Before we left Messolonghi, we cycled to the end of the long causeway to see the houses on stilts and to visit the Salt Museum (yes, pretty much how it sounds!). On the way, we stopped for coffee at a cafe near the harbour and were persuaded by a friendly waiter (assisted by gluttony on our part, since we’d just had breakfast) to try their pancakes. See picture above. Absolutely delicious, but not helpful when planning a long cycle ride.
The causeway seemed to stretch forever into the distance to the point of infinity. We stopped a couple of times along the way for photo opportunities (and to let the pancakes settle a bit). We saw flamingos and traditional fishing craft as well as cars apparently floating on the shallow waters (there was a branch of the causeway that barely broke the surface of the lagoon).
At the end of the causeway, which runs alongside the narrow channel we came down in the boat a few days earlier, are a few cafes, many fishing shacks on stilts, and an incredible swimming beach. Sadly, we hadn’t brought our swimming stuff so we watched enviously as others splashed around in the clear, warm water.
Salt making is one of Messolonghi’s industries, so we felt we ought to visit the salt museum while we out there. It was interesting to learn about how salt has been mined and harvested over the centuries, and how it has been used as a currency (the expression, “earning one’s salt” is said to come from Roman times when legionaries were paid in salt), but there’s only so much salt Fraser and I can swallow, so we skipped through the place quite quickly. There’s a wee shop at the end, and one of the two staff members was hopefully smiling at us as we walked in, so I was guilted into buying a bar of soap (which turned out to be for treating acne, once I put my reading glasses on).
We’d already decided to wait until Tuesday to leave, as the wind forecast for arriving at our next destination, Trizonia, was looking a bit iffy for Monday. On the last day, we messaged a friend, Ian Poole (SV Blown Away), who was already in Trizonia, to ask if he needed any urgent supplies. He sent us a shopping list that included jam donuts and potato salad from Lidl, and 10 x 1″ paintbrushes.
We set off on Monday with Fraser’s manual bike and my nice electric bike, but halfway to the main part of town, my bike stopped working. It had been giving trouble since we arrived at Messolonghi, but this time Fraser couldn’t manage to breathe life back into it at all. I was left with an extremely heavy manual bike (much heavier than the normal Brompton bike because of the motor on the front wheel), leading to much sweating and very sore knees. I blame Ian!
With the donuts safely stored on board, we set off just before sunrise on Tuesday 17th September, with a forecast for very little wind ahead of us. Did I ever mention how unreliable weather forecasts are in the Med? No? Well, let me tell you…
It was flat calm as we motored clear of the Messolonghi canal and into the Gulf of Patras, turning east towards the Rion Bridge, which divides the Gulf of Patras from the Gulf of Corinth. This is a cable suspension bridge which is just under 1.5 miles long supported by 4 pylons. When you’re in a sailing boat with a mast, it doesn’t look high enough to pass under from a distance, but there’s plenty of headroom.
The closer we got to the bridge, the more the wind funnelled (on the nose, obviously), and the more whitecaps we encountered. It became almost reminiscent of sailing past Fair Head at home, except that it was warm and sunny despite the wind, and it wasn’t lashing down with rain. Then we hit the adverse current, 2 knots+ against us, which slowed us down to a little over 3kn over the ground. So there we were, bouncing up and down as if we were on a roller coaster, getting slower and slower, and the bridge was so close, but not getting any closer.
Protocol dictates that you radio the bridge traffic control from 5 miles out and again from 1 mile out, but we couldn’t get them to hear us on the VHF at 5 miles, so we phoned them instead. That led to another worry: was our radio transmitting properly or had a connection worked loose somewhere? We assume that the connection had been loosened when the mast was re-stepped in France after the canals. If so, it’s an easy fix but will involve Fraser going up the mast!
At the 1-mile mark we managed to get through to the bridge on the VHF radio so at least the radio wasn’t completely dead. A project for another day. Once the land receded on both sides as the Gulf of Corinth widened, the current faded away and we sped up to our usual 5kn boat speed.
The last stretch to the island of Trizonia, was fairly routine and without drama. Ian had been messaging us and knew when we were due to arrive, so he popped out to help us find a mooring spot in this beautiful little harbour, which was brilliant. As he’s a far more experienced sailor than us and also an examiner for the RYA, I was on my mettle bringing Barberry in alongside. I avoided using the bow thruster to try to impress him, and managed to ferry glide her in sideways using the wind (surprising myself).
Trizonia is a magical island. The harbour is rough concrete, so lots of fenders and a fender board to protect them from bursting, but very few charter fleets make it this far so it’s filled with old codgers like us with boats of all shapes and sizes. You can tell the liveaboards from the underwear hanging from every line and rail; charter yachts are far too posh for all that nonsense! Needless to say, we fit right in with this friendly, dysfunctional, multinational community.
There are no mod cons in Trizonia. It’s a tiny island with no shops, a handful of tavernas and a couple of tiny hotels. No fancy electric hook ups for visiting boats, no lazy lines (and anchoring isn’t recommended in the harbour because there are giant ground chains all over the seabed to get your anchor stuck on), so it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but to us it’s paradise. If we need supplies we will take the water taxi across to the mainland and the tiny village of Chania where there is one shop (very small and poorly stocked, apparently) and one taverna. Hence Ian’s shopping list from the big smoke.
The harbour is run by a young man called Thanos (not a bit like the Marvel version, and pronounced Tanos) who waits until the carnage of incoming boats jockeying for space has sorted itself out before cycling around to take money. When he got to us on the first night, he said, “You’re friends with Ian, right?” We nodded. “All good. I’ll catch you another time.” Ian apparently saved the island from a near ecological disaster recently when a visiting boat’s fuel tank started leaking, potentially creating a catastrophic oil spill. Luckily Ian’s quick thinking and his powerful diesel pump saved the day, so he’s flavour of the month with the locals. By association, so are we, it seems!
There are very few unspoiled places left on this world of ours, but Trizonia is one of them. I don’t think it will hold out much longer against the tide of tourism that has overwhelmed so many other parts of the world, so we feel blessed to have this time on the island, with no cars or buses, no super yachts, no flotillas, just old farts like us, quietly soaking up the sun in ancient boats in amongst the local fishermen. Little English is spoken here, but the unfailing Greek tradition of Philoxenia (welcome to strangers) still holds good.
This place is like Hotel California: you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave. And who’d want to? In theory, we’re heading on to Galixidi on Sunday so we can hire a car to visit Delphi, but when Sunday comes we might decide to stay a bit longer. And we’ll be stopping here again on our way back, that’s for sure! Fraser can tell you what we decide next week.