A Day in Spetses
It's October, and I'm in Porto Heli, southern Greece. The rain has stopped, but the mosquitos haven't. My arms and legs bear the marks of my enemy's feasts. I have a skin infection, and my ankle—swollen—is crowned with a fluid-filled balloon that has just popped. It's done this daily since its recent materialisation, however gentle I am with it. It fills, bursts and deflates, fills, bursts and deflates. The joint steadily fattens despite all the purging. The dresses in my suitcase lay miserably untouched; my trousers, smug, rise to the occasion. I'm wearing hot pink, lest the bougainvillaea outshines me. I spend the morning attending to my wounds: undressing, cleansing, treating and re-dressing. Given this lamentable ceremony, I don't reach Spetses, just a fifteen-minute water taxi ride from nearby Kosta, until the afternoon.
I count myself lucky: the annual Mini Marathon, which I didn't know about, has seen its runners pass the finish line, so the unsightly flag poles and inflatables are being cleared away, and the hordes of people spilling from tavernas and crowding the waterfront slowly disperse. Within the time it takes to find a bakery that hasn't sold out of spanakopita, the town is restored to my memory of it: pristine, painterly and glittering with irrefutable beauty. For the most part, the island is car-free. Popular modes of transport include horse-drawn carriages, motorbikes and bicycles. In a vision of wealth, mansions sit atop thrones of evergreen pine. Backstreet shops are chic—they sell things I'd like to own. The resident cats are full and fluffy; they can access doll-sized hotels where food and water are on tap.
Peering through my lens, I find a perfectly framed, gold-lit corner of sea, hills and intermittent action. I rest there for an hour on a wall, watching life through my camera, my arms aching beneath its weight. The sun sinks lower; the light gets richer. I head to the Old Harbour, where I spy a fisherman. I'm drawn to him, to them—their primitive patience, self-sufficiency and stillness—the quintessence of slow life. He lands a catch quicker than I can adjust my settings to capture it. A few days before, in Ermioni, I came across a cat waiting in anticipation, as I am now, and was elated to catch it on camera running off with the freshly pulled prize in its mouth. The Spetses hunter is the Van Helsing of the sea; the fish don't stand a chance, but I'm awarded a second shot. Satisfied, I give him a cheer and move on. The sun falls deeper; it tints the boats and casts a glow over the towering blue and white domed Church of the Three Spetses Martyrs, a postcard landmark. I linger, tapping at my shutter, and head back the way I came, seeing off the last rays at Dapia's port.
It's late when I fill my stomach with rice and mussels cooked in ouzo at Patralis. I'm sitting at the back, away from the sea, because those tables are full. I like this spot: it's warmer and intimate. I've a carafe of semi-sweet wine, my favourite, and I finish with baklava. The boat back to the mainland is due, and I walk to it as fast as my bloated belly and ankle allow. There's a blood moon. It's a rarity I've seen only once before, in Monemvasia. It's as captivating now as it was then, and I'm witnessing it with my favourite human, as I was years ago; my husband is with me. I wouldn't have navigated my way around this island so smoothly without him. I'm love-drunk, wine-drunk, sailing in red ink. As I disembark, I look to the sky, seeking the fiery face that lit my journey. But the moon I see is clotted cream without a hint of jam. It's a trickster trying to fool me into believing the whole day was a dream. But he saw it too, as did my camera, and they don't lie.
Click here to view my Spetses album.