We have knowingly sailed past four active volcanoes so far on Missy Bear: two in the Aeolian islands and one on Sicily last year; and now one on the end of the Methana peninsular.
Admittedly, the latest one last erupted about 250 BC, but it still bubbles out sulphurous waters that fuel the hydrotherapy spa at ‘stinky’ Methana town. Apparently, if you keep your boat there, you don’t need to antifoul the bottom, because the eggy-smelling waters will keep all the barnacles and weeds at bay.
The latest one is the first and only one that we’ve set foot on. I say “we”, but I mean “I”. First Mate decided she didn’t want to climb the big jagged-rocky mound. I think it’s because there wasn’t a nice interesting fortress at the top. But I may be wrong.
We sailed past Vulcano in October, as it was belching out hot, pale vapours. In fact, we learned that the villagers on the slopes had to be evacuated two weeks later as poisonous gas was flowing down towards them from the crater.
Later that day (in October), and anchored off Panarea, we could see the constant smoke signals from Stromboli. We decided not to sail around to the north-west of the island that night to see the fireworks of ‘the world’s first lighthouse, as we felt we could leave that to our imagination.
We were only aware of Etna erupting that next week because of the ash that fell invisibly over Missy Bear’s topsides in tiny black ball-bearings. The puffing crater never appeared to us from below the clouds, and it was only a live web-cam of the summit that demonstrated that it was belching mightily into the stratosphere.
None of these three volcanoes ever go for a big, spectacular ‘bang!’ simply because they are venting and releasing pressure pretty much constantly. It’s similar to the Methana volcano. There is no crater - where it could have blown its top - because it bubbled out lava over a very long period of time. Not so much a squeezed spot that pops [Alix: oh yuk], but a boil slowly oozing out puss. Sorry if you were eating when you read that. The Methana peninsular is covered in 32 such boils.
When our flotilla arrived in little Vathi (a tiny, pretty harbour on the west coast of the peninsular), a visit to the volcano was something that I always recommended our guests do. My shame, as lead tour guide, was that I hadn’t visited it myself. All the other tourist attractions that I proposed at the morning briefings came from my first-hand knowledge: the ancient theatre at Epidavros; the Temple of Athena Aphai on Aegina; the vertiginous setting of the Monastery of Panagia Elona near Plaka; the Venetian fortress perched high above Astros. But, the volcano? Well, I’d heard that the panoramic views from the summit were spectacular.
As Missy Bear was now tied up in that hamlet - almost able to secure her lines to the legs of the taverna tables on the quayside – I decided now was the time to make the ascent. It wasn’t the best time to go – early morning or late evening is cooler and better light. I read somewhere that a sunset view from this volcano is more beautiful than one from Santorini. It was mid-afternoon and quite hot when the taxi collected First Mate and me from the port. We had a snaking ride up through the limestone hill and the lava mounds and past pretty Kaimeni Chora, which means ‘burnt village’.
The taxi driver pulled over at a painted sign, which probably said ‘volcano this way’, and I hopped out as he and First Mate went to find a shady tree under which to park the car and wait.
The climb was rocky and my soft, flexible trainers were perfect for the job. The uneven path switch-backed upwards through the pines, occasionally offering glimpses out to the sea to the north. A brave pine might cling to a rock pinnacle in the view reminding me of a scene in some Japanese painting. Now and then the path crossed the rough, brown-beige lava lumps, some of which rose like clouds of thick billowing smoke frozen in time. Now and then, both hands as well were required to scale the rocks.
I followed the square, red-and-blue painted signs and eventually arrived at a white arrow indicating the volcano centre. What a strange place that was. The entrance was like the entrance flap of a Red Indian’s wigwam, but inside, the tall, pyramid-shaped void was made of stone that almost looked like man-cut ashlar laid in courses. I looked up and sunlight beamed in between rocks that seemed wedged from falling upon me from the roof void. I hoped.
Back in the light, I sat and gazed over the Saronic Gulf that spread out below me, beyond the ancient spewing. I could see the island of Agistri, and then Aegina Town low on the north-west tip of Aegina Island to the right. And far in the distance, to the right of Salamis Island, I think I could pick out the faint, pale built mass of Piraeus.
In 480 BC at Salamis, the Greek triremes defeated Xerxes and his Persian fleet. “Ramming speed!” The rocks from which I was now gazing in that direction were not even formed when that critical battle took place.
I texted First Mate to say I was at the top and heading down. I texted her again at the bottom to say I had arrived. No reply. No taxi. So I trudged up the hot tarmac road to where I knew the taxi would be waiting to find First Mate and the taxi driver gassing like old mates.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were back?”, she asked, before looking at her phone to see the string of unread texts. “Oh, I see.”
P.S. To add some proper literary skill to this blog, I liked this passage from our Cadogan:
”In this other worldly landscape of savage black, red and green crags and sharp abysses, the perfect silence is relieved only by a breeze rusting in a few brave pines, the cry of a rare hawk circling overhead, and the sighing indigo blue sea far below. The Peloponnese may be the 'Cradle of Hellenism', but here, by pitiless primordial crater in the sizzling sun, it seems more like the cradle of the world itself. Or a sneak preview of its end.”