The photo didn’t do it justice. We were a colour you might politely describe as puce. A perfect hue for panelling your bathroom. Or a plush dressing gown. A wonderful shade for a Christmas table design, or a pedicure for that upcoming winter wedding.
But this is our faces I am talking about.
We had just walked down to the Old Port below Fira town. We being me and Ross, my boyfriend, two humans of typically Irish pallor, neither of whom are accustomed to this level of heat or exercise. Even less accustomed to the two in tandem.
We were in Santorini for a wedding and had rented a car for the day to have a mosey around the island’s capital. Having not made any great plans for our visit, we followed the mob as they trekked down to the port, piggybacking on the research we assumed they had done, and noticing some cable cars at the foot of the descent.
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There are 600 steps from Fira town down to the Old Port. Or, as one fellow tourist bellowed, “The website says 600 steps, what it doesn’t say is that these steps are massive and each one is about another five steps. Five by six hundred, what, that makes at least 25,000 steps?”
Now, you might choose to point out the minor flaw in these sums, but you would be incorrect to do so. This man’s estimate is far more accurate than anything a basic calculator might capture.
On the walk down, we passed three women who had fallen, one of whom had a shin bone poking through her flesh. “I’m sorry that happened to you,” the above tourist offered in consolation.
The woman paid little heed to the string of mules passing to her right. These mules, according to a quick Google search, are a protected cultural component of life on the island. The subservient nature of the downcast, matted creatures made it a challenging cultural tradition, as a tourist, to celebrate.
Aside from the fallen women, I was one of the slower walkers (although one of them, supported by two younger family members, did overtake me). The steps were remarkably slippy and I’m not in need of any further ailments that might hold me back.
The number of semi-slips made along the way confirmed I had taken the right approach, although a quote from a memoir by Tara Westover, a woman who grew up mountainside, did spring to mind. “Walk with the mountain,” she advised. It is the awkwardness of caution, not confidence, that will get you injured.
We made one stop along the way, to top up on sun cream and hydration. Normally, in such instances, I’d throw some oral rehydration salts into my water, being all the rage as they are these days, and apparently helpful for migraine. However, having failed to find a bathroom either before or during the descent, my bladder was at capacity. The salts would have to wait.
But now we had reached the Old Port.
All 25,000 steps under our belt.
Bladder emptied.
A can of full-sugar Fanta Lemon in my grip.
Cable cars, and a breathtaking view of the caldera, awaiting our ascent.
From our dinky table and chairs, typical of any touristy seaside cafe, we watched as the masses of tourists who had accompanied us in our endeavour formed orderly queues. With pockety white-and-blue gift bags in hand, they boarded the tenders that would ferry them out to the large cruise liners that waited in the distance. From here, they’d make their way on to the next scenic destination: Kusadasi, Valletta or wherever it may be.
It was then we realised our error.
Out of the hundreds of tourists who had trekked down to the Old Port, six of us boarded the cable cars back up. They were not, it would turn out, a tourist attraction, but rather a means of transport, used primarily by locals, or tourists en route to their cruise ships.
The views? Well, we enjoyed our fair share of cliff face.
[ Santorini in the shoulder months: No crowds, just stunning food, wine and viewsOpens in new window ]
A tinge of anxiety shuddered through me. Was it for this? All that sweat, dehydration, physical exertion.
In one short adventure, I had amassed many migraine triggers.
Were these views worth the attack that would surely follow?
Except the attack didn’t come.
For the first time in a long time, my body shrugged the exertion off. We carried on with our day. In our rented right-hand drive, we would drive on to the next spot, in Oia, where we skipped the throng queuing for their Kodak moment at the iconic white-and-blue church of St Anastasi.
It’s rare privilege when living with ill health to look an error in the face and say, “What of it?”
And what’s rare, as we well know, is wonderful.
