Κείμενο – Φωτογραφίες: Nikos Kakagias
Edited by Harrys Pourouzidis
Hydra, Spetses, and Psara echoed as one in the ears of my early youth, which had shaped them into a mythical, gunpowder-scented world, adorned with acts of heroic grandeur.
Only later, after many other realisations too, did I understand just how far away Psara truly was. Later still came the time to breathe the same air, not heroic of course, but just as life-giving as it had been then, on two of the three islands.
We set off early from Tolo in Argolis, with the first light of a delayed autumn dawn painting the small bay in warm colour. We headed southeast, sailing into the weather, with the north wind growing stronger and rocking the boat as we came around Porto Heli. A few uneasy glances appeared as we entered the straits between Hydra and Spetses, but they were quickly calmed by the captain’s reassuring interventions. In the end, everyone was left gazing at the blue, waiting for the dolphin girl.
Bathed in dazzling light, Spetses waved us off with a white handkerchief as we left it behind, and ahead of us, to the northeast, the dry rock of Hydra came into view. One meets its southwestern edge when arriving from Spetses, and in contrast to Spetses’ low, green relief, Hydra appears wild and arid. A rock washed in hard light and wind. “We won’t dock yet,” said the captain. “There’s no room for us. The ferry has to leave first.”
It was also my first opportunity to photograph the settlement against the sun, which, truth be told, was not exactly generous.
“You have three hours at your disposal, and I won’t wait for anyone,” came the captain’s non-negotiable verdict. From that moment on, I kept looking at my watch, running to catch the frame I had in mind.
Suddenly before me, a dolphin-girl!'
Hey,' I say to her, 'where is your petticoat?
Are you going to meet your boy so naked?'"
The first visit was to the island’s Historical Archives Museum, and there came the first surprise. Fortunately, a momentary inspiration made me nod when asked, “Are you a photojournalist, sir?” and that opened the door for me to photograph Miaoulis’s heart in its ampulla, along with fragments of naval history.
Motionless in their display cases, they stirred the emotional reflexes, and the shutter caught fire. Photographically, half-light records atmospheric images, but technically they are far from easy. The attempt is judged leniently, and strict technical criticism is lightened under the excuse of the emotional weight being carried.
Outside, the sun had climbed considerably, and the distance to the acropolis on the exact opposite side of the harbour seemed long. The anxiety grew too, when the doubtful answer of a seated street vendor planted a question mark in my mind.
“You want to go up there? Hm. Take the harbour road and then cut upwards through the path…”
The reproachful mutter that followed, which I did not quite understand, left me wondering, but it did not discourage me at all from finding the path. And there, the child riding the dolphin welcomed me.
The path proved too short for my hurried legs, and the view proved breathtaking. The settlement spread out in the hollow between two high hills, on one of whose summits I was standing, gazing out like another Hillary.
The town showed signs of expansion towards the southwest, as if taking a breath of escape from the suffocating environment of the old settlement. The question, of course, remained: how is communication achieved between the more distant points and the centre, given the well-known absence of wheeled vehicles on the island? This, most likely, is also responsible for the good physical condition of its inhabitants.
Then came a new dash downhill, this time with time itself running threateningly behind me.
The route to the mansion of Lazaros Kountouriotis, brother of Georgios, proved longer than expected, since photography played a provocative role along the way.
Panting, I crossed the entrance, and before me opened an inner courtyard with a wonderful view of the harbour. A staircase led to the upper floor, where the kind guide welcomed us and led us through the rooms.
Closed corners, tight frames, bright windows: all posed challenges to the photographic impulse and raised multiple questions. The house itself is the epitome of nobility and wealth, every corner bearing witness to the glory of an age now gone.
The basement, with the kitchen and its auxiliary rooms, now hosts works by artists and a photographic collection by Robert McCabe.
I had to see that too.
And then, run, little legs, run. Half an hour remained, along with the question: “Will I have time to reach the house of Panagiotis Tetsis?”
There is no need to present details about the painter’s work here, but because of a distant, almost personal affinity through my own involvement with art, it made me run, fortunately not much farther than the Kountouriotis house.
In the end, I made it, breathless, camera in hand, taking hurried photographs while repeating inwardly and outwardly, “You won’t make it, you won’t make it…”
In the end, I did make it, just as the ship’s horn sounded its warning.
From the sea, Spetses presents a low relief, covered in pine forest, in contrast to Hydra’s aridity. It welcomed us with the jingling of horse-drawn carriages carrying the few visitors up and down the waterfront.
The unpleasant impression, unlike its neighbour, was the noise from engines of every kind. One had to be especially careful not to be run down in the lanes while standing there trying to find a decent photographic angle.
There were only ninety minutes until departure, and the need to see the captainess’s house became urgent.
The strength and altruistic behaviour of this woman had always held a particular fascination for me. After the death of two husbands, she raised seven children and gave her fortune and fleet to the achievement of the highest cause.
Any comparison with people today, of course, brings only indulgent smiles.
Her bust outside the perimeter wall of the courtyard was half-lit by the pale afternoon sun, and standing to attention was required for the frame, although mainly not only for that reason.
The inner courtyard led to a two-storey building, with a side staircase rising to the upper floor. Clearly simpler than the Kountouriotis mansion, it nevertheless testified to the same spacious nobility.
The simple bust of Lela Karagianni in the salon came as a surprise, and the obvious question that arose was immediately answered when I read the information plaque: the heroine of the National Resistance, tortured and murdered by the Germans, was Bouboulina’s great-granddaughter.
A shiver down the neck accompanied the whole anxious walk along the island’s waterfront.
The sun was diving into the waters of the Argolic Gulf, and I stood by the railing wondering whether heroism, even to the point of self-sacrifice, has a genetic explanation.
