Parga to Arillas to Corfu

 Oct 15

We woke to a cool but sunny day. Our guides kindly delayed departure so that a group of us could walk up to Parga Castle. Besides ourselves, the only people in the streets were residents washing their balconies and stairs and the streets below their homes, even scrubbing their walls. I passed a working woman sweeping up the few bits of litter that had gathered in the night. Greece is really clean, and now I see why. 

The gang heading to the castle

When the road's not cobbled, it's painted to look cobbled

Parga climbs the natural amphitheatre of the harbour to the castle, and seems to spill down the hill on the other side to a long beach below. Up and up we walked. Funny how climbing hills feels so different on foot than on a bike. Being in shape for one doesn’t mean being in shape for the other. 

The Panagiota at the end of the pier, and the Captain Cook, an excursion boat, beside

Parga castle is similar to all the other castles we’ve visited this trip. It’s like local warlords of some seven hundred years ago would see a hill and think, “Oh, that hill needs a castle!” Then some invading hoard (like the Ottomans) would come along and wreck it, then another invading hoard (like the Venetians) would come along and rebuild it. Apparently the Venetians, ever the good merchants, sold this one back to the Ottomans, whereupon Ali Pasha made improvements like adding a hammam and quarters for his harem.

None of these improvements were apparent to my uneducated eye. There are broken down walls and tunnels that I hoped wouldn’t collapse at the moment I was walking through. There are canons lying around. There are always canons lying around. You’d think the iron would have been worth pilfering. 

. We all took the same photos through chinks in the walls.

The beach on the other side of the hill from the town

Back towards town, the tiny church on a tiny island, from above

Then we wandered back down through the freshly-scrubbed town to pick up our bikes for the last ride of this tour.

Women scrubbing

Last look at Parga

 

Lined up and ready to go

But first, a dance from Dimitris

As we rolled out of the bay, people were having breakfast in the many waterside restaurants. One man applauded us as we passed by, like we were La Tour de France Ancienne — old farts on e-bikes. Ludicrous as it might have been, it felt good anyhow.

Once again, we climbed and climbed and climbed. Not far from Parga, Gill’s battery quit functioning and she had to turn around to pick up a new bike from the boat (accompanied by Dimitris, who would never leave anyone on their own), which had already set sail and had to back up all the way to the dock. The really amazing part was that Gill caught up with us when we got to the next, you guessed it, castle. She’s a warrior! Dimitris caught up too, but he’s only twenty, a child, so of course he ought to have. 

Yes, another castle. We left the main hill to climb further  to see it, and I’m thinking, if we’re coming back the same way, maybe I should just wait here? But no, I’m out to prove something to myself I guess. So I chugged up with the rest of them, around hairpin turns on a narrow road, mostly thinking about the descent, how tricky it would be. 

This was the Castle of Anthousa, and despite my lack of anthousiasm in getting there (oh gawd, I’m so sorry for that!) it was a nice stop, and who should arrive there but the man who applauded us on the way out of Parga! He had ridden one of those tourist mini-trains, and how that thing got up the mountain is beyond me, but there it was, along with a handful of passengers. Knowing that such a vehicle was winding up a narrow mountain highway alleviated a lot of my concern about the likes of us cyclists holding up traffic. Drivers are very patient here. Anyhow, the gentleman couldn’t believe we’d ridden up here. Probably didn’t notice our bike batteries.

Anthousa Castle was built in 1814, therefore is much newer than Parga Castle, and in better shape. Still, I kept my fingers crossed going through the stone tunnels leading into the centre. Ali Pasha built this fortress to threaten Parga, which apparently was a final hold-out from the conquering Ottoman/Bulgarian.

After negotiating the predicted treachery of the narrow road down to the highway, the long slide downhill to our final destination was most welcome. This is the big advantage of making the climbs — as long as the road and the weather are good. This felt like a final reward for our week of intermittent torture. (I kid! I wouldn’t trade any of it for anything!)

We left the highway and slid into a green valley. We stopped at a shrine where a small miracle had once taken place, we were told. An icon of St. Athanasios allegedly disappeared from its church location and reappeared by an old olive tree. Twice. So a small church was built on the spot, and people come to the tree and place offerings in the hollow trunk in hopes of a cure for whatever ails them.

Frances does not need a cure

Offerings in the hollow trunk

 

The church at the shrine. I saw many small Orthodox churches looking just like this.

From the shrine, it was a 2-km ride to the shore, beautiful, empty, sandy Karavostasi Beach. There was a resort there, and we had refreshments poolside, waiting for the time the Panagiota would arrive in Arillas to pick us. Then we rode the last couple of kilometres to Arillas, the very last ride of the tour.

It was a perfect day for swimming, but no one was there.

The Seattle gang, a mix of doctors, nurses, and Microsoft techies

This is what I had envisioned for this trip: hanging out on a sunny deck. Today was the only day it happened.

We sailed a calm sea (!) back to Corfu, experienced a bit of culture shock as a handful of cruise ships came into view, and docked right at the old port in the centre of town, in sight of our ratty first-night hotel. 

Corfu's Old Fort

Cruise ships

The white building is our awful hotel from last week. The little building at sea level is En Plo, where we plan to have lunch in the next couple of days. Behind is the Old Fort.

Dimitris, a student of history, led us on a short walking tour of the town, but was abruptly stopped by a woman who stepped out of a church yard. We didn’t need to understand the language to know what was going on. Her lanyard indicated that she was an official guide, and she told Dimitris he was not allowed to deliver information to a group of people without a licence. There was nothing friendly about her demeanour. We walked away. 

The New Fort, Venetian. Note the winged lion of St. Mark

Priests

He took us to a gelateria and treated us all to gelato. That gelateria, which proclaims itself one of the best 100 in the world, is directly below the apartment we’ve rented for the next days in Corfu. We didn’t know that when we rented the place. Wahoo!!

Our last dinner was shipboard, another tired meal, I’m afraid, but followed by a rambunctious party and karaoke. “Sweet Caroline” was enough to start me shutting down. (This was the one tune our Moroccan guide played in the van on the Morocco tour, and sorry, I just don’t get it. Never could stand the tune, but people go crazy for it.) When my Apple watch told me for the third time that noise levels had exceeded 90 decibels, I sneaked out of there and settled into my gently rocking bed, but not until I bumped my head on the upper bunk for the 78th time.