A Thing of Beauty

Travels in Mythical and Modern Greece

Peter Fiennes

• Publisher: Oneworld Publications
• Year: 2021
• ISBN:
  9780861540624
• Topic: Personal Development
• Subtopic: Travel

A BBC RADIO 4 BOOK OF THE YEAR LONGLISTED FOR THE ANGLO-HELLENIC LEAGUE RUNCIMAN AWARD 2022 'Peter Fiennes's road trip around Greece [is] engagingly described' Mary Beard, TLS 'Fiennes is a brilliant and generous guide through Greece' Observer 'A wonderful… really profound meditation on what it means to hope… a gorgeous excursion into Greece and across the centuries on an environmental quest' BBC Radio 4 Open Book Book of the Year choice by Anita Roy What do the Greek myths mean to us today? It's now a golden age for these tales – they crop up in novels, films and popular culture. But what's the modern relevance of Theseus, Hera and Pandora? Were these stories ever meant for children? And what's to be seen now at the places where heroes fought and gods once quarrelled?Peter Fiennes travels to the sites of some of the most famous Greek myths, on the trail of hope, beauty and a new way of seeing what we have done to our world. Fiennes walks through landscapes – stunning and spoiled – on the trail of dancing activists and Arcadian shepherds, finds the 'most beautiful beach in Greece', consults the Oracle, and loses himself in the cities, remote villages and ruins of this storied land.

One

Half Empty

‘I am afraid that this sounds flippant, but I don’t mean it to be so.’

Letter from Lord Byron to Thomas Moore, 8 March 1822

I hope that this is right.

The remnants of a dead oak tree are propped up on the lawns at the front of Newstead Abbey in Nottinghamshire. The tree was planted in the autumn of 1798 by George Gordon Byron, who was just ten years old at the time, and trying to absorb what it meant to be the future sixth Baron Byron of Rochdale – or ‘Lord Byron’ as the world would come to know him. He had not grown up expecting to be a Baron, and lord of a vast estate, at least not for the first six years of his life. But the previous son and heir had been cut in half by a cannonball in Corsica four years earlier; and Byron’s great-uncle, the ‘Wicked’ fifth Lord Byron, had died of rage in May, aged seventy-eight, worn out, they said, by orgies and satanism, having driven away (or murdered) his wife and taken up with the housekeeper and been forced into selling everything he could lay his hands on, which included the many beautiful and ancient trees in Newstead’s once lush woodlands, but also most of the contents (portraits, furniture, jewellery) of the defunct and derelict house and abbey. And young George’s father, ‘Mad’ Jack Byron, could not become the next Baron because he had already expired, probably of tuberculosis, perhaps taking his own life, seven years earlier in France, where he had been living in enthusiastic incest with his sister.

There was something, people said, about the Byrons, some stain in the family, an original sin that tainted every successive generation. A very Greek idea. But this is why little George had travelled down from Scotland to Nottinghamshire, where he had been living frugally with his mother, and why he was now destined to spend his life as the sixth Baron Byron of Rochdale, lord of a bankrupt estate and inheritor of the family curse. Or so we’re told.

It was soon after he arrived at Newstead, in September 1798, that George planted the sapling that lingers as a bleached husk on the front lawn. It is a ridiculous place for an oak tree. Right up close to the house, blocking the view of the lake, a child’s idea of where a tree should live, with no thought for the future, or how an oak can grow. The man who bought the estate from Lord Byron, and paid off his debts, wanted to have it chopped down, until he was stopped by a gardener, who told him that this was the tree that the poet had cherished.

Perhaps it was an acorn, not a sapling, that Byron planted. In any case, it’s the kind of thing a mother would allow, who needed to bring a smile to her little boy’s face, hoping to hold his hand as he limped around the overgrown and forlorn gardens in the autumn rain, the house with half a roof, the woods tormented and felled. Or maybe it was the servant who was with him that day who helped him plant the tree, May Gray, who was fired not long afterwards for reasons that we may have to come back to. There is so much we will never know, although stories cling to Byron like feathers to hot tar. Many of them generated by him.

We do know that Byron nursed the idea that his fate was umbilically linked to this tree. ‘As it fares,’ he said, ‘so will fare my fortunes.’ He was shocked when he returned to Newstead as a nineteen-year-old student in 1807 and found his oak tree stunted and choked with weeds. The house and the estate had been rented for the past nine years to a man who could not have cared less about its upkeep, and Byron (presumably a nightmarish landlord) had no money to spend on repairs. He fretted about the tree and wondered what its scrawny state might say about his own prospects. And this is also an ancient Greek idea, the belief that a tree and a spirit can be entwined for life. Not only Greek, of course, but it was them who said it best, and with simple poetic grace, what we all once knew, but have since forgotten, that an animating force radiates from trees, or shifts deep within them, and sometimes even moves among us. Perhaps not every tree. There must have been some whose spirits chose not to emerge, or were prevented from doing so, but instead lingered in the roots and branches and whispered through the living leaves. In those days there was an infinite plenitude of trees.

The greatest of the trees, the tall pines and heavy oaks of the wildest and most remote mountains, were born with their spirits already on the move, and yet conjoined, in a life-long two-step of pleasure and joy. These were the nymphs, known as dryads, that sang and danced in the meadows and glades, and hunted and hid, and took the hairy-legged satyrs to their caves for days and nights of loving, and also often those gods of the wild, Hermes and Pan. They were beautiful, and they lived far longer than any of us can imagine. Aphrodite, goddess of love and laughter, chose the nymphs to raise her son, at least for the first five years of his life. There was a time when people would never have dared or even wanted to take an axe to these ancient mountain oaks and pines, because as soon as the tree fell then their nymph too would die, vanishing into the ether like a severed daemon. They did live long, but they were not immortal.

Presumably these thoughts were on the adult Byron’s mind as he brooded about his tree, although being Byron he appears to have cast himself into the role of a nymph. He was an incessant, life-long self-dramatiser, a chameleon in his deeds and poetry, and ever ready for a tumble with the nearest nymph or indeed shaggy-shanked satyr. When he was ten years old, and seeing his new home and gardens for the first time, knowing that this derelict but undeniably romantic estate was now his, he visited the strip of woodland that lies just behind the sunken gardens and the abbey. It was known as the ‘Devil’s Wood’ by the locals, who were unsettled by the two leering, more than life-size statues of an androgynous faun and Pan, the god of wild places, that had been placed there by Byron’s predecessor, the ‘Wicked’ Lord. Of course (thinking about it) we don’t know if these statues are ‘more than life-size’, because all the living fauns and mountain gods are long gone, even if their bronze effigies are still there in the Newstead woods, exuding playful menace.

The knowledge that he was now lord of all this (the stately home with its ruined abbey, the servants, the statues, the hundreds of acres) sunk deep into the child Byron’s psyche on that first walk around the grounds, although, strangely, he never seems to have felt entirely comfortable with the idea. Well, he swithered, let’s say, between gorging on his new life and agonising spasms of self-loathing. As soon as he had got his hands properly on Newstead Abbey, aged twenty, he did everything that family tradition demanded: he drank to oblivion (downing claret by the pint from a monk’s skull he’d unearthed in the grounds); he started a menagerie (including a bear that he had kept in a tower at Cambridge when the authorities told him he couldn’t have a dog); he shot (mostly indoors – tearing chunks out of the Great Hall with his inebriated friends); he preyed on the maids; and he moved a handsome young man, Robert Rushton, into the bedroom next to his own.

Much of this, if not the sex, was for show: he took his responsibilities as an old-style aristocrat extremely seriously (laws being for lesser folk) and he was proud and self-conscious, vain, brilliant, and indeed beautiful, and he suffered to excess from that excruciating English fear of being laughed at for being too middle class. When he was young and had been sent away to school, he would cringe every time his mother visited. She was not at all aristocratic (even if she had once been rich), and she was loud and large, and hungry for his love, and he suffered humiliatingly in front of his new snobbish friends. ‘Byron,’ said one, ‘your mother’s a fool’ . . . and he found himself agreeing.

So that is one reason why Byron affected a disdain for the social mores. He had a fear of seeming to care. Never give your enemies a target. For many years he flung away money as though it burned, and racked up huge debts, and refused to pay the tradespeople who turned up (presumptuously!) asking for their bills to be settled, and he would never take any royalties for his wildly successful poetry. Only the publishers got rich. That last bit changed eventually, but he had his excuses ready. ‘What I get by my brains I shall spend on my bollocks,’ he announced, and not, God forbid, on rent or food or the simple staples of life.

That’s another thing about Byron: we could disappear forever into the technicolour complexities of his life – and he knew it too. But I have to remember that we are here for Greece, where Byron died of a fever aged just thirty-six, fighting (or on the brink of fighting) for the freedom of the Greeks from the Ottoman Turks and less than twenty years after he had turned up as a teenager to moon over his neglected oak tree.

There was always something that kept Byron on the outside of the social world he occupied with such apparent ease and entitlement. His pride, for starters. He was also surprisingly shy. He was too clever and sensitive not to see through the absurdity of things. Most immediately, what lit the fuse that led to him leaving mainstream English society for good in April 1816 was the rather urgent matter of the incest with his half-sister, Augusta. But beyond all that, if you linger beneath these statues of the faun and Pan in the old lord’s ‘Devil’s Wood’, you’ll be reminded that what also kept Byron on the outside, alienated and aloof, angry and defensive, but always on the attack, was his deformed clubfoot.

I should quickly add that it was Byron himself who called his right leg and foot a ‘deformity’. Most likely, he was born with spinal dysraphism and not, as he thought, and everyone said, a ‘clubfoot’. It didn’t really matter, because he was tortured in his childhood by quack surgeons who strapped him into savage metal correctives, and by the teasing of bullies at school and even, at times, by the taunts of his own mother. His father (‘Mad Jack’) left home when his son was three, by which time Byron had still not walked, his father assuming he never would. By the time he was in the full swing of childhood, he was painfully aware of his heavy limp. He became a powerful swimmer, and rode everywhere he could, and boxed and fenced with manic intensity, and when he arrived at parties he would almost gallop into the centre of the crowd and then stop dead, legs planted, unmoving. He was, everyone agreed, so very beautiful. And he would have known it, although standing here aged ten under these restless statues, rather chubby, listing on his good leg, he must have gazed in horror at the great cloven hooves of these hairy, alien, mocking monsters. The very devils, whose misshapen feet and goatish legs parodied and mimicked his own. And him, a child, the family curse incarnate.

After Byron’s death in Missolonghi in Greece on 19 April 1824, his entirely unreliable friend and hanger-on, Edward Trelawny – his ‘jackal’, as the world knew him – travelled from Athens, where he had been living after having transferred his allegiance to a rival Greek faction, to see and pay homage to Byron’s corpse, although (who knows?) perhaps he just wanted to fight over the scraps. But this is what he wrote:

I uncovered the Pilgrim’s [Byron’s] feet and was answered – the great mystery was solved. Both his feet were clubbed and his legs withered to the knee – the form and features of an Apollo, with the feet and legs of a sylvan satyr.

Byron was steeped in the classics. It was just about the only thing the British upper classes learned at school, even if Byron said he preferred literature and history. He would have known about the lame, limping god, Hephaestus, the god of industry, fire and anvils, of metalwork and the sparks that fly. Hephaestus who was the son of Hera, the queen of the gods. He also – like Byron – didn’t have a father. He married Aphrodite (the laughing goddess of love), and she cheated on him from time to time with taller, stronger, less lame gods and mortals, although ‘cheated’ is not the right word to describe what a goddess may choose to do.

Hephaestus himself had taken an axe and split open Zeus’ skull, when it was time for the goddess Athena to be born. And out she had sprung, fully formed, spear and shield in hand. And then later (we don’t know when, because time has no meaning here) Hephaestus had limped after the beautiful but chaste goddess and tried to make love to her and she had swatted him away, but in his excitement he had spattered her thigh with his semen – ridiculous, lame, incontinent god – and she had wiped herself down with a cloth and flung it to the ground, and that is how one of the first kings of Athens was born, half snake and half human, arising from the earth where Hephaestus’ sodden and embarrassing scrap of cloth had been tossed.

Stories. Byron, aged ten, would have known that one; it was only later that schoolteachers and clergymen would make a more determined attempt to censor and eviscerate these ancient tales. The real point, for Byron, was that Hephaestus, the limping god, was a figure of crude ridicule because of his deformed foot. It is there in the first book of The Iliad, when he tries to defuse the tension between Zeus and Hera by serving drinks for the gods and goddesses, and they all laugh as he lurches across the room. I often think that every one of us is linked or drawn to one particular god or goddess (because even if the nature of these immortals is unfixed and slippery, their essence holds true) and for Byron there are some ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Praise for Peter Fiennes
• Also by Peter Fiennes
• Title Page
• Dedication
• Epigraph
• Contents
• Map
• Preface
• 1 Half Empty
• 2 Dream On
• 3 Hope Springs Eternal
• 4 Dead Dog, Happy Dog
• 5 Sweet Release
• 6 Halcyon Days
• 7 ‘It’s Just a Simple Metaphor’
• 8 Fun and Games
• 9 We Live in Hope
• 10 Half Full
• Acknowledgements
• Glossary
• Permissions
• Select Bibliography and Resources
• Imprint Page