Today we started early and nervously, the hotel reception having failed to get through to book a boat trip we wanted to go on the previous night. Fortunately, on the third attempt this morning, we got the response that there was space available; we rushed to the car, drove too fast around rugged bends, and headed for the the small town of Sarti, getting to the small port there late and hurried but still in the event well in time for a boat that was very much operating on Mediterranean time scales. From there, our voyage began. And what a voyage it was to be...
The boat was a tour by sea of the monasteries on the west coast of the Athos peninsula, the westernmost and least inhabited of Chalkidike's three long fingers. Athos is a world apart - almost literally. It is wholly self governing with a few exceptions (criminal jurisdiction is that of Thessaloniki, defence is the responsibility of Greece), and entirely devoted to monasteries and hermitages. Its exceptional status has developed since the middle Byzantine period, and the Greek politicians of today accord the monasteries of the holy mountain much the same sort of independence as their imperial forebears did. The only way to see it for most tourists is by sea; non-Orthodox males require a special permit, and women are wholly forbidden from setting foot on the peninsula.
Mount Athos itself is at the western end of the peninsula; it loomed out of the mist, tall and proud and wide-footed. It gives the impression of neither being a bitter crag or a friendly hill; it stands alone, and aloof; and the monks in its shadow are just specks in a fragment of time, a brief recognition of its unquestioned glory. The legends suggest that it is the result of the Titanomachy and a duel between Athos and Poseidon; the mountains is either a rock thrown by the former and the latter, or the defeated corpse of the former. Either way, the Christians were not the first to see the echoes of divinity in the mountain. It is beyond us, altogether present and remote, its peak standing above time.
Clinging to its shores, the monasteries of Athos are a litany of relics and libraries. Many are built close to the shore for seaborne access, others built precariously high, barely grasping at crags on the gut instinct of a medieval saint. They are old, many founded in the tenth and eleventh centuries, though the buildings are often newer as a result of fire - the old enemy of those who work with candles, paper, and wood. At the east end of the peninsula one monastery was just beginning to rise from recent ashes, a new church sitting white walled amidst gutted stone buildings in the midst of a burned pine forest. The buildings are, however, not without diversity; one of the largest and most lavishly built of the monasteries we saw had strong links to Russia, both theologically and architecturally, the sloped tile rooves of its neighbours suddenly broken by a stack of bright green onion-domes reminiscent of another world entirely.
Athos is a world apart in theory, but the impact of the outer world is clear. The monks of today are icon painters, scholars, and of course farmers, almost wholly self sufficient and only very rarely straying from vegetarianism. The impact of the twentieth century is far from negligible though; buses snake along the island roads, solar panels shine out of newer developments, and cranes can be seen erupting from the rebuilding of old buildings. A shortage of new monks is also proving a problem; the holy sanctuaries face new challenges in clinging to their ever aloof mountain.
We stopped for lunch at the island of Ammouliani, the only inhabited island around Chalkidike. The port taverna there was excellent, mainly for the highly entertaining sea life and wide variety of easily visible and feedable fish - entire bread rolls were being propelled around the bay by knots of sea life giving chase, before being carried off by the ever present yellow legged gulls. Ammouliani seems pleasant, and is across the bay from Ouranopolis, the last outpost before Athos and site of an impressive fourteenth century fortified tower.
This seemed to be our lot, save a long ride back to Sarti - but the sea life proved us very wrong. No fish this time, but a bigger treat, the sudden appearance of a dolphin beside the ship, then another, then a mother and calf, and soon enough an entire pod playing around the boat. The relative rarity of dolphins in the Mediterranean (the common dolphin's mediterranean population is red listed as endangered, though it is hard to tell whether we we were seeing them or their more common striped cousins) made this an especial treat. The frequent depictions of dolphins on ancient coinage in Thessaloniki were quickly brought to mind, the curved leap as timeless a symbol as the great mountain that, now cloud-wreathed, still presided over the gulf. It goes without saying that the calves were particularly notable, tucked close to their mothers in the pod; I had never previously been quite so close to cetaceans as I was then, sitting right in the prow of the boat with the dolphins running along barely a metre below. It was genuinely a great privilege.
Sarti is worth a final mention, its long thin strip of buildings reappearing as we rode a sun-track back into port. It is a tourist town of postcard shops and beach cafés, with a wide sandy beach occupied by serried ranks of sunbeds that face out to the (perhaps rather disapproving) sight of Athos in the distance. There is a good bakery in the middle of town, and much accommodation; it is probably more a town for sun, sea, and sand than for exploration, but its status as a base for boat trips alone makes it -as I hope the above has shown -worth passing through to get onto the sea at the very least.