There is something really appealing in old buildings, ruins and rocks. Wherever I go, my hands keep following the rough surface of ancient life. The cut edges, the broken fences, the carved pillars, tresholds all torn down by centuries of footsteps. It doesn't really matter if it's the remains of an old temple or just a farmers cottage. The treat of it lies in the voices echoing inside. At least in my imagination. Buildings of all kind once contained life, voices, tears and laughter, praying, singing or perhaps chanting. Loners or large families, farmers or knights, spectators or invaders. All within the walls, within the fences the hopes and dreams, the fighting and the blessings. The starvation and the days of plenty.
I have written in my other blog about houses on the countryside, abandoned when progress pushed on . This post is about the tales and emotions of ancient Greece. So much more absent in time and still so vivid in mind when you are walking right through it, lingering, stroking, breething and experiencing decades of life for a second.
This was 1992. We went on our first trip abroad, just the two of us. We planned to be engaged, the rings where safely stored in a little grey box . Simple rings, nothing fancy. We had been saving up for the trip, plenty of tours, plenty of sights we planned to cover. We had a faint idea of where to make this happend, the golden bond. We had read about Epidauros, the ancient town by the eastcoast, once a lively centre. There would be the theatre, no amphi but one of those halfcircle theatres. Epidauros holds the sanctuary of Asclepius. There was a cult in the area around the 6th century BC and centuries on. The theatre was situated close by.