Aaron did not fancy being told how to see the Greeks. He wished to see them, with his own eyes. The raw, the dark, the savage appealed to him more than any illusion painted by those who wished to revive Hellenic culture, a culture which, to him, was long gone. He knew better than be swayed by romantic writers’ nostalgia for classical dreams.
It was fortunate that Aaron spoke Greek well, for here, on the island along with her Ionian sisters, the official languages, despite British rule, remained Greek and Italian.
There was a reason Aaron had travelled to this island, which the English now called, Corfu. It was the long and captivating conversation he had had in Athens about a week ago with a fellow medical graduate.
The young man had recently returned from his appointment in Corfu’s prison. Like Aaron, he enjoyed sitting on a terrace, speaking of his travels over a glass of Ouzo. A good drink could only revive his shaken morale from what he had seen in Corfu.
In the island’s prison, he explained, members of the insane languished in appalling conditions alongside criminals, and many suffered terrible maladies. The young doctor then expounded on a project which the Lord High Commissioner of Corfu, Sir Howard Douglas was supervising himself – to build a new hospital so Corfu might benefit from advanced, enlightened measures readily embraced elsewhere in Europe.
“The British will use this new hospital to shelter the insane and give them better treatment than in the prisons.”
“It is the least we can do,” agreed Aaron.
But as riveting as the British project seemed, the young doctor soon drifted to the beauty of Corfu and its quiet village life which he claimed seemed to have been untouched, even after years of Venetian rule.
“Untouched, you say? How so?” asked Aaron, ever sceptical but hoping to find relief from an Athens overrun by visitors.
“There is, you see, a sleepy village in the north-eastern coast of Corfu. It goes by the name of Kassiopi. It is only a small community. It overlooks the prettiest beach. Clear, turquoise waters like you’ve never dreamt. I’ve seen many of these in Greece but still, there’s something about that particular place. Perhaps because it seems so far away. Well in that village you see…” The young doctor’s eyes had shone bright as he told Aaron a most curious story.
The details of a unique village incident poured from his lips. It sounded like a far-fetched tale. To any person other than Aaron Nightingale, the story would have seemed inconsequential, absurd even, but the young doctor noted that his table companion’s eyes had lit up and that he was even compelled to write down notes in his journal.
Upon hearing the young doctor’s extraordinary account, Aaron Nightingale promised himself he would not remain a moment longer in Athens. Farewell then, Acropolis, farewell Hadrian’s Gate, farewell Socrates’ prison, goodbye classical ruins, goodbye the newly repopulated Plaka, the ancient Turkish quarter of Athens with its snaking streets crowded with European travellers, where poverty and post-war misery thrived among eager hawkers. To the islands, then… to Kerkyra!
It wasn’t long before Aaron, revived by this story, this village tale of which he believed only he could divine the full meaning, set sail, along with several British soldiers, to Corfu’s port.
He was pleasantly surprised by the sight of Corfu Town. This glorious marina had apparently once been a naval power. Only Athens and Corinth had been mightier. Dominating the town were two four-hundred year strong Venetian fortresses. A charming French esplanade had been built in the short time span when Napoleon had seized the island from Venice. With its arcades, it reminded Aaron of the rue de Rivoli in Paris. Unlike Athens, here, Aaron saw no traces of an Ottoman influence, for the fortresses had long succeeded in keeping Turks at bay.
Aaron followed a local guide who promised him some means of transport and lodging in Kassiopi. As bemused as he was to discover this mode of transport consisted of several donkeys, he did not protest.
Each man was soon saddled upon a donkey. A third donkey carried Aaron’s travel bags together with a day’s provisions bought in the port. Eager to inform himself, Aaron purchased a copy of the official government newspaper, the Gazzetta Uffiziale Degli Stati Uniti Delle Isole Jonie.
Along his journey to the outskirts of Corfu Town, Aaron marvelled at the Venetian charm of the island, its serene cobblestone streets, its blooming citrus trees. He stared in wonder at the abundance of olive groves which flourished up on the hills. Many years ago, shared the guide, long before the Venetians had encouraged the growth of olive trees, the island had been covered by vineyards and thick oak forests. Nowadays, the Corfiot wineries were of modest size. As for the ancient trees, they had long been felled for Venetian shipbuilding.
The guide continued his lively historical account, explaining how the vineyards had made way for extensive planting of olive trees, and how the Ionians were made to pay taxes to the Venetians in the form of olive oil, but Aaron was not listening. He’d grown enchanted by the idea that somewhere in the formidable Venetian Arsenal which Napoleon had looted in the last century, there might have been ancient planks of wood that were stolen pieces of Kerkyra.
“And now, here we are in colonial England,” whispered Aaron, his studious eye missing nothing of the foreign landscape around him.
The path began to narrow, flanked on either side by wild growth, and under the crushing summer heat, insects flew and buzzed round them. Aaron lost sight of the sea as they drew inland. The rawness of his surroundings, far from causing concern, only excited him further. Along the meandering journey from Corfu Town
