Having spent 5 months doing very stupid things - almost falling off cliffs, walking 36 miles through the mountains, pitching my tent on top of an ants nest, attempting to walk along non-existent footpaths and tearing myself to shreds on vicious plant life as a result - I have decided for once to do something sensible. Shortening days, lowering temperatures, anxious parents and being a month behind schedule have convinced me to return to England for the winter and to resume my walk again next spring, covering the final 1,500 miles to Jerusalem. I had originally hoped to arrive in Jerusalem in time to spend Christmas in Bethlehem, but I had already lost a month and even if I had continued I probably wouldn't have arrived until the beginning of February which didn’t have quite the same significance. I'll be back at my desk in London from 17th October until early April, when I will head off again to walk from the Greek-Turkish border to Jerusalem.
My last two weeks of walking were fairly brutal, covering nearly 300 miles. From Kavala, I headed inland, crossing the Nestos River into Thrace and immediately became aware of subtle differences from Macedonia which I had just left. In exchange for the Orthodox Christians living in Constantinople/Istanbul being allowed to stay in Turkey, the Muslim population of Thrace was exempt from the mass deportations that followed the First World War. In the towns and villages church bell towers are mirrored by minarets and the call of the muezzin echoes across the landscape at prayer times.
There is also a marked increase in military presence. The Greeks seem to remain paranoid about the Turkish military threat and once over the Nestos River, barracks spring up near every town, military convoys roll along the roads and attack helicopters prowl up and down like angry wasps, hovering over the treetops. Sometimes it feels more like a land under occupation than part of a settled state and member of the European Union.
In Porpi, a tiny village in the middle of nowhere, I met another ex-colleague, Yiannis Stratakis. I had stopped in the village square and had been sitting drinking an end-of-day beer and reading my book for some time watched over by the usual crowd of old men setting the world to rights. Yiannis arrived and asked them if they had seen "a foreigner" anywhere. They pointed me out and told him they had been very worried about me and were wondering where I was going to stay that night. They had even been debating about whose house I should stay in. Any longer and I think they'd have been drawing lots to decide which unfortunate would be burdened with the smelly wild-looking foreigner for the night. We headed back from Porpi to the city of Xanthi where I had stayed the night before. Beyond the usual higgledy piggledy concrete monstrosities of the new town, the old town was beautiful. It gained prosperity through its tobacco merchants in the 18th and 19th century and their grand painted mansions still adorn the slopes of the upper town. As I wandered along the picturesque back streets with Yiannis, he suddenly yelled in alarm "Watch out James!" and pulled me forcefully to the side of the road. Recovering my composure, I turned round to see what gruesome painful death Yiannis had saved me from to see a large Alsatian standing on one of the wooden balconies above, leg cocked and disdainfully and proprietorially spraying the street below with a copious stream of urine. We both collapsed into fits of laughter as I wiped the splash-back off my feet.
Yiannis had just finished a 9 month stint of military service in the Greek Navy and was full of tales of wheeling and dealing his way through - "I tell you James, I would be eating caviar in prison". Having wangled his way out of doing hours of drill in the exercise yard during his initial training to a cushy job in the canteen through knowing how to use excel (there are some benefits to it then), he got bored and decided he'd rather do drill instead. When he told the canteen manager he wanted to go back, the manager said "What can I give you to make you stay?", "A cup of fresh coffee, some fresh orange juice and a copy of the International Herald Tribune brought to me every morning". "OK, you've got a deal, but no more talk of going back to drill". And so Yiannis' career of wheeling and dealing commenced...
We moved on to Komotini the next day, where the Muslim presence was markedly bigger than in Xanthi - there were more women walking around in headscarves and a pair of pretty mosques with fine old minarets guarded the approaches to the bazaar area. Sadly the bazaar was shut, so we decamped to the main square and sat in a café filled with students to play backgammon. I was a little rusty (for which read totally useless), so Yiannis gave me a tutorial and even let me win a few games before wiping the floor with me in our last 4 games "to restore Greek pride" he said.
Curious about the level of interaction between the Orthodox community and the Muslim community, we asked one of the waiters. "The two communities used to keep themselves to themselves, but that has really been changing recently, particularly amongst the young. There was a TV series recently that featured a love affair between a Muslim and an Orthodox which everyone here was watching. It really seems to have changed attitudes. One of my friends is marrying a Muslim girl". Who says TV can't be a force for good? There are limits to this new found integration, however. When Yiannis asked what would they do about religion, we were told "Oh, she'll convert to orthodoxy of course"
Yiannis dropped me off back at the village square in Porpi where the same old men were still sitting around drinking coffee and putting the world to rights. I began to wonder if they had actually moved at all in the previous 36 hours, or just stayed rooted to the spot. From there to Alexandroupoli I had a long haul through acres and acres of cotton fields, stretching out for miles around. Closer in, I reached an area of rich archaeological sites - ancient Maroneia, Mesimbria and a whole string of other towns, as well as the Cyclops Cave where Odysseus was supposedly imprisoned by the cyclops Polyphemus. Unwittingly camped in the middle of the archaeological site, but all the archaeologists had gone home for the night, so no-one to disturb me, apart from the hunters who arrived in the pre-dawn and crashed through the bush nearby, letting off their shotguns with abandon and waking me up. It was only when I reached the other side of the archaeological digs that I saw the dire warnings against camping. Oops!
My final day's walking took me from Alexandroupoli to the Turkish border. At first the going was pretty unpleasant, out along the main road, clogged with cars speeding past. On more than one occasion I was forced to jump into the ditch alongside to escape a huge tank transporter thundering past. I also had to decline a lift from a very insistent lorry driver, eventually managing to persuade him that I was sure he was a very nice chap, perfectly trustworthy and in all respects a fine upstanding member of the community, but that I would much rather spend 6 hours walking along a busy, hot, dusty, dirty main road than hitch a ride in his comfortable, air-conditioned cab for 40 minutes. Not sure if he believed me. Then again, not sure if I believed myself.
Luckily, I was able to leave the traffic behind and head towards the Turkish border along a beautiful quiet road, heading through gently rolling hills covered with golden stubble fields. As I walked, I began to feel a bit depressed about coming to the end of my walk (for this year at least). I was beset with dreary visions of me slouched over a computer in the early hours of the morning, stressed-out, pale and pasty in the middle of a miserable wintry London, instead of striding purposely forward straight backed with the wind in my hair and the world at my feet. But then I began to think of all the wonderful things that have happened over the past 5 months - the beautiful views of mountains, sea, plain and city, the kindness of strangers, the gifts I have received (both material and spiritual), the camaraderie of the road, visits from friends and family, and all the joy I have experienced. I thought of the fundamental goodness of humankind, expressed in so many little ways - beds provided for the night, gifts of food, offers of lifts, even just a friendly wave and a kind word, or more demonstratively like the lovely Italian lady who gave me a big hug, kissed me on both cheeks and declared "You are young, you are 'ansome, you are 'ealthy. I wish you everything". Then I thought of the friends and family waiting to see me at home, of reunions with loved ones, and beyond that to the final three months of my walk next year, to the challenges and excitements that await. I couldn't help but smile. As I came towards the border, I was literally singing for joy. Walking up to the border post, I gazed lingeringly over the Evros river to Turkey lying on the other side, then sighed, turned away with a slight feeling of melancholy and began the long journey back to London.
Before I finish for this year, some more thanks. Huge thanks to Yiannis who brought Baclava, the Economist, stimulating conversation and a great sense of humour to see me and to his officer who sent me a lovely card, a mouth organ and a donation along with him. Thanks to Father Matthew from Vaitopedi monastery on Mount Athos who tried valiantly to get me onto the Holy Mountain, despite my own incompetence. Thanks to all of you who have sent messages of support, emails, letters, jelly babies etc., called me up and even come to see me along the way. And thanks to all those who have donated money to the charities that I have been raising money for (don't forget anyone who hasn't but would like to you can do it on-line at http://www.justgiving.com/walkingtojerusalem). Looking forward immensely to setting off again in April next year.
