Columns and Ruins: Standing in the Ancient World

Some ruins are so old that our idea of “old” stops making sense. Here in the South, we call a house old if it went up before the Second World War. We call a church historic if it saw the Civil War. Then you stand among columns that were already ancient when the first Europeans crossed the Atlantic, and suddenly every measuring stick you’ve ever used snaps in half.

Standing among ancient columns, I thought about every student who asked, “Why does this matter?” I heard that question more times than I can count in thirty-four years of teaching world history. I always had an answer ready, but I’ll confess it was a textbook answer. Last fall, on a trip through Greece and southern Italy with my wife, Margaret, I finally found a better one. It came to me on a hillside at dawn, with my hand on a stone that had been warm in the sun for two thousand years.

The scale of deep time

The hardest thing to teach about the ancient world is how long ago it really was. Two thousand years is a number on a timeline. You write it on the board, the students copy it down and nobody really feels it. I used to try tricks: if every year were a single step, two thousand years would be a walk of about a mile. That helped a little. But nothing prepared me for what it actually feels like to stand there.

The first ruin we visited was a temple on a hilltop, its columns weathered to the color of old honey. Some still stood at full height. Others lay in pieces on the ground, their drums scattered like giant spools of thread. I walked up to one and put my palm flat against it. Someone had carved that stone with hand tools, hauled it up that hill and fitted it into place before almost anything I’d ever taught about had happened. The stone didn’t care about any of it. It was just warm, and solid, and there.

Go early or late

Morning and evening light makes the stone glow, and the crowds are thinner. This is the most practical advice I can give anyone visiting ancient sites, and I learned it the hard way. On our first day, we arrived at a famous site at eleven in the morning, along with what seemed like every tour bus in the country. It was hot, crowded and loud, and I came away remembering more elbows than columns.

The next morning, we arrived just as the gates opened. The air was cool, the light was soft and gold and for nearly an hour we had whole sections of the site to ourselves. Birds were singing in the olive trees. A caretaker was sweeping a path. The columns threw long shadows across the ground, and the marble seemed to glow from the inside. It was like visiting a completely different place.

Practical tips for ancient sites

• Arrive at opening time. The first hour is the quietest and the coolest.
• Or stay late. Many sites are lovely in the hour before closing.
• Bring water and a hat. Ancient sites rarely have much shade.
• Wear sturdy shoes. Paths are often uneven stone, gravel or dirt.
• Buy tickets ahead. Popular sites may require timed entry in busy seasons.
• Pace yourself. If you have health concerns, ask your doctor before planning long, hot walks.

The ancient world is closer than you think. You can touch it.

Walter

Hire a local guide

They know the stories that never made it into my textbooks. I’m a little embarrassed to admit how much I learned from our guides. I’d assumed that after decades of teaching, I’d know most of what they had to say. I was wrong, and gladly so.

At one site, a guide named Eleni, who had grown up in the village below the ruins, showed us a set of tiny marks carved into the base of a column. They were the masons’ marks, she explained, little symbols each stonecutter used to sign his work so he’d be paid for it. I’d taught about these temples for years without ever knowing that the men who built them signed their names. Suddenly, the columns weren’t monuments anymore. They were the work of particular people, with families and wages and probably sore backs.

At another site in southern Italy, a guide named Marco showed us ruts worn into a stone street by centuries of cart wheels, and a stepping stone placed so pedestrians could cross without stepping in the muck. He pointed out a bit of ancient graffiti on a wall, which he translated as something like “I was here, and the wine was terrible.” We laughed until we had to sit down.

What a good guide adds

1. Stories and details passed down locally that rarely appear in books.
2. The ability to read inscriptions, marks and symbols you’d otherwise miss.
3. Context about how a site was found, excavated and protected.
4. The best spots for quiet moments and photographs.
5. A human connection to the place, which is worth more than any fact.

Look for licensed guides through official site offices or reputable local tourism bureaus. Many offer small-group or private tours, and the cost is usually modest compared with what you’ll gain.

Why it matters, after all

On our last morning, I went back alone to that first hilltop temple at dawn. I sat on a fallen column and watched the sun come up over the hills, and I finally put into words the answer I wish I’d given all those students.

It matters because people were here. They built something they hoped would last, and it did. They worried about wages and the weather and whether the wine was any good. They argued, laughed, worshiped and grieved. They’re not so different from us. When we stand where they stood and touch what they made, we’re reminded that we’re part of a very long story, and that what we build and how we treat one another might matter to someone two thousand years from now.

That’s a lot to feel on a cold stone at six in the morning. But I felt it, and I’m grateful.

Margaret found me there an hour later with two cups of coffee from the little cafe by the gate. She didn’t ask what I’d been thinking about. After forty-odd years of marriage, she didn’t need to. We sat together on that fallen column and watched the first tour bus pull into the lot below, and then we walked down the hill, slowly, so we could keep looking back.

Key takeaway: Go early, hire a local guide and give yourself a quiet moment to simply stand among the stones and feel how close the past really is.

Bringing it home

I’ve given two talks about the trip at our county library since we got back, and both times, someone in the audience has asked whether a place two thousand years old has anything to do with a small Southern town. I tell them it does. The same impulse that raised those columns raised our courthouse, our churches and our old depot. People everywhere build things to say: we were here, and we hoped to stay. Learning to see that in the ancient world has helped me see it at home, too, and that may be the best souvenir I brought back.