DAY 06 (14.05.2026)
- Kurtis Lesick
- May 15
- 3 min read
Updated: May 15
(Irene)
“It was a good day for it, sunny and warm, the sky a crisp blue, clouds doing their best to look picturesque and fluffy. We set off, full of camaraderie and beautiful minds. Our destination the village of Farsa, across the bay. Our mission, to search for threshing floors. (More on that later). We drove around the Koutavos lagoon to the other side of the bridge, (it’s a causeway) and past the town Cemetry, Drapano. In the old days in Argostoli, a euphemism for dying was “crossing the bridge”. Now you can only cross it on foot. Not very convenient for the deceased. Nor for the wilting mourners. But I digress.
In merriment we arrived in Farsa. Opposite the church, we had been told, was one of the three paths that led to ‘The Grail’. We parked just below the restaurant, which denied us sustenance. Too early. Thankfully some had made their own plans, dug them out of secret pockets and munched contentedly. The unprepared drooled, sipped water and made light of hunger. Isn’t it always thus? In Greek we say of the unready, the foolish: “Where are you going, naked among the cucumbers?” Prickly leaves, you see.
In the churchyard we gazed at the view: the sea, the fisheries and Lixouri across the way on the Paliki peninsula. I told stories. Of how Pelegrina, the goat, save my grandfather and uncle from a German patrol, by bleating, thus establishing that they were locals. Her heroic status didn’t save her from the pot. Of how my grandmother, an honoured and beloved teacher in Farsa in the 1930’s, buried the fish all the fishermen brought her on the way up to the village; the best of their catch. She just had her two little girls with her. Too many fish, not enough mouths or willingness to eat them. At night she would take a shovel and bury them in the back garden. A puzzle for archaeologists of the future.
We took the first path. It led to an insurmountably steep slope. We met Arthur, a Brit who told us he did guided tours of Old Farsa, objected to those wearing flip flops and recommended the right path. We tried the second one, opposite the bus stop as he said, or at least as we understood him to say. Dead end. Finally, the third path, opposite the second bus stop, led to our desired destination. Eureka! As in life, one takes many a ‘wrong’ path, before finding Ithaca. And as Cavafy writes: “Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage. But she has nothing more to give you. And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not defrauded you.”
The threshing floor gave us a fun journey up and down difficult paths until we got to a smooth road. The view from there was beautiful. The old stones, mesmerising. The grasses, the old trees, the broken branches, the dry stone walls, the old village, in ruins, peeking down at us, all small rewards that wrenched our hearts, filled our eyes with their simple charms. The land owner arrived to see what we were up to. Some of us found him rather charming. He was the possessor of a gorgeous smile. Also a little gift of sorts.
We didn’t find a circle, just two half-moons. The circle adapting to the craggy landscape. The whips cracked. We too adapted. We headed to Saint Gerassimos. No entry. The nuns on siesta. No restaurant open, we were content, for a moment, with taking photos and hugging trees. But as we say in Greek: “The good lad knows other paths.” And so we went to taste wines at Orealios Gaea. Local wines, pleasant surroundings. Not a bad ending to our travels.
Only journeys never really end, do they? There’s always a little further. Always a little more to do. Always good conversations to be had. Always a bit more joy. Perhaps a bit more sorrow. More to learn, to think about, to love. More to really piss you off too.
In conclusion, this day my mouth was full of stories, my eyes full of wonder, my stomach uncomfortably full of cheese. What does it all mean? Circles and half circles, our whole existence.”
