Land That No Longer Exists
I spent the last two summers in a tiny village on top of a hill densely covered with plants and colourful houses nestled somewhere between the coast of the Ionian Sea and Ancient Olympia. Sometimes, the daily sunsets would make it seem as if the village is frozen in time, existing solely for these moments when the sky blushes pink, softened by the orange light above the mountains, which gradually dissolves into deep blue and navy hues.
View from the top of the village
Having grown up in the cities, life in the village feels steady and peaceful despite the days starting up with the crows of roosters, ubiquitous cicadas, dogs barking at cats, and neighbours loudly gossiping on the porches. The Greek countryside follows its routines, especially in the mornings when all the chores ought to be done before the sun is at its peak and it becomes too hot to take care of the animals or the crops.
For a visitor like me, village life seems unchanged for years. Though it is tough and demands hard work, it has endured over the centuries, standing still atop the same hill. But for Spiros, who grew up there in the late '50s but spent most of his life abroad, the land, though still physically present, no longer exists in the same way.
From the left: ‘simple life’: bed on the porch; geese at the farm
Spiros is a good storyteller; every time he shares with me one of his stories, his life sounds like a book-worthy adventure. Having proclaimed the village of his ancestors a Wild West, he tells me stories about the witches who knew cures for snakes' poison, tales about hidden gold, and deadly conflicts about the land. He showed me a thousand-year-old olive tree in his garden, a big rock he used to play on as a child, and a spring where his family used to get water for the past centuries.
He started life as an expatriate in his early teenage years when he became a sailor, and it sounds like he travelled the world, shortly settling in The United States, Saudi Arabia, and eventually the Netherlands. Now retired, he spends most of the year in his home Greek village, taking care of the garden.
Apart from excitement, all these somewhat unbelievable but fascinating stories bring me sadness. Behind the facade of adventurousness, there is also the raw and brutal side of the village; the history of poverty, hard labour, and cold love. There’s a bittersweet irony in how the same place that once left people hungry now offers fast internet access just a few decades later. While this progress is undeniable, I can't help but feel a conservative worry that the old ways, the hardships might be forgotten. It’s as if the past is still subtly shaping the present, influencing even me, an outsider who found herself in this place by chance. As I learn to plant tomatoes here, I’m reminded that, for those before me, these same tomatoes once meant far more than just a gardening lesson.
Living atop the hill, surrounded by trees and mountains, I feel connected to nature. The circle of life—the growth of the tomatoes, the intertwining of past and present—seems to play out in this landscape. Here, the history of the village and its timeless natural beauty continuously blend, shaping my understanding of both the land and myself. There is the village I know today and the village from Spiros' stories.
Nowadays, only three hundred people live on top of the mountain. There is one tavern in the village. An elementary school. Two grocery stores the size of my Rotterdam studio. Two churches. Lots of stray cats and 40 empty houses. People are leaving; they move toward towns and cities, go to university, find jobs, marry, and settle. Nature remains unchanged. The hills and mountains surrounding Spiros' garden are still visible, the sunsets continue to be breathtaking, and the spring water flows as it always has. Yet, you can sense the past tamed in this place. Even without knowing the exact stories, the presence of history lingers in the air, weaving its weight into the landscape.
Visiting the village and talking to Spiros feels like stepping through a portal into another dimension, where I become a time traveller from the future, and he becomes the guardian of his ancestors' treasured memories. I think about how Spiros’s family worked hard to make the land safe so it could thrive and flourish. Their efforts ensured that Spiros could return home when times improved and share the knowledge to care for it, with me and his son. Suddenly, his travels make so much sense to me. I begin to piece together how each place he visited contributes to a larger picture of his family, the village, and even of who I have become after my time here. I believe, Spiros nurtures the past, and through his stories, he passes the torch to us, so we might safeguard the future.