How we ended up at the Prophet Elias Monastery on the top of Mount Eros is still a mystery. As we crossed from Athens to Hydra by ferry, our boat tossed about like a cork in a typhoon while attendants staggered through the cabin grabbing onto the railing for support, stuffing used seasickness bags into a large, black, plastic sack and handing out fresh ones. We arrived on Hydra relieved, exhausted, and not ready to face a return crossing late the next day. That first evening, we sipped wine and snacked on zucchini pies on the terrace of a closed restaurant watching the sun set over a remote cove as the hospitable owner thatched new seats into well worn, indigo chairs – and offered to make us whatever we wanted. Under Hydra’s spell, everyone agreed we should stay an extra day. And as simple as that, a new plan was hatched.The next morning, we passed the keeper of our small inn as we headed into town for breakfast. ?If you want to hike to the monastery, just cut up from the harbor near the yellow house. Maybe it will take an hour and a half.? We talked for a while, and I thanked him even though I had immediately dismissed the suggestion. Craning my neck, I could see the monastery perched way at the top of the jagged hillside. ?Maybe you can make it a guys trip.? I offered to Pat. But no one grabbed at the thought, and the idea died.
