By telling us your country of residence we are able to provide you with the most relevant travel insurance information.
Please note that not all content is translated or available to residents of all countries. Contact us for full details.
Shares
It started with the battle. That, I remember. Men in tan leather armour; a mirage of ancient and modern merging together before my eyes. The men’s sandals like snakes circling upward along their calves, and broken almost immediately by pleated skirts paired with browned breastplates akin to the colour of their skin. Beautifully radiant women stood to one side in flowing, floor-length dresses; a wreath of golden leaves which sparkled in the sunlight, resting in their hair. Suddenly, there was the sound of a horn and the flashing of a flame. It was as if the horn carried me back through the ages to a time long past; a slow smooth hum that filled the air with a certain nostalgia as if reaching forward through the centuries to grip us in the present. The flame was the signal for the battle to commence and with that the drumbeat echoed, building on the palpable atmosphere of suspense. The battle took place on the Hill of Tombs. From the opposite side came the opposing tribe in a mesh of striking red and war cries. Looking back, that striking red was always significant. The tension in the atmosphere thickened as the warriors readied themselves to fight to the death. And so, the battle ensued. A divinely orchestrated rhythm of movement as spear and shield clashed, struck and fell to the ground. Until. He fell to the ground, having gotten pierced in his side. With the last of the Persians defeated, one man was left standing, but this was not yet the end of the journey. This was simply the beginning of another. The air pulsed with the echoing chorus of victorious notes as the last man standing took hold of the torch. A small, yet striking flame surrounded by a wreath of delicate green leaves was all that was left behind. A tribute to the lives taken. Little did this Athenian soldier know that his footprints were to be forever etched in history paving the way for thousands more, paving the way for me. One daring foot in front of the other - that’s how the greatest adventures begin. That’s how mine began as I made my way across dry, barren lands overlooking the distant ocean and church-lined city streets, following in the footsteps of that Athenian soldier. I remember the cries of encouragement emanating from the crowd as if to lend a symbolic helping hand to each of us, the steady beat of folk songs and traditional dances as the winged bronze angels towered above us. An assuring comfort amongst the joyful celebration of humanity’s certain victory. There were those kind men, who in the end, stirred up the grit I didn’t know I had left simply by their relentless stubborn resolve that they couldn’t but help rub off on me. And the sea. I could never forget the ocean. That deep blue bowl of alluring mystery and enticement. Yet, I can still see those striking red letters against a white backdrop as the locals stood watching us pass by. Watching us leave them behind. Their silent protests spoke louder than any raised voice could, especially amid what was meant to be a momentous occasion for their beloved city. Their sense of loss was reflected by their dilapidated homes and the dry, browned reeds which formed the backdrop to their cries for acknowledgment. I have found that often, a tourist’s glimpse into a locals’ world is just that: a glimpse. The beauty and allure of the ‘exotic’ other often masks the very real deprivation of the common man in the most beautifully melancholy way. Then, finally that moment of celebration. There’s nothing quite like a finish line. Yet seeing that finish line surrounded by ancient pillars reminiscent of time gone by - and sharing in that with kindred souls long passed into legend - formed part of the enchantment of the authentic Grecian pilgrimage. A stadium of champions. An atmosphere rich with history and celebration. The Panathenaic Stadium marks the ending of the Athens Authentic Marathon, the first-ever marathon won by Spyros Louis in 1896. Truly a journey back through time and a gruelling, captivating race that could never be forgotten.