Through My Lens: Agios Konstantinos From the Back
If you take a few steps from where I took last week’s photo, you have an excellent view of how the church of Agios Konstantinos was built on the ruins of the castle at the top of the Chora of Serifos. This view of Agios Konstantinos from the back is my photo choice for today, the Fourth Sunday of Lent.
Doors and Windows of Serifos
Naturally, I had far too many photos for my post about the Chora of Serifos, so here are some of the outtakes — most of them doors and windows.
One might assume, as I did, that the colours of the Cycladic houses come from the Greek flag. Or from the colours of the Aegean Sea and the Grecian skies. But it turns out the blue-and-white colour scheme has a much more basic origin.
White is a practical choice, of course. Along with the thick stone walls and small windows, it helps the houses stay cool — an all-important consideration in the Mediterranean climate. But whitewash also contains limestone, a natural disinfectant, and during a cholera outbreak in 1938, it was ordered that whitewash be applied to all houses to help prevent the spread of the disease.
And blue? Turns out blue was the cheapest colour of paint available and after painting their boats, fishermen used any leftover paint on their houses.
Then, in 1967, the military dictatorship that ruled Greece at the time ordered all houses be painted blue and white because the colours were considered patriotic. White was linked to purity and independence (remember the uniforms of the Presidential Guard?). And, yes, blue represents the sea and the sky.
The colour scheme was made law in 1974. Those laws are no longer in place, but the blue and white colours have become so synonymous with the Greek islands that everyone keeps the traditional colours.
One final bit of trivia: many of the Greek islands were colonized by the Venetians and their influence can be seen in the construction of the doors and windows.
Through My Lens: Agios Konstantinos
For the Third Sunday of Lent, I’m posting a photo of the church of Agios Konstantinos. This small chapel was built almost two hundred years ago on the ruins of the castle built by Venetian traders back in the fifteenth century. Its location at the highest point of the Chora, about 250 metres above sea level, makes it the best spot for a panoramic view over Serifos.
Agios Konstantinos (Saint Constantine), also known as Constantine the Great, was Emperor of Rome from 306 to 337 CE, founder of Constantinople (now called Istanbul), and the first Roman emperor to convert to Christianity. He is credited with stopping the persecution of Christians and making the Christian faith the dominant religion of the Roman Empire.
Through My Lens: Agios Athanasios
Even an island as small as Serifos has a cathedral and that would be this church, the Cathedral of Agios Athanasios. Agios Athanasios (Saint Athanasios) was the twentieth Patriarch of Alexandria and a key figure at the First Council of Nicaea held in 325.
Built in 1820, the cathedral is located in Pano Piatsa (the main square) of the Pano Chora and is my photo choice for today, the Second Sunday of Lent.
Through My Lens: Agios Sostis
When I asked my home exchange friend if there were more beaches or churches on Serifos, she laughed.
“Oh, churches,” she said. “Definitely!”
And so, needless to say, this year’s Lenten series will be all about the churches of Serifos.
For today, the First Sunday of Lent, here is a photo of Agios Sostis, which is the name of both the church and the beach. I spent two delightful afternoons lying on this beach, looking at this church located on a headland jutting out into the Aegean Sea. My second time here, we lazily watched as a wedding party made its way up that pathway to the chapel.
Agios Sozon (Saint Sozon) is known in Greece as Sostis. Born a shepherd, he was martyred around 300 CE and is celebrated every year on September 7. He is revered as a protector of fishermen, sailors, and anyone who travels by sea.
Panegyri on Serifos
It hadn’t even been 24 hours since my arrival on Serifos and I was already on my way to a party. My home exchange partner had invited me to a panegyri.
Truth be told, I dithered about whether to go. Who would I talk to? How would I get home? That was the introvert in me talking. But the traveller in me was desperate to go. And in the end I went because I could hear in my head the voice of my dearest friend, saying, “What do you mean you didn’t go?”
Panegyria are a centuries-old tradition in Greece. The word comes from the Greek word pan (meaning all) + ageiro (meaning to gather). Originally, they were large gatherings dedicated to the worship of a deity, but, over time, they have shifted to celebrating Christian Orthodox saints.
Panegyria are especially common in rural communities and on the islands where local families take on the responsibility of maintaining and caring for the many small churches. As each saint’s day is celebrated, the family responsible for the church dedicated to that particular saint hosts a community feast, complete with live music and dancing.
Tourists are always welcome. On my first visit to a Greek island (decades ago, when I was travelling the European continent on a train pass), my friend and I ended up at three such festivals within four days.
The panegyri I attended on Serifos was at the church of Agios Ioannis (Saint John the Apostle). We were too late for the religious service, but made our way into the chapel anyways, just for a moment, where we left a donation and my home exchange partner lit a candle.
Outside was a table where everyone ate in shifts; my home exchange partner introduced me to her friends and we stood and chatted until it was our turn to eat. There was wine, potatoes, some kind of grilled meat, fava bean soup, and lots of bread. It was clearly a family affair with the men grilling the meat, the women running the kitchen, and the children serving the food.
Eventually the music started up in the portion of the building next to the kitchen and we moved indoors to listen. Someone played a violin, another a bouzouki. The songs were long and when they ended, there was lots of applause. The musicians would rest for a bit, then the bouzouki player started picking out another tune and it would all start up again.
It was quite late when my home exchange partner turned to me and laughed at the fatigue she could clearly see on my face. She jumped up and said she would find me a ride home. And a few minutes later, as I walked up the hill to the main road with the Serbian couple who were willing to give me a lift (they were also staying in the Chora), a group of young women, clearly tourists, passed us on their way down. They thought they had missed the panegyri. I assured them they hadn’t, but they were alarmed that they couldn’t hear any music.
“The music is indoors,” I said. “Go on down, you can’t miss it.”
Nor had I — and I was so glad I hadn’t.
Beaches of Serifos
Serifos, I’m told, has 72 beaches. I made it to four of them.
My first was Paralia Livadi (Livadi Beach). I didn’t swim here, but I was sitting on its sand within hours of my arrival, and I walked past it often during my two weeks on the island. It’s literally steps away from the tavernas and bars of Livadi.
My first swim on Serifos was here. I know — it’s not a beach. This is on the southern shores of Serifos, about as far away from Livadi as I got during my two weeks on the island. My home exchange partner took me here late one afternoon, along with two other Canadians who were also visiting her. We parked along the side of the road, then walked through the shrubbery down a rather steep hill to the cliff edge where we sat on the rocks and sunbathed and talked. I suspect it is one of those spots known only to locals and I felt really lucky to be there.
Paralia Agios Sostis (Agios Sostis Beach) is named after the church located beside it. (Agios is Greek for “saint.”) There are actually two beaches here as the headland gives you access to two coves.
The beach on this cove was deserted.
The beach on the other cove was where I spent my afternoons. There are no amenities at Agios Sostis and little shade. But the water is deliciously warm, even at the beginning of October.
My first visit was by car, but when I realized Agios Sostis was walking distance from Livadi, I returned a few days later on foot. I’m told it’s so busy here in the summer, it’s difficult to find a parking spot.
My favourite beach was this one, called Paralia Psili Ammos (Psili Ammos Beach).
The beach, lined with shade-providing tamarisk trees, is much longer than the one at Agios Sostis and the sand is much finer. (Psilli Ammos means “fine sand.”) There are also two tavernas where you can buy a cold beverage or a meal.
Because the cove is shallower than at Agios Sostis, the water was warmer. The bay is rather popular with the touring yachties — at one point, I counted eight sailboats anchored off shore.
Again, my first visit to Psilli Ammos was by car, but for my return visit, I walked overland from my home in the Chora. When I was ready to head home, I walked to Livadi to catch the bus up to the Chora.
I don’t know when or if I’ll get back to Serifos, but I love that I have 68 more beaches to explore.
Livadi
At one end, there’s the port, consisting of a simple concrete jetty. At the other end, there’s the beach.
In between is a waterfront lined with shops, tavernas, and bars.
Much further down, a smattering of pensions and hotels. Beyond the waterfront, a few narrow streets lined with more stores and businesses.
Oh, and a marina. It’s popular with live-aboard sailors cruising the Aegean; they spend their days exploring the bays of Serifos and moor their yachts at the marina overnight just in time to go find some dinner.
And that’s Livadi (lee-VAH-thee). It definitely feels more like a sleepy beach town than the largest town and economic hub of Serifos. I suspect it’s much busier at the height of summer, but I quite liked its pace in late September.
I didn’t come down to Livadi every day, but it was where I came to get my groceries and it has the island’s only ATM. I’d usually plan to have a meal while there, too.
Because there is nothing like eating seafood along a Cycladic waterfront to make you feel like you’re on holiday.
Following My Nose Through the Chora of Serifos
My first full day on Serifos, I walked out my door and followed my nose through the Chora. Did you know the word “labyrinth” comes from the Greek word laburinthos? Apparently Cycladic towns were traditionally built with meandering passageways to thwart the pirates that plied the Aegean back in medieval times.
I can believe it. I never walked the same route twice in my wanderings through the Chora — and I promise you I couldn’t have if I tried.
On this first day, I was looking for the main square I knew was up there somewhere. Signs scribbled on whitewashed walls with arrows that read “top” or “kastro” were helpful — I told myself if I kept walking up, I’d get there eventually.
Turns out kastro is Greek for castle, which was built in 1434 by the Venetians (again, to protect the islanders from pirate raids). Only the ruins remain, but what a view!
I had to backtrack a bit to find the main square I was looking for as it was not quite so high. Called Pano Piatsa, it was much smaller than I was expecting it to be. It’s also the only open public space in the Pano Chora (again, blame those pirates). The yellow building is the town hall and was built in 1908. There are a handful of restaurants and shops, but given the time of year I was there, every time I walked up to Pano Piatsa, another one had shut up for the season.
Further on from Pano Piatsa are three windmills still in pretty good shape.
At one time, there were eight, all built to grind grain into flour.
Why are so many places in Greece named Chora, you may well wonder? It’s because it’s the Greek word for “town.” Typically, the first or biggest settlement on an island is referred to as the Chora.
On Serifos, the Pano Chora (upper town) is the oldest part of the town; I was staying in the Kato Chora (lower town).
Some say the Chora of Serifos is the prettiest in the Cyclades. Who am I to argue?
It felt special, living right in the Chora like I did. But most of the island life took place at Livadi. I was off to explore that next.
From Vancouver to Serifos
When I told people I was going to spend two weeks on a Greek island, their reaction was always, “Nice!” But when I told them I was going to Serifos, their reaction was always, “Where?”
Like most Canadians, they had never heard of the place. Nor had I, until I got a home exchange offer I couldn’t refuse.
Serifos is in the Cyclades, an island group in the Aegean Sea — the part of the Mediterranean that lies between Greece and Turkey.
It’s also a bit of a trek from here to there. First, a long-haul flight from Vancouver to Athens (via Heathrow), then a taxi ride from my Athens hotel to the Port of Piraeus, and, finally, a catamaran fast ferry to Serifos.
The fast ferries that ply the Aegean are nothing like our BC Ferries. Because they are fast ferries, there are no outer decks and my assigned seat was in the bowel of the vessel, nowhere near a window.
The port at Serifos, too, is nothing like the highly automated ferry docks that line the coast of BC. The ferry comes alongside the concrete pier for just a few minutes; there’s no dawdling when offboarding as a foot passenger.
But once I disembarked, it was a short walk to where my home exchange partner was waiting with her car. And not long after that, we were pulled over on the main road that goes between the port of Serifos to the Chora.
We got out of the car, I grabbed my bags, and she pointed up to a white house with green trim.
“See the solar panels on the roof?” she asked. I nodded. She had an appointment to get to, so we said goodbye and I made my way up the donkey path to my new (temporary) home.
It was a typical Cyclades house: small and square, white on the outside, cool on the inside, painted door and shutters.
I was delighted by the welcoming committee.
A couple of hours later, I had decompressed from my journey, unpacked, and was wondering what to do next when my home exchanger messaged me. She was on her way back to Livadi — that was the name of the town by the port. Did I want a ride?
Yes, please.
When she asked where she could drop me, I said I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She stopped the car in front of a restaurant she liked.
“Go sit at one of the tables by the water,” she said. “They will come to you.”
And so I enjoyed my first meal of many on Serifos, overlooking an idyllic scene and marvelling at how long it had taken me to get here, literally and figuratively.
And relishing the thought that I had two whole weeks to explore the place.
There and Back Again 