Yesterday was excursion day for the conference and I decide to join the group going to visit "The petrified Forest" on the eastern side of the island. I tend to be wary of conference events because I become "the wife of Grant" and inherit his history which probably includes controversy and I know not what else. It turns out I'm not wrong. "I wondered what kind of animal could marry Grant McCall" quips a lady colleague. I smile and say "A tough one."
But the prospect of the petrified forest is alluring. I have come to love Mytilini town with its narrow main street and busy people, but a day out of the sun and with no effort required from me would be good. We pile into a big bus which has even less space for legs than Qatar Airlines and I am again grateful to be short. We are all sorts of nationalities and ages brought together by an absorption with issues pertaining to small islands. Not big ones, though apparently every so often a member of ISISA will plead the case for an island of indecent size and be put in their place, It all seems a bit like Gullivers travels to me - surely an egg is an egg whether you start eating from the small or the big end. Grant will explain why I am wrong no doubt. Anyway it is fun to hear the ripple of Spanish and Greek and Dutch all around.
It is a long trip trundling along the narrow roads in and out of villages and past huge plantations of olive trees, some of which look like old, old people, gnarled and arthritic with flaking skin. Apparently they can live to 500 years, and, I understand from a conversation going on behind me, the government protects the really old ones which can be a pain if you own an olive grove, as in fact the speaker does. I nod approvingly to myself though. It is good to look after us old ones and very Greek too.
We have a break at a village with a very steep cobbled road up to its heart, and there's a sign which promises a gallery of local arts and crafts. We all, (except Grant who is untempted by the hike) set to clamber up the little road. I wonder how on earth old people manage in these villages and why nobody thinks prudently of building on the flat. In fact the Lesvos-wide tourist blight has shut the gallery so we just startle the cafe people into serving us coffees. I order a lemon juice and drink it and then realise to my horror I've left my wallet way down in the bus. I could slope off and besmirch the reputation of ISISA or bring shame on the name of McCall by cadging off a stranger. I decide less is to be lost by the latter, and approach a Dutch mayor and his wife who obligingly offer to pay for me. In fact all ends well because at the next stop I explain the Aussie concept of "shout" to them and say it's mine and we all sip white wine together and talk about islands, His is self sustainable apparently and hopes to host a future conference.
We lurch our way round umpteen hairpin bends and I use a meditation technique to quell my travel sickness. The terrain is now absolutely barren with only the odd monastery popping up now and then. As we approach Sigri (which means "secure" on account of the port which has always been handy in storms) we see luminous white phallic objects alongside the road amongst the grey rubble generated by recent construction work. Our guide explains that these are petrified trees that have been preserved until they can be harvested by the museum.
On arriving at the museum we are given an extremely interesting lecture about how petrification happens. The area is full of extinct volcanoes. If lava lands on the trees they burn but if ash does they are preserved like the bodies in Pompeii. Excavations have revealed layer upon layer of these petrified trees going back through millenia's worth of eruptions. Only one animal fossil is displayed though - the jaw of an unprepossessing elephantine creature with its tusks on backwards. "It probably died of old age judging by its ground down teeth" our guide tells us. I suppose that in the middle of all these eruptions that's quite an achievement and one to aspire to.
We learn the wonderful word "autochthonous" which means basically in situ. It seems that it is rare for petrified trees to be kept where they have once grown but in Sigri that is how it is.
We are given an incredibly delicate warning not to muck with the trees. It ran more or less thus
"Alas, Sigri being a port, sailors liked to take home souvenirs, pieces of the trees and we lost many specimens." He points to an octopus like formation. "The roots only remain for us to excavate. However this crime has dropped since the law protecting the trees came in. We are lucky being an island. You can only get away by air or by boat. People may take pieces but they will be caught." He laughs merrily but we get the point.
The most interesting thing about the trees is the excitement and reverence which seems to surround them - they look like, well, rather rotten logs. Not what you hope to see in your rafters. But when you touch them they are the quintessence of death, stony and lifeless. Embedded are fossilised olive leaves, even a fir cone from millions of years ago. I'm glad our geologist guide loves them because they awake no nice feelings in me.
It was so good to tumble into our little flat when we got back to Mytilini. My knitting on the sofa. I discovered my earlier fear that I'd lost my passport was ungrounded. Grant went out to buy some milk and I made us spaghetti bolognese with superb Greek olive oil. I dreamt that night of sardines - a local delicacy, only I was one of them mutely squashed into a bus seat.
But the prospect of the petrified forest is alluring. I have come to love Mytilini town with its narrow main street and busy people, but a day out of the sun and with no effort required from me would be good. We pile into a big bus which has even less space for legs than Qatar Airlines and I am again grateful to be short. We are all sorts of nationalities and ages brought together by an absorption with issues pertaining to small islands. Not big ones, though apparently every so often a member of ISISA will plead the case for an island of indecent size and be put in their place, It all seems a bit like Gullivers travels to me - surely an egg is an egg whether you start eating from the small or the big end. Grant will explain why I am wrong no doubt. Anyway it is fun to hear the ripple of Spanish and Greek and Dutch all around.
It is a long trip trundling along the narrow roads in and out of villages and past huge plantations of olive trees, some of which look like old, old people, gnarled and arthritic with flaking skin. Apparently they can live to 500 years, and, I understand from a conversation going on behind me, the government protects the really old ones which can be a pain if you own an olive grove, as in fact the speaker does. I nod approvingly to myself though. It is good to look after us old ones and very Greek too.
We have a break at a village with a very steep cobbled road up to its heart, and there's a sign which promises a gallery of local arts and crafts. We all, (except Grant who is untempted by the hike) set to clamber up the little road. I wonder how on earth old people manage in these villages and why nobody thinks prudently of building on the flat. In fact the Lesvos-wide tourist blight has shut the gallery so we just startle the cafe people into serving us coffees. I order a lemon juice and drink it and then realise to my horror I've left my wallet way down in the bus. I could slope off and besmirch the reputation of ISISA or bring shame on the name of McCall by cadging off a stranger. I decide less is to be lost by the latter, and approach a Dutch mayor and his wife who obligingly offer to pay for me. In fact all ends well because at the next stop I explain the Aussie concept of "shout" to them and say it's mine and we all sip white wine together and talk about islands, His is self sustainable apparently and hopes to host a future conference.
We lurch our way round umpteen hairpin bends and I use a meditation technique to quell my travel sickness. The terrain is now absolutely barren with only the odd monastery popping up now and then. As we approach Sigri (which means "secure" on account of the port which has always been handy in storms) we see luminous white phallic objects alongside the road amongst the grey rubble generated by recent construction work. Our guide explains that these are petrified trees that have been preserved until they can be harvested by the museum.
On arriving at the museum we are given an extremely interesting lecture about how petrification happens. The area is full of extinct volcanoes. If lava lands on the trees they burn but if ash does they are preserved like the bodies in Pompeii. Excavations have revealed layer upon layer of these petrified trees going back through millenia's worth of eruptions. Only one animal fossil is displayed though - the jaw of an unprepossessing elephantine creature with its tusks on backwards. "It probably died of old age judging by its ground down teeth" our guide tells us. I suppose that in the middle of all these eruptions that's quite an achievement and one to aspire to.
We learn the wonderful word "autochthonous" which means basically in situ. It seems that it is rare for petrified trees to be kept where they have once grown but in Sigri that is how it is.
We are given an incredibly delicate warning not to muck with the trees. It ran more or less thus
"Alas, Sigri being a port, sailors liked to take home souvenirs, pieces of the trees and we lost many specimens." He points to an octopus like formation. "The roots only remain for us to excavate. However this crime has dropped since the law protecting the trees came in. We are lucky being an island. You can only get away by air or by boat. People may take pieces but they will be caught." He laughs merrily but we get the point.
The most interesting thing about the trees is the excitement and reverence which seems to surround them - they look like, well, rather rotten logs. Not what you hope to see in your rafters. But when you touch them they are the quintessence of death, stony and lifeless. Embedded are fossilised olive leaves, even a fir cone from millions of years ago. I'm glad our geologist guide loves them because they awake no nice feelings in me.
It was so good to tumble into our little flat when we got back to Mytilini. My knitting on the sofa. I discovered my earlier fear that I'd lost my passport was ungrounded. Grant went out to buy some milk and I made us spaghetti bolognese with superb Greek olive oil. I dreamt that night of sardines - a local delicacy, only I was one of them mutely squashed into a bus seat.
Great stuff, mum.
ReplyDeleteThe trouble with blogs is you are tempted back to old entries. And now I'm sitting here in tears thinking about Mum and your Sarah and Julia Ethan and Jacob one.
ReplyDeleteThe trouble with blogs is you are tempted back to old entries. And now I'm sitting here in tears thinking about Mum and your Sarah and Julia Ethan and Jacob one.
ReplyDeleteFantastic writing, keep it up!
ReplyDelete