On the Greek island of Lesvos, Tim Wege dips into the 115-degree mineral springs and finds his skepticism cured - along with his rheumatism.
I have never been particularly big o要 hot springs. First, there's hygiene; if so many people visit a hot spring to, as o要e ad put it, cure their "venereal and gynaecological problems, haemmeroids, rheumatism, bidental affections, skin diseases and chest complaints, lymphatism, spleen enlargement, cirrhosis, paralysis, periostitis, rachitis and hardening of the arteries," would I really want to share a hot bath with them?
Then there's the resort psychosis; every hot spring I've ever been to was either plastered with boards forbidding you to "jump, splash, urinate, copulate or drink" in the pools, or was so developed it looked like a seventies theme park. Finally, it's just the process; scampering from uncomfortably hot water into uncomfortably cold water and back again just doesn't sound like a pleasant way to spend the afternoon.
Then I went to the Greek island of Lesvos, the birthplace of iconic lesbian poet Sappho, home to more olive trees than you can spit a pip at, and host to a bevy of natural hot springs. Across the island, the springs well up through the volcanic rock, squirting out in remote hilltop villages, on deserted rocky beaches, and under water in remote coves and inlets. My aquatic Damascus-road experience was approaching, and I didn't see it coming.
Hot springs occur along tectonic fault lines, particularly in volcanic territory. Volcanic terrain is dynamic, hosting fissures and underground cracks; rainwater percolates through the porous sedimentary rock, where the Earth's heat warms it, forcing it back up to the surface along the fault lines. Voila , a hot spring. By definition, a hot spring has an average temperature higher than the mean air temperature. A mineral spring, o要 the other hand, has this characteristic as well as containing more than 400 parts per million of total dissolved solids. (How sexy!) The springs of Lesvos are hot mineral springs. And this is why people flock there, to immerse themselves in the minerals.
They have been doing so since Roman times. Before plumbing and private bathrooms, bathhouses and hot springs performed both a social and a sanitary function. They were an integral part of everyone's life. The evidence lies along the coast, where submerged marble blocks mark out ancient bathing venues. They are eroded and invaded by sea urchins, but the square corners and bright luster distinguish them from the surrounding boulders.
Despite this impressive legacy, I still had no intention of immersing myself in more contemporary hot springs. Perhaps I would take some photographs and jeer at my friends as they slowly turned into lobsters. That was before I saw the baths of Eftalou.
Ten minutes Vespa ride from the feudal city of Molivos, the road becomes dirt. A narrow track rounds a low volcanic headland, revealing an incongruous picture. Nestled in a sheltered corner of a rocky bay squats a whitewashed dome, like a sunken church. Eftalou. Adjoining it are blue-shuttered shower rooms built of stone. Inside is the spring, developed in Byzantine times, which flows into a communal pool under the dome (an addition made by occupying Turks in the nineteenth century). Nearby are separate, private units where nudity is permitted.
After obligatory showers, we were issued strict safety instructions. The water is a whopping 115.7degrees Fahrenheit, so for a start there's no diving. For beginners, every three minutes in the pool means five minutes out. Finally, it's crucial to make every move a slow one, and not to immerse your head. I entered the water very, very slowly.
The sensation was perplexing. As long as I didn't move at all, I could just tolerate the temperature. At my feet, the occasional bubble-rich in scary-sounding minerals like radium, chloride, and sodium - would emerge from somewhere deep within the Earth's crust and pop o要 the surface. I looked around at the six other people in the pool, each of whom wore what must have been my expression, somewhere between blissful enervation and anxiety about how much longer they could take the heat. In an alcove, a candle and a bunch of dried oregano were carefully arranged, lending an air of tranquility to the pool. Rays of sunlight shot through small slots in the roof and bounced off the water. Their reflections o要 the ceiling were mesmerizing, even magical. After sitting o要 my Byzantine marble block for about three minutes, watching in vain for bits of skin and oil in the water, I could feel my body changing. Blood was concentrating in my head, and my feet felt heavy. My joints were hot. It was time to change.
Now, if my entry had been slow, my exit was like stop-motion animation. Imagine you're in a DVD and someone o要 the sofa at home has pressed the frame-by-frame button o要 the remote. That's how you climb out of this hot spring. If you don't, well, you'll just collapse in a light-headed heap o要 the ancient marble floor. And nobody wants that.
Outside, I waded blearily into the sea. The crisp rush of the Aegean was like a cheesy aftershave commercial - the o要e where a chisel-jawed dude splashes his face in the bathroom, cut to crashing blue waves. All the energy that the spring had drained from me was revived in an instant by the sea. My heat-induced torpor was transformed into vital energy within seconds. I felt as though someone had peeled off several layers of tired skin and muscles, and completely replaced them. It was like shrugging off o要e of those heavy greatcoats they make you wear at school in winter. I could run, jump, sing. Well, I could have if the seabed wasn't volcanic boulders, and if I hadn't been thrown out of the choir at age 11. But still, I was a hot spring convert. Cynical presumptions washed down the plughole, I duly proceeded to "rinse and repeat until clean."
There is o要e other reason to visit Eftalou, and that is Golden Beach. If you've come to Greece without your bathing costume and can't find a thing to wear at the beach, then you'll find similarly challenged visitors at Golden. Eftalou is the gateway to Golden Beach, possibly so called because of the sandstone cliffs, certainly not because of any golden sand. Big tip when nude sunbathing - bring a beach mat. Tanning o要 a volcanic beach is o要e thing, but squashing your bits up against a carpet of pumice stones can lead to involuntary exfoliation in places that seldom see the sun.
After Eftalou we were smitten, and scoured the island for hot springs at every opportunity. A 90-minute hike up the coast from Melinda beach, we found o要e next to a tiny church. The building was created as a shelter around a natural cave, a few meters above sea level. Steps led from the entrance down to a small hot spring running into the sea. We theorized that the seaside church might have been built to provide pilgrims with a place to give thanks for their cleansing hot bath. After praying and bathing, they could plunge off the rocks into the clear and protected bay.
A neglected spring near Lesvori welled up in a stream on a small farm. We discovered it by mistake, spotting the steam from a distance. At 188.6 degrees, the water was nearly untouchable, but we gingerly bathed our toes until they turned orange from the sulfur.
I've always needed a goal, or a reason, to travel, no matter how trivial. It gives the trip meaning. And I would never have pegged myself as a champion of "the quest for the holy hot spring," but that's what happened in Lesvos. Stupid, really. But to the credit of the Lesbian hot springs, I haven't been bothered by gout, rheumatism, hardened arteries, or spleen enlargement since visiting them. So something must be working.
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photo by Tim Wege