Until Then

This year’s blog remains devoid of photos owing to to some technical failures on my part. A host of fantastic images will be added after the fact, so please check back.

Our time in Messenia, the southernmost point in mainland Europe, draws to an end. Regrettably, the weather has deteriorated as the fall rains have come early. While this is manna from the heavens for the local farmers, who only begin the all-consuming olive harvest after a period of rain, it is a disappointment for winter-weary Downeasters in search of endless summer.

Still, the ocean temperatures remain in the mid-70s and the sun comes and goes between the sprinkles. We swim three times a day, drawn to the ribbon of blue as if by some unstated force.

On Monday I had a formal windsurfing lesson—Peter’s gift to me—with a Slovenian instructor. Undeterred by my novice skills, I provided endless visual entertainment to the handful of be

beach goers populating this 2-kilometer long ribbon of white sand. By the end of two hours of determined effort, I had made some halting progress...to be continued next year.

The olive harvest has begun in earnest, owing not only to the early rains, but because of the devastating cyclone that pulverized the coastline last week, and the dreaded dakos, a flying insect that attacks the fruit near the end of its growth cycle. The latter has plagued Mediterranean olive production in recent years. Nevertheless, the millions of olive trees on the horizon in all directions will produce an ocean of rich, green olive oil. The world’s best olive oil, hands down.

Yesterday’s overcast inspired Peter and I to take a backcountry tour through several dozen mountain villages that time has forgotten, navigating the narrow warren of twisting roads, past infinite olive groves, through a terrain of stunning and unspoiled beauty. Peter was especially drawn to the unique stone architecture, taking dozens of photos along the way.

Tomorrow we will leave this southern promontory of Europe and cross the Peloponnese diagonally, bound for the region of the Argolid and our ultimate destination—the Saronic island of Spetses, where my maternal grandmother was born in 1899.

On Sunday I will compete in the Spetses Mini-Marathon, a 25-kilometer circumnavigation of the island. This is Greece’s second-largest road race (after the Athens Marathon), drawing over 6000 participants. I will be skipping the 3,000 meter open-ocean swim from the mainland, which represents another event within the event. This being in the interest of self-preservation at the tender age of 59 1/2 years young.

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Saying goodbye to southern Messenia is always difficult. This a special place, as my friend Peter has learned. The hospitality, the generosity, the exceptional culinary tradition, pristine ocean, and my many dear friends both Greek and resident foreigners make it so dear to me. Our little house amid the olives groves, the cobalt Mediterranean, the narcotic aroma of wild herbs, the bleats of goats and sheep, the nighttime cries of the jackals, it is all so singular and lovely—these memories will sustain me for another long, cold, dark Downeast winter.

Until next year.