between the rock and the cold, cold sea

In which your faithful correspondant is weirded out by a boy in a park.

Seriously, people, I did not realise five pm in the afternoon was pickup time. It is none of your business whether I'm male or female, and you can admire my hair all you like, but no touching the back of my neck and calling me friend.

I go for a walk in the park after lunch/dinner. This perfectly normal looking boy comes up alongside me, skinny little bastard with open and non-threatening body-language, and tells me his name is Raj from Mumbai. I put down my discomfort whole striking-up-a-conversation-with-a-stranger-in-a-park thing to different cultural norms.

And then the little fucker touches the back of my neck and starts asking about my gender.

Now, if his body language had been much different, rather than open and relaxed and the kind of floppy that reminds me of some people back home, I would've felt far more hostile. And, probably, I wouldn't have let him in arm's reach. As it was, I told him not to bother even asking and took off for a jog.

But I didn't feel comfortable again until I got back here.

Skinny little fucker, half the reason I let him close enough to talk to me was he pinged my "I can take him" meter rather than my "creep" one - so where the hell do I get off being nervous/uncomfortable and angry at myself for being nervy all the way home?

I think it's quite possible that I stumbled onto the gay cruising scene by accident. Pedion tou Areos (Ares Park) is apparently a hotspot, and historically I have been mistaken for a boy all over Greece. This doesn't make me any less freaked out, but it does make me freaked out for different reasons. I might be quite a butch girl, and despite my situational celibacy I'm quite happy to find persons of diverse gender presentation sexy... but I'm still female, dammit.

Oh, well. Life is occasionally interesting, yes?

Henceforth to be known as The Day We Went To Turkey.

We got up early to catch the boat. Good thing we arrived at the dock early, too, because the queue through security and passport control (who does passport control for boats? Departing boats?) was murder.

It's fifty minutes from harbour to harbour, and with the wind from the port quarter and only a light chop to the sea, it was a very pleasant passage. We docked in the shadow of the harbour castle, in the middle of a very large marina filled with sloops. Not mere yachts, mind you: these were two-masted beauties with significant draft. I swear, if I were to stay there for very long, the temptation to commit piracy would be overwhelming.

Bodrun has shops, and mosques. (I'd never seen inside a working mosque before. They look... welcoming.) But mostly it has a castle, which is also the Underwater Archaeology Museum of Turkey. Which means it contains several of my favourite things. Pots!

The castle is another of the massive fortifications originally erected by the Knights of St John of Jerusalem and Rhodes (and later, Malta), like that on Kos harbour, and of roughly the same vintage. There aren't nearly as many bastions as the Palamidi - but it has bastions! And towers! And Hospitaller Knight coats of arms everywhere! And a church turned mosque turned exhibition space for a Roman shipwreck, and the Ulu Burun Bronze Age shipwreck, and suits of medieval armour - chainmail and cuirasses - and a tower hung on the inside with banners and medieval furniture, and there are chickens and peacocks and peahens under the bushes, and long worn steps down to a dungeon chamber which has possibly the worst museum reconstruction I've ever seen - and I've seen some bad ones.

Pictures will arrive eventually.

The pots were good. They have a lot of amphorae. They also have many, many ancient anchors, and Greek tombstones - a long time ago, the name for Bodrun was Hallicarnassos - and statuary. At twenty past one, I was standing beside the coat of arms of a Grand Master of the Hospitaller Knights, dividing my attention between a Classical statue of Dionysos and a Late Antique funeral inscription bearing the name Christophilos, when the muezzin started calling the adhan. The juxtaposition of history and belief in that moment was bizarrely affecting.

I'd never heard the adhan called before. It's like plainchant, a little: sounds half-sung as much as spoken, and it's a beautiful noise. Allah-u Akbar, laa ilaaha illa l-laah. (It's a pleasanter sound than the churchbells that keep waking me up at 0800 when I'm in Athens, at least. I could listen to the nice voice saying pretty religious things all day. Churchbells? Fuck that noise. Someone with a tin ear cast that particular set of bells.)

There was then a lot of sitting in the shade drinking milkshakes and iced coffee, in between peering in boring shops. (Really. McDonalds and Starbucks and Burger King? Where is the imagination? Where is the tasty food?) Because Bodrun is a lovely sheltered south-facing cove in the lee of lots of lovely hills, and gets absolutely no breeze at this time of year. It's bloody hot, and it was hot and still even in Kos this evening.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, we were facing into the wind on our crossing back. Guess what this means? Drenching spray!

...I ended up soaked through. Which was fun at first, and rapidly became rather old. Not to mention threatening to the notebook in my pocket. (Poor notebook will not ever be quite the same again, but most of the writing appears to have survived.)

Dinner: all the tasty things once again. I will miss Greek food when I am home.

Why am I so tired?

Last evening, when I got in and hooked up with the parent, we walked down to the fortress by the harbour. Built by the Hospitaller Knights of St. John of Jerusalem, Rhodes and Malta - back when they were the Hospitaller Knights of St John of Jerusalem and Rhodes, and hadn't yet been chased all the way to Malta - it's a perfectly cromulent example of late medieval/early 16th century military architecture, with an outer defensive wall (with bastions) surrounding an inner killing-ground and a further walled keep. Until the last century, it lay on an island, and accessed the mainland by a short bridge, but the 20th century saw the fortress's small island permanently joined to the headland by the infilling of the channel which had formerly separated it.

Kos Town is very pretty, with a profusion of purple-flowering climbing bushes, knife-edged hills rising in the centre of the island to the south and a promontory of Turkey across the sea to the north.

This morning we arose and breakfasted in the hotel (uck, hotel breakfast), and caught the Tourist Mini Train to the Asklepion. Which is about 15 minutes away at a speed of approximately 30mph, or a couple of hours' walk. It's located among pine trees on the slope of a hill, facing north: it has a view down (between the trees, or above them) to Kos Town and Turkey beyond.

The sanctuary situates itself on three terraces on the slope of a hill, rising to the south. Entry is past the ruins of a bath complex, up steps in the face (offset W. from centre) of the retaining wall of the first terrace, to the courtyard of the first terrace (henceforth First Court). A monumental gateway with columns would have commanded access to this area in antiquity.

NE corner of first court, bath complex. SW. corner of first court, area indentified as Roman latrines. E, N, and W sides, court lined with a stoa, within which probably commercial activity would have taken place. It's also possible that votive offerings were displayed here.

Court is wide and reasonably large. Probably had votive offerings set up around it, in open space. Retaining wall of middle terrace is nice clean ashlar masonry, with arched niches capable of holding life-size (and larger than) statues. E. of steps to middle terrace, which are opposite the propylon, the third niche E. has a fountain basin. W. of steps to middle terrace, three intercommunicating basins contain evidence of water features - possibly cisterns, possibly something to do with latrine.

Middle terrace accessed by steps. Eight paces from top of steps is a built altar, centrally located. E, a peripteral Ionic temple of the Roman period, and S of this, an exedra of ashlar masonry with arched niches as on the lower retaining wall. W of altar, a Doric temple, not peripteral, of the Greek period. S. of this, a building with interior divisions - what appears to be a front corridor, with access from the NE corner; behind this, two intercommunicating rooms with a small chest-height niche in each rear wall, with access to each from the front corridor, and behind this, two adjoining rooms with access from the exterior and no intercommunicating access - identified as the 'abaton'. (I dispute abatons on general principle.) W. of Doric temple, open space.

Up steps in retaining wall of upper terrace. Steps in retaining wall of upper terrace divided in two parts, with an intermediate mini-terrace in between. (More votives here?) Upper terrace: steps face a large temple of the Doric order, much larger than either of the lower temples, which appears to be peripteral, set on a high-ish stylobate. This area of the sanctuary has large areas to each side of the sanctuary with no visible remains other than scattered stone blocks which appear to be from the temenos wall: must query excavation report. Temenos wall appears to be continuous around area of upper terrace, with steps in rear wall and Access Forbidden sign on goat track between pine trees.

The Asklepieion at Kos is home to vast - and I mean vast: at least a score and probably more, I lost count - numbers of kittens and young cats. These congregate in the carpark and by the orange juice cafe before the ticket office, and they are incredibly cute. Also, distracting.

Return to Kos Town by Rattly Mini Train. See hammam by covered market. Lunch at estiatorio by agora. Abandoned by parent in favour of nap. Visit archaeological museum. See many statues, one mosaic. Disappointed by absence of pots on display. See Ottoman-style architecture. Am impressed: evidence for those missing three point five centuries! Even evidence of a mosque, with still-standing minaret. More cats. Cats everywhere. Return to hotel. Argue with parent about money. Check email. Write post. Feel very tired.

So today I said goodbye to Maria, landlady of the Hotel Acropol in Nafplio, and set off back to Athens by bus. I met a nice lost American from Miami at the bus station, who didn't know how to pronounce Mikines, and seeing her on her way, I boarded my own bus at noon.

Reader, I confess: I slept most of the way, waking up to exchange a few words with a nice Greek boy called Marios, who'd learned his English from American films. In Athens, I awoke as two German backpackers were asking directions for the bus to Rafina, and since I knew where the buses go from (hell, I'm staying right near the terminal for that part of Attica) I offered to show them the way. They were a nice young couple, studying Philosophy and Economics in some small German university town, who'd been backpacking around the Peleponnese and were now off to one of the islands. Their English was better, I daresay, than my own.

Back in the Institute, I settled into the attic, did laundry, went out for dinner to Exarcheia, and came back to discover two people! whom I know! are staying here. They being unfamiliar with the buses and locations, I handed over my much-thumbed maps and timetables, and spent a little time socialising with M. and K. (We went up to look at the roof. Anti-climactic.)

Tomorrow I must arise at eight, breakfast, (re)pack, and toddle along to the metro to the airport before half past ten. Fun, don't you think?

More photos are up on Flickr. Enjoy.

The last thing I did today, before coming home, was visit a church. It's the Church of the Panaghia and St. Athanasius, on the corner opposite the best icecream place in Greece (Real Italian Icecream, by Real Italians from Napoli: the cherry glace is to die for).

Churches are... something I do, sometimes. Just like sometimes I pour a libation to ancient Greek gods on empty balconies after dusk, sometimes I go to churches - Catholic, or Anglican, or Orthodox - and stand in the quiet darkness, and think about two thousand years of faith and prayers, incense and candlewax, prayers for the living and prayers for the dead, prayers for health and prayers for remembrance. Three, four thousand years of petitioning the heavens...

Sometimes, like tonight, I light candles, say the prayers I no longer believe in to a ceiling painted gilt and blue, icons gleaming of gold and polish in the dark. Pray for us, now and at the hour of our deaths. Be thou gracious, O lord. Trying to understand what it is in that dim silence that whispers to me still, despite my certainty of the inevitability of extinction, despite my certainty in the non-existence of benevolent omnipotence.

I've libated Hermes on my doorstep and crossed myself in front of holy icons. In the end I'm still an atheist, though the awe of holy places lacks no power to move me: I can't reconcile logic and theology, mysticism and science, and deep as the roots of my tendency towards religious awe might go, reason has to be how I, we, know the world. That which can be proven is common ground.

...All that aside, I had a very long day.

T. had suggested back in Athens that I join the study tour in the Argolid while we were in roughly the same place. So this morning I rose early and caught a taxi at ten to eight to the the archaeological site of Lerna, near Mili. Lerna was closer than I expected, so I arrived before the site even opened, an hour before the tour was due to arrive. I spent my time listening to the honking of geese away down in the groves of green oranges, slowly ripening, and sitting under an olive tree contemplating the foundations of a Neolithic house.

Lerna's an early site. There's Meso and Neolithic activity on the site, continuing in the Bronze Age, with Early, Middle and Late Helladic phases, including a corridor house (MH) and Mycenaean shaft graves (LH), after which Lerna goes out of use. There are Geometric (ie, c8th C BC) graves in the vicinity, and the Heraklean myth of the Lernaian Hydra, but there ain't a whole lot of standing remains - it's a small site, and (I'm not a prehistorian) I can't bring myself to get excited about small structures and soil discolouration.

The study tour is possessed of a pink bus, and after T. gave his prehistorian's spiel on Lerna, I caught a ride with them to Tiryns.

Tiryns has standing remains. "Wall-girt Tiryns," Homer calls it: Cyclopean masonry, a couple of megarons, galleries within the walls, a monumental approach - it stands in the middle of a fertile plain, altered in the Mycenaean period by a dam which changed the course of the river. It also used to be within 1km of the sea, before silting. From the top of the citadel, one can see olive and orange groves, with Nafplio and the Venetian citadel of the Palamidi rising to the north.

From Tiryns, onward to "strong-walled" Mycenae, approximately 15km away in a straight line. Mycenae is pretty bloody impressive, a hill overlooking a plain (more olive groves) flanked by higher peaks. Its walls are mighty impressive, and the Mycenaean remains speak of a strong, vital Bronze Age society, with cult activity associated with Grave Circle A (from which Schliemann uncovered all the pretty stuff that's now in the National Museum) and up the top, more megarons, and behind these a cistern. K. did not want to lead her half of the tour down into the narrow dark passage that leds down and down pitch black steps (which turn to the right, taking you out of sight of the sun), slippery with use, the massive smooth masonry walls weeping damp and balanced to a triangular cavity overhead, to the very bottom where a dry basin once received water piped in from the higher peaks. So I took the torch and played responsible adult for the students. It's dark down there, dark as pitch, and slippery, and steep. But thanks to a certain Bear and her roomie, I have higher standards for what constitutes a Terrifying Underground Place than I used to, and it was really quite a comfortable wee passage. Plenty of standing and elbow room.

Mycenae has some complications in terms of talking about its later occupation. The end of the Bronze Age saw a series of destructions across Greece, earthquakes and fires and whatnot, and there seems to have been a general population decrease. But Mycenae did form the core of an archaic settlement, which was destroyed by Argos in the mid-fifth century, and reoccupied in the Hellenistic period. It did not survive as a town of any size much beyond the early empire, though, and much of the evidence for later periods was cleared away by Schliemann, thanks to his Homeric obsession.

From the citadel at Mycenae (great views, and the Lion Gate is definitely worth the look), down (past the tholos tombs, the so-called tomb of Clytemnestra and the so-called tomb of Agamemnon), to the Treasury of Atreus, which is actually another Mycenaean tholos tomb. A Mycenaean tholos tomb consists of a monumental entrance, the dromos, which was usually filled in after the burial, and the tholos structure itself with a mound of earth raised over it. The tholos structure is circular, rising to a beehive-shaped roof: that of Atreus (so-called) is 13m high, and the acoustics inside are creepy and whispery: sound travels around the periphery of the structure, so that a spoken word on one side echoes oddly, and sounds almost right beside your ear on the other.

I don't remember for Mycenae, but I know some of the Mycenaean tholos tombs at Marathon and parts north show evidence for horse sacrifice and horse burial in the fill of the dromos. If I recall correctly, at least one shows possible evidence of human sacrifice - though most archaeologists do try to suggest other explanations.

T. bought me lunch in a coaching dinner place, and promised to make me sing for it at Epidavros (no, there was no singing. There was talking about Asklepios). I got to talk to the bus driver in Greek, a little, and T. told me I should apply to a)guide the tour next year, b)intern at the Institute when the internship comes up again, and c)apply for the fellowship for A.D. when it comes 'round. (I think he thinks I'm halfway competent. How did that happen?)

A stopoff at a pot factory, for the picking-up of souvenirs, and then on by bus to Epidavros. There we talked about cthonic aspects of the cult - there are indications that part of the altar may have been covered by a canopy of some kind, indicating that in that part of the alter sacrifices were made to the god in his aspect as a hero: a covering indicates that the odour of the sacrifices were directed down, into the earth, to heroes, rather than going freely up like offerings to the Olympians - and we also talked about the Thymele, which (some people say may have) held the cult's sacred snakes... but there is a very small twisty area at the bottom, and it's entirely likely that cthonic rituals took place here.

What I didn't mention yesterday, and should have, is that like many sanctuaries certain things were prohibited within the sanctuary as polluting: one could neither die or give birth within the temenos walls. There's an interesting discussion to be had about the metaphysical/metaphorical significance (and similarities) of dying and giving birth - both attach human beings to physical and bodily, rather than transcendental and godly, realities - but I'll spare you the digression.

I didn't stick with the tour to its ultimate conclusion, having to catch the 1800 bus back to Nafplio - it stopped for ten minutes to let the bus to and from Kranidi make a connection, and I got to talk to the driver in a little Greek - and I got back to Nafplio around 1910. Back to hotel, meet cats on stoop again, change of shirt, out to dinner at a restaurent called Kepos ("Garden") which had four cats, including two tiny black kittens. Then around the corner to the Best Icecream Ever (which T. told me about today, so I was seeking them out), and grandmother-gift-purchasing in the tacky souvenir shop opposite the church.

I bought a beer in the shop and libated Hermes and Asklepios on the balcony with half of it before drinking the other half. Which made me tipsy. And now I have to answer email and wash and sleep.

Long day. Tomorrow, I go to beach, and maybe War Museum of Nafplio. Nowhere very far.

Some pictures from Archaio Corinth up on flickr.

Last night, there was BSG marathon in the main house over dinner. All four of us watching the pilot. I walked out halfway through the second half, because Tired. I'm almost sorry, but...

You know, I really meant to get work done today. But I feel quite horrible, and honestly? I did quite sufficient work yesterday for me to consider these few days in Corinth entirely worthwhile.

The village centre of Old Corinth is really designed to take advantage of tour buses, I have noticed. Big, mostly empty right now cafés offering gaudy menus and a very limited selection of All The Tasty Greek Food in favour of gyros and souvlaki, burger and chips.

Probably just as well I'm not feeling very hungry today. I'm worrying about leaving here and getting to Nafplio - but, well, I suspect even on a Sunday I can get a taxi down to the Corinth-Athens bus station, hop the bus and ask the driver to drop me where there's a syndesi me to leoforeio sto Nafplio, if my lift to the right bus stop doesn't come through. Worst comes to the worst, I go all the way back to Athens and turn around and come back down this way on the Nafplio bus.

And there are plenty of hotels in Nafplio, so even if my reservation's been fucked up, I will be able to find somewhere to sleep. Right? Right.

As you may have noticed from the post title, I'm no longer in Athens.

Let us all note for the record that I don't like travelling to strange new places of uncertain welcome by public transport in countries in whose language I have approximately the vocabulary of a not-particularly-bright four-year-old. It gives me hives.

But this morning I packed my travel-bag, left the rest of my luggage in T.'s office, said good-bye to T. and K. at the institute - who were also departing this afternoon (they're herding the study tour to Delphi and parts south) - walked down 28 Oktobriou to Omonia, and caught the 051 bus to Bus Terminal A.

Bus Terminal A in Athens is what other, lesser bus stations dream of being when they grow up. A cavernous space filled with the growling of engines, the stink of diesel fuel and cigarettes, and the busy hum of to-ings and fro-ings, it has a definite impression of largeness.

The Korinthos bus boasted an Orthodox priest among its passengers. I have to say, he seemed a bit full of his own dignity. But, anyway. Moving on.

The bus journey took under two hours, partly along a motorway and partly through a couple of townships on the Saronic Gulf. Pretty countryside, between the mountains and the blue blue sea - apart from the oil refineries and the dockyard at Eleusina, which are industrial ugliness. On route, I learned the word for Stop now! - one of the passengers needed to vomit.

We crossed the canal on the isthmus, which is a freaking miracle of engineering - a sheer straight cleft in high rock, from sea to sea - and arrived in Corinth.

This is where my adventures really began. You see, the ASCSA has their research project and house out in Archaio Corinth, several kilometres from Korinthos itself. The nice lady at the bus station took pity on my atrocious Greek, put me bodily on the right bus across town, and made sure the bus to Old Corinth would wait five minutes for me at the other bus station. I did not shake with uncontrollable anxiety during this interlude, but only because I will not freak out became my mantra from the moment the Athens bus passed the canal.

The bus for Old Corinth winds up towards the old town - not a town in these decayed modern days, of course - under the dominating prominence of the Acrocorinth, peak and fortress both at once. This takes perhaps half an hour, up roads so narrow that vehicles must back up if they meet oncoming traffic.

At the archaeological site of Old Corinth, I asked the Official Ticket Lady for the Americans, and she pointed me to their house across the road. Both gates proved locked, but there was room on one to reach in between the bars and draw back the lock, since there seemed to be no button for attention. So I did so, and walked in the open front door.

An elderly gentleman whose name I didn't catch pointed me to Dr. G.S.'s office. I was invited to wait in the kitchen for a few moments, but soon the man himself appeared. Assigned a room and a key, I felt some of my anxiety begin to wane. (I have somewhere to sleep for the night! Shower! Toilet!)

Dr. S. proved both fascinatingly learned and amazingly helpful. In the course of a brief conversation in his air-conditioned office, he introduced me to some interesting pieces of informations about the plant monks' pepper and the cult of Orthia, and then was courteous enough to drive me down to the Asklepieion and give me a guided tour of its little patch of site. (I'm going back to the site tomorrow morning, so I'll talk some more about it then.)

I proceeded to the museum and the main part of the preserved archaeological site, which includes fairly well preserved remains of the Temple of Apollo, as well as the Glauke Fountain - a striking monument - and a jumble of archaeology in the form of a forum and the Lechaion road, which would make more sense to me, I do not doubt, if I'd ever seen a complete site plan.

Above it all, the peak of the Acrocorinth rises to the SW (according to my compass: I need a compass, because the bus journey up here completely screwed with my sense of direction), the crenellations of its fortress walls visible atop a steep mount whose flanks are rock and sere summer grasses. The Acrocorinth is both Antique acropolis and medieval castle site, having been used by the ancients and further fortified by Franks, Venetians and Ottomans.

I showered and, after some confusion, dined with the archaeologists in residence. At which New People anxiety kicked in. They seemed moderately forgiving, and at least there was a Scots boy there, so I didn't feel completely surrounded. But still, New People. Learned New People.

I'm not going to freak out about getting to Argos until Saturday. Meanwhile, I take pictures and make measurements here. (Go away, anxiety. If the worst comes to the absolute worst, we will go stay in a hotel in Nafplio. Maybe we should do that anyway.)

Am I boring the internets with these travel posts, I wonder?

Today, I gave a short talk to students on the Institute's study tour on the Athenian Asklepieion and the cult of Asklepios. Ten minutes, no notes, off-the-cuff presentation.

The A.D.'d asked me beforehand, and I said, Sure, why not? In reality, this involved me meeting the A.D. and K., leading the study tour, when they broke for early lunch by the agora, and joining the 3.5 hour tour of the acropolis, at the very end of which I got to give my talk. Thirty-four degrees, full sun, bare rock, very little shade.

I did end up learning a thing or two I didn't know before. Like, for example, the wonderful nugget that during the Ottoman period, the Erechtheion spent some time as, of all things, a harem. (A.D. did not go into detail, but I imagine it must have been the women's quarters for the commander of the acropolis garrison. Athens was a backwater until the nineteenth century, so I can't imagine who else would have had family quarters in such a prime spot.) Also that in the 19th century, the columns of the Temple of Olympian Zeus were believed to be cursed.

Despite my acclimatisation, after three hours on the acropolis rock, I was flagging,. But I think most of the students actually listened to my talk. I know they heard me, at least, despite the wind: I do remember how to project. (Also, starting one's spiel with, "All right, ladies and gentlemen and those who identify as either or neither," at least has the virtue of catching their attention.)

If they weren't listening, I have acquired sunburn and a light covering of dust for no good reason. Oh, sunburn. At least you seem to be quite mild.

I'm practicing my Greek at every opportunity and picking up a bit more food-related vocabulary. Also in terms of directions: I'm getting the hang of "Open" and "Closed", "Up" and "Down" and "Opposite." Possibly "Stairs," but I'm still not quite sure of that one. Also, I have an atrocious accent, but that's hardly surprising. If I were living here for a year or two, I might actually develop the ability to have a conversation in short declarative sentences. I mean, beyond the utter basics that I have already.

From Mavromation bus terminal to Cape Sounion is, it turns out, four hours in the round trip. Had I known this setting out, I may have been less eager to go -

So it's probably just as well I set out in blithe ignorance this morning for the 0930 coastal bus to Sounion.

The coastal bus does exactly what it says on the tin. It travels along the coast from Athens, through Glyfada and Vouliagmeni, until you're out in sere rocky hills specked with olive trees overlooking a sea so blue and wave-tipped it looks too perfect to be real, with islands so close you imagine you could swim to them.

The bus on the way out had a small problem with its klimatismos: it wasn't working all that well. So after a while the somewhere-west-of-middle-aged Greek lady in the seat beside me got her battery-powered fan out of her giant purse, and I got to enjoy the slight sideways draught. (And also to communicate in my pathetic Greek.)

After many long windings on the edge of the sea, the pillars of the Temple of Poseidon hove into view on their headland promontory. Poseidon's temple is remarkably well preserved (or possibly - this is Greece - well-resurrected), columned rows standing upright on a massive built platform of a base. The Temple of Athena, just down the hill, is less fortunate: its remains are preserved to about knee-high, and hard to distinguish from a distance among the scrub.

The bus wound up to its terminus, about two hundred metres down from the sanctuary, and we passengers disembarked into a wind that snatched at shirts and hats, pushing and prodding to catch you off-balance. (My hat blew off twice. Fortunately both times it caught in a thorn bush after a brief chase, and I was able to retrieve it with no harm done. After the second time, though, I stuck it in my bag lest the wind be third time lucky.

Despite its location, it's a touristy spot. I wandered around the top, and scrambled among thorny bushes in search of a good view of the sea. I ended up walking back up to the entrance hut along a line of recent excavation of a fortress wall - I didn't realise until I was on top of it, and by then I wasn't going to go back the way I came. (It's high summer, so there aren't many Ephoria/Ministry of Culture research excavations ongoing right now. The excavation area was deserted.)

At the gate, I asked the nice official lady (in Greek) which way to the beach? For swimming? The route she pointed me at turned out to be a narrow right-of-way leading down among the scrub, a track of dust and eroded volcanic tufa and pebbles and stones that looks as though it floods in winter. There were, of course, prickly bushes. But the tiny cove at the bottom - adjacent to a hotel, though the patch the track terminated at was free of sunbeds and umbrellas - was worth it: clear water, fine sand, blocks from the fortress wall half-tumbled at one corner, little fish that occasionally nibbled one's feet.

I stayed in the water for about an hour, just splashing around in the shallows, before I headed back up to the bus-stop and the over-priced tourist cafe where I paid entirely too much for bad cake and good ice-cream.

Then the bus came. This bus was the inland bus: it wound back via Lavrion through the humpy hills of Attica to Mavromation, and I dozed on the way.

And now I'm back at the institute, where I must do more laundry and play musical rooms.