Maria's Outlook (Panorea)

Theo Angelopoulos has died. A great loss to World Cinema

2012-01-25T07:13:00.003Z

See the posting on corfublues.blogspot.com

The Greek film director Theo Angelopoulos has died following an accident. He was hit by a motorcyclist.See an older posting on AngelopoulosIt was only a few weeks ago that I was watching his great film "The Weeping Meadow".I have followed his work since his first feature, "Reconstruction", but I haven't always enjoyed his films. I remember walking out of the overlong "Megalexandros", in spite of the superb compositions and cinematography, and his perspectives on modern Greek history. Viewers are not always in the right mood for the slow pace of his films.A tragic end to a unique cinematic talent.

Leonard Cohen - Darkness by leonardcohen

2012-01-23T11:22:00.000Z

Leonard Cohen - Darkness by leonardcohen

I love this man!

In Memoriam: http://www.rcpbml.org.uk/

2012-01-20T11:19:00.002Z

He was a wonderful person.

His funeral was the best.

RIP James

http://www.rcpbml.org.uk/

In Memoriam

James AllenDecember 19, 1945 – January 6, 2012

With deep sadness the Party announces the passing of one of its dearest friends, James Allen, at his home in Yeovil, Somerset, aged 66. We extend our heartfelt condolences to all his family, friends and comrades. James had been a stalwart of the Party's cultural work since he joined its film group in 1970. In the early 1970s, he had taught film studies at the then Portsmouth Polytechnic, but from the late 1970s he suffered quite severe mental health problems.

Notwithstanding this, he became an indefatigable campaigner for the rights and interests of his peers, becoming a much loved figure in his community.

James had an ability to formulate what concert, conference, meeting or project was required and then set people in motion to accomplish that vision. Whether it was finding ways to advance the interests of those with mental health problems, whether it was to fight for the demilitarisation of Yeovil, whether it was to popularise the music and stands of composer Cornelius Cardew, whether it was to commission new music, whether it was to confront the challenge of the crisis of climate change – James was there with a proposal. Through Change Charity, he had been unstinting in financing these insightful and ambitious proposals.

In recent years, he had been a major contributor to and organiser of the Cornelius Cardew Concerts Trust, playing a major role in organising the series of concerts which have built on the legacy of the composer Cornelius Cardew's work and brought a whole new generation of young musicians into the work. At the concert of Cornelius’ music at the Conway Hall on December 17, 2011, he was able to see and hear for himself at first hand how his contributions were bearing fruit, as he overcame many obstacles to travel outside his home town for the first time in many years.

His dedication to the cause of progress and his indomitable spirit will not be forgotten, and he will be remembered with a love and appreciation that he himself was never able to quite accept were his due.

American Farm School, Thessalonik

2012-01-20T11:07:00.003Z

We should approach the American Farm School and ask them to open branches throughout Greece. This will rejuvenate our agriculture and our economy.

The Olympic Games must come back to Greece

2012-01-20T11:04:00.001Z

We must try to establish the Olympic Games permanently in Greece. They belong to Greece. This wil help our economy enormously

RANTS OF A PROUD WRINKLY: PLEASE CLEAN UP YOUR DOG'S POO

2012-01-20T10:21:00.000Z

RANTS OF A PROUD WRINKLY: PLEASE CLEAN UP YOUR DOG'S POO: I enjoy walking my dog on the Little Orme in the morning; I am what is known as a ‘responsible dog owner’ I keep her on a lead, albeit a lo...

RANTS OF A PROUD WRINKLY: PLEASE CLEAN UP YOUR DOG'S POO

2012-01-20T10:19:00.000Z

Olympic Games: a way to help Greece

2012-01-17T17:42:00.003Z

A way to help Greece and to save billions for the world economy?

Bring the Olympic Games permanently back to Greece, to be funded by the International Olympic Organisation.

Stars In my Eyes

2012-01-16T08:58:00.000Z

By Maria Potts

Seeing Red

2012-01-16T08:52:00.000Z

By Maria Potts

Welcome to our House

2012-01-16T08:48:00.000Z

By Maria Potts

Green Arrow

2012-01-16T08:47:00.000Z

Green Arrow by Maria

Games People Play

2012-01-16T08:42:00.002Z

Games People Play

Corfu: Some mid winter in the fifties (Who could they be?)

2012-01-16T07:16:00.001Z

101 Poems Against War (ff2003)

2012-01-16T07:15:00.000Z

The Pacifist
Pale Ebenezer thought it wrong to fight.
But Roaring Bill (who killed him) thought it right. (Hilaire Belloc, ff2003)

101 Poems Against War

2012-01-15T08:42:00.000Z

Next to the fresh grave of my beloved grandmother
The grave of my first love murdered by my brother (Ireland 1972 by Paul Durcan)

War Horse

2012-01-15T08:15:00.002Z

War Horse: I spent good money to have a miserable Saturday night.

Flag for a Dividing Country

2012-01-14T08:27:00.001Z

Poems against War (faber and faber)

2012-01-13T12:04:00.000Z

Some Saian sports my splendid shield:
I had to leave it in a wood, but saved my skin. Well, I don't care-
I'll get another just as good (Archilochus)

The Uncommon Reader, by Alan Bennett

2012-01-13T07:53:00.001Z

The Uncommon Reader, by Alan Bennett; a must- read for all of us

101 Poems Against War (faber and faber)

2012-01-12T17:07:00.000Z

"All a poet can do today is warn." Wilfred Owen

Against War

2012-01-12T17:03:00.000Z

Take this news to the Lakedaimonians, friend.
That here we lie, who followed their command. (Simonides) (translated from the Greek by Peter Jay)
www.faber.co.uk

Seven Questions

2011-03-22T11:19:00.000Z

1. How is it possible that individuals whose knowledge of geography and history is limited, suddenly become experts on every part of the world and act as if they know what makes countries tick?

2. How is it possible that people with no knowledge of the languages of the countries they are dealing with can comment with apparent authority and take policy decisions regarding those countries, without understanding a word the locals say?

3. How is it possible that the US and the UK, with their economic problems, recessions and national debts, have so much money to burn in so many warzones?

4. Why is it that in an economic crisis the poor are penalised and the rich are rarely affected?

5. Why is it that we tolerate dictators for years, keep them sweet, cooperate with them, sell them weapons for the purpose of “defense” and then suddenly we go BANG and want to bomb them? Haven’t we learned that innocent people who have had to tolerate terrible conditions under dictators are the ones who will suffer most?

6. What do we actually mean by Democracy?

7. Why, in our everyday talk, do we say “it is all for the OIL” and yet we are not prepared to walk, use the bicycle, or stop using oil for heating?

NEW DORSET WRITING

2011-03-16T08:27:00.000Z

More information at www.poundburyvoices.blogspot.com

DORSET VOICES

2011-03-16T08:26:00.000Z

More information at www.poundburyvoices.blogspot.com

POUNDBURY VOICES

2011-03-16T08:25:00.001Z

More information at www.poundburyvoices.blogspot.com

Thucydides; the first to describe a Tsunami?

2011-03-14T07:41:00.000Z

Thucydides on the Seismic Causes of Tsunami

Thucydides, History of the Peloponnesian War, 3. 89, ed. Thomas Hobbes.
Current location in this text. Enter a Perseus citation to go to another section or work. Full search options are on the right side and top of the page.

"The next summer the Peloponnesians and their confederates came as far as the isthmus under the conduct of Agis the son of Archidamus, intending to have invaded Attica; but by reason of the many earthquakes that then happened, they turned back, and the invasion proceeded not. About the same time (Euboea being then troubled with earthquakes), the sea came in at Orobiae on the part which then was land and, being impetuous withal, overflowed most part of the city, whereof part it covered and part it washed down and made lower in the return so that it is now sea which before was land. And the people, as many as could not prevent it by running up into the higher ground, perished.

Another inundation like unto this happened in the isle of Atalanta, on the coast of Locris of the Opuntians, and carried away part of the Athenians' fort there; and of two galleys that lay on dry land, it brake one in pieces. Also there happened at Peparethus a certain rising of the water, but it brake not in; and a part of the wall, the town-house, and some few houses besides were overthrown by the earthquakes. The cause of such inundation, for my part, I take to be this: that the earthquake, where it was very great, did there send off the sea; and the sea returning on a sudden, caused the water to come on with greater violence. And it seemeth unto me that without an earthquake such an accident could never happen".

The English works of Thomas Hobbes of Malmesbury. Thucydides. Thomas Hobbes. translator. London. Bohn. 1843.

An Ionian Tsunami?

2011-03-14T07:34:00.000Z

She fell into a deep sleep. She woke up at midnight, thirsty. Her body was aching. There was a lot of noise, music, yelling and laughing. As always, the clan was eating and drinking the night away in the restaurants, cafés, bars and nightclubs with the fruits of their ill-gained spoils. They were in the habit of going out constantly; not once did they wish to stay indoors or to face up to the problems surrounding them. Money blinded them, gave them confidence and an appetite for senseless living. They kept their bodies draped in designer clothes and their faces hidden behind expensive masks to bury their fears of cancer, unsafe roads, rats, drought and all the demands of modern life. Panorea could sleep no more. She knew where to find Kalosinatos, by the Sea, at their usual beach. Limping, and in tears, she set off to find her friends.

Kalosinatos was also exhausted. When he’d finished he took off his golden slippers. He couldn’t find his old black ones anywhere. His bosses had most probably thrown them away. They’d decided he was not presentable enough in his worn-out old black shoes. He decided to go barefoot.He found Panorea lying by the Sea. It was dark, the moonlight faint, the stars too high in the sky to give any light.

The Sea and Panorea were consoling each other, as usual. “Come and sit next to me”, Panorea called to Kalosinatos.“Take me in your arms. I’m thirsty and in pain. Oh, look at the seaweed, how it embraces my worn-out feet.”“The sewage smells so badly”, Kalosinatos cried out, in disgust.“It’s not my fault”, the Sea protested. “Tons of raw sewage, chemicals, rubbish are thrown into my arms all the time.” “Everywhere it’s the same. Please sit with me”, Panorea insisted. “I am here, near both of you”. “I’m sick. I think I could finally be dying. My whole body is disintegrating. I need water, fresh water, water that doesn’t turn my insides into rock. My hair is falling out. They’ve made such fortunes and yet they haven’t made provision for water supplies, for their well being, for the future of their children, let alone for caring for us. I’m thirsty, thirsty, so thirsty, Kolosinate, do something, Holy Man. I need a doctor, a hospital.”“Panorea, you know that isn’t possible. The hospital collapsed years ago. I can’t do anything. My strength and powers are exhausted. I’m finished, too, Panorea.”“Please stop crying Panorea. As long as we stick together, perhaps there’s a future,” the Sea gasped. “Even the members of the clan are not well. They’re sick. They’re rotting. Can’t you see? In spite of all the money they have, they’re sick in mind and in body. They take drugs to alter their moods.

Nobody cares about anything. They don’t seem to care that when they fall sick they have to travel long distances to find medical care. They die on the way, far from their own beds, in hotel rooms, in the presence of their despairing relatives. Of course they then beg me, day and night, to cure them by magic, using miraculous cures. They’ve forgotten, or most probably they never understood, why I am here. I did not come here to practise medicine, or to liberate them from slavery, or to satisfy all their whims. I came here to teach love, tolerance, hard and honest work, respect and dignity. What have they done?” Kalosinatos’s voice was sad. His eyes were sorrowful. His voice was hoarse.Suddenly the Sea roared.Panorea grabbed Kalosinatos. She trembled.A mighty wind whipped through the land. Mice that had gathered round and had been gently licking Panorea’s tears ran away in panic. Petrified stray dogs looked towards the dark shadow of the mountains opposite.Enormous mosquitoes were now flying above them. Their faces resembled those of humans. On their heads they had gold wreaths. Thick hair covered their bodies, and they had lions’ teeth. Human blood was dripping from their mouths.The wind was blowing from all directions. The Sea became wild.“I’ve also had enough. We must save ourselves,” the Sea screamed, retreating rapidly from the shore and from her friends, and rushing away towards the far horizon.The dogs barked. The mice ran and hid under mountains of rubbish.Stars started falling from the sky. The earth shook.Those among the young and old who were asleep at home awoke in horror. The rest of the clan, who were passing away the night having fun, abandoned their amusements and ran towards the shore.“Panorea, what’s going on?” they shouted.“I’m thirsty! Water, water!”“Well, that’s not a reason for an earthquake. Calm down, come and drink a bottle of water.”The roaring intensified.The people couldn’t hear each other speak.The moon vanished. Suddenly the sea changed direction. She turned back towards the shore. Although it was dark, She could be seen charging towards them. A bright beam emanating from Kalosinatos’ palm lit up the waves and the horizon, and broke the darkness of the night.“Kalosinate, the sea is coming towards us. We’ll be drowned. Do something!” they all screamed.

A second earthquake shook the land. Mountains split in the middle. Houses collapsed. Chunks of cement, bricks, and iron bars fell on the heaps of rubbish scattered all around. The clan-members were yelling. They saw the swimming pools bursting. The water was pouring down towards the sea, taking with it dead cats, drowned rats, plastic and cars.“Panorea, Kalosinate, Eternal Beings, save us!”Twelve-feet-high waves were chasing in, one after another. Thunder and lightning were followed by a hailstorm. Hail stones as big as rocks were landing everywhere, hitting everything.The shore where Panorea and Kalosinatos were sitting broke away from the land. The great chasm thus created sucked in whatever was nearby. Panorea and Kalosinatos were nowhere to be seen.The men in charge of the supermarket where Kalosinatos was forced to sell his wares were running away in despair, only to fall headlong into the chasm, still holding their huge bags full of money. The Sea swallowed up whatever managed to escape the widening chasm. The turmoil had brought the birds out of their nests; they were flying in crazed circles above the devastated land. Following the mysterious light, they saw a single majestic white wave travelling out to sea at an amazing speed, leaving all the devastation behind. The birds suddenly saw Panorea and Kalosinatos lying peacefully upon the wave. They were holding hands. They, in turn, saw the birds and smiled.“Come and join us!” they called. The birds hovered above them a little and then sat on Panoreas’ lap. She stroked them gently and they grasped her torn skirt for safety.The tempest lasted until daybreak.Nobody could have predicted such a disaster in the Mediterranean. At dawn the Sun appeared, pinkish, warm, timid. He emerged from behind the grey mountains and looked around for Panorea. A rainbow had appeared. The Sea was now calm and had returned to her usual seductive shades of blue.The Sun couldn’t see Panorea or Kalosinators anywhere.“As soon as I warm the place they will come.”

He looked closely at the land, and saw ruins everywhere. Broken fridges, burnt-out cars, iron pipes, great chunks of cement and wrecked and capsized boats were scattered all around.There was not a living soul to be seen.Then the faint bleating of sheep was heard in the distance, mixed with the gentle cries of babies.“Any minute now they’ll turn up. They must have gone somewhere, but they always come back”, said the Sun to himself, with a knowing smile.

© Maria Strani-Potts, 09/07/2008

The Poundbury Quilters: Korean Wrapping Cloths

2011-03-11T09:18:00.001Z

The Poundbury Quilters: Korean Wrapping Cloths: "Rapt in Colour, Korean textiles and costumes of the Choson dynasty The Powerhouse Museum and the Museum of Korean Embroidery (1998) I ..."

The Poundbury Quilters: ON TRACEY EMIN

2011-03-11T09:18:00.000Z

The Poundbury Quilters: ON TRACEY EMIN: "I was abroad when Tracey Emin won the Turner Prize. I heard the news on the World Service, or I read about it in The Sunday Times three week..."

The Poundbury Quilters: THE COLOUR GREY

2011-03-11T09:17:00.000Z

The Poundbury Quilters: THE COLOUR GREY: "When I look at my work retrospectively, I realise that I never seem to have used the colour grey. I see plenty of white, black, strong reds..."

The Poundbury Quilters: Upcycling hits the streets of London by Nina-Maria...

2011-03-11T09:16:00.001Z

The Poundbury Quilters: Upcycling hits the streets of London by Nina-Maria...: "Living Planet 11.02.2011 05:30 Upcycling hits the streets of London Großansicht des Bildes mit der Bildunterschrift: Materials are reused t..."

The Poundbury Quilters: Mosaic: The Origins of Patchwork?

2011-03-11T09:16:00.000Z

The Poundbury Quilters: Mosaic: The Origins of Patchwork?

The Poundbury Quilters: Colonel Gaddafi seems to appreciate some of the fi...

2011-03-11T09:15:00.001Z

The Poundbury Quilters: Colonel Gaddafi seems to appreciate some of the fi...: "Images copyright BBC/C. D.NedgeSee BBC story:20 October, 1998"

The Poundbury Quilters: Quilts for all occasions!

2011-03-11T09:15:00.000Z

The Poundbury Quilters: Quilts for all occasions!: "Good for sleeping in the yard! Good for the wall! Good for keeping warm while playing cards!"

The Poundbury Quilters: Blue and White Wall Hanging by Maria Strani-Potts ...

2011-03-11T09:14:00.000Z

The Poundbury Quilters: Blue and White Wall Hanging by Maria Strani-Potts ...

John Lee Hooker, EBB (sings T.S. Eliot and Shakespeare).wmv

2011-03-11T08:32:00.000Z

The Cross: Artform of Ethiopia

2011-03-11T08:26:00.000Z

Zagori, A gem in the Wilderness

2011-03-03T07:47:00.000Z

Ali Pasha (1741-1822), the semi-independent despot of Epirus, who was infamous for roasting his enemies on the spit and for drowning women in Ioannina’s lake, had come to believe that Drakolimni, the Dragon Lake, high up on Mount Gamila, was filled with gold.

One summer’s day, during a quiet period between sieges and battles, he decided to visit the lake, desiring to find the gold and to bring it down to Ioannina to replenish his coffers. Who else could have a better claim on the gold than the Pasha of Epirus? Dire warnings about the ferocity of the dragon that lived in the lake did not deter him.

He gathered his slaves, loaded canoes and other equipment on their backs and set off for the top.

The Pasha’s plan was to enjoy the lake’s pristine waters, then to drain it and to recover the gold.

Nowadays the long climb up to the lake can be undertaken relatively easily, as there is a good path for most of the way; but in those days the terrain was wild.

After days of hard trekking they reached the lake. Ali went for his canoe ride and then drew up a plan about how to drain the lake.

In spite of it being the middle of a summer, a violent storm struck suddenly. The usually calm waters of the lake became a seething turmoil. Many men were drowned. The rest of them, including Ali Pasha, fled back down the mountain, yelling that the dragon was taking its revenge.

The truth or otherwise of this legend is irrelevant. Its purpose is to emphasize the Pasha’s greed and cruelty as well as the might and beauty of the Pindus Mountains.

There are few places in Europe that the travel industry has not exploited. I cannot claim that modern travellers have not set foot in the remote parts of Ali’s pashalik, but the Zagori (where the Drakolimni is to be found) still remains one of the least-explored areas of Europe, and the scenery is stunning.

“Come to Zagori!” I say to those who lament the tourist developments of Greece.

Its natural grandeur will capture the imagination of anyone seeking the magic and atmosphere of Ancient Greece. A mountainous area in the northwestern corner of Greece, not far from the Greek-Albanian border, the Zagori still remains unspoilt, beautiful, and dramatic.

The region has been continually inhabited by semi-nomadic livestock breeders for thousands of years before Christ and consists of forty-five villages. The vernacular architecture and beauty of the Zagori cannot fail to enrich one’s perception of Greece and of course of Europe.

The villages are perched high on the mountain slopes. From the many lookout points, stupendous views of the gorges can be enjoyed. Walks through the famous Vikos Gorge will satisfy the adventurous as well as the casual lover of nature. There are many routes from which to choose.

The area is divided into Eastern, Central, and Western Zagori. At the 19th kilometre point on the Ioannina-Konitsa highway there is a pedestrian flyover bridge. The signpost to the Vikos Gorge points to the right and this is the road to follow in order to reach the villages of Central Zagori.

The road is good, albeit with many bends, and just when you might think you are about to take off, a statue appears on a hilltop to the left. It is the giant-sized image of a woman, The Woman of Zagori. Zagori women have become another legend in Greek history, because of their brave contribution during the Second World War. Climbing the mountains in the harshest conditions, they carried ammunition, food and clothing on their backs. In peacetime, they stayed behind while the men went abroad to work.

They looked after the old people, the livestock, and produced children who later studied and went to university, having learnt the ethics of hard work; many of them became great benefactors to the area.

Do take the short walk to the top of the hill. This female image should be seen not just as a war memorial, but also as a monument to ancient, silent, unpretentious feminism.

The many villages are well signposted but almost invisible until you approach them. The stone houses, with roofs made of large slabs of flat local stone, are the same grey colour as the mountain rock. Often very substantial, and built in a style unique to the region, the houses have enclosed courtyards, guarded by large wooden gates. They seem formidable, but behind their fortified walls they hide the most enchanting yards. Full of flowers, these courtyards are dominated by the colour blue. Pots, flagstone joints and window frames are all painted blue, just like the sky above.

Vitsa, in Central Zagori, is the best place to spend two or three nights. Of all Greek villages it offers the ultimate Greek experience in order to enjoy the traditional hospitality and the mountain scenery. People often drive past it on the way to better-known Monodendri at the end of the road, but Vitsa has many more hidden treasures.

There are around seven main guesthouses/hotels in Vitsa. Bed and breakfast accommodation is also available. Impressively clean, centrally heated and with all modern amenities, the rooms are big enough to accommodate up to four people each.

All Zagori bedrooms have their own particular design. Wooden platforms of king-size proportions provide plenty of sleeping space on either side of the fireplace. Early in the morning only the tinkling sound of hundreds of harmoniously tuned goat bells can be heard, for miles around.

Some of the guesthouses/hotels (Selini, Beloi, En Hora Vizitsa) have restaurants attached. The others, such as Troada and Filira, offer bed and breakfast. There are about five restaurants operating in the village. Cleanliness is paramount here; the dining rooms are traditional, with open fires in the winter and cool yards covered with vines for dining al fresco in the summer.

The local specialities are well known and visitors come from far and wide to enjoy them. Predominantly a dairy region, quality grilled meats and stews, cheese, yoghurt, buttermilk, trahana (local home made sour milk based pasta) are on offer, but many vegetarian dishes are also available. The pies of the region are what bring visitors back time and time again, particularly the Zagori flour pie (alevropita). The recipe is a well-guarded secret, but I suspect that it is much the same recipe as for Yorkshire Pudding, with chunks of feta cheese added to it, and then baked in the oven. There are also wild-greens pies, chicken and spinach pies.

The village restaurants are within easy walking distance from each other and so are the hotels.

Tsipouro (local schnapps) is served before the meals and sparkling Zitsa wine can be ordered to accompany the meals. Lord Byron enjoyed it when he visited the monastery of Zitsa in 1809.
Discriminating visitors keep returning here, seeking not just the essence of nature but also the taste of the local cuisine. The walks and fresh mountain air will help you digest the food quickly!
Each restaurant has its own speciality:
‘Cinnamon and Clove’ specializes in wild mushrooms. Beloi offers authentic Epirot cuisine and Selini, located just outside the village, offers a panoramic view from the veranda as well as the best-baked aubergine dish in the world.

En Hora Versitsa, in the village square, offers a good view of a section of the gorge, as well as of Upper Vitsa, with its imposing stone manor houses. Dishes of giant baked beans served with greens are as appetising as the chicken soup.

Yannis’ Kafenio, at the entrance to Lower Vitsa, serves ouzo, wine, schnapps, mountain tea, beer, coffee and preserves. He does wonderful charcoal-grilled sausages in the summer and serves them with homemade fries.

Troada, a hotel on the way down from the square to the Vitsa Steps, is a beautifully restored manor house.

Filira offers bed and breakfast and heaps of traditional Zagori charm.

The best time to visit Zagori is in the autumn (just about now, in October and early November), when the trees turn red, yellow and copper and the temperature is perfect.

If you happen to be in Vitsa for a weekend then you can enjoy an Orthodox service in one of the churches. In the Greek Church you can come and go while the service takes place. Nobody minds. On Sunday morning you will hear the bells ringing and then you will know which church is functioning that day. Our Lady in Kato Vitsa is the oldest church in Vitsa. It became a parish church between 1600-1625. Small and intimate, it offers a powerful spiritual experience.

A walk from the village down the “Vitsa Steps” to Misios Bridge is a must. If you do not want to do the full seven-hour trek from Monodendri to Vikos village or the even longer trek up to Papingo and to the Dragon Lake, take the short walk to Kokoros Bridge. It is much easier and less demanding. The river at the bottom is full of water for much of the year, but by June it dries up.

In the winter the temperature can be low, but more often than not the warm Greek sun enables residents and visitors to eat outdoors, to go for walks, climb the mountain tracks and visit the other villages.

Oxies (Oaks) is situated beyond Monodendri. From there the gorge can be seen at its most dramatic. When I’m there, I often think of the British poet Peter Levi, who once wrote the line, “Virtue is in the mountains and in the stony villages.”

Who can argue with that?

www.mariapotts.com
www.vitsa.gr
www.zagori.info
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zagori
See also “The Ionian Islands and Epirus, A Cultural History” (Signal Books, Oxford, 2010)

In Defense of a Prince; the case of Poundbury

2011-02-19T14:45:00.000Z

This is the original, unedited, longer version of an article published in The Lady last August

“Where do you come from?” asked a Dorchester waiter as we were settling the bill. “From just up the road, in Poundbury,” “Mmm…posh, eh?” he replied, raising his eyebrows. “Have you met Prince Charles?”

‘Meddling’, ‘Remote from ordinary people’, ‘Backward looking’ are a few of the comments often used to attack Prince Charles and his ideas.

I became interested in Poundbury in the early 1990s. As a regular visitor to Dorset I have been following the Prince’s ideas concerning Poundbury with interest; the never-ending controversy about the project has given me much food for thought. Last November we went ahead and bought a lovely little house in Poundbury, in our beloved Dorset.

It is evident that those who are negative about the project are mostly people unfamiliar with Poundbury. Many have never seen it and only know it from hearsay. Those who live in Poundbury seem to love it and claim they would never live anywhere else. According to most residents I’ve met, Prince Charles has done a wonderful job in providing ordinary people with affordable, tasteful, well-built housing in one of the most beautiful areas of Britain.

As for me, Poundbury has not only changed my life but also my attitude towards Britain. In Poundbury I’ve been cured of my chronic homesickness for Greece. I’m so content here that I’ve almost forgotten my home country. I love modern cities like Sydney and Perth, Australia, but I hate what contemporary architects, civil engineers and developers have inflicted upon the United Kingdom and other countries in the name of modernism or modernity. Many pre- and post-War houses (whether from the ‘30s, the ‘60s or ‘70s) seem dated, worn-out and undesirable, even if they are “of their time”. Some friends who used to live in Council or private housing estates have moved out and headed for the countryside. Others bought period houses, if they could afford them. Cottage prices in Dorset have kept their high values because of their desirability. It’s clear to me that this preference stands in contradiction to the perceptions and plans of many modern developers.

Too many town planners, local authorities and architects seem to have no idea what ‘ordinary people’ want and need. They project their own self-interested ideas, force them on people, claiming that they know best, and we have to live with the consequences for the rest of our lives.

The prince has proved that he knows better, in my view. In spite of his privileged background he has demonstrated, through his work and actions that he has a good knowledge of how ordinary people prefer to live and of what is good for the environment. The attacks on him are not only grossly disrespectful but also unfair.

Simon Conibear, the Duchy of Cornwall Development Manager of Poundbury, is intelligent, capable, easy to talk to, and focused. He’s been with the project for 14 years. “The Prince is aware of the comments and he is sensitive to them. He’s happy with the implementation of his vision, in spite of some compromises. His life has brought him into contact with the best and the worst in the English landscape. He is still involved with the project and he visits four times a year. Poundbury had to be created on the basis of commercial viability. It is required by Act of Parliament that the Duchy acts commercially as an organisation. It has proved, if anything, that better-quality development is viable as well as better in terms of sustainability.”

Based on the principles of New Urbanism ( www.newurbanism.com), Poundbury is providing us with a neighbourhood, diverse in population and use.

Poundbury is anything but retro. Its town planning principles have been proven to be appealing to residents. Prince Charles and master-planner Leon Krier realized their vision with flair. Dorchester, the County Town, has been extended in a truly innovative, spectacular, uplifting way. I am certainly not the only one to appreciate the Duchy’s work

Jamie Butcher, a 17-year-old student (he’s studying Outdoor Education), told me “I moved to Poundbury from Dorchester with my parents three years ago. We needed a bigger but affordable house so my parents could foster children and so that we could have space for our two dogs. We love it here. It is stylish, modern, and affordable. I cycle to the college. I have many friends who live in Poundbury. The lovely Dorset beaches are close by, and that’s fun. I like the fact that there are rules. We all know where we stand. I wouldn’t like to live on an ordinary estate. They are dreary, boring and grey, although the houses might have bigger gardens. I prefer it here. I like the layout of Poundbury, its lanes, squares, and courtyards. There are many apartments, such as Synergy Housing, a joint-ownership type of accommodation, and the Duchy is building more. They help young people to have a good start in life. This is also good because young professionals will be able to afford to live here in the future. Poundbury is cool….”

Marie-Chantal Lugg is French and married to an English Chartered Engineer. She has lived in England for over 30 years “We moved to Poundbury from Dorchester in 2001. I had bought the Prince’s book “A Vision of Britain” before Poundbury started. Later, when my family used to visit from France, we all became interested in the Prince’s concept and its development and fell in love with the place. It looked authentically English – in the traditional way. We fell in love with the place and found a lovely house in a nice location. We thought that the houses were, and are, logically priced. It was convenient for the boys to walk to the Thomas Hardye School. Poundbury is clean and orderly. Our house has five bedrooms. It looks like a Dorset cottage from the outside and yet it’s modern inside. I like the use of traditional Dorset materials such as stone, brick and flint. We love living here. Poundbury residents have only come to live here after very careful consideration. Artists, business people, young and old, all make for a very interesting community. There are lots of small independent shops in Poundbury and Dorchester. It’s sad when they attack the Prince. Some think Poundbury has been designed for the privileged, but we know this is not the truth. Its strong point is that we’re all mixed. Others were afraid that Poundbury would override Dorchester. In fact Poundbury has enhanced our County Town financially and socially. The place is more diverse now. In my view, Poundbury has been successful for many reasons. Restaurants and shops have reasonable prices. The houses are manageable. You don’t need a fortune to buy or renovate them. I attended a presentation by Leon Krier where he explained the concept of Italian towns and the importance of variety in town planning. Mews, lanes, squares and courtyards create a series of interesting spaces. Speeding is prevented by irregular roads, so there is no need for humps or traffic lights. There are no traffic signals of any kind in Poundbury, to clutter the place. I have great respect for the Prince and his work. The Prince and Mr. Krier know what they’re talking about. It’s a beautiful concept.”

I couldn’t agree more. I love walking to the store, to the Garden Centre, to the restaurants, and each time I can take a different route. There are so many architectural points of interest, like fountains and squares that encourage social intercourse among us. The lack of front gardens creates an atmosphere of openness.

Poundbury offers employment to 1000 people and this will increase to 2000 by the time of its completion. It has definitely brought employment to Dorchester and it has contributed to the economy by millions of pounds. A report to be issued by the County Council in a few weeks time will demonstrate how large that economic impact has been.

Lynn Ο΄Leary, who has lived in the area for twenty-eight years, and who works in Poundbury, says “All the houses are different and interesting. Poundbury is excellent for walking because of the many paths that interlink. The common spaces encourage residents to get to know each other. There is a very relaxed atmosphere. The Prince’s vision of creating an evolving town has been successful. Poundbury does evolve; he had great foresight. He has provided much employment in the area. The houses are easy to clean, and gardens are easy to keep. The houses open to the street so the front is visible easily. This deters crime.”

Steven Jolly originally came from Manchester. The Guinness Trust granted him a house in Poundbury three years ago. He is disabled, so the house was fitted with a lift. “There are many strict, silly rules about the place,” he told me. “We can’t have an aviary in the garden, or independent satellite TV - and we can’t have a washing line, apart from the rotary type that doesn’t dry the clothes properly. I don’t like the pebbly gravel on the pavements,” he said with a smile. Steven was the first to welcome us when we arrived. He lives exactly opposite. In spite of the rules he’s happy here. “If you had a choice between a ‘Council house’ outside Poundbury and this one, which would you choose?” “This one, of course!” he laughed. “If Prince Charles knocked on your door tomorrow to see how you were getting on, what would you say to him?” With a twinkle in his eye, he replied “I’d say, ‘Your Highness, you certainly put this place together well. Your idea of mixing shops, small businesses, factories, social and private housing makes it a fantastic place to live.” “Would you say you’re grateful to him for the opportunity he’s given you?” “Oh yes, of course we’re grateful. He didn’t have to provide his land to house people like us. He is rich. He doesn’t need any more money. He means well. Poundbury should be used as a model all over the country and Prince Charles should be appointed as an adviser for other towns. He’s not old-fashioned…he’s a man of the future. Haven’t you seen that we have no churches in Poundbury? Religion is divisive; but we’re going to have a Quiet Place pretty soon, where we can sit quietly and think about things. Thank you Prince Charles!”

It’s a fallacy that the Prince is always looking back. He certainly never copied nineteen sixties tower blocks, which, it’s been argued, have encouraged crime and a sense of despair. Where were the innovative, thoughtful architects then?

I’ve always believed that the grass is greener elsewhere. I’ve lived in many places around the world. Nowhere did I feel as I feel here. In Poundbury I’ve found a place where everything around me is pleasing, clean, well thought-out and within a reasonable price.

Jo Warren, Associate Director of estate agents Elder and Froy, has been working in the Poundbury office for the last six years. “Prices vary in Poundbury from £145,000 to £595,000. Houses vary in size and are mixed. There are shared equity properties, social housing, private houses, small and big apartments. All intermingle with shops, offices, and small factories. Prices remain stable here. Poundbury hasn’t suffered from the price drop like the rest of the country. June was the best month we’ve ever had. The Prince’s vision was fantastic. He included everything. He set out to create a truly mixed community. The residents come from all social backgrounds, ages and all parts of England. He was keen to create a sustainable environment in which people can live and work, a mixed community of social backgrounds and ages. There are no front gardens. People can’t hide behind hedges, park boats, caravans, or store rubbish in front.”

Simon Conibear tells me that the stipulations were worked out by the Prince’s team in 1988. “It was decided that this was needed. The stipulations make the place harmonious. People on the whole like rules. They know how Poundbury works and that’s why they decide to come and live here. They value the endeavor to create some kind of harmony,”

The Prince’s vision has brought about a kind of aura in the place, which is impossible to define, as there are many contributing factors.

Simon says that the present population of Poundbury is 2000. “By the time the project is complete there ought to be 4000. We are hoping that by 2025 the entire project will be finished.”

Colombian Rosea Gomez is married to an Englishman. They moved to Poundbury from Bogota five years ago. The Thomas Hardye School was the main factor. Their son (17) has done well there. Her husband found out about Poundbury on the internet. He came to the UK first. He liked the school and Poundbury. It was the time of the annual square dance event. He thought it was a lively place. Everybody was out dancing and enjoying themselves. They decided to live here. Their boy could walk to school. Rosie, having lived a cosmopolitan life, thinks it’s a pity that they don’t bring more multicultural activities to the area; foreign artists don’t visit Dorchester much. But the beauty of the area, the uninterrupted vistas, the pretty Dorset villages and the proximity to beaches of outstanding beauty make up for the lack of an international cultural scene. She’s made a lot of friends through various Poundbury societies.

John Butcher works as Site Manager at the Prince of Wales School in Dorchester.
He’s one of the directors of one of the Poundbury Management Companies. “Everybody who buys a house in Poundbury also buys a share in the Company. The system is democratic. I cycle to work. We are concerned about traffic issues and try to find solutions. The use of local material makes houses energy-efficient and warm in winter. Their layout is good. This is modern living within a beautifully designed town”.

Simon Conibear says: “How we live our lives is as important to achieving energy efficiency as how we insulate our properties, what we do with the environment around us; proximity to the shops and work place, are all important. Sustainability is achieved by the use of natural materials, where possible. We’re planning to build an anaerobic digester, which will generate electricity and heating. This will compensate for energy consumed at Poundbury, so making it effectively carbon neutral. ”.

James Foster- Pegg, director of the Poundbury Garden Centre has been working in Poundbury for four and a half years. “It’s true to say that the Garden Centre has become a big part of the community. The place is new and people like to experiment. Poundbury has a positive air about it. The Engine Room (a coffee shop/restaurant) belongs to us. Restaurants are key to any garden business. The food is mostly locally sourced, and reasonably priced. We provide space for functions and cultural events. The Garden Centre is a good meeting place, with its own gallery. We have space for artists from all over the place. The Prince’s efforts are commendable. I have great respect for what he does for others.”

If posh means a clean, civilized, environment with sensible rules for enjoyable, harmonious communal living and a decent existence, then yes, we are posh and proud of it!
.

LADY RENEE GEORGE, AM, of Sydney’s Eastern Suburbs

2011-02-02T12:39:00.000Z

A couple of days before Christmas I received an email from an Australian friend. She wished me Happy Christmas and a Happy New Year. She also wrote that Lady George had died.

I had no idea. I googled Lady George’s name. Through the internet I was informed that she had passed away on Wednesday, October, 20th, 2010, aged 92 years old.

When I lived in Australia I felt close to her; I liked her; she was a friend. Yet at the time she died, I had no idea she had gone.

This is another problem for the ‘trailing spouse’. I met Renee when I was still a trailing spouse. I had made many friends in that capacity, but I always had to move on and often lost touch with the people I’d met and come to love. The chances of seeing an Ethiopian or Kenyan friend whom

I met in the seventies are slim and remote.

I used to fret about death and suffering. It would send me into a profound panic.

No more! It must be my age. And Renee? She had been so active, so full of life, ideas and inspiration. Was she afraid of dying? I shall never know.

These days my sadness about death is restricted to the fact that I will never, never have the chance to see certain people again, to talk to them, kiss them, to tell them all the things I wanted to say, but failed to do.

I met Lady George in 1994, a year after I arrived in Australia. She was petite, smart, clever and, without a doubt, she was the First Lady of the Greek Community in Sydney. I got to know her as a result of our shared heritage and the Red Cross Red Ribbon Committee of the Eastern Suburbs, as well asthe activities of the Archeology Department of Sydney University and the Nicholson Museum.

She was married to Sir Arthur George. Both of them were much older than I was and yet I always felt comfortable in their friendship. In their company, age did not seem to matter. Both of them were very hospitable and loving towards me. They introduced me to many interesting people. Both had a vitality, which explained their high position in the Australian social and honours system.

As second generation immigrants, they had done extremely well. They lived in Sydney’s Eastern Suburbs (the most exclusive area in Australia) in a villa just above the water. They were involved with many charities and helped everybody. They impressed me. In a way I felt as if Renee was my ‘Australian mum’.

Renee was like so many spouses. She enjoyed a high position in the world through her husband. Would she have become Lady George if she had not married Arthur? I doubt it. Would I have met her if I were not the wife of the British Council’s Director in Australia? I doubt it.

Both of us had grown up in a culture that held beliefs in getting married and supporting our husband’s careers as much as we could. Like her, I worked hard at homemaking, entertaining, networking, in order to help my husband in his work. I never saw anything wrong in that.

I could write a lot about Renee; perhaps another time.

It makes me sad that on my next trip to Australia I will not see her.

Perhaps she will not be the only one who won’t be around to welcome me.

I shall miss her welcoming manner, her jokes, her loving approach.
Lady George was a great woman.

THE COLOUR GREY

2011-01-16T09:37:00.000Z

When I look at my work retrospectively, I realise that I never seem to have used the colour grey.

I see plenty of white, black, strong reds and greens, all shades of pink, and blue in varied marine hues, but never grey.

To me, white breaks the monotony. It gives light when I need light. It provides solutions when I am stuck for choice. Black brings life to my work. It is vibrant. In quilting, black seems to be neglected but when it is used it makes the quilt really stand out.

I love all colours. It is only grey that I hate.

If and when we argue, members of my family say that I see everything in black and white. This is meant as a criticism, it’s hardly a loving compliment.

It is true. I prefer everything to be clear-cut and up-front. To me, grey is ambiguous. It is as a metaphor for sitting on the fence.

Grey is an excuse to express muddled thought, weakness of character, and escape from responsibility.

It is has become the standard colour for boring mens’ suits and for describing politicians, for example, or those men sitting round soulless board rooms.

To me, men in grey suits look grave, vague, devious, and dubious.

When I look at the colour grey, I always think of those Civil Servants or MPs wearing grey suits who are caught kerb-crawling (metaphorically speaking), and of their wives sending the suits to the dry-cleaners the following day!

What else can I expect from men in grey suits?

My next quilt will be black and white, with a dash of red.

CORFU – ST. SPIRIDON AND THE PLAGUE

2011-01-08T11:15:00.000Z

This is a free translation of an article I found in a copy of the nationally- distributed Greek magazine, O THEATIS, published in Athens during the first week of the year 1926.
It reminds me of my poor Kalosinatos (in Panorea) and of his plight.
The article was published under the pseudonym Silektis.

Saint Spiridon has been in the news lately. The government has decided to give his church its own independent legal status. Until recently, the church, as well as the relics of the Saint, belonged to the Boulgari family.

The Boulgari family became the owners of St. Spiridon in the following circumstances:
George Kaloheretos, a resident of Constantinople, had St. Spiridon’s relics in his possession. After the fall of the city in 1453, he departed, taking the relics with him.

First he went to Epirus and then to Corfu.

Once in Corfu, Kaloheretos’ granddaughter married Stamatelo Boulgari (a Corfu resident). Since then the family of Boulgari has been the owner of the Saint and the church.

The governmental decision has changed matters.

We will not occupy ourselves (in this article) with the administrative matters of the church. This is of secondary importance. What is of major interest is the way the relics of the Saint have been safeguarded in Corfu for centuries , as well as the concentrated devotion of all Corfiots towards St. Spiridon.

For five centuries, during which time Corfu has gone through many hardships and has witnessed one occupation after another, the island has managed to sustain intact its faith and veneration for the Saint’s relics. When Corfiots are incapable of alleviating suffering for themselves, they turn to St. Spiridon to beg for strength. They lay their fate at his feet, when they themselves are powerless.

As a rule, and according to the folklore of the fair island of the Phaeacians, the Saint always listens and responds to the Corfiots’ prayers.

Let us look at one of those folkloric stories, which is based on a historical fact.

It was on Christmas Eve of 1629, when the first signs of the plague appeared in Corfu.
The Venetians occupied the island then. It is well known that the Venetian Republic took strict measures in order to safeguard the health and safety of its inhabitants.

How did the plague come to Corfu? That is the first question that preoccupied the Venetian Administration. They started investigating the problem meticulously. As a result of the investigation, the following was revealed:

Among the Corfiot aristocracy lived a gentleman-lawyer with the name Odigitrianos Sarantaris.
One day, one of the lawyer’s servants visited a Turkish ship moored in Corfu harbour. Once on board, he bought an expensive kerchief, which he gave as a present to his lady, Mrs. Sarantari.
Mrs. Sarantari placed the kerchief in her daughter’s wardrobe. Soon after, the daughter became ill with the plague, and died the following day. The doctors and family did not realize the cause of her death.

It was natural that, because of Mr. Sarantis’ social status, his daughter’s funeral would give rise to much grief and commiseration from the crowds.

A vast number of people attended the funeral, in order to express their condolences to the grieving family. Many Corfiot women kissed the grieving mother.

This plethora of people arriving at the heart of the infection had a terrible outcome. The plague spread throughout Corfu.

This was discovered as a result of the investigation of the matter.

As the number of victims increased by the day, the anger of the people towards the Sarantari family also increased. Public unrest followed, which the authorities had to control. They had to do whatever they could to calm public opinion.

Acting on the health and safety laws of the land, the local administration sent the entire family, in haste, to the Lazareto at Gouvia. However, the people continued to demand Sarantaris’ head on the platter.

The Administration had no choice but to succumb to the people’s outrage. They put poor Sarantaris on board a ship where he was shot without any procedures.

It was mostly the peasants who had demanded this harsh act, when they arrived in town in large numbers and in a threatening mood.

After the execution, a Magnificatio Service took place in the church of St. Spiridon. The Corfiots cried out to ask for the Saint’s help.

It was Palm Sunday. Suddenly, during the service, it was announced that the plague had gone and that health had been restored on the island.

A triumphant procession followed. The casket containing St. Spyridon’s relics was paraded throughout the town among the many grateful Corfiots. Some said that they had seen Saint Spiridon during the plague and had heard him saying that Corfu wouldl be saved - an illusion that can even be explained scientifically, if one takes the deep faith of the Corfiots under consideration.

The prison guards said that they had also seen a light burning above the belfry of the church during the plague.

After the triumphant procession, a collection of money was organized and five thousand ducats were collected. The money was used to decorate the church.

This is not my own story. It is as I found it in the magazine THEATIS one winter’s night, sitting by an open log fire.

Pollyanna versus Panorea

2011-01-02T18:16:00.000Z

It is a number of years since I wrote “Panorea”. For an abridged version in English, see my first blog posting.

Panorea is not just the personification of Corfu, but an allegory of the world and what we have done to it.

Has anything changed? No!

Corfu is in a worse condition than ever. Its plight (just consider the accumulation of rubbish before Christmas) was mitigated only by the cold weather. If the dreadful refuse disposal situation had happened in the middle of the summer, we would all have had cholera, as they had in Mandouki in 1855, or even the plague, as in 1629-1630.

I am told the new hospital is finally operational. That’s good! I wish the doctors and nursing staff all the best of luck.

As for the rest? The market is an eyesore. The old harbour is a disaster. The roads are in a terrible state. The traffic is appalling. One can smell misery from afar.

Over the Christmas holiday, I saw -for the first time- the English version of the film Pollyanna.

I have never read the book. One of this year’s resolutions is to read it. Pollyanna is an American children’s classic, written by Eleanor H. Porter. As a mother, I failed to read it to my children. Other books were more in fashion at the time.

Pollyanna, like Panorea, is the name of the girl who is the main character in the respective books. As a result of the story, the name Pollyanna has become synonymous with optimism and a bright disposition. The main theme of the book and the books that followed is the glad game.

The Glad Game is a game that celebrates the good things we have, and avoids despair about the horrors around us.

Although the ending of Panorea is not all that pessimistic, the two heroines represent two totally different attitudes.

There is no glad game in my book. Or is there?

It is up to the reader to interpret the nature of the “glad game” in which Panorea’s tribe was engaged.

The glad game, according to Pollyanna, is a useful tool. If we all played it, perhaps we would all be much happier than we are. We would have no wars, and we would not climb over dead bodies in order to get what we feel we lack.

A plague on their House

2010-12-30T13:18:00.000Z

http://www.economist.com/node/17797360

2010-12-30T13:15:00.000Z

http://www.economist.com/node/17797360

Britain: a recruitment ground for Islamist extemism?

2010-12-22T19:05:00.000Z

http://www.france24.com/en/20101221-Is-britain-be

Vanity or indiscretion?

2010-12-22T07:10:00.000Z

Bagehot on the Cable affair

GREECE - EUROPEAN UNION – TOURISM

2010-12-19T08:18:00.000Z

It’s the middle of the winter, just before Christmas and Corfu is full of piles of rubbish.

http://www.corfupress.com

There’s no money, they say!

The big picture of Greece is sad and hopeless.

Two factors dominated the development of Greece in the last so many years: tourism and membership of the European Union.

Neither of these factors has made Greece a better country.

Our standard of living is questionable. The future is uncertain. The people are apprehensive.

Money keeps coming from outside. We have stopped thinking and acting for ourselves.

Tourism and the European Union have created a right old Greek mess!

British Christmas Cooking

2010-12-18T08:41:00.000Z

Bagehot on Christmas cooking

Democracy! Truth, Freedom, Economic Growth, Big Society!

2010-12-16T08:24:00.000Z

Think again.
Democracies kowtow to Dictatorships. Corruption thrives.
Words seem like meaningless concepts.
Ambitious and “clever” men and women, tough and thick- skinned individuals, wishing to avoid the treadmill of routine employment choose to enter politics.
We are at their mercy.
A politician is a professional who is, at the same time, a polished orator and a convincing liar.
A calm and contented Buddhist monk once said that nothing could be done until people give up shopping as a hobby.
Think again about economic growth and its effect on this world.

December, 2010

2010-12-11T06:40:00.001Z

Καλά Χριστούγεννα και Ευτυχισμένος ο Νέος Χρόνος

To all our friends who live in the Northern Hemisphere and are struggling with the dark nights Jim and I would like to wish you Merry Christmas and a Happy and healthy New Year. I know that we should save energy but at this time of the year a well-lit street, a lamp on the windowsill and some Christmas lights can lift our spirits.
To our friends in the Southern Hemisphere, a Merry Christmas, and a Happy and healthy New Year to you too. Enjoy your beaches, the BBQ, and while you are swimming, think of your friends in the North.

This year we are spending the mid-winter holiday in Poundbury. Nina and her family are joining us for Christmas and some good friends from Oxford are spending New Year with us.

Alexander and his family are spending the holiday in Bermuda with Priscillia’s family from France.

On Christmas day, we shall try to have a turkey and all the trimmings. It will be the same for New Year. This is what we used to have at my own home in Corfu before Jim and I got married. Jim’s family in Castle Cary enjoyed much the same, minus the avgolemono. We are going to exchange the minimum of presents, as we do not enjoy Christmas shopping.

On Boxing Day, we plan to go to the pantomime in Weymouth with Nina, David, Ella and Jack. It’s Peter Pan this year. Before the show we plan to have fish and chips by the sea; slightly reminiscent of so many Boxing Days in Australia.

Although I like it here, I always miss our friends and past lives in all the countries we have spent Christmas.

I remember our first Christmas in Addis Ababa. I made a punch from a Greek recipe. I misunderstood the quantities and many people woke up on Christmas Day, green in the face and unable to enjoy their turkey.

The following Christmas we spent it in Langano ( a lake in the Rift Valley of Ethiopia). We had been there for some time before Christmas. By Christmas Day, we had run out of food so Jim had to get the fishing line and catch a huge catfish, which we boiled and had with tin beetroot and tin peaches.

I remember our Christmases in Prague playing the Ryba Mass, which I find extremely atmospheric and I insist on playing it for my family ad nauseum.

I also remember Christmas on Bondi Beach, in Sydney, Australia, watching Nina doing her life saving duties on Christmas day. All the young people from former British colonies used to gather on Bondi beach, get drunk, then they had to be fished out of the surf.

In my view, the best Christmas was in my beloved Stockholm; all that snow, simple decorations made of wood and fresh greenery, homemade candles and glögg. On Christmas Day, we used to go to the church up in Skansen, then for a walk in Djurgården. Without a doubt, Stockholm is the best city in Europe for me. I love it in the winter; I love it in the summer.

Now I am ready to cry. I am homesick all the time for all the places I have lived.
I miss all my friends and I am saddened that I cannot have them all together and at the same time on Christmas Day.

I love my quilting and the patches I work with. My life has been a vast quilt with many patches, sometimes lovely and pleasing, at other times sad and difficult to work with. I am sure the difficulties of life are the same for all of us.
Be strong! Be healthy! Be happy!

Have a Happy Christmas everybody and a wonderful year ahead.

The Pimping of Panorea, abridged and translated by Maria Strani-Potts

2009-03-20T12:34:00.000Z

This is an abridged version of the Greek novella, as published in ISLAND magazine, Summer/Autumn 2008. Translated from the Greek by the author.

THE PIMPING OF PANOREA

By Maria Strani-Potts

Somewhere in the Eastern Mediterranean, where the East joins the West, where Christianity walks in parallel with Islam and the deep blue sea is full of grey froth, oil and sewage, there happened to live a beautiful woman whose real name has been forgotten.

Many years ago a passionate admirer, enchanted by her charm and beauty, decided to call her Panorea.[1] This was thought to be most appropriate and so it was decided that this would be her name from then on.

People speculated that Panorea had come down to the seacoast from Olympus, like most exceptional creatures in that part of the world. She was beautiful, with long silk green hair and deep blue eyes. Her body was soft and well shaped, her face angelic. She was kind and loving like no other, but above all else she had a unique quality: she was seemingly eternal.
Panorea had been created in the infinity of the past and had been blessed, it was said, by some supreme power, which had contrived to make her superhuman and immortal.
Everybody around her was born and then perished, but Panorea was always present, always alive, always there, full of beauty and goodness.
By an accident of fate she was surrounded by an enormous clan or tribe of relatives.
The members of the clan, although closely related to Panorea, bore no resemblance to her. They were mortals. They had emerged from wombs and ended up in graves. They needed food to survive. They fornicated, bore children and died as soon as they had lived their allotted spans of time, only to be replaced by others, almost identical to them.
Panorea’s background and qualities had made the clan proud of its connection with her. Members of the extended family or tribe boasted of their kinship with her, and kept declaring that they adored her; they claimed that her history was their history, and more often than not they were reluctant to move away from her, or to travel to see the rest of the world. The idyllic connection they retained with Panorea had made them complacent, idle of thought, self-satisfied. Having an Olympian as a relative gave them the impression that they too were God’s gift to the world. Their hearts filled with pride every time her name was mentioned. They believed that their fate was intertwined with hers, in spite of their difference in nature. While close to Panorea, they loved to laze around smoking, philosophising, drinking coffee and gossiping.
For years they had hated hard work and had come to resent the fact that they had to work in the fields and on the sea in order to survive.
It is not known who had the idea first, but the notion that the time was ripe to exploit Panorea and to benefit from her eternal qualities sprang up suddenly and quickly spread widely amongst them.
They decided that if they turned Panorea into a prostitute, they would benefit enormously. Panorea was so well known in the world, so popular, that they would have no problem in selling her charms at any price; so one morning members of the clan woke up, determined to take the lead in becoming her pimps. This would be beneficial to all, they proclaimed.

It was such an easy thing to do. Panorea had been a muse to poets, painters, and writers. Kings, Emperors, and Empresses adored her and visited her often, and many scholars studied her history.
Pimping appealed to them; it was neither burdensome, demanding, nor did it need careful planning. They needed neither a substantial capital investment nor much in the way of hard work.

In a very short space of time Panorea was turned into a commodity.

In the beginning, fresh and wonderful as she was, she brought vast profits and satisfaction to her clients. Money poured into the pockets of the members of the clan. No longer did they have concerns about the future. They could behave like the old aristocrats and landlords whom they despised and yet aspired to emulate all their lives. No more heartache about how to put bread on their tables. No more hard labour or tilling the earth for the sake of their offspring. No more relatives perishing whilst fishing in the rough seas.
The pimping of Panorea became the most profitable enterprise of their lives, but an enterprise without mercy, without a semblance of fellow feeling or consideration for others.
Opportunistic and lacking in perspicacity and wisdom, they came up with superficially ingenious and expedient ways to embellish Panorea’s selling points. They invited equally opportunistic strangers to help them out with the commodification and touting of Panorea. Nobody had real feelings for her, only cunning and duplicitous words. When parts of her body were worn out from too much use, they even performed amateur plastic surgery operations, adding bits and pieces, according to the customers’ needs. They expanded her hips, enriched her lips and enlarged her breasts. They also added a couple of extra vaginas to her exquisite body so that she could accommodate a number of demanding clients at the same time.
Excessive use, perverse demands and amateur marketing methods started to turn her into a cheap, pitiful, diseased woman of the streets.
In spite of her plight, Panorea continued to inspire. Books continued to be written about her, talented artists immortalised her on canvas. Many mighty people from around the world, blind to her misfortunes, continued to desire to be near her, adding to the strain.
While drinking their cocktails in the evenings, they all discussed Panorea’s plight ad nauseam, but none of them was wiling to act.
“How is Panorea these days?” admirers would ask from time to time.
“Hmm…she’s changed.”
“She’s seen better days”, said others, with nostalgia.

Panorea’s immortality somehow enabled her to rejuvenate herself, in spite of all the hardships. Just when it was thought that she had come to her end, her natural beauty, gentleness and tranquil countenance would reappear, a little damaged but not without some power of attraction. With ingenuity, Panorea managed to camouflage the effects of the constant ravishments involved in her profession.
She was not worth as much as before, but customers still continued to come, attracted by her cheapness.
“The new clientele isn’t as sensitive and aristocratic as in the past, but it doesn’t matter. As long as customers still want her and seek to enjoy her- and are prepared to leave their money behind, who cares? It’s money we care about, that’s all. There’s no doubt that Panorea has some problems at present, but she’s survived for so many years, she’s not going to perish from all the hard wear- and- tear now,” agreed the members of the clan.
The naturally optimistic would say,
“Everything changes and even if Panorea is divine she also has to adapt to today’s demands. She may be somewhat macabre but with plenty of cheap make-up and some other rough-and-ready interventions we can maintain her saleability for centuries to come. Anyway, who cares about the distant future? Cheap sex and bargains are always attractive.” The conspiracy to exploit Panorea continued unrelentingly.

For her part, Panorea continued her existence with unflagging compassion. Hospitable by nature, she remained uncomplaining and in her supernatural way she maintained her ability to enchant. Her simple nature gave her strength. She continued to give bread and olives to those who were hungry; she offered a home to the traveller, relief to the tormented. She was not a common mortal and within her heart, which remained full of love for her kith and kin, there was no room for doubting them. She loved them all. It simply wasn’t possible that they might wish her ill. She was like a mother who, in spite of the pain her children inflict upon her, remains loving, loyal, and a provider for their essential needs.
Her sweet blue eyes were sad and tearful now. Her long silky green hair had started falling out as the wind stroked it with a whispering sound, but her embrace remained warm, her kisses unforgettable.
Like most people who frequent brothels or whorehouses, Panorea’s clients had no idea who she actually was. Her ancient past, her immortal Olympian status, her kindness, hospitality, internal beauty, compassion and charity were unknown to them. Panorea was simply a woman for the provision of temporary pleasure and gratification.

There is no justice in this world. The arrogant, the greedy, the selfish thrive: they float. The good, the altruistic, the modest, are destroyed: they sink. And so the clan, in spite of the mistreatment of Panorea, went from strength to strength. The members became rich and the richer they became the more money they wanted. ‘Money for money’s sake’ became their motto. Their lust was unquenchable.
Latterly, the money had not been pouring in so easily. The wealthy customers who sought something more exclusive had abandoned Panorea, whose appearance was becoming truly pitiful. New ways were always being dreamt up to advertise her wares and to promote her remaining selling points.
“God will forgive them. They’re of the same flesh and blood. How is it possible for them not to care for me?”
Hypocritically, they might have claimed to share Panorea’s sentiment, but they acted very differently. They only did what was expedient and beneficial to them.
In the whirlpool of their greed they forgot what really mattered in life. They ignored the fact that the sustainability of their own way of life depended on Panorea. They spent the pimping money to satisfy their passing whims. Not once did they stop to think what they could do for the common good or how to improve their quality of life collectively.

“When we have money, lots of money, we need nobody.
Exploiting Panorea? Who says that? We adore her. Plastic surgery and marketing are a sign of progress. This is the 21st century! Can’t you see the number of restaurants we have now? Before, we had hardly anything to eat. In the past we didn’t even have shoes to wear. In the old days we used to simply stare at the sea from a distance or struggle with her for survival. Now we have pleasure boats that guarantee us a carefree time on the waves. Look around our villas; they’re as good as the Parthenon. Only fifty years ago, we had no lavatories in the houses, no bathrooms. Now we have Jacuzzis, marble bathtubs, and every luxury imaginable. Who cares if raw sewage pours straight into the sea? Have you ever heard of the Sea complaining? Now we are rich, aristocrats with privileges that only the very few could enjoy in the past. Look at our drawing rooms, full of expensive furniture, paintings, silver, brocades and gold. We’ve made our money through our own ingenuity. That’s progress. We have cars instead of donkeys, designer-label clothes, and our children are educated abroad. And of course we can afford to have slaves. In the past we broke our backs serving others, now we can bring in Filipinos and other Third World servants to clean up after us. They’re two a penny and they’re willing to work twenty-four hours a day. When they fall sick and are no longer of any use, they can go back to where they came from. So don’t talk nonsense. A temperate and modest way of life is only appropriate for those in monasteries and convents. Everything is better than before. In the old days Panorea’s admirers discussed, poetry, philosophy and art. Who needs such good-for-nothing, useless discussions? We want money.”
Panorea kept working overtime in the streets. Every visitor used her incessantly, and when they’d finished with her, they left their bodily fluids and money behind. But nobody considered spending money on hospitals, roads, and waste management, or on creating an adequate local infrastructure.
When they were sick they had to travel far away to find a cure. Every night they slept on silk sheets, but when taken ill they had to lie in their own vomit on dirty sheets, in overcrowded wards. Good doctors were available at a price. They only operated with bribes. Mutual bribery gave everyone a sense of security and false confidence. People possessed expensive cars, but had nowhere to park them. Day-in, day-out, the rubbish was piling up in the streets, poisoning the environment, the very air they breathed and the food they ate. Their water supply became contaminated so they bought imported water. Toxic waste created cancer clusters. Different cancers were aggressively attacking the clan. The sea became frothy from the raw sewage. The politicians, members of the same local useless breed, became notorious for their lack of expertise and intelligence and for their inability to do anything.
No long-term investments or provisions were made to take care of the future.
They spent fortunes on engineers and architects to build them their palaces, but all of them lacked creative imagination or any aesthetic sense, so they caused heartbreaking visual pollution. The untreated sewage from their Parthenons kept pouring into the innocent blue sea.

They did their best to mimic the aristocrats of old, the nobles who had tormented their forebears’ existence in times past. They had forgotten what it was like to be exploited and used.
And so they continued with the pimping of Panorea.
Some superficial critics based their optimism on their overseas-educated offspring. But this was in vain. As the children returned they continued to lead their parents’ life styles. With vultures’ eyes, they hovered over the customers, encouraging Panorea to sell everything she had to satisfy all-comers, all demands.
They invited foreigners and fair-weather friends, experts in the arts of prostitution, to assist them. From then on, not only did the locals act as Panorea’s pimps, but the British, French, Dutch, Germans Swedes, Russians and Chinese also participated in luring customers towards her. They all helped to dismember her in the name of Beauty, and then sold her piecemeal.
In their blind stupidity, they didn’t for once consider the possibility that once Panorea had become useless, their livelihoods and even her legendary immortality might be at stake.
Backbreaking agriculture, struggling on the sea, that was exploitation.
The pimping of Panorea was good, it put bread on their tables, it paid for the education of their children, it provided them with beautiful houses, enormous cars and a multitude of models of sailing boats and motor-launches.
“When Panorea was a virgin and beautiful, we were penniless.”
But the results of all this pimping were disastrous. Panoreas’ ability to regenerate herself was starting to fail. The time came when she began to go from bad to worse.
They inflicted more botched plastic surgery on her when some part of her body was failing. She was becoming sickly, and increasingly resembled a freak.
“The customers come first. They pay- we have to provide.”

Panorea suffered terrible pains in her overused body, but, stoical as she was, she never complained nor uttered a single word of displeasure.

Panorea had a dear and faithful friend. His name was Kalosinatos[2].

They shared many qualities. Like her, he was eternal; like her, he was good-natured, compassionate, forgiving. His life story was rooted in the depths of time, but unlike Panorea he was not a native. He had arrived hundreds of yeas before, from some far-away place.
He was clothed in a long black robe. On his feet he wore gold- embroidered velvet slippers. He was missing one arm, but nobody knew why and how he had lost it.

Kalosinatos adored Panorea, unconditionally. In her presence he found peace and tranquillity.
She too loved him deeply. He gave her courage and hope when times were dark.
Soon after his arrival, Panorea’s clan discovered that Kalosinatos also possessed extraordinary superhuman powers. They discovered that he was able to cure the sick, bring rain when drought dried up the land, save sailors in peril on the sea.
Ingenious as they were, they decided that he could also be exploited for money.

If Panorea was a prostitute, he should have a supermarket where the visitors could go and ask him for favours, after they had tasted Panorea’s body. In his premises, they could purchase blessed gifts and demand whatever fulfilment they wished. It was said that Kalosinatos had driven out the plague, numerous invaders and demons from people’s souls.
Panorea and Kalosinatos were close, full of love for all and everyone, and above harbouring any suspicion of evil. They helped all those who were in need or demanded favours, without reservation.
They often despaired, but they said nothing. They were saddened by the greed and lust that surrounded them, but it was not in their natures to criticise.
Kalosinatos and Panorea recognised that the reasons for their existence on this earth had not been understood. They had been put there to provide support, love, compassion, and to demonstrate the goodness of nature and the value of life, values that were unknown among the members of the clan.
Panorea and Kalosinatos had the habit of meeting after a day of hard work.
They met on a beach. There the Sea would join them, and she, in return, would whisper of her pain about her own predicament.
“I cannot digest any more sewage, plastic, oil, tar or rubbish. I feel polluted, heavy, neglected”, the Sea moaned.
“I get raped daily. I’m dirty. I have no water either to drink or with which to clean myself. I’m overused, abused, poisoned and sick”, Panorea would cry.
“Oh please do not despair, perhaps one day they’ll see the light. It can’t go on like this”, Kalosinatos would say, trying to offer some hope.
“I have lost my natural clarity, colour and self-respect”, cried the Sea.

It was a scorching day in the middle of May.
Panorea woke up early. Everything had been soaked by the dew of the night.
She was sweating and trembling. Two cruise ships with visitors from all around the world were due to arrive that day. She would have to serve them all in a short space of time. They were always in haste, as they had many other destinations in their programmes. After experiencing Panorea, they were scheduled to visit Kalosinatos. The vulture-like clan members had planned the visits in such a way that the visitors would have time to taste both Panorea and Kalosinatos.
Panorea hadn’t been able to wash for days. Water had become scarce because of the high temperatures. Her clothes were in rags. Her body was mouldy. Her hair was falling out. Her eyes were cloudy.
She looked down towards the harbour and saw the first ship approaching. She had to hurry.
The surrounding area was in a terrible state. The rubbish was piled up two metres high on both sides of the road. The main road was full of potholes. The traffic was horrendous. The smell of raw sewage pouring into the blue sea nauseated her, and rats were chasing passers-by along the broken pavements.
Spring flowers were in bloom, but nature’s efforts to conceal the dreadful state of the place went in vain. The entire landscape had been devastated, because of relentless greed.
She started with the first load of visitors. When she was half way through, the second cruise ship arrived. The queues became longer, the people were sweaty and breathless as they approached the spot where Panorea was selling her wares.
She worked hard, all through lunchtime. The tourists, after they’d deposited their bodily fluids in or on Panorea, left for Kalosinatos’s supermarket. Men and some women too found sexual satisfaction on Panorea’s body. They sucked her blood, they soiled her, they trod upon her while the men in charge of the transactions stood by, collecting the money and rubbing their hands in glee.
When they reached Kalosinatos’s, they fell on their knees in front of the Holy Man, making outrageous demands and expressing whimsical wishes.
When Panorea finished, she returned to her shack, which was well-hidden behind sickly oleanders, wild morning glory, and unattended olive groves. It was the only place on earth where she could find some peace and solace. She did not raise objections about her predicament but now she was feeling the heavy burden.

She fell into a deep sleep.
She woke up at midnight, thirsty. Her body was aching.
There was a lot of noise, music, yelling and laughing. As always, the clan was eating and drinking the night away in the restaurants, cafés, bars and nightclubs with the fruits of their ill-gained spoils. They were in the habit of going out constantly; not once did they wish to stay indoors or to face up to the problems surrounding them. Money blinded them, gave them confidence and an appetite for senseless living. They kept their bodies draped in designer clothes and their faces hidden behind expensive masks to bury their fears of cancer, unsafe roads, rats, drought and all the demands of modern life.
Panorea could sleep no more. She knew where to find Kalosinatos, by the Sea, at their usual beach. Limping, and in tears, she set off to find her friends.
Kalosinatos was also exhausted. When he’d finished he took off his golden slippers. He couldn’t find his old black ones anywhere. His bosses had most probably thrown them away. They’d decided he was not presentable enough in his worn-out old black shoes.
He decided to go barefoot.
He found Panorea lying by the Sea. It was dark, the moonlight faint, the stars too high in the sky to give any light. The Sea and Panorea were consoling each other, as usual.
“Come and sit next to me”, Panorea called to Kalosinatos.
“Take me in your arms. I’m thirsty and in pain. Oh, look at the seaweed, how it embraces my worn-out feet.”
“The sewage smells so badly”, Kalosinatos cried out, in disgust.
“It’s not my fault”, the Sea protested. “Tons of raw sewage, chemicals, rubbish are thrown into my arms all the time.”
“Everywhere it’s the same. Please sit with me”, Panorea insisted.
“I am here, near both of you”.
“I’m sick. I think I could finally be dying. My whole body is disintegrating. I need water, fresh water, water that doesn’t turn my insides into rock. My hair is falling out. They’ve made such fortunes and yet they haven’t made provision for water supplies, for their well being, for the future of their children, let alone for caring for us. I’m thirsty, thirsty, so thirsty, Kolosinate, do something, Holy Man. I need a doctor, a hospital.”
“Panorea, you know that isn’t possible. The hospital collapsed years ago. I can’t do anything. My strength and powers are exhausted. I’m finished, too, Panorea.”
“Please stop crying Panorea. As long as we stick together, perhaps there’s a future,” the Sea gasped.
“Even the members of the clan are not well. They’re sick. They’re rotting. Can’t you see? In spite of all the money they have, they’re sick in mind and in body. They take drugs to alter their moods. Nobody cares about anything. They don’t seem to care that when they fall sick they have to travel long distances to find medical care. They die on the way, far from their own beds, in hotel rooms, in the presence of their despairing relatives. Of course they then beg me, day and night, to cure them by magic, using miraculous cures. They’ve forgotten, or most probably they never understood, why I am here. I did not come here to practise medicine, or to liberate them from slavery, or to satisfy all their whims. I came here to teach love, tolerance, hard and honest work, respect and dignity. What have they done?”
Kalosinatos’s voice was sad. His eyes were sorrowful. His voice was hoarse.
Suddenly the Sea roared.
Panorea grabbed Kalosinatos. She trembled.
A mighty wind whipped through the land. Mice that had gathered round and had been gently licking Panorea’s tears ran away in panic.
Petrified stray dogs looked towards the dark shadow of the mountains opposite.
Enormous mosquitoes were now flying above them. Their faces resembled those of humans. On their heads they had gold wreaths. Thick hair covered their bodies, and they had lions’ teeth. Human blood was dripping from their mouths.
The wind was blowing from all directions. The Sea became wild.
“I’ve also had enough. We must save ourselves,” the Sea screamed, retreating rapidly from the shore and from her friends, and rushing away towards the far horizon.
The dogs barked. The mice ran and hid under mountains of rubbish.
Stars started falling from the sky. The earth shook.
Those among the young and old who were asleep at home awoke in horror. The rest of the clan, who were passing away the night having fun, abandoned their amusements and ran towards the shore.
“Panorea, what’s going on?” they shouted.
“I’m thirsty! Water, water!”
“Well, that’s not a reason for an earthquake. Calm down, come and drink a bottle of water.”
The roaring intensified.
The people couldn’t hear each other speak.
The moon vanished. Suddenly the sea changed direction. She turned back towards the shore. Although it was dark, She could be seen charging towards them. A bright beam emanating from Kalosinatos’ palm lit up the waves and the horizon, and broke the darkness of the night.
“Kalosinate, the sea is coming towards us. We’ll be drowned. Do something!” they all screamed.
A second earthquake shook the land. Mountains split in the middle. Houses collapsed. Chunks of cement, bricks, and iron bars fell on the heaps of rubbish scattered all around. The clan-members were yelling. They saw the swimming pools bursting. The water was pouring down towards the sea, taking with it dead cats, drowned rats, plastic and cars.
“Panorea, Kalosinate, Eternal Beings, save us!”
Twelve-feet-high waves were chasing in, one after another.
Thunder and lightning were followed by a hailstorm. Hail stones as big as rocks were landing everywhere, hitting everything.
The shore where Panorea and Kalosinatos were sitting broke away from the land. The great chasm thus created sucked in whatever was nearby. Panorea and Kalosinatos were nowhere to be seen.
The men in charge of the supermarket where Kalosinatos was forced to sell his wares were running away in despair, only to fall headlong into the chasm, still holding their huge bags full of money.
The Sea swallowed up whatever managed to escape the widening chasm.
The turmoil had brought the birds out of their nests; they were flying in crazed circles above the devastated land. Following the mysterious light, they saw a single majestic white wave travelling out to sea at an amazing speed, leaving all the devastation behind.
The birds suddenly saw Panorea and Kalosinatos lying peacefully upon the wave. They were holding hands. They, in turn, saw the birds and smiled.
“Come and join us!” they called.
The birds hovered above them a little and then sat on Panoreas’ lap. She stroked them gently and they grasped her torn skirt for safety.
The tempest lasted until daybreak.
Nobody could have predicted such a disaster in the Mediterranean. At dawn the Sun appeared, pinkish, warm, timid. He emerged from behind the grey mountains and looked around for Panorea. A rainbow had appeared. The Sea was now calm and had returned to her usual seductive shades of blue.
The Sun couldn’t see Panorea or Kalosinators anywhere.
“As soon as I warm the place they will come.”
He looked closely at the land, and saw ruins everywhere. Broken fridges, burnt-out cars, iron pipes, great chunks of cement and wrecked and capsized boats were scattered all around.
There was not a living soul to be seen.
Then the faint bleating of sheep was heard in the distance, mixed with the gentle cries of babies.
“Any minute now they’ll turn up. They must have gone somewhere, but they always come back”, said the Sun to himself, with a knowing smile.

© Maria Strani-Potts, 09/07/2008

Translated and condensed by Maria Strani-Potts from her original Greek book, Το πούλημα της Πανωραίας, CorfuBooks.com, 2008

[1] A woman whose beauty is above compare
[2] Somebody who is intrinsically good.