Near the road that winds towards Karitsa, just before the Tountaiika Kalyvia, nestles the small chapel of Agia Kyriaki.
Hidden among olive trees and low-growing kermes oaks, its red-tiled roof peeks out discreetly, a gentle breath of colour in the greenery. It feels as though the chapel itself has sprung from the very earth that bore it.
A narrow path runs beside it, leading to the old Platy Pigadi, a place of cool respite for the weary traveller. There, water flows slowly and purely, whispering the stories of the land.
A little higher, in the quiet of the countryside, the bell of the Saint can be heard. Its sound is sweet, almost ancient, bridging earth and sky.
Agia Kyriaki is celebrated each year on 7 July. From early morning, villagers arrive on foot or by car. The place fills with voices, blessings, and the scents of incense and thyme.
The service takes place under the song of cicadas and the shaded embrace of the olive trees, a scene seemingly untouched by the passing of time.
As the sun leans westward, villagers gather in Karitsa’s village square, where the celebration continues. Tables are laid, violins tuned, and the air fills with laughter and song.
Wine, music, and dance carry on until the moon rises above the mountains, the same moon that lights the chapel down at Antonaiiki Plevra.
And then, in the stillness of the night, the little church remains, quietly shining in the moonlight; guardian of the land and its people, simple, humble, yet full of soul.
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