By Photios Kontoglou
When I was very young, I spent the holidays with my family on a storm-beaten mountain, at Agia Paraskevi.
Most of the hours I would go and sit inside the small, fragrant little church — not only during the services, but also at times when no one else was inside except me. I would read the ancient hymns and would find myself in a state that I cannot convey to another. Above all, the iambic canon “He saved the people” (Έσωσε λαόν) made me feel as though I were in the first days of creation, just as primeval as the nature that surrounded me: the gigantic rock hanging over the little church, the sea, the wild trees and grasses, the clean stones, the small deserted islets visible out on the open water, the icy north wind that blew and made everything appear crystal clear, the lambs bleating, the shepherds clothed in sheepskins, the stars shining at night like frozen dewdrops.



.jpg)




