A journey with the little fruitarian runner on board. Day three: The magic forests and the waterfalls of Samothrakis

I love the silence this morning. I can sense it in the semi darkness, before I completely wake up in the warm arms that I love. Then, when we later open the balcony door, cries of peacocks pour into the room, along with the baa of the sheep in the garden separating us from the sea.

I remember I had dreams of the bakery and pancakes and discussions about sensitive issues and I am amused by the reminiscence. The sky is clear this morning and the sun is shining. It’s a warm day and the bakery is waiting: warm bread, kritsinia, spinach and cheese pie and ice cream for breakfast, as well as mountain tea with lemon and honey, served on the balcony.

We are going to Therma today and up to see the waterfalls. There is just one sign pointing to the waterfalls and you have to guess or ask the way if you can speak a little Greek  (otherwise, I suppose you can just use your hands to explain). Carlota told us about a crowdfunding campaign on the island to mark trekking routes on the mountain and there are posters of it on the ferry too. “Samothrace walk with me” – check it out here and of Facebook here, as well as on Kickstarter here. As far as I can tell, it’s an admiring initiative and I do hope it works out for them.

I love climbing the rocks up the trail, the fresh view and the gurgling, crystal clear water, kissed by ultramarine dragonflies, butterflies, toads and lizards. Nowhere before have I seen such love between two different kingdoms. The trees and the rocks. The lovemaking seems to have been going on for centuries. They are perfectly fused together. Hard to tell which part is tree and which part is rock. A connection that breeds a new species into this enchanted forest.


Having gone up to the last waterfall, when coming back down we stop on the side of this rock pool and, since no one else is there, we take off everything and get in. The water is freezing cold, almost like the ocean last September in Porto. When we get out, a few minutes later, I enjoy  lying like a lizard on a rock in the sun, my proud bump looking up,  feeling so beautiful and free. No longer bothered by my imperfections, I am now free to simply enjoy the power this gives me. Speaking of power, the little fruitarian runner is meditating. He has every reason to. He is in the perfect place for it.

Back in Therma, after having apricots, sour cherries and wax cherries from the trees on the side of the road (fuel for the fruit runner, of course), we are searching for the thermal baths.

“This way, five hours up, four hours down. To the peak. But maybe is hard for you, with the…” the middle aged German tourist says, rubbing his belly, happy to finally have someone to talk to. “I am old, kaput”, he adds.

Rain starts so we head to the car and drive to this empty beach at the end of the road along the northern part of the island up to the most eastern point. The water seems too cold to take a swim, so we doze on the towels lying over the pebbles. The music comes from bells, goats, soft waves, crows (not seagulls) and the wind. The little fruitarian runner takes notice of the pebbles. I can’t help thinking it’s almost the end of our second day on the island and we still haven’t swum in the sea…

When it gets too windy and too cold, we get back to the car and drive till we get to a sunny spot. We stretch like lizards and enjoy the view of the setting sun. Having rested enough (i.e. having pressed my ribs against the pebbles to the point of pain), I assume a meditation pose and start a small meditation exercise. The little fruitarian runner suddenly leaves his usual meditative state and starts a series of swims. Perhaps the sound of the waves is reminding him of his swimming adventures in previous lifetimes.

In the middle of my meditation I get a strong craving for watermelon. No, I don’t have cravings, actually. I just think it’s a great idea. So I convince my travel companion it is the perfect spot and time for having watermelon. He eventually gives in and takes a trip to a nearby shop. He comes back victorious. I can’t help laughing at the image of him holding the big watermelon against the warm light of the setting sun.

I then come up with a newspaper article in my head, while eating the cracked melon, its sticky juice running up my fingers:

“Romanian couple savagely devour a watermelon on the shores of the Aegean Sea

In Samothrakis, the island of the great gods, a special place with pure waters and  high energy, having spent the day stealing fruit from locals’ gardens, a Romanian couple crack a watermelon against a sharp stone on the sea shore and savagely devour it, using their bare hands.

Witnesses state that the woman looks visibly pregnant. Authorities have expressed their concern about their parental skills. Social services have taken notice of this case. The Romanian embassy in Greece is expected to formulate an official statement for the Greek authorities.”

I must be crazy. Halfway through my first pregnancy, I’m going on long road trips, camping, trekking on mountain peaks, climbing rocks, skinny dipping in mountain pools, cracking melons on the sea shore. Which actually makes me confident about the next two (hopefully), to be perfectly honest. Brutally honest.

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