Our Saturday trip yesterday featured the other side of the Argive plain: the more famous eastern Argolid. We visisted Mycenae, the Argive Heraion, and the middle Byzantine church of the Koimesis at Merbaka (Ayia Triada):
Normally this is Bill’s thing, but since he’s already posted today I thought that I’d give it a go. It’s been a busy week, with wild weather for Greece in June (rain! more than once!) and three visitors (Joe Desloges, Pam Tetford, and Alexis Young) joining our ranks. And despite the setbacks, it was an enormously productive week for the project.
Some days are better than others.
Today I was tripped by a metal wire while walking around this house and jacked up my shin:
Sarah says that nobody wants to see a picture of my jacked-up shin so I’ll just post a link here for those of you who want to see it. In the process I also destroyed the lens on my brand new camera (a Sony α6000). Now it takes pictures like this:
After we got back to the car and I cleaned up my wound, we then decided to explore a nearby abandoned village. While taking a look at a threshing floor that had been turned into an animal pen, we got fleas.
It hasn’t been much fun today. Sometimes archaeology hurts; today it hurt more than usual.
We just began the first (half-)week of the 2015 field season. Whereas last year we worked in the dramatic mountainous valley around the village of Lyrkeia, this year we’re operating in the lower reaches of the Inachos river, near Schinochori and Malandreni, as the river begins to spill onto the Argive plain:
It’s an equally pretty part of the Argolid, albeit much more intensively farmed. There are, for instance, many more vineyards in this part of the Argolid, and in the 1:5000 maps produced by the Greek army in the 1960s, there were many more investments in the agricultural landscape, especially wells and threshing-floors. Today we experienced on-again, off-again rain in the field, something that has become something of a tradition for us early in the season. Eventually, however, the clouds parted and the sun shone down.
Here are some pictures that I took in the first week:
Yesterday afternoon Scott and I hiked up to the Frankish castle above the village of Myloi. From the top of the hill there were some magnificent views of the Argolid (click to see the full image):
We also heard a good story at dinner: that the castle was the home of the queen, and that under the castle is an underground passage that the queen used to go to the beach.
Over the past several months, a couple of different people have asked me why I like survey. My initial response is always intellectual. I talk about the importance of understanding the countryside, about the urban bias of our texts and excavations, the approach of books like The Corrupting Sea, and so on. In both cases, that wasn’t the answer that the questioner wanted. What they wanted to know was, why did I like getting up before dawn to wander around the Greek countryside for six hours or more over six+ weeks?
Strangely, that’s a more complicated answer. As a student, I wasn’t immediately drawn to archaeological survey, although I was of course exposed to it as an undergraduate at the University of Michigan, especially in the classes that I took from Sue Alcock and John Cherry. I first got seriously interested in survey because of the senior thesis that I wrote on settlement and state formation in Minoan Crete. I knew that I was interested in state formation (thanks to classes with John Cherry and Kent Flannery) and I knew that it was too big a topic for an undergraduate thesis. So I had spent the summer reading Colin Renfrew’s The Emergence of Civlisation (1972) — a book, incidentally, that convinced me that I wanted to be an Aegean prehistorian — and went into John Cherry’s office with a list of areas that interested me. One of them was settlement, and that sealed my fate: I ended up writing my thesis on published survey data from Crete from the Bronze Age, with a focus on the relationship between settlement data and state formation.
So my initial interest in survey was based on thinking, not doing. I had done survey for two weeks in Tunisia on the Leptiminus project back in 1995, and I liked it, but it wasn’t immediately my passion. But my intellectual interest in landscape and settlement led to me working on survey projects as I entered graduate school, both on the Iklaina Archaeological Project and especially the Eastern Korinthia Archaeological Survey.
So that’s part of the story… but the way that I’ve told it might suggest that I like survey as an intellectual and analytical activity but not in practice. That’s not the case. So when I’ve been asked why I like to get up before dawn and wander around the Greek countryside, I tend to talk about a couple of different things:
(1) The Greek landscape is really beautiful. I won’t ever get tired of looking at this:
And this isn’t even the most iconic form of the Greek landscape (the deep blue Aegean up against the painted white houses of the Cyclades), but it’s still wonderful and variegated. Some of my favorite moments in Greece have been driving around a corner to be greeted to a wide and beautiful vista (the road to Kato Zakros in Crete is one of the best).
(2) The Greek landscape is endlessly surprising. This is true both generally — there are so many beautiful little valleys and harbors in Greece that you could spend your whole life visiting them — and in particular — walking through a familiar landscape will yield all kinds of little surprises.
(3) I love to explore and to hike. Loving survey is about embracing that spirit of exploration: of wanting to hike the trail that you haven’t yet hiked, not knowing where it goes. It sounds cheesy, and it is, but to love survey I do think you need to want to hike up to that hill in the distance to see what’s there.
This will sound familiar to veterans of the American School’s regular program, which involves a lot of hiking up to hills to see what’s there. When I went to Priene on the Ionia trip led by John Camp, my first thought and first question to John was, “Can I hike up to the acropolis?”
After being asked why I liked survey and giving these three responses, I started to wonder where (3) came from. Why do I have this strange desire to hike up to hills and mountains to see what’s up there? Was it drilled into me at the American School? Or does it come from somewhere else?
Thinking back on it, I spent an awful lot of my childhood hiking up hills in Greece. Most of my father’s family never left Greece, and so my summer vacations as a child involved going to Greece to visit my uncle, my cousin, and my grandparents. And Nakassis family vacations basically involved eating, swimming, and wandering up to hills.
Doesn’t it look like I’m having a great time? We wandered up hills like this one, with world-famous, UNESCO World Heritage archaeological sites on them, but we also hiked up to castles (like the Frankish castle above Voidokoilia beach, which we did without bringing any water with us!) and also up mountains with nothing on them at all, like when we were on vacation on Kos and Lesvos.
I do think that there’s something to this idea, that I like survey not only for intellectual reasons that emerged from my undergraduate education and my exposure to professors who were and are passionate about the ability of survey to shed light on the ancient world, but also because it involves a bodily practice and a bodily engagement with the Greek landscape that is almost literally hard wired in me from years of childhood vacations with my family. I managed to turn vacation activities into serious research. I’m not too upset about that.
The preliminary program of the 2015 annual meeting (in New Orleans) of the Archaeological Institute of America is out, and our talk is scheduled for a Friday morning session called “Reports from The Field: Greece.” The name of the session is boring, but the content should be fascinating: the audience will hear about the exciting work of our friends at the Mazi survey and the most recent work at Mantineia, Olynthos, and Molyvoti in Thrace. It’s a testament to the growing internationalization of Greek archaeology and the AIA that these are Canadian (WARP), Swiss (Mazi), British (Olynthos), American (Molyvoti), and (I think) Greek (Mantineia) projects.
Here’s the abstract that we submitted to the AIA:
The Western Argolid Regional Project: Results of the 2014 Season
Dimitri Nakassis, University of Toronto, Sarah James, University of Colorado
Boulder, Scott Gallimore, Wilfrid Laurier University, and William Caraher,
University of North Dakota
The summer of 2014 was the first of three planned field seasons for the Western Argolid Regional Project. This interdisciplinary project, carried out under the auspices of the Canadian Institute in Greece, is centered on an intensive diachronic archaeological survey of the upper valleys of the Inachos river to the north and west of Argos. Our survey seeks to investigate the nature of the relationships between the communities in and around the western Argolid. This is a significant issue, since although Argos is a major center in virtually all periods of Greek history, its regional context and its connection to other cities in southern Greece is poorly understood, in part due to the paucity of research in the western Argolid, especially in comparison with the eastern half of the prefecture.
In 2014 the survey worked in the region of ancient Orneai (modern Lyrkeia), an independent polis destroyed in the late 5th century BC by Argos (Thucydides 6.7.2, Diodorus Siculus 12.81.4-5), and through which the Klimax, a major road connecting Argos and Mantineia, passed (Pausanias 2.25.4-6, 8.6.4). The region thus lay at the edge of Argive influence and at the intersections of several overland corridors and roads that connected the communities of southern Greece.
In the course of a six-week field season, the project surveyed an area of 5.5 square kilometers and investigated seven major sites in addition to numerous minor scatters, all ranging in date from the Early Bronze Age to the Ottoman-Venetian periods. The survey was highly intensive in its spatial control and in its collection strategy: individual survey units, defined primarily by modern agricultural fields, were very small (on average, 0.21 hectares), and field walkers, spaced at 10 meter intervals, collected all artifacts other than tile, which was sampled.
Our preliminary analysis of the 2014 season suggests that there were two major shifts in the settlement history of the valley. First, there was a massive increase in activity during the Classical and Hellenistic periods, with settlement focused on low, defensible hills. These low limestone outcrops also seem to be favored loci for pre-Classical activity. This pattern shifts dramatically in the Roman period: Roman and post-Roman settlement is characterized by nucleated habitation on the lower slopes on the north side of the valley, less than half a kilometer from the Inachos river.
This summer I picked up a cool little book on the ancient rivers of the Argolid in my favorite bookstore in Argos. It’s got some interesting stuff in it, including some reproductions from Christopher Wordsworth’s Greece: pictorial, descriptive, and historical (London 1840), which includes nearly 400 images, mostly wood engravings but also some steel engravings too. There are two images of our survey area.
The first is a steel engraving entitled “Scene on the Inachus, near Planitza, from a sketch by Hervé.” Planitsa (or Planitza, or Panitsa/Panitza) is actually the old Greek name of the Inachus river, so perhaps there’s some confusion here in the label; or perhaps there was a local toponym also called Planitza?
In any case, you can see in the distance the distinctive profile of Mount Artemision, which looks like this, from a slightly different angle:
The sketch, assuming that it’s reasonably accurate, must represent the narrowing of the valley just to the west of the village of Sterna, near the church of Ayios Nikolaos.
The second image, a wood engraving, is entitled “Scene on the River Planitza from a sketch by Hervé.” I’m honestly unsure where this is supposed to be…
Hervé, incidentally, was an English artist and author commissioned to create portraits of the leaders in the Greek War of Independence. He wrote a book about his travels, but there are only a couple of drawings in it, including one of Argos, and he spends more time talking about the snakes and dogs of Greece (“Another of the offensive objects in Greece consists in the dogs…”) than about Argos or the Argive countryside. I really need to track down his lithographs, despite his less than charitable views on early modern Greece (e.g., “the Greeks are so totally destitute of any idea of the art of painting” or “The mixture of rich luxury with primitive barbarism [in their clothing] is worth of remark” although he does say that men from Hydra are “particularly good looking” — useful information, I guess).
At any rate, it’s interesting that the first sketch includes a bridge over the river; in our survey we weren’t able to detect any traces of old bridges. It’s something that I meant to follow up on with some of the men in the village who have an enormous wealth of local knowledge that they’re interesting in sharing with me, but in the rush to finish up all of our work, I never managed to ask them. Next season!
The end of the season, that is. Tonight was our last regular group dinner at Γραμμές, after which we took a group photo with the Argolic gulf as our backdrop (we’ll post that later). Bill told everyone to pick up a rock, and that led to skipping stones. Even Lena gave it a go. It was a triumph.
Others preferred quiet contemplation.
The sunset was lovely.
There was much laughter. There were some tears. It’s sad to leave such a beautiful place and such good company.
Today was our last day in the field. We ended our fieldwork on the slopes above and below the acropolis site above the village of Lyrkeia that was, in many ways, the epicenter of our work in 2014. Alyssa and Melanie led a team in a ravine below the acropolis and right next to the modern highway to Tripoli and Kalamata:
In the meantime, Grace and Phil were leading a team on the slopes just above the acropolis that involved just as much climbing and hiking. I didn’t see anyone fall or falter. It was an impressive display.
As hard as fieldwork is — it leaves us with sweat-stained clothes, our hiking boots broken down from stepping on ancient limestone, our skin scratched by maquis, our noses tickled by wild sage, our knees sore from climbing — it is even harder to leave the field. We work in a beautiful landscape and in it we get to find new things every day. It’s really a lot of fun, so as glad as we all are for the rest, and as much accomplishment as we feel for working hard for six weeks, the last day isn’t really a day of celebration or triumph. It is a bittersweet feeling.
Here is one tired, accomplished, hard-working team leaving the field: