Lonely Monks and the Rise and Fall of Greek Cuisine

Before leaving the boat, everyone made sure that they were respectfully attired. This meant, despite the heat, wearing long trousers, shirts and closed shoes. It proved almost disastrous in the case of my feet, who still don’t forgive me for the Spanish tortures I put them through. But, there was a higher power commanding our dress code– we were to visit a 13th century monastery, and to this day, only the shoehorn of God can force my wild extremities into prisons of leather and rubber.

A half-mile across the water was the island of Stamfani, the larger of the two Strophades Islands. Almost abandoned by the mainland altogether, these two rocks are anchored in an isolated time warp at least a day’s journey from anywhere on a sane map. Both Stamfani and its smaller cousin, Arpia, have been all but reclaimed by low-lying forest; the type of dense pine that hits the ground like a screaming toddler and refuses to be picked up by parental sea winds.

Stamfani’s pockets of humanity constituted the monastery, a small farm, a chapel and, on the opposite side of the island, an automated lighthouse and abandoned shack. Long ago the monastery had housed a flourishing community of scholastic priests, a stout breed of Greek whose anti-Turkish stubbornness is commemorated by a monument on the island. Now, however, their numbers have dropped to one.

“The poor man,” Simone said, wrapping a towel around her bikinied body, “he must have been scandalised, watching all of us swimming in almost nothing.”

At first glance Simone was right. The monk, traumatised by the sinful sight of bare, female flesh, must have locked himself in a pit beneath the monastery, refusing to stop whipping his scarred back until the devil-worshippers had left his sight.

So, we took our time exploring the otherwise uninhabited island.

There was an eerie air over the land. It was enhanced by the large numbers of birds, squawking and pecking everywhere, as if they’d overthrown their human masters in a swift “chicken coup”. Dad and I split off from the group, making our way overland towards the distant lighthouse. Our passage was halted a few times by tree walls and sea cliffs, but finally we found a track through the forest. The heat and sounds of the island instantly vanished, inhaled and held by the tree lungs around us. We followed the twisting path for quite a way, falling deeper and deeper into the romance of this abandoned island.

Our efforts in finding it were to such a level that the lighthouse itself proved to be a disappointing reward. A derelict house sat at its base, and the lighthouse was boarded up: solar panels and light sensors now controlled its nocturnal duties.

My disappointment was further fuelled when, reuniting with the others, we learnt that the monk had made an appearance.

Long years of isolation had eroded his strict, Orthodox tenets and, more tragically, his mind. Rather than the pious hermit we’d expected, the monk of Stamfani was an old man, closing the gates on his nineties, and unable to symmetrically trim his beard.

He was also more naked than any of us had imagined, only wearing a pair of dirty underwear to protect his dignity.

Not really wanting to talk, the monk barked at Paolo “Italiano!”, before retreating into his shed behind the monastery.

Curses! I had traded away the sight of a senile, indiscreet monk in exchange for an old building in a forest. So much for Frost’s road less travelled.

That night we slept in shallow waters just off the shore of Arpia Island. Some strange creature, most likely a flesh-eating bird, tormented us from the darkness with a call that sounded like a helium-high child choking on coagulated phlegm. Though we found nothing the next day, I can assure you all that these monsters are the reason why the Strophades are uninhabited, save for an old man who probably thinks that he’s a bird anyway.

From the fierce shores of Strophades, we came to the mainland Peloponnese, and found ourselves under the stern watch of the “eyes of the Serene Republic”. Back in the 15th century, the twin ports of Methoni and Koroni were important stop over points for pilgrims and traders making their way to and from the Holy Lands. The Venetians, who’d provided a lot of the transport for Crusaders, had claimed a healthy chunk of the Eastern Mediterranean for their spoils, extending their republic and monopolising the lucrative Medieval tourist market. Situated as they are on either side of the first finger of the Peloponnese, the fortresses of both Methoni and Koroni were perfect sites from which the Venetians could keep track of all naval movement through their waters.

After saying goodbye to Simone in Methoni, we sailed around to Koroni, passing an isolated midway beach that, due to its large population of nudist tourists, probably has the Republic in a constant state of cross-eyed lechery.

That night in Koroni we talked about the flux in food quality on our travels. My experience of Greece so far has demonstrated that food does not change too much from region to region: you will find the same meals of Greek salad, tzatziki and mousaka no matter where you go. However, what does change is the quality and appearance of the food. For example, I’m a big fan of taramasalata, the fish roe dip, and I’ve now had it in varying shades from blood pink to cream and sometimes mixed with potato instead of yoghurt.

Such a concentrated education in Greek cuisine means that, after a short period of time, you become very sick of pedestrian food, and will only stomach that last piece of feta if it’s actually of decent quality. It’s a shame to become so picky, but the sad truth is that a lot of restaurants in this part of the world (to be fair, this happens all over the world, but I’m limiting my observations for this point) are catering more to the romance of the history and culture, rather than providing good quality meals.

So, when you’re in a tourist-rich town, such as Koroni, you have to be very careful where you go to eat. If you’re surrounded by Greek tourists, then you’re in a pretty safe spot, but if all you can hear is German and English, then you’re in trouble. The mousaka on your plate will be filled with overly rich béchamel sauce, the feta will be too dry, and the mussels will be from New Zealand.

The only place where this rule-of-thumb doesn’t hold sway is the Strophades. There’s a good chance that the last monk was eaten by the mad, naked imposter we met, and any culinary experience under those circumstances is going to be one filled with blood, terror and questionable cuts of meat.

No bad feta though – be thankful for small blessings.