Between
sea
and
mountain:
the
archaeology
of
a
20th
century
“small
world”



in
the
upland
basins
of
the
southeastern
Korinthia


Modern
Greek
Studies
Association
Biennial
Symposium



Vancouver,
October
2009


©2009
William
Caraher,
Timothy
Gregory,
David
Pettegrew,
and
Lita
Tzortzopoulou‐Gregory



Our
paper
today
will
discuss
our
recent
work
at
an
upland
basin
in
the
southeastern

Corinthia
called
Lakka
Skoutara.


We
were
initially
drawn
to
this
basin
in
the
summer

2001
because
it
appeared
to
be
a
settlement
in
the
process
of
nucleation
with
its
small

church
surrounded
by
over
a
dozen
houses
loosely
arranged
along
the
intersection
of
two

rural
roads.
[SLIDE]
[SLIDE].

We
noted
that
the
houses
throughout
the
countryside
were
in

various
states
of
repair
[SLIDE],
collapse
[SLIDE],
and
abandonment
[SLIDE],
making
the

site
an
ideal
laboratory
for
the
study
of
archaeological
formation
processes.

With
this

potential
in
mind,
we
returned
later
that
summer
with
a
group
of
archaeologists
who
were

part
of
a
broader
research
program
designed
to
document
the
Eastern
Korinthian

landscape
from
the
Isthmus
of
Korinth
to
the
borders
of
Epidauria.

If
at
first
we
thought
of

the
settlement
as
prototypic
village
abandoned
in
the
process
of
nucleation,
we
have
now

have
come
to
see
Lakka
Skoutara
as
a
fluid
and
semi‐permanent
settlement
within
a

dynamic
rural
landscape.




[SLIDE]
Lakka
Skoutara
is
one
of
a
series
of
fertile
upland
basins
whose
fortunes

and
functions
shifted
through
time
in
response
to
the
changing
world
to
which
the
valley

was
always
connected.

[SLIDE]
In
earlier
times
monopatia
crisscrossed
the
rugged

Korinthian
landscape
connecting
the
basin
to
other
valleys,
settlements,
monasteries,
and

trade
routes.

[SLIDE]
Today,
the
area
is
linked
by
a
bulldozed
road
to
the
major
village
of

Sophiko
and
the
coastal
town
of
Korphos.


[SLIDE]
Despite
or
perhaps
because
of
this,
the

settlement
today
is
loose
collection
of
structures,
consisting
of
a
church,
about
6
standing

houses,
a
dozen
abandoned
and
ruined
houses,
and
a
variety
of
rural
[SLIDE]
installations

like
cisterns,
[SLIDE]
wells,
[SLIDE]
threshing
floors,[SLIDE]
resin
processing
basins,
and

baking
ovens
stretched
over
approximately
one
hundred
hectares.

Land
owners
continue

to
take
care
of
the
olive
trees
in
the
basin
and
a
few
move
back
into
the
standing
houses

during
the
fall
harvest,
but
the
only
consistent
visitors
to
the
valley
today
are
a
local

shepherd,
who
uses
a
well
in
the
basin
to
water
his
herd
of
goats,
and
[SLIDE]
Mr.

Zographos
who,
for
decades
now,
has
driven
out
daily
from
Sophiko
to
maintain
his

country
house,
take
care
of
his
aging
donkey,
and
escape
the
bustle
of
village
life.


Our
work
at
the
site
of
Lakka
Skoutara
has
been
conditioned
by
the
dynamic

presence
of
the
modern
period
in
the
landscape.

While
our
field
methods
included
many
of

the
standard
practices
of
intensive
pedestrian
survey,
we
were
regularly
reminded
how

incomplete
these
methods
were
for
capturing
an
archaeological
landscape
that
continued

to
develop
even
as
our
fieldwork
took
place.

Consequently,
after
our
initial
fieldwork
we

returned
to
the
Lakka
over
the
past
decade
and
continued
to
document
the
archaeology
of

the
place
through
the
detailed
study
of
formation
processes,
oral
interviews,
and
study
of

the
broader
region.

Our
goal
with
this
work
was
to
produce
an
archaeological
study
rooted

in
the
modern
landscape
(rather
than
an
ethnoarchaeological
study
directed
to

understanding
the
ancient
countryside).

Through
these
various
methods,
we
have

produced
a
dynamic
landscape
which
sustains
multiple
meanings
and
fits
well
the

fractured,
inconsistent,
and
contingent
modern
world.


Lakka
Skoutara
through
Time


Since
the
1970s,
landscape
archaeologists
in
Greece
have
used
the
methods
of

intensive
pedestrian
survey
to
record
the
number
and
pattern
of
settlements
across

regions
over
long
periods
of
time.

[SLIDE]
In
archaeological
survey,
field
walkers

systematically
traverse
a
region
by
foot
and
record
the
sites
or
artifacts
visible
on
the

ground
surface.

The
collected
artifacts
and
sites
have
functional,
chronological,
and

physical
characteristics
that
can
be
displayed
through
GIS
programs
as
density
values
on

archaeological
artifact
distribution
maps,
among
the
standard
ways
for
archaeologists
to

document
and
analyze
the
exploitation
of
physical
territories
through
time.

Each
map

represents
the
regional
distribution
of
human
activity
documented
for
a
particular

archaeological
period,
and
the
collection
of
maps,
when
taken
together,
demonstrate
the

long‐term
changes
in
the
social
and
economic
activities
in
the
countryside.




In
2002,
we
conducted
such
an
intensive
pedestrian
survey
of
the
valley
as
part
of

the
Eastern
Korinthia
Archaeology
Survey.

A
field
team
of
5
field
walkers
divided
the

Lakka
Skoutara
basin
into
a
series
of
survey
units
which
they
traversed
at
10
m
intervals,

counting
every
artifact
in
each
swath
and
documenting
examples
of
unique
artifacts.

Documenting
the
landscape
in
this
manner
demonstrates
that
the
valley
of
Lakka
Skoutara

was
intensively
inhabited
in
almost
every
archaeological
period
with
discrete
distributions

of
material
from
the
Final
Neolithic
through
the
20th
century
[SLIDE].

In
particular,
there

are
clear
peaks
of
activity
during
[SlIDE]
the
Roman
period,
[SLIDE]
the
Medieval
era,
and

[SLIDE]
the
last
century
or
so.

The
comparison
of
maps
of
each
period
establishes
the
basis

for
a
range
of
historical
interpretations
about
the
intensity,
type,
and
locus
of
regional

activities
over
the
longest
cultural
periods.


Lakka
Skoutara
as
place


This
standard
way
of
recording
the
landscape,
however,
tends
to
produce
a
series
of

chronological
snap
shots
that
reduce
human
activity
to
static
“thin
sections,”
each

compressing
centuries
of
activities
into
dots
and
colors
in
two‐dimensional
mapping
layers.


[SLIDE]
Since
the
establishment
of
regional
survey
programs
in
Greece,
landscape

archaeologists
have
tried
to
move
beyond
flat
descriptions
of
settlement
per
period
to

characterize
the
dynamic
spatial
relationship
between
places
within
a
territory.

For

example,
the
social
and
economic
relationships
between
Lakka
Skoutara
and
the
major

settlements
of
the
Corinthia,
coastal
communities
like
Korphos,
and
the
trading
networks

of
the
Aegean
are
the
kind
of
data
that
archaeologists
have
often
tried
so
hard
to

understand
in
their
regional
models
of
settlement
hierarchy
and
patterns.




The
intensive
archaeological
survey
at
Lakka
Skoutara,
in
conjunction
with
a
study

of
the
buildings
and
features
there,
demonstrate
a
clear
interdependence
between
this

valley,
the
broader
region,
and
Mediterranean
economic
networks
in
both
the
pre‐modern

era
and
more
recent
times.

[SLIDE]
For,
despite
an
appearance
of
isolation
and

abandonment
of
the
valley
today,
there
have
always
been
major
routes
linking
Lakka

Skoutara
to
wider
communities.

As
early
as
the
Bronze
Age,
roads
connected
the
basin
to

both
the
harbor
at
Korphos
and
a
major
north‐south
corridor
between
the
Argolid
and
the

Corinthia
that
passed
near
the
village
of
Sophiko.


In
the
Roman
era,
we
find
amphoras

imported
from
the
islands
of
the
Aegean
(Kos,
Micaceous
Water
Jars)
and
fine
table
wares

from
the
coasts
of
Asia
Minor
(ESA)
and
Africa.

During
the
Byzantine
period,
the
presence

of
churches
indicate
not
only
nearby
settlements
in
the
area,
but
also
real
concentrations
of

wealth,
and
it
would
stand
to
reason
that
the
community
who
exploited
the
resources
of

the
basin
(and
perhaps
lived
there)
contributed
in
some
way
to
the
wealth
of
the
larger

region.

The
quantity
of
imported
ancient
and
Medieval
material
at
Lakka
Skoutara

confirms
the
long‐term
engagement
of
this
area
with
larger
Mediterranean
systems.


During
the
more
recent
periods,
the
valley
benefited
from
good
connections
by
land

to
larger
regional
settlements
like
Sophiko
and
the
Peloponnesus
and
by
sea
to
the
broader

Saronic,
including
the
Southern
Argolid,
Methana,
Aegina,
and
Pireaus.

A
semi‐permanent

settlement
emerged
in
the
19th‐20th
centuries
that
was
engaged
in
the
cultivation
of
cereals,

olives,
garden
vegetables
and
the
raising
of
poultry,
goats,
and
sheep
for
household

consumption.

[SLIDE]
These
inhabitants
traded
with
transhumant
pastoralists
who

brought
their
flocks
to
the
lakka
from
the
mountains
of
the
Corinthia
and
as
far
away
as
the

Leivadia
in
Central
Greece.

[SLIDE]
Arvanites
from
the
village
of
Sophiko
obtained

ownership
of
the
pine
forests
surrounding
the
valley
immediately
following
Independence,

and
these
families
also
moved
closer
to
the
lakka
as
the
lucrative
resin
industry
grew.


[SLIDE]
One
of
the
earliest
modern
settlers
of
the
area
was
himself
a
shepherd
who
lived
in

the
lakka
seasonally,
while
he
was
based
permanently
in
Sophiko.

The
use
of
the
basin
for

both
herding
and
resin
production
occurred
alongside
the
intensive
cultivation
of
cereals

and
olives
as
evident
by
the
presence
and
maintenance
of
agricultural
installations
like

cisterns
and
threshing
floors
and
mature
olive
trees
in
the
valley.

These
same
exchange

systems
brought
to
the
lakka
rooftiles
from
Chalkis
and
possibly
Tripolis,
and
earthenware

pottery
and
transfer
print
porcelain
wares,
as
well
as
staples
such
as
sugar
and
flour.



With
the
demise
of
the
resin
industry
in
the
1970s
and
the
more
common
use
of

motorized
vehicles,
local
farmers
spent
less
time
in
the
lakka
preferring
to
live
in
the

modern
villages
and
commute
to
the
basin.

As
other
scholars
have
already
argued,
the

early
modern
and
modern
Greek
landscape
was
indeed
“contingent”
upon
broad
patterns

of
transportation,
production,
and
settlement.




Lakka
Skoutara
as
process


Viewing
the
landscape
of
Lakka
Skoutara
within
larger
networks
forces
us
to
think

of
landscape
in
terms
of
a
number
of
dynamic
overlapping
economic
and
social

connections.

The
archaeology
of
the
modern
period,
however,
has
also
drawn
attention
to

the
many
shorter­term
cultural
processes
of
habitation
visible
in
the
landscape
in
the
last

century.

Rural
houses
and
even
villages
are
inhabited,
transformed,
revamped,
and

abandoned
in
the
order
of
decades.

Cultural
formation
process
studies
further
undermine

a
static
view
of
the
archaeological
record
as
presented
in
simple
distributional
maps.


We
have
returned
to
Lakka
Skoutara
every
other
summer
for
the
last
9
years
to

document
these
short‐term
changes
in
and
around
6
standing
houses
[SLIDE],
4
collapsing

buildings
[SLIDE
x
2],
and
6
house
foundations
[SLIDE].
These
visits
have
focused
not
only

on
the
natural
processes
of
material
deterioration
but
also
the
subtle
human
changes
that

continue
to
shape
a
valley
that,
on
first
glance,
seems
so
abandoned.

The
transformations

observed
in
the
landscape
provide
insight
into
the
dynamic
processes
that
have
influenced

the
distribution
and
deposition
of
material
over
the
last
100
years.


Over
a
10
year
span,
we
have
documented
a
settlement
shaped
by
a
considerable

number
of
processes.

We’ve
observed
the
continued
use
of
a
few
houses
as
seasonal

occupations
during
harvest
time,
and
the
conversion
of
other
buildings
into
animal
pens

and
storage
buildings.

We
have
witnessed
the
rapid
transformation
of
abandoned
houses

from
standing
structures
into
large
piles
of
debris:
a
partially
collapsing
roof
one
year
is
a

pile
of
tiles
and
stone
the
next.

[SLIDE]
We
have
observed
the
careful
removal
of
rooftiles

from
abandoned
houses
for
reuse
elsewhere;
and
the
deposition
of
all
forms
of
trash—

[SLIDE]
shotgun
shells,
[SLIDE]water
bottles,
laundry
detergent
containers,
plastic
combs,

sardine
cans,
socks,
and
Nescafe
frappe
shakers—left
by
local
shepherds
and
olive

harvesters
temporarily
occupying
the
area
or
dumped
by
those
driving
through
the
valley

en
route
to
Korphos
or
Ay.
Kyriake.


Even
houses
abandoned
long
ago
and
surviving
only
in

low
wall
foundations
were
central
to
continuing
patterns
of
land
use
as
shotgun
shells
and

pruned
olive
branches
appeared
from
one
year
to
the
next.


Compared
to
the
static
chronological
maps
of
the
intensive
pedestrian
survey,

formation
process
analysis
presents
a
more
dynamic
landscape
where
archaeological

assemblages
represent
short‐term
patterns
of
behavior
by
individuals
and
families.




Lakka
Skoutara
as
experience


The
study
of
formation
processes
is
only
one
method
to
document
the
short‐term

dynamism
of
the
archaeological
landscape.

Interviews
with
those
individuals
who

recognize
the
lakka
as
part
of
a
local,
productive
landscape
likewise
articulate
the
place
on

a
distinctly
human
scale.


By
paralleling
such
so‐called
“emic”
perspectives
with
our
own

forms
of
archaeological
documentation,
we
establish
the
landscape
as
a
space
that

integrates
individual
experience
with
the
archaeological
environment.




Over
the
course
of
our
fieldwork,
we
collected
interviews
with
several
individuals

who
had
spent
much
of
their
life
in
Lakka
Skoutara.

[SLIDE]
Two
of
these
individuals
were

cousins
who
had
connections
to
the
valley
since
their
childhood
in
the
1920s;
[SLIDE]
the

third
was
a
shepherd
who
uses
the
valley
to
graze
his
flocks
and
is
a
relative
newcomer
to

the
valley.

Our
most
lengthy
conversations
evoked
numerous
remarks
about
the
history
of

the
area,
and
their
family’s
connections
to
the
site
since
the
late
19th
century.

These

individuals
were
able
to
point
to
cisterns,
house
foundations,
agricultural
installations,
and

olive
trees,
and
identify
their
owners
and
histories.

They
could
note
that
the
present

church
was
a
structure
that
rebuilt
a
preexisting
ruined
church.

They
could
see
places

where
mudbrick
houses
had
once
been.

They
identified
features
in
the
area,
like
threshing

floors,
wells,
and
[SLIDE]
an
old
olive
press,
which
their
ancestors
had
certainly
not

constructed
and
consequently
demonstrated
their
newness
to
the
lakka.

And
they
could

identify
where
we
could
not
tracks
and
access
routes
between
properties
that
avoided
the

possibility
of
trespassing
and
offending
their
neighbours,
since
movement
across
the
lakka

was
socially
restricted.

For
our
informants,
the
basin
was
a
comprehensive
landscape

richly
encoded
with
history
and
memories,
which
looked
quite
different
from
the

landscapes
we
were
producing
through
distributional
maps
and
settlement
pattern

analysis.




Indeed,
even
our
intensive
documentation
of
the
formation
processes
was
framed

with
a
technical
language
and
vocabulary
that
lacked
a
familiar
view
of
landscape.

While

we
learned
much
from
our
own
careful
documentation
of
the
“curate
behaviors,”

“abandonment
processes,”
and
“least‐effort
principals,”
evidently
affecting
the
houses
from

year
to
year
in
the
valley,
informants
opened
our
eyes
to
a
landscape
of
family
names,

kinship
ties,
and
property
histories.

[SLIDE]
We
would
never
have
known,
for
example,

that
a
house
(#3)
now
collapsing
had
existed
on
the
spot
since
the
1920s,
maintained
and

refurbished
without
significant
extension
for
70
years;
little
in
the
building’s
architecture

indicated
this
long
history.

[SLIDE]
Nor
could
we
have
figured
out
that
the
low
foundation

walls
in
House
#4
represented
not
an
earlier
phase
of
the
structure
or
a
later
extension
to

accommodate
new
members,
but
the
divided
living
space
of
two
brothers
unable
to
get

along.

(The
dispute
became
so
bad
that
one
brother
finally
abandoned
the
house
but
not

before
stripping
the
roof
of
his
share
of
the
tiles!)

These
kinds
of
kin
connections
organized

productive
space
in
the
area
in
ways
that
were
largely
invisible
to
archaeological
methods,

but
crucial
to
their
own
understanding
of
human
relationships
in
the
landscape.

Even
the

shepherd,
who
owned
no
property
in
the
lakka
but
paid
rent
for
a
grazing
area
for
his

goats,
understood
the
valley
in
terms
of
kin
connections
with
other
shepherd
families.





Conclusions


On
June
10,
2002,
we
were
treated
to
a
tour
of
the
valley
by
an
80
year
old
man
who

had
been
connected
to
the
valley
for
as
long
as
he
had
been
alive
and
owned
a
long
house

which
played
an
important
role
in
his
productive
life.

Mr.
Perras
took
us
around
house
by

house,
identifying
family
owners
and
house
histories,
naming
former
structures
that
were

now
invisible,
and
detailing
the
histories
he
knew
so
well.

We
came
to
his
own
house

which
he
hadn’t
been
able
to
visit
in
nearly
a
decade
and
found
a
building
in
the
state
of

disintegration
with
a
roof
that
had
partially
collapsed,
leaving
the
interior
of
the
house
in

shambles.

He
was
moved
deeply
by
the
condition
of
the
building.

The
house,
he
said,
had

been
constructed
by
his
father
as
a
seasonal
residence
in
the
1920s,
and
had
been
the

family’s
permanent
residence
during
the
difficult
German
occupation.

[SLIDE]
Mr.
Perras

himself
had
refurbished
the
walls
of
the
house
in
the
1970s,
intentionally
reusing

fieldstones
in
order
to
create
material
and
stylistic
continuity
with
his
father’s
domicile.


[SLIDE]
He
was
interested
and
curious
in
our
study
in
the
valley
and
asked
us
to
produce
a

map
for
him—he
said
he
had
never
even
seen
a
map
of
the
valley.

We
did
make
the
map—
a
two‐dimensional
plot
of
houses,
cisterns,
features
and
contour
lines—but
were
too
late,

for
when
we
next
visited
the
valley
two
years
later,
Mr.
Perras,
sadly,
had
passed
away.




[SLIDE]
Our
interactions
with
Mr.
Perras
reinforced
for
us
both
the
overlap
and

disconnects
in
our
different
landscapes.

His
was
a
settlement
full
of
smells,
sounds,

activity,
and
people
that
his
extended
family
had
known,
experienced,
and
inhabited
off
and

on
for
80
years;
ours
was
a
valley
we
“discovered”
with
evident
diachronic
habitation
and

enduring
connections
to
a
broader
world,
devoid
of
human
activity
in
the
present.

One
of

the
products
of
our
work
in
the
valley
was
a
two‐dimensional
map
representing
the

modern
houses
and
features,
and
premodern
sites;
Mr.
Perras’
life
of
work
there
gave
him

an
intimate
knowledge
of
the
houses
and
the
families
who
inhabited
them,
the
vanished

places
we
could
not
see;
he
could
distinguish
places
associated
with
his
ancestors
and

structures,
like
the
olive
press,
which
were
“ancient.”

And
yet,
he
was
also
clearly
curious

in
our
work
in
the
lakka
just
as
we
were
interested
in
his
knowledge
of
this
local
world.


The
valley
established
a
common
place
for
this
interaction,
even
if
the
nature
of
our

landscapes
appeared
so
fundamentally
different.


In
the
end,
the
different
modes
of
documentation
discussed
in
this
paper
foreground

the
landscape
as
a
relational
entity
dependent
upon
overlapping
spatial,
temporal,

conceptual,
and
representational
points
of
reference.

We
hope
that
our
work
provides
a

context
for
the
archaeology
of
Modern
Greece
as
a
discipline
of
its
own
and
highlights
the

modern
period
as
one
which
can
provide
important
historical
and
theoretical
observations

in
its
own
right.

In
particular,
we
see
our
study
as
providing
significant
new
ways
of

looking
at
landscape
in
le
longue
durée
in
Greece
and,
in
keeping
with
the
Annalistes’
basic

propositions,
showing
how
this
small
place
in
southern
Greece
may
contribute
discrete
and

specific
information
for
historians,
social
scientists,
and
others
seeking
new
ways
to
look
at

society
and
social
change
in
the
modern
era.