanians for suppressing the Greek rebellion in Morea, Ali persuaded the Sublime Porte to give him the responsibility of the rule of Ionannina. And despite the portraits of him hung round the castle in Ioannina depicting a benevolent and affable bearded, pipe-smoking old gentleman, his cruelty was legendary even in his own time. In due course, from his castle in Ioannina, he was to rule over the whole of Epirus, much of modern-day Albania, as well as large tracts of modern-day northern Greece in what amounted to more or less an autonomous state within the Ottoman Empire.
He died in 1822, aged almost 82, in a duel with representatives of the Sublime Porte when they came to restrict some of his powers. But the Greeks today hold him in affection, associating him as they do with initiaitng their own resitence against the Ottomans.
And the town of Ioannina today stills beholds some of the architecture that it might have done in the time of Ali Pasha. It is a mix of Ottoman housing, Venetian castles, mosques and tombs. And all of it is set in the sublime positions of the side of the lake of Ioannina.
I had heard about the Vikos gorge and was eager to walk its length – but my lack of preparation meant I didn’t know where to start.
It seemed reasonable enough to begin in a village that shared the same name and hence I had booked my accommodation there. In fact, as I was later to find out, there might have been better places to start the walk.
The Vikos gorge is touted as the deepest gorge in the world – deep, that is, in respect to its width: just over a kilometre wide for the most part, and over nine hundred metres deep.
I don’t have a great head for heights and it certainly wasn’t for the thrill of standing on the edge of a sheer drop but en route to Vikos I took a detour to the Oxna viewpoint: a short drive away from Monodendri. A stoney path through the woods led to a clearing in the trees. A narrow ledge, the size of an aircraft cockpit, opened out onto the Vikos gorge. Two opposing cliffs squared up to each other like fists. The valley floor was filled with green, as lush as a Devon estuary and right in the bottom, was the river, just a narrow pencil line.
I left this jaw-dropping vista, to drive the rest of the way to Vikos where, after checking in to my B&B, I went out to explore. As it turned out, the village was nothing more than half a dozen houses, and I could walk from one end to the other in less than five minutes. But it did have a closer view of the gorge which gave me an idea of the walk I was hoping to do the following day. Most importantly, I found the steps down into the gorge and they were right opposite my lodgings.
It was still early afternoon, so I sat in the garden of the B&B to catch up with some admin work. Despite its name, the B&B didn’t have a view of the Vikos Gorge at all, but I was relieved for the shade and somewhere to sit. Before long, the garden was filling up with hikers dropping down at the tables, dripping with perspiration and over cold beers, regaling each other with laudatory congratulations for having completed what sounded like an ultra-marathon. In the shade of the garden, the temperature was in the high 30s. I wondered why anyone would want to put themselves through such a hike at this time of day, and I resolved to set out as early as possible.
It seemed as if everyone was walking from Monodendri to Vikos (and not vice-versa) and then taking a taxi back to their starting point. I realised now that I was staying in the wrong place! Damn! But nevermind… I didn’t need to walk the whole gorge. I would just set out from my lodgings in the morning, walk for a few hours and then turn back to Vikos.
By six o’clock everyone had gone and the village returned to just a few mortals. I sauntered off to the taverna in the village square and ordered a slab of Moussaka, a Greek salad and half a kilo of rough local wine, which I hoped would set me up for my walk the following day. After dinner, I sat in the Vikos garden with a beer and had the view to myself – like sitting in the front row of the cinema. As the sun set behind me, I watched the colours slowly drain from the mountains. By nine o’clock, I was in bed in preparation for the early start the next day.
I awoke at six and was out of the B&B twenty minutes later heading down the steps into the gorge. The air was still cool. Half an hour later I was still descending, but in another ten minutes I was into the shade of the trees at the bottom. I was surrounded by almost total silence, punctuated by the occasional woodpecker. Nothing else around me stirred. The going underfoot was easy and I was making good progress. My plan was to be back at the B&B by 2 o’clock at the latest, so I figured I had seven hours walking ahead: I would walk for three and a half hours and then just turn back. I had brought with me just a few dried apricots, a couple of bananas, a pack of savoury crackers and several litres of water.
At ten o’clock, I was still walking in shade. The sun had not yet risen above the sides of the gorge and I still had not seen anyone. I had reckoned I would cross anyone setting out from Monodendri somewhere at the halfway point. So did this mean I was not yet half way? Or that I had just set out earlier than everyone else? My three and a half hours were almost up, but I had no wish to turn back right now. Slowly, the decision just to walk to Monodendri was forming in my mind. There would always be a taxi back to Vikos. I plodded on.
The hike itself was not particularly spectacular. The only views were upwards through the trees. There were a lot of woodpeckers and small birds. I heard the cries of buzzards and kestrels but saw neither.
It was half past ten before I felt the first rays of sun on my skin and half an hour later before I encountered the first hikers walking in the opposite direction – an elderly German couple, with staffs made from cut branches. Their footwear seemed inadequate and neither of them had rucksacks, nor did it look as if they were carrying water. They looked as if they had been wandering the woods for several weeks looking for an exit. But we greeted each other cheerily and they gave no sign of being in distress, so I didn’t enquire further.
The temperature was rising quickly and the path began to lead uphill. I was passing more walkers heading for whence I had come – including several groups with guides. But I kept plodding on.
Towards midday, I arrived at the start of the final climb out of the gorge to Monodendri, eight hundred metres above me. The trees were thinner and the shade sparser. The heat was also building and I had almost got through all my water. I have to admit, it was a long slog but towards one o’clock in the afternoon, I felt the path flatten out and the paving getting better, so I realised Monodendri was nearby. Ten minutes later, I found myself walking into the village square. All I wanted was a Coke, which I found at a nearby shop. I asked the girl about a taxi to Vikos and a moment later she was on the phone to a friend. She told me there was a taxi waiting just down the road.
The driver Panagiotis also ran the hotel, served in the restaurant, and to gather from his attire, was also the local builder. And in his spare time he drove a taxi. We agreed on €40 for the 40 minute journey back to Vikos. And despite my stumbling Greek, he was happy to let me indulge it and we chatted away. A few minutes later he asked if I wanted a coffee and we stopped at his friends for a couple of cold frappés for which he refused to let me pay. Sipping through the straws of our coffees, we continued on on to Vikos. He was convivial company and a fountain of knowledge about the local area: which villages were worth visiting, where I could visit some pools, which were the good hotels.
And then he asked me if I had seen any animals on my walk. Animals? Actually, he was specifically asking if I had seen any bears. Apparently they are quite common. I suddenly became nervous. But he reassured me – they only cause trouble if you antagonise their cubs.
Until now, I hadn’t particularly thought about bears, but my curiosity was aroused. And so it was that on my last day in Epirus, I decided to go and seek some out.
I went to visit the bear sanctuary in Nymfaio. At 1400m above sea level the village felt refreshingly cool in contrast to the 35C it showed on the thermometer of the car in the valley below.
The foundation operates as a rescue sanctuary, taking in bears that have been abused or in need of assistance, as opposed to breeding them for release into the wild. Although keeping bears in circuses is now banned in Greece, in neighbouring Bulgaria and Turkey bears are still kept in captivity and the sanctuary will take in such bears and look after them until the end of their lives. There is never any intention to release them back into the wild as they would not survive.
Reassuringly, I also learnt that the bears in the wild will not attack humans unless provoked. And they are frightened of noise, and in particular music. One way to frighten off a bear, I learned, is just to play some music on your phone.
My visit was a fountain of new knowledge. I learnt among other things, that the Greek for bear is αρκούδα – Arkouda or άρκτος – Arktos. In both Greek and Latin cultures, the constellations around the polar star are known as the Great Bear and the Little Bear (Ursa Major and Ursa Minor in Latin) and they are the constellations most associated with the North. And it is from the Greek αρκούδα that we get our English word “Arctic”.
With the temperatures I had been experiencing during my week in Epirus, the concept of the Arctic seemed something of another universe. But it seemed a fitting end to my wanderings in Epirus.
