Forget highways. If you’re going from Kalamata to Sparta, the only real option is the old road. Why? Because you’re not in a hurry, and because the new road feels like cheating. The old road is half pilgrimage, half rollercoaster, half near-death experience, yes, that’s three halves, but so is the mountain.

The journey begins innocently enough, with olive groves stretching to the horizon. Kalamata olives everywhere, like soldiers lined up in green formation. But soon, the Taygetos mountains rise up in front of you, tall, stern, and entirely unimpressed with your plans. The road climbs sharply, coils tighter than a corkscrew, and dives under boulders so low you instinctively duck your head inside the car, as if that’s going to help.

Summer is spectacular. The gorges cut so deep you half expect to see mythological creatures climbing the cliffs. The air is filled with cicadas, buzzing like a broken electrical wire. At one bend, you pull over at Kaiadas, the infamous pit where Spartans supposedly tossed their unwanted babies. It’s not exactly Disneyland. You peer into the abyss, shiver, and suddenly realize that your parents’ threats about eating vegetables could have been a lot worse.

And then you reach Mystras. A Byzantine ghost town clinging to the mountain, full of ruined palaces, faded frescoes, and staircases that double as medieval stairmasters. History pours out of every stone. You imagine emperors plotting, monks chanting, soldiers marching, and then you imagine yourself collapsing, because the sun is relentless and shade is rationed like gold.

But salvation is near. The little town below Mystras is famous for pork, and with good reason. You sit down, order exohiko (pork slow-cooked with vegetables and cheese) and everything changes. The climb, the gorges, even the baby pit, all forgiven. The pork arrives: crispy outside, juicy inside, seasoned with centuries of history and just a hint of revenge against the mountain that tried to kill you. It is, without exaggeration, the finest pork you will ever eat.

Now, that’s summer. Winter is another story. Try the same road in January and you’ll meet Taygetos in full armor. Snow smothers the peaks, ice laces the bends, fog rolls in thick enough to erase the car in front of you. The road narrows, the tires slip, and suddenly every corner is a question: “Will I make it around, or will archaeologists find me here in the spring?” Driving Taygetos in winter isn’t travel, it’s an initiation ritual. Survive it, and you’re basically a Spartan.

The reward at the end, however, is the same: Mystras, pork, and the smug satisfaction of having conquered a road that tried, at least twice, to send you to the underworld. By the time you roll into Sparta, you understand something the ancients already knew: glory is fine, history is important, but nothing, absolutely nothing, beats a good meal after a hard road.

Let’s all raise our glasses. Στην υγεία σας (to your health)!