Walking around the town of Kastro in Sifnos

We got the first glimpse of Kastro through an unexpected opening extending between two slopes. The village was small and, at first glance, insignificant. Yet, it shone with an internal light, like a crown bestowed on the domed rocky hill: a white-washed touch painted with apparent carelessness – or profound meticulousness – against the blue of the Mediterranean Sea. Then, it disappeared again behind the bends of the rugged landscape, dissolving like a mirage under the summer sun, until we reached the foothill.

At the parking lot, we were solemnly received by three windmills which, in the silence and desperation of their obsolescence, cling to the role of the town’s faithful guardians, scrutinising the passersby with their spoke-defined eyes. Leaving the car behind (vehicles are not permitted beyond the public parking area), we rambled in the spiralling alleys which, though of Venetian origin, stretch over the ruins of the ancient asty – the capital of the once mighty and wealthy island of Sifnos. On our right, a fertile valley descended all the way to Seralia, the ancient port of the city, now home to a few fish taverns that are crumbling away, slowly consumed by sea, salt, and wind alike. It was the end of May. The slopes were still lush, lined with stonewalled terraces, and dotted with sun-washed chapels, pigeon houses (*) and a few abodes, among which that of Mr Tilemahos who, despite his age, ascends and descends every day more than 400 stairs just to reach his car.

The town – a unique specimen of Venetian architecture – is tightly built, accommodating only a few open public areas, protected in its entity by the ancient fortifications and the additional enclosure formed by the outer walls of the buildings at the bottom of the hill (**). The name – Kastro – leaves little to the imagination: this has been a veritable castle-city, built to resist pirates or any other attack efficiently.

We moved further up. The alleys were cramped and, often, low, restricted by arches and buildings that have been erected on top of them. The Daedalic network coiled upwards, frequently leaning on the smaller constructions of the foothill which in the past were the residences of the poor and today serve as storerooms. Vines and blossomed bougainvillaeas occasionally spanned across the two sides of a passageway, while wooden bridges revealed the village’s layered structure. Short doors, some of them painted in Cycladic blue, lined up on either side of the paths reminding more of a monastery’s cells rather than of houses. Only a few samples of the famed Sifnian pottery, nailed on the walls and serving as decorative lanterns, would add an elegant embellishment to the otherwise plain edifices.

Numerous churches, dating to the 16^th and 17^th century, perched among the houses. They were easily noticeable in the maze by their protruding twin bell-towers and the occasional chiming that was arousing when the wind would suddenly grip the ropes tied to the clappers.

As we approached the central square of the town, the houses became more elaborate, adorned with ancient marble elements and external staircases leading to an upper floor. A couple of Roman sarcophagi resting at the side of the paths were an unexpected – and, yet, integral – part of the setting much just like the wooden benches or the colourful flower pots.

It was still early in the afternoon – too early for the locals, who linger in the shade of their homes until the sun obverts his face enough to dim the glare of the white. Although it was a windy day, the air was moving sluggishly through the narrow pathways and, weighed down by the heat, so were we. Our stroll was solitary, but despite the seeming absence of life, we did not feel alone. The town’s long and adventurous past could be perceived in the essence of the place, while the wind, the rumble of the sea, even the crackling sound of the dry leaves rolling on the ground would all recount the ancient stories, again and again, like old people defining themselves through the repetition of their memories.

Kastro was inhabited since the prehistoric times; however, the town reached its peak during the Archaic era, when the exploitation of Sifnos’ gold and silver mines turned the island into one of the wealthiest in the Cyclades. This affluence is evident even today in the remains of the marble fortification, the opulence of some of the archaeological finds, and the unparalleled beauty of the Sifnian Treasury erected in the Delphi Oracle.

As an additional defence mechanism, the ancient residents of the island had manufactured a sophisticated communication network using numerous towers (***) to ensure that news would spread within seconds and, subsequently, decision-making could be fast. Kastro’s towers were in direct contact with those on the prehistoric Acropolis of Agios Andreas – the latter holding a prominent strategic position in this chain of communication since it was the only one to link the asty with the rest of the island while maintaining direct or indirect contact with other strategic towers. Today, these structures lay in crumbles, and the inexperienced eye may mistake them for a similarly decaying windmill. On the eve of the Pentecost, though, fires are lit in all towers, preserving the memory of the thousands-old practice which, following the decline of the island’s economy, must have been abandoned from the Hellenistic times onwards.

We reached the outer path, walking now outside the ancient fortification. The sea on our left kept arguing with the Aeolic forces, and the Epta Martyres (Seven Martyrs) chapel – a touch of Greece within Greece – emerged like a mermaid from the foam of the waves. The fig trees emanated their heavy fragrance, the rocks bore the scratches of the brutal winter days, and caper bushes sprout from every crack and nook. Our stroll winded up in front of the old school with the elegant marble decorations and the courtyard where today several summer festivities are hosted. Nearby, a construction-cart filled with empty Jose Cuervo bottles betrayed the presence of a bar whose owner is notorious for changing his pants only once per month and rinsing (not thoroughly washing) the glasses. The ancient marble stones that are scattered around and are often used as improvised benches provide one of the best spots on the island to watch a full moon dawning from behind the offing, sprinkling silver all the way up to the farmlands.

Crossing the threshold defined by the windmills, we left Kastro taking the path towards the church of Panagia Poulati. It is a short and easy hike leading to the late-19^th-century private church, passing first by another chapel (of an unknown, to me, name) that sits on the brink of the cliff contemplating in solitude the changing moods of the Aegean Sea.

A bit further down, surrounded by olive trees and cypresses, small rooms and the family’s ossuary, Panagia Poulati revives again every year during the 15^th-of-August festivities, when hundreds of visitors and locals arrive to pay their respects. In the courtyard of the church, they are welcomed by ample quantities of the famous Sifnian revythada (chickpeas soup baked for many hours in the oven, in a particular terracotta pot), lamp with pasta, wine, and fruits, all prepared with the tremendous efforts of the members of the family and other volunteers. On the day of our visit, though, the church was silent – the way remote churches always are on the islands; its minimalist lines and the intimate interaction between the white and the blue, the grey and the green, enhanced the meditative ambience that was already abundant. It felt as if I had been on a short pilgrimage. I looked around and inhaled the saltiness of the sea. Yes, this was a pilgrimage after all.

(*) In many Cycladic islands, the residents were building pigeon houses not so much for the meat of the birds but, mainly, for the excrements which were collected and used as fertiliser.

(**) The houses closer to the foothill and the outer perimeter traditionally belonged to the lower-class citizens, while the aristocracy would live in the centre of the town.

(***) Seventy-six towers have been located to date in Sifnos, more than one per square kilometre.

Photo credits: © Konstantina Sakellariou

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