Five seasons

 

Two springs vs. one summer

 

In southern Greece, there are two springs: February/March, when the blooming wildflowers astound the visual imagination, and then again in late September/October. The “second” spring would be known as fall/autumn in most other places.

 

In Maine we have one summer, glorious in so many ways, but also so incredibly short-lived, tenuous, and sometime disappointing.

All along the watchtower

 

Maine’s spring showers bring an unparalleled glory, especially after what is often a long, dark slumber of winter. It is a time for celebration, especially for those of us who garden passionately and have an unending curiosity about the natural world—our flora and fauna seem unparalleled in Downeast Maine, from May through August.

 

But spring in Maine can (and often is) a heartbreak—one step forward, three steps backwards, frosts when most other places in the nation are enjoying the real thing. Even a nice, temperate springtime in Maine brings with it the very bane of our seasonal existence: mosquitoes and black flies. For those who haven’t traveled in northern New England in May-June, a terse explanation is in order: black flies are like miniature flying chainsaws, ready to take pieces of you, leaving behind a blood encrusted skin as evidence.

 

Here in southern Greece, May and June are unequivocally summer. The massive blooming of spring begins in late February and last for about two months, until the page changes—still with a few reversals along the way. But soon enough (mid-May), summer wins out.

 

So, to my thinking, the best time for us to be in Greece is now: May and June: before the excruciating heat of July/August, before the flood of pale-skinned northern Europeans, while life is a bit more affordable, and locals are not yet jaded by so many months of dispensing “hospitality.” Although, in truth, the hospitality never really ends.

 

On the other hand, summers in Maine—all six weeks of it—are better than anywhere in North America. Warm days, cool nights, an end of the (worst of) biting bug life, a short-lived and much vaunted Downeast Maine in all its glory.

 

My aspirational thinking shouts out: “May and June in Greece; July and August in Maine.” On spring and two summers. It doesn’t get better than that.

 

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Farmer neighbors

 

Everyone—literally, everyone—is a farmer in our village and in the surrounding area. Even if some have another, perhaps tourist-related, source of income, farming is a primary occupation. This means, first and foremost, growing olives for the table and for pressing; growing varieties of grapes for wine; and a variety of fruit (primary citrus), while also tending highly productive vegetable gardens.

 

Koudouni beach (aka my private beach!)

I picked up an old man hitchhiking back to the village on the mountain road this morning. I recognized him as the old farmer who passes our house each morning in a vintage, three-wheeled tractor, steered by a forward tiller, pulling a cartload of tools in one direction, forage on the return trip. He and his wife always wave enthusiastically when they pass, and offer toothless smiles—you hear the single cylinder “putt, putt, putt” from a kilometer away. I usually go out onto the porch and wait for them just so I can wave and see their cherubic faces. They are so sweet, sitting side by side, waving in unison and holding one hand to their hearts in a gesture of warmth.

 

Nikolas was grateful for the ride.

 

“I left my tractor in Finikouda, it needs some work.” He had already walked two miles and was about to tackle the steep ascent to our village when I spotted him on one of the switchbacks in the roadway.

 

Nikolas, who told me that he is 88 year old, thanked me for the ride.

 

“We will have to drink some wine together sometime. Good day, young man!”

 

Getting a-head of the goats

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Kondosouvli

 

One of the local butchers prepares several distinctive dishes each Sunday morning for sale (by special order) at noontime, in addition to the usual roast goat and chickens, turning endlessly on spits above the a charcoal flame. You can go for some lively conversation or for a half kilo of lamb chops. Or both.

 

Kondosouvli, in particular, is a special delicacy: choice pieces of tender pork are woven onto a long spit, heavily seasoned, wrapped end-to-end (about 8 feet long) in parchment paper, then slow cooked over an open charcoal pit for about six hours, slowly rotating and sending wafts of meaty smoke throughout the lower village.

Feral beach creature

 

I picked up my order, just under 500 grams, in an insulated box with my name scribbled on it, at noon and then headed straight to the beach.

 

...turned pious perambulator

Chapel to St. John of the Oregano

Lying on the sandy beach, with an occasional retreat beneath the shade of my canopy—my Rolls Royce of beach umbrellas—nibbling on warm, seasoned pork.

 

Surely one of life’s essential pleasures, energizing body and soul.