nothing to do but concern himself deeply in all their affairs, however trivial – which may explain why, on the procession days, just about the whole population of the island crowds into the town to greet him.
‘What’s more,’ said my sister, ‘it’s a
pretty
procession, not just a gaggle of top brass. And St Spiro’s golden chair is beautiful; you can see his face quite clearly through the glass. You’d think it would be creepy, but it’s not, not a bit. He’s so tiny, and so … well, he’s a sort of
cosy
saint!’ She laughed. ‘If you stay long in Corfu you’ll begin to get the feeling you know him personally. He’s pretty well in charge of the island, you know, looks after the fishing, raises the wind, watches the weather for the crops, brings your boys safe home from sea …’ She stopped, then sighed. ‘Poor Maria. I wonder if she’ll go today? She doesn’t usually miss it.’
‘What about you?’ I asked. ‘Are you sure you won’t come with me?’
She shook her head. ‘I’ll stay at home. You have to stand about for rather a long time while the procession goes past, and there’ll be a bit of a crush. Caliban and I take up too much room. Home for lunch? Good. Well, enjoy yourself.’
The little town of Corfu was packed with a holiday crowd, and the air was loud with bells. Caught up in the river of people which flowed through the narrow streets, I wandered happily along under the sound of the bells, which competed with the subdued roar of voices, and the occasional bursts of raucous brass from some upper window, where a village band was struggling with some last-minute practice. Shops were open, selling food and sweets and toys, their windows crammed with scarlet eggs ready for Easter, cockerels, dolls, baskets of tiny crystallised oranges, or enormousrabbits laden with Easter eggs. Someone tried to sell me a sponge the size of a football, and someone else to convince me that I must need a string of onions and a red plush donkey, but I managed to stay unburdened, and presently found my way to the Esplanade, which is Corfu’s main square. Here the pavements were already packed, but when I tried to take my place at the back, the peasants – who must have come into town in the early morning, and waited hours for their places – made way for me with insistent gestures, almost forcing me forward into the place of honour.
Presently, from somewhere, a big bell struck, and there came the distant sound of the bands starting up. The vast crowd fell almost silent, all eyes turned to watch the narrow mouth of Nikephoros Street, where the first banners glinted, slowly moving up into the sunlight of the square. The procession had begun.
I am not sure what I had expected – a spectacle at once quaint and interesting, because ‘foreign’ – something to take photographs of, and then forget, till you got them out to look at, some evening at home. In fact, I found it very moving.
The bands – there were four of them, all gorgeously uniformed – played solemnly and rather badly, each a different tune. The village banners with their pious legends were crudely painted, enormous, and cruelly heavy, so that the men carrying them sweated and trembled under the weight, and the faces of the boys helping them wore expressions of fierce and dedicated gravity. There were variations in the uniforms of the school-children that were distinctly unconventional,but the standard of personal beauty was so high that one hardly noticed the shabby coats of the boys, or the cheap shoes the girls wore; and the young servicemen in their reach-me-down uniforms, with their noticeable absence of pipeclay and their ragged timing, had still about them, visibly, the glamour of two Thermopylaes.
And there was never a moment’s doubt that all this was done in honour of the Saint. Crowded along the pavements in the heat, the people watched in silence, neither moving nor pushing. There were no police, as there would have had to
‘What’s more,’ said my sister, ‘it’s a
pretty
procession, not just a gaggle of top brass. And St Spiro’s golden chair is beautiful; you can see his face quite clearly through the glass. You’d think it would be creepy, but it’s not, not a bit. He’s so tiny, and so … well, he’s a sort of
cosy
saint!’ She laughed. ‘If you stay long in Corfu you’ll begin to get the feeling you know him personally. He’s pretty well in charge of the island, you know, looks after the fishing, raises the wind, watches the weather for the crops, brings your boys safe home from sea …’ She stopped, then sighed. ‘Poor Maria. I wonder if she’ll go today? She doesn’t usually miss it.’
‘What about you?’ I asked. ‘Are you sure you won’t come with me?’
She shook her head. ‘I’ll stay at home. You have to stand about for rather a long time while the procession goes past, and there’ll be a bit of a crush. Caliban and I take up too much room. Home for lunch? Good. Well, enjoy yourself.’
The little town of Corfu was packed with a holiday crowd, and the air was loud with bells. Caught up in the river of people which flowed through the narrow streets, I wandered happily along under the sound of the bells, which competed with the subdued roar of voices, and the occasional bursts of raucous brass from some upper window, where a village band was struggling with some last-minute practice. Shops were open, selling food and sweets and toys, their windows crammed with scarlet eggs ready for Easter, cockerels, dolls, baskets of tiny crystallised oranges, or enormousrabbits laden with Easter eggs. Someone tried to sell me a sponge the size of a football, and someone else to convince me that I must need a string of onions and a red plush donkey, but I managed to stay unburdened, and presently found my way to the Esplanade, which is Corfu’s main square. Here the pavements were already packed, but when I tried to take my place at the back, the peasants – who must have come into town in the early morning, and waited hours for their places – made way for me with insistent gestures, almost forcing me forward into the place of honour.
Presently, from somewhere, a big bell struck, and there came the distant sound of the bands starting up. The vast crowd fell almost silent, all eyes turned to watch the narrow mouth of Nikephoros Street, where the first banners glinted, slowly moving up into the sunlight of the square. The procession had begun.
I am not sure what I had expected – a spectacle at once quaint and interesting, because ‘foreign’ – something to take photographs of, and then forget, till you got them out to look at, some evening at home. In fact, I found it very moving.
The bands – there were four of them, all gorgeously uniformed – played solemnly and rather badly, each a different tune. The village banners with their pious legends were crudely painted, enormous, and cruelly heavy, so that the men carrying them sweated and trembled under the weight, and the faces of the boys helping them wore expressions of fierce and dedicated gravity. There were variations in the uniforms of the school-children that were distinctly unconventional,but the standard of personal beauty was so high that one hardly noticed the shabby coats of the boys, or the cheap shoes the girls wore; and the young servicemen in their reach-me-down uniforms, with their noticeable absence of pipeclay and their ragged timing, had still about them, visibly, the glamour of two Thermopylaes.
And there was never a moment’s doubt that all this was done in honour of the Saint. Crowded along the pavements in the heat, the people watched in silence, neither moving nor pushing. There were no police, as there would have had to
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