EMBORIOS  for the culture of kasos

The new Tiria are left to drain until tomorrow. Then, they will be placed alongside others on one of the boards that hang just below the rafters, in the smoky atmosphere that keeps the flies away. When they are dryer still, they will go into the brine barrel for a few days. The ancient methods of preservation – salting, smoking and drying – work as well today as they ever have.

In the cauldron on the hearth the whey is waiting. The hard cheese (Tiri) is made, but now it's time to make Mizithra – a soft one, similar to Ricotta. For this, some of today's milk is measured into the whey. It has been neither skimmed nor heated – it is used fresh. The taralis is put away and the “kalamousis” goes into action. Finished with a small bundle of dried thyme twigs this brush-tipped stirrer prevents the sensitive mixture from burning onto the bottom of the cauldron.

Mizithra is made at a higher temperature than Tiri, and the aglitis sieving basket cannot be used to lift it out when it's ready – it would burn the maker's hands. So a pierced spoon is used instead. This time the traditional moulds (toupia) are used, and the cheese is not turned. Evangellia, Michali's wife, knows the exact spot where the “vourlo” grows at Ai Giorgi tis Vrisis (St George of the spring). This is the plant that is used for the delicate, open weave of the basket moulds.

On the drying boards, older Mizithres are steadily developing their characteristic outer covering of greeny-blue mould. Once they have matured sufficiently this will be cleaned off, and the cheeses preserved in “elaiki”. This is done by filling a container with Mizithres packed together as tightly as possible, then pouring melted kaouli (butter) in among them, to expel the air and keep the cheeses fresh and sweet.

Outside the two dogs are keeping to the shade beside the wall. They nap with one ear cocked for the sounds that signal cheese-making is done for the day. That means the whey (houmas) will soon be carried outside. It's very good for cleaning the trays, pans and cauldron. And there may always be a few scraps of cheese that somehow never made it into the moulds. Viros has been creeping inside the mitato at regular intervals to check, (only to be driven unceremoniously out again), while Skapinis, who is proudly sporting a swollen eye that he got in a recent fight, has remained outside. Since he belonged to Michali and Manoli's brother, Giorgis, who died last year, he is particularly treasured. Being a seasoned campaigner, he carries himself with the dignity his position in the family confers. He will join Viros to accompany Manoli on the long walk home.

At Agios Haralambos Maria and Giorgalis Mariakis have been making cheese all morning in one of the family's traditional stone-built mitato, but now Giorgalis is sitting by the hearth of a more recently built one, constructed of cement blocks, heating milk for tomorrow. He is using a “vagiatis” the traditional palm-frond stirring stick that has a good, broad tip that won't scratch the bottom of the cauldron. His cheeses come out a little more rounded than Michali and Manoli's ones – each maker has his own touch and style – but the method and equipment are essentially the same.

Everywhere the stockmen are masters of recycling and re-use. Maria does not like wasting the houmas that is left over at the end of the cheese-making process, so she takes us over to a natural cave, just nearby, to show us her latest scheme. In the gloom the glint of two pairs of eyes is only just discernible. We have unfamiliar voices, and the owners of the eyes are shy. Maria climbs down into the large opening whose depths will stay mercifully cool, even at the height of summer. A little gentle encouragement from her, and faces form around the beady eyes. They belong to a couple of piglets; one pink, one black. They look up at us, wondering if we have brought them an unscheduled meal of whey, which they love. But we have not, and they soon retreat into the shadows, disappointed.

On the road back down the mountain we pass Manoli and the dogs, but he's not going home yet; his day's work is not done. Today it is his turn to stop above Poli to keep the herds out of the villagers' olive groves and vegetable patches. Fed and watered as they are, the goats have learned that there is good foraging to be had down there, and, being resourceful creatures as well as natural athletes, they can often find a way past the most resolute of defences. So at this time of the year, when the hillside pastures are no longer good, either Manoli or Niania will stand guard till dusk.

Similar scenes are being enacted all over the eastern end of Kasos. The mitata at Maritsa can be seen from the air as the plane from Karpathos comes in to land. Scattered over the hillside are those of the Aspras, Bonapartis, Koutlakis, and Papageorgiou families, among others. The tractors can only go so far, after that it's a trek on foot.

Giorgos and Georgia Bonapartis are heating milk for tomorrow. Inside their mitato the walls have never been plastered; a deliberate choice that allows better circulation of air round the drying cheeses. Giorgos is also doing some shearing in the fold outside, and a group of ewes is huddled there looking – there is no other word for it – distinctly sheepish. Each will be hobbled in turn, and laid on the ground to be relieved of its fleece. It doesn't take long to do, but although Giorgos is as expert as any of the stockmen with the clippers, it's clearly an ordeal for the animals. Fleeces are bundled and bagged but there is very little demand for them and prices at market are below cost. The shearing is done mostly for the sake of the animals themselves.

Koulitsa Bonapartis is the last of the Kasiot weavers. She alone uses the fleeces to spin her yarn and then works it on the loom at her home in Agia Marina, making the heavy blankets (chramia) that hang on beams over the soufades in all the traditional island homes. It is to her mitato that we climb next, and the way is steep and stony with only the merest trace of a track to follow. So it is a good thing that the whole Bonapartis family is out on the terrace calling down instructions to us as we slowly make our way up. Koulitsa has produced a feast by the time we all make it to the top and as we sit drinking coffee round a table heaped with drilla, cheeses, kouloures and tourtes, the view is breathtaking. The ground falls away at our feet; far below are other mitata and then the sea. The rock, Kolophonas, sits quietly today, and Karpathos is shrouded in mist.

Indoors the day's cheeses sit draining. Gianni has made Feta as well as Tiri. The famous Sitaka will come a little later in the season, when the milk is no longer as rich and plentiful. It takes eight hours of absolutely continuous stirring to make Sitaka, so it is a truly Herculean labour, but the end result – a soft orangey-brown cheese – is so delicious combined into the pasta-based dish “Makarounes me Sitaka” that the effort is considered worthwhile.

Psilos gets up, unfolding the long, slim frame that has given him his nickname. He can hear his goats coming off the hill on their way to the cistern, so he goes down, stepping sure-footedly over the rocks, to meet them and draw them some water. Every mitato has such a cistern – sometimes more than one. They gather the winter's rainwater, and the ground around their lip is cleared and shaped to channel in as much of it as possible. A bundle of dry thyme or thickly matted thorn is often stuffed into the opening to act as a sieve, and prevent too much debris from rolling in with the water. If the cisterns run dry, as they may towards the end of the summer, all the water that's needed will have to be carried up here.

A final visit takes us up to the mitato of Philippos and Erginia Bonaparti. Erginia spots us as we approach and hastily re-ties her kerchief to make herself presentable. Her brother shows us their cheeses with the same pride and friendly welcome we have seen at each of the huts we have been to, so it is a joy to be able to offer Erginia a lift back into town.

All of the products made in Kasos are pure, wholesome and delicious, and all the islanders consume them with passionate delight. Equally, Kasiotes of the diaspora long for a taste of them, as there is nothing like a long-remembered scent and flavour to make you know, beyond any possible doubt, that you are home.

Anna Stamatiou

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