It’s obscenely early and not quite light, but my morning coffee is still coursing through my veins, making me alert to each shifting sound in the aeroplane’s engine. I press my forehead against the window and stare at the lights below, trying not to gnaw at my nails with worry. London slowly becomes a haze of twinkling orange specks, then disappears altogether as the clouds swallow me. Bundled in cotton wool white, heading for Kalamáta Airport armed with a few photographs and memories, my hopes and dreams.
I imagine swimming in the sea in Methoni. The boats bobbing in the gently lapping water as I bathe in the sun’s reflection. The smell of salt and suntan lotion. I feel a bubble of excitement and a little apprehension. I’ve not been away since Robert and I took a trip to Rome to celebrate our engagement three years ago. Work was all-consuming and until Mum got sick, I hadn’t really had a break from it. Despite Robert’s exotic and expensive suggestions of the Caribbean for Christmas like the rest of his hedge fund crowd, I just couldn’t shut work down and go.
My calves twinge with the muscle memory of Rome with Robert. Pounding the paths and pavements for hours, walking along the River Tiber hand in hand. There was so much to see and Rome was a complete sensory overload. One of the churches overlooked by our hotel room held an early evening recital. We could hear Tosca being performed from our bed, sweet opera music drifting through billowing muslin curtains as the aria soared.
Those beautiful moments papered over the cracks. I thought in that moment he’d never hurt me again. Watching him sleep as the starlings began to roost in the spires and steeples, their screeching echoing across Rome, I believed things would be different; that he’d change. But he didn’t. I have neither the strength nor the inclination to revisit that any more, but I can’t help but wonder if I gave him permission and enabled his behaviour.
I angle my body to the window, offering my memories to the clouds below, letting them float away from inside my head. I plug in my headphones, selecting the Greek language app on my phone to review my limited vocab. Closing my eyes, the foreign sounds that follow the translated familiar roll around my brain, the inside of my mouth invisibly shaping the words.
Good morning … Kaliméra … Good morning … Kaliméra
Good evening … Kalispéra … Good evening … Kalispéra
Hello … Yiássas … Hello … Yiássas
Eventually, I’m lulled into sleep.
The ping of ten minutes to landing brings me to and as my ears pop, we start our descent into Kalamáta. I can’t help but smile, even with nerves twirling around my body. Craning my neck, I see an arid landscape beneath me creeping slowly closer as we float down towards it. Somewhere down there is Mum’s painting, and I’m going to find it.
* * *
‘Yiássas, ti kánete?’
I deliver my Greek greeting of hello, how are you with confidence to my taxi driver, who is holding a scrap of paper with my misspelled name scrawled on it: Sophia Konlick. Almost Sophie Kinlock, but it’ll do. In his other hand are dark-coloured prayer beads, which he rattles and flicks around his wrist as he responds.
‘Yiássas … polí kalá.’ And then he reels off something unintelligible and I have to interrupt him.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t really speak Greek. I understood hello and I’m well, but that’s all. Do you speak English?’
The short, bearded man surveys me with his beady eyes and shrugs.
‘Yes, some … I was thinking you are Greek. You speak well. I am Yannis. Come.’
‘Efharistó polí and nice to meet you, Yannis.’
I thank him very much for the compliment, grateful for my natural aptitude with languages, and let him wheel my suitcase from the cool air-conditioned airport towards the car.
Stepping outside into the dry air and bright sunshine feels strangely like coming home. The comfort of foreign warmth on my skin feels thrilling compared to the usual murky gloom of London and endless April showers. Everything here is in sharp focus, like a picture postcard. The pointed misty tops of the Peloponnese, the blue-and-white stripes of the Greek flags flutter in a lacklustre breeze against a deep cobalt sky. The wind is so relaxed, it can hardly be bothered to blow.
We pass a gathering of taxi drivers sat smoking and playing cards while they wait for their fares. The rich scent of tobacco engulfs me and I catch their bantering tone as one makes a winning move. I’ve shed a skin. I feel wild, slightly giggly – there’s something magical about the air, the warmth and smell. My insides settle as if they’re reordering themselves, like they’ve been ungrounded for months.
The winding mountain roads are marshalled on either side by cypress trees revealing glimpses of a deep valley below. Rows of perfectly planted olive trees stand in straight lines; their gnarled and ancient trunks knotted with years of growth. The perilous drop has no protective barrier and Yannis is on his phone, driving one-handed. I fail at holding in an audible gasp, but my driver is oblivious, deep in conversation.
I fire off a quick text to Tasha:
In case I should plummet into a ravine, our last message should give her succour as she mourns me.
Snaking down the mountain, I see a strip of glimmering silver in the distance. The sea! Thankfully, the road widens and my grip on the armrest relaxes as I take in the small villages we pass through. Each one seems to have a bakery, occasionally two, and several petrol stations. Mopeds and battered tractors are parked or abandoned by the side of the road. Groups of men sit outside cafés gesticulating wildly at each other. It’s hard to work out if they’re telling a tale or having an argument.
I take a breath when I see a sign: Μεθώνη, Methoni … just eight kilometres away. The twinkling silver strip spreads, wrapping a vast expanse of sparkling blue around the horizon as we turn towards the village. It’s like being on a journey to a sacred site. A mission for my mother, or is it my mission? Maybe it’s both.
A large hill emerges, casting an imposing presence, the town of Pylos cowering in its shadow. Regimented groves line our way, olive trees interspersed with grapevines, competing for the same sun. Orchards of orange, lemon and pomegranate trees, prickly pears with jagged spikes. The road becomes rougher as we enter Methoni. I hope to spot the scene of the painting, but it’s impossible to catch a clear view. I wonder what was here when Mum and I first came over thirty years ago. Then latterly, when Mum returned alone – could much have changed over the years?
Yannis makes a turn up a steep slope through the middle of an orchard towards a large white house. He shifts in his seat to talk to me.
‘Here is place and where I leave you.’
Pulling up the handbrake with a clunk, the silver crucifix hanging from his rear-view mirror sways violently with the abrupt stop. I pay him our agreed fare with a handful of colourful notes and thank him. His car kicks up a cloud of dust as he disappears over the brow.
An ‘Information’ sign points me to a patio covered in tan ceramic tiles. Oversized urns with massive aloes stand on either side of the front door, which is a rich mahogany against beautiful pale stonework. A tubby brown-and-white dog wags his shaggy tail lazily and lifts his head to look at me. The half-hearted greeting fans fallen olive leaves across the terrace. Knocking on the wooden door, I hear the noise echo at me from inside.
‘Nai, nai, erchómai!’ shouts a voice within.
I think that last word is either come in or I’m coming. Whichever it is, I think I’ll wait. Footsteps clip across a floor and the door flies open.
A tall, wispy woman in her fifties wearing a scarlet smock splattered with streaks of orange greets me warmly. Around her head is a red scarf knotted at the front, her shiny black ponytail is scraped away from her face. The sharpness of her angular features reminds me of a bird. She’s holding a tattered cloth and wipes her hands to remove daubs of what looks like clay from her skin. I smile back at her and begin my prepared sentence.
‘Yiássas, to ónomá mou eínai Sophie Kinlock … echó kánei krátisi …’ I’m desperately hoping she gets the gist of my introduction, as the sum of my Greek is about to run out.
‘Yiássou, Sophie. Kalosirthaté! Welcome! Your Greek is good, kala. Yes, yes, you are here! I am Christina Makos. Is beautiful day, the sun is warm.’ Her arms fly about as she expresses her joy at the weather. ‘My son will show you where you are staying. Alexander!’
I jump at the calm tones that transform into something resembling a foghorn.
‘This is your first time in Methoni?’
‘I actually came here as a child, but I was five, so I’m sort of seeing it for the first time … only again.’
‘This is wonderful. It will be love at first sight! Now, if you are needing anything, you must ask. I am here most days or sometimes my husband, Markos.’
Behind her, a gangly teenager appears, dressed head to toe in black, the opposite of his vibrantly clothed mother. With a clip around his ear that doesn’t quite make contact, Christina indicates to me and shoves him forwards. He reluctantly takes my suitcase and I thank him. He doesn’t respond.
‘He is teenage,’ explains Christina. ‘He says nothing to me, nothing to his father – only his friends he talks with. And he speaks bad English, so you are in our club of not being spoken to, yes?’
She laughs heartily at her son’s expense and he seems not to notice. He sets off towing my suitcase, which prompts a torrent of something from his mother. She turns her attention back to me, shaking her head with apparent exasperation at her boy.
‘You follow him, and I am here for help if you need. There is food shop downhill. But I leave things for salad, and rosé wine we make here. You must eat, is lunchtime. Alexander has key.’
I thank her and turn to follow her son up the hillside, reassured at the warmth of the greeting I received, allaying any nervousness I had about being here alone.
I look out at the expanse of ocean as I trail behind Alexander. Majestic rocks protrude from the water like a giant has dropped stones from above. They meet between sea and sky as if poised for battle. The immovable guards of history; lovers, families and all those who came thousands of years before, their stories almost tangible in the air. These ancient rocks and cliffs were the ones my mother would have seen. I stop for a moment, moved by the thought, a swell of emotion rising within me as I gaze out on the aged outcrop.
Alexander patiently waits for me beside a cobbled pathway. My villa, surrounded by olive trees, is beautifully simple, made of stone with traditional curved roof tiles. He unlocks the door and deposits my suitcase. Shrugging as if his work is done, he leaves.
Inside is basic and ideal. A large, open-plan kitchen-diner and lounge, a bathroom and a bedroom. The sitting room and bedroom both have double doors leading to a terrace. I dump my bag on the crisp white linen and a pile of towels at the foot of the bed bounce apart from their neat arrangement.
Opening the shutters on the patio doors, light floods the room and I step outside. My breath catches, stopping a gasp that sticks in my throat. The view quite literally takes my breath away. Every possible shade of blue, miles of sea and a never-ending cerulean sky. Grasping the balcony railings, I’m staggered by the beauty in front of me. No wonder Mum called this place ‘heaven on earth’ and was inspired to immortalise it on canvas.
The olive trees in the garden below aren’t tall enough to mask a single moment of this vista. I glimpse the nearest town of Pylos in the distance, sparkling with heat haze on the edge of the headland, sun bouncing off windows. The bay is enclosed on its periphery by the ruined ramparts of Methoni Castle, embracing the cove like ancient arms. Beyond is the rest of the world. A ribbon of sandy gold marks the tideline in front of the tavernas I passed on the way in.
I find my bearings from my hillside vantage point and see a cloud of dust rising as a truck rattles along the road, the hum receding as it makes its way through the village. There’s the faint sound of an engine out at sea, but little other noise. I feel as if I can breathe again, filling my lungs completely. I drink in the warm, salty air, letting it reach every neglected corner of my body that’s been heartsick with grief. Healing seeps into my bloodstream, a warm simmering of hope inside the marrow of my bones.
On the kitchen work surface sits a small wicker basket filled with beautiful local produce: dried oregano, a bottle of golden oil, Kalamáta olives, fresh coffee, home-made biscuits and a paper-wrapped loaf. In the fridge, I discover all the ingredients to create my first authentic Greek salad. Horiatiki Salata.
After banging and crashing around the simply fitted kitchen, I eventually locate a large bowl, chopping board and knife to slice and dice my taste buds alive. I set my lunch on the terrace table, along with a small glass of chilled rosé. I feel utterly decadent with my small feast and my big view. Even compiling a simple salad gives me a thrill, such is my love of food.
The wine is dry and crisp, the sweet green pepper complements tangy, creamy feta and fruity tomato. Oregano flecks earthy notes throughout the salad and the rich aroma of the local oil is different from any I’ve ever tasted; this is almost honeyed with subtle layers of complexity. Foodie nirvana!
I tear off hunks of bread to mop up the golden nectar. All of my senses brought back to life by flavour. A metamorphosis with every mouthful.
* * *
I wake to see wooden beams and a ceiling fan rotating slowly overhead. With absolutely no idea where I am, I sit bolt upright. The fug of traveller sleep begins to evaporate and I remember. My shoulders drop to their new-found relaxed position. I didn’t dream it. I’m really here.
The room is tinged with orange and I realise the sun is beginning to set. I stretch and stare through the French windows at the glorious sight from my bed. The sun, as if performing a final bow, is slowly sinking behind the huge rock in the middle of the sea. Everything is streaked with gold, like a divine being is present. I take the photograph with my mind, then grab my phone and text it to Tasha:
The sea reflects the pinks and purples of the sky, the rock is a deep indigo in silhouette against the ball of fiery red peeping over the top. The contrast in colour to home is so loud, I’m starting to understand why Mum loved it so much. Her creative skill as a renowned artist was embodied in her ability with colour. It was in both her choice of clothes and paintings. It makes her absence even more acute. Without her in it, the world is a watery grey wash. But here … it all feels like her. I’m so glad I came. After months of limbo followed by endless indecision, stuck in a mindless routine of grief, it’s like Mum is here with me. Like she’s helping me to find myself again as I try to find her picture.
There’s so much I want to ask her, but the choice has been taken away from me. If only we had more time. Perhaps it’s what grates the most in all of this – that the option has been removed. I wish I could ask her about the painting. It feels like searching for a grain of sand, but someone must know about it or, luckier still, someone here may have it.
This time last year nobody could have predicted my world would unravel, leaving me to put it all back together. I feel like a thirty-something teenager, who has inherited a house and a back catalogue of renowned artwork. But I’d trade it all for an extra hour with Mum. Stuff means nothing – it doesn’t make up for the loss or soften the blow. Just meaningless things and vacant shells. Yet, focusing on the simple and important things lets snatches of optimism sneak in – barely noticeable, but I know they are there.
A piece of paper slips underneath the door. A note from Christina:
If you would like dinner, knock and we go to village for food. There is music and bring shoes for dancing! Christina xoxo.
I’m thankful for the invitation, as it’ll soon be dark. I hadn’t thought how to navigate my way down to the village with no clue where I’m going.
Music, dancing and food: the holy trinity.
Stepping into the shower, I allow the hot water to cascade over my face, the jets massaging my scalp. I let my head tip backwards, droplets bouncing off me onto the sandstone tiles. Any trace of fear or worry, any thoughts of home are washed clean from my body for now.
In this moment, for the first time in so long, I’m beginning to remember how it feels to be me again.