Europe Travel - Part 43

Greece: In The Footsteps Of The Poet Lord Byron

by W. Ruth Kozak

At the corner of Lysikrattis and Vironos Streets in Athens Plaka, stands a choreographic monument awarded to a choir at a Festival for Dionysos in ancient Athens’ Dionysos Theatre. Once, next to this monument, the last of its kind in Athens, was a French Capuchin convent. The poet, George, Lord Byron, stayed here when he was in Athens. At that time, the panels between the columns of the monument had been removed, so Byron used it as his study and wrote part of Childe Harold here in 1810-11. This was once the theatre district of ancient Athens, so it seemed appropriate that the flamboyant poet should choose to spend his time there. In Greek, “Vironos” means “Byron” and this is Byron’s street. I used to live there and spent much of my leisure time at the little milk shop, now a posh coffee shop, at that corner. The convent was destroyed in a fire, but there’s an inscribed monument on the spot where it once stood honouring Byron. His presence always seemed near.

The street adjacent, is Shelley Street, named for his poet colleague Percy Bysshe Shelly who tragically drowned in Italy. Both poets are honoured in Greece, especially Byron, who became a national hero when he joined the Greek resistance movement during the War of Independence.

While in Athens he often lodged with a widow, whose daughter, Theresa Marcri is celebrated in his poem The Maid of Athens. The house where he lived in the district of Psiri at Odhos Pyias Theklas, is marked with a plaque. There are traces of him in various locations. If you visit the Temple of Poseidon at Sounion you will see his name carved in the marble steps. Sunium’s marbled steep, where nothing save the waves and I may hear our mutual murmurs sweep.

I have visited many of the places where Byron lived and can understand how the beauty and serenity of the Greek landscape inspired him. Byron wrote many poems about Greece including the famous “Isles of Greece”

The isle of Greece! The isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace, —
Where Delos rose and Phoebus spring!”

Byron first visited Greece in 1809, landing in the town of Parga. From there he went north to Ioannina where the infamous Ali Pasha held sway. While there he visited the Pasha who had an even shadier reputation with women than the poet. Ali Pasha, like Bryon, also appreciated beautiful young men. He was enchanted by Byron, noting his delicate small ears “the mark of good breeding”. It was during his stay in Ioannina that Byron began his autobiographical narrative poem, Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, which commemorated his meeting with Ali Pasha who had lavished hospitality on him. Byron knew though that behind Ali’s deceptively friendly countenance were “deeds that lurk” and “stain him with disgrace”. Athens. While at Ioannina he loved to swim out to a small island in the lake. In spite of being born with a club foot, Byron was a skilled swimmer and once swam across the Hellespont from Troy. To this day they hold swimming meets there to remember him.

Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild;
Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields,
Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled,
And still his honey’d wealth Hymettus yields;
There the blithe bee his fragrant fortress builds,
The freeborn wanderer of thy mountain-air;
Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds,
Still in his beam Medeli’s marbles glare:
Art, Glory, Freedom fail, but Nature still is fair.”
– Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage

Byron traveled the country extensively often visiting the islands. On Lefkada (Levkas) Childe Harold saw the hovering star above Leucadia’s far projecting rock of woe”. This was at the site of ancient Leukadas, a precipitous cliff 200 feet high where there was once a Temple to Apollo. It was here, known today as “Sappho’s Leap” that the lyric poet Sappho tragically committed suicide by jumping off the cliff.

In 1823, apparently bored with his extravagant life in Italy, Byron sailed to Spain and Malta before finally returning to Greece. This voyage is detailed in his poem Sailing with Byron from Genoa to Cephalonia. From Preveza he went north to Parga

He lived for awhile on the island of Kefalonia (Cephalonia) in the tiny village of Metaxata, near Argostoli, where he enjoyed exploring the ruins of a Venetian castle at Ayios Yeoryios, once the Venetian capital of the island.

During his travels around Greece, Byron not only grew to love the country but was also impressed with the moral tolerance of the people. He became involved in the rebellion against the Turks, joining forces with Alexandros Mavrokordatos, the leader of the forces in western Greece to take part in the War of Independence. In spite of Byron’s lack of military training, together they planned to attack the Turkish-held fortress of Lepanto at the mouth of the Gulf of Corinth. The Greek struggle against the ruthless Turks was supported by many intellectuals and poets like Lord Byron who volunteered to fight and become leaders of the revolution. They were known as the Philhellenes (friends of the Greeks). Although many became disillusioned by the pettiness and greed of the Greek klefth leaders others, like Bryon, took up the cause, arriving in Messolonghi , a squalid little port on the Gulf of Corinth, the western outpost of the resistance movement against the Ottomans. He was greeted with a 21 gun salute. In spite of despairing “in this realm of mud and discord” he donated 4000 pounds of his own money to prepare the Greek fleet for sea service and employed a fire master to prepare artillery as well as paying the Souliot soldiers who were reputedly the bravest of the Greek resistance fighters.

On Suli’s rock, and Parga’s shore,
Exists the remnant of a line
Such as the Doric mothers bore:
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown,
The Heracleidan blood might own.
Trust not for freedom to the Franks —
They have a king who buys and sells;
In native sword and native ranks,
The only hope of courage dwells:
But Turkish force and Latin fraud
Would break your shield, however broad.”

During the spring of 1824, Byron fell ill but continued to carry out his duties. During his recovery he was unfortunately caught in a rainstorm and came down with a violent cold. Unfortunately this was aggravated by the bleeding insisted on by the doctors which may have caused sepsis. He slipped into a coma and died on April 1824 at the age of 37.

The Greeks considered him a hero and buried his heart at Messolonghi where there is now a small museum containing Byron artifacts. He remains were sent to England but refused burial in Westminster Abbey and were instead placed in the vault of his ancestors new Newstead. It wasn’t until 145 years after his death, that a memorial to Byron was placed on the floor of the Abbey.

In Greece, he was still revered, and a beautiful monument to him held in the arms of an angel who stands at the edge of the National Garden in Athens. Each time I’m in Athens I visit it and think of the life and poetic words of this exceptional and intriguing man of literature.

If You Go:

THE MESSOLONGHI BYRON SOCIETY
MESSALONGHI: The house where Byron lived was destroyed in WW II and there is a small memorial garden at the site. There is a small museum devoted to the revolution on central Platia Botsari (Mon-Fir 9 am – 1.20 pm and 4-7 pm. Sat & Sun 9am – 1 pm & 4 -7 pm. There is a small collection of Byronia on the ground floor. In the Kipos Iroon (Garden of Heroes) there is a statue of Byron beside the tomb of Souliot commander Markos Botsaris, erected in 1881.

WEB SITES ABOUT BYRON IN GREECE:
The Greek Revolution of 1821
Lord Byron; The Life of George Noel Gordon – Facts & Information
Greece hails Lord Byron a hero and dedicates a day of celebration in his name

About the author:
Ruth lived on Lord Byron’s street (Odos Vironos) for several years and has traveled to many of the poet’s sites in Greece. She is a travel and historical fiction writer. Her novel SHADOW OF THE LION, about the fall of Alexander the Great’s dynasty, will be published in UK in 2014. www.ruthkozak.com

Photo credits:
Portrait of Lord Byron by Thomas Phillips / Public domain
All other photos by W. Ruth Kozak

France: Aigues Mortes

by Glen Cowley

Aigues Mortes: the “Dead Waters!”

The name echoes ominous as if heralding some darkened castle from the Lord of the Rings; and the place does rise singular from the fen lands that are the Camargue in southern France. Yet there is no darkness weighing upon the shoulders this crusader city built as France’s first toe hold on the sunny Mediterranean.

It sits upon the horizon like a Cecil B. DeMille movie set but these ramparts and towers truly heard the tromping feet of grim faced, determined crusaders and the hum of medieval trade accommodated by the Mediterranean waters which lapped at its feet. Pass through the main gate, La Porte de la Gardette, and you emerge upon an ancient bricked street, Rue Jean Jaures, with arrow straight aim at the heart of the city, Place Saint Louis.

There is no better place to begin your exploration of this, too seemingly real, walled city. Here beneath the gaze of a serene statue of Saint Louis, actually King Louis IX of France, the city’s ascribed founder, you can sit under the shade of Plantain trees at one of the many outdoor cafes and ponder over the self-guided walking tour pamphlets available at the bordering tourist information centre.

The pious King Louis IX of France had no port access to the Mediterranean until he swung a deal in 1240 with the Abbey Brothers of Psalmody to get the fenlands upon which Aigues Mortes was to rise. His timing was ripe as in 1245 Pope Innocent IV called upon European powers to crusade in the Middle East. By 1248 he had his fortified town and port and set out upon his first crusade from these shores. Of the original fortifications only the singularly moated Tower of Constance remains.

Begun in 1240 and finished in 1250 the tower is the sole legacy of the original fort and has its own unique story in this storied town. It was known as Tour de Seigneur du Roi (King’s Tower) until it received its present name in the 14th century. From 1686 to 1768 the tower served as a prison for French Huguenots (Protestants) during the religious wars. Its most famous prisoner was Marie Durand who was imprisoned therein from 1730 until 1768, remaining true to her faith throughout.

In 1270 Louis once again led his crusader forces from Aigues Mortes reputedly taking service at the still standing Notre Dame de Sablon (Our Lady of the Sands), alongside Place Saint Louis, ere departing. It was his last foray as he died within months from typhus on the shores of North Africa. His new city however fared much better.

The first Notre Dame de Sablon on the site dated from 1183 and passed through varying incarnations until it was used by Saint Louis in 1248 for departing services. Its fortunes rose and fell during the later religious wars, its roof collapsing in 1634, but it was finally reconstructed in 1711. Today its doors welcome the faithful and the curious; affording the opportunity to stand in the quiet and breath in the history, perhaps to close your eyes and imagine the sounds of Louis’s pious entourage accepting religious blessings.

And when you are ready you can begin treading the streets of the fortified town noting how past and present merge so easily. History seeps from the street names – Rue Victor Hugo, Rue de la Republique, Rue du 14 Juillet and city gates La Tour des Bourguignons (tower of the Burgundians where bodies of massacred Burgundian troops were salted and stored to avoid disease), la Porte de l’Organeau (where ships tied up in the city’s harbour), La Porte des Moulins (where two mills used to occupy the double tower) and La Porte del’Arsenal

Visit La Chapelle des Penitents Gris (Grey) [TOP PHOTO] and La Chapelle des Penitents Blanc (White); ancient orders rooted in Christianity’s dim past. Their simplistic exteriors belie the more ornamental interiors.

The inside perimeter walk takes you by 10 fortified gates which present the opportunity to pass outside the walls and admire the magnitude of the fortification in its setting. Outside Porte de la Reine you can see the last remaining Glaciere (cold storage site) ; one of the original three constructed in the 17th century.

For the serious visitor there are walking tours of the entire ramparts and the singularly impressive Tour de Constance. Self guided audio tours are available at the admissions office at Place de la Republique near La Tour de Constance. The considerable rampart walk is interspersed with exhibits at varying towers and gates lending image and life to the long silent stone. From atop the ramparts you can view the long horizon of the Camargue with its pools and canals, most likely spying one of the many tour barges wending its way through a vast fenland rich with waterfowl (most particularly Flamant Rose – Flamingoes) and ranch-lands where Les Gardian (French Cowboys) on their unique, white Camargue horses tend to herds of the famous black bulls of the Camargue. That is a tour for another day. And to the south the horizon glistens with the Mediterranean now far removed from the days when port waters lapped near the rampart walls.

Crossing the only bridge spanning the moat surrounding La Tour de Constance brings you to the awe inspiring edifice which harkens back to the very beginnings of the Aigue Mortes fortress town. With the revocation of the Treaty of Nantes (a tolerance act allowing for French Protestants) in 1685 the tower began its long years as a prison. Exploring its bright rooms and walkways it takes some effort to recreate in mind the jailhouse conditions of so many years before. The tower rises above the rampart walls and is topped by an rooftop adorned with a beacon which once served the mariners as a lighthouse. From here you can see the encircled city in its entirety. Here, above the world, its long gone sentries could breath the light Mediterranean air likely much appreciated during odour rich Medieval era.

When Provence became part of France in 1481 Aigues Mortes lost its significance as France’s only eye on the Mediterranean to Marseille. Yet the town remained and comes down to us like a time capsule from the Medieval era. A place richly accommodating even under the press of tourism.

If You Go:

♦ Regular and frequent train and bus service is available to Aigue Mortes from Nimes.
♦ La Grau du Roi, on the Mediterranean, is within fifteen minutes on the train.
♦ Numerous Camargue tour boats, available on the canal, provide excursions through the Camargue, including Le Grau du Roi, visits to ranches where Les Gardian put on herding displays and the ever present flocks of flamingoes.

Tours to Aigues Mortes Now Available:
Private Provence Tour: la Camargue, Les-Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer and Aigues-Mortes
Camargue 4×4 Safari from Aigues Mortes (in a privatized vehicle !)

Private Camargue Day Trip to Saint Gilles du Gard, Les Saintes Maries de la Mer and Aigues-Mortes from Arles

About the author:
Since 1994 Glen Cowley has parlayed his interest in sports, travel and history into both books and articles. The author of two books on hockey, a booklet on French Canadian influence in British Columbia’s history and over sixty published articles (including sports, biographies and travel) he continues to explore perspectives in time and place wherever travels take him. From the varied landscapes of British Columbia to Eastern Canada and the USA, the British Isles, Germany, France, Switzerland, the Netherlands and Greece he has found ample fodder for features. A return to Europe in 2014 is guaranteed to reveal new tales to tell.

All photos are by Glen Cowley:
Church of the Gray Penitents
Notre Dame de Sablon – the Crusader Church
Place Saint Louis with the statue of King Louis IX still holding court
One of the gates of the fortress city
Atop the city ramparts

La Dolce Morte: An Ex-Pat Pilgrimage In Rome

Cimitero Acattolico: Rome’s Protestant Cemetery

by Ellen Johnston

The sun stopped shining and the rain came in, as if it knew where I was going – past the Palatine Hill and the Coliseum to the subway, which would take me to Piramide station in the un-touristed south of the city – Rome, that is. The station is named for the nearby Pyramid of Cestius, built in 18-12 B.C. as a tomb for a forgotten local magistrate, a piece of folly that marks the entrance to far more hallowed ground.

Perhaps Italians might disagree with me when I use this term, since this, the Cimitero Acattolico, is the last resting place for those who could not, or would not be buried in the traditional Catholic cemeteries here in the heart of Roman Catholicism. But hallowed it is, nonetheless, since this patch of land, overgrown with weeds and flowers, contains the remains of the some of the most important figures of the last few centuries: local dissidents and those from other lands, ex-pats, writers, revolutionaries, atheists and Jews who, famous or not, all came to rest together here in this painfully beautiful monument to non-conformity. Antonio Gramsci, Gregory Corso, and a cat named Romeo are some among this motley crew, though none of them hold higher places in the echelons of artistic memory than the two greats of English Romanticism buried here: John Keats and Percy Bysshe Shelley. How could it not be raining, then? It was as if the luminous Roman sky had been replaced for a moment by a melancholy English one, pausing to weep a bit for two lost sons, entombed amidst the ruins, far far away.

Though their names are often intertwined, John Keats and Percy Shelley came to Italy for very different reasons. Shelley, the rebellious Etonian from an Aristocratic family, was leading a wild life, one easier experienced abroad. He was best friends with Lord Byron and romantically entangled with Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin (turned Shelley), the author of Frankenstein. His lifestyle, radical views, and writing had brought him not only fame, but also infamy. Like many writers and artists of his day, he was attracted to the warmth of the European south, to its classical pagan origins, and to that fact that he could live freely there, away from the scandals that plagued him in England. Keats, on the other hand, came to Italy to die.

Born in London of far more humble birth, Keats’ life had been plagued by poverty, the loss of his parents, unfulfilled sexual desires, and the death of his brother to tuberculosis. Unlike Shelley, who attended Oxford, Keats never had the opportunity to reap the benefits of the English academic establishment, never mind rebel against it. Instead, he apprenticed as an apothecary and then studied medicine at Guy’s Hospital, in the city’s unfashionable south. His desire to write, however, eventually drew him away from the medical path – though he never lived its consequences down. In an England where class meant everything, including who could or couldn’t be an artist, John Keats’ Cockney origins and practical training were simply too much for some critics to bear. Of Keats’ poem Endymion, John Gibson Lockhart wrote that “it is a better and a wiser thing to be a starved apothecary than a starved poet; so back to the shop Mr. John, back to plasters, pills, and ointment boxes.”

Besides the cruelty inherent in this statement, the irony was palpable too. Keats’ medical training, no matter how practical it may have been, could do nothing to stop what was then an almost incurable disease, tuberculosis. Not long after his brother died, it became clear that John Keats had contracted the illness too. Knowing that he would not survive the English winter, his friends gathered whatever money they could in order to send him to a gentler climate, a last ditch attempt to save his life.

John Keats sailed to Rome with his friend Joseph Severn in the autumn of 1820. The climate, however, proved not gentle enough, and the disease too strong. Within a few short months, Keats was dead, believing himself to be a failure. He asked to be buried in a grave bearing neither his name nor date of death, only the words “Here lies One Whose Name was writ in Water.” Those very words adorn his grave today, though his friends, in their belief that he should be recognized as a great poet, added some of their own.

Despite the critics, Keats’ close personal friends were not the only ones to defend him. He also had an advocate in the very man who now lies buried some twenty metres away. When Keats died, Percy Shelley wrote “I weep for Adonais – he is dead!”, the opening to his poem, Adonais, which was written as an elegy to Keats, and considered by some to be his best work. Shelley had met Keats through a mutual friend on a visit to Hampstead, admired his talents, and considered him to not only be a rival, but one who would surpass him. Not long after Keats’ death, Shelley went to visit his grave in the Cimitero Acottolico. Of the visit Shelley said “the cemetery is an open space among the ruins, covered in winter with violets and daisies. It might make one in love with death, to think that one should be buried in so sweet a place.” When I visited it myself, there in the broody mist, somber and romantic, I couldn’t help but agree with Shelley’s words.

Shelley was buried in the same cemetery a mere year later, the victim of a violent Mediterranean storm that drowned him while sailing off the coast of northern Italy. A book of John Keats’ poetry was found in his pocket. Shelley’s cremated remains (all but his heart, which was kept by Mary Shelley and eventually buried in England) can be found under a small flat tombstone a short walk from Keats’, bearing the Latin “Cor Cordium” (heart of hearts), and a quote from Shakespeare’s The Tempest: “Nothing of him that doth fade, But doth suffer a sea-change is to something rich and strange.”

Visiting the Cimitero Acattolico is easy, though few Italians can tell you how to get there. Almost none I asked even knew it existed. It is free to enter, though donations are requested. There is a tiny visitors centre that sells books and postcards at the entrance, manned by staff who speak English, usually ex-pats themselves. Through the gate, Keats’s grave can be found by walking directly to the left, until you reach the first corner. A plaque written by his friends (complete with an acrostic based on his name) adorns the wall above it. A small bench lies in front, should you choose to sit and contemplate the great poet who believed his life’s work would make fewer impressions than ripples in a pond.

On my own visit, while I sat there overcome with tears, I heard a rustling from the wall above me. From out of one of the vines came a black and white cat, who jumped down onto the bench, and then snuggled up onto my lap. Through my own teary-eyed haze and quixotic imagination, it was easy to believe that in that moment I was being visited by the spirit of the poet himself. Of course, as I got up to walk to Shelley’s grave, straight ahead and to the right, I realised that the cat was just one among many strays who live in the cemetery, and to whose livelihood you can also donate money. However, the impression stayed with me, there on that wet rainy day, as I wandered alone through the grounds of the Cimitero Acattolico. And I emphasize the word “alone”, because visitors here are many fewer than in other famous cemeteries such as Père Lachaise or in Roman tourist spots like Saint Peter’s. When Oscar Wilde visited in 1877, he called it “the holiest place in Rome”. There, breaking bread with the dead, it’s not hard to see why.

Rome Tour with Private English Speaking Driver

If You Go:

♦ The Cimitero Acattolico can be easily reached from the Piramide metro station. It’s a few short blocks away, and can be accessed on Via Caio Cestio.
♦ The suggested minimum donation is €3.
♦ If you’re worried about getting hungry, visit the Jewish Ghetto before you hop on the metro, and pick up a taste of non-conformist Rome. Pasticceria Boccione Limentani sells delicious pizze, a fruit and nut filled bread – sweet, dense and perfect after a long walk. The bakery can be found at Via Portico D’Ottavia 1.

Ultimate Rome food tour

About the author:
Ellen Johnston is a cultural nomad —a traveller, writer and musician who bounces all over the world. Originally from Vancouver, Canada, she has West Coast roots, a Mediterranean soul and a Chilanga heart, thanks to a recent stint in the Mexican capital. She currently resides in the San Francisco Bay Area, trying to soak up a little of all three. You can find links to her other writing and photography at www.chamacaloca.wordpress.com

Photo credits:
Top photo of Cimitero Acattolico by LuciusCommons / Public domain
All other photos are by Ellen Johnston.

The Irish Village That Keeps A Canadian Memorial

The Air India Disaster: Ahakista, West Cork, Ireland

by Anna Marie D’Angelo

In a tiny village in southwest Ireland on the Atlantic is a memorial to the victims of the Air India bombing, Canada’s worst mass murder terrorist attack.

The memorial in West Cork’s tiny Ahakista village to 329 people who died on June 23, 1985 doesn’t seem to be known to many people in Ireland where tragedies are forever remembered in bronze works such as the Famine Memorial in Dublin.

Visiting the Air India memorial is not easy, and the usual response from people in Ireland was “never heard of it” and occasionally, “I remember something about that. When did it happen?” The memorial is not on any tour route nor do tour buses get close so I organized my visit through the hotel in Killarney where I was staying. Killarney is the largest town in the area and a major southern Ireland tourist spot. A local cabbie, who does customized tours, offered a flat rate for the day. The other option, and cheaper choice, would have been to rent a car.

On this August day, it had rained in the morning as it did almost everyday during my three-week stay in the Emerald Isle. But the sky soon opened up to brilliant warm sunshine shortly after we started the 1-1/2 hour drive.

We headed southeast along a portion of the beautiful Ring of Kerry route, on windy roads next to hills with scenic vistas of patchwork green valleys, edging the sparkling Atlantic. We travelled through the charming small towns of Kenmare, Glangariff and Bantry and on to Ahakista, which is on the Sheep Head’s peninsula in West Cork.

The trip was not for the faint at heart. Even with an experienced driver at the wheel, we had three close calls where the cabbie abruptly steered towards the edge of the road and slammed on the brakes to avoid an on-coming car visible in the tall greenery at the last minute. Driving in Ireland is on the left side and these roads were narrow with poor visibility.

When we finally arrived at the remote village, we drove past the small “Air Disaster Memorial” sign without noticing. Knowing that we had gone too far as in, next stop the Atlantic, we flagged a truck driver hauling a huge steel tank. He was slowly making his way around, picking up milk from farms. “The Air India one?” he immediately responded. “Go back up the road.”

Two Dubliners were walking down the path from the memorial. They said they saw the sign and remembered the tragedy from news reports. They acknowledged it was a nice tribute to the bombing victims.

The memorial includes a well kept with a sundial that commemorates the day and hour of jumbo jet’s explosion in the air. There is a low, stone, semi-circle wall with the names of the victims that appears to cup the sundial. (Picture 4)A tidy garden maintained by the village borders the path to the memorial, which is oriented towards the breezy, wide-open ocean.

After visiting this quiet, serene place, I checked out the wee village and its rustic Catholic church. Driver Moses Walsh took us back to Killarney along a different route, through the serpentine Healy Pass, where buses can’t travel. The pass is yet another route with hilly, seaside vistas that are amazing.

At one point, we had to stop for a flock of sheep across the road which gave the weathered sheepherder time to walk up to the van. He quickly fired off about a dozen personal questions in a sing-songy Irish accent including asking where were we from, where were we going and was I married. Driver Walsh had predicted we were going to be there a long time when the sheepherder headed towards us. Walsh was greatly relieved when another car came around the bend and the sheepherder had new people to question.

We continued along a portion of the equally beautiful Beara Peninsula. The relaxing day was rounded out with lunch at pub in the village of Glengarriff and visits to popular tourist stops: Killarney National Park with its impressive waterfall, and to Muckross House and Gardens, a Victorian mansion.

Background on the Air India Disaster

Air India Flight 182 departed from Vancouver to Toronto on the way to New Delhi and exploded in the air over Ireland on June 23, 1985, killing all 329 people on board. A huge search was carried out and half the bodies were recovered and taken ashore in Cork. The memorial in Ahakista was built a year later. No one has been convicted of this terrorist act, allegedly committed by Sikh extremists. [UPDATE: In 2003 Inderjit Singh Reyat, pleaded guilty to manslaughter and was sentenced to fifteen years in prison for assembling the bombs.]

If You Go:

♦ Killarney is the main city in the area which is famous for its lakes, mountains and scenic drives such as the Ring of Kerry.
♦ Killarney is a 4½ hour drive from Dublin. The train takes 3 ½ hours.
♦ To hire a taxi-van and driver for one day for a customized tour of the area costs from 180 to 240 euros ($225 – $300). The van holds seven passengers.

Tours from Killarney:

Dingle and Slea Head Day Tour from Killarney

Ring of Kerry and Skellig Experience Centre Day Trip from Killarney

Cliffs of Moher Private Tour from Killarney

About the author:
Anna Marie was a successful newspaper reporter and editor in the Vancouver area for 18 years. She now does Communications work and continues her writing passion through travel stories that have been published in major newspapers across Canada. Email: anna_dangelo@hotmail.com

All photos are by Anna Marie D’Angelo.

The Surprising Sete Cidades Caldera

Volcanic Remains in São Miguel, Azores

by Dene Bebbington

A picture in a brochure was all it took. I had to go and see the Sete Cidades caldera.

We’re on the island of São Miguel, known as the green island. It’s the largest of the nine islands in the Azores archipelago – Madeira’s quiet cousins farther out in the mighty Atlantic. Though it stuck, the name Azores is actually a misnomer from when the sailors who discovered the islands mistook buzzards for goshawks – the word açores is plural for goshawk in Portuguese.

Normally I don’t want to drive when on holiday, but São Miguel is an intimate island. It’s less than 50 miles end to end, and well connected with coastal roads offering glorious views. It’s no stranger to tourism yet is mostly free of the throng who squeeze into Europe’s well trodden tourist spots. Maybe Madeira was like this a few decades ago. I’m feeling brave and prepared to sacrifice our usual package holiday with excursions to one requiring a bit more effort.

My confidence at driving even on a quiet island is shook not long into the journey to Furnas in the early hours. After coming off the expressway and going through Ribeira Quinta I ignore my wife pointing out a sign to Furnas, confidently thinking I’m taking a different route. It is a different route: one which ends on a narrow country lane! Eventually I realise it must be a road to a farmhouse or country dwelling. By the time I’ve reversed (head out the window to see and avoid scraping the hire car on stone walls) for about half a mile to a spot wide enough to turn around, my blood pressure is at levels normally experienced at work on a bad day.

The drama doesn’t end here. On winding coastal roads a car behind is full of young people shouting, exhorting us to drive faster or pull over. Finally we arrive in Furnas only to have trouble finding the hotel in the village’s one-way system. It’s gone 3am when we arrive. We have never been so glad to see a hotel.

The old spa village of Furnas is our tranquil retreat for a few days before we head to the capital, Ponta Delgada. Here in Furnas is the delightful Terra Nostra Park, a botanical garden created in the 18th century by the American Consul Thomas Hickling. Walking the avenues and winding paths of these gardens we pass monuments, grottos, koi carp ponds, and a whimsical area of animals carved in stone – my favourite is a laughing gorilla stood with hands on hips. Also in the grounds an ochre coloured geothermal lake overlooked by Hickling’s house is popular with many visitors for a restorative swim. Perhaps less popular is the yellowing of swimming gear from the water. I opt not to ruin my swim shorts and instead enjoy an hour lazily swimming in the hotel’s otherwise empty indoor pool.

It takes us a day to relax and settle into the village. Then it’s time to seek out the first crater lake. We slog out-of-breath up a steep hill that soon opens up to a pastoral valley. In the steep sided valley the only people we see are farmers checking on their cattle and crops. Sweetcorn grows in fields next to the road.

My excuse to my wife for doing part of the walk twice is that it’s easy to miss the track leading off between trees up into the side of the valley. Unconvinced, she points out a slightly battered sign to the lake on our second lap, no doubt wondering if I’m exhibiting early signs of dementia!

The track could be a tricky ascent when wet and muddy, and is best tackled in dry weather. A few minutes hard walk is amply rewarded by a view across the verdant valley in one direction, and to the other Furnas lake with Jose do Canto’s chapel visible at the far side. A reminder of the volcanic nature of this land is the eggy aroma of sulphur wafting up from the fumaroles below. A young bull chained up nearby is less than enthralled by our presence. His distressed calls eventually signal an end to our viewing. We start the trek back to the village in search of somewhere to get a cold drink.

Volcanic heat provides a novel and environmentally friendly method of slow cooking in this area’s famous “hollow’s meat course” stew. A large pot containing meat and vegetables is put into a hot hole in the ground to cook for several hours. Hearty eaters can sample large servings of the stew in one of the village’s restaurants.

After a mellow few days in Furnas we head to the other side of the island where Ponta Delgada lies in the south-west corner. Here trappings of modern life mix happily with traditional Portuguese architecture – monochrome stone buildings of whitewash edged with black basalt. Squares and narrow cobbled streets in the old part of town can become crowded. So it’s with some relief that we find the drivers to be mostly tolerant of pedestrians.

When stopped at a café or restaurant for lunch we’re as likely to be sat among local people as tourists. After a couple of meals it comes as no surprise to learn that the Azores aren’t known for gastronomy. Most menus are dominated by palatable but unimaginative meat and fish dishes. Our favourite lunchtime haunt is a small café serving pizzas, sandwiches, burgers etc. It’s popular with both schoolkids and workers.

Venturing back into the car and onto the roads we head off to the iconic Sete Cidades (Seven Cities) caldera. The half hour drive from Ponta Delgada along the north-west coastal road is a pleasure thanks to the scarcity of traffic. Remarkably tidy roadside verges are often lined with colourful hydrangeas. By now I’m getting used to driving on the right and coping better with left hand drive. Changing gear with the right hand seems unnatural for a while. It only becomes easy when our trip is almost over.

We arrive at the best vantage point, Vista do Rei, where all the brochure pictures of the caldera are taken from. It’s located just off the main road opposite an abandoned concrete hotel, just before the road heads down to the village. Our reward is a superb panorama of the caldera: its twin lakes Azul and Verde, and the village of Sete Cidades nestled on the flat land to the western side. Giant blobs of cloud shadows move across the murky green and blue lakes like giant Rorschach tests. From this spot the adventurous can embark on a long walk around the ridge of the caldera on a narrow path edged by vertiginous drops through trees and other foliage.

In the mouth of the caldera a footpath around lake Verde beckons enticingly. The chance to stroll along it between tall evergreen trees growing up the steep ridge and water gently lapping the shore is too good to be passed up. It’s September, we see about half a dozen people. Coach parties keeping to schedules mustn’t venture down here. While stopped for a picnic at the lakeside it’s like being in a land forgotten by the modern world. Only fish occasionally breaking the water’s surface hunting insects disturb my reverie. I wish life could always be this peaceful. If our lottery numbers ever come up then maybe we’ll find a place to stay in Sete Cidades for a couple of months of the year.

Of course, a place as magical as Sete Cidades wouldn’t be complete without a story behind it. According to legend, the lakes were formed from the tears of a king’s daughter and her true love lamenting the end to their doomed romance. On the journey home I can’t help thinking that if William Blake were alive today and visited São Miguel he’d surely realize that it also deserves the epithet “green and pleasant land.”

Sete Cidades Hike and Termas da Ferraria from Ponta Delgada

If You Go:

Azores Islands – Sao Miguel

Walking tour to Sete Cidades with picnic lunch

About the author:
Dene Bebbington works in IT but his real passion is writing. He’s had articles published in various magazines and online, and in the last couple of years has started to write short SciFi & Horror fiction.

All photos are by Dene Bebbington:
Leaning Tree
Laughing Gorilla
Furnas
Ponta Delgada
Sete Cidades