The changing sounds of English

They say that you can tell you’re getting older when policemen start to look younger. Don’t know about that, but I have noticed the new doctor at our practice looks like a student.

One of the other signs I have noticed is an increasing awareness of changes in spoken English. Not so much in grammar and spelling. I’ve given up on that because it would be a sign that I am attached to the English as I was taught at school as the yardstick for the language as a whole, and any changes are almost an assault on me as a person.

It relates more to certain changes in English pronunciation which are harder to understand. Some years ago, I first became aware of a change in the way people pronounce the words community and communications. The initial syllable com was being shortened to kim, so the words sounded like kimmunity and kimmunications  I thought at first that it was a local pronunciation issue, but since then I have noticed it has become more widespread and is now frequently to be heard in the broadcast media.

Then there’s the word nuclear. It is somehow morphing into nuc-a-lear. Even my son says it. Then there’s almond, now being pronounced as written, rather than armond.

Most recently I have come across a strange change in the pronunciation of the word vulnerable, which is being pronounced as if it didn’t have the first letter l: vunerable. Even Ian Duncan-Smith says it, though I suspect that he wouldn’t know what it meant if it bit him on the bottom.

Language changes all the time. If it didn’t we would all still be speaking like characters in Beowulf. We smile now at the strangulated upper class English vowel sounds of the 30s. Just listen to the way the Queen speaks now as compared with when she first came to the throne. But why do the sounds change at all? What is it that drives vowel sound shifts? Whatever it is, it seems that those changes happen more quickly because the media reflect and disseminate variations far more quickly than happened in the past.

 

 

 

Greek word origins

As I think I have mentioned before, one of the interesting things about learning Modern Greek is that my tutor, Maria, helps me remember words better when I come across them by explaining their etymology.

So there’s the Ancient Greek verb fio to give birth, grow, which is at the root of several Greek words which have also come across to English; fisi (nature) from which we get physics; fito (a plant) from which we get phyto- in plant compound names. Then there’s fimi which mean to speak in Ancient Greek and from which we get our word famous.

The word for God/god is theos which comes from an Ancient Grek verb meaning to look at something high up and is linked to directly to the word for a view (thea). I find that rather engaging and can understand that this makes sense in Greece where the home of the gods was believed to be a mountain (Mt Olympos) and temples were often built in high places.

Recently we came across the word for devil (diavolos or diaolos). Maria explained that this is a Greek word, not one that has been adopted into Greek and that it comes from a verb in Ancient Greek diavallo which means to slander. I was suddenly curious at what the Greek version of the Lord’s Prayer uses in the final line ‘But deliver us from evil’. In the Russian version (A izbavi nas ot Lukavogo), it translates as ‘Deliver us from the Evil [or Cunning] One’. The Greek version is the same as the Russian one:  alla risai imas apo tou ponirou. 

It strikes me as odd the difference in this one word between the old eastern and western churches. The western churches uses the abstract word evil (also in Latin sed libera nos a malo), whereas the eastern churches use more of a personification of evil.

The strange attraction of sadness

My Greek tutor has recently been introducing me to Greek poetry, especially the poetry of Odysseas Elytis. The Greeks seem to have a fondness for setting poetry to music; ranging from Theodorakis’s setting of Elytis’s To Axion Esti (It is truly meet) through to settings of his nature poems for children (Sea Clover and Cicadas). I was struck by one particularly bleak poem, called To Parapono (The Complaint). Here’s my translation:

Here, half-way along the road

The time has come for me to say

Other things are the ones I love

I set out for something completely different.

Amid the true and the false

I hereby confess

I was like someone else and not me

Acting in life.

No matter how careful you are

No matter how hard you search

It will always be too late

There is no second go at life.

There’s a particularly fine rendition of it by Eleutheria Arvanitaki, set to the music of Dimitris Papadimitriou played on solo piano – see here

It seems to tap into a deep theme of sadness that (admittedly in my very limited experience) is evident in Greek music and poetry. It reminds me a bit of the sadness that is a major feature of Russian folk songs. I mention this to Maria who agrees that this is a cultural phenomenon in Greece, but the interpretation is different. To us, non-Greeks, it may seem like wallowing in sadness. However, to Greeks, it’s almost like a form of Stoic innoculation. It’s as if in The Complaint Elytis were saying: ‘Yes, that’s how life is. There is no second chance, so get on with it!’

So that is how I have now moved on to exploring Greek mourning songs (Moiroloi) which have no equivalent in England. I will try and report back on that in future.

In the meantime, I often think about the question that Michael Berkeley sometimes asks his guests on BBC Radio 3′s programme Private Passions: why do we like sad music? I can’t remember any answer to this I have heard that is totally convincing. After all, if you have the choice why would you choose to listen to something that makes you feel sad as opposed to something that makes you happy?

Probably the most convincing explanation that I have come across was in another Radio 3 programme that Stephen Johnson, the musicologist, made about how the music of Shostakovich had on three separate occasions pulled him out of deep clinical depression (Shostakovich – A Journey into Light). Shostakovich is a composer of some of the darkest, bleakest, most despairing music written in the last century. Looking for an explanation for the effect of this music, Stephen Johnson turned to Professor Paul Robertson, one of the founders of The Medici Quartet and an expert on the connection between music and science. ‘Music can give you a ladder out of somewhere extreme and painful. It provides a locus of control: you can externalise your feelings, examine them and hence become aware that change is possible. It shows that something beautiful can come out of pain. It begins to give it meaning and everything can be borne if it has meaning.’

So dark music helps us to externalise and start to understand our dark feelings and in some way to start to be able to deal with them more objectively rather than be overwhelmed by them

Professor Robertson’s scientific understanding was also borne out by his experience as a musician. He used to play with the Medici Quartet in hospitals, often to patients in truly dire states of health. So they assumes that they should play ‘cheerful’ music. However, what the patients really wanted was darker music, such as Death and the Maiden and Shostakovich’s 8th String Quartet.

There is also one curious historical case of someone being cured of melancholia by music. In the eighteenth century, King Philip V of Spain probably suffered from bipolar disorder and started to live a nocturnal life which, of course, affected the whole court. To ease his pain, the famous Italian castrato, Farinelli, was invited to the court to sing 8 or 9 arias to the king and his wife every night.

In a dark wood

Certain places have a habit of plucking my sleeve, drawing me back time and again to capture them in different lights and different seasons. I have photographed these beech trees several times over the years and never caught exactly what I saw in them.

In my head, perhaps because of the low sweeping boughs, I saw a wild wood or fairy tale forest, something dangerous, unpredictable, full of the unknown and a bit constricting.

I had another go recently and, this time, with some better post processing, I felt I got closer to what I saw in my head.

The Temple of Apollo Epikoureios at Vassai

Prodromou Monastery, Lousios Gorge

After Dimitsana we set off on a roundabout route to Vassai, stopping off at the Lousios Gorge and Ancient Gortys.

Ancient Gortys is on a raised piece of ground before the gorge starts to narrow. There’s not much to see there now, mainly an Asklepeion which looks as though it had a sunken circular bath with stone seats for ritual bathing; and another building though impossible to tell what it might have been.

As the gorge narrows the first of the three monasteries, the Prodromou (named after John the Baptist) that are located along it stands perched impossibly on the edge of the opposite cliff. It is fierce early afternoon heat and we soon realise that we are not properly equipped to explore the gorge. There is supposed to be a stone bridge across the raging torrent of the River Lousios in the gorge and a path across it that takes you up to the Prodromou monastery. I can only think that rather than a walk it must involve a proper rock climb as the cliff wall is sheer. The other two monasteries which we don’t see are called Palaia and Nea Filosofou. The exploration of the gorge will need a separate trip on another occasion, either earlier or later in the year when it is cooler.

Near the site of Ancient Gortys there is a very small Byzantine Church dedicated to Agios Andreas. It has been restored and unfortunately is locked, but it is interesting to see a column from the nearby ruins of Ancient Gortys being used as a doorstop.

Agios Andreas, Ancient Gortys

The sleepy old village of Andritsaina back up in the mountains has seen better days. In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries it thrived on the supply of mules to take curious travellers up the 11km to the Temple of Apollo Epikoureios at Vassai. The Cadogan guide mentions the old shops with wooden shop fronts dating back to the 20s and 30s in the main square. Now all the old shops are closed and neglected.

But Vassai itself does not disappoint. It is notable for two reasons. It is set in what has been described as ‘the wildest, most remote and god-haunted areas of Greece’. It is also, after the Temple of Ifaistos in Athens, one of the best preserved ancient temples in the country. The setting for it is superb, looking out over a bare scrub landscape with no sign of human habitation.

Vassai – view from the temple

Vassia – view from the temple

The Temple was built by the people of Ancient Figaleia on Mount Kotilio at a height of 1130 metres. Vassai means ‘ravines’ and the people of Figaleia had already built a temple to Apollo there back in the seventh century BC. The Temple of Vassai we know today was built on this ancient site between 420-400 BC out of local limestone. It was dedicated to Apollo Epikoureios (supporter in war or illness) for sparing them from plague in 429 BC and, according to Pausanias, was designed by Iktinos, the architect of the Parthenon.

The Temple has been undergoing restoration since the 1980s and is not due to be finished until 2020. Personally I think that that is vastly over-optimistic, given the scale of the project and the rate at which it is progressing. Today the temple lies under a protective marquee-style structure, so you can’t see it in the landscape as it was meant to be seen.

The protective covering over the temple

Once inside the marquee though, even in its current state, it is a breath-taking structure. There stands a 2,400 year old temple with most of its columns still standing, though some at rather odd angles.

The Temple of Vassai – inside the marquee

The Temple of Vassai – inside the marquee

The inner wall of the cella has been re-built with the original stones and one by one the huge stone columns are being lifted, reinforced and re-seated on firmer footings.

The Temple at Vassai – foundations

It is painstakingly slow work involving archaeologists, architects and engineers: the process is very well illustrated by a 23 minute film on the preservation work that plays on a loop. The beginning of the film includes a haunting hymn to Apollo sung in Ancient Greek with lyre accompaniment which adds enormously to the atmosphere, reminding us that this was once a place of worship and focus of belief for the local people, and not lifeless ruins.

The Temple of Vassai -inner and outer columns

The Temple of Vassai

The limestone columns are badly pitted and worn by the extremes of weather experienced at this height and it oftens snows up here in winter.

The Temple at Vassai – state of the columns

The whole site has a great sense of atmosphere. The weather up here is very changeable and, as we approached the marquee, it suddenly came over cloudy and cold, as if the god was making clear his feelings about strangers coming to his sanctuary. Around the site are scattered the ruins of other buildings, but unfortunately their purpose is not clear and not explained by the leaflet available on site.

Ruins on the site of the Temple at Vassai

I discovered after returning to England that Vassai also suffered from the English obsession with acquiring antiquities, often by dubious means. In this case an English architect, Charles Robert Cockerell removed the 23 frieze metopes around the cella, with the permission of the local Ottoman governor in Megalopoli. He then shipped them to Zante and sold them in 1815 to the British Museum. The frieze, now in its own gallery in the BM, illustrates two classic subjects: the battle between the Greeks and the Amazons and battle between the Lapiths and centaurs.

There are several things which puzzle me about this temple. It must have cost a lot of money to build such a splendid sanctuary, using one of the greatest Greek architects of the day. How did the people of Ancient Figaleia afford it? How did they get all the materials to the site (Ancient Figaleia is about 10km away)? Did all the manpower come from Figaleia? And why did they build it so far away from Figaleia when it would have involved quite a long journey up the mountains to get to it? Vassia is not even visible from Figaleia and you can only see it when you are quite close to it.

In fact Ancient Figaleia was once a city which made its money from being a transit point on the River Nedha between Arcadia and the sea. Also it was not known for its piety, but had a reputation as a hard drinking place with a liking for sorcery. So even more strange that they should expend such effort and money in building the temple.

Exploring the Mainalo mountains of Arkadia

After Olympia we set off to explore the Mainalo mountains in the north-west of Arkadia, so we head for the village of Dimitsana, at the head of the Lousios Gorge. Following the main road from Pyrgos to Langhada, we see a sign to Dimitsana showing it is only 43km. Of course, mountain distances are deceptive: 43km on the flat bear no comparison to driving 43km along winding mountain roads – and these roads do twist and turn constantly as they follow the contours of the mountains.

There is very little traffic, mainly local by the look of it. Just as well as the roads are in a poor state of repair: lots of pot holes, rocks and small boulders strewn across them and grass growing through the tarmac too in places. But the scenery is stunning and it feels remote and wild. Passing through the occasional tiny village with its taverna we hardly see a soul.

As the light begins to fade and we despair of ever reaching Dimitsana, the road starts to dip down hill and almost immediately there is a sign in the road saying ‘Road Closed’. Dimitsana is tantalisingly visible somewhere lower down the hill, nestling in a fold in the mountains. Fortunately there is a cafe/bar at the top of the hill and the owner tells me that it’s an old sign and that we can get through if we drive carefully. I am not totally convinced but the thought of driving back along the road we have just come in the dark is not very attractive. We drive round the sign in the road and, after a few more bends, realise why the road has been closed. A big boulder ringed with cones blocks half the road. We edge cautiously round it and hit the road beneath Dimitsana. Above us now the mass of the main village clings to the side of the mountain.

Our first impressions aren’t great. The village is one long street with a left bend in it as it reaches the top of the hill. Groups of elderly men sitting outside the bars look at us curiously as we pass. In a spirit of adventure we haven’t booked anywhere to stay, relying on a couple of guide books for suggestions. Trying two or three of their recommendations, we are surprised to find them closed. It slowly dawns on us that this is because Dimitsana is a winter resort and this is their off-season.

Noticing an illuminated sign for a guest house on a building somewhere up high off the main street, we set off up a side alley to track it down. The guest house itself turns out to be in darkness, but as we start to turn back down we notice a man sitting on a high balcony of the house next door. He tells us to wait while he makes a phone call. Lights are suddenly switched on in the guest house and its owner appears. The guest house has only recently been modernised to a high level of finish. We choose a room on the second floor with an emperor bed covered in a mosquito net, a wood burning stove, a desk and chair and a fabulous bathroom finished in brown marble tiles. After thinking we might have to spend the night in the car, we sink gratefully into this little piece of luxury in the mountains.

Following the guest house’s recommendation for dinner, we eat at Sto Kioupi (In the Jar) which looks more modern and sophisticated than some of the other tavernas in the village. The food certainly lives up to the look of the place: my wife has khorta and mousaka. I have a dish described as scrambled eggs with tomatoes and spring onions. It is light, not overdone and the tomatoes have a strong, slightly sweet flavour. Much to the disappointment of our waiter who has been extolling the exceptional cookery skills of the chef and the fine local dishes, I choose chicken souvlaki for my main course. We both opt for the karidopita (walnut cake), lovely and light with a honey-soaked base and a strong cinnamon flavour. The wine is a dry and flowery organic white. We agree that this is one of the best meals we have ever eaten in Greece and certainly at 30€ one of the best value ones.

The next morning, opening the doors onto our small balcony, we can tell that we are in the mountains. It’s a lovely sunny morning with a cloudless blue sky but the air has a cool edge.

Alley in Dimitsana

Breakfast is one of the most extensive we’ve ever had. It starts with a small plain omelette which is already waiting for us on the table. This is followed by: yoghurt with honey, nuts and two halves of a pear poached in red wine; toasted ham sandwiches; and small round pieces of fried flat dough soaked in honey. On a sidetable there’s muesli, different types of jam, tiropita and a couple of different cakes.    

In the main street there is a small market selling some lovely fruit and veg, and in the morning light and fresh mountain air Dimitsana is a delightful place.

Honey, veg and herb seller in the market at Dimitsana

In our eagerness to explore the mountains, we miss out on a visit to the water mill museum (at one time there were about 90 watermills in the village) and to the secret Greek school. These schools were run by the Orthodox Church during the Ottoman period and helped keep alive Greek language and culture.

Old house in Dimitsana

More recently, back in England, I came across a documentary film called The Other Town which features Dimitsana and Birgi in western Turkey. Made by a young Turkish film-maker (Nefin Dinc) and a Greek academic (Iraklis Millas) working on Greek-Turkish rapprochement, it looks at the views, attitudes feelings and prejudices that the inhabitants of the two towns have towards past history and relationships between the two communities today. There’s  a trailer with English subtitles and more information about the film here: http://www.theothertown.com

Dimitsana has a special place in the history of Greek independence. It was the birthplace of Metropolitan Germanos III who on 25 March 25 1821 blessed the Greek flag at the monastery of Agia Lavra in Kalavrita which signalled the start of the Greek uprising against Ottoman rule. I haven’t yet seen the film, but I would love to go back to Dimitsana when I have seen it and spend more time exploring the village and the local area and finding out more about the local people.

Looking from Dimitsana towards Megalopoli and along the line of the Lousios Gorge

Ancient Olympia – Archaeological Museum

Archaeological Museum – Ancient Olympia

The Archaeological Museum is well camouflaged and set well away from the main site. It’s a modern building and like most Greek museums mercifully air-conditioned.

The museum has a lot of interesting material; surprising when you consider that the site was looted several times. There are unusual collections of tripods (donations to the temples); warriors’ helmets through the ages, remarkably well-preserved; and some enormous discs that used to sit atop the columns in the Temple of Hera.

However, the highlight of the museum has to be the statuary. The Nike by Paionios stood originally in front of the Temple of Zeus. In Greek mythology, Nike was the goddess who personified victory. Sculpted from highly prized Parian marble it is 3 metres tall and stood on a triangular plinth which was 10-12 meteres high, so from  its height alone it must have made a huge impact at the time.

Nike of Paionios – front view

She would have carried a palm branch in her right hand and an olive wreath in her left to crown the victor. As you walk around it you get an amazing sense of the figure alighting on the ground after her flight from Mt Olympos and this is emphasised by the way that her dress (himaton) is pressed tight against her body by the air pressure and by the way she stands balanced on her left foot whilst the right foot is still in the air.

Nike of Paionios – right side

The strange looking animal head at the bottom of the sculpture is an eagle – another symbol of victory.

Nike of Paionios – left side

The statue was commissioned by the Messenians and Naupaktians as a votive offering to Zeus for victory in battle, probably during the Peloponnesian War. Interestingly this image was depicted on medals awarded at the 2004 Athens Olympics and at the London Olympics in 2012.

Then there are the statues which decorated the two pediments of the Temple of Zeus. The first, a commonplace of Greek narrative architecture, is the battle between the Lapiths and the Centaurs which dramatises the struggle (and ultimate victory) of reason and civilisation over barbarism.

Battle between the Lapiths and Centaurs

Battle between the Lapiths and Centaurs

Battle between the Lapiths and Centaurs

Battle between the Lapiths and Centaurs

Battle between the Lapiths and Centaurs

In the middle of the pediment stands Apollo, depicting the triumph of reason and civilisation.

Battle between the Lapiths and Centaurs – Apollo

The second pediment depicts another myth, the chariot race between King Oinamaos of Pisa and Pelops. Oinomaos was terrified by a prophecy that he would be killed by his son-in-law. So to make things difficult any suitor for his daughter, Ippodameia, had to race against the king in a chariot race and when they lost, the king had them killed. Pelops wanted to marry Ippodamia and, with the help of Poseidon, replaced the axle of Oinomaos’s chariot with wax. As Oinomaos’s chariot caught up with Pelops, the chariot flew apart and Oinomaos was killed as his horses dragged him to death. Oinomaos’s charioteer, Myrtilos, managed to survive and cursed Pelops as he had him thrown off a cliff into the sea: this was the curse on the line of Pelops that was a motor force behind the great Greek tragedies of the classical era.   

Compared to the way that the human figures are depicted the horses strike me as rather clunky, poorly observed and a bit comic.

Chariot race between Pelops and Oinomaos

Chariot race between Pelops and Oinomaos

The most outstanding item in the museum is the Hermes by Praxiteles, sculpted in the 4th century BC out of Parian marble, which was found in the Temple of Hera during the 1877 century excavations. The sculpture depicts the god Hermes leaning against a tree trunk holding the infant Dionysus. The story is that Dionysus’s mortal mother was incinerated when her lover Zeus appeared to her in his full divinity. Zeus however managed to save Dionysus by sewing him into his own thigh until it was time for him to be born. Zeus instructed Hermes, the messenger god, to take the infant Dionysus to Crete to be brought up by nymphs, away from the anger of Zeus’s wife, Hera. The status shows Hermes with the infant before taking him to Crete.

Hermes of Praxiteles

It is probable that Hermes was holding something out in his right hand (a bunch of grapes?) that the infant is reaching out to touch. Hermes’s body is shown in a relaxed ‘S shape. I think the musculature of the legs and difference in the way that the knees are depicted are remarkable.

Hermes of Praxiteles

It is said to be one of the best preserved Greek classical sculptures and how Praxiteles achieved such a high polish on the marble is a wonder. Unusually, the back of the sculpture is unfinished, as it is still rough and you can still see the chisel marks.

Hermes of Praxiteles

However it is the face of Hermes that is the most magnetic element of the sculpture and it is noticeable that this changes as you walk around it. From the front the god looks serene:

Hermes of Praxiteles

However, from the right side it appears that the god is sad:

Hermes of Praxiteles

On the left hand side though the Gods face looks as if he is smiling.

Hermes of Praxiteles

I also like the way the sculptor has depicted the chubby baby Dionysus and how he looks playfully up at Hermes.

A great masterpiece of Greek sculpture indeed.