The roughly cemented lane way, that masquerades as a road, in front of our house, throws up the voices of villagers that are standing in the street calling to each other in exasperation. Normally it is only the unwary who attempt to drive up the narrow stretch, lured by a promise of a view to die for or a visit to the saint’s cave. I have only attempted it once, being too lazy to park the car in the square below and drag the suitcases up the short steep hill to the front door. The car came to a standstill between the goat lady’s house and Gramataki’s side steps with millimetres to spare. Unable to open the door I tried to reverse and despite the frantic directive gestures of the priest, friends and neighbours, who had all been awoken by now, found it impossible to reverse the car down the…