21 October to 29 October

Wanting to go deeper into the Northern Pindos National Park, I decided to take the advise of the man I’d met the day before and go to Vovousa. He’d highly recommended a guesthouse there. I booked a room.

I typed in the name and let Louise(the GPS Google Maps voice)guide me.

As the villages grew further apart, the roads had fewer vehicles. But vigilance was key. The chances of encountering a flock of sheep, horses, and cows increased. There was the inevitable dog stretched out in the middle of the road enjoying the pavement warmed by the sun too. Huge potholes were not uncommon, and asphalt roads suddenly turned to dirt. Some roads oddly had one side covered in grass, others led to unmarked hairpin turns. But driving slowly and attentively made all the above manageable, and at times entertaining. However when Louise navigated me to some uncomfortably narrow roads, I was not amused. ( Of course, I take full responsibility.)

Hunting season for wild boars had begun. It wasn’t unusual to see a man, often alone, wearing an orange vest, with a large rifle standing or sitting by the side of the road. The sight made me uneasy. I’m not a fan of firearms.(I didn’t encounter any wild boars.)

The country landscape,when I had the chance to appreciate it from the driver’s. seat, was splendid. However, the sunny weather I’d been enjoying for so long changed. Dark clouds moved in and by the time I arrived at Vovousa it was chilly and raining heavily.

I couldn’t locate the guesthouse right away and decided to get something to eat. I saw only one taverna. It was on the other side of the roaring Aoös river and reached by a stunning stone bridge. Most of the old stone bridges I’d seen hadn’t been used for ages, except as a nice background for a tourist’s photograph, but this one joined one part of the village to the other.

A huge fire in the taverna warmed me as I quickly ate a delicious spinach and feta pie. I knew the people at the guesthouse were expecting me. Equipped with clear directions, thanks to the owner of the taverna, I walked back over the bridge and drove down a long dirt road.

Antonis, the owner of the Kerasies Guesthouse, came out to welcome me in the pouring rain. He then made me a cup of hot tea while we spoke about the area and the village’s logging industry evolving into tourism. Vovousa now hosts a summer arts festival. The year-round population is around one hundred. In WWII the village had been destroyed by the Nazis. Few original buildings remain, but the bridge from 1748 survived.

Antonis offered several hiking options, but the downpour didn’t make any of them appealing. My large comfortable room however had a fireplace. That evening I gazed at the fire and read.

The following day the rain continued and I was given more firewood. Reading by the fire was the extent of my activities. It was a perfect opportunity to catch up with Graham Greene’s Travels with My Aunt. I only ventured out around mealtimes. I didn’t run into anyone. Signs of life came only from chickens foraging in people’s yards, and the ever-present stray cats. The taverna I’d first gone to was closed. The family had a baptism to attend.

Fortunately, the only other option, a taverna just down the road, served excellent, hearty meals (lamb was their speciality–again delicious). And I had a wonderful dining companion. The two and one-half year old granddaughter of the owners joined me both evenings I ate there. She made sure the napkins on my table were arranged properly, and didn’t mind that my only response to everything she said was “Naí (yes).” When I’d finish eating she would take me by the hand and lead me to the sack of potatoes propped up in the corner. It made for lovely after-dinner strolls.

Unfortunately I could not stay in the guesthouse a third night. The owner and his brother, a lumberjack, had to work elsewhere.

I decided to visit Parga on the sea.

The town was closing up for the season and a choice of accommodations were few. The only other guests at my hotel were a British couple. They were in the throes of trying to take an abandoned puppy they’d found back home with them.

But there were enough locals to keep most of the cafes and restaurants open. Parga is lovely, the people are welcoming. I enjoyed walking along the coast, discovering the small back streets, and watching the traditions of a local holiday.

It is an overall relaxing place to spend time.

However, my second evening there at 2am, 1:54am to be precise, the shaking of my bed woke me up. At first, I thought a large truck must have driven by, I come from NYC after all. Then I thought of an earthquake. I put on my shoes and jacket and left my room. The British woman was standing outside, a floor below me, barefoot, in her pajamas. We agreed it had to have been an earthquake. Terrified that her room would collapse she’d run outside where she’d thought it would be safer. “Where is your husband?” I asked. “He’s in bed sleeping,” she replied.

A young couple appeared, looking relaxed after an evening out. Seeing us they said, “Welcome to Greece. We get earthquakes all the time.” I went back to bed. I’d read the next day that an earthquake with 6.8 magnitude had occurred about 200 kms away.

I hadn’t yet had my fill of the mountains so made my way back inland. Driving up a steep serpentine road I arrived at Papingo–actually two separate villages. There is Malago, or Large, Papingo and Mikro, or Small, Papingo. (“Large” is clearly a relative term.) Tourism has impacted both of them, but they remain charming, and picturesque.

Mikro Papingo, where I stayed, was particularly low-key. It suited me well. Despite the many challenging hikes available, I opted for relaxing walks on easy footpaths and having conversations, hot chocolate in hand, with locals and fellow travelers.