At one point during our climb our Iraklian guide, whose long
hair was often caught in the wind, was so quick that he was
hundreds of feet above and ahead of us. From one moment
to the next as I glanced at him, he was literally replaced by the
most majestic and beautiful mountain goat I have ever seen.
For a moment I wondered if he had been taken by the mythical munchkins who inhabit the underworld and reappear in
Cycladic folklore over the centuries.
Cyclops and his companions might not have been in residence
and therefore incapable of causing us injury. Yet in my effort
to capture on film the other-worldliness of the lit candles, I
turned and banged my knee on a stalagmite which would have
consequences in the form of meniscus surgery.
As we descended we could see in the far distance the coastline
on Paros where, as legend has it, Homer is buried.
Just before weighing anchor we went skin-diving. We sought
out and located a substantially intact wreck of a German WWII
fighter plane only yards below the surface. To save their nets,
a fishing boat had dragged it there and in silence it awaits eternity.
T
he here and very much now awaited us on Santorini. Although deeply immersed in a hectic tourist season, the villages
surrounding the steep cliffs along the water-filled ���cauldron���
HYLAND
50
