An Irishman's Diary

A NUMBER of people have taken the trouble to point out that the unnamed “rocky outcrop” overlooking Athens, whereon my credit cards were stolen recently (Diary, July 12th), is in fact a very famous monolith, the “Areopagus”.

So well established is it as a visitor attraction, readers informed me, it’s mentioned in the Bible. It was at the Areopagus that St Paul preached to the Stoics and Epicureans. And happy to say, he didn’t lose any of his belongings in the process.

On the contrary, he seems to have gained something, the respect of his listeners.

The philosophers had first dismissed him as a “babbler”. But according to the Bible, he won at least some of them around. Thus Acts 17:34: “Certain men clave unto him and believed: among which was Dionysius the Areopagite, and a woman named Damaris . . .”

I thank readers for the enlightenment, although there are two excuses for my initial ignorance. First, my family and I only stumbled upon the rock (literally as well as metaphorically – it has been polished over the centuries, making it treacherous underfoot, which is partly why I left my hold-all down long enough for a slick-fingered thief to strike) during an evening stroll.

Second, the larceny also deprived me of my guidebook. So apart from knowing it was a big rock near the Acropolis, I was temporarily at a loss to describe the crime scene. Besides, we didn’t report the theft to anyone other than my bank.

I’ve also learned since that, in ancient times, the Areopagus was the site of Athens’s criminal court of appeal. Which I think may qualify the incident as illustrating at least one, if not two, types of that famous Greek concept, irony.

It was at the Areopagus that Phryne, a famously beautiful courtesan of the 4th century BC, was tried for allegedly profaning the Eleusinian mysteries. She was acquitted thanks to a dramatic, if cynical, legal stratagem of opening her robe at a key point in the proceedings and revealing her naked body to the judges.

In its role as a high court, the rock also features extensively in Greek mythology. Hence, indeed, the name Areopagus, the “Rock of Ares”, since it was there, supposedly, that the world’s first murder trial took place, when the god of war, Ares, was arraigned for the murder of Poseidon’s son.

And as Greek drama lovers among you will know, the Areopagus was also the setting used by Aeschylus for the trial of Orestes on charges of killing his mother Clytemnestra – herself an infamous murderess – and her lover.

All of which seems to confirm the wisdom of not reporting my loss to the Athens police. For one thing, the history of the rock puts the theft into perspective. For another, I suspect the city authorities have their hands full dealing with bigger cases.

IT WAS while following road signs, rather than a guidebook, that in a remoter part of Greece we drove into what appeared to be an old winery now serving as an art museum. It had been very well signposted, in fact, suggesting a major attraction.

But as I pulled up in the small courtyard, my heart sank.

There were only two other cars there, neither of which looked like it had arrived today. And the feeling that this was one of those sad little museums that you linger in just long enough to spare the curator’s feelings deepened when we noticed our entry being awaited by a anxious-looking man with a beard.

For this same reason, there was no question of us turning around and driving off again, my first instinct.

Instead we trooped inside, followed by the gloomy guide, who spoke little English but shadowed us throughout what was indeed an old winery, converted into cave-like exhibition spaces. From the start, I desperately wanted to give the man some money.

Unfortunately, there was no entry fee. Nor could I see a tip-jar anywhere.

What there was were paintings and sculptures, all for sale, but none of which even crippling guilt would make me want to buy. So we just looked and made polite noises. Then, steeling ourselves, we thanked the man and left. But no – there was another gallery next door, he gestured. So we repeated the process there. And then he pointed us to a second guide, a woman, who would show us around yet another wing.

The mood lifted here somewhat, if only because she looked more cheerful than he. Also, she had enough English to answer the questions we asked with pretend interest. Even so. When the gallery tour finally ended and she announced that we would now visit the working part of the winery, a wave of relief swept over us.

The working winery was very small and clinical, with chrome tanks and plastic tubes and none of the galleries’ cave-like charms. Despite which, after a quick (and paid) tasting, we also bought two of the better bottles on offer.

It was at least one bottle more than required, really. But we were just happy to help these poor wine-makers, especially having scorned all their art. And yet, as the woman and the bearded man – whose mood seemed to have improved since we’d first met him – waved us away afterwards, I couldn’t help wondering if the whole thing wasn’t an ingenious marketing strategy.