Sometimes in traveling you get a glimpse of a tantalizing place and, for various reasons, fail to pursue it further. My first close encounter with the Vikos Gorge, in the northwest corner of mainland Greece, was in 1991, when I found I had a few hours to spare on a drive across northern Greece and made a detour in the hope of finding something new. As usual, I was using an old Michelin map and a yellow marker to tick off two- and three-star locations and to make sure I didn't miss anything of importance. I had noticed that the Michelin Green Guide had awarded the gorge its maximum, three stars, and yet until then I had never even heard of the place. The gorge—ten miles long and half a mile deep—is one of the most spectacular natural sights in Europe, looking like a dramatic white slash through the limestone of the Pindos Mountains. But there was something else: the villages of the Zagori region, forty-five of them in all, that appeared to grow directly from the earth on which they stood. I (just) managed to complete the classic trek from end to end along the base of the ravine in a respectable eight hours. But I could do little more than get a brief taste of the combined effect of the gorge, with its strange piles of finely sliced schist stacked without apparent human intervention, and the villages, whose roofs were made of the same stone. I subsequently moved on to the more familiar seductions of Greece—many of which were included in my serial reporting for this magazine on virtually all the islands—but the memory of the Zagori villages remained like an unfulfilled assignation.
How, I wondered, had buildings of such sophistication emerged in such a lonely, isolated place? And why did they seem to be as impeccable and well tended as if newly built, when they were clearly much older? Finally, last summer, I went back to Greece to find out. There are, I was to learn, really two stories behind this phenomenon: the improbable genesis of the villages, and their equally improbable preservation.
Walking in the Zagori (the word comes from the Slavic, where
za means behind and
gora means mountain), I had seen shepherds carrying much-needed staffs and accompanied by fierce dogs. This was a hard life, and it seemed strange that there had been enough wealth to build what, in nineteenth-century terms, must have been trophy mansions. The explanation, I found, was an extraordinary tale of lonely wives and entrepreneurial husbands. Centuries earlier, local merchants had gone off to the great trading centers of Europe and Asia and become the organizers of the caravans that transported valuable goods on the Silk Route. The women were left at home to tend the goats and bring up the children, but the men were amassing fortunes. And when they made a rare visit home, they vied with one another to provide ever more elaborate family residences—the mansions, called
archontikons (in Greek, an
archon is a member of the local aristocracy).
Bequests for the construction of schools, hospitals, roads, and the like soon followed. By the middle of the nineteenth century, the Zagori had almost as many schools as it did pupils, and the region had acquired an unexpected reputation for scientific and academic excellence—a bizarre achievement, given its remoteness.
A century later, such a place—with a landscape worthy of an IMAX showstopper and an anomalous architectural endowment—might well have turned out to present a tempting target for development once the Greek government got into the tourism business. In fact, the reverse was the case: In the early 1970s, the EOT, Greece's national tourist organization, set out to rescue the villages from both dilapidation and earthquakes. Any building of architectural interest, however run-down, could ask to be taken over by the EOT for a period of up to ten years, during which time the property would be expertly restored for tourist use. After that, the building—now meticulously converted into a characterful taverna or a small inn—would be returned, with no strings attached, to the original owner to do with whatever he wished. The hope was that the renovated properties would not only attract visitors but also set an example for private developers and so help to keep traditional construction techniques alive.
As many as 650 "preservable traditional settlements," as they were called, were identified, including those in the Zagori. Some were no more than a cluster of small cottages, but many were grander—the equivalent of, say, an English manor house hotel or an Indian haveli or even a Moroccan riad.
And so it was that three decades later, I returned to the Zagori to see whether this early exercise in ecotourism had succeeded—I also decided to include Mount Pelion and the Mani Peninsula, both on the mainland, which had also been centers of EOT activity, and several of the islands where traditional settlements are to be treasured.
I knew that the greatest proliferation of
archontikons and much of the tourist development were in the Zagori, and so I was pleased—and a little surprised—to find the village skylines virtually intact. This time I drove from Ioannina, the regional capital, to Megalo ("Big") Papingo and Mikro ("Little") Papingo, two handsome villages at the northern end of the gorge chosen by the EOT as the focus of its rebuilding program.
Megalo Papingo hadn't changed very much. As everywhere in the Zagori, the buildings are made almost entirely of stone, and each village has a large
mesochori (central square), surmounted by the inevitable statue of the village's benefactor—all rendered, it has to be said, in good taste. A huge plane tree provides generous shade, and every horizontal space is paved in intricate patterns of stones. Originally, the village layout was essentially defensive. The high perimeter walls of each
archontikon and the wooden courtyard gates that were always shut made entry by a casual intruder unlikely, but this enclosed layout also meant that the squares were a pleasant social center. Indeed, two restaurant/bars were abuzz. The stone streets and houses, the arcaded church and its adjacent bell tower, and the tiny roofed courtyard gates all remain.
Nicos Saxonis, former head of a large advertising agency in Athens and now owner of a small hotel called Saxonis Houses, in Megalo Papingo, told me that the permanent population of Papingo is seventy-five, "and twenty-five of those are in Mikro Papingo." Not surprisingly, locals know the news of the day—the owner of the excellent Tsoumanis Restaurant had cut his thumb with a knife, been rushed to the hospital in Ioannina, and was still in great pain; the daughter of one householder had returned to Papingo to live and would marry one of the locals, clearly the big event on Papingo's social calendar, since the whole village would be invited.
I had been told that the prettiest village in the Zagori is Dilofo, so I set off to see for myself. The stone-paved alleys, too narrow for cars, are lined with rows of attractive, densely packed stone houses, few of them with any land attached, and thus no gardens. There was no one in sight. Intricate chains and padlocks secured the doors. A bar in the central square was receiving a delivery of bottled drinks but didn't look open for business, and the square seemed deserted. This was June, when schools are out. I later found the same thing in the Pelion, with houses boarded up and very few souls around, and concluded that people had their primary home elsewhere but came to these remote villages in the middle of July for a month's stay over the big holiday—the Feast of the Assumption, on August 15.
The EOT program of changing old houses into
xenonas (old-style inns) has had mixed results. In Papingo, three are still operating: the twelve-room Astraka Guesthouse and the Kalliopi Restaurant, both in Megalo Papingo, and a small hotel in Mikro Papingo. Several other small hotels have been added in Megalo Papingo in the past decade.
"I don't think local people appreciated the EOT scheme," says Nikos. "They looked at it simply as a financial transaction, as a means of improving their property. But it brought tourism to remote areas like the Zagori." He regrets new development in the area that is supported by European Union money: "Everybody is building hotels, and there's no way of controlling it." Giorgios Papaevagelou—who was born in Megalo Papingo, built his guesthouses ten years ago, and is very involved with the community—agrees: "A lot of people doing the new construction see it purely as a way to make money. That's a mistake. You must see it as a way of life."
Mount Pelion
The results of the EOT scheme seemed better as I moved on, taking a road closely bypassing the amazing mountaintop monasteries of the Meteora and then continuing on to the sprawling mass of Mount Pelion, also encircled by tiny villages and increasingly visited by foreigners seeking the Greek sun without the heat. Here there are cooling mountain springs, verdant forests, and welcome shade.
The mountain village of Vizitsa contains some of the best examples of traditional houses that benefited from the original EOT scheme. I stayed at the Karagiannopoulou Mansion, built in 1791 as a second home for a rich family, some of whom had been working in Egypt. "My grandfather bought the house in 1956, and it was empty for twenty years," Mahe Karagiannopoulou told me. "Then the EOT provided the money to renovate, which took from 1976 to 1988, when it opened as a lodge."
Tourism only began in the area in the 1980s, when the EOT restored eight houses in Vizitsa, three of which are now privately held. The other five still rent rooms, including the Santikos Mansion (originally called Vafiades), now the most "designy" of the group, with color-themed bedrooms and bathrooms and a top-floor
nondas (sitting room) with stained glass windows looking down the mountain to the sea.
Each of these
archontikons is in Pelion style: a tall building painted white—often with thin, horizontal bands of wood at regular intervals—a slate roof, and, on the top level, a row of distinctive windows, closely spaced and shuttered, and, above them, small windows containing colored glass. Inside, highly polished wood is the main feature, in paneling and staircases and in the sitting rooms (Karagiannopoulou has four), while the ceilings are patterned and painted in grand manner. The top floors, meanwhile, were where women used to make handicrafts and families held celebrations and feasts.
In Makrinitsa, the largest and most striking of the Pelion villages, three mansions renovated by the EOT used to rent rooms, but they all closed five or six years ago. The pedestrian-only village, however, is thriving, with an elegant central square with plane trees, a church, restaurants, and views of the sea in the distance. Strangely, the village has been allowed to grow linearly instead of concentrically, so that it even has four squares, four stands of plane trees, and four general meeting places.
I began to realize that outsiders need to know when not to come: The Pelion
archontikons are fully booked in August, in winter (especially December and over the holidays), and at Easter, which is the big Greek festival of the year. "Every weekend in October the town is filled with Greeks, while in April and May it switches to foreign tourists," I was told by a resident. Another local described the magic of snow here in the winter, "when it's all silent and lovely."
The Mani
The architectural feature of the Mani Peninsula, in the southern Peloponnese, is fortified towers—or rather, tower houses, war towers, and walled complexes, which were originally built for families as permanent or secondary residences or lookout posts and refuges in their fights with one another and with intruders. Fertile land is scarce, so the Maniots had long battled over it and had a reputation for blood feuds—between families (or clans), between neighborhoods, between villages, and certainly with whoever was running Greece at the time. The Turks gave up on them, saving face by appointing a Maniot chief as bey (a sort of tax collector), although apparently money was rarely received.
Always up for a battle, the Maniots fought as fiercely as any for Greek independence, then proved hard to assimilate—not least as they promptly assassinated the new country's first president. This was a land of armed patriarchal clans, where the birth of a male was greeted as "another gun."
I had heard about the unruly Mani and its towers, and drove over the dazzling new Patras Bridge, which connects the Greek mainland with the Peloponnese, and south to the Mani village of Areopoli, named after Ares, the Greek god of war. I had booked a stay at the Pyrgos Kapetanakou, one of the converted towers (
pyrgos is Greek for tower). It contained, I found, the Mani tower house features, having few doors and windows, its height giving strategic advantage in skirmishes with the neighbors. The building dates from 1865, when it was erected by the second-richest man in the area. As Lakis Dermitzoglou, the thirty-five-year-old current hotelier, puts it, "The richest men had the biggest towers."
For the full tower experience, drive eighteen miles south to Vathia, which had been home to eight clans. The central settlement, on a hill overlooking the sea, flourished in the nineteenth century and then started to decline at the beginning of the twentieth. Yet it is still tower central and a wonderful sight to behold. "The whole village belonged to the EOT," says Dermitzoglou, who has been vacationing in the Mani for years. "But it was abandoned about six years ago, and now only a few towers in Vathia are privately owned." I drove through tiny hamlets in June, before the summer rush, hardly seeing a soul but passing many a tower. The countryside is fascinating, changing from green mountainsides in the north to parched hills farther south, at the scrubby end of the peninsula known as the Deep Mani.
After my stay in Areopoli, I drove north to Kardamyli. My objective here was Lela's Taverna and Rooms, where I put up very happily for several days.
Kardamyli is a delightful village, with well-kept houses, an attractive main street complete with several bars, a church, and an antiques shop—on this trip I had mostly been in villages devoid of shops and souvenirs, so this was remarkable.
The writer Patrick Leigh Fermor, whose 1958 book
The Mani still sells well, has long had a home in Kardamyli, where for twenty years Lela Giannakeas was his housekeeper. In 1951, Lela's mother gave her the house as a marriage gift; it now contains Lela's Taverna and Rooms, where I meet seventy-six-year-old Lela, dressed in the traditional Greek widow's black, and her son Giorgios. It was originally one floor; in 1983 they added five rooms on top, which they now rent to visitors, and opened the waterfront taverna on the ground floor, with several terraces of tables overlooking the rocks. Today, Kardamyli is a favorite with tourists. Every summer evening they crowd Lela's Taverna, the Aman Café, and Chariloas Restaurant, all facing the sea, as well as the other cafés and bars throughout the village.
Nonetheless, infusions of money from the European Union are viewed skeptically: "Much of Vathia was renovated in the original EOT scheme," says Giorgios, "and in the last ten years there's been government financing in Itilon, Areopoli, Limeni, and Girolemeni, but now it's European Union money and agritourism. They don't have a lot to show for it." To Giorgios, much of the current investment is misguided, "because in Greece they always invest in big hotels, congresses, and that's not what is needed. They should invest in the smaller, higher-quality places."
Chios
Chios, in the northeastern Aegean, is an island that has never quite hit it off with travelers, although several of Greece's greatest shipping families have homes here. It also had a profitable sideline, providing mastic to the ladies of the Turkish court when this part of the world belonged to the Ottoman Empire. The entire southern part of the island is planted with the dark-leafed lentisk bushes from which the mastic resin is tapped. Used like ordinary chewing gum, it is said to do wonders for bad breath, but it has other uses too. I found a shop in the village of Pyrgi selling mastic products:
loukoum (Turkish delight), toothpaste, soap, liqueur, and wine. Another shop advertised mastic as a remedy for stomach ailments.
"By the 1940s and '50s, the mastic villages were in a very poor state," Pyrgi resident Gus Kanios, who emigrated to the United States with his parents in 1982 but returned after twenty years, told me. "A lot of people from Pyrgi are still in the United States, and they send money back to their parents for rebuilding. Then the EOT got involved, indiscriminatingly offering funds to any homeowner who would agree to its rules."
Nonetheless, the traditional settlements scheme is considered a great success here, because it helped preserve the old buildings and the old crafts. In Pyrgi, that means
xysta (pronounced
sister), the unusual geometric black-and-white decoration seen on the facade of virtually every building, even the gas station.
Xysta involves two layers of plaster, one light and one dark, applied in turn; the top layer is then scratched off to create the pattern. Three or four people in Pyrgi still know how to do it, but sadly it's a dying art.
Xysta is also expensive, costing more than five dollars a square foot.
Santorini
This famously beautiful island is full of traditional buildings, although often not the original ones. The southernmost of the Cyclades, it has been devastated by fourteen major earthquakes since 198 b.c. In 1956, whole sections of villages such as Oia and Fira, the island's capital, were destroyed, and residents and imported talent set about rebuilding.
And construction here is a task like nowhere else on earth. The near total absence of trees meant no timber for construction, so a bizarre mix of other materials were pressed into use: boulders of
mavropetra (black stone), for supporting walls and enclosures; pumice, which replaced the porous red stone previously used in the construction of vaults and flat roofs; and
pozzolana, which is easily quarried and forms a water-resistant cement when mixed with lime, invaluable in creating vaults and dug-out chambers.
Apart from some captains' houses and a few neoclassical mansions built for the rich, the majority of Santorinians lived a virtually troglodyte existence in caves carved into the rock. Some of the mansions have been turned into hotels, such as the inland and high-end Zannos Melathron, and many updated caves are now available for visitors. In fact, there are signs all over the caldera in Oia—famous for its white cuboid houses and blue-domed churches set on the steep cliffside—for traditional houses or traditional rooms for rent.
Traditional seems to have become a code word for buildings that observe the EOT's official rules. Whether Santorini guests will be happy living like cavemen at luxury hotel prices remains to be seen.
A few of the hotels—notably the luxurious Katakies and Perivolas, higher up the hill—have swimming pools, but this is earthquake country and tremors do occur, so building pools below a certain level is forbidden.
Folegandros
I took the ferry from Santorini to the neighboring island of Folegandros, replete with traditional houses, many available for rent. I had booked a room at the Castro Hotel, perched—seemingly precariously but actually quite solidly—on the clifftop edge of the Castro, the castle fortress in Hora, the island's main village and oldest part. Like all the Castro buildings, the hotel is more than five hundred years old, and to enter it is to go back in time.
Owner Despo Damassi told me that the house once belonged to her great-grandfather, who had a porcelain factory in Istanbul, and was passed to her grandfather, who had cotton fields in Egypt. Both men were born and raised in Folegandros, as were her parents and Despo herself.
The house became a hotel in 1970, when Folegandros had no electricity, cars, or ferry port. "We began with twelve rooms and used petrol, not gas, for power," she said. "Then electricity came in 1973. The first restoration of the building began in 1970, the second in 1993, which made the hotel more comfortable.
"We didn't want the EOT involved in the financing because we wanted to renovate quickly, and we finished in five months. It's the same building as before—the changes were only inside the rooms. The doors have to be made of wood, and since Folegandros has only native stone, all the materials—including the wild cypress and chestnut for the wood beams in the rooms and reception area—came from Athens, Piraeus, and Crete." All the Castro buildings are protected by the ministry of culture and cannot be put to any other use, and no exterior alterations are allowed without the permission of the state archaeological authority.
One thing that remains unchanged is the stupendous view from the roof, the patios, and most of the rooms—you look straight down the cliffs to the sea.
There are about twenty hotels on the island—some old, like Fani-Vevis, in a mansion dating to 1800, and some new, like Anemomilos, the hotel apartments built in 1993, also on the Castro—and several resorts on the inland side of Hora with swimming pools. Yet Folegandros remains an island from another time. When raids were common, 150 to 200 families lived within the Castro for safety, using the space ingeniously, notably in single-room dwellings (
monospiti). The houses outside the Castro were built after 1800.