As soon as he had a clear view the driver pulled to a halt, wound down his window, closed his eyes and deeply inhaled, 'My friends, we are here - the holiday home of the Gods.'
And no description could have prepared me for that breath-taking first impression. A sprinkling of intricately decorated blue and white houses and chapels that seemed to graze upon the saddle between the peaks of two mountains was laid out before us. As if for confirmation, I climbed out of the van just in case it was a dream. The sky was raining quietly to itself. I dared not blink. Here was a sense of lost innocence, of delicious isolation precariously clinging to the warm air itself.
Towards the end of the village, sat a grove of windmills, their blades pushing at an endless sky but the highest point was the tower of a church or basilica and close to that waved the noble blue and white national flag of Greece - a part of the nation, yet apart from the nation. Separated not just by geography but also by time.
A gravelled turning area at the beginning of the village served as a vehicle terminus where the tourist shuttles off-loaded their exhilarated cargoes to wander for a few hours. Our driver began unloading packages and provisions from the boot and seemed to take forever. The old man passed me the cabbage whilst he squeezed past and scrambled onto the gravel. He stood there arms outstretched and waited for me to pass him the vegetable. Once he had it in his arms again, he shuffled off without a word and don't think I ever saw him again.
It was getting hotter and noisier in the glare. No shade. Astride a couple of motor bikes sat a couple of other visitors, rather obvious in matching wraparound sunglasses, identical maroon shorts and gaudy waterproofs; I couldn't help but wonder why they found our van so fascinating. A set of steep steps led up to the principal passageway into the village. On either side of the first step a few young scallywags had positioned themselves in such a way to have a clear view up the skirts and dresses of any visiting females. When it dawned on them that I knew what they were up to, they burst into shameless sniggers and gleeful squeaks having been caught out having so much barefaced fun.
Our driver was busily dividing the mail into parcels and envelopes. I coughed and stood before him, 'Kalimera. Good morning. How's it going? I wonder, could I have a word?'
Without raising his eyes, he held up an open palm. I clamped shut. After he'd organised what was going where, he continued, 'I am sorry. Please excuse. Good Morning. How are you? My name is Ari.' We shook hands.
'Harry? How amazing. Why, that's an English name. My name's Godfrey,' I half expected the 'god-free' joke but it never came. I forced a big smile, realising how patronising I'd sounded and hoped he wouldn't thump me. Gosh, it was all so awkward. He raised his head just enough to stare over the rim of his glasses for a few seconds like a tutor with a dense pupil.
'My name is Ari-ste-thes,' he stressed the spaces and the difference as though he'd explained it all a thousand times before.
'Oh, right. Of course. Ari-stethes. Beautiful. Like Ari-stotle.'
He stared at me and shook his head in utter despair. I coughed again hoping he'd think it just a temporary blockage. 'Good name. Very heroic.' I was having a brain-jam and didn't know what to say next so I put my foot in my mouth right up to the knee, 'So, Aristethes, you are the postman?'
'Indeed I have that honour. Also, I am the official village musical director for festivals, weddings and parades. I organise the communion bread for the basilica and I was once a teacher, a Professor of Mathematics.'
I got the message and tried to repair the damage with flattery, 'Well Ari, I have to say, you are very trusting. I mean, about the fare. In England we have to pay before we even sit on the bus. Blimey, I could have disappeared just then while you were buried in your parcels.'
His glance was enough to bury me, 'Look Sir, if you are dishonest, that is your problem not mine.'
I winced. He was right. I apologised. Aristethes shrugged and I apologised again,'Aristethes, please forgive my stupidity, I need your help. I was wondering if you might know the house of the mayor?'
'Yes, of course. Everybody does. Why do you want to know?'
'I have to meet my aunt there. This evening there is a wake and prayers at his house - for my uncle. His name was Pantelis Lambrakis. He is to be buried tomorrow.'
Aristethes took off his glasses and looked at me without smiling, 'Mr. Godfrey, Pantelis Lambrakis was a man of the village, much admired and trusted. He defended the integrity of the village and believed its unique traditions were its strengths. He believed the exploitation of its heritage would bring the extinction of this integrity but some have other ideas.'
'Who? In what way?'
'My friend, we have had one long, helluva thirsty drive all the way up the mountain and very soon I have one helluva drive all the way back down to Dorini so if you want to talk, let's talk and drink.' Now he grinned and I relaxed. He gripped my elbow, 'And even better, the elixir of Sophia.' He nodded indicating the balcony of a modest kafeneion along a passageway overlooking the deep gorge we had just climbed. On a sign over the door was written, The Lemon Tree. He winked, 'Come with me.'
The balcony was tacked onto the side of the building and hung about two thousand feet in thin air above the sea. It had indeed been built around a fragrant lemon tree. We perched on purple plastic chairs and peered through the spaces in the flooring at the shags and ravens flying through the air below us. The dipsticks from the terminus had arrived and moved to a table in the corner, sitting in silence and pretending to watch the view through their shades. Aristethes didn't speak at first, but just let his gaze travel out between the blue and blue. There was no horizon. Then, before I could protest, he ordered two glasses of the tropical yellow delight Uncle Pani used to make and we sat and sipped in silence.
'Not too strong for you, my friend? Is beautiful, yes? We call it Nerantzaki. It is made from the bitter oranges and lemons grown on the mountain. Plenty sugar. Mmm.'
I've never been interested in drinking for drinking's sake but that liquid was nectar to my parched throat. And it had a kick. Mountain Madness. It put a twinkle in my heart and a rhythm in my eye, and gave the village a sharp focus.
'Please, can you help me, Aristethes? Do you know what caused my uncle's heart-attack?'
He touched my arm, 'I have heard he had a strong disagreement with someone in his dressing room the night he died. Most seem think it was just a fan, probably an innocent.' He cast a quick look at the two men, 'Excuse me, I must travel. Thank you for the drink.' He stood and prepared to leave.
'But wait. What of his ideas? What was the argument about? Please.'
'I'm afraid that only those who were there will answer your question,' he leaned across the table with his back to the other tables and lowered his voice. 'Now listen, and do not interrupt. In the central square is our basilica. You cannot miss it. Our mayor has her house on the right. You will recognise it from the others because it flies the noble flag of Greece from a tall white pole in the yard. Over the door you see the word, Hellas. One more thing before I go, I think you should find a young woman called Alessandra. She will tell you everything.'
And then, in complete contrast to our whispers, he raised his voice and with a stumpy finger that had lost its tip, he pointed to the sky and sang, 'We make this drink from the sun and once you taste the fire, you will never leave. Sophia is with you forever.'
So with Aristethes off down the mountain again, I sat for a while watching the villagers nodding and wishing each other, 'Kalimera. Good morning,' as they passed in the lane. In Sophia things seem different. The older folk don't hide away. You see and hear them everywhere, involved with the younger age, respected and valued. The men dress soberly in comparison to the women who wear full traditional ankle length skirts with dazzling, coloured aprons. From beneath two headscarves, one tied over the other, hang three long plaits swinging down below the waist and most of the women wear bright earrings with their white linen blouses and long-sleeved waistcoats.
From all his travelling Pantelis must have known that every now and then we stumble into a Shangri-la and find such ease and serenity it must be a sin to breathe about it to another living soul. Timeless, remote Sophia is just like this. This is rural Greece, secluded mountain farming not much changed for centuries. Its allure comes from it being so unsophisticated and the last thing it needs is careless tourism. Pantelis was obviously aware of the danger to his village and was warning everyone that unless we are gentle with its fragility and take heed, it will shatter. Shangri-las are being ruined all over the world but there must have been something much more serious threatening this haven and whatever it was, its hand was on his shoulder when he died. With all this running round my head, I paid the bill and left.