And then you are at the Odeon of Herodes Atticus, evidence that, though the Romans weren’t welcome when they took over in 146BC, they did their bit to keep Athens looking good. Atticus was a Roman consul who, on his wife’s death, did two things: he painted his house black, then built this 5,000-seat concert hall in her memory.

Much survives, including half the four-storey stone back-drop and seating steeper than the sides of a salad bowl. The grand-scale intimacy was perfect for musical shows. Still is, apparently. Rostropovich performed here in recent times. So did Diana Ross and, in 1994, the Greek-born American superstar Yanni.

Now, you are at the top — the Acropolis proper. Folk had lived up here from neolithic times. By the 6th century BC, though, it was a solely religious site, covered with temples, which rampaging Persians smashed in 480BC. It didn’t do them much good. The Greeks saw them off later that year at the sea battle of Salamis. To celebrate their ascendancy, Pericles pushed through the fantastic building programme, the remains of which are next.

Though principally in honour of Athena, the Acropolis programme included nods to other gods, notably Poseidon. Ponder this as you tackle the last few steps, then turn for a stupendous view over Pnika hill to Piraeus. Turn back, and you are at the Propylaea, the monumental gate to the site. You have joined up with the main-entry crowds, but they all seem to gallop through here, so stand to one side and take it in.

Though presently covered in scaffolding, the gate’s grandeur is unmistakable. It had to be big, if only to let through the great, four-yearly Panathenaic festival procession that wound up from the city below, bringing cattle and sheep for sacrifice.

It still seems to herald something sacred, with its central block, flanking wings and forest of columns fore and aft. Just before going through, look right to the Temple of Athena Nike, standing out on its own platform. It is currently closed for rebuilding, but you can still see that, though small, the temple is perfectly formed.

NOW YOU are in the Acropolis and heading straight for the Parthenon. Battered, bruised and trimmed with cranes winching bits back into place, it still exerts an attraction equalled by no building I know.

You may not enter, or even get too close. No matter. Start at the west end and gaze at the eight Doric columns and entablature and pediment above. Walk down the 70-metre, 17-column side to the eastern entrance, and back up the other side.

What you are seeing is not even half a building: in 1687, besieging Venetians scored a direct hit, so demolishing the roof, 14 outer columns and the complex inner structure of rooms, where a 40-foot gold-and-ivory statue of Athena had presided.

More than a century later, Lord Elgin made off with magnificent statuary and chunks of the 160-metre frieze that ran all round the wall within the columns. Strangely, though, the building appears neither diminished nor pitiful.

So much for the broad sweep. For the detail, nip into the Acropolis Museum at the Parthenon’s eastern end: it houses a superb collection of sculpture. Note the gradual change from stylised and smiling to lifelike and frowning.

The next room has what’s left of the Parthenon frieze. Depicting the Panathenaic procession in lively fashion, it reads like a comic strip.

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