DRIVING TO MOLYVOS AS THE SUN GOES DOWN Is there a word - in any language - expressing the melancholy feeling (not altogether unpleasurable) that sometimes descends as you travel, at dusk, through an alien landscape? The long scenic route from the capital winds past olive orchards and poppy-spotted fields, through looming mountains and sad little villages, where the only humans to be seen at this hour are old men trotting towards dimly-lit kapheneions. Now and then, there is a roadside chapel, a deserted graveyard, a flowering Judas tree. The road winds on and on. The mountains get darker and darker. There is the sound of sheeps bells, the bark of a distant dog. We pass plunging valleys and abandoned homes, their gaping windows and crumbling stone walls a sad reminder of the turbulent years that forced many thousands of Greeks to seek their fortune in distant lands. This is not my land, but it is one I have come to love. All the same, it is fleetingly sad to be away from home: my books and my plants and my favorite chair, a blue wing chair standing by a tall French window. Empty.
Posted on: Sun, 30 Mar 2014 11:01:30 +0000
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