Hydra - lanquid days on a Greek Island

In April 1985 I was invited to spend the Easter holiday in the Greek island of Hydra by my friends in Rome who had a villa there. I flew to Athens and went on the port of Piraeus, forty minutes away and then took a hydrofoil to Hydra.

I was met at the island port by George, a white South African who ran a guest house in the island. He brought a donkey to transport my luggage to my friends’ villa in a village on the other side of the island. No mechanised vehicles were allowed on that beautiful magical island of hills and rocks and quaint white-washed buildings.

George was the first of a myriad of people, local and from many parts of the world I would meet during my ten-day stay. He was an active anti-apartheid activist in his country, which got him imprisoned and tortured, he claimed. He showed me scars of his face and body! He had since denounced his country and became a Greek National.

My arrival was three days to Easter. For the Greek orthodox Christians, Easter was a big event and the built up to it was quite a spectacle. The day preceding Easter I was awakened by a loud signing from the church which was a stone’s throw from the villa. The singing went on all day and it was in fact a continuous recitation of prayers from a holy book, which would climax in a ritual in the late evening.

While the villages prepared for the next day’s festivities, I went around discovering the island. At the port there were many boats and luxury liners bringing in tourists for a few hours' visit. It was really bustling, colourful and had a festive air.

Evening came late and leisurely on the island that day. The recitation from the church continued late into the night. By then groups of people holding 2-foot thick candles had already gathered at the church. When the recitation finally stopped, loud firecrackers were set off in great, long, bursts. Then a procession of flower alters and religious objects to the sea ensued.

From the balcony of a friend’s villa overlooking the village waterfront, we watched a magnificent sight of thousands of candle lights meandering down the hills to the waterfront. The flower alters were then floated out to sea.

Supper at George’s guesthouse was followed by lively dancing to loud Greek music till the wee hours. On my way home I stopped at a rocky edge to look at the full moon’s reflection on the silvery water.

Next day, it was like a competition who could turn their Greek music loudest in the village, and it went on all day. After a late barbecue lunch, I went for a long solitary walk up the rocky hills and gathered wild flowers. I later put these in a ceramic vase and placed it on my bedroom window sill and took a photograph of it. Years later my dear French artist friend Michelle Van Besian made a lovely painting based on the photo; it proudly hangs in my living room now and has often been a conversation piece

I stayed another week in Hydra and made visits to Athens (and once got on a wrong hydrofoil and ended up in another island and had to be rescued!). I thoroughly basked in the languid, lazy days and natural friendliness and curiosity of the local people. And I never tire of walking up and down the endless narrow passages meandering from the village to the port and vice verse.

On the day of my departure, George’s donkey and attendant accompanied me to the port in the still dark hour of the morning. As me meandered the narrow road I could see the glorious colour of daylight slowly rising from the calm water surrounding the magnificent island.