“The Long Ride Home”

In 2025 at 73 years-old I decided, for the first time in my life to take a journey many younger members of our community would not dare to take. I challenged myself in travelling on a bicycle from Thessaloniki to the ancient city of Delphi.

This journey was far more than just a life experience; it was a tracing of the past, a profound recognition of who I truly am and where I come from. It makes little sense to be immersed in the currents of Greek culture and language in Melbourne for fifty years without eventually experiencing them at their very source. On this journey, I didn’t just find myself; I discovered the history of Greece within me, rediscovering a patriotism that had remained quiet for five decades while living across the seas.

For over fifty years, my birthplace was a memory kept in the quiet drawers of my mind—an echo of a language softening within the daily rhythm of my life in my adopted home. But when I decided to tread upon that soil once again, balanced on the two wheels of a bicycle, I realized this odyssey was more than an adventure. It was a silent excavation of the past, an emotional yet liberating recognition of my true identity and the depth of my roots. I was searching for the threshold where myth ends and my own story begins. I set out from the Australian wilderness and became one with the Greek countryside.

Amidst muddy tracks, historic bridges that still seem to breathe, and the simplicity of a lonely village or a quiet church courtyard, I found the history of Greece flowing through my own veins. There, beneath the skies of Gravia and Gorgopotamos, of Delphi and Dion, I rediscovered a dormant love for my heritage—a patriotism that had remained tucked away through all those years abroad, waiting patiently for this exact moment to bloom.

Here is an extract from the book:

I pedalled through the centre of Malgara and, as I exited the town, I took the provincial road that runs parallel along the National Highway (the Egnatia). Before long, I reached “Vaso’s Cantina”—which was essentially just a van permanently parked by the roadside to serve passersby. I had considered stopping there for a coffee, but a glance at my watch told me I had already lost too much time. I decided against the coffee; in half an hour, I would need to stop somewhere for a proper lunch. In Greece, they might still call a meal at this hour “breakfast,” but coming from Australia, 12:30 PM is most certainly lunchtime.

The vegetation to my right was quite dense. The reeds and thorns hid the tributary from view. At one point, two crows suddenly took flight as I passed, startled by my presence. I, however, was even more startled than they were.

Before long, I reached the Loudias River and its old bridge. It was wooden, riddled with cracks and holes. It stood firm, despite history telling us it was built by the Greek Army in 1912 during the march to liberate Thessaloniki. To me, it felt remarkably solid, even though the timbers had frayed and split with the passage of time. The sensible thing would have been to dismount and cross more safely on foot, but for some reason, I continued as if I were still on the asphalt. Suddenly, my front wheel dipped into a gap. I nearly fell, but I managed to recover.

At the edge of the bridge, I stopped to look back one last time. The river was unbothered, the sky did not cloud over, and the wind did not pause to watch—there was only me, an insignificant admirer of the bridge’s craftsmanship. History raced anxiously through my mind, and the sincere “thank you” I whispered disconnected me from the moment, allowing me to move on. I didn’t tear up; I simply felt grateful.

Would you be interested in reading the whole of my book ? Join me on a transformative ride through the “land of our ancestors,” where the destination is not a place on a map, but a new beginning.
Get it in digital or paperback here at Barnes&Noble.

Iakovos Garivaldis OAM