Despite the map

I fell in love with Greece a long time ago, without actually ever going. Gerard Durrell’s My Family and Other Animals bewitched me. I read it as a child, and since to my own children. Durrell painted an idyllic countryside of olive groves and woods running down to the sea; of pink houses covered in vines and filled with intellectuals and free spirits who came to lunch and stayed for the summer.

I’ve treated retired soldiers who fought in Greece during WWII and the chaos which followed. They spoke of the warmth of the people who kept them alive during the freezing winters, of their first taste of yoghurt as they hid in the hills from the Nazis.

Then I discovered Byron:

The isles of Greece! The isles of Greece
Where burning Sappho loved and sung
Were grew the art of war, and peace
Where Delos rose, where Phoebus sprung!
Eternal summer guilds them yet
But all, except their sun, is set.

An icon in St Spyridon; a forgotten building © A. Harrison

When I finally sailed into Corfu my knowledge of Greek history was below rudimentary, and I had no knowledge of these mythical people. Yet a magic lay in these lines by Byron, speaking of a place bathed in beauty but drowned in tragedy.

We docked early in the morning, but the heat of summer soon drenched the day. The waters of the Mediterranean lay still, and the shadow of our boat sailed alongside us. The Greek financial crises might be in full swing, but expensive yachts filled the harbour. Everywhere lay people sunning themselves — on rocks, on the stony beaches, on slabs of concrete. The water looked so inviting, glistening in every shade of turquoise.

The port bus dropped me off at the Old Fortress, which has stood guard over the town since it was built by the Venetians in the 16th C (although fortifications have been here since about 8th C AD). It was literally crumbling away — Montenegro and Dubrovnik may have preserved their past as a fairytale, but here I stood amidst the living ruin of life. Corfu felt alive. From somewhere came the sound of a piano, with staggered arpeggios tumbling through the air.

Some wisteria covering a small arbor offered a hint of shade — by the size of its trunk the vine looked at least 100 years old. A cooling breeze blew in from the water — Corfu in summer is hot. The sun blazed down on the city and bounced off the blocks of marble until the very air was burning. As an Australian I thought I knew heat. I’ve lived through many a bushfire summer and done my travels through the tropics. The heat of Corfu was completely different, radiating from the streets and buildings until my skin felt as if it was crackling.

Some 30 years after finishing the Old Fortress the Venetians built the New Fortress, and old Corfu lies sandwiched between the two. Her buildings and streets have been coloured by centuries of invaders, from the Romans, Venetians, the French and then through to the English, who thoughtfully left behind a cricket pitch.

From the Old Fortress I braved the heat and walked down to the Liston. A line of carriages stood waiting for a tourist fare, the horses glistening in the sunshine as the drivers sat chatting in the shade. Bordering one side of the Esplanade, the Liston is the centre of cafe life in Corfu. Locals sat watching the world go by as explorers nourished themselves for their next conquest. Others lingered over coffee and a shared plate. Built during the French occupation, the Liston takes it from the list in the Venetian-styled Libre D’Oro — only those noble families listed in this ‘Golden Book’ were allowed to walk here.

The buildings and colours of Corfu © A. Harrison

From the Liston, I wandered through the maze of the old town, getting myself completely lost in the process as I was too busy window-shopping. I realised my dilemma when I kept passing the same glove shop — who wears gloves in this heat? Naturally, I couldn’t find any of the streets on my not-so-helpful map tourist map.

The holiest part of Corfu is the Agios Spyridon (St Spyridon Church). All morning the red-topped belfry peered at me from down side streets and alleyways. I knew I’d neared the church when the shops stopped selling kumquat liqueur (of which I’d happily tried a few samples) and began selling icons.

The Spyridon is quite dark inside, with the worshippers outnumbering the tourists. Near the altar stands the Konostasis, a screen covered with icons donated by pilgrims. Amongst the smoke and incense the icons seemed far more at home than they ever do smothering each other on the the walls of a shop. Behind the Konostasis a steady stream of the faithful queued to see the silver sarcophagus containing the mummified remains of St Spyridon, Corfu’s patron saint. The women slid scarves over their heads as they passed behind the altar.

I sat for a while in the darkness, absorbing the spirit of Corfu. Through the open doors I looked out to blazing sunshine. The burning candles scattered around the church added to the gloom, although some of them stood 4 or 5 feet tall.

After the Spyridon I managed to stray from the tourist track into more residential areas. Small corner stores sprouted between the houses, which in turn were covered with balconies and flowers. Some of the streets were cobblestones, others were basically steps — with the occasional Vespa trying to navigate them. I kept passing local cafes, or the occasional taverna spilling across a square, filling the air with the aromas of garlic and rosemary.

Lunch was at a taverna overlooking Homer’s wine-dark sea. We sat under a vine-covered trellis, as the waiter dodged traffic to bring us our meals (with the kitchen and main restaurant being on the other side of the road). Meze consisted of octopus, plus pastry triangles filled with spinach. My main was a traditional Corfu dish, pastitsada rooster, while my husband had a totally unknown fish cooked in a spiced tomato sauce. Both were delicious.

There was still much to see — such as the Byzantine Museum, the Palace of St Michel and St George, the Mitrópoli or Town Hall — but the heat of the day proved enervating. What else to do, but follow the tradition of a siesta?

The Literary Traveller

Gerald Durrell’s My Family and Other Animals is an almost autobiographical account of his time living in Corfu with his family. Although the events are not always true, they are delightful, and the fluid chronology is of little importance to the tale. Durrell was 10 when he arrived on the island in 1935, staying until 1939. His love of the island, its flora and fauna, plus the characters of the locals who befriend them, fills the pages. The young naturalist brings an apparently ceaseless stream of animals home, including scorpions, ladybugs, an octopus or two, bats glow-worms and geckoes. In a humorous and self-deprecating style Durrell weaves a tale of a bewitching childhood in a magical land as yet unstained by the terrors of WWII and its aftermath. At the time I first read the book, I didn’t realise My Family and Other Animals was the first part of Durrell’s Corfu Trilogy, with the other two books being Birds, Beasts and Relatives and The Garden of the Gods.