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What an odd time to wake up. Where's that barking coming from? I peek my head out the tent flap wearily and make out the shape of a dog standing ground some 20 m away - maybe it was confused by the foreign bright orange object, or perhaps it has a personal vendetta against cyclists. Whatever the reason, I curse these loud animals under my breath and chase them away from our place of rest; this takes some time, as they start again towards the tent as soon as my back is turned. I finally prevail upon our canine pests to clear out with much noise and gesturing, hoping that this will not anger any of our human neighbours, and storm back to the tent in an ill temper from all this thoroughly unnecessary traipsing about...
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That's better. The sun splays across the horizon, bright streaks of red and orange painting the sky for that brief dawn moment before all the colours slowly wash out and the majesty of the whole thing fades for another day; the red ferry connecting Poros and Killini sits in the harbour, preparing for its morning run back to the island. We pack everything up, noting the heavy dew that has collected overnight between the fly and tent proper - we must take more caution to keep everything dry, for we have learned firsthand the terrible cost of failing to do so - and hit the road again, this time aiming south towards Archaeia Olympia and Kalamata. Usual morning stops for coffee, pastries, and filling our water bottles at the town fountain...
...and then we are off towards Pyrgos and Archaeia Olympia; the latter is the site of the ancient Olympic Games, a vast athletic complex constructed in honour of the gods. On the way, the sky grows more and more threatening, starting with a slight drizzle that grows into a steady rain so that we must pull out our rainjackets. This makes for slow going, especially given our temporarily compromised health - we are still not exactly over our respective bouts of stomach flu; I've passed through the worst, but Valkyrie seems to be hitting the peak just now. At least we are not both suffering greatly at the same time, so that one person remains able to keep the both of us going forward. Forward, yes, forward towards Kalamata and the promise of a warm bed. There are few things we would not do for that, and we have even half-jokingly discussed the possibility of trading our less crucial internal organs for such a luxury...
...well, perhaps not. Still, it is slow going to Archaeia Olympia, slow enough that we decide a treat is in order once we get there: a restaurant meal of moussaka and Greek salad. The moussaka is delicious enough, what with its delicately spiced eggplant. Not quite up to home cooking standards, though - we look forward to staying in Kalamata, where according to the standards of Mediterranean hospitality we will almost certainly be bombarded with more food than anyone, cyclist or not, could possibly eat! Lunch finished, we head down to the archaeological site itself. At 3€ a head (for students, at least) entrance is refreshingly cheap, a far cry from some of the sites in France and Italy...
...the complex itself is large almost beyond belief, considering the immense effort that must have been required to move stone, remove earth, level ground, shape blocks, etch inscriptions, erect pillars - all with little more than simple machines and manpower. There are gymnasia for practice and preparation, bath-houses, temples and altars of every description, stoa (covered walkways) to permit faster crossing of the complex; most impressive, however, is the centrepiece of the ancient Games, the stadium. Here at Archaeia Olympia, archaeologists have evidence to suggest that the stadium did not provide stone seating except for judges and other persons of considerable rank. Instead, the ground is sloped towards the field, and the spectators - numbering often in the tens of thousands - would sit or stand, such as is most convenient for viewing the athletes below. The field itself is in dimension roughly that of a modern regulation football pitch. Of peculiar note: athletes caught cheating during the Games were punished by fines, and the funds raised were used to inscribe their names on statues of Olympian Zeus standing directly outside the monumental entrance for all to see.
Our tour of Archaeia Olympia concluded, we set back towards the main coastal road. Rather than backtrack all the way to Pyrgos, we ask at the ticket booth for a more direct and convenient route. They suggest we take the smaller roads across, which meet the coastal highway some 20 km north of Zacharo; we are soon on our way up and over the hills out of Olympia, down the river valley, along roads lined with tall grass reeds that fortunately block out a slight headwind. We reach the main road in short order, but are again met with headwinds on our way to Zacharo - and, to boot, a menacing set of grey clouds overhead threatening at the slightest provocation to dump unwelcome amounts of water on our heads. And we had hoped to leave the rain behind in Albania...
...but we manage to reach Zacharo ahead of the storm. We pick up ingredients for our evening meal from the markets and produce stands, and replenish our nearly-finished stocks of Maalox. The light is waning - faster than usual, we note, for the storm is certainly gathering. We must find a spot to camp before it arrives! Alas, darkness falls just out of Zacharo, and the unlit road ahead is too dangerous to continue on. The only other option is to head down towards the beach. With no choices left, we grab the beachward road, flashes of lightning illuminating the sky in the distance. Count seconds to the thunder, the old gradeschool trick - three kilometres off? four? - not much time, and the beach will provide scant cover from the storm. This area is lined with olive groves, fortunately; we stop in an especially dense section on the right side, walk far enough in that the leaves shield us from the streetlamps, and pitch the tent to let it air out as we cook supper. It is a waiting game now. Will we finish cooking before it rains? Will the owner - or, worse, the police - find us and force us to move? Nothing to do but wait...
...panic! Valkyrie steps out to the road to relieve herself, and at this precise moment a car rolls down the sideroad. I hear her speaking to someone from over in the olive grove, so I head over to check it out - it is a police cruiser, out on its nightly rounds, and the sight of a somewhat ragged-looking woman alone by the side of the road is suspicious enough for them to pull over and make inquiries. Taking care not to look back at our olive grove campsite, I step over to the cruiser and prepare to concoct some kind of explanation...
...but this turns out to be unnecessary; they are primarily concerned with making sure she is accompanied. Having been satisfied that this is the case, they head off towards the beach - so now there is no choice indeed; the beach is obviously well-patrolled, making it impossible to camp there unnoticed. We must sleep here, hoping that the police do not return for a closer look at what exactly has brought two similarly-dressed and somewhat unkempt cyclists to the relative middle of nowhere on a stormy night. We finish cooking, eat in silence, climb into the tent, and nod off...
...2300. The storm has broken, unleashing flash after flash overhead - often as many as five or six per second, all followed immediately by fierce cracking and rumbling thunder like drums beating just outside our tent. The rain pelts down, but we are safe inside the tent, safe with our well-pegged fly. The ground here is easy to peg in, and our tent is more securely fastened to the ground than ever. Nothing for it but to sleep the storm out, wait for morning, and continue on our way across the mountains to Kalamata. Ever closer to our goal...