Before sunrise on the Monday immediately following Easter Sunday, villagers of all ages climb the steep hill in the chill mountain air to the Chapel of Prophet Elias, perched on its commanding promontory. They bring with them icons from the main Prophet Elias church below and its storerooms. In the dim light a short service is held before Father Christos will lead his congregation of the faithful on its winding journey through the surrounding hills to the Prophet’s place of discovery and back again.

The icons and their bearers come in all sizes and ages. Bleary-eyed children aroused from their beds, senior citizens with their walking aids, and families sharing their precious cargo.

Interspersed in the cortege are flag bearers shouldering the heavy symbol of Hellas, clangers pealing out the rhythm of the march, and book-keepers and bankers who will be required on return to the village, all there to assist Father Christos who strides at the head of the column.

The congregation stretches out as it winds its way round mountain slopes on narrow paths. They pass cultivated plots scraped out from the mountainside by past generations, resourcefully squeezing a simple living from the unsympathetic terrain. Equipped with local knowledge and the confidence that comes with familiarity, the villagers resemble sure footed ‘moufflon’ on what visitors might describe as goat tracks.

From time to time Father Christos stops to read a blessing, his congregation gathering round, a tangle of men, women, children, icons and procession embellishments. The Pater is a priest on a mission, discharging his duties at each stop with alacrity; no mercy for the stragglers.

In delivering his invocations to the ultimate authority Father Christos’ only tool is his book of prayers which he clutches close to him on his quick march.

It will see heavy use today.

Deep in the hills, the longest blessing is reserved for the Prophet and his miracle at the spot where the icon lay hidden - possibly for centuries so the locals say - before its divine discovery. In a tight narrow valley beneath the crack in the mountainside from where the miraculous icon was rescued, the slithering python of pilgrims bunches up. They cram around the Pater who prepares to give his highlight sermon of the day, addressing the Prophet whose icon is given centre stage.

A local villager risks health and limb by climbing up the rock face to light a candle in the crag where the icon purportedly rested for centuries before its rescue. On a the peak high above stands a cross erected to mark the spot of icon incarceration.

The sun may have risen down on the coast, but up here in the crevices of the high mountains the moon still stands out in the emerging dawn.

Having acclaimed the Prophet the congregation climbs out of the valley and heads back to the village to complete its circular meandering. On the climb the icons feel heavier and are passed around to spread the load. The line spreads out again as it passes through woods and shrub before eventually levelling out on the road that signals the village is near.

Occasionally a villager slips off to attend to their crops in nearby plots or to head home to prepare for Father Christos’ ancillary services which await him once he arrives back in Agridia.

The undertaking’s real heroes are feet. Not only do they safely guide their owners through the steep ups and downs of the mountain terraces, but they also provide a vital prop for the precious icons at the many rest points and stops on the entire route. Without them, the icons could be scraped and chafed and grazed as weary icon bearers seek momentary relief from their load.

This is no ordinary commemorative procession around, for example, the local church or through neighbouring streets. This is a test of stamina and devotion that ranges over miles of testing mountain terrain and through the streets and past the homes of an entire community while carrying a weighty and precious cargo.

Unsurprisingly the participants are proud of their achievement and are more than happy to pose with their wards to record their dedication.

The procession eventually re-enters the village exchanging the trees and shrubs and fields for houses and lock-ups, and to aged vines growing overhead on any foothold available, annual witnesses to this act of adoration.

The opportunities to straggle mount with distractions from home or neighbours or chores, all competing with spiritual obligations.

Returning to the village does not bring an imminent end to the odyssey. Instead it moves into its second phase.

In a throw back to Ulysses’ own tortured return to his Ithaca home, the return of the icons slows to a snail’s pace with repeated stops as women and elderly citizens come to their doors to crowd round Father Christos. Seemingly outside every home and round every corner queues of prepared trays lie in wait held in expectant hands. At each tray Father Christos dutifully performs the rite of kapnisma that wards off evil spirits and gives peace to souls, past and present. The tray owners kiss the Pater’s hand into which they press lists of family loved ones for the Father to save, as well as a little change to reward his services. Book-keepers and bankers are on hand at each stop to record the transactions and the saints watch over as if to reinforce the powers that are being summoned.

A trail of smoke from smouldering olive leaves lit by the Father marks the path of the procession through the streets. The smoke rises and floats in the morning air, glistening in the sun’s rays. At various stops villagers offer food (flaounas and halloumi) and drink (Zivania- traditional Cypriot spirit distilled from the pomace of grapes) to reinvigorate the travelling congregation. To compliment the refreshment sprinkles of holy water are on hand to purify the sinners. Each stop is an opportunity for weary icon carriers to rest and chat and pass icons to fresher pilgrims.

Finally the icons find their way back to their starting points where they are placed in store rooms or on the shelves of the chapel and main church where they will rest for another year. Villagers break into groups, gathering together in various homes to eat and drink and tell tales and laugh and gossip. Some move from house to house to re-imbibe – it would not do to leave your hosts hospitality unsettled.

The villagers, numbering 125 according to the latest census, are swelled for the procession by returning Agridia villagers now living elsewhere in Cyprus.

Strangers are rare – no doubt because of the early start and the time it takes to drive up to the high mountains. If you do make it you can be assured of full participation in both the religious and après-procession social traditions.

Kopiaste