Day of the jackal is not over in Methana

THE jackal was mangy and hungry, heading towards a small house where two cats were cowering. I am told in the mountains of the Mani and Messenia 30 years ago their night time howls calling from one territorial pack to another would echo across the valleys, but the hunters have left those valleys silent. The chance now of seeing a golden jackal in Greece is so rare, that some believe they are on the verge of extinction.
So it was not surprising that we stopped the car in awe as it halted for a moment, staring, before delving deep into the volcanic wilderness that makes up the island of Methana. Not strictly an island as a small isthmus of land joins it to the Peloponnese, and not strictly a volcano as it lies dormant and exhausted from the huge explosion that created the unique deep red bouldered landscape, but ‘smelly Methana’, as it is affectionately called, is full of surprises.
From afar the dark mountains look forbidding, brooding, covered in clouds whilst the neighbouring islands of Aegina and Poros are bathed in sun. We’d been told of the spas and hot springs and how the hotels were used by those taking ‘the cure’ in the sulphurous waters. What we had not expected on this early autumn day was to find an island of such faded glory. Beautiful art deco hotels with rounded porticos and the sleek lines of ocean liners lie derelict and crumbling.
Across the bay of the small harbour, in a hut at the water’s edge two elderly ladies clamber from the sea. The smell of hydrogen sulphide’s bad eggs pervades the air and the rocks are encrusted with white. “Is it warm?” we ask. “Of course,” they answer and explain how the underground springs keep a constant heat throughout the winter months. They’ve been sent from Germany, they tell us, courtesy of their health insurance. The water is indeed warm and curiously smooth. I watch in amazement as my silver ring oxidises to a dark purple black. The volcano might last have erupted in 230BC but just beneath the surface the land is alive.
Later, our joints loosened, we clamber up the side of the ancient volcano, across lava floes and mighty rocks and through ancient pines carpeted by pink cyclamens. It’s silent and eerie, as if waiting for its time again. Then fascinated by a sign to the Pausanias Baths, named after the historian, we wind our way through medieval villages, untouched by time, despite the distant view of Athens. We arrive, disappointed, at nothing more than a broken down concrete bunker with a dark dank pool within. Only later do we hear, how just last year two bathers died of the deadly heavy gas that can fill the basin without warning, unless a candle flame remains flickering  to show it’s safe.
This is an island with sinister secrets and a dark side to its healing gifts: no wonder the jackals remain…

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