We met at the 7th Mountain & Livestock Festival in Pityos. Yanis had been invited by the Chios Shepherds’ Association to demonstrate how people used to make tyrovolia from reeds — traditional woven baskets used for making myzithra, a soft whey cheese. “Come to the fold tomorrow,” he said when I greeted him. “Come, and I’ll show you how tyrovolia are made.”

I left my car at Agia Kyriaki and walked to “Grou’s Fold”, the sheepfold belonging to Yanis Boulas, the entrance to the “world of the shepherds” of Astyfydolakkos. I found him watering the goats. When he was done, we went to his little shelter. He brought out the reeds he had gathered from Delfini and sat down on the cot. “Come here and learn. I couldn’t show you properly there.”

Others may know the art of basket weaving, but this seventy-year-old shepherd is the only one who still actually makes tyrovolia to this day. “At our age, we’re not really supposed to be doing things like this anymore. I used to catch wild goats by the leg; now everything comes back around… Learn, because you never know what life brings. One day people will be looking for these as souvenirs, like in the old days, like ancient things. Whoever knows how to make them will sell them for fifty euros.”

I was unsuccessfully trying to make sense of the initial tangle that forms the base of the basket. How many strands are there? Which one is the gaitani? “You cross them and start. The gaitani is the one that goes round and round. The old people called it the ‘arse’; now they call it the bottom, and up here are the lips.” “Yanis, who taught you?” I asked. “People from Pityos taught me, a certain Kritoulis. But this weaving technique comes from Lithi, and it’s easier than the one from Pityos.”

He expertly makes the base and starts working his way upwards. The rest is easier and doesn’t require quite as much skill, so he suggests that I give it a try. “Put your hand inside, so it turns around your hand. You have to make 15 rounds to build it up. Up and down, up and down,” he instructs me. Sometimes I seem to be doing all right; other times I get completely tangled up. “If you do it wrong, I’ll fix it, don’t worry.” He leaves to water something — animals or vegetables, I’m not sure.

He comes back and sets about opening it up a little, because I had made it too narrow. “The finishing is easier, because it’s already made and it guides you along.” “How long does it take you to make a tyrovoli?” I asked. “If I sit down to do it, about an hour for one.” He weaves the rim of the tyrovoli and, just before trimming the loose reeds and handing it to me as a gift, he says with a smile to Antonis, who had arrived at the fold in the meantime: “So he can put it in his backpack, to put his eggs in.”

I took the tyrovoli, thanked him and was about to leave. “Have you got a shepherd’s staff?” he called out. “Here, take this one. It’s made from wild olive wood. The shepherd’s staff is the shepherd’s weapon.” Holding the tyrovoli in one hand and the staff in the other, I headed downhill towards Agia Kyriaki.

Yanis, you know what? I may never actually use the tyrovoli to carry eggs. But years from now, I know I’ll be taking your staff with me on my walks, and I’ll remember you, Antonis and Stavrini.