Back home, our philhellene friends joined us frequently at Greek feasts served on our beloved Skyrian platters. The early ferry has just pulled in and my husband and I and our fourteen year old daughter, Alison, reluctantly climb aboard, sad to leave this idyllic island where we have just spent three perfect days.
But the Aegean Sea is embracing and spectacular in these parts and we are invigorated by cool breezes as we watch acrobatic dolphins frolic in the foamy wake behind our ship and gulls squawk and swoop overhead. It is like two islands in one. In contrast, the rugged southern portion is largely barren and uninhabited, save for patches of maples and wild olive trees. Here, a few endangered enclaves of miniature horses roam free in isolation. So beloved are these little horses that they are even depicted on several Parthenon friezes.
Our ferry glides along and my history book is open. Long-forgotten mythological tales leap off the pages. In Homeric times Skyros was the refuge of Achilles who was hidden by his mother, Thetis, to save him from prophesized death in the Trojan War. Only one daughter, Deidamia, knew his true identity and bore him a son, Neoptolemus.
Odysseus came looking for Achilles, bringing jewels and fineries for the women in the court. He also carried weapons, announcing that danger was imminent. Unable to resist a battle, Achilles bared his chest, seized a spear and revealed himself, later joining the war brigade.
Skyros is also the place where Theseus, the brave Athenian warrior who slew the Minotaur, met his untimely death. He had fled to the island from Athens to escape an angry uprising, but King Lycomedes was convinced that Theseus would ultimately dethrone him and pushed him off a steep cliff into the sea. Over the millennia, the massive rock that once housed the court of Lycomedes became the successive stronghold of the Byzantines, the Venetians, the Turks, and finally part of the Modern Greek state.
