Driving up Mount Olympus

Posted by Annette Jahnel on 10 July 2011

Leaving Bulgaria behind, it is time to make my way slowly down to Athens. Very slowly.

Greece is tiny and I have a whole week to cover a few hundred kilometers. But there is much to see in this land of myth and mountain. My goal for the day is Litochoro at the foot of Mount Olympus. Giving the pollution of Thessalonica a wide berth and swapping the A1 highway for a narrow country road, I start following some fairly suspect-looking road signs that point to Mount Olympus. The signs are not up to the normal tourist sign standard, but, hey, this is the Greek hinterland; perhaps this is  how things are done here.

The road leads through head-high cornfields, silent dusty villages, past colorful churches, and through olive groves. By now I am quite aware that the roadsigns are leading me to an obscure back route to Mount Olympus, but curiosity drives me on and up, at a very steep angle. The road quickly leaves the olive groves far behind, then it leaves the tar behind, then the safety barriers, and finally any sense that this might be a road for normal cars. This is confirmed in an impossibly steep hairpin bend, where the Wish Mobile meets its match. The wheels spin on huge chunks of loose gravel and for one brief moment we are stationary, then the gravel starts moving down the mountain, Wish Mobile and all. A shock of adrenalin shoots through my heart.

With no power, no traction, and no safety barriers, this road trip could end in freefall and soon. I force the brake pedal right into the chassis, I yank up the handbrake, but learn the hard way that when the wheels are not what is moving the car, these actions are pretty useless. I try to power out of the situation, rev the engine, pop the clutch, but succeed only in flooding the car with a vile smelling smoke. In a moment of desperate brilliance, I yank the steering to the left and drive the butt of the Wish Mobile into the side of the mountain. The gravel avalanche slips gracefully over the edge of the cliff, leaving behind a delicate plume of dust that is swept away by the breeze.

Stepping out of the car might not be the best plan at this point so I let down all the windows and have a good look at the ground around me. It is all loose gravel, but my wild swing of the steering has placed the car into the classic second position of a three-point turn, right in the bend of the hairpin bend that got us into this position in the first place. If I swing the wheel hard right, the road should be wide enough to turn around in. I turn the steering wheel as hard as I can and then put my full weight behind it. The wheels creak as they give me just a little more movement. Gently I ease the clutch, willing the Wish Mobile to turn. The gravel starts moving again, but before it can sweep us along, the wheels find grip, and we shoot from our position. I steer left, brake, we skid, I hit the gas, turn left, and just before driving over the cliff, I find a more or less level place to stop and regroup. On wobbly legs I stroll to the cliff to have a little look over the edge “¦ those olive trees look very small.

Just then a posse of four wheel drive vehicles come up the road. As they drive past they stare at the Wish Mobile in amazement. It seems the signs I was following forgot to mention that this is an advanced 4×4 route, not a scenic outing for some insane woman in a glorified delivery van. The Wish Mobile is quick to agree with the opinion written all over the faces of the 4×4 drivers, and starts blinking a huffy little red light at me – stop immediately – service – stop immediately – service. Unfortunately stopping halfway up the rear end of Mount Olympus is not going to get us a service. I wonder if phoning the German Automobile Association will get me a tow-in service in Greece. I try to phone, but there is no reception in Zeus’s backyard and so there is nothing to be done but to nurse the Wish Mobile down the mountain, and creep along the highway, all the while patting its dashboard gently for moral support. We reach a service station before long, but it is siesta time, so I pull into the shade, let down the front seat and have a little siesta of my own.

By the time the service manager gets back to work, the Wish Mobile has calmed down, and has forgotten its little hissy fit. But I let the man look the engine over just to be sure. It seems I overheated the clutch. You don’t say. Not a problem, just have it properly looked at during your next service. Service the car, there’s a thought, and one more thing to do before I leave the European Union.

Approaching the earthly seat of the gods from the main entrance is a much more sedate affair. The road climbs into the deep valley that shields Olympus from undeserving eyes. It winds past the Platform of the Muses, but ends at the entrance of the Olympus National park soon after. To sit with the gods, you have to work hard. The only way to the top is by foot and that is good. Not all things should be revealed to the lazy, which, I am afraid, includes me. I never did understand the “˜because it’s there’ mindset. But, “˜I climbed Mount Olympus to sit with the gods’ has a certain ring to it, and the thought of hurling thunderbolts to earth moves me to climb a few of the thousands of metres to Zeus. Then I see the hardier and better prepared return from their hike. Ah-ha, you need a rucksack, sturdy climbing shoes, water bottles, hats, sticks and you must book a bed in the mountain hut at Spilios Agapitos, situated at 2 817 m; the hike can take nine hours. As this is obviously not a spur of the moment activity, I content myself with photographing the mountain horses.

These are hippy horses: they have rings on their fingers and bells on their toes. Or at least they would have if they did have – fingers and toes that is – but they do have bells round their throats and beads around their heads with funky medallions that hang at jaunty angles under their forelocks. These are not just frivolous decoration, but have the serious task of protecting the horses from the evil eye. The hippy image is complete with brightly colored saddle blankets and exotic saddles that are highly complex constructions of carved wood and padded leather, which are held on the horse’s back with wide leather straps around the horse’s rump and chest. The eccentric-looking horses also like drinking their water directly from the drinking fountain by putting the whole drinking spout in their mouths. Fellow mountaineers, be warned. That drinking spout comes straight from a horse’s mouth.

Descending the slopes of Mount Olympus, I find a room in Litochero. An icecream sundae of a village that has been discovered by the rich city folk and tourists, it has an over-sanitized – modern pretending to be old – feel about it. The town square is decorated by a fountain that is a slush puppy machine on acid. It squirts funnels, fountains and spires of water in pastel shades of pink, orange, green and purple, and is very festive and fun to look at while drinking a little glass of ouzo.

Feeling a little festive myself while getting dressed this evening – after today’s narrow escape and all – I slipped into a sleeveless, form-fitting little black dress. But now, on the town square, which seems to be frequented only by Greek men, the ouzo, the dress, and the fact that I am alone is attracting frank stares that make me feel decidedly uncomfortable. The ouzo doesn’t seem such a good idea anymore; I lose my appetite and make my way back to my hotel room. While walking under stone arches and through tiny cobbled streets, where newly renovated holiday homes stand next to fall-apart ruins, in which feral cats are wailing and sparring, I come to the conclusion that Western city-style women’s lib has not yet reached all parts of the Western world, let alone the world at large. I shall have to pay more attention to the dress of the local women in future.’

This is an extract from My Year of Beds, the story of one woman’s solo drive around the planet. Read more at www.ajahnel.com.

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