Whoever Is Pure of Heart

Day forty-six, Greece. The day before I move on, I walk up into the Meteora rocks. A path goes up from the village of Kastraki. The way is stony, steep and shaded. The trees make noise. The rocks don't.

Somewhere in the maze of trees and scrub up on top, I will happen to find the chapel of St Nicholas.

How did these rocks get here? From a distance they look as though giants poured a boiling porridge of stone over the landscape and it set into whatever shape it liked. Up close they look like coarse concrete, sanded by wind and water. The local stories say the valley was under water once, and the tops of the rocks were islands. On the largest of them lived a king and a queen.

I pass two abandoned chapels. One of them is St Nicholas. They say it is haunted. Walkers have heard singing from inside the empty church.

They say only those who are pure of heart can hear St Nicholas sing.

I hear nothing.

Tall grass moves in front of the locked door. It is a quiet, friendly place. Tomorrow I leave Kalambaka and drive east.