Cover photo by Danis Papagiannoulis
Article by Nikos Kakagias
Edited by Harrys Pourouzidis
Silence stretched its frozen fingers across the mirror of the lake, and the lake, breathing almost imperceptibly so as not to disturb the established order of things, allowed only the faintest line of breath to show at the foot of imposing Varnountas, which stood like a watchman over the frozen valley. The few low houses barely upheld the claim of a village, leaving the eye free to wander over whatever the lake itself had to offer, as the first rays of the sun, abandoning the summit of Triklarios, painted the reflections of that humble place.
We left the lakeside settlement for an even more deserted one to the east, where the suggestive name “Oxya” appeared at its entrance less like a fact than a wish. Only the damp and the cold beneath the skin welcomed us, together with two or three ruins, and we soon withdrew, lest we disturb the stillness. The sun was climbing indifferently high when we reached the less unknown village, in a sense the little harbour of its elder sister. The lean cows grazing in the meadow paid us little attention, despite the sonorous verdict of the eldest among us that they belonged to a protected breed, being among the few remaining traces of the Greek shorthorn cattle.
The road led down to the little harbour, and after a brief inspection of the place, we surrendered ourselves to the navigational prowess of Thomas, who tousled our hair by raising and lowering the speed of his boat. Perhaps it was the wind, perhaps the midday sun glittering on the still waters of Great Prespa, but our mood, which had been purring at low revs since morning, began to rise. The few pelicans offered us excellent shots, gliding low through the shadows and reflections of snow-covered Galichica on the far side of the Greek shore. The abandoned hermitages appeared on the rocky southern face of the lake, and a certain disappointment at the harsh midday light, which failed to draw their outlines properly, vanished at once when the captain pointed out that we would see them again in the afternoon light. By way of compensation, he dropped us at a makeshift pier, from where we disappeared upward, climbing a great many steps, swallowed by the shadows of the deep gash in the rock.
With our tongues in plain view and our panting breath trying, with little success, to conceal itself, we stood there wondering what motive could have dictated such discoveries. “Faith,” someone said. “Fear,” said another, leaving us suspended between conjecture and historical testimony. In the end, what leaves its indelible seal upon the cloud of uncertainty is perhaps the very idea of unpredictability in the course of human history. It seemed like Plato’s cave, or like a womb withholding the unbelievable beauty of light from the eyes of the dazzled newborn. These scattered thoughts gave meaning to the images that were first recorded by our souls and only afterward by our cameras. Panagia Eleousa was the mother who had guarded her secrets until today, and her hermitage was the most impressive gift our journey had reserved for us.
The afternoon light vindicated Thomas and rewarded our photographic eye, revealing forms and reflections that overturned our morning impression from its very foundations. Psarades looked equally enchanting in the dusk that bathed them, washing away whatever flaws had marked our first impression. That evening, after a hearty meal at the family tavern, the thread of an old and familiar habit began to unwind — the habit that had always hidden behind the pretext of our photographic explorations. The owners of the hospitable guesthouse proved convenient fellow travellers along the road of memory, and together with the vapours of alcohol, they unravelled desires and anxieties bound to their own declared decision to remain there, against the summons of these harsh and troubled times.
The next morning’s coffee came with a handmade pie from the little old woman who ran the only café-grocery in the area, and it opened our eyes enough to find the road to the island of Agios Achilleios, held in the embrace of Little Prespa. The island’s historical past is rich; it was chosen as a religious centre by the Bulgarian ruler Samuel, who was also the founder of the church that bears the same name. Since then, much blood has been spilled, and the times have altered things in whatever way best suited them. The church survives in ruins on the northern shore of the island, in eternal contemplation of snow-covered Varnountas. Our group traced the imagined ridgeline of the island’s gentle relief until we reached the monument of the great cross to the east. The island numbers no more than fifty souls, and apart from its meagre livestock, tourism is its means of livelihood. A well-kept building at the end of the wooden floating bridge that connects the place to the northern shore serves as both guesthouse and restaurant, and there we rested over a cup of fragrant tea.
The road cut northeast toward the western foothills of snow-covered Varnountas, a mountain divided in two by an artificial line. Agios Germanos and its stone-built mansions were our destination. The village is regarded as the main settlement of the area, gathering its institutions and services together with some two hundred inhabitants. There were few residents in the stone lanes, and the policeman washing the paving stones informed us that the opening of the border passage with those “over there” was, “No, not expected to happen next year,” putting an end to the hopes of people on both sides of the line.
Epilogue
The return found us silent, carrying the thought that places are not forgotten; rather, memories are shallow, and the gaze of perspective too short. The few who have chosen to remain in these beautiful places are their hope, and their way out of the misery that the choices of others have reserved for them.
A Few Words from Psarades
There are places one merely visits… and there are places one feels. Prespa, then, belongs to the second kind.
In the borderland corner of Western Macedonia, at the northwesternmost edge of Greece, where Greece touches two countries and nature remains authentic and unpretentious, Prespa waits for the visitor to discover one of the country’s most impressive destinations. Little and Great Prespa together compose a landscape of singular beauty, one that combines serenity with rich biodiversity and images that carve themselves indelibly into the memory of every traveller. The lakes of Prespa are a true paradise for those who love nature, quiet, and authentic experience. Clear waters, green slopes, lakeside villages, and rare bird species form one of the most important ecosystems in Europe, making the scenery exceptional in every season of the year. Here, the visitor does not come merely to see a beautiful landscape. He comes to live it.
Little Prespa casts a particular spell, with the emblematic island of Agios Achilleios and the modern footbridge that leads to a place filled with history, tranquillity, and a unique view. Great Prespa, wilder and more imposing, generously offers images of rare natural beauty and lends itself to moments of rest and calm.
Prespa is an ideal destination for escapes throughout the year. Hiking through pristine natural landscapes, cycling routes, birdwatching, photographic excursions, and boat trips to Byzantine monuments all come together in an experience capable of satisfying even the most demanding visitor. In spring and summer, the region fills with colour and life, while autumn and winter bestow a quieter atmosphere, almost mystical in its stillness.
And when exploration is complete, the experience continues at the table. The local cuisine, based on raw ingredients drawn straight from the land and the lake, offers flavours that are authentic and unforgettable. The people of the area, hospitable and true, make you feel not like a visitor, but like part of the place.
Thomas Manouris
