Standing atop the magnificent mountain citadel of Mystra, it is hard to stifle any feelings of elation or pride. I didn’t quite get up the nerve to yell out the now ignominious “This is Sparta!” from the film 300, although the locals were probably bemused (if not disgusted) when I played the YouTube video of said phrase loudly.
Mystra is as old as the hills. However, it gained worldwide attention when the Roman Empire moved its Byzantine capital of Constantinople to here. It failed to save the emperor and his empire from death, ultimately, as the Ottomans invaded Greece as well. Inside the Aghia Sofia church is the only Orthodox depiction of Christ in the central role of “Life Giver” (a role usually reserved for the Virgin Mary).
Sparta and surrounding villages are nestled in the hills and valleys below. We decided to head to Giorgos’s house for the night. George is a builder by trade and he built his house, a lovely four-bedroom house with large living spaces and gardens. He had his own olive groves from which he made his own olive oil, and an apiary, from which he produced his own honey.
His wife, Irene, was a hospitable Greek-American who kept bringing out plates of food. As is the custom in Greece, everything is fresh, delicious and lashed with genuine care. Their two daughters spoke excellent English, and we had many interesting conversations about all manner of things from religion to metaphysics to ancient history and numismatics.
George showed us his amazing coin collection, with coins going back nearly 1000 years – all found in the land around him. The view from the back of his house was breathtaking – with Mount Taygetos and its snow capped peaks.
Breakfast was sourdough bread with brewed Greek coffee, traditional Greek cakes made from olive oil, and George’s honey. Irene also made a delicious galaktoboureko, a type of cream-milk pie. We headed over to George’s mother’s house in the heart of the village. Irene showed us the cellar which boasted an oak barrel of homemade wine and vats of olive oil. Every house has their own cellar here, she said. When they make too much, they bottle it and sell. Also, George showed us some ancient headstones he found while digging out the cellar.
Next door, lived his yaya (the term of endearment for those indomitable elderly Greek women). She was his mother’s sister and close to her centenary. Her son who died had been a decorated naval weapons expert, earning his PhD within 8 years of arriving in the USA. We could not come to Greece and not meet a yaya. Most yayas in the region tell stories of hardship, of having to walk 3 hours each way to collect olives regardless of weather or season, of leading their olive-laden mules across the rushing waters of the Eurotas river (against whose waters the ancient Spartan soldiers trained).
We saw the stone oven where she used to bake bread, the woodpile where she used to chop up firewood, and the icons she worshipped every day. Yayas are the reminders of yesterday, or how culture and tradition outlive everything else.
Time it was that we had to say goodbye to our friends and head to our next destination: Kalamata.