|From our house...|
|Coming out of Mourgades - strolling west|
There were many olive presses here. One remains inside a finely proportioned house at the end of the neighbourhood; a corner angled to allow the passing road. A busy foreigner's supposed to have spent much money restoring the building, including the old press inside an airy atrium. Local agents - not Greek - took up his dream with confident promises of professional help with the project, telling him they'd obtain permissions for all alterations. This they did not do, leaving changes made by builders at the mercy of local planning inspections. Work was delayed, then stopped for failing to conform to the local vernacular. With plausible assurances the absent owner's helpers withdrew, leaving the property more incomplete than when it was merely neglected.
|'Pressing the olives' - marble relief by Aristeidis Metallinos of Ano Korakiana (with permission)|
After the heavy rolling stones of the olive press had cold-crushed the oil from the olives, as with wine from grapes or cider from apples, the miller was left with the olives' skin and bones ... ‘postain’ ‘potage’ (what’s the word?). Pomace! From pomace came the distinctive aroma that once permeated the maze of paths in Mourgades.
|An image of olive pomace - 'the dregs' - downloaded from the internet|
Perhaps the area should be called Ελαιολάδες or Eλαιοπυρήνα. I think of Mourgades, with its many recently improved houses, as the posh end of the village. It even has traffic lights, to avoid a jam between cars that venture through from either end. A notice cautions that the road narrows to 1.8 metres. Here, up an alley, even narrower, are two derelict houses, beside them turfed-out broken furniture, blackened kitchenware, a chamber pot, a retired cooker, rotting carpets, a German army diesel canister brimming with clear rain water, stamped with the date of my birth – 1942.
A children’s book wood, or, closer to dusk, a dazzling exposure over the tree tops. Momentarily blinding.
A long-lost friend of Lin's once remarked, when walking here at dusk.
"I'm out of my comfort zone"
The road winds down and down
“There’s the gateway where we stopped for a snack when Amy and the children and Liz were here” That was three years ago.
|Level ground below the crags|
|Coming up to the church of Agios Nikolaus at the edge of the village|
|Ano Korakiana 1975 Angelos Kontis, Άγγελου Κόντη. Posted by Thanassis Spingos on the village website|