Day2, night 2. Days are short at this time of year, and nights are long. Sunset today was 19.15, with just 20 mins of twilight before a torch was needed. Luckily, I pitched up at a little coastal chapel dedicated to Saint Theodoros (lit. 'gift of God) at around 19.45. I had sought it out as an ideal place to spend this last, hopefully, stormy night, and willed my aching feet on and on until it loomed into view against the battering sea in charcoal grey twilight. A dedication to Saint Nikolaos patron saint of sailors might have been more apt given its startling proximity to the waves.
Sometimes these little chapels are locked. A small number are private, constructed by local families as thanks for fortunes and blessings accrued in this world. Their name and their legacy etched into the stonework. Some contain centuries old frescoes, or gilt icons. A small number tell the story of civilisations rising and falling in their very masonry, as column drums from ancient temples suddenly appear in the exterior facade, or, as I have once seen, as the altar itself, complete with capital.
This one, however, despite its dramatic location, had long since lost any significance it had. The satisfyingly sturdy handle of the bright blue door was tied with a piece of weathered string to a rusty nail, hammered into the whitewashd plaster facade. Untethering and pushing the door open, I swept the interior with my head torch. A lectern, a couple of wooden chairs, a table with a pile of beeswax candles, and a free standing and finely wrought brass candle burner topped with a deep dish full of sand. Pretty standard. And of course, the curtained entrance of the katholikon,, the 'pure' area at the back where the priest prepares the sacraments and into which no woman may supposedly enter.
This for me is always the area of interest. Not because I can assert my male privilege by entering, but because it contains the myth and mystery of altar wine.
Long before Christianity developed its cannibalistic understanding of bread and wine, the ancients in these parts made equally ritualistic use of alcohol in sacred spaces. The Elevsinian Mysteries which took place in ancient Attica as part of the cult of Dionysus is perhaps one the most obvious exames, and one, conversely, in which only women were allowed to participate. And it makes sense to me that religion should be so intimately bound up with alcohol.
I am not religious, but I do seek out religious experiences, as perhaps William James would understand this term. One of these is physical exertion in an awe-inspiring environment. Every summer I try to make it out to the Alps or Pyrenees to go hiking and climbing. Always alone, I plan a long distance route that will maximize my time high above the treeline. At around 2000m in Europe, the trees stop, and by 2750m, the only vegetation left is moss, and some stunted and spiny tufts of grass. The rest is rock, while up above, the ghostly porcelain of glaciers beckon. There is an unearthly stillness up here, and a real sense that however long you linger, you do not belong. Sooner or later the weather will change, or night will fall, and you will feel nature's utter indifference to your presence. That is why I am always grateful and humble to pass through, keenly aware that I am in the presence of something much more powerful and all encompassing than myself.
The landscape itself might be enough to inspire this feeling of reverence in most people. But for me, my attention is often drawn inward by the incessant murmur of multiple thoughts all jostling to be heard, sometimes negative, and often intrusive. The only reliable ways I have found to switch them off is strenuous physical activity, alcohol and sex. At such times I find a blessed release from worldly concerns, a silence which allows me to fully immerse myself in the environment, and to open my mind to a nonlinguistic covenant with the natural world.
Which is why I am drawn to these little chapels. As I write this on my phone, I'm inside the Chapel of Agios Theodoros, the blue wooden door wedged ajar with some heavy stones so that I can more clearly hear the the waves foaming and breaking on the shore. Three beeswax candles are guttering slightly in a current if air, causing the shadows to dance and the walls momentarily to breathe. And a little bottle of altar wine lies at my side, its contents mingling with post-run endorphines to connect me both to this earth and the countless ghosts and stories of this historical island.
Sometimes these little chapels are locked. A small number are private, constructed by local families as thanks for fortunes and blessings accrued in this world. Their name and their legacy etched into the stonework. Some contain centuries old frescoes, or gilt icons. A small number tell the story of civilisations rising and falling in their very masonry, as column drums from ancient temples suddenly appear in the exterior facade, or, as I have once seen, as the altar itself, complete with capital.
This one, however, despite its dramatic location, had long since lost any significance it had. The satisfyingly sturdy handle of the bright blue door was tied with a piece of weathered string to a rusty nail, hammered into the whitewashd plaster facade. Untethering and pushing the door open, I swept the interior with my head torch. A lectern, a couple of wooden chairs, a table with a pile of beeswax candles, and a free standing and finely wrought brass candle burner topped with a deep dish full of sand. Pretty standard. And of course, the curtained entrance of the katholikon,, the 'pure' area at the back where the priest prepares the sacraments and into which no woman may supposedly enter.
This for me is always the area of interest. Not because I can assert my male privilege by entering, but because it contains the myth and mystery of altar wine.
Long before Christianity developed its cannibalistic understanding of bread and wine, the ancients in these parts made equally ritualistic use of alcohol in sacred spaces. The Elevsinian Mysteries which took place in ancient Attica as part of the cult of Dionysus is perhaps one the most obvious exames, and one, conversely, in which only women were allowed to participate. And it makes sense to me that religion should be so intimately bound up with alcohol.
I am not religious, but I do seek out religious experiences, as perhaps William James would understand this term. One of these is physical exertion in an awe-inspiring environment. Every summer I try to make it out to the Alps or Pyrenees to go hiking and climbing. Always alone, I plan a long distance route that will maximize my time high above the treeline. At around 2000m in Europe, the trees stop, and by 2750m, the only vegetation left is moss, and some stunted and spiny tufts of grass. The rest is rock, while up above, the ghostly porcelain of glaciers beckon. There is an unearthly stillness up here, and a real sense that however long you linger, you do not belong. Sooner or later the weather will change, or night will fall, and you will feel nature's utter indifference to your presence. That is why I am always grateful and humble to pass through, keenly aware that I am in the presence of something much more powerful and all encompassing than myself.
The landscape itself might be enough to inspire this feeling of reverence in most people. But for me, my attention is often drawn inward by the incessant murmur of multiple thoughts all jostling to be heard, sometimes negative, and often intrusive. The only reliable ways I have found to switch them off is strenuous physical activity, alcohol and sex. At such times I find a blessed release from worldly concerns, a silence which allows me to fully immerse myself in the environment, and to open my mind to a nonlinguistic covenant with the natural world.
Which is why I am drawn to these little chapels. As I write this on my phone, I'm inside the Chapel of Agios Theodoros, the blue wooden door wedged ajar with some heavy stones so that I can more clearly hear the the waves foaming and breaking on the shore. Three beeswax candles are guttering slightly in a current if air, causing the shadows to dance and the walls momentarily to breathe. And a little bottle of altar wine lies at my side, its contents mingling with post-run endorphines to connect me both to this earth and the countless ghosts and stories of this historical island.
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