Under the Stars, on the Hill of the Nymphs

It had been raining all day, but by the evening, at the Hill of the Nymphs, the thunderstorm had ceased, leaving only large, lavender clouds wafting, like smoke, towards the fringes of the horizon, and hints of sunset colours escaping through the creases. It was still February, but this was not a winter sky: Spring was already in the air – subtle and timid, like the promise of sensuality flowing through the veins of a maiden on the eve of womanhood.

The structure of the small observatory (the one hosting the Dorides telescope) delineated against the darker canvas of nocturnal Athens, its silvery dome reflecting a glare that seemed to come from the Parthenon and the Acropolis Rock rising a short distance away. The downpour had forced people off the streets, leaving the cobbled alleys unusually silent and still. The curves of the old neighbourhoods at the bottom of the hill gradually faded away as the cloaks of the night became thicker; however, neither their familiarity nor their ambience was lost.

Unlike the rest of the city, the hill was dark – possibly to maintain some level of appropriate conditions for celestial observation. Only a few ground lights, no bigger than candle flames, highlighted the path that connected the central Observatory building (now a museum) with the grey tholos in front of me. Meton of Athens, the famous astronomer and mathematician, must have stood somewhere nearby, setting up, 25 centuries ago, his helioscope, his observations leading to the conceptualisation of the 19-year Metonic cycle. Back then, the hill was dominated by the Shrine of the Nymphs – protectors of fruition and children – and the neighbouring archaic shrine of Zeus where there was a rock slide for fertility rituals performed by pregnant women, and where now stands the church of Aghia Marina. For thousands of years, the cavities in the cliffs had been inhabited by female deities, all of them acting as caretakers to women and supporters of the perpetual cycle of reproduction. Finally, in the mid-19^th century, the newly-founded Greek State allowed a scientific temple – the Observatory building – to cover the ancient shrine, further enhancing the energies that flow through the hills. Today, only a rock bearing an ancient inscription survives in the courtyard of the Observatory, testament to the life that had unfolded for centuries on those same cliffs.

The new edifice – initially called the “Sinas building” after the name of the Greek benefactor who sponsored its construction – was the first project of the later-famous Danish architect Theophil Hansen. It was also the first scientific-research institute of modern Greece and one of the oldest in Southern Europe. Despite its neoclassical style, it reminds of a small cruciform church with arms of equal length, each pointing towards one of the cardinal points, with a dome in the centre, and a sign carved above the entrance stating “Servare Intaminatum” (a request to keep the building untouched, sparing it from future alterations). Today, besides being home to some of the oldest research equipment in Greece, including the first telescope, it also hosts a few rare exhibits that remain unknown to most.

On one wall, there hangs a copy of the lunar map created by the German astronomer Julius Schmidt, one of the first directors of the Observatory (during the period 1858-1884) who, after more than 26 years of continuous observation of the surface of the moon, he hand-painted its map, including over 32,000 details. This map, the original of which is unfortunately lost, was so famous that it was also mentioned in Jules Verne’s book “Around the Moon.”

The library remains locked most of the time due to lack of enough personnel for its safekeeping. It is filled to the ceiling with various books and rare editions, among which Copernicus’ book on the movement of the celestial bodies. The volume is open on the page that includes the only paragraph written in Greek (the rest of the text being written in Latin), where the author pays tribute to the Pythagoreans, who, since the 5^th century BC had supported the idea that a “Central Fire” sits at the center of the universe instead of the Earth – an idea that it took humanity more than 1000 years to scientifically prove and, finally, accept.

The newest exhibit of the museum is a copy of the Antikythera Mechanism – this portable mechanical, and surprisingly accurate calculator of time and celestial events, constructed in the 2^nd century BC, possibly by Hipparchus, the founder of trigonometry and one of the greatest astronomers of antiquity. The mechanism, discovered at the depths of the sea outside the island of Antikythera (hence its name), has been baffling the international scientific community ever since its appearance. Only a few fragments (less than half) of the total apparatus have been recovered and deciphered, and merely 3000 letters from the inscriptions on its surfaces have been read. As per the latest analyses, it seems that it was a relatively small, portable box with two doors, one in front and another at the back, with one indicator for the sun, one for the moon, and possibly another five for other planets; it was using the Metonic cycle, the zodiac scale, and the Egyptian calendar, and the texts inscribed on it include astrological terminology and descriptions of celestial phenomena.

A few scattered raindrops tip-tapped on the rocks around me, and I turned my gaze upwards in search of signs of an imminent storm. The clouds were drifting away though, and the sky was clear. Those raindrops seemed to be just some late-comers, detained in the atmospheric layers by an invisible hand, now set free to follow their initial trajectory.

Orion – the great Hunter – had already worn his belt and sword and was stretching his legs on the illusionary celestial sphere. Betelgeuse, the red giant star on his top left shoulder blinked in crimson hues. Sirius, the brightest star on the sky or, otherwise, the nose on the constellation of the dog (Canis Major), shone at proximity, inviting him to their usual hunting game against Taurus the Bull. Ursa Major, the Arcadic mother, continually hovers around Arkas, her son (otherwise known as Ursa Minor), condemned by the Goddess Hera never to rest and, thus, never to set beyond the horizon, but, instead to incessantly revolve around the imaginary extension of the Earth’s rotation axis.

Undoubtedly, one feels awe and reverence at the size of the Unknown as well as the grandeur that surrounds our humble existence. But, for me, the sky offers comfort: a feeling of familiarity and protection, like a perpetual homecoming. Maybe this is the reason I have covered – even at my age – the ceiling of my bedroom with luminous stars: to recreate this feeling of belonging, the cosmic embrace that replenishes me as much as the Earth on which I exist. New stars are created from nebulas, supernovas explode in stunning brightness, galaxies are discovered, stardust sprinkles from above, and I stand there, expansive like the Universe and stable like Polaris, knowing nothing and, yet, feeling everything.

I ambled down the hill, towards the main pedestrian road of the historical centre of Athens. The street lamps glowed in orange shades, filling the path with the romantic nostalgy that only spring can provoke. A couple holding hands walked a bit further away and turned the corner, merging with the shadows and the ancient spirits that still stroll around at night. The tree branches were bare, but one could see the protrusions of the fresh buds. A zither, stationed outside the Acropolis Museum, filled the silence with well-known Yianni tunes, and, on the left, the Parthenon – our soul and myth, the essence of our psyche – radiated like a star bathed in celestial light. It is always a blessing to walk around the old neighbourhoods on a mild, rainy night. I must have been born on this land times and again and I am confident this is the home to which I will be returning for the time to come.

Photo credits: © Konstantina Sakellariou

Complement this article with two additional tours around the Acropolis hill: the Peripatos path, and a visit to the Acropolis Museum.

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