Maureen McCarthy — Chora Castle

What a day. And it’s still morning. Quite blue, clear, a breeze even. 

 We arrive, knackered. 

 Although not really dangerous, the walk is steep, the path uneven. An occasional step is battered smooth but most are rough, riven through with cracks and holes. The path narrows, it turns sharply, widens, then narrows again. But up. Every step, up.

 We are old women and so anything can happen. A stumble to the side maybe. Or backwards. A cracked head. A broken ankle or fainting fit.

 What if one of our hearts decides to give up?

 Every now and again I stop, turn around and stare at the great rolling rock mountains behind me on the other side of the valley. So menacing they seem, harsh.  A brooding silent witness to all that has happened in this place. 

So what hard and rocky secret do those mountains hold for me?

Can I bear to hear it?

We step through the gate, into the fortified citadel. From left to right: Helen, Lesley, Mike (one of our guides), Nadia< Maureen, Helen. This is the gate that Clift described as a ‘trachomaed eye’.

We all make it unscathed. We gathering our breaths and begin to wander about, a little stunned I think. Awestruck anyway

We’ve  walked up to the ruins of Chora Castle, the citadel built on rock at the highest point above the town. So the whole valley and the sea ports on both sides can be seen from this point.  

I pull the bell rope once and the sound peals out sweetly across the valley. 'Not just once'! I’m told by our guides, ‘or people will think some one has died.’ 

I laugh, glad to pull the rope again and again.  

'And not too much’ they tell me, smiling ‘or they’ll think there is a fire’

Okay.

I imagine that same bell being rung to warn the people living and working around the walls that the invaders are coming. The women tending gardens and goats stiffening in fear at the sound, sharing a moment of understanding with each other before gathering up their children and livestock and rushing for the gate leading back behind the walls. Hundreds of people crowding in and pushing towards that gate. The women holding their babies close, murmuring at first and then raising their voices in prayers of supplication. 

How long do they have to wait it out behind the thick walls? Does the bell ring again to tell them they're safe?

We head towards two of the many little solid chapels on the mountain. The Church of the Transfiguration. 

Inside the Church of the Transfiguration: one of the dozen tiny Byzantine-era chapels inside the citadel.

High up on this mountain midst the pure air and sky would be the perfect place to be borne away to heaven. 

Did someone see that happen? Did someone see the voluminous white clouds gathering at the master’s feet, see the beams of glittering sunlight begin to dance around his bowed head? 

A rush of wind and the Holy Man raises his face and lifts his arms. The  angels begin to sing and the clouds rise.

Suddenly it seems possible. Likely even... 

Everything up for grabs.