The Klarino Maestro of Epirus
The sun rose over Agios Georgios, the Turkish fort constructed by the notorious Ali Pasha, above Plagia on the Greek mainland opposite my house. Ali Pasha had been a major figure in Southern Albania and North Western Greece from the late 18th century until his violent demise in 1822. He had built the fort in 1807, at the hight of his powers, while the Sublime Porte in Constantinople was otherwise distracted by nationalist movements in the Balkans. He had played his cards neatly, most of the time, with the shifting alliances of the great powers of Europe of the day. The planned invasion of the island of Lefkada, where I now live, did not happen on this occasion.
It was 14th August, we were heading for the Vitsa Panygyra. It was a boys’ outing and in the company were my friend Nikos and two by the name of Dimitros (Δημητρός) one going by the shortened form of Takkis and the other by Mitsos (but neither by Dymos). Takkis is a retired teacher and a well-known author of several books on the history of Lefkada. Mitsos is a well travelled man, who took early retirement from a government post and my friend Nikos is a local businessman, sportsman, linguist, folk dancer and our group leader (as he had the car).
We set off at around 10 a.m. on a three hour journey to the small and picturesque village of Vitsa in Zagori. Takkis, the historian of the group was generous with his local knowledge of the area and the following is an account of some of the the places that we passed on our way to the festival for those who have not travelled here and a record of the very special concert. Any factual inaccuracies are mine alone and are to be blamed on bad handwriting, feeble memory or local mountain beverages.
This was one of the busiest weekends of the year in Greece with the festival of the Virgin Mary falling on the following day and, consequently, many people were on the road, but we made good progress.
We drove down the spit of land along the causeway and crossed the retractable bridge, which divides Lefkada from the mainland. This bridge gives Lefkada its unique character of being the most accessible island in Greece and the only one that you can reach by car, without taking a ferry. A few weeks earlier, the bridge had been undergoing maintenance and a ferry, with a bow and rear door had been temporarily wedged into the narrow canal, as life went on for the alternating traffic of boats and cars.
Lefkada had seen its share of conquerors in ancient times and had been under the sway of the Corinthians, who, true to form, had built a channel to allow their ships through. The locals had allied with the Spartans, been conquered by Philip of Macedon (Alexander the Great’s father) and had been overrun by the Romans. The Romans had built their temples on the island, which the Christians had demolished and replaced with churches and monasteries, so there is no longer a temple of Apollo on the cliff top.
Wind forward over a thousand years and we see traces of the further foreign incursions on the island and the nearby mainland. At the other side of the crossing, on the mainland, known as Acarnia, are the remains of the castle/fortress of Aghias Mavras. There is a beautifully illustrated book by an local archaeologist and artist, Nikkos Vagenas, with paintings of the castle in its various stages from 1300 to 1977. The castle or fortress was first constructed in around 1295 by an Italian adventurer, Ioannes Orsini, who married well with the daughter of the local Despot of Epirus. He inherited the island of Lefkada and later on, the nearby Ionian islands of Zakinthos and Kefallonia. Thus began (or resumed) an Italian connection, that gives the island a lot of its character.
The fortress was subsequently occupied by Neapolitans, Venetians, French and Turks (several times), Russians and English. The latter, in spite of the great reverence of the Greeks for Lord Byron, were not so nice to the peasants when they opposed English rule and there is a prominent monument on the island to the fallen resistance fighters. Apart from the Turks, the Venetians were the most persistent rulers and the castle owes much to Venetian architecture. It was altered, attacked, expanded, destroyed, and re-built. More recently, it was burned down in 1888, used as a refugee camp in the First World War and the subsequent years at the time of the “exchange of populations” with the Turks and it was bombed by the Italians in the Second World War.
Unlike the other castles nearby, you can visit the fortress, although more effort could be made to enlighten the curious visitor and there is not much left standing apart from the eponymous church, the walls and ramparts and some out-houses. I noted to my fellow travellers that it would be a good venue for outdoor events. I was informed that the famous Lefkada International Folklore Festival (of dance, now in its 54th year) used to be held there, but that audiences, even with transport provided, did not want to make the one kilometre journey across the causeway, and so it returned to a good, but less imposing, outdoor venue in the city and on (which might have been the point), not off, the island.
Beyond the low-lying fortress of Aghias Mavras is the imposing Tekes fortress, built by Ali Pasha on the hillside above the road. Tekes takes its name from a monastery for Suffi Dervishes, that may have been at or near the site. It was built in 1806, at around the same time as Agios Georgios in Plagia, which I can see from my house, and it had the same purpose to prepare for an invasion of Lefkada. It is impressive from the outside but neglected on the inside and there are no signs to explain its history. When Ali Pasha’s invasion plans were called off, due to shifting European alliances, he donated the castle to the family of Grivas (after which the castle is also known).
Further ruins appeared: this time the Russian castle of Alexander and the fort of Konstantinos. Both were built in the straights between Lefkada and Acarnia at the time of Ali Pasha and they dated back to the brief rule of the Russians on the island and a time when Russia was allied with the Ottomans (in the years before the Crimean War). Russians came to the island later, at the start of the twentieth century to build windmills to grind the wheat, which they also exported to the island and more recently, in the twenty first century a wealthy Russian has acquired the famous island of Skorpios (formerly owned by Aristotle Onassis).
Driving along the coast of Aktion and through the new tunnel under the sea, we passed the site where the decisive sea battle of Aktion had taken place in 31 BC between the fleets of Anthony and Cleopatra and Octavian (Augustus). Turning inland we skirted the extensive ruins of the city of Nicopolos (city of victory) founded by Octavian to celebrate his victory over Anthony and Cleopatra, which has both Roman and Byzantine architecture and had lasted through many trials and invasions for around 700 hundred years.
Through the foothill of Epirus, we passed the village of Suli and the hills where the famous Suliotes (possibly of Christian Albanian origin) had held out against the Ottomans. It is said that Ali Pasha had offered the Suliotes an honourable peace and exile to the Ionian islands after an inconclusive siege lasting fifteen years. However, a massacre of the warriors took place, when they left their stronghold. Meanwhile, legend has it that some women, who were trapped in the Suliote mountain fortress sang songs and danced off the edge of the cliff to their death, rather than surrender to the treacherous Ottomans.
Passing a nondescript cafe, by the side of the road, I was informed that it was famous for a special winter soup, made from entrails and offal. Fortunately, it wasn’t winter, so we did not stop by.
The landscape now had become more mountainous and it would remain so until the outskirts of Ioannina. At the village of Saint George (a popular name and saint), I was informed that it was the source of the drinking water for the island of Lefkada.
At some point, a discussion of the origin of the Greek Royal Family took place. Unsurprisingly, as with many royal families, it was yet another import. The original King Otto of Bavaria was overthrown in 1862. There was then a referendum. It is not clear who had the right to vote or what percentage of the population voted. However, one of Queen Victoria’s sons, Albert, (definitely not Greek) was selected by the Greeks only to be rejected by the power-brokers from Europe, (who knew better) and a Danish substitute, named William was selected. He forsook the name William to become King George the First and married Grand Duchess Olga Constantinovna of Russia, who had links to the Romanov dynasty and German connections through her mother. She was also, incidentally, the future grandmother of Prince Philip, the Duke of Edinburgh. She spoke German with William/George and English with her children, who spoke Greek to each other.
The conversation then touched on the fluctuating fortunes of, and the feelings towards, the “Greek” royal family, which had led to deposition, assassination, exiles, restoration, another referendum and its final abolition. This had probably been triggered as we passed the site where the headquarters of the Greek army had been during the war of independence. The Germans, who had been allies of the Turks at the time, had fortified the steep hilltops and valleys and fierce, hand-to-hand fighting, with many casualties on both sides had taken place there. It turned out that King Constantine had experienced one of the high points of his military career when he had led the victorious Greek forces against the Turks and he had personally accepted the sword of the Turkish General, his old college friend from Berlin Military Academy, at the surrender of the city of Ioannina.
Fourteen kilometres before Ioannina, we passed the privately owned “Pavlos Vrellis Greek History Museum”, which is full of wax figures from Greece’s past. Takkis and Nikos related how life-like the figures were; both, at different times, having asked questions of an unmoving wax model of a priest in the underground level after mistaking it for a live person. It is place where many schools in the region meet and it plays an important cultural role in the education of the youth of Greece and in connecting them to their history.
As we approached Ioannina, we passed the University Hospital, where I had recently spent a couple of nights. On a local anaesthetic, but keen to get out as quickly as possible, I had responded in the negative in a slightly high voice, when the surgeon, whose English was limited to a few words, had asked me monosyllabically’ “Pain?”, as the first of many stitches went in and the local rapidly wore off.
Shrugging off that thought, we skirted round Ioannina, a very impressive university city with a lovely, old, historic centre. In the distance was the lake where the troublesome Ali Pasha, at the ripe old age of 82, was finally cornered and dealt with by the Sultan’s hit men, who brought his head back as a trophy or warning to others.
After the famous water plant of Zagori, we headed up north into the Pindus Mountains to the picturesque village of Monodendri, where we were going to stay. It is just a few kilometres from the village of Vitsa, where our festival would take place. There were some spectacular views and high passes with deep ridges along our route. Wire frames along the mountainside were strategically placed to take the sting out of rockfalls and frequent memorial shrines were placed to remind one of the perils of travel.
On arriving in Monodendri, at an altitude of 1,000 metres, we were shown to our rooms in the pleasant, rustic Hotel Vitsa, where water was temporarily cut off due to the number of tourists in town for the festival. However, as we were in the land of mineral waters, it was soon back on. Our hotel, as all the other houses in the village, was built with grey stone, and the roof was uniformly covered with grey slates from the local hills. The walls and paths and some roads were also made from the same grey stone. This gave the place a neat uniformity and charm.
We left the courtyard of our hotel through an arched doorway onto a steep stone path. It was decorated with patterns and ridges, with the practical purpose of helping the horses and donkeys get traction in all types of weather. At the foot of our path was a cafe and next to it was a restaurant with four large spits of various meats sending their tantalising aromas into the air. As we had built up an appetite, we found a table under the eponymous tree (Monodendri means single tree), but the restaurant owner was struggling, as a bus party had just arrived, and we were given a predicted wait of 45 Greek minutes. Not being in a hurry, we decided to take a walk to the small church of the monastery that overlooks the impressive Vikos Gorge.
The Vikos Gorge (or canyon) is reputedly the deepest (900 metres) and widest (1,000 metres) in the world. At least the Greeks and no less than the Guinness Book of Records agree on this, but it may be in an obscure sub-category of canyons as I suspect there are many deeper ones elsewhere. That is not to take away from its spectacular appearance and impression.
We walked down the path towards the remains of a monastery. There were steep cliffs on either side and scary paths round the side of the mountain opposite us, where monks had hidden themselves during times of danger. On our side of the path, we came across signs of monastic gardens right up to the edge of the precipice and almond trees leaning terrifyingly over, with their un-pickable crop of nuts.
We followed a forbidden path along the rock face with a sign to the effect, “proceed at your own risk”. The path had lately been reinforced and it was sound up to a point, but the area beyond, which led to further man-made caves was not to be trusted or attempted. At the extreme edge of the path you could try out the echo, which was impressive. We back tracked to the monastery. There was a small chapel, some out houses and a gift shop. In the gift shop, stood a tall, bearded monk in his thirties. He was selling icons of his own work. They appeared good enough, but some of the locals were reputedly not happy at this commercialised use of the holy site.
Returning to the big tree there were now tables available and we sampled the barbecue, which did not disappoint. The local drink is tsipouro, which is a kind of grappa. As we had a long night ahead and it was still lunch time (albeit more like teatime), I decided to forego the tsipouro for a local beer. It was mid-August, the temperature was in the early 30s, and so, in preparation for the promised late night, we had a siesta.
Refreshed and ready to go, we were advised to get to the festival site early as a large crowd was expected and this was the biggest festival of the year in Vitsa. We drove the few kilometres down the hill and found a convenient parking place. Vitsa is a small and very beautiful village. The festival was to be held in the village square under the shade of another ancient and enormous tree. We arrived about an hour before the festival was due to begin. The advice we had been given to arrive early was sound, as many of the available seats had already been taken as enterprising locals placed more table and chairs around the vicinity in order to fit as many people comfortably as possible.
As with many festivals in Greece, there was a religious aspect to it and church bells rung out as a precursor to a religious parade. Greek Orthodox priests, carrying precious icons, led the procession of believers, carrying candles, around all the streets of the village. Once that was completed, the festival could begin.
In the background clouds of smoke rose from the obligatory barbecue pit. Mountains of meat were being grilled on wooden skewers. Wine, beer and tsipouro were flowing and it was now time for the music to begin.
While we had been waiting and settling down in our seats, Takkis had taken the opportunity to have a few words with the star of the event; 87 year old Grigoris Kapsalis, the legendary klarino player. Takkis told him that he had first heard him play 40 years previously, when he was a student. Grigoris is a distinguished gentleman and was wearing a suit and tie for the occasion. He was moved by Takkis’s recollections and I took a photo of them together. They would have another chat later on in the evening, or more accurately, in the early hours of the following morning. One of the organisers of the festival went round each of the tables asking for volunteer dancers to lead dances. Takkis was quick to volunteer from our table.
Also present at the festival was a film crew from the U.K. and a renowned record producer, Christopher C. King, from Virginia in the U.S.A. who was involved in the documentary film and in a book project entitled “Lament From Epirus”. It was clear that there was something special about this event.
By now it was a little after 9 p.m. and the religious procession had ended. People began to assemble near the entrance to the dance area and without any fuss, Grigoris Kapsalis and his band started up the music from under the extended branch of the tree. The expectant observers then joined hands as the trail of dancers grew longer and soon encircled the musicians. The dancers had a leader for each dance and the first dance tended to be slow in order for the leader to display their expertise or at least their feelings through dance. People of all ages were dancing and whole families would join the set. the second dance was often more lively, as if the dancers needed time to work in harmony during the first dance. It was astonishing at times to see 50, 60 or 70 people of all shapes and sizes and of all ages, moving together in harmony and there were definitely moments, when the quality of the precision of the steps was almost surreal and they were all in the zone together. The klarino and the violin worked their spell together in a call and response display of musical virtuosity and jazz-like improvisation; the violin adding texture and rhythm and and a grounded setting for the more plaintive klarino.
The band was bolstered by bouzouki, lauto, a large tambourine and a vocalist. There were no destructive electronic elements to overwhelm the purity of their acoustic tones.
Although a few dances were requested from outside the region, the vast majority of the dances were from Epirus, as indeed they should have been. Nikos explained to me that this music was described locally as Greek soul music.
The music was interspersed with songs and a second, chain smoking, klarino player gave back-up to the 87 year old maestro. I was taken by the tone of the klarino of the maestro. It was plaintive, reedy, rich in tone and was executed with tantalising slides and improvisations. Verses of the song were followed in a call and response way by the much-anticipated klarino. No interlude was the same, regardless of the number of verses (and often, there were many as the dances stretched on through the minutes and hours. There were no breaks for the musicians and the dancers, as playing and dancing stretched seamlessly through the hours of the night.
We feasted on mixed barbecue meats and supped the wines and tsipouro of the region, as the dancers moved to the hypnotic spell of the music. Sometimes the dancing was so slow, but so in synch, that it was intoxicating just to watch it as the hours went by and the atmosphere was intensely focused on the music and dance.
At around midnight, it was the turn of Takkis, assisted by Nikos, to represent Lefkada at the festival. Takkis took the lead and Nikos supported him in the, for me, arcane and expressive moves. Soon, they were leading a chain of many dancers as the dance area filled up. At this point a very touching scene was enacted.
At the end of the first dance, Takkis thanked Grigoris Kapsanis for his music though the ages and in particular for the memories of Takkis, which stretched back to the first time he had danced for him, forty years earlier. Grigori's put his hand on his head, told Takkis, “Why did you remind me of my lost youth?” and shed a few tears. It was very moving and all the more so as the 87 year old maestro also informed Takkis that this was probably the last time he would play at this festival.
Later on, another very special scene was enacted. Grigoris Kapsalis turned off all the microphones and played “for the dancer’s ear”, as he gave a private rendition for a dancer, without any distractions. There was a silence around the place as the dancer moved to the music that few of us could hear. What was astonishing was that a throng of people joined and all moved synchronously, serenely and almost in slow motion to the dancer’s rhythm from the maestro’s klarino. It was indeed a remarkable event.
Six hours later, at 3.30 a.m., we headed back up the road to Monodendri. Astonishingly, Grigoris Kapsanis was still playing, the dancers were still dancing and the festival continued until dawn. As if that were not enough, the festival was was to resume later on that evening.
It had been a memorable trip and I felt privileged to have seen such an esteemed representative of the culture of Epirus and thankful to have been part of this event.
Next morning, we rose surprisingly early, had breakfast at our friendly hotel and we headed homewards a little tired but contend with our adventure. Takkis filled in some of the gaps concerning the history of places we passed. Mytsos shared stories of his travels and Nikos kept his eyes on the road as we drove back, a little weary, but very satisfied that we had had the privilege to attend the maestro’s last Vitsa festival.
