Rocky Ride round Ikaría

Happy Friday!

I have circumnavigated both Britain and Tunisia on my bicycle (he has a name, Martin). Now I can add the mythological island of Ikaría to that illustrious list.

There are many myths attached to Ikaría, starting with the island's very name - does it derive from an ancient word for 'fish', or was it here that the ill-starred Icarus crashed to earth?

There is the myth of the 'long-lived' population (a myth that goes back at least as far as 1677). It might be the calorie-restricted diet, it might be hard-working lives and no retirement, it might be close family, or the radioactive hot springs.

There is the myth of 'Red Rock', the island where 13,000 communists were exiled - quite possibly all of them ribetiko players (in spite of the disapproval of the Communist Party).

There is the myth of the Free State of Ikaría, with its own government, armed forces, stamps and, most importantly, flag. The state lasted 5 months in 1912; you can still see the flag flying.

Then there is the myth that Ikaría can make for a relaxing cycle tour, even in the dying embers of summer.

Ikaría doesn't give up its myths easily.

~

The first warning landed on my deaf ears even before I'd booked my ferry ticket: 'It is very hilly,' my friend told me, 'and the road isn't too good in places.'

The second warning came moments after disembarking, met in a port-side cafe by an Ikarían friend of my friend. 'It is very hilly,' he said. 'Mountains. And there is no road in some places.'

The third warning arrived at the end of an afternoon that had fair zipped along, fuelled by Popis's aubergine in red wine, on rollercoaster contours where descents powered the climbs. 'The road goes straight up from here,' the painter under the tree said. 'And, from Karkinagri, the road is impassable. You might be able to get through, but you'll have to carry your bike.'

The fourth warning was a map. If it's possible to have deaf eyes, then I had them. A circumnavigation of the whole island was less than 140km - a day's work on Thighs of Steel - how hard could Ikaría be?

Turns out: really fucking hard.

There were plenty of moments, perched high up on a wheel-spinning gravel track, bike in hand, where I fancied an Icarus-like plunge into the sea rather than take another heave on the pedals.

~

It's amazing how fast your body forgets the sweat-earned hills when you're racing to sea-level at 50kph. Every day is showtime here: the sun playing in the waves, the clouds decorating the Amazonian canopy, the Ikarían rock, polished or volcanic, changing colour from bleach to blush to black.

Yesterday I took rest in the far east of the island. I walked over the headland to a cove where stone held the sea close, and the sand paddled underfoot. I dived from a boulder and let the current drift me out to the sunset.

I hiked up to the Cave of Dionysus, startling two bull-like goats into the thickets of gorse. The maw of the cave hung open, the walls melting with the crushed skulls and bones of thousands of years. A bottomless fear stalked me.

I climbed up along a trail marked with scarlet splashes of paint, chasing the falling light, cresting the hilltop as the sun bent itself into the western mountains I'd climbed two days before. The stars flicked on.

If you like this sort of thing, then you'll probably also like my back catalogue of over 500 posts, all found at davidcharles.info.

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I am leaving Ikaría tonight. The farewell will be both fond and thankful. The past five days have been very odd: a sustained period of unfocussed attention, sometimes ecstatic, sometimes painful, that would traditionally, perhaps in other times and cultures, be construed as 'holiday'.

I should like to visit both time and place again.

For now, I'm away to Samos, where I hope to be more colloquially employed in my twin adult pursuits of writing to you and haphazardly pitching in with grassroots refugee organisations - in this case the Baobab Community Centre.

It is to focal points like Baobab that your support, money, thoughts, do flow. I hope I do something in return to make you feel like there are people out here, grateful, trying to do their best by you.

Much love, :DC:

CREDITS

David Charles wrote this newsletter. David is co-writer of BBC Radio sitcom Foiled, and also writes for The Bike Project, Forests News, Elevate and Thighs of Steel. Reply to this email, or read more at davidcharles.info.