In the Dolphin's Wake

2011-06-08T13:08:00.000-07:00

IN THE DOLPHINS WAKE

Cocktails, Calamities and

Caiques in the Greek Islands

“… I very much enjoyed it, relished it loitering, laid-back style of writing as of travelling, and learnt a great deal from it along the way.” Jan Morris

“Harry Bucknall carries us by magic flights from the thousand birds of Saint Mark to the far distant Symplegades. It's a lovely book.” Paddy Leigh Fermor

In The Dolphin’s Wake is the tale of Harry Bucknall’s travels from Venice in the West to Istanbul in the East: a journey across the Aegean of over 8,000 kilometres that included the glories of Mount Athos, 36 islands and every island chain in the Greek Archipelago; 57 sea passages on 35 ferries, 4 landing craft, 3 hydrofoils, a fishing caique, a sea plane, 11 buses, 2 trains, an open top Land Rover and a duck egg blue 1961 Morris Oxford.

Recounted with humour, pathos and at times drama, In the Dolphin's Wake is not only a journey through the Greek islands but also a journey through Greek history, mythology, custom and folklore – a Greek Island companion loaded with adventure, mishap and laughter offering the reader a contemporary image of Aegean life today.

In The Dolphin’s Wake (ISBN: 978-1-903071-34-2) is published by Bene Factum Publishing (www.bene-factum.co.uk) at £7.99

eBook ISBNs:

Epub edition: 978-1-903071-38-0

Prc/mobi edition: 978-1-903071-39-7

Available by 1^st July at £7.19 inc VAT.

2007-07-11T03:26:00.000-07:00

The Monastery of Simonaspetra, Mount Athos

2007-07-11T03:17:00.000-07:00

Looking across to Turkey: Mytilene's own Statue of Liberty,

celebrating the end of Ottoman rule in 1912

2007-06-02T09:42:00.000-07:00

... a perfect evening at sea - passage from Samos to Chios.

2007-05-28T08:13:00.000-07:00

Rupert Brooke's Grave

2007-05-13T14:07:00.000-07:00

The Monastery of Profit Ilias, Hydra

2007-05-01T04:22:00.000-07:00

On the bridge of High Speed 1

2007-04-25T09:22:00.000-07:00

The Naxian Lions on Delos

2007-04-25T08:51:00.000-07:00

Mykonos - like no other island in Greece!

2007-04-11T10:40:00.000-07:00

The Express Skopelitis,

the little ferry that keeps the Little Cyclades alive,

fitted with one of the best drawing rooms in Greece.

2007-03-29T01:41:00.000-07:00

The icon of the Panagia inexorably made its chaotic way

down Tinos hill.

2007-03-22T09:52:00.000-07:00

Naoussa Harbour, Paros

2007-03-08T10:24:00.000-08:00

Sam - dont be fooled by appearances...!

2006-11-01T03:20:00.000-08:00

Abandoned Temple Portal, Naxos Harbour

2006-11-01T03:13:00.000-08:00

Unfinished Kouros at Melanes, Naxos

2006-10-31T06:07:00.000-08:00

IOS!

2006-10-31T05:48:00.000-08:00

Looking across the rim of the caldera to Thira, capital of Santorini

2006-10-31T05:37:00.000-08:00

Harry Hatzidakis and his vines on Santorini

2006-10-30T12:45:00.000-08:00

Marathi - so tiny, you won't find it on most maps

2006-10-30T12:13:00.000-08:00

The Aspro Nisi (White Islands) as seen from Lipsi

2006-10-25T04:16:00.000-07:00

The Battlements of the Holy Monastery of St John, on top of Patmos

THE HOLY ISLAND OF PATMOS

2006-10-25T04:07:00.000-07:00

Excerpts from Notebook 6

Let me now, as I sit here on Samothraki looking out on the Thracian Sea, freezing my now not so little backside off (I have put on over a stone since I left – so much for the Greek diet), take you to the island of Patmos; the most Northern of the Dodecanese.

Patmos is special, like the finest of wines drunk in the company of the best of friends; its effects and influences were to be felt, and continue to be so, throughout the rest of my journey.

It is dominated by the most impressive Monastery of St John atop the hill and about the confines of the Hora, the old town. Here live the great, good, the beautiful and the rich. This is largely due to the influence of a wonderful Englishman, Teddy Millington-Drake who is largely responsible for putting the then rather rundown island back on the map after the war. Sadly, Mr. Millington-Drake is no longer with us, taken at an early age (as is always the case). The eleganti still talk of him glowingly and his spirit lives on in the young filled bars, cafes and nightclubs of the Hora. He was evidently a man who loved life and whose energy and love for such touched everyone he met. His spirit ran through the tiny narrow streets and gave the place an almost electric atmosphere as a result.

Patmos is the island where St John the Theologian, at the age of 92, was exiled. It was here he saw the Apocalypse in a tiny cave half way up the Mountain on top of which sits the Monastery of St John founded in the 11th Century by St Christodulous (?) under imperial charter from the Byzantine Emperor Alexi Komminos.

Anyway, St John was one of the original Twelve Disciples of Jesus and to Patmos he was banished. You will have to wait til I get back to England, if anyone actually reads this, to discover who banished him there but all I can say is that at 92, we will probably all be having odd dreams, but may God bless him for living beyond that great age and for what he told us as a result. Readers of Dan Brown’s Da Vinci Codes will be only too aware how the Christian Church gratefully received texts such as the Apocalypse because they could be used as finger wagging proof that if you didn’t behave, beware what was to befall you. In actual fact, the texts which St John was to dictate to his faithful Monk Scribe, Prohoras, were aimed at seven Churches. The Seven Churches were: Philadelphia, Smyrna (Izmir today), Ephesus, Pergamum, Laodicea, Thyatira and Sardis. These effectively represented the extent of the Christian world at the time, so if you think because you live in Shanghai, New York or London it lets you off the hook, forget it.

It was also here that I met Father Martinionos. For this I blame Father Serraphim, a monk of the Monastery who simply suggested I meet him because his English was better than anyone else's. Of Father Martinionos you will read much more for he, like many Monks, is a great man among men and someone who perhaps in life we only get to meet once or, if we are exceptionally lucky, may be twice. As is my wont, I bowl into the Monastery courtyard and there is a jolly Monk, all black robes and beard with the bearing not unlike a “P’lice man” from one of those 1930s Underground Railways posters and I ask him for “Father Martinionos please…”

“I am he, my Son, how can I help you?” A thick Greek accent replies from within the huge theatre curtain like beard hung about his face.

And with those rather magical words so a friendship that I suppose will last a lifetime began. A huge man, Father “Mart”, both physically and in spirit. I will tell you his incredible story from the very high life to an even “higher” life at a later date, he has an aura of love and God about him that touched me from the very moment I met him. He is not without character, he is never without love and if ever God’s instrument on earth was to be in the flesh, surely it must be part in him. No dullard, I will take great pleasure in telling you all about this special person who is loved by so many and perhaps with whom my most special times lie ahead as I prepare to go the Holy Mountain, Mount Athos.

Before I met Father Martinionos…

"...At Harrow, the Reverend Gamble used to remind us how virtuous we should feel for going to Holy Communion at 8 o’clock on a Sunday morning, returning with an almost Saintly glow for deeds well done. It is a vision which continually sits with me as routinely, every bloody Sunday at home in Dorset I get up way too early for someone who hates getting up and trudge off to St Nicholas, where I was baptised, to largely sleep through prayers before receiving Communion and, for a slug of wine, feeling considerably better as a result and thence, heading home for a good breakfast.

So it was, on Carolyn’s advice that I struggled up that pig of a Byzantine Path to the Church of the Cave to go to early morning Mass that Sunday morning. Let me tell you that I was far from religious as I got up at 6 o’ blasted clock and less so as I sweated up that unforgiving hill. It was already hot. St John was no fool and I reckon he told Prohoras, “alright chum, we have gone quite far enough as it is, this is the place of my dreams – summits are for Nepalis in need of money and nice New Zealanders trying to make a point.”

….at cock crow, Sunday morning, I was up, the island, this special island, swathed in a blanket of pink as dawn nudged the day gently into life. This, I knew, would be a little jaunt that would be good for the Soul. Well, my soul at any rate. The path was not as easy at that hour I had imagined, or was it the Holy Vodka the night before? Not so Holy perhaps. Outside the tiny Chapel, I danced about as I stripped my shorts off to put some trousers on, praying, seriously praying that as I hopped about trying to get decent, noone would see me in all my effective nakedness – now was not a time for underwear you see, too hot.

Inside the Chapel of St Ann and the Cave of the Apocalypse it was humbling to think that here the final Book of the Holy Bible, the Revelations, was dictated to Prohoras, in the vision experienced by St John. This, his second book of the Bible. Regardless as to whether you believe the Revelations or not, that this place has been venerated for very nearly 2000 years is nonetheless remarkable. The smooth darkened crack of the three way fissure in the Cave ceiling through which St John heard the trumpet call and the voice of God is clearly there for all to see, the hollow in the rock where he laid his head and the nick he used as a hand hold to get up, the ledge used by Prohoras to record the words dictated to him. In those far off times, the Cave must have been a desolate windswept place, bare fronted, open to the elements. And yet a then more peaceful and isolated spot for reflection in those oft persecuted times I doubt you would have found. In the Book of Revelation, we have the only insight as to what God may look like, appearing as a bearded man (?). He gave instructions to St John that he was to record what he heard and saw and then send these instructions to the Seven Churches in Asia Minor (latter day Turkey effectively, see above). The painted iconistas (altar screen) is, in its own right, famous for being painted by Thomas Vathos in 1500 tells the story intricately.

I found it difficult not to be touched by what I saw before me. The thought that here I was standing in a spot where it is known, not believed, but physically known, that one of Jesus’s disciples lived for 18 months and wrote his second Book of the Bible which makes up the New Testament quite simply, remarkable.

Discussions at home with Sir JohnTaverner had prepared me that the Liturgy of the Greek Orthodox Church was a long haul and that there were, shall we say, “short cuts” (like turning up at the very end) but perhaps not as long as even I had anticipated. Two and a half hours. Like hello Virtuosity! This was a back breaking marathon. In front of me was an aged Maria look alike straight out of “The Sound of Music” who clearly knew what she was doing, so much so that she hissed and snaped at the exquisitely polite Belgian diplomat next to me as he eitherr made too much noise flicking the pages of his prayer book in bewilderment or sat down when he should have stood up. Like in the Army, I quickly learnt just to follow what “Maria” was doing even though Idont think the Father officiating could realy give a damn what we did – one thing for sure was that in her I had met my Kurt Waldheim, so best watch out. Thanks to her glowing example, and let me tell you she made St John himself look like a veteran gambler of the worst sort (there is hope for me yet), I stood up, sat down and crossed myself at all the right moments, I think.

The passage of this inordinately long time in Church was made all the more easier by one thing and one thing alone: cruise ships!! Yes, cruise ships! Because, you see, cruise ships, full of lovely fare paying pilgrims and the not so pilgrimistic but plain curious tourists (Heh, Bartholomew, will you get a look at that crack man?!” – Have I ever lied to you?....) serve, amongst other things (like oodles of land) to make the Monastery one of the richest places on earth, or Greece at any rate and each “pilgrim” (Marcey, can you help me here, what’s a pilgrim?”) unwittingly contributes handsomely to the wealth of the Monastery. That morning, part of the reason I was up so early was to beat the “Cruise Ship” and the endless parade of buses rushing up the hill to “do” the Cave and then the Monastery.

Nothing prepared me for the parade I was to be treated to; I mean stuff Julie Andrews hissing and cussing in front of me, this was sheer Broadway! Disinterested, “Mom, why do we have to get up sooo early, I mean its just like a ..well… cave!” “Shut up Son, the Lord came here!” “Yeah but not at 7am on a Sunday I bet and at least with a caffeee I reckon.” It was like a fashion show and any idea of the service being a spiritual experience in the presence of God soon left me after the second tour guide arrived, “en plein masse”, with her Argo Tours ping pong bat held high and started proclaiming the Holy Cave like she was in an aircraft cabin giving a safety brief. “Mind your heads please, CRACK, oops, Mr Miller, I told you, the cave is very low. Look up left, the crack, look right the nook, look in front the ledge. In case we crash on water your lifebelt is under your seat..” “What dear?” “Oh sorry, its Sunday, we are on land..” You can imagine. Meantime, too many bewildered old Wilmers and stooped prunes of Barbaras were clonking and branging their heads against the “Goddam cave” to keep me from falling asleep. All the while, the diligent Father kept about his business chanting the Liturgy, this beautiful service, as if nothing was going on out of the norm. “Heh Bob, check this, this is the crack!” “He really slept here”, they sometimes whispered and hissed now as trippers of quite literally all shapes, sizes, ages, colour and, I suppose, creed filed past like convicts in a passing chain gang on a fashion show not of their choice. Being early in the day buy anyone’s book, a few of the poor souls were still half asleep and of the 120 who passed through, I counted at least 5 who cracked their heads a “good’un” on the way by. That’s one in 4 who didn’t pay attention to the guide... “ouch, Fuck, I mean Oh Christ! I mean, oh er…Mom….!” “Edgar, you will wash your mouth out in the House of the Lord!” "

2006-10-18T09:41:00.000-07:00

Aliki Hotel, Symi

2006-10-18T09:23:00.000-07:00

Jeffery and Jane at Santa Marina Bay

2006-10-18T09:02:00.000-07:00

The baobab tree, in the garden of Villa Cleobolus, Rhodes

2006-09-29T10:06:00.000-07:00

Olympos Village and the road to it: a work in progress, if ever...

Road blockage....and the new car....

2006-09-29T09:47:00.000-07:00

Kassos - a rock in the sea....

2006-08-26T05:12:00.000-07:00

PLEASE DRINK THE BELL & WAIT...

message on my hotel gate, Central Crete
The Mountains of Crete, near Axos

2006-08-26T05:01:00.000-07:00

Potamos, Antikythera

2006-08-17T03:23:00.000-07:00

East Coast Kythera

Wreck of the "Nordland" off Kythera

PADDY AND THE BLACK CAVE

2006-08-12T04:08:00.000-07:00

Excerpts from Notebook 3 – Kythira

Paddy asks if I would like to join him caving off the East Coast of Kythera. In this instance, “caving” is not some technical form of underground mountaineering as you would sedately expect down some hole in the Mendip Hills of Somerset but a Beeley test of visitor’s mettle as you are first warmed up with tales of conger eel (“nothing, really nothing”) and rising waves. I am none too keen to perhaps undergo this trial of my character but could never let on as I would never be let off the Beeley family hook for the rest of the days that my little footsteps could be heard wandering this earth.

Paddy calls to apologise that he has been delayed as he was asked to help mediate over a dispute between two neighbours and one of whom now owned a ravenous goat that had developed a passion for the other neighbour’s olive trees. So, an hour or so late, we meet on the long deserted beach that is our launch point for the Black Cave. In truth, I suspect that Paddy just got lost, as he always does and was making polite excuses as usual.

As ever, annoyingly jovial, Paddy dons a mask and flippers and with a torch we swim out from the shingled shoreline, hugging the rocky coast as we go, the swell slapping the rocks forcefully and rhythmically. Him like an otter, me like a struggling tug boat in a high sea. Perhaps, as we swim along, this is as good a time as we will find to tell you that swimming, and I mean swimming with a capital “S” is really not my thing. Splosh about in the sea or a pool (even better) is just me, but to swim, I mean pull away from a sinking ship stuff is just not me really. I cant do the crawl, my mouth fills up with water and after three strokes I am as good as dead as my lungs are half full of water and my mouth looks like a distended drowned plastic bag. Another couple of strokes and I am usually on my way to shake hands with Neptune’s housekeeper. So, we swim along and I am trying to convince myself that all this commando stuff is one long happy wheeze and all the long there’s Paddy chit chatting away as if we were on a bus.

Let me explain, that swimming in flippers and swimming without flippers is like racing a Ferrari in a bread van, so there I am , sedately breast stroking away while in the fast lane the classicist is talking some mumbo jumbo about gerunds, accusatives and ablatives and I am doing my best to, well, just stay afloat and, inconceivably,illogically, move away from dry land really.

At last, “this cave we call the growly cave because”, and this will shock you, “it growls at you” and so it was that we swam under a most impressive huge dark granite arch that would be the envy of any medieval cathedral architect. Black menacing it hung over us as in its presence we became inconsequential beings both in time and stature as it lorded its domain in the bay. Your every word bounces off the once volcanic nave and Paddy indicated two small darkened triangles to the rear of the gaping entrance that were intermittently obscured by the steady but unpredictable rise and fall of the sea. In we slipped.

Feeling our way with our hands along the smooth wave polished ceiling, we dived in under the water until, mercifully, up we came into an inner chamber, icy cold and dark the water slapping the cave in a thick porridge like thwack, no more the frivolous little waves of the bay in the tightened space of here. On, through another nook, we swim into a smaller chamber, the cave’s inner sanctum, just room for two little heads. Cramped, solemn, quiet, dark save one shard of light, confining it is not somewhere I would linger and, thankfully, Paddy neither. We swim out in a sort of treading water doggy paddle , the way lit by the light form without like some stage spot.

Phoo..it was good to be out in the open, the feeling of liberation sweeping over me and to squint eyes in the brightness of the sea, like coming out into day after a matinee film at the cinema. Paddy, spurred on, declares that that was a taster and so “now, the Black Cave!” Damn, I should have practised my drowning routine in the shower beforehand. So, blithely on we press, or rather swim; Paddy like a small motorboat me like a pedalo with damaged paddles. Lucky I wasn’t on the Titanic and I think I now know why I didn’t join the Royal Navy. Fortunately, the adrenalin of the last little dive cancelled out the fatigue of the cold and distance we had swum and at this stage I was not in a position to give Paddy the pleasure of swerving at the last fence.

The Black Cave was a stupendous proscenium of ribboned sinister volcanic rock, vaulted like the ceiling of a castle’s banqueting halls it stretched back like an extrovert gymnast showing off, muscular, athletic and unforgiving. In its upper stories, I detect a hint of movement, an unevenous of colour that attracts my eye. There it is again. I clap my hands, the echo cracking about the space and three startled rock dove bolt their ledge looking like dusty miners leaving their seam after a day on the coal face. Even the sea in its mighty presence felt inconsequential in its presence. In the far corner of this macabre new world I found myself illogically swimming into an angled dagger of a crack sticking up like some ill thrust assault.

Gingerly, we swam through the angular opening, Paddy’s torch picking out the rock that shone in the concentrated beam like freshly spilt oil. The sea had gone quiet, just a meaningful powerful slurp as if it too was trapped and working out its own escape. Within, it is impossible to see so I swim close behind Paddy to benefit from the light of his torch beam which flicks across the rock face ahead and gets caught in the water from time to time turning it a weird split second milky golden green. Suddenly, Paddy yelps, “what was that?!” “Just me brushing your flipper”, I reassure him. He ducks his head under the water, mask and torch into the black below. I am quietly concentrating on just keeping close to the light and to the tenacious sliver of security that is Paddy given that he has been in this cave before.

A flick interrupts the beam. As quick as a bird crossing a headlight.

“Turn round and swim, Harry”.
“What do you mean?”
“Turn round and swim”. Quiet, suddenly authoritarian but without losing any of its charm Paddy was hard on my now kicking heels. It was clear by the insistent but calm tone of his voice that this was no time to discuss, just to do. I was suddenly conscious of the cold deep below me, I hadn’t a clue how far below the cave reached or quite how tight a chamber we were in, dimension became an irrelevance as I knew we just had to get out. Fast. We called to each other as we swam making sure neither was in difficulty. Fast, fast, I pulled away at the black wet before me with that renewed vigor and energy you can only find at testing moments like this. The light, reach for the light as it leapt and danced at me in the sea’s rise and fall teasingly in the short distance.

Now out in the main cave, sea all around us, glorious sea, refreshing sea, I was suddenly aware of a pungent smell of stinking fish and Paddy, gasping, confirmed my instinct, “Seal, big female with a pup, about the size of you and me together. Fishermen had told me that sometimes they use the caves but I have never seen one so close before. She could have given us a nasty bite. I am not sure who was more frightened, I expect she got out before we did and well below us”.

Sea weed wafted my shoulder. “Aargh” I leap, “Christ, what?!!” Paddy jumps. “Nothing, just sea weed” I relax back at him. We swim on rather silently, for once, and swiftly toward land, mercifully Paddy has had his fill of adventure swimming for the day.
Short of the beach, we tread water for a few minutes chatting quite nonchalantly as if in the Royal Enclosure at Ascot, about this and that but nothing to let on that we had just had the living daylights scared out of us in the island’s darkened watery recesses.
Subconsciously, I suppose, it was our way of regaining composure before trying to stagger out of the water elegantly. Let me reassure those of you who have never swum off the sea at Brighton, trying to exit the water onto a pebble beach is never elegant. You could be Margot Fonteyn and Nureyev joined at the hip, Dacey Bussel and Adam Cooper in full flight and still make it look like you were losing the three legged race badly. General Macarthur would never have said “I shall return” if he was going to land on a pebble beach. So, despite regaining some breath, to the shore we staggered like two old drunk men after a good night on the town who had lost their sticks and swallowed their false teeth in the process. Soldiers of the Queen...

AT LAST KYTHERA AND SOMEONE'S 15 MINUTES OF FAME!

2006-08-12T03:55:00.000-07:00

We are now heading out of the Ionian Sea toward the Sea of Crete, a tortuous journey which involves, for the sake of ease and simplicity on my part, a bus ride all the way East across Greece to Athens, and then South to the little port of Neapoli, on the very Southern most tip of the Peloponnese, where, after an over night stop, I will board a ferry and steam into the Sea of Crete, bound for the island of Kithera. Everyday moving further South and everyday moving towards the Aegean, the very heart of the Greek Islands.

The bus to Neapoli was about 7 hours in total. I had the dubious pleasure of sitting next to an elderly and scented man – scented form his armpits and scented from both his mouth and voluminous rear which seemed to work alternately and sometimes, suffocatingly, together. Bodily functions of which the old boy either didn’t know were malfunctioning or was too brazen to care. Whatever, I was getting the full benefit. Worse, the bus was full, I could nt move seat either. Through the lush broad fertile plains of Sparta, over steep mountain ridges, passing hillside monasteries, shepherds tending sheep and goats. Through vertiginous passes affording breathtaking vistas of wooded mountain scenery in the soft evening light, as we headed toward Sparta itself.

The journey to Kithera, involving an overnight stop to boot is almost medieval in its execution. Like changing horses at a coaching inn.
Neapoli & the finest dinner in Europe.

Nearly 11 that night we reached Neapoli – 13 hours on a bus in total from Zakinthos, 15 hours on the road and still not reached Kithera. I am exhausted. Neapoli, not unsurprisingly, has taken on a Nirvan-esque mantle as a consequence, like a haven for a tired swallow in need of rest on its migration. To me it seems a rather wonderful place, simple, unpretentious, unspoilt and very Greek. It is a friendly, sleepy town, on the water’s edge and full of character. After booking into the Hotel Aivali, an evocative little family run hotel with sepia prints of the little harbour in the 1930s and 1950s adorning the wall, I made my way out into the night to find something to eat – I could hardly walk I was so wrung out. Across the road, adjoining the beach was a tiny shelter of a taverna, O Volas where a couple of dark bearded hard’uns were having what looked to be the last beer of the evening before heading off into the darkness to seriously do someone over. I was bid to sit down and, a refreshing Heineken by my side, I suddenly realised I had left my book in my room. The old taverna keeper told me not to worry, he would put my beer and its glass back in the fridge for when I came back. To my shattered mind, it was such a genuine heartfelt gesture, a small act of kindness, trust and humanity. My much needed beer was even more refreshing on my return to the table for a meal of which I cannot remember what but one that was so revitalising and rekindling that I merely relay it for that simple act on the wonderful old boy’s part. A small token which has a significance in my memory out of all proportion: it perhaps goes to show that its not always the meal that counts, its as much the spirit and atmosphere within which it is served – ask me later when we reach Symi about a delicious dinner served with all the feeling and warmth of Uncle Fester and Frankenstein’s Monster.

The Hotel Aivali is full of character and charm. At breakfast the owner comes to me, puts his hand on my arm and asks me what I want for breakfast, showing me the Kithera ferry at rest at her mooring across the bay. “We will wait to see if she comes round”. I ask what happens if she doesn’t “come round”. “Taxi?” “No, there is no taxi, I find something for you, but now we wait and sea if she gonna come round.” Over my coffee, I could see the ferry dithering in the bay, almost teasing the passengers with their bags, cases, boxes, crates, freight & cargoes destined for Kithera. First she was stern in, then stern out, starboard on, starboard off, then …will she, wont she come over to the main quay or do we all have to run for it. The Patron didn’t seem remotely bothered, she is probably just doing her usual showing off before finally making her mind up. At last the Captain gains a spurt of confidence, he has made his mind up, and she speeds her way toward the main quay.

A smart compact little ship, the Andreas II. Her officers were the smartest dressed I had come across so far, immaculate in brilliant whites and forage caps as they processed and marshalled us on board. I, it appeared, was the only foreigner to embark that morning. The steward at the bar is King Juan Carlos of Spain, either that or there has been a terrible mix up in Madrid somewhere along the line. He pours coffee in a regal manner with pomp and ceremony: careful, measured, deliberate little moves.

KITHERA

Crossing busy shipping lanes with groaning container ships and white decked bulk carriers plying their way to and from the Aegean, after an hour or so, we make Kithera’s tiny “port” of Diakofti. Diakofti is hardly a port, it is a taverna, slab of concrete and a clutch of fishing boats sheltering behind a breakwater. As if to serve as a reminder of the treacherous nature of the waters around Kithera, near Diakofti’s entrance sitting at a very awkward angle is the a large menacing dark hull of a wreck, the “Norland”. Its bow stuck high in the air like an attacking shark’s nose, tired derricks hanging down from its near vertical deck, redundant anchor cables flap loosely in the water. It is a sinister monument and sends an eerie shiver down my spine.

At the port, I am met by Paddy Beeley. Paddy, a former officer in the Irish Guards, is a tall refined looking figure with simply enormous feet. If Paddy took his shoes off you could use them as a school bus: one for each end of the island. His feet are so large he has had to send to England for some special gardening boots which he jubilantly receives in a sort of mini ship container from the post office. Hardly fashion accessories, he, later, insists on wearing these tug boat things as long as I promise not to tell anyone. I promise. I forget to tell him I cant keep secrets.
Paddy moved to the island about three years ago with his delightful ramshackle tumbling and playing family and, of course, “Buster” the equally ramshackle and dishevelled dog. A “child of love” best describes Buster’s breeding. If Buster were a human being, I think he would be along haired far out heh man hippy. Paddy, now a consultant working to the City of London, I have inadvertently scrambled from his bed as, poor man, he only got in from London late last night. I note he hasn’t shaved, moreso because I shaved my four days growth in particularly precarious conditions that morning especially to meet him. Paddy concedes that he had meant to shave but as I had woken him up it was either a question of his shaving or being late – we roar with laughter.

Before Kithera, I had never met Paddy. His mother, who I last saw as I left Venice for the Ionian Islands, is my sister’s godmother, so I had some leverage in this instance. A Cambridge classicist and former officer in the Irish Guards, he is a fund of knowledge – some useful, some totally inconsequential and utterly useless. A wealth of amusing anecdote, he simply cannot stop talking – in this respect we are too alike and I quickly detect that the next few days on Kithera are going to be a refreshing tonic after my stultifying experiences on Zakinthos.

Kithera is XYZ km across and at one point in the Middle Ages had a population of about 15,000. The resident population now is about 3000. The majority of the 15000 were slaughtered mercilessly by the pirate Barbarossa in a dastardly raid on the now deserted island capital of Paliochora from which numbers never really recovered. The Venetians, in the Northern end of the island typically did little to help the beleaguered islanders in their plight and merely watched on while Barbarossa and his men threw most of the men and women off the cliffs to their deaths. It is a special island which is a secret the Greeks keep to themselves, you almost feel as if you are intruding on a private party.

Everyone here seems to know everyone and Paddy, when not talking to me, or at me, spends the rest of his time yassooing, waving and nodding at the rest of the islanders even I suspect when they have never met. Admittedly, this is quite hard for an island of this size.

2006-07-30T12:49:00.000-07:00

Shipwreck Beach, Zakinthos

Some Rubbish Thoughts...

2006-07-30T12:45:00.000-07:00

Some rubbish thoughts…

The vast numbers of visitors making the trip to Zakinthos, 1.2 million a year, caught my mind. It was more a question of how the island coped with such large numbers of people and of interest was how to administer all this lot and how much rubbish might they create in the process of a year.

Greece has an appalling recycling record and only now is the country just beginning to address the issue of refuse and recycling, but more, I suspect, with curious amusement than a desire to genuinely improve the world. It is this same environmentally selfish attitude which is also evident in the island population’s rather uncaring and selfish attitude towards the plight of the caretta caretta or loggerhead turtle.

So, let’s talk rubbish to give you a small insight into the problem. Let us say that on average, every body drinks one litre of bottled water a day – one of the large plastic bottles you buy in the supermarket. Let us then assume that Zakinthos’s 1.2 million visitors stay for one week, over a summer period of 180 days or six months roughly. That works out at 8.4 million tourist bottles of water. Add to that 40,000 local residents and their one litre bottle a day, spread over 180 days and the local population will, in the course of the same six month period, consume 7.2 million bottles. In total, over the entire 6 months, it would be reasonable to presume that Zakinthos alone, one single island, will dump 15.6 million plastic bottles – lets say 16 million bottles, over the summer months, for ease. And, let us not forget, that figure does not include bottles of Coca Cola, Fanta, Sprite, packets of crisps and so on and so on…

Somewhere you pass through....KILLINI

2006-07-14T06:40:00.000-07:00

KEFALONIA

2006-07-14T06:11:00.000-07:00

Leaving Kefalonia, bound for Zakinthos

2006-07-13T05:51:00.000-07:00

In order to make the 8am Killini Ferry, the Spaniard (who joined me for a week’s break from London) and me had to transfer to Argostoli, taking the swish bus from Sami, where we had taken leave of the Scarlet Fury, our loyal elderly hire car, to the capital. Fancying a bit of “a night” we book into the Ionian Plaza: an all marble, pipe music and chrome affair of a hotel, at surprisingly reassuringly advantageous rates for the budgeting and impoverishing traveller like me. Large fully equipped hotel room, it could almost have been Paris but def not London or NY. “Ooh, look!”, the Spaniard cries, “a proper shower!” referring to the hook on the wall and its situation in the bath meaning that a. you didn’t have to do it yourself with the shower head and b. the whole bathroom did not look like the downside of the Mohne Dam after a Lancaster bomber had just flown over it.

For dinner we talk of food...discussing the options, suddenly it all comes pouring out of me, after three weeks of the healthiest eating, I just blurted “Steak! Stew! No salads, I want real food.” Argostoli has a host of eateries to cater for every need. We settle for an Italian restaurant, tables tastefully covered in yellow linen, a plastic rose to dress the table , salt out of the pepper pot, peppe rout of the salt – a sort of culinary continuation of driving the wrong side of the road I supposed.

A disproportionately large and well dressed black man wanders the tables in late night Café Argostoli selling the latest in cigarette lighting technology. I stop him to enquire where he is from.
“Nigeria”he barks over the din of the techno music.
“How many lighters do you expect to sell a night?”
“A few, been doing this for two years.”
“Make money?”
“Not enough!” and with that he steals into the Kefalonian night to force himself and his blue flashing lighters on some other unwitting and unreceptive victims.

8.00 am Ferry to Killini

If the Strintzis Lines schedule had dovetailed with its Ionian Ferries counterpart we would not have had to endure a three hour stop over in Killini. It was kind of frustrating.

Killini is a dump. It consists of a concrete harbour, some trees, a cigarette and sweet vending kiosk, a mini market, childrens playground, and a public lavatory (clean). Killini is somewhere you pass through – it is in no way a destination and sownewhere you want to get out of as soon as you arrive. Unless you are aged six or below or in need of the loo, there is nothing to do in Killini, nothing. Being neither under age nor having my legs crossed, Killini was proving to be rather dull.

The Spaniard, on return from yet another foray for food (his stomach rules every minute of his waking day), came back beaming with two packets of sunflower seeds in his Galician mit. Like a contented chipmunk, he started chewing them, busily and noisily. Attracted by this disturbance and recognising they represented an opportunity to further kill some time, I dug my hand into the little clear plastic bag and took out half a dozen or so of the enticing little black salted arrow shaped seeds. I shoved them in my mouth and started to chew. As shards of husk and splinters exploded inside me, the Spaniard burst into peels of laughter.
“You’re meant to take the seeds out of the pod, bonzo!” he triumphs at me jubilantly.
I spit the revolting lignant and malignant contents out of my mouth and explain that not being a recently released peasant from the shackles of Northern Spanish serfdom, how the hell should I have known this? “In my country”, I went on, “where we dispensed with the peasant and serf culture many centuries ago, sunflower seeds come ready to eat – even if you are a parrot!”

If you should be unfortunate enough to visit Killini, there may be sunflowers growing just to the right of the mini market.

2006-06-26T03:17:00.000-07:00

Leaving Patras for Kefalonia

2006-06-19T10:09:00.001-07:00

View across Gaios Harbour, Paxos

2006-06-19T10:09:00.000-07:00

Paxos - Corfu Hydrofoil, Santa III

PAXOS: LIFE AND DEATH ON A CLIFF, WITH A FISH

2006-06-18T13:50:00.000-07:00

Coming into land outside Gaios Harbour was like bouncing on a big cushion, bump, bump, bump and there we were at a swift comfortable halt. The sea plane taxied to the quay, secured alongside, engines slowed, switched off, we disembarked.

Although Paxos is a little island, at only 10km long by 4km wide, with a population of about 2,500 it feels deceptively large as it is heavily wooded. Legend has it that Poseidon, God of the Sea, created the island for Amphitriti, his wife. It is for this reason that the island’s crest consists of Poseidon’s trident spear at its centre. Amphitriti was a Nereid, of which there were fifty in total, being the daughters of Nereus, a sea deity, and Doris. Doris was the daughter of Okeanos, who was a Titan: one of the original twelve offspring of the Earth and Sky. Nereids lived in the depths of the sea and spent most of the time seemingly singing and dancing and otherwise having fun when not bringing up other Gods such as Hephaestos and Dionysos.
Poseidon had to chase Amphitriti quite a bit to gain her attention, she was having none of him initially. Poseidon was a bit of a rogue with the ladies and was constantly chasing after this one or the other and so, even if Amphitriti was his first love, she had to keep a close eye on him as he was always up to mischief when left to his own devices. In Homer’s Odyssey, it was, incidentally, because Odysseus had blinded the Cyclops that he incurred Poseidon’s wrath. Consequently, as Poseidon ruled the waves, it took Odysseus over ten years to get back to Ithaca: seven years of which, incidentally, he spent being wooed on the island of Lipsi (so they claim) in an all mod cons cave by the nymph Calypso – you know the sort of thing, fabulous sea view, endless red and white wine, roaring log fires and lots of fur rugs. Homer has it that Odysseus was constantly homesick and bleary eyed for Ithaca but, I suspect, that if faced with a choice of a young nubile nymph and old wrinkly Helen the 7 year thing is easy to get your head round: Poseidon or no Poseidon.

Map

At Magic Holidays I meet Kate who has just moved here from Hertfordshire, or Hertfordsheeer as she called it. I buy an excellent copy of the Bleasdale Map, a 1:10,000 map of Paxos which is printed on thick heavy glossy paper and is the size of a small tablecloth. It is rich in detail in most respects and the Bleasdales, from the Isle of Man, have done an expert job, as a lot of the island has reverted to impassable jungle with the onset of post war depopulation.

Thank-you St Spyridon: The Paxos Walk of Death.

You will recall my map reading skills, but for some reason, after a lunch at Mongonissi Beach, no alcohol taken, I had it in my mind that I would put the Bleasdale Map to the test by going off the beaten track and head round the South Eastern Corner of the island to a mid-point and then return home to Gaios via metalled track. The initial part of this mini-expedition was satisfactory; I climbed up a rock strewn hillside to a survey point, looking out over the steep cliffs South to Antipaxos. A breathtaking view of unspoilt beauty. I picked my way along the now narrowing cliff to a fence line which I followed down a slope into a dried up lake bed. Nothing untoward there, although the map was quite clear that from now on I was headed into undefined territory like you get when you are in rainforest, as you do, where you can only guarantee your position by river junctions and mountain summits. There were no rivers on this section, just lots of ominous green where terracing had given way years ago to a wall of false summits made entirely of thick impenetrable maquis type bush.

There must, I reasoned to myself be a way through, a little path that the hare I had put up moments earlier would surely follow. There was a sort of Robinson Crusoe feel about this leg to come, a re-opening of land lost to time. That I would stride back into town, victorious, at the head of some long lost tribe of Paxiot hill men who believed that the sky would fall in on their heads and if you sailed too far past Antipaxos you would fall off the edge of the world.
Choosing my route, I started up the incline, taking little paths that snaked their way until they petered out and then hopping gingerly through the bush until I could locate the next little path heading further up the slope. Progressively the going began to get harder and harder, but nothing that I wasn’t used to after years of bashing through the African bush, Borneo rainforest, or the thick bamboo of the Anglo Sino Hong Kong Border. This was just a walk on a little Greek hillside!

I was only in shorts, but fortunately I was wearing, what a 1930s travel gazetteer would call, a stout pair of walking boots. You know, the sort of things you can hide super tankers in, not what you would wear at Auntie’s funeral, but will just about enable you to dance on the ceiling – if you really intend to, or in my case hold you to a cliff side.

I managed to overcome the moment when the little paths petered out entirely by taking to walking on the tops of the terracing stones that every now and again surfaced from the bush. I thought I had scored a real one over Mother Nature there, until the stones too disappeared just when I thought I was on a roll. I just disappeared quite inelegantly headlong into a clump of thorn, its spiked branches welcoming me into its arms like a long lost son. Regaining my composure, I picked myself up and stood back on the last stone, pretending that I had really meant to do that move of gymnastic grace and that I was now enjoying the view. Secretly, hoping that some far off twitcher was not splitting his sides laughing at the amateur acrobatics show he had just been unexpectedly treated to on the hillside opposite.
I decided to head further out onto the cliff line where previous experience indicated the vegetation was less and the paths more. This was to be the case for a bit, but there is no real point in taking a path just for the sake of taking a path – it really has to lead somewhere. By now, Mother Nature was on my trail, she had the taste of meat in her mouth, and my blood on her teeth, two of which she had left sunk deep in my leg. I was not looking my best after the fall, but really that was the least of my worries, I could sort the fashion bit out later.

Big bounds

After some big bounds, and a few leaps, I began to feel that actually I might be making headway and that the vineyards I was headed for on the map were perhaps not as far away as all that now. I had been going for over an hour, perhaps more. I reminded myself of the old axiom I used to teach recruits at the Guards Depot (yes, I actually taught map reading. I know, I can’t believe it either. I was just following orders. I suppose that’s why the Army gave you a book to read from, delivering lessons in such an authoritative manner that it sounded quite plausible that you really might know all the answers), “the map never lies!” Well, I assured myself, this one doesn’t seem to be too accurate in this particular corner of the island, with its swanky scales, compass roses, technical data in smart boxes and every inch of the island mapped out, except for this, my Bleasdale forsaken corner.

I reached the cliff top and jumped on to a wall. Wall on one side, bush on the land side, but beyond that bush, ooh, I think a path. I surveyed the view, tried to pretend that this really was the greatest of fun and decided that perhaps now was the time to push inland and head for the cultivated and bush free life that must be found in the vineyards, marked on the frickin map. The bush was a sort of natural man trap really and like Superman jumping the Gotham City rooftops, I cleared it quite easily. This was where my real problems began. I had inadvertently landed in a sort of natural sump. The “path” ahead of me now appeared closed by more thorn and bush and I was now well below the wall I had jumped off. To boot, my Superman powers of a few moments previous were now well beyond my capability as they would involve a truly superhuman feat of jumping 5 feet into the air to clear the thorn bush, now behind me. I was quite simply surrounded. “What is an officer to do?!” I thought. Cry? For goodness sake Harry, get a grip man, what if someone should see you. Hello, who? I only wish they would see me! Heavens, I would ball my eyes out if it meant someone might see me!

There was only one thing for it, go forward, I manfully decide. Shorts and a tee shirt are not cross country gear, well not this country anyway. And by now my legs look like I have survived an attempt by Sweeney Todd to get to know me intimately. I am totally surrounded by nature’s most ferocious spikes and thorns.

Excellent Publication

As I said the Bleasdale Map is an excellent publication, about the size of a table cloth and printed on heavy glossy paper, the sort you could spill strawberries and cream on and wipe it off and no one would be upset. At this point, I had one of those flashes of inspiration that my father would say “that’s what gets you through the War Office Selection Board for Officer Training”. The map was to be my Saviour – so, folding it out to its full table size, and holding it front of me, closing my eyes, I just pushed, pushed with all my strength and heh presto, a few massive cobwebs later and a lot of scraping noises and I was through:… to the next bush. Realising we were going nowhere, I decided to head back for my wall.

Back atop my wall, I at least felt I could see the lie of the land and pressed on Northward, in the direction of some windmills I could clearly see in the distance. They only looked to be a kilometre away and they were a good target to aim for. All mills have roads I reasoned. I was still not too concerned, as dusk was a long way off, I had plenty of water and in a tryst, I would be bounding along like a gazelle. Once I was out of this little hole I had inadvertently found myself in. Using dead reckoning to judge where stones would be, under the brush, I began to make quite good headway, until that is, the stones quite literally stopped and I was faced with a drop.

It was lucky I had Bleasdales in my hand at the time as I really had no choice to stop, faced unannounced with a 10 foot plunge in all directions. Quite what happened next I am not too sure. The stone I was stood on, sort of objected to my being there and simply gave way, indicating quite harshly that my legs and consequently me too, would follow – seaward into Mother Natures arms or the nearest gull’s nest some way below. Mother Nature was waiting for me, teeth all sharpened and glistening, but the good old Bleasdales, folded into a neat cushion like thick pad of cartographically empty detail that was my particular corner of Paxos (such a lovely place, I reminded myself as I plunged headlong) provided me with the ultimate in air bags as I plummeted into the bush and rock below. I know I screamed or whined a little at least. When I recovered myself, the map had a dramatic hole in it, about where my head would have been, where it instead of me, for a change, had been impaled on the spear like thorn. Balancing on gorse roots, themselves clinging for dear life to the meagre top soil this barren rock in the Aegean would permit, I drew breath and examined a ripped and bleeding arm and gashed thigh. All was just fine, of course, because my sunglasses were still on.

Pause for water, catch my breath and then skirt round my one time rocky viewpoint, now a shadow of its former self and, using creeper as a sort of Tarzan swing, I manage to get myself back to some more terracing a few metres further ahead. I may be holed, but I am making way, I thought to myself. I was beginning to get just a bit worried, progress was really painfully slow, in more ways than one, and this was getting a little serious. Another fall like that and I could be lost for days. Who would miss me? “The search for the missing Englishman, Harry Bucknall, continues today,” I imagined the World Service hissing about the Globe. “Mr Bucknall, in his early forties (do you have to?) was last seen on the Greek Island of Paxos a week ago and apart from a piece of torn clothing found near an old building site has n’t been seen for over a week”. The combined forces of the Greek Navy, Air Force and Paxiot Police called out to look for me and there I would be, ready buried under a pile of old dry wall stones and camouflaged by thorn, half eaten by ants.

More wall and I start on again. I have no option, this is me against nature now and I am not giving in. To date, I had only used the Belasdale map as my weapon against this real life barrier to Sleeping Beauty’s castle, in my particular instance, my little room back in “downtown Gaios”. Again, the stones ran out on me and I was faced with a real problem, more thorn, big time. I hadn’t been on the island more than a few hours to know that Saint Charalumba was the patron saint, but what I did know was that Saint Spyridon was the patron Saint of Corfu and he seemed to be good at helping people out in a tight spot, as he had done last in 1716 when the Turks invaded Corfu and were beaten off by a numerically inferior force under command of Count Matthias von Schulenburg. I prayed to St Spyridon to get me out of this Bleasdale forsaken spot. Nothing grand you understand, in fact I couldn’t even kneel (are you joking, I would be fish food in minutes), just a few muttered words.

Thorn Ahead

The map I could use to lay over the thorn ahead, but, you see, where I had ended up, that only gave me one leap and then where? A flash of inspiration from St Spyridon who answered my very real plea for help: get the rucksack off. Sticking the bottle of water down my shorts (nice to meet you Madame, where have you been all my life?) I could then use the rucksack as another stepping stone and leap frog my way in conjunction with my now well trodden map. Sir Walter Raleigh eat your heart out.

Like Indiana Jones, I bounded across the wall in death defying leaps, sweating and bleeding but jubilant that I was on the way once more. St Spyridon to the rescue for, seemingly in a matter of bounds, there I was, on a wall, overlooking a derelict yard. No thorn just a big gaping gateway leading to the heart of the island. I was youth reborn, leaping off the high wall and nearly jumping the five feet I needed to about two hours earlier in the joy at my release from this living hell that I had found myself trapped in. There would be no need for the Hellenic Coast Guard to scramble, my Times obituary could be put safely back in the bin and life would go on for this hapless traveller and sometime explorer of unknown corners that only the most foolish would want to try to repossess from Nature’s claws.

Walking purposefully, it was hard to cover the fact that visibly I was returning to civilisation looking like a survivor of a forgotten army, fresh out of the jungle. Covered in sweat stains, tears in my shirt, what hair I own matted and mangled, bleeding, cut and gashed to ribbons it must have seemed to an innocent bystander that I had been stuck for a number of turns in a revolving door with Zorro.

I made my way to a little deserted beach, dived in the soothing water and let the sea water clean my various and many incisions. As I surfaced, I was suddenly aware that all the rocks below me were covered in a velvety fur; there was a distinct smell in the air. I then noticed a large pipe, presumably direct from the villas above, its dripping end protruding ominously out of a bush….

Fish Supper at Costa’s Taverna….

Corfu “Festival Takis”’s best friend on Paxos is Costas, who runs a delightful little taverna called Takka Takka. At Takis’s suggestion I stroll down for dinner. Costas, a burly handsome and very friendly dark eyed man, welcomed me to his restaurant where he invited me to have the speciality of the house that night. Fish. Scorpios. Before I had said, the important lines of “I cant stand fish”, I had for some God given reason willingly obliged saying that I would really look forward to this treat. Costas disappeared, me slapping myself about the face for my mouth’s blatant disobedience to the brain’s distinct orders.

Beaming, Costas reappears shortly with a large white dish overflowing with a huge sea bream, equally beaming at me too. “The Speciality of the House”. I hate fish. This massive red skulled spikey monster sat on a platter big enough for ten people to row in and I had to eat this, …this thing. Bones protruded everywhere, like the decaying wreck of a ship on storm lashed rocks. Suddenly I am back at prep school; Friday lunches and Arctic Convoy survivor Commander Eddis insisting that indigestible bone ridden cod is eaten in its entirety. A continuous stream of wretching and vomiting little boys tearing out of the Dining Hall, glasses clutched to gaping mouths as they desperately try to reach the sanctuary of the lavatory in time to unload their disgusting stomach exiting cargo in time. The alternative being to sit by the radiator and chuck the stinking meat down there, but most of us didn’t have such luck. From those days on, fish has never really done it for me.

Gorgeous blue eyed waitress

As I write this, Vicky, a gorgeous blue eyed waitress comes up, “Don’t you like it?”
“No, I love it,” I lie badly, “I am just writing that’s all”, as I point to my notebook, hoping for the earth to swallow me, and my fish up, send me back to that cliff, anything, please just get rid of this fish.

Attack the fish, it’s the only thing for it. I have to confess, it is quite delicious and I can see why it is the speciality of Costa’s house, but it remains fish and like Shakespeare’s House of Capulet can only be despised, for ever.

This horrible head, staring at me in rosey defiance, its arced mouth smiling at me like Beelzebub’s grin “in a special cream and onion sauce for M’sieur”. I wish I was writing a book in America or New Zealand, beef and lamb on the menu there, but I have landed a blue whale on my plate and now, oh hell, the spoon has fallen in the dish and I have to touch this thing that looks like it escaped out of a horror movie.
A ginger cat is sat next to me. Perhaps he likes fish? How do I get the fish to the cat without Costas, who is perched like a camp guard at the bar, seeing me doing the dastardly handover? I can’t.

The pink scaley skin pulls off in delicate strips to reveal white fleshy neatly lined chunks of meat, just too gross to consider putting in my mouth. Open the mouth, train in the tunnel, that’s right. I chew once, may be twice, I am near passing out you understand and then swallow – fast. Now, one mouthful for the Queen, one for the Duke of Edinburgh…President Bush too I grimace? Please not President Bush, Clinton if I must, but please, please not President Bush. Ok, that’s one side done. Large glass of wine.

Topside done

Topside done, how do I get at the meat trapped, on the other side of the skeletal fence lying before me that is this undersea animal kit, which really should be in a museum, as far away as humanly possible from me. Touch it and I will be sick. Bayonet it! I attack with a knife, the wretched thing wont break. Then, a wrench and suddenly the fish head gains a life of its own, shooting off the plate in a bid for freedom and the sea and on to the floor. Keep calm, Harry. I am nearly standing on my chair screaming for my mother at this point. May be the cat, may be the cat will get it. Where is that cat? The cat’s gone. Sod it. Napkin, pick up the head in a napkin. Back on plate. Oh shit, the waitress is back!

“You like it? It’s good?” she charmingly enquires.
“Oh yes thank you”, surely I must go to Hell for that one, “I am just writing that’s all” I insist, not letting on that I am about to run for the door begging forgiveness of the good Lord and directions to the nearest Macdonalds. Paxos is too small to get away with that, damnation and hellfire.

Despite my conditioned fears, it really is delicious, I reason with myself, but, it is still fish and I cannot forgive it for where it came from, presumably only this morning. I would rather be pickled in beetroot, my other love in life, that and doing my tax return on New Year’s Eve than this.

A bone

A bone. Suck it, find it in your mouth, stick finger in, locate it. It’s gone again, move the tongue around, find it again, stick finger back in mouth, grab it. Take it out and place it elegantly on the plate as gracefully as a swan landing on water I tell myself repeatedly, not like you just found Grandma’s denture in the rice pudding. Another bone, this one is a big one. Now all of a sudden I am in Bonesville Arizona, population, I don’t know, but we are talking hundreds here. A bit of fin too, its webbed tentacles all crispy and spiney. I’d rather be sprayed with baby vomit than endure this. The table next door are having a family photo, you know the sort where they all crowd round one end of the table and the waitress does the honours. Well, oh Happy Family, check your photos, watch for the bloke in the background, 7 o’clock of Dad: it’s me trying to bond with scorpios, my friend for the night Mr. Seabream himself, or bits of him anyway. Sorry for the face, I tried to smile.

Trying to clear the plate, it’s bones everywhere: big ones, small ones, spinal columns, just bones. The Queen Mother choked on the horrible things didn’t she? Got to get that plate clean. Where’s that cat? Where’s Costas more important? St Spyridon where are you?
By now, my table is a sea of discarded napkins, all neatly wrapping some boned offering or some piece of putrid freckled pink skin. The fish is now dissected and stacked neatly at one end of the dish, but there’s still meat enough for a family of ten. Thumbing through the dictionary, I find the Greek for delicious is “YEFSTIKOTATOS”.
I whisper it through my teeth, thankfully, at the waitress as she clears my plate knowingly.

Mayor Spiros Bogdanos of Paxos.

I hurriedly shave for the Mayor, something I had not done for a good few days. I meet him in his office on a late Friday afternoon. He is the only one in the small building at that time. A neat, precise, sensitive looking, friendly man, he has an ornate ring on his finger, a gold chain around his neck and his glasses give him a learned look. Long grey hair tied in a pony tail hangs low down his back and a beard perhaps really makes him look like a reformed libertine than community leader. His shirt, all pink and lime check is most attractive I think to myself. Don’t know why I bothered to shave. His desk is piled with papers and perched precariously on top of these, like a triumphal mountaineer, is a laptop.

He is very interested in his laptop and continually glances at it while it occasionally pings and bongs at him demanding his attention seemingly more regularly than mine. It’s usually a television, I am beginning to get used to the distracted answers, the sideways glances: a trait I used to believe was exclusive to the Arab world rather than on the fringes of Europe, but then that rather explains, in a slightly tangentental way the regionality with which you must look at this part of the world, rather than try to understand it in the context of its separate component parts.

He tells me that Paxos has around 200,000 tourists a year and that environment is his main concern. The island now has two desalination plants, he beams.
Ping ping. I ask a question.

“Sorry?” he asks me to repeat it as the email he was reading got the better of his attention. “Oh, er, yes, and we are installing a new sewage system for the dirty waters”.

He goes on to talk of the two music festivals that Paxos holds every year in May and September and a further musical meeting in July which comes under the Cultural Association of Paxos. Paxos, you see, was the Cultural Village of Europe in 2004, Aldeburgh was the cultural village for Europe in 2003, did I know that?

“No,I didn’t”, I confessed, suddenly feeling culturally rather manqué.
I ask him about what he is doing to curb development on the island, especially as it is so small.
“We are, er, restricting building to certain areas only and specify how the buildings should look. For examples, er, we stipulate that only the correct coloured pantiles can be used for the houses.”
I ask him about the derelict and run down old Residency, a fine Venetain building, further extended by the British in the 19th Century.
“Actually, we don’t own this building, but it’s a very pity as we are interesting to buy this building. It’s our own story too you see.” He goes on emphasising the historical importance of the building to the island.
He explains that his family, whose origins are Byzantine, have lived on the island since the 16h Century.
“And what did you do before becoming Mayor?” I enquired.
“I ran a building supplies company, which because of my position, my brother now runs for me…”
I smiled wryly, how very convenient I thought.

***
After dinner, knowing it was my last night, Costas would not let us leave without the statutory glass of tsipuro. I seem to recall I groaned at this point, but conceded that not to join in would be rude, especially after the hospitality and generosity he had offered me. From under the bar he produced a battered plastic bottle with the words tsipuro clumsily written on it, in thick black marker pen. Large glasses of the Devil’s Water were poured and gasping for my breath, making amiable platitudes and gratitudes, we cleared this not inconsiderable alcoholic hurdle placed before us. Clasping Costas firmly by the hand, both as a gesture of sincerity and to stay upright, I bade him farewell. In the street, I gave Jean a big hug and warmly wished she and Brian well on their way. Strange to think that after such an intense few days together, we will probably never meet again. How many times will this repeat itself on this journey, I wondered somewhere in my marinated head as I staggered home.

2006-06-06T03:50:00.000-07:00

Air Sea Lines Take Off to Paxos from Gouvia Bay

View from Villa Nathalie, Corfu across to Kerkyra

2006-05-27T01:57:00.000-07:00

Minoan Lines Ferry leaving Venice

2006-05-16T14:10:00.000-07:00