Pyrgi Wanderings and a Surprise Trip!

It was Sunday and the bells of the Church of the Assumption of the Theotokos wove their way through my bedroom window. The familiar three-times clang of the call to service served as the most unique alarm clock. I liked it. It brought a smile to my face.

I’d slept well in my medieval bed in the medieval house – thankfully not on a medieval mattress. The neighbours across the way were already in deep and loud conversation, so loud that they could have been in the bedroom with me. I got ready and made my way out, down the narrow street into the main square. The cafés were already open, and groups of well-dressed elderly women were making their way out of church, chatting and laughing together.

There were very few tourists around. Maybe it was still too early for the groups to arrive and even when they did, the groups always seemed small. While it was quiet, I went to the Church of Agioi Apostoloi, the beautiful Byzantine church just off the square, built between the 14th and 15th centuries. The dome was based on the Katholikon of Nea Moni, the monastery that sat in the centre of Chios. The wall paintings were done by Cretan artist Antonios Kynegos in 1665. Although there were elements of Cretan folk style in his work, there were also modern influences. The church had survived attacks by the Ottomans and several earthquakes, and it was still fully intact.

The place was beautiful and I had it all to myself.

Back out in the square, I followed an alleyway and passed another small church on my right. On the left was a really good example of the narrow bridges that connected the houses – a way to cross from house to house in case of pirate attack. I imagined it as a kind of medieval Parkour.

The geometric designs were everywhere, even on the underside of balconies. Strings of cherry tomatoes hung out to dry above doorways and from the fronts of houses.

Although Pyrgi was often called the Painted Village, the Xysta were not created with grey and white paint, nor with stencils. The houses were rendered with a plaster made from a particular mix of sand to give it a rough texture. Once dry, it was coated in lime whitewash, and then, section by section, the whitewash was scratched away using simple tools such as scrapers and compasses, revealing the grey render beneath. Considering the complexity of the designs and the awkward positions of some of the surfaces, it was pretty amazing. Gus had told me that only a few craftsmen still practised this art. Let’s hope another generation continues it.

I found myself outside another church, which Google translated as the Church of the Assumption of the Virgin Pyrgi. What caught my eye was another marble stone with an inscription that included the name Kolombos. I remembered Gus from the taverna telling me about the House of Christopher Columbus, where he was said to have lived before departing for the Americas. Some of his descendants were still said to live in the village today. This was where I headed next.

It was an unassuming house and if you didn’t know what to look for, you could easily miss it. It was identified by the crest of Columbus and was located as you exited the main square on the left-hand side.

The alleyways went on forever, which was part of the fun – following whichever turning you fancied, never quite sure where you’d end up. And that was how I spent the morning. If I’d come here as part of a day trip, I would have felt pressured to see everything quickly, which would have taken away from the pleasure of exploring Pyrgi at my own pace.

A little later, I returned to the Pounti to pick up another battery for my camera. As I was about to head out for another wander, the head of Mr Costa suddenly appeared at my window.
“Bonjour!” he called.
“Comment ça va?”
“Ça va bien, merci Monsieur Costa,” I replied.

He switched into his usual Grench – a blend of Greek and French – where I could tell he was asking me something, but had no idea what. After some to-and-fro in a mixture of three languages, I resorted to Google Translate. Eventually, I gathered he was asking what my plans were for the day. I typed back that I was just exploring the village. That didn’t seem to satisfy him. Mr Costa clearly had other ideas.

He mentioned his car and beckoned me with a firm “Pame!” This I understood. I had absolutely no idea what was about to happen, but I went along with it.

Mr Costa’s car was parked outside the village walls – the streets of Pyrgi were clearly not designed for cars. He drove an SUV that had seen a few scrapes in its time, but it was the sort of vehicle that could handle the mountain passes.

We drove out of the village and soon took a narrow lane that looked far too tight for the car. He manoeuvred it with total confidence, while I sat there with absolutely no idea where we were heading. After a while, he pointed up the hill and then it became clear. He was taking me to the Mastic Museum. I had planned to go anyway, but didn’t realise quite how high up it was. It would definitely have been a steep walk.

The museum was set among the mastic plantations and built sympathetically into the landscape; the building itself was eco-friendly. At the ticket kiosk, I reached for my purse, but Mr Costa gestured with a sharp up-and-down movement telling me to stay exactly where I was. I obediently complied.

Inside the main exhibition hall – a beautifully designed modern building – we spent about an hour exploring. He read the Greek information; I read the English. At each section, we turned to each other and nodded in understanding, finally operating on the same wavelength. The exhibition detailed the process of growing, harvesting and processing mastic resin. I had no idea it was so labour-intensive. Although some of the industry had been mechanised, many families still farmed and processed mastic the traditional way.

The museum was more than an explanation of mastic production. It also explored the island’s history under the Genoese and Ottomans, who exploited the resin for their own wealth. A temporary exhibition, “Across the Sea,” commemorated the centenary of the Asia Minor Catastrophe. Striking photographs were accompanied by literary excerpts and personal testimonies. It was a deeply moving exhibition from a not-too-distant past.

I couldn’t recommend this museum enough. To understand mastic was, I think, to understand Chios.

I could have spent much longer in the museum, but I was sure Mr Costa had been many times before, and I sensed he had somewhere else in mind. Back into the car we went, and we didn’t seem to be heading back to Pyrgi. After a bit of small talk, he said, “Mavra Volia.”

This was another place I’d wanted to visit but wasn’t sure I’d manage by public transport. This was fantastic. Mr Costa parked up and we walked to the beach, which was famous for its black lava rocks – a very unique landscape. We didn’t stay long before driving a short distance to Emporios Beach.

Once parked, Mr Costa asked, “Birra or ouzo?” I didn’t usually drink during the day because it knocked me out, but I threw caution to the wind and said, “Ouzo!”

On the harbour front there was a taverna called Karagiorgis Emporios, and this was where we sat. A lady brought us menus. Mr Costa ordered a few things to accompany the ouzo – though I didn’t know what. The ouzo arrived along with a plate of squid, a plate of fried fish, and a bowl of salad made from beans and tomatoes. Mr Costa told me the beans were from Pyrgi.

This all looked fantastic, but I’m a difficult person when it comes to seafood, and squid or whole fish wouldn’t usually be my first choice. However, there was no way I would offend my kind host. I chewed my way through the squid – and chewed and chewed – taking swigs of ouzo to wash it down. The flavour was lovely, but the texture wasn’t for me. I genuinely don’t understand the worldwide obsession with squid and octopus. The salad, however, was delicious, and I piled my plate with it while delaying the inevitable: the fish.

Eventually, I could delay no longer. The fish was small enough to eat whole, though navigating the bones was tricky. I didn’t want to end up doing a Queen Mother, so I carefully picked off the flesh without looking like a fussy eater. And then — more ouzo.

That just about finished me off for the day. We drove back to Pyrgi, where I collapsed in my medieval bedroom until the ouzo wore off. The only thing I managed that evening, aside from a little more wandering, was a visit to see Manos, to ask whether he had any mastic oil, which had been recommended by Gus. He didn’t, but he told me his brother Vassilis had a shop in Chios Town and would definitely have some.

What a day. What a great day. What a wonderfully kind host.