Article by Nikos Kakagias
Cover photo by Harrys Pourouzidis
Edited by Harrys Pourouzidis
Our quests first stop came shortly after “Niki’s” border station, and it carried both an ancient name and an ancient scent. Heraclea Lyncestis was its full name, since its founder, Philip II, considered himself a descendant of Heracles. “Lyncestis” identified the region itself, bearing witness to the fact that this land belonged to lynxes before their destroyers appeared.
The city had a history of almost a thousand years, as both writings and archaeological finds attest. It flourished as a Macedonian city until its subjugation by the Romans, who in turn made it a commercial crossroads along the Via Egnatia. It was destroyed twice by the Ostrogoths of Theodorichos during Byzantine rule, before finally meeting its end after a devastating earthquake around 500 AD.
The archaeological site today includes a well-preserved Roman amphitheatre and the ruins of at least two Byzantine churches, along with many other spaces whose origins remain unclear to the untrained eye.
With the morning sun and the thin haze, our photographs carried a particular atmosphere and showed, in the best possible way, the care taken by the local archaeological service. This did not surprise us, as we had already had a taste of that care during an earlier visit to Stobi.
Between the breathlessness of climbing up and down the theatre steps and someone shouting for us to hurry, we were pushed towards the second step of our journey, a little farther north into the interior.
Bitola, the old capital of Pelagonia was our next stop. A city of consuls, a crossroads of cultures, and a field of conflict, it stretches across the valley of Mount Varnous to the west, with Voras rising to its south and southeast.The charming city, basking in the sun, was a refreshing Balkan corner, quite familiar and welcoming to our eyes and our feet that had four hours to walk its cobbled streets.
The main street, lined with shops and cafés was filled with people enjoying the early spring warmth. It reflected the light into our lenses and gave out high contrast conditions for photography. Undeterred, however, and with our curiosity outweighing the challenging lighting conditions, we walked uphill to find the clock tower and the lovely park around it. Our second stop was the stone-built basilica of Saint Demetrios, almost a copy of its Thessaloniki namesake. Our interest focused mainly on the carved iconostasis, which we were able to photograph thanks to the negotiations of the group’s “consul.” He found a way to soften the fierce objections of the church attendant, a Vlach woman by origin, who finally consented to this blatant exception with an emphatic “Go on, then…”
The renovated mosque came next, before our attention moved along the stream that carries the rather grand name of the Erigon River.
Along both banks of the stream, the old Greek quarter once flourished. Most of its old houses still stand, well cared for and proud against the passage of time. We then entered the covered bazaar, which, unfortunately, gives off an air of decline and neglect. Only a few remaining shops still resist the advance of large interests, which, according to reliable sources, have descended on the place after smelling profit.
The pleasant exterior market that followed, with its colours and smells, dispelled the gloomier impressions. We were rewarded by photographing cucumbers and tomatoes, just to keep ourselves grounded.
Our humble presence in the city ended with a visit to the museum, once a military academy, which has now become almost a mausoleum to Kemal Ataturk, since the glorification of the man who studied there is more than obvious.
On our way out of the city, we made a short stop at the monument to the German fallen of the First World War. It proved to us once again the absence of aesthetic grace in German architecture, but compensated us with a beautiful panoramic view of the city.
Kruševo, an old Vlach village a couple of hours to the northwest, was our next target. The village is burdened with sorrowful memories, since it was here that the Ilinden uprising broke out in distant 1903, only to be drowned in blood just ten days after it was declared.
The hotel that welcomed us, currently under renovation, revealed from afar the influence of Slavic aesthetics. It dominated the lower slopes of the small mountain and offered a wonderful view over the valley, where stone roofs stood out clearly.
Although tiredness weighed heavily on the atmosphere, we found the courage to descend towards the village centre and the square, photographing the old mansions as the sun, before leaving the stage, painted them with warm, gentle light.
Our final stop was the hill with the Ilinden monument, which literally left us speechless. Its strange architecture left a bad taste and raised questions about its aesthetics, neatly summed up by a very successful comparison from someone in the group:
“It reminds me of a sea mine…”
Unfortunatelly, we found it closed and had to content ourselves with its outline and its emphasised volume by the shadows of twilight as the background turned grey.
The following morning was greeted with a stereotypical hotel breakfast and thus well fed, we began the winding descent towards the valley, heading east with the plain of Pelagonia before us.
In the distance, strange rock formations could be seen faintly, with the urban fabric of Prilep spreading in front of our eyes.
“First, we’re heading for the mountains,” Dimos said, and we turned even farther east, taking the narrow, winding road that led to the old monastery of Treskavec, nestled beneath the steep rocky peak of Zlatovrv.
The unique view up there compensated us offering countless photographic moments and also gave the group opportunities to display climbing abilities none of us had imagined we possessed. The monastery itself is an open construction site, with little of particular interest to record.
We reversed course and entered Prilep, ,ancient as well, built near the old site of Macedonian Styberra, it had a history similar to that of its neighbouring cities.
Today, it is considered a centre of tobacco production and processing, and its urban layout resembles that of Bitola. Low buildings, large squares, and charming statues beneath the shadow of the minaret and central clock gave the impression of a relaxed city that respects the people it hosts.
Our time was burning when we finally settled into the pleasant motel, dreaming of the relief of a shower. The relief, however, proved temporary. At the urging of the “high priest” of the group, we agreed to take the uphill path towards the steep rock where the ruins of Prince Marko’s castle, Markovi Kuli, stand.
But agreeing is one thing; seeing the sheer rock rising above the eastern side of the city is another. Some, wisely, chose to remain below. The rest of us, panting heavily, took the path and, through difficult passages and plenty of steps, reached the summit, where the view in the colours of dusk was extraordinary.
We made our way back down, careful with every step. When we finally reached the base, our appetite, which until then we had managed to forget, urgently reminded us of their presence.
Truth be told, we were in no mood to judge dinner properly because of the rumbling in our bellies, so we left the verdict for much later. Even then, however, it did not score above average.
- First World War French Cemetary -
A love of history is an inseparable part of our photographic group. Wherever we find ourselves, wherever we set foot, we seek it out, casting glances into the past in the hope that we might better understand the future.
Before returning home, our leader pulled the handbrake just outside Bitola so that we could see with our own eyes the madness of the few and their astonishing ability to drag the many into death.
The size of the French cemetery of the First World War was, truth be told, something we had not expected. Here lie 6,128 identified soldiers and more than 7,000 unknown ones, in a burial ground officially inaugurated by the French authorities on 23 September 1923.
Exactly five years earlier, on the same day and month, French troops alongside Allied forces had begun operations in the Dobro Pole region.
Silent before the sight, with heavy hearts, we pressed the shutter. Then, with sadness in our thoughts, we departed.
- Epilogue -
Passing once more through the charming Bitola, rewarded us with coffee and syrup-soaked sweets from the city’s only (?) Turkish pastry shop.
The cherry on top we had been looking for was, indeed, a sweet desert.
