Where the Bells Still Sing: A visit to the last bell maker of Amfissa

Our van driver carefully wended his way through the narrow back alleys of Amfissa, Greece. We were searching for the workshop of Christos P. Papadimos, known as the last traditional bell maker in Greece. I expected to meet a wizened old man with white hair and a mild stoop. Instead, we were greeted by a lively man in his thirties, surrounded by his three young daughters.

Christos shows us a cow bell

It was hard to believe when Christos told us he’d been making bells for twenty years. The math didn’t seem to add up.

As it turns out, Christos began his craft in high school, when his next-door neighbor—a bell maker—invited him to help in the workshop. What started as after-school assistance soon became a lifelong passion. When he finished school, Christos continued working alongside his mentor and eventually took over the business after his neighbor passed away.

The bells Christos makes are traditional Kozani hammered bells, worn by goats, sheep, and cows. Lightweight and responsive to movement, they allow farmers and shepherds to track their animals from a distance. Christos explained that while sheep and cows tend to stay together, goats are far more mischievous and often wander off alone. To make it easier for shepherds to identify which goat has gone astray, he gives each goat bell its own distinct tone.

An assortment of bells and bell belts

The birth of a bell is a ritual of repetition and fire. A plain sheet of metal is cut, heated, and hammered, again and again, until it yields the desired shape. Then comes the bronze coating, a final alchemy that gives the bell its voice. Some customers ask for sets that ring in the same pitch—a task that demands as much precision as crafting a full set of goat bells, each with its own unique voice.

Some say these bells were the earliest form of GPS. I prefer to think of them as the original Find My app.

Yet even as his bells continue to echo across Greek hillsides, Christos fears that the art may end with him. When I suggested he teach his daughters, he shook his head gently. “It’s not for women,” he said, his tone resigned, though he hopes his nephew might one day take an interest. The real danger, I fear, lies not in gender but in the marketplace: mass-produced bells from Turkey are cheaper, even if they lack the warmth of the handmade.

Christos and his daughters outside the workshop

We were among only the second group ever to visit his workshop. Geographic Expeditions (GeoEx) and local guides had arranged a cultural encounter that few outsiders experience. Christos agreed, although somewhat hesitantly. But the visit with the first group went so well, that he eagerly anticipated our arrival. When we left, he stood in the doorway, his daughters at his side, grinning with a mix of pride and wonder. I hope he continues to open that door—to share the song of his hammers and the music of the bells before their echo fades into silence.

Sheep with bells and herding dogs, recorded on the side of a road

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