Its Easter Saturday 2007 on the earliest ferry from Igoumenitsa, her saloon, this crisp morning, full of islanders returning to their families to celebrate. We are passengers from England. Soon the ferry will arrive in Corfu Port. People will stroll as the bands parade through the fine streets to join the crowd at the Liston to watch clay pots full of water (containing all the previous years bad things) thrown, at noon, from many upper windows, shattering on the streets below while the crowds cheer, some people only feet from the potsherds. We are approaching from the south east. The city of Corfu inside Cape Sidero points to Vido Island on our bow. Beyond are the mountains of the Troumpetta leading eastwards to the 900m heights of Pantokrator - the name of our ship (note: 2014 M/V Pantokrator no long runs. Shes been bought by a consortium for other purposes) I first saw Corfu across a crowded room. It is an island without insularity, while its capital, no larger than an English market town, feels like a city - a polis μια πόλη. The islands position and conformation makes it strategic, attracting invaders - some repelled, some occupied, some embraced and some survived. Its beauty seduces visitors - scholars in love with old marble and history, rich birds of passage from Russia, impeccably-mannered bi-linguals from the north east littoral, migrants of doubtful status who were told they were being taken to Italy, coach class package holiday makers common as muck - some passing through stay longer than intended, some keep returning, some never leave and one forced to go by war spoke of an amputation for which all Epictetus could offer no consolation
Posted on: Mon, 15 Dec 2014 14:40:52 +0000
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