Although it was late August, freshly cut pine logs were stacked beneath the wooden balconies, and snow chains hung in garages.Īt the ski centre where in summer they rent out quad bikes and horses, I hired Paris, a stubborn bay with a penchant for eating hard-to-reach ferns, and rode deep into the forest. Cinnamon-coloured cows ambled along the cobbled alleys, their bucket-sized bells clanking loudly, and everywhere the steady slosh of spring water trickling into stone basins. There were geraniums in window boxes, rough-hewn wooden chalets and dizzying views of mountain peaks and deep green valleys dotted with grazing cattle. In winter we have skiing – the slopes are only a five-minute drive from Pertouli.”Īfter breakfast I descended slippery steps to the village. “In summer you can go horseback riding, hiking, fishing and kayaking. “But in the 1950s locals were repatriated and rebuilt their houses – now Pertouli and the surrounding mountains are very popular with Greeks who are keen on nature and adrenalin sports,” she continued. It was a ghost village where it was rumoured that vrykolakas – the Greek version of vampires – wandered.”īehind her back the muttering waiter made the sign of the cross. “Nazi troops destroyed the village, too,” she told me as we stared out over the steep circle of houses below. Greek vampiresīetty’s father, Dimitris Chatzigakis, rebuilt it in the 1990s using original plans and photos, turning it into a luxurious hotel. But in 1943, after the manor house had become joint headquarters of the Greek Resistance and the British Military Mission, the Germans burnt it to the ground. As I munched my way through freshly baked bread lathered with homemade plum jam and an omelette made with eggs from the family’s chickens, Betty Chatzigakis told me about the manor’s fascinating history.īuilt in the 19th century so the family could escape Thessaloniki during the hot summer months, the remote house became a favourite meeting place for the Filiki Eteria, or Society of Friends, a secret organisation instrumental in fomenting the uprising which led to the Greek War of Independence against the Ottoman Empire in 1821. In a wood-panelled room with views over Pertouli’s slate roofs and wooden balconies to the densely forested slopes of Mount Koziakas, a muttering waiter served breakfast. Warm sunlight sparkled from a typically Greek blue sky over the jagged line of pines, pigeons flitted back and forth across the valley and the air was rich with the expected odours: lemony basil, musky goat and fruity olive oil. “The governor of Massachusetts, Michael Dukakis, was a Vlach you may know,” he said, ushering me into my cosy suite. The Pindus Mountains, he told me, are one of the last strongholds of the nomadic Vlachs whose members speak Aromanian, a language with Latin roots that’s similar to Romanian.
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