In the Spartan valley flows the Evrotas River and in the background looms Taygetos. The hills are dotted with olive trees, and on either side of the river, orange groves add a deep green to the foliage. Flowers, vines of grape, and fruit trees surround the old stone houses of the families that have lived in them for generations. The sun rises over the hills of Parnonas in the east, nourishes the villages in the valley during the day, and sets over Taygetos in the early evening. Swallows arrive in the spring, and cicadas susurrate well into November. By the end of fall, snow covers Taygetos’ top half, and, as it creeps lower, winter’s proximity is gauged. But this is Southern Greece, and the weather is Mediterranean; nights are cool, and the light snow that falls once or twice a year is a coating of confectioner’s sugar on the olive-dotted hills overlooking Sparti. July and August are hot, but shade is plentiful and on Lykovouno the breezes are steady and frequent, and summer and winter are rarely severe. It is my great fortune to have been born here.
For four thousand years, poets, historians, and entire peoples have celebrated this jewel of a mountain; some consider life complete for having lived in its presence. I count myself among them. Taygetos framed the first eleven years of my life and it adds its hues to my poetry, work, and existence. Spartan poet Nikiforos Vrettakos said, “And your country, when you hold it dear in your heart, is everywhere” and I add, “How dear your country when it is Taygetos.”
