“They are to Greek agritourism what Monet is to impressionism: honest renditions of a life gone by, tinged with the romantic light with which the rest of us perceive it.”
Rokka- Elafotopos, Epirus
Holidaying in Greek villages lesser known to international tourism is a very different experience to holidaying in most other holiday destinations, first and foremost due to the level of interest the local people take in you. By which I mean, the lengths they will go to to ensure you enjoy your time, not in a sycophantic way, but in a humble and honestly generous way. If you mention that you like watermelon, it is likely that watermelon will appear soon after for your enjoyment; if you say you love to walk, they will organise a walking trip for you with their friends who happen to be mountaineers; if you have an interest in traditional cooking and local foods, as I do, an afternoon of lessons to learn traditional recipes will find its way into your agenda. And this is precisely what occurred during our stay at Anemi, where our hosts organised with friends of theirs in the neighbouring village of Elafotopos for us to join them for an afternoon where we were assured that our curious and hungry minds and tummies would be satisfied.
Rokka is the brainchild of Lena, wife of Kostas and miller, baker, cook, farmer, spinner, weaver and historical knowledge extraordinaire- an all-round good egg- kind eyes, tanned skin and a practical ability for anything, and surprisingly fluent in Greek, German and English- quite a rarity in these parts! The couple run the farm and guesthouse together, along with Kostas’ mother, a hard-working lady with no English, and kind smile who does much of the cooking here. She and Lena were kind enough to share their life with us for one very happily spent afternoon and evening in June. It is no surprise that the Rokka B&B experience became so popular that Lena decided to deactivate the website and only allow returning guests to stay- a true testament to its success, albeit far too much work!
If the lane leading from the village car park to Rokka’s entrance didn’t consist of stone uneven cobbles, the short perambulation would occur via sideways steps, crab-like, in order to take in as much of the view of the valley and mountains in the distance as possible, but as it was, we didn’t want to make a fool of ourselves by falling up the lane. Upon entering the Rokka gate, you are soon relieved to discover the tables, chairs, and cushion clad stone wall at the end of the rose and vine-covered sizeable terrace, as you know there will be a chance to soak up this view over a glass of something. And the mountain tea with local honey upon our arrival did not disappoint. When I say, ‘mountain tea’, what grows on each mountain differs, and so no mountain tea is quite the same and will occasionally include a little ‘pick-me-up’, shall we say!
The house itself, its outside wall playing host to a rug adorned stone bench providing balance to the garden chairs between which stood a large dining table, was built in the 1870s. Lena described animatedly and with the assuredness of retelling a story repeated tenfold how the house belonged to a wealthy merchant and businessman from Serbia. It was built and designed from the beginning with certain functionalities. For instance, the orientation of the house was decided with knowledge of the weather conditions and prevailing winds, so as to position the food preservation rooms facing north-east, and the living areas, south-east. The whole ground floor would have originally been home to animals, along with the larder, and the first floor would have featured the living space. The house was gifted to the church in the 1960s when the last family moved away, and in the 1980s the church gave it a new lease of life as a guesthouse after renovation, and it is from them whom Lena and her family rent this treasure.
Our half Greek- half Austrian host described throughout the afternoon the various activities on the farm. Their once 500 strong herd of German sheep (popular in the last decades due to prolific milk production) are gradually being replaced by a local breed of Epirus sheep, better adapted to the harsh weather conditions, and although providing a smaller quantity of milk, it is of a higher quality. There is a general trend, and now support, for reigniting the flocks of indigenous breeds, much like in the UK. This was something which shocked me, as I in my naivety I thought that everything food wise in mountainous central Greece, or generally in Greece as a whole (excluding cities), was conducted via indigenous breeds. I assumed that much support would be given to farmers, given the importance of the PDO feta export and the prevalence of Greek yoghurt internationally, but sadly I was wrong. In fact, there were more similarities to the UK farming scene than I expected: it is not generally financially viable to keep sheep, as, she calculated, it costs 1 ½ euros to maintain a sheep for a day, but the milk sells for 1 euro a litre. They have thankfully found a dairy in Thessaly, much further away than their previous, whom they sell to for 1.26 a litre; this is partially due to the poor economic returns in recent years putting many farmers out of business, reducing the numbers producing milk, and thus upping the price. They also keep chickens, cows, grow pulses, vegetables, wheat, and make butter and cheese for home consumption, only selling the milk, meat and tourism.
My naivety was apparent on another topic, about which my cynicism had taken command of reasoning. This was regarding the lack of full-time residents, or indeed, many residents at all in these mountainous villages, especially considering that these ones specifically had such a flourishing and vibrant Ioannina town under an hour away. Elafotopos, for instance, has 12 permanent residents. I had assumed that people no longer wanted to do the hard work of their forebears, instead chasing a life in Athens, Thessaloniki or the big towns, in search of money, comfort and social life. However, instead it seems that there are some who do wish to continue or rekindle traditions and lifestyles of days gone by but there is a rather dire housing problem. Many of these villages comprise of a huge number of houses in various states of disarray, dilapidation, decay, or just barely habitable, yet people cannot have access to them. These houses are often owned by people who no longer live or even visit the village, but who do not want to sell, often because such houses are worth shockingly little. Other more habitable examples could be rented out, but the owners wish to keep a holiday home for the August period. As such, there is no way of trying your luck at such a lifestyle because there is nowhere to live. And as a result of that, there are no employees to be had.
Back to Rokka… Following the mountain tea and general comparisons between Greek and British farming changes in recent decades, time it was to start the afternoon’s lessons. Firstly, we made bread. By that I am assuming you would be disappointed reading this, as who didn’t make bread during lockdown? However, this bread-making differed considerably from my normal every-other-day morning routine, by the addition of milling the wheat to make the flour using an electric grinder- the wheat of course was home grown. Simple, uncomplicated, homespun contentedness wafted through the dusty air that afternoon, and continued throughout the kneading process, resulting in an intentionally very wet dough, lying glutenous in a 1m diameter aluminium pan. The cogs turning in my head must have been in some way visible as Lena then explained that such a wet dough means the resulting bread does not go crumbly the next day. Kneaded twice and baked 15mins on a high heat followed by 30 on low heat (due to the enormity of the quantity we produced). Genesis to consumption, this was a truly rustic and smile-engendering activity- my internal and external Cheshire cat was set by the wind for the rest of the day.
Our next illuminating ensouling activity was dairy- related, separating the cream from the milk. For this, we utilised an incredible 1950s centrifugal cream separator with 9 internal conical filters, secured in a vice grip onto the table it sat on. Characterfully rugged, scratched, notched, and utterly delightful from its many years of use. As with all dairy related undertakings, temperature is key: the milk must be 35 degrees C, otherwise separation is unsuccessful- ‘warmish’ won’t cut it! If the temperature is exact and the handle turned at a consistent pace (manually, obviously), cream will pour from the top flute and milk from the bottom flute. Physics lesson here: the milk is heavier than the cream and so is expelled centrifugally/ radially, whilst the cream stays central and rises due to its lower density, and escapes through the higher pipe. So essentially, low-fat milk is obtained. For me, anything resulting from milk comes about via magic. I place dairy products in the same category as planes taking off and childbirth, but which I mean, no matter how much you explain the physics, chemistry or biology to me, these things occur purely by magic.
And the alchemy continued, with the transformation of cream into butter. Now, this was impressive. There are two domestic means of sorcery, firstly using a mixer to separate the buttermilk from the solids, or the harder, manual way. Steadfast in my determination to learn all magic by hand, I opted for the latter, decanting cream into a jam jar and shaking it energetically until it solidified into santigi (whipping or double cream). The addition of cold water to the jar, and another act reminiscent of the Tom Cruise and Bryan Brown cocktail mixing scene in Cocktail, allows the buttermilk to separate from the solid butter. Removing this large squidgy light golden nugget from the jar and sifting to collect the smaller morsels and placing it in a tub, it is then frozen. Without freezing, the butter will last at most a week, but freezing it extends it life. The buttermilk of course is not wasted: whilst it is a very beneficial product to drink due to its healthy gut bacteria, its flavour renders it more appropriate for cooking with (the cats would never say no to it though!). However, if you make butter using fermented milk, you can extract sour milk which is a very popular healthy and nourishing drink in Greece.
Alevropita was next, which pleased me greatly considering my delectable introduction to it that morning for breakfast at Anemi. It generally goes by the ratio of 2 portions of liquid: 3 portions of flour, and 3 whisked eggs. Heat the pan in the oven first with its butter/oil layer (don’t be shy with this!), so the batter, when touching the hot pan bounces off again immediately, with the oil spitting out in retaliation. Choose a pan where the mixture will not lie more than 1cm in height. Sprinkle (generously) with feta. Bake until golden brown and crispy on top. Essentially this is a snack somewhere between a thick pancake, eggy bread, and a slice of quiche, and is utterly delicious, especially if you are looking for a quick and simple comfort food.
By this time, the sun was starting its descent behind the mountains, providing a warm blood-orange tinge to its rays which shone through the windows of the stone house, turning into glitter the shimmering dust of the air inside. It was during this hour, the twilight hour, when our cooking lessons were complete and we waited for the pita to bake, that Lena was kind enough to provide us with a tour of the 1st floor of the building, home to Lena’s loom workroom, guests’ bedrooms, and a historic entrance door to impress royalty, complete with a tremendous key which Tolkien would have been proud of. Upon entering this floor from the stairs, fascinating objects demand your attention from each corner of the hallway- a tall ceilinged, basic and practical room, alit with natural light from the large windows, despite their metal bars. All manner of wall tapestries, wicker baskets, traditional carders, colourful handmade floor rugs lying in contrast to the wooden boards, and historic machinery draw you in, and you flit from one to another like a child who cannot decide which sweet to pick. A large loom which in any other room it would dominate, sits contentedly abreast of the window facing the terrace below- a loom with quite a view- half completed rug still in situ amongst the threads. The most precious of experiences was being shown into Lena’s personal workroom, where she dyes and weaves in the dusty light. It felt such a privilege to be here, a place where one human spends so much of their time; more than visiting someone’s office, this space was a very personal one, where thoughts and feelings flowed in the air. The room was dressed with silks dyed using local flora, creating a pleasing natural colour palate high up on the wall; natural colour experiments with wool hung on the opposite side above another loom nestled into the corner beside the window overlooking that magnificent view. A view to provoke inspiration, with the mind entranced in the left pedal down, shuttle from left, pull forward, right pedal down, 2 hard pulls forward rhythm the loom requires. Our noses started to become impatient at the fabulous smell of pita wafting up the stairs signalling dinner…
We ate outside at the table next to the house, where the heat of the daytime sun on the stone wall had left a thermal presence on the stone seat which diffused through the rug above and warmed our bottoms! Fireflies joined us- a phenomenon I shall never grow tired of witnessing- their bioluminescence flickering around the terrace- who could not find a torchlit partner in such beautiful and bounteous surroundings as these! A feast of fresh mountain βλητα greens (accompanied only by lemon, olive oil and salt), homemade tzatziki (although the cucumber was bought as they were not yet in season), the group effort alevropita, homemade bread, and liver, followed by lamb on the bone (cooked in the pot for 2 hours, and sprinkled later with green beans with lamb stock sauce). All was accompanied by wine from Zitsa, and the addition of woollen blankets to supplement the thermal powers of the wine on an early summer evening in the mountains. The phrase δεν υπαρχει/ ‘it does not exist’ is used by modern Greeks to describe majestic food, and was appropriate here, each bite provoking a lengthy sensuous eye-closing moment: food rooted in a celebration of honesty. Dessert was once again fruit in syrup: ‘spoon sweets’- this time a choice of wild cherries, figs and nerangi. Krano liqueur punctuated this meal like a slow and long ellipsis. It smelled like lychees but tasted of a mixture of cherries, honey and lemon- a bit like an extremely pleasant linctus I would be happy to sip when hampered by a cold in winter!
Rokka was an enchanting place, a hard but honest and authentic life that we were lucky enough to become wrapped in for a short space of time. This is their home, their life, and it was such a privilege to witness it. They are to Greek agritourism what Monet is to impressionism: honest renditions of a life gone by, tinged with the romantic light with which the rest of us perceive it.
