by W. Ruth Kozak
I know that each one of us travels to love alone,
Alone to faith and to death
I know it. I’ve tried it. It doesn’t help.
Let me come with you”
— from Moonlight Sonata by Yannis Ritsos
The towering rock of Monamvasia rises from the sea on the south eastern coast of the Peloponnese. Known as the Gibraltar of Greece, it has been a fortified settlement since ancient times. It got its name which means “Sole Entrance” from the 6th century AD because the only entry is through a fortified tunnel. In the words of the poet, Yannis Ritsos, “The scenery is as harsh as silence“
Yannis Ritsos was born in Monamvasia in 1909. An aristocrat by birth, renowned in Greece as an actor and director, he was one of Greece most beloved poets and is considered one of the five great Greek poets of the twentieth century. He won the Lenin Peace Prize in 1956 and was named a Golden Wreath Laureate in 1985.
During his lifetime, Ritsos suffered many great losses including the early deaths of his mother and eldest brother from tuberculosis and the mental illness and confinement of his father. He, himself, spent several years in a sanitarium for tuberculosis. In later years, because of his left-wing politics, he was imprisoned and exiled and his poetry banned in Greece.
I arrived in Monemvasia early one morning by bus from Athens. At first it seemed to me not much more than a quiet coastal town, dominated by the steep rock off-shore which is connected by a long causeway. The old town itself is completely walled and is not visible. In the new town, boats crowd the little harbour. The shore is lined with small shops and tavernas. I found a pleasant pension overlooking the sea and set out to explore.
Known as “the Rosemary of the East”, Monamvasia was besieged by various people including the Franks who occupied it until 1200 until they were expelled by Byzantine troops. After that, it became a naval station for the Byzantine Empire. It was renown through the medieval world for its excellent Malmsey wine, mentioned in Richard III, Act I, Scene 9 when Edward IV asked the Duke of Clarence who he’d condemned to death how he’d like to die. He replied “Drown me in a barrel of Malmsey wine!” Production of this wine ended in 1545 when the Turks prohibited it and since then the method of which the Muscat wine was produced has been lost.
Lying on an important trade route, Monemvasia was occupied by the Venetians after pirate raids caused the inhabitants to ask for their help. There were 90 famous pirates in the Mediterranean at that time. After the Venetians took over, the town became inhabited with knights, merchants and officials. New building and restoration work began. But once Venetian power began to wane it fell to the Turks. When Turkey declared war on Venice, the city was recaptured but it wasn’t until the Greek War of Independence on July 21, 1821 that the town was liberated.
It’s a magical experience visiting this little medieval town. As you come through the thick stone vaulted gateway you are immediately transported into another age. The narrow cobbled streets wind up the side of the rock, which is topped by a castle fortress. The entire town is walled and invisible from the shore. Many of the old buildings are restored and house boutiques, B&Bs and small bistros. One of the tavernas is owned by relatives of Ritsos.. Many of the old buildings still have the crests of Venetian noble families on the old wooden doors. You can lose yourself in the past while resting in a shaded courtyard or edging your way down a narrow cobbled street. Monamvasia truly is a gem, a step back into the glorious age of Byzantine Greece. It’s easy to imagine what life was like there, hidden away on the rocky slope of the mountain, with the teal-colored sea churning below.
Although much of the old “lower” town is in ruins, the family home of Yannis Ritsos has been restored and turned into a museum. There is a monument to the poet outside the house. During the 1980s Ristos wrote several novels compiled under the title Iconostase of the Anonymous Saints. Written in his poetic style, they are filled with sadness and the consequences of loss. Ritsos died in Athens on November 11, 1990. He is buried in the cemetery outside the walls of Monamvasia.
Video of Yannis Ritsos discussing poetry (Greek with English subtitles)
If You Go:
♦ Buses to Monamvasia run daily from Athens, via Sparta. In summer there is Flying Dolphin service once a day from Pireaus.
♦ The medieval town is inaccessible to cars and motorcycles. A free shuttle bus operates between the causeway and old Monamvasia from 7.30 am – 10 pm June to September.
♦ There are hotels and pensions in the new town and a camp site nearby.
About the author:
Ruth has visited Monamvasia several times and paid homage to Yannis Ritso at his family home. He is one of her favorite Greek poets. Ruth has lived in and visited Greece since 1979 and considers it her second home. Her historical fiction novel SHADOW OF THE LION will be published August 2014 by MediaAria-CDM publishers,UK. The story tells the story of the end of Alexander the Great’s dynasty. http://www.ruthkozak.com
Photographs 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
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