Beyond the liners in the middle of the crater lay a low irregular island, a tiny wisp of smoke drifting from the centre. Miles away, the ash and lava cliffs of tall islands marked the far side of the largest volcanic crater in the world. Until bout 1450 BC a huge volcano stood here which erupted leaving a vast hole for the sea – a hole far larger than that produced by Krakatoa. The low and growing island in the middle proves that magma remains to fuel the smoke and eject lava.
Crete has Minoan palaces, but no towns have been found which is strange. On Santorini, buried by the ash of the great eruption, lies at least one town. A winter stream cut down to reveal houses of three stories with effective plumbing and vivid Minoan wall-paintings. Only a small area has been excavated - but well worth a visit. Perhaps the towns and the commercial centre of the Minoan civilisation lay here on a great sleeping volcano with fertile slopes and a tall rain-catching peak.
The drama of the cliffs and geology are interesting, but I found the domestic details and sophistication of the Minoan town were more moving. As yet there is much less to visit than at Pompeii or Herculaneum, but this town was built to last and has been preserved beneath hundreds of feet of ash and pumice, so in time we shall see more. When the Minoans led their cultured and artistic lives there were still a thousand years to wait before Imperial Rome was of any account, yet many Minoan artefacts are as fine or finer than the gold, jewellery, and souvenirs in the modern shops.
The eruption of Santorini was soon followed by the decay and disappearance of the Minoan culture, but the disastrous explosion at least buried and preserved the details of their lives. “This may be a dangerous place to visit or to build a palace or a home, but there is nowhere else like it.”
SCHRUNS.
“Never go back” is poor advice.
We married in the first month of the Sixties, and our car was emptied at Shepherds Bush on the way to the airport. With replacement luggage we were two days late reaching Schruns in the Montafon Valley in the Austrian Vorarlberg. The honeymoon hotel was solid, welcoming and traditional. Hemingway wrote one of his books there.
Thirty-four years later, children fledged and flown, we drove south. After crossing into Western Austria we saw a sign to Montafon and, for the sake of old times, turned into it through the steep defile which guards the entrance to the valley. The appearance of the village and the hotel had scarcely changed since our previous visit. Walking through steep beech woods above the village, we decided to stay for the night.
“Had the hotel accommodation?” “Yes, certainly.”
We were shown to a grand corner room with a bathroom larger than most bedrooms. Dinner was excellent in a formal wood-panelled dining-room, and we congratulated our host on maintaining the hotel’s traditional style, comfort and high standards over 30 years following our special last visit.
Next morning my bill seemed unduly small and I questioned it with the host’s wife. She replied “My husband said you should have 50% discount. I don’t know why.”
This was a kind, sentimental, and very Austrian response to a brace of middle-aged travellers returning three decades after their honeymoon. We almost regretted that the honeymoon had not been a touring holiday, otherwise we might have toured Austria again at half price.
SHELTER ON CORSICA
Each new yacht is interesting - with slightly different gadgets, problems and vices which have to be discovered day by day.
Our starting point was the small port of Solenzara near the south end of the coastal plain of Corsica, and our plan was to circumnavigate Corsica in two weeks. Bridget, Charles and I embarked with our provisions in Solenzara, and set off south next morning in our chartered yacht. It was not to be our most glorious day.
There was a stiff west wind coming over the mountains so we made good speed with all sails set. By early afternoon we had passed the place where Bridget fractured ribs the year before, and also the entrance to the Golfe de Porto Vecchio. South of this entrance lie Iles Cerbicale, which we were to leave to port. The wind was stronger and rather too much for the amount of sail. Somewhat late we realised that we could not beat past the Iles, but would have to tack, which we had not previously done with this yacht. Our first attempt left us in irons, and we dropped back towards the Iles. The second attempt left us much closer, with rocks almost under our port bow. Fortunately the motor fired immediately (which is by no means guaranteed with a hired yacht) and pulled us through the third tack and away from the islands. The Iles Cerbicale are nature reserves and look very inhospitable for humans.
Sobered, we reduced sail and continued south to Port de Rondinara - a spectacularly beautiful round bay, entered between two small headlands. It is sandy, almost circular, with low sand dunes to the west. The wind from the west was pouring over these dunes and the bay was almost filled with sheltering yachts. I saw that most had two anchors out. We motored to a likely spot in shallow water, Charles dropped the anchor which did not grip, and we slowly dragged it backwards. We repeated the manoeuvre, After the fifth time, I tried dropping it and let out the full length of chain and warp. We dragged again to entangle intimately with a French yacht which was safely anchored, at any rate until we grappled with her. I pulled up the anchor, we disengaged, apologised, and a rather demoralised crew decided to leave Port de Rondinara. We later learned that since so many yachts anchor in the bay the sand is unusually soft and the holding poor. By now it was deep dusk.
A brief council of war discussed going back north to Porto Veccio or onwards to Bonifacio - both proper ports - and we chose Bonifacio. Switching on the lights, so we thought, we motored south with the coast on our right hand towards the end of Corsica and the gulf between it and Sardinia. This gulf, the Bouches do Bonifacio, is notorious for funnelling winds from the west or the east, and the wind which had blown us from our anchorage was westerly. Westerlies were also known to produce a current through the Bouches which could be of several knots.
Offshore and extending from Corsica lay the Iles Lavezzi and Ile Cavallo, each shown on the chart with a pepper-powdering of outlying rocks. There was a twisting buoyed channel between the islands and Corsica, and the Corsica Pilot advised against attempting this except in excellent weather and visibility, so it was never a serious option. Major shipping uses the Bouches de Bonifacio between Sardinia and Corsica, so there are proper big lights marking the channel and main hazards. We left the Iles well to starboard, motored round the lights, and turned north-west towards Bonifacio. By now the wind seemed to have eased, and now and then we glimpsed a partial moon between the clouds.
As we motored, the Sardinian Lavezzi Isles lay to our East. We later discovered that each of us had decided that if the motor failed and wind and tide pushed us towards the Lavezzis, then we could hoist enough sail to avoid them and also the Sardinian Razzoli Islands, after which there would be plenty of searoom. We had each thought it best not to mention this in case the idea of the motor failing upset the others.
As it happened the diesel engine chugged steadily, we passed the light at Cap Pertusato on the southern end of Corsica, and then could see the cliff-top lights of Bonifacio town, perched high on huge white, striped, and multi-layered chalk cliffs. We knew that there was an almost invisible gap in these cliffs leading to a narrow gorge with the harbour at its end, and at night that there should be a small red light to show the way while in the daytime the entrance was most easily indicated by the ferry boats plying to Sardinia. Fortunately we had entered here a year before, and knew there was deep water right up the foot of the cliffs. And once within the narrow gorge we could appreciate the magnificent setting with the high white chalk cliffs crowned by the mediaeval walled town and citadel. Odysseus came here briefly, but left when the king of the Laestrygons wanted to eat him.
Once in the mile-long fjord, the wind disappeared, and we motored quietly into the harbour by the lower town and found space on a pontoon.
We tied up with relief, decided to forego our customary “splice the mai
nbrace”, and clambered ashore. Respectable restaurants were closed, nor were we suitable clad for one, but there was a pizza parlour near the water’s edge which was open and where we sat, ate, unwound, and celebrated dry land.
Next morning we discovered that the yacht’s lights were broken, so we must have been almost invisible on the water. As I mentioned, it always takes a day or two to settle down with a new yacht.
John Wood is a retired hospital physician, and intends to add a volume of mostly cheerful doggerel when he has mastered the publishing technology, and also a volume of short stories and poems from members of his writing class in Hereford.
Herefordshire, perhaps best known worldwide for its tough yet docile cattle, is a splendid mostly rural and well-favoured county in the West of England.
Dormington House, Dormington.
[email protected].
Barnabas Tales Page 31
