Kalimera from the cloudy peaks of Pindos

gogreekforaday
5 days ago
7 min read

Come, come inside. Close the heavy wooden door behind you—the draft from the mountain pass is strong today. Let me put another log on the fire.

My name is Andreas. I was born in this village, I learned to walk on these cobblestones, and now, I run a small xenonas (guesthouse) just a few streets up from the main square. To you, Metsovo might be a postcard of stone mansions and snowy roofs, but to me, it is the sturdy heart of Epirus that beats slowly, steadily, despite how fast the rest of the world tries to run.

Pour yourself a glass of local red wine. Let me tell you what it means to live here, among the clouds and the bears.

The Rhythm of the Mountain: My Day-to-Day Life

Life in Metsovo is dictated not by the clock, but by the weather and the light. My day usually starts before the sun clears the peaks of the Pindos range. Even in summer, the morning air here has a bite to it, so my first duty is always the boiler. A warm room is the first promise I make to my guests.

Once the smell of woodsmoke begins to drift from the chimneys—that distinct scent that hangs over Metsovo like a blanket—I head to the kitchen. My wife, Eleni, is usually already there, rolling out the dough for the alevropita (our local flour pie with feta). We don’t do croissants here; we do eggs from the village, local butter that smells of the meadows, and mountain tea gathered from the slopes above the tree line.

My mid-mornings are spent in the village rhythm. I walk down to the central square, the plateia. This is not just a walk; it is a roll call. I greet the old men sitting on the benches with their shepherd’s crooks, their faces weathered like the grey stone of our houses. We discuss the news, but mostly we discuss the weather. "Will the snow close the Katara pass?" "Is the fog lifting?" In the mountains, nature is the only boss.

After checking in my guests and ensuring they know the best trails, the afternoon quiets down. This is the time for mesimeri—the quiet hours. But for a hotelier, it’s time for maintenance. Stone houses are beautiful, but they need constant care. There is always a shutter to paint or a slate on the roof to fix.

Evenings are my favorite. The village transforms. The day-trippers leave, and Metsovo belongs to us again. I usually sit in the lobby with my guests, sharing a tsipouro and stories. We don’t watch much TV; we watch the fire. There is a slowness here that I cherish. We live hard, but we rest deep.

Traditions Carved in Time

We are Vlachs here. We are proud people with a heritage as old as the hills. We hold onto our traditions not because we are stuck in the past, but because they keep us warm.

The Tranos Choros (The Grand Dance)If you visit us on July 26th for the feast of Agia Paraskevi, you will see something that will make your hair stand on end. This is not just a party; it is a ritual. After the church service, the men and women of the village gather in the churchyard. We form open circles, arranged strictly by age and social standing, singing songs in the Vlach dialect without instruments—just the power of our voices. The slow, heavy steps of the dance reflect our history: steady, unyielding, and united. It is how we show that despite wars, poverty, and time, we are still here.
The "Gourounohara" (The Pig’s Joy)This might sound strange to modern ears, but in the winter, usually around Christmas, we have the Gourounohara. Historically, every family raised a pig to feed them through the harsh winter. The slaughter and preparation of the meat were a community event. Neighbors helped neighbors. We would make sausages, salted pork, and render the fat. Today, while fewer people raise their own livestock, we still gather to roast meat and celebrate this survival tradition. It is a celebration of abundance in the face of a starving winter.
The Sunday Promenade in Traditional DressYou might think folk costumes are for museums. Not in Metsovo. On special holidays and sometimes just on Sundays, you will see our elderly women, and increasingly the younger generation, walking to church in full traditional Vlach attire. The heavy wool dresses, embroidered aprons, and velvet vests are status symbols. When an old grandmother walks down the street in her outfit, she is treated like royalty. It is our way of honoring the matriarchs who held our families together while the men were away with the flocks.

The Work of Our Hands

We are a productive people. The mountain gives us raw materials, and we turn them into art.

Woodcarving:Walk through the village and look at the ceilings, the church iconostases, or even the simple walking sticks. Woodcarving is in our blood. Historically, shepherds whittled wood to pass the lonely hours. This evolved into a high art form. Local artisans carve intricate geometric patterns and pastoral scenes into beech and walnut wood. It requires patience and a steady hand—traits every Metsovite possesses.
Textile Weaving:For centuries, we relied on sheep for everything. The wool from our flocks is transformed into thick, heavy blankets called flokati and intricate woven rugs. You will see grandmothers sitting by looms even today. The patterns are specific to our region, often using deep reds and blues. These textiles were our defense against the freezing winters before central heating, and they remain a symbol of domestic warmth.
Cheesemaking (The Metsovone):This is perhaps our most delicious craft. In the 1950s, thanks to the Tositsas Foundation, we learned Italian cheesemaking methods and combined them with our local milk. The result is Metsovone—a semi-hard, smoked cheese that hangs in strings from the ceilings of local delis. It is smoked naturally with herbs and grass from the area. Cutting a slice of Metsovone is like slicing into the history of our agriculture.

The Heartbeats of Metsovo

If you come to stay at my xenonas, these are the five places I will tell you not to miss. They are the anchors of our village.

The Averoff Gallery:It is unexpected to find one of the finest art collections in Greece in a mountain village, but that is Metsovo. Evangelos Averoff, a great politician and benefactor born here, built this. It houses masterpieces of Greek painters. It proves that isolation does not mean a lack of culture.
The Katogi Averoff Winery:Down in the cellars of this winery, the wine sleeps in oak barrels. This is where the Cabernet Sauvignon grape was first introduced to Greek soil. The tour there is atmospheric, winding through dark cellars with lights and music, ending, of course, with a tasting of our heavy, tannic red wines that pair perfectly with our meats.
The Church of Agia Paraskevi:Located right on the main square, this is the soul of the village. It is not just a building; it is a time capsule with a magnificent wooden carved iconostasis and rare icons. The smell of beeswax candles and frankincense inside is the scent of centuries of prayer.
The Aoos Springs Lake:A short drive up the mountain takes you to this artificial lake. It is a place of absolute silence. In the winter, the snow touches the water; in the summer, wild horses graze on the banks. It is where I go when I need to clear my head. The reflection of the peaks in the water is a sight that heals the soul.
The Central Square (The Bear Square):This is the stage of Metsovo. Surrounded by plane trees and tavernas, this is where you sit to watch the world. You eat a kontosouvli (spit-roasted pork), sip wine, and watch the mist roll in. If you haven't sat here, you haven't been to Metsovo.

Why My Heart is Here

I have traveled, you know. I studied in Ioannina, I visited Athens. But I came back.

I love Metsovo because it demands respect. You cannot live here passively. You have to shovel the snow, you have to stock the wood, you have to walk the steep paths. In return, it gives you a sense of belonging that is rare in the modern world.

I love the "gray" of Metsovo—the stone, the slate, the fog. It makes the warmth of the people shine brighter. When we say "welcome," we mean "thank you for defying the mountains to come see us." I love that my children run freely in the square, watched over by the whole village. Here, I am not just a number; I am Andreas, the son of Giorgos, the keeper of the guesthouse. I am a stone in the wall of this community.

A Word of Advice from the Mountains

Before you finish your wine and go up to your room, let me offer you a piece of advice. It is the philosophy we live by up here.

Life, my friend, is like the fog—the antaras, as we call it. It rolls in thick and scary, hiding the path, making you feel lost and cold. When the fog of life surrounds you—troubles with money, love, or health—do what the local shepherd does.
Do not run. If you run in the fog, you will fall off a cliff.Instead, sit down. Wrap your cloak tight. Stay still and wait.
We locals know that the mountain is patient, and so must we be. The fog always lifts. The sun always finds the peak again. In the city, you try to force solutions, you rush to fix things. Here, we endure. We endure the winter to earn the spring.
So, whatever challenge you are facing, tackle it like a Metsovite: Keep your fire burning warm, keep your feet on solid ground, and wait for the weather to change. Because it always does.