On the night of Good Friday - or Great Friday, as the Greeks call it - it is raining. We join the 'mourners' at the back of the village church. Everyone is given a brown candle. The soft light glows. The priest and his chanters are at the front, where pride of place is Christ's epitafios , covered in red and white carnations. The service has been going for at least an hour-and-a-half, with people coming and going, small children crying and an American told to be quiet after engaging in idle chit-chat at a time when people are meant to be solemn. We leave the church, following the epitafios , and wind our way up through the village, the American taking a call on his mobile phone saying he can't speak because he's in a procession and then proceeding to talk for five minutes about someone who is in hospital. I share Sofia's umbrella as the noisy Yank goes on ahead. Up at the at the cemetery church, we walk through the door and out through the other si...
