14 October 2006


She wanted to show me "Her Place", a secret she had discovered while driving around, trying to like something about the isle. No one else had seen it.

We drove to the roof of the world, from where we walked the rest of the way.

Breathtaking view, without wondering what lay ahead.

Down in the sweeping bay is a lone rock - the 'ortholithi - jutting out to sea. There is a legend attached:

An intrepid landlubber noticed a bees' hive halfway up and decided to have him some, climbed to the pinnacle and then lost his nerve coming down.

Praying to the local saint, he promised half the honey proceeds if he got down safely. Which he did, and promptly forgot his promise.

So, time passes and he rather likes his wealth so he decides on a seconf foray. Lowering himself on the rope, he sees a vicious serpent coiling to attack. Unsheathing his Bowie, he slices the scaley one in twain ...

You got it, the 'serpent' was the dude's own rope, which he cut through, sending himself into the brine and down to Davy Jones' locker.

The gods are not mocked.

Up a narrow track she led us, me joking that it was exactly the rural outback where one *should* come across that rare sight, a black-clad crone astride donkey.

Rounding the trail, there ahead *is* the very beast of burden, albeit sans hag atop.
We clamber on up until we reach a tin shack (as it seems) whose key she turns and door opens to reveal a gem of a chapel with icons on every wall and the most exquisite candles and woodwork on the pews.

We slip coins in the box and light candles and sit for a while, each lost in thought.

For me, a mystical experience and I am lost for words when we finally make our way down.

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