I hate Santorini...

From a geological perspective, Santorini is astonishing. It was once a complete island with a central volcano. A massive ancient eruption left behind only the rims of the volcano crater, a circular group of craggy islands marking the edges of the caldera. White-washed villages like iconic Oia teeter on the edge.

Here's detail that only a volcanologist could love. I came to Santorini on a small cruise ship; we were urged to view the approach from the top deck, and advisedly. Those different coloured strata of rock have some stories to tell. 

We travelled by coach from the debarkation point, zigzagging via countless pretty terrifying switchbacks to the top, then across the arid island to spend a few hours at Oia. Oia is famous for its sunsets so the visit was timed to transport the punters to the natural attraction.

Everything was so beautiful. Best recipe for awe: simple white-washed structures, serene blue sky, sparkling azure water, distant island vistas. 

I won't explain the whitewash story, but here's a little expert travel column if you like.

But what I saw wasn't awe. It was competitive selfie tourism, crowds of people, the beautiful young ones in their special Oia dresses -"I'm ready for my closeup Mr.Demille" - the older ones determined to tick off another box on their travel life list. Everyone has to be in 'that' photo of Oia.

If you think I'm being too grumpy, here's another opinion. I especially like the tour guide's comments on the cyclical nature of the Instagram phenomenon.

The narrow lanes leading to the north end of the village where the big event was scheduled to happen were elbow to elbow tourists, shuffling along, watch-watching. The lack of respect for privacy and property was embarrassing. No wonder many places hate tourists.

 

So I perched on a couple of spots, trying to ignore the folks smiling for the camera. The lack of humans in these photos is a tribute to my patience, and my height.

 I headed down a few side lanes, marvelling at the light, loving the soft shapes of the buildings, noticing how the sun 'set' over and over as it struck buildings at different heights and directions.

Impatience growing, I left the melee and returned to the little main square. A bit further on I encountered two members of our group wisely enjoying dolmades and wine. It was an easy decision to make, and there my lovely evening in Oia began. 

No, I don't hate Santorini.

How could I?

I just hate what we have done to it.

I took this photo from our ship as we were approaching the little harbour. If you look closely, you will see buses at various levels of the road criss-crossing the rock face that is the road up to Fira, the main village. As we were tendered from the ship to the dock we were marshalled into groups with breath-taking efficiency and assigned to specific buses to join the procession. In the old days, weary donkeys trudged the route with goods off-loaded from the boats tied at the harbour. 

These final photos are of the parking lot as we made our way back to our coach to make the return trip to the ship. 

No, I don't hate Santorini.

But there's a good chance Santorini hates us.

Vertigo

looking down from our hotel near Delphi

I am not especially fond of heights (was never one to walk those glass floors in tall visitor attractions) but as a BC girl for many years I did grow to love the tingles that happened up and down Anarchist Summit (4892')  or the Allison Pass and Sunday Summit along the Hope-Princeton Highway (4403'.)  Nevertheless, my home and native flirtation with heights didn't

 prepare me for Greece.

looking down on the Bay of Itea

 

Had you asked I might have confessed my mental picture of Greece was beaches, picturesqe villages, the vista over the sparkling Mediterranean. No need to hold on tight, right?

But those myths, with Mount Olympus front and centre should have been a clue. But they were myths...

However, a  quick search yields the irrefutable fact. Greece is mountainous. Very mountainous. Eighty percent mountainous, in actual fact. And Mount Olympus towers a very real 9570 feet above sea level. I read it's the Pindus Mountains responsible for the terrain across the mainland and some of the islands. So I suppose it's the Pindus Mountains I can blame for the precarious, largely Armco-free switchbacks I enjoyed with 'bated breath', on the way up to Oia on the island of Santorini, and to and from ancient sites on the Peloponnese.   That the nerve and skill of our coach drivers is legendary is an understatement. To them we owe our lives.

Here are a couple shots from the coach window, along the climb from the Gult of Corinth across the Peloponnese toward Delphi.They don't half do it justice.

I'd just set out here to talk about the ancient site of Delphi, but on opening my photo folder I was struck by memories of getting there. The exquisite Amelia hotel, very near to the Delphi archeological site, clung to the mountainside, looking down on the village we passed through before beginning to climb Mount Parnassus. That was a sunset worth having.

the Athenian Treasury

We braved the final climb to the hotel along a good, if narrow paved road, switchbacks requiring lots of gear-grinding and occasional reversing to get round tight curves. Tough! 

Then I was reminded of the routes taken by pilgrims travelling enormous distances from throughout the ancient Greek world and as far away as Egypt coming to Mount Parnassus to consult the oracle. 

Weeks of travel by foot or donkey, winding paths through olive groves of the valley of the River Pleistos, uphill all the way. A vertical climb of more than 400 feet. A two to three day walk from Athens. Days or weeks from other regions, via sea and land. 

as mysterious as Pythia

All to arrive at the 'navel of the earth' as proscribed by Zeus, where the ancient oracle, the Pythia, received divinations and puzzled suppliants, pilgrims and ambassadors alike, with her cryptic messages. Heady stuff.

These photos capture the verticality of the place; a steady climb to the level of the Temple of Apollo from the parking lot and  the wonderful archeological museum we visited later. Like the pilgrims, we trudged up the Sacred Way to the sacred precinct. 

Unlike the pilgrims, we hadn't started at the port on the Gulf of Corinth, or further. Even so, by the time we reached the level of the temple, I forwent a further climb to the theatre of Delphi.

I learned so much from our guide, but I won't record it here. If you're curious, check out Wikipedia or the dozens and dozens of sources. This post was just about 'Being There.'

Face Time

A look at some church facades this afternoon has sent me down a rabbit hole. Does this church intrigue you as much as it does me? You might have noticed it on my blog home page, backgrounding the Bernini sculpture for which the blog is named. This is Santa Maria Sopra Minerva. It's a Dominican church consecrated in 1370. It was built over a temple dedicated to Isis (wrongly called Minerva, hence the 'sopra.') 

It's a Gothic church, the only one in Rome according to this Wikipedia article. It doesn't appear there are too many Gothic churches in Florence and Rome. I suppose most of them were renovated, overdecorated with Baroque enthusiasm that only popes could muster during the triumphant Counter-Reformation. I read that plain little Sopra Minerva acquired some Baroque bling, and some interior fitting which was later removed.  

I've been puzzling about this little beauty for some time. In a city of dramatic Baroque churches, this plain little facade (called Renaissance in one article) is so appealing. But as we know, churches typically evolved over time, or even have complete facelifts, or don't get finished at all, long after they're first consecrated. I came across this interesting article in the Liturgical Arts Journal which provides alternate facades for Sopra Minerva, one of the likely original (photo manipulation) and the drawing for the proposed Baroque facelift (yuck.) Perhaps I should leave the last word on Sopra Minerva, to that august assembly.

San Giovanni in Bragora, Venice

Sopra Minerva endears me to it in the same way that this little dear in Venice, San Giovanni in Bragora does. It was founded in 8th century, receiving this plain brick Gothic facade around 1500. I did a post about its impact on me last May. 

Another intesting discovery from this bit of research. When you think of Gothic churches, you likely think of pointy arched soaring stained glass places like Notre Dame in Paris. Somewhere (better citation advisable) I read that high Gothic was never popular in Italy. Milan Cathedral might have been an exception, although two that I have visited, Orvieto and Siena , are Italian Gothic blended with Byzantine and Romanesque elements. And the incomparable St. Mark's Basilica in Venice is a dizzying combination of Byzantine, Gothic and Romanesque. The upper church of the Basilica of St. Francis of  Assisi, which I visited with my guy in 1995 and again with a congenial group in 2023 is also a Gothic church, with Romanesque features. 

Here are some 1995 travel snaps.

Siena Cathedral consecrated 1215 (medieval)

Orvieto Cathedral (construction begun 1290 - Gothic)

Oh, here's an Italian Gothic Architecture article (you're not still reading this, are you?)  It has a photo of the magnificent Milan Cathedral, a more typical Gothic church. In Northern Italy, I suppose it was easier to be influenced by the splendid light and verticality of churches in France.

Denis pondering in front of the Baptistery in Padua, 1995
To his right, the unfinished Padua Cathedral

And on a final note, the matter of unfinished facades. As the histories of many of these great cathedrals tell me, they evolved, with style changes, brand new ideas, or financial issues. 

San Lorenzo

This one, the Basilica of San Lorenzo in Florence, never got its facelift (I mentioned it in this post last year) although there were grand plans afoot. The rough stone was the perfect spot to attach sheets of coloured marble. Which  is what happened in the 19th century when the marvellous iconic facades of Florence's Santa Maria del Fiore (the 'Duomo') and Santa Croce were finally completed. 

Santa Maria del Fiore - facade completed 1887

Santa Croce - facade completed 1865

Water Music

Today I'm on a quest for some sunny day photos - it's been a crepuscular world here for at least a week. I decided to revisit this lovely day trip in nature, undertaken on our tour in Croatia last spring. This is the incomparable Plitvice Lakes National Park, blessed with 90 waterfalls and sixteen lakes. Words fail.

No brain-breaking architectural research today, just the memory of trickling and rushing water and lush green and blue nature everywhere. Paths throughout the park, causeways and boardwalks bring you into close communion with this healthgiving place. Dense forest of beech and fir surround you.

I've labelled a few photos and included links to a couple of videos, but as they say in the guided tour business, this is your free time. Wander at will. Meet me here later.

Plitvice Park is a UESCO World Heritage experience, with over 90 waterfalls of varying heights and effects, from curtains to tapestries. 

natural travertine dams caused by mineral-rich water

Veliki Slap - Lower Lakes' Great Wsterfall

The UNESCO website explains what I'm not doing very well. And Rick Steves weighs in here, including an incident from the 1991 war, a heart-breaking juxtapostion with all this beauty about.

our tour manager Michael and a hesitant fellow traveller

Some of the rustic boardwalks had railings, others, more floating causeways had me wondering how often visitors just stepped off them, distracted by the beauty around them.

I read that the lakes' colour changes between turquoise, green and azure due to a high calcium carbonate content, originating in the surrounding limestone. Sunlight reflects on the water, and moss and algae contribute to the light play, as does water depth, weather and the angle of the light.

Electric boats traversed the lake we circumnavigated like taxis, offering a unique trip to the next dock and a new trail.

Here's a link to an eight-minute video orientation to Plitvice Lakes. The background information, omitted in this post, is there for you. At the two-minute mark, the video walking tour begins (holy moly.) It's worth the watch to enjoy the sounds of water music, which I have no good way of sharing with you.  Adjectives can only do so much. 

If you want to see more, there are dozens of good videos of varying lengths on YouTube.

Now, for the final antidote to today's cloudiness. To just get back there.