Saturday, 19 May 2018

Whatever gets You Through

The weary walkers arrive home...

Just down the lane from our accommodation in Patmos, was an old single-storey cottage, in fact we looked out over its roof from our balcony. The kitchen door was just a couple of metres from the wooden gate leading into the 'avli' and each time we passed on our way either in or out, if the hour was right, old Chrissie (Chrisanthoula), a sweet and evidently once very pretty ya ya, would be sitting right beside the gate, her back to the house wall, walking frame parked before her, passing the daylight hours in frequent contemplation.

Once or twice, as we passed, her daughter and granddaughter were spending a few minutes with her, the tot "Chrissie" (named, of course, after her ya ya) toddling around while her mother and grandmother kept a watchful eye in case she fell over. Chrissie's daughter lived right across the lane from her mother, who we concluded must have been getting on for forty when she gave birth to her last daughter, the one in question. 

Chrissie's chair and her front door

It was a rare occasion that we passed and we didn't smell something delicious being cooked in Chrissie's kitchen. Although she had a walking frame and, to us looked quite frail, she told us that she'd only been provided with the frame in the past few months, after she'd had a fall in the house. It was a constant source of frustration to her as she didn't see herself as 'old' at all. She'd often be in the process of sweeping up the bougainvillea and oleander petals on the concrete floor of the avli with a long-handled brush and a sawn off plastic oil bottle for a dustpan, shuffling her frame along as she did so. She was nothing if not determined to keep going.

Once or twice, as we passed, she expressed frustration at not being able to negotiate the steps outside her gate without help and thus not being in a position to sweep up the dried leaves that would gather on them. So we'd set to and did the job for her, all the while with Chrissie saying 

"I'm so ashamed. I'm so ashamed, to be asking you to do this. I should be able to do it myself". 

Our response was always, "Not at all. It's no bother. In fact it's a privilege."

On the morning of the day before we were due to travel home to Rhodes, as we strolled down the lane, she not only greeted us with a 'kalimera', but she asked if we'd come in and share a drink with her. Although we were dead keen to get to the Petrino Bar in the square near the harbour for the penultimate time, we felt it only polite to accept, and so allowed her to lead us into the house. The interior was as one would expect it to be when the resident was around 80 and probably older. Lots of framed, faded old photos on the walls, from which glared serious-looking bridal parties, men in uniform and religious icons. You never smiled for a photo back in the thirties and forties in Greece. Maybe it had something to do with the kind of life people here were living at the time.

Pouring us a cold glass of water each and proffering a dish of her home-made koulourakia, she began to tell us a little about her memories. Yes, this house had been in her family since probably the century before last. Her parents, though, had brought her into the world in a cottage just beside the lane which leads over the hill to Meloi Beach. We'd passed that cottage, it's derelict today. If walls could talk, eh?

Prompted by a few questions from us, she related tales of military helicopters, deafening explosions from bombs, and prison camps. She told of executions and living off whatever they could scavenge from the land after the Nazis had confiscated all the crops that the locals had grown. When we referred to Agrialivadi Beach, she said all she could see in her mind's eye of that beach was the prison camp behind it, where locals were often taken, some of which were never to return to the village. She said that the occupiers at one time slaughtered all the domestic animals to feed the troops, leaving the locals with nothing to live on but the weeds they could gather from the fields and roadsides. She related, with tears in her eyes, about the time when the Germans blew up the fishing boats in the bay, right below where we were sitting and listening that very moment. Local fishermen lost their entire livelihoods in a huge bang that resounded around the hillsides surrounding the bay, and as she related this account she closed her eyes, saying that it was as though it had been yesterday. All that remained were charred splinters sticking out above the surface of the water.

She went on to explain how her father had tried to support the family after the Italians, then the Germans, had stripped the island of its resources, by growing sweet potatoes. Fortunately, when we asked her about the Greek civil war of 1945-49, she said it hadn't really reached these islands, remaining concentrated on Crete and the Greek mainland. Small mercies.

After we'd listened, spellbound, for probably around twenty minutes, we sensed that it was time to leave her to her thoughts. She was evidently exhausted from reliving her memories from all those years go, and we knew that she'd make no objection if we were to tell her thanks, but we'd best be going. So that's what we did, and she showed us out, wishing us a very good day and saying she hoped we'd be able to do it again.

Chrissie's generation is, of course, fast dying out. She must have been born, we guessed, during the 1930's. She'd lost siblings and neighbours in a brutal war when she was only a young child. Yet she looked out from those eyes with a gleam of contentment. Loss, yes, but not bitterness. Like most of her generation, of course, she's very religious, to the point of subjectivity. Despite all the island had suffered, despite all she'd been through, she said on several occasions, 

"But, we have protection. Saint John protects us. This is the island of St. John the Theologian. We're blessed."

I couldn't help thinking, for all the respect that I have for this remarkable old lady, what worse terrors could they have endured, before they decided that they perhaps didn't have this assumed protection? Maybe that's the point. It's not really if it's real or not. It may just be what gets you through.

Tuesday, 15 May 2018

To McGinn at the McGinning...

I know, terrible pun, but there you are. That's me I suppose! I'm once again over the moon to bring you another author-interview, and this time it's especially fascinating for me too, because, as I was reading this author's very entertaining memoir books about her time living in the Peloponnese, I so often found myself thinking - this woman is me in female form, her experiences so often reflect ours here on Rhodes. The title of one of her books even resonates with one of mine!!

So, without further ado, I'm delighted to bring you my in-depth interview with talented and very entertaining Grecophile author, Marjory McGinn.


Marjory, with copies of her latest offering, a novel this time entitled "A Saint For the Summer". More details below.
Let's start with a little background, just in case you're not familiar with Marjory (although that's hard to imagine!)...


Marjory McGinn is a Scottish-born author and journalist, brought up in Australia. She worked in Scotland for 10 years from 2000 as a freelance feature writer. Her journalism has appeared in leading newspapers in Britain and Australia, including The Daily Mail, The Times, The Telegraph; and The Scotsman, The Herald. In Australia she was a senior feature writer on The Sun-Herald, and stories have appeared also in The Australian and The Age.
A youthful work/travel year in Athens inspired a lifelong fascination for Greece. In 2010, together with her partner Jim and their Jack Russell dog, Wallace, she set off from Scotland on an adventure to the southern Peloponnese that lasted four years and was the basis for her three travel memoirs (Things Can Only Get Feta, Homer’s Where The Heart Is and A Scorpion In The Lemon Tree). 
Marjory is a Member of the Society of Authors and also writes a blog with a Greek and travel theme on the website www.bigfatgreekodyssey.com and she can be followed on Twitter www.twitter.com/@fatgreekodyssey and Facebook www.facebook.com/ThingsCanOnlyGetFeta

So, CV dealt with, here's the interview...

Where do you live?

At the moment, my partner Jim and I are based in East Sussex, England, not far from the sea. We’ve lived here since returning from Greece in 2015.  

What do you write about?
Wallace. (I want that dog!!!)
I’ve written four books all based in the Peloponnese in southern Greece. The first three are travel memoirs inspired by the experience of living in remote rural locations, like the Mani, for four years during the economic crisis. As if that wasn’t edgy enough, we had our hyperactive, but lovable, Jack Russell (Wallace) in tow for added mayhem, though his diverting behaviour was well plundered for the books.  The latest is a novel, A Saint For The Summer set in the Mani. It’s a contemporary book with family drama, romance, but mainly has a narrative thread going back to the Battle of Kalamata which is a little-known conflict of World War II that occurred just after the Germans invaded Greece in 1941. It has been described as the ‘Greek Dunkirk’.  

Why Greece? 
I have always loved Greece. And curiously, the passion was sparked right back in my childhood after my family emigrated to Australia from Scotland. By one of those quirks of fate that put your life onto a certain course, my first friend at school was a Greek girl called Anna who took me under her wing and eased me into Aussie school life. I ended up spending weekends and summer holidays with her as well, and her vibrant Greek family. I was eating moussaka as a 10 year old and dancing a sweaty syrtaki [we've all been there! - JM] in a Sydney backyard while other friends were swimming at Bondi beach. 
When I left school and did the European backpack routine, it was Greece I really aimed for. I worked in Athens for a year, some of which I’ve written about in my memoir Homer’s Where The Heart Is. I’ve been going to Greece my whole life. It was inevitable that when I got round to writing books, they’d have a Greek theme. 

How long does it take you to write a book?
About six to nine months to write a draft I’m happy with and then a few months rewriting and polishing, so about a year in all.

What do you enjoy most about writing?
I’ve had a long career in journalism, mainly as a feature writer, so I’ve always loved everything about writing. With creative writing however, especially a novel, there is a kind of magic about the process of transferring all the stuff in your head onto the page. I particularly like it when narrative threads and characters storm into the action unbidden, and surprise you.  Apart from the writing process, I like the consequences of a story being out there and when readers contact you to say they’ve only gone to the Mani because they’ve read your books. Or they’ve gone to a particular village and tried to track down one of the ‘characters’, like Foteini (that's her in the photo below, with Marjory), the eccentric goat farmer I wrote about in the first memoir Things Can Only Get Feta. I don’t know that she would find it enlightening though being chased around the village by foreigners. 




What, in your view, is/has been the greatest gift from Greece to the world?
Greece has given the world an immense amount culturally and academically, but as a writer I would say, its language. It’s a difficult language and I’m still battling with it but it’s also beautiful, clever and logical. To speak it, even imperfectly, feels like a link to the past. Apparently, the ancient Greeks believed that if you spoke Greek, you were Greek. I mostly like that idea. [I think Marjory makes a very valid point about the language being logical. Difficult it may be, but Greek follows its own rules much more consistently than does English, for example - JM]

How do you come up with an idea for a book?
The first three memoirs of course were a reaction to living in Greece from 2010 with our terrier Wallace who sadly passed away last summer. I started the first memoir because I wanted to capture some of the traditional rural way of life in the Mani (the middle peninsula) before it changed forever.  The idea for A Saint For The Summer (published in March this year) also evolved while in Greece. I heard about the Battle of Kalamata while there and how 8,000 British soldiers and allies, after fighting the Germans in Kalamata, had to be left behind after the British surrendered and the naval evacuation ceased. Many of the troops fled down the three southern peninsulas looking for small boats to escape to Crete. There were many tales of adventure and heroism here that really captured my imagination, but I kept the story tucked away in the back of my mind while I got on with writing the memoirs.

How do you go about writing, that is to say, are you organised, do your research, disciplined, are you a messy sort who gets it done one way or another?
I’m not messy. I do keep notebooks with research and so forth and bios for characters, that sort of thing. But beyond that, I tend to keep the story buzzing about in my head and mentally work and rework things that way. As I said earlier, I like the process to have a certain spontaneity. I’ve become a bit Greek; I don’t like rules!

Which other authors do you read?
I read a lot of contemporary books with a Greek theme of course and there are many scribes  attached to the Facebook page you manage, A Good Greek Read, whose excellent books I’ve read. I won’t name names; that would be unfair.  
Favourite contemporary authors are William Boyd and Ian McEwan. I’ve recently read all 12 Winston Graham books in the Poldark series, set in Cornwall. It’s a tremendous saga and I think he’s an outstanding writer but strangely overlooked, despite the popularity of the Poldark TV series. His observations in parts are reminiscent of a Charles Dickens novel. I love great storytellers like H E Bates, Somerset Maugham, and Truman Capote. 

What's your preferred kind of music? 
Probably soul and blues music, like Nina Simone. I like to hear a good Eric Clapton or David Gilmour guitar riff. [Aah, a woman with impeccable taste! - JM]

Do you like Greek music and if so, which kind?
Most of it, from Theodorakis to rembetika and folky stuff. I also like modern pop songs by people like Mihalis Hatziyiannis, Nikos Vertis, Peggy Zina.

Favourite place in Greece and the reason(s)?
Marjory, Jim and Wallace, Koroni, Messinia, 2015
It would have to be the southern Peloponnese. I love the three peninsulas as they’re all quite different, but my favourite is probably the Mani for its authenticity and its rural characters. Some of the Taygetos mountain villages with their fortified stone tower houses remind me of the Scottish highlands. Scotland, but without the wind chill factor. Mostly, I think much of this region is like Greece used to be a few decades ago (in the best possible way) and there lies its appeal.


What links (URL) would you like the readers to explore in connection with your work, including, of course, sites where your work may be purchased?
I write a blog with a Greek theme for our website started when we first went to the Mani www.bigfatgreekodyssey.com
Recent book A Saint For The Summer  https://bookgoodies.com/a/B07B4K34TV

And finally, reading device or real book?
I like my ebook reader for stacking books up for overseas trips mainly. After working on a computer for much of the day, the idea of another ‘screen’ for reading doesn’t always appeal. A paperback is more soothing. I like the feel of paper between my fingers!
Thanks, John, for inviting me onto your excellent website for a chat. I loved the questions.

JM - You're very welcome Marjory, and I wish you every success with not only "A Saint For the Summer", but with all your future projects too.

Well, I found Marjory's comments very enlightening and informative, hope you agree. Next post will probably be the last one about our impressions of Patmos, before returning to rambling on and on (and on...) about life here on Rhodes once again.

Sunday, 13 May 2018

The Walk up to Kampos

Map, courtesy of Google Maps.
Back on Patmos, we decided to take a walk from our apartment, which was situated in the top left-hand corner of the bay where sits the main port, Skala, in the area known locally as Netia, up to Kampos toward the North of the island. Of course, the map above shows the area where we stayed as Etia. Seasoned Grecophiles will be well acquainted with the regular variations in spelling one sees for Greek map locations.

The gently-sloping, stepped path leading down from our accommodation meets the road just metres from the junction near the boatyard on the water front. Turning left we were exiting 'civilisation' within a couple of minutes. We climbed steadily and negotiated a couple of very tight bends, with nowhere really to get off the road if a vehicle came, until the road straightened out somewhat and we passed the only other petrol station on the island apart from the one down near the boatyard.

This is the South-West corner of the bay to the West and North of Netia. Seen from the near-hairpin bend in the road as it climbs away from the village.
As we continued steadily climbing, we soon arrived at the spot that every Greek island anywhere which supports a community will have - the local football pitch. It's clearly visible on the map above, although you may have thought it was a pool. the surface is astroturf, rather a good idea in this climate, don't you think?

Cresting a hill fifteen minutes later you then get your first view of the beautiful beach at Agriolivadi, which was always spelt on the map we held as Agriolivado. See my comment above! This is the first view you get of the bay...







Smack, dab in the middle of this photo below you can see a threshing circle. We've come across these on other islands in the past, but they're becoming very rare nowadays. Just in case you aren't sure how they work, the system has been in use since Bible times (in fact the Bible refers to 'threshing circles' or 'threshing floors' on a number of occasions) and involves the harvesters pitch-forking the newly harvested and dried grain into the air on a breezy day, to allow the wind to blow away the chaff, while the rather heavier grains fall back to the ground within the circle, from where they can then be gathered up and stuffed into sacks.

This one is only a mile or so before you enter the village of Kampos, which can be seen in the background.



We'd expected to take around 50 minutes to get to the village, but we were there in 40. It's the only other permanent habitation on the island outside of Hora and the Skala/Netia area below it. You haven't walked too far into the rather strung-out village when you reach this quite pleasant little square. 

From here you can walk further into the main part of the village, but there's not all that much to see up there. You can also take the beach road, leading a couple of km down to Kampos Beach. We decided to give that a miss (owing to the season, it was bound to be to quiet) and avail ourselves of a frappé in the rather inviting café/bar called Aroma.




The only other customers were a working man sitting alone and this elderly local couple, with their backs to the wall (see next photo below). As we'd come to expect, everyone greeted us as we came in and selected a place to sit. The old couple were having a spirited discussion, both about politics and the recent lottery win, with the man, who was seated behind Yvonne-Maria in the photo below. The woman had a fairly large medical dressing on her upper arm and so could rightly feel slightly sorry for herself. We didn't participate in this discussion, but cocked a ear for a while.

There had been a 2.5 million Euro win on the Greek National Lottery and the winner was a Patmos resident. Oddly enough, we'd also learned of this from the Facebook page of the Rodiaki newspaper, which had carried a photo of the retailer who'd sold the ticket along with the story. The winner, however, had elected to keep it quiet and so the hot topic of conversation everywhere was the identity of the winner.

Of course, owing to the fact that the retailer's identity was known, it kind of narrowed down the likely neighbourhood of the winner, but no one we spoke to seemed to have a clue as to who it was. There are only 3,000 residents on the island anyway, so it's inevitable that it'll get out one day, doubtless when the person takes delivery of his new Mercedes cabriolet, as Theologos, one of the waiters at the Petrino Bar suggested.

I had fun asking our favourite waiters/waitresses in our favourite bars/tavernas "So, what will you do with the money, then?"

Dimitris, in the Petrino bar, replied: "Listen, if it had been me, you wouldn't have seen me for dust! I certainly wouldn't still be at work today!"



This old couple evidently had a lovely relationship, although by the looks of them they must have been married over four decades and more likely five. When they got up to leave, and it was handshakes all round, we watched them walk across the plateia to the other side, where there's (as you'd expect) a church. Parked in the plateia beside the church wall was an old Japanese van (the back of which is just visible in the first photo of the square, above). It was hand-painted that vibrant blue that the Greeks all use for their plant pots, their shutters, doors and their taverna chairs. It's a blue the Greeks call "γαλα'ζιο", "gala'zio", which translates basically as 'light blue', but that doesn't do it justice. Gala'zio is the very blue of a Greek mid-summer's sky. It's Greek blue through and through.

Anyway, that modest van was evidently lovingly maintained and looked to be in very good running condition, even though I'd say it must have been almost as old as the old couple's marriage. It sat perkily on its springs in a way that bespoke good maintenance, and it sported a set of very recently-fitted tyres. What touched us, and told us much about the relationship between the old man and his wife, was the fact that, as they crossed the square, they held hands like teenage lovers. When they reached the van, the husband walked his wife to the door on her side, opened it for her and assisted her gently into her seat, before lightly closing the door for her, and only then walking around to his side of the vehicle. 

As they drove off I remember thinking 'that engine sounds sweet as a nut' and there was no great cloud of smoke indicating any health problems with it either. I must admit to the fact that my eyes pricked in the corners and I watched that van until it disappeared, thinking all the while, I believe that old papou treats his wife with every bit as much care as he does that van. Or should that be the other way around?


"Did you write these legs?" - Any Spike Milligan fans out there who can tell me where those words come from?

It was while we sat there, taking in the environment that, during the summer months would doubtless be a lot different, we both decided that it would be nice to eat something mildly naughty with our iced coffees. Peering into the murky interior of the building, I could see that there was no evidence of the place being a zaheroplasteion, it was merely a traditional kafeneion with a nice contemporary line in exterior decor. Anyway, I thought I'd chance my arm and so I walked to the back of the room inside, where, just emerging from the kitchen door, was the proprietor's wife.

"Oriste", she said, "What can I do for you?"

"You don't have any glika by any chance do you? Bougatsa, something like that?" I rather hopefully replied.

"Sorry, no." She replied. 

"It's just that we fancy something to go with our coffee. Even a piece of cake would do." I suggested, not with all that much conviction remaining, it has to be said.

"Ka'ik? We have ka'ik, yes!" She said, with an air of triumph. Interestingly, 'cake' is one of those words that's been transliterated into the Greek language.

She bade me go out and sit down and said she'd bring us out a small piece of cake each. If you know anything about a Greek breakfast, then you'll know that this kind of two-tone cake often features in the centre of the morning table, since it goes well with a filter coffee, something which the Greeks share with the Americans as a breakfast staple...



That cake went down very well and, when it came time to leave and pay the owner and his wife, (after a half-hour conversation during which the owner had declared that all politicians were a waste of space and a bunch of thieving ****???•••, and that Mr. Tzipras was a Benedict Arnold of the highest order), they brought us the bill - four Euros.

On the way back to Netia, we took the detour down to Agriolivadi beach for a closer look...







After a short reccy, we decided that a whole day here was going to be a must. From this beach back to our balcony was a very acceptable and do-able twenty-five minutes walk.

Slam dunk, See you next post!

Thursday, 10 May 2018

Did You Hear the One About..?

I do have one or two more Patmos tales in the pipeline, but thought I'd digress just a little while this is fresh in my mind.

I did my first "Rhodes By Day" excursion on Tuesday and, while sitting in the Top Three and exchanging wishes for a "kali sezon" with all and sundry, Spiro and I somehow got around to telling a joke or two.

I kicked off my attempts with one that some of my longer-term readers may well remember. It's the one told by Basile, an American Greek stand-up comedian who's very funny, especially if you know Greek culture. Check out a sample here. He often talks about his experiences as a young boy of maybe five or six, and his ya ya and papou were living with his family at the time. The story goes something like this:

"Ya Ya! Is it right that women only wear black when their husband has died?"

"That's right, child."

"Ya ya, if women don't have to wear black all the time until their husband has died, why do you always wear black? I mean, Papou is still alive."

At this the old woman replied, with a glint in her eye: "I'm waiting!"

Spiro then told me his joke about an old couple, talking about who was going to die first. The Papou says:

"I think I ought to die first, my love. After all, if you went and I was left alone, I would never be able to cook and put food on my table. I'd be useless."

Whereupon, his aged wife replies: 

"No, no, no, my dear, it would be better if I went first. After all, I'd not be able to do a thing around the house without you. You've been my Mr. Fixit for so many years."

"But, my sweetheart, you're much more capable in so many ways than I am. I should be the one to die first, trust me."

"No NO!! Don't say that my love. You are strong and you'd be fine without me. And if the chickens escaped, for example, you'd easily be able to repair the fence again. I could never do that on my own."

And so the discussion went on, each insisting that they should be the first to go. 

After a while, the old man says to his wife: 

"I'm off down the kafeneion, my sweet. See you later."

Her husband hasn't been gone long when there's a knock on the door. Opening it, the old woman is startled to see, standing before her, o Haros' [Greek for 'the Grim Reaper', or death]. 

"Oh, no!" She cries, "You've come to the wrong place. You want the kafeneion down the road."

Saturday, 5 May 2018

An Affirmation of Sorts



I've fallen in love with Greece all over again. We've 'only' lived here for almost thirteen years, it's true, but everything that I used to look for and love about a Greek holiday many years ago I've just re-discovered on Patmos.

When you live somewhere it's so easy to get used to your surroundings, to cease noticing them. I know this even from growing up in the Georgian city of Bath, UK, where so often visitors would say how wonderful it must have been for me to live in such a beautiful city. Yet I walked its streets largely oblivious to their architectural charms. The world-famous Roman Baths I only ever visited for the first time when I was fifteen, and that was because, during a school exchange, we had a French boy staying with us for a month and so decided to show off our home town with pride. We took him everywhere and gave him the impression that we did indeed appreciate our 'heritage'. I wonder if he ever caught on.

Still, anyway, when you live somewhere, irrespective of how lovely your surroundings may be, you have to live a regular life. There's washing and ironing, shopping and earning a living, perhaps gardening and washing the car, getting it serviced, that sort of thing. There's cooking and cleaning and washing up ('doing the dishes' folks. I know, some of across the pond think 'washing up' is rinsing your face and hands). Although I guess that last one's a puzzle for a lot of people these days, living, as we do, in the dishwasher generation. Both me and my beloved are firm anti-dishwasher people I'm afraid. They're so awful in so many different ways for the environment. But no point going down that road here.


The Petrino café/bar...again.

Today, though, sitting for an hour or two in the delightful central plateia, which is set just back from the harbour in Skala, Patmos, was for me a kind of 'life affirming' moment. Watching the faces we've become familiar with over the more than two weeks that we've now been here, interacting with each other, going about their island lives, was truly a warming experience. Here there is virtually no crime, here everyone knows everyone else, and here everyone says hello. 

As I sip at my freddo espresso, I watch people, many of whom already greet me like I've been family for decades, doing what they do seemingly every day of their lives. A thirty-something young man, with a big bushy beard (à la mode) and hair shaved to a No. 1 on the sides of his head, although a thick mop of black curls adorns his crown, bounds up to an obvious friend, who stands up from his table to be sure that they greet each other in the time-honoured fashion, with a kiss on both cheeks and a firm handshake, which lasts for a full minute, while they converse, before the visitor bids his friend 'Kali sine'heia' and wends his way. 

A young girl, barely twenty if she's a day, arises from her chair, where she sits with a clutch of her peers of both sexes, and once again flounces her way between the tables and, on this occasion, into the building, making sure to be seen by all and sundry as she makes it look as if she has somewhere important to go. We've noticed this girl a few times now. Today she is wearing a pair of denim shorts that are so tight and so short that we remark that, had they not been denim, you could have called them knickers. Every time we've sat in the Petrino she's been there. She never sits still for longer than a couple of minutes without seemingly finding some reason to get up and flounce off, only to return a few minutes later, once again extremely conscious of the watching eyes of all those around her as she returns from another important 'errand' to her table of company, where she smiles and immerses herself once again in the conversation, while also picking up her mobile phone and glancing at its glowing face.

Stylish forty-something women, who evidently look after themselves, emerge from the doors of the several clothing and accessory boutiques that are situated around the square and walk the few metres to a friend's chair at the bar. These are the women who run the boutiques. They'll rest their hand on the shoulder of a friend and throw their dyed blonde hair over one shoulder while sharing a moment's pare'a, only to quickly return to their store as a woman in a floppy hat enters to see what's on offer inside.

Senior gentleman and women pass by, continually greeting all and sundry, occasionally stopping to embrace some old friend they've known since the cradle. People whizz through the square on scooters and pushbikes, some with plastic crates strung on to the back precariously, some with smart top-boxes with the logo of some courier or other emblazoned on the side.

Lots of people here have businesses, of course. We have the deep impression that this island is generally quite well heeled. Most of the tourists here are French, many of whom evidently spend long periods here during the summer months, judging from the frequency with which we see them interacting with the locals, often displaying an impressive knowledge of the language too. 

The young folk seem to have an awful lot of time on their hands, judging from the fact that, every time we come to sit in the square, the same crowd are usually already there, or arrive while we're sitting there. I refer here to those who are old enough to have left school, but most of whom aren't yet married. This is a little micro-society set far from the madding crowd. Patmos is a tiny corner of the world where people can afford to be civil to one and all and whole families seem to have the time for their volta once or twice a week. Amazingly attractive and tastefully dressed women push baby strollers around the place, sit together in small groups and drink coffee, or do the same with their husbands. 

Theologos, one of the waiters in the Petrino, is a new father and often his wife will turn up at around 10 or 10.30pm to spend a minute or two with her husband, stroller before her, and we watch as the very tall Theo 'coo coos' his young daughter and slides an arm around his wife, before he kisses her and she goes home, to await his later arrival. The three guys who wait tables at the Petrino have a good schedule worked out, since two of them have young families. They work a week of mornings, then a week of evenings, so as to have time for their families.

This far from big city life, one could think that the locals are missing something. But in all honesty, I see it as the other way around. OK, if you need your car or motorcycle to go for its roadworthiness test, it's a bit of a trial, involving taking it by ferry to a larger island every now and then; but when you have a climate like this one, and a community of only around 3,000, which means that everyone truly does know everyone, you have something that far transcends the pressurised, crime-conscious, anonymity of life in a city.

The quality of life here is something hard to evaluate, except to say that it's of the highest calibre. Many local young men, who have the latest phones anyway, get by on running the family beach restaurant and umbrellas, the fishing business or the car hire company, and what more do they need to aspire to? People raised in far away countries aspire to the sort of lifestyle that many here are born to. I remember being told a very sage yarn some years ago about a rich American tourist espying a man living in a tumbledown shack near the beach on a Caribbean island. As the old man scaled fish into a plastic bucket, the tourist asked him:

"That your boat moored by the beach?"

"Yeah man."

"That how you make a living?"

"Yeah, man, I sell a few fish. I get by."

"And you live in this old shack? Why don't you hire out your boat to tourists for fishing trips? Maybe you could afford to fix your place a up a bit."

"Then what, man?"

"Well, you may end up getting another boat, maybe a contract with a local tour operator, even a fleet of boats, maybe expand to other islands. You gotta think big."

"So, I do dat. What then man?"

"Who knows? Move to Miami. Make a mint. You could go somewhere in the world of business. Become a big mover."

"And then? Then what, man?"

"Well, you'd eventually be able to retire early, well minted."

"And where would I retire to man?"

"Well, you know. Somewhere like ... (ahem) this, maybe?"

"I already here man."

Yeah, I can be philosophical with the best of 'em. I just hope that no one ever decides that they need an airport on Patmos.

Here are a few of my fave photos taken around Skala...



Can you wrap him up, please? or perhaps have him delivered...

One of the nicest, most healthy bougainvillea we've seen.

No you can't take it home with you.

The excellent Pantelis Taverna. Order their signature salad, it's amazing.


I'm not one for churches, but I concede that they are very pretty. This one takes the biscuit where it comes to a fertile imagination on the part of some religious zealots from the past. It is claimed that it's the "baptistry where 'St. John the Theologian' [he'd turn in his grave at being called that anyway] baptised the people of Patmos in 95 AD". Look, no offence, right? (As I find myself having to say all too often these days), but the Bible affirms that the apostle John was indeed exiled here and that he received the 16 visions that make up the book of Revelation here, but that's it. All the rest is pure conjecture. No offence... Anyway, don't they look pretty? Like they're all covered in icing sugar...





Imagine the way this street looks in August.


Wednesday, 2 May 2018

Room Service? Or Room to Breathe?

Our view, as evening approaches and the light begins to fade

You know, this time we're spending here on Patmos is throwing a particular issue, about which I have quite strong feelings, into sharp contrast. It's the whole 'plush hotel vs staying somewhere small' debate.

Although I completely don't get it, I have to accept that there are some people who simply want a posh hotel with polished marble everywhere, potted plants in the reception lounge and a selection of swimming pools with all kinds of convoluted shapes at their disposal when they go on holiday. They want in-house entertainment and smartly-dressed staff hanging around to pander to their every whim. They want a spa and pool tables, infinity pools and room service.

OK, I suppose if I wanted a couple of days r&r simply to unwind, maybe then I do get it. But to travel to a foreign country, with all the prospects of broadening the mind and experiencing the way people of a different race and language go about their daily lives, the possibility of learning something about how the world ticks, away from one's own neighbourhood 'comfort zone', the chance to interact with people with different customs and to discover that, underneath, we're all the same species, we're all basically brothers and sisters; well, to me, staying in a cottonwool environment, cushioned from the real world outside, is a huge missed opportunity.

I'll try and make my case. See what you think. 

Me and the better half were sitting on our balcony the other day and we both agreed that, frankly, there probably isn't a balcony in all of Greece with a much better view (OK, so Santorini would be in with a shout, admittedly - but then I'd have to add: 'within our budget')...


View from Suzanna apartments and studios.

For starters, our balcony is quite a bit bigger than what we'd have had in the majority of tourist hotels in our price range, even assuming that there were such hotels here in Patmos, which there aren't. There's point number one right there. Package tourists will never even get the experience that we're having by staying here. This island's too difficult to get to for most package tourists, who by and large want to get off a plane and very quickly be deposited (from their air-conditioned coach) right outside the front entrance of their hotel, job done. We were ruminating on just what we have here in our accommodation, and we concluded that, even had we paid probably twice as much for a 'hotel' holiday, we'd not have had anything like the luxury we have in what's loosely termed a 'studio' run by a middle-aged widow, upstairs from her own dwelling and in amongst the locals, the extremely friendly locals, it has to be said.

I'm not going into too much detail about the money, but we're spending 18 days on Patmos and the cost of accommodation and travel tots up to somewhere around €700. Our accommodation consists of a very acceptable balcony with table and four very good quality folding 'director's' chairs, we have a comfy kitchen/diner with a fridge freezer, kettle, filter coffee machine, toastie-maker, fresh dishcloths and towels every two days and a landlady who gives us a regular supply of her very own goat's cheese (my wife reckons it would cost around €6 a pop in a supermarket). We have more than enough cutlery and crockery (quite unusual these days. More often than not there have been so many breakages that you'll be lucky to find two cups or glasses that match). We have a double sink in the kitchen area too. We can sip our wine out of a couple of nice wine glasses when we're sitting out on the balcony admiring the view. Oh, and Suzanna, our landlady gave us half a bottle of olive oil to use when making our modest lunches to eat on the balcony.




There is a bathroom with a shower which has a curtain on a rail. The curtain is in excellent condition and the shower head still has a bracket that you can use to hang it on if you want a hands-free shower and to wash your hair. The bedroom has a double and a single bed and cavernous pine wardrobes, which we haven't even half-filled. There is air-con in the bedroom at no extra charge (Take that package holidaymakers! Sorry, got a bit carried away there, but how often do they charge rip-off prices on top of the price of your holiday if you want to use the air-con?).

Going back to the kitchen, Suzanna also provided us with a brand new bottle of Palmolive washing up liquid. We'd actually brought some with us, fully expecting to have to bring our own. In fact, due to the fact that my beloved loves to tidy things away, she put the washing up liquid in the cupboard under the sink the other day and, when we returned from our morning stroll and coffee, there was a new one on the worktop!!

What makes it a really pleasant experience staying here though, isn't so much all the stuff that our very thoughtful landlady lays on for her guests, it's the cozy, family-feel of the place. We live up a flight of steps, where our balcony has a gate that closes firmly with a catch, thus affording complete privacy if we want it. There are Greek neighbours next door to us, but there's a solid and opaque trellis fence cutting off vision so that we can't see them unless we look around it and visa versa.


This is the homely courtyard downstairs from our apartment, The steps on the right are our access.

We walk up here to get 'home' as it were. The blue wall on the right hides the gate into Kyria Chrissie's place. She's a sweet ya ya with a walking frame who likes to exchange a few words with us each time we pass. The smell of cooking from her place is always exquisite. Sometimes her daughter and granddaughter (also, of course, called Chrisanthoula, after her grandmother) are there too.

The better half just arriving 'home' after a hard day's relaxation. Note the superb canopy too, no umbrella to fall over or occupy space on the balcony with its post and base.

View from our lounge/kitchen/diner through the mozzie net.

Downstairs is the courtyard belonging to Suzanna, who is certainly not 'in your face' but often sitting at her table in the shade nattering on her mobile phone when we come in or go out. She'll wave a 'kalimera' or perhaps in the evening a 'kalo proi' (See the post "Do We Know That Person?"). She's probably in her late forties and has a teenage daughter. There is no husband/father. Apparently he died, thus her situation put us in mind of our very first Greek island visit, way back in the seventies, when we stayed on Poros with Mrs. Mellou, a widow (who's still there, as the link shows) in similar circumstances. Owing to the system over here, it's often the best a surviving widow can do in order to make a living, ie. convert her upstairs into tourist accommodation.


Homemade cheese, plus home-baked koulourakia - courtesy of our landlady, Suzanna.

One of Suzanna's cute little dogs, which I've taken to calling 'the rats'. This is Bella, who comes up to say hello now and then, although she'll never let you pet her.

To get to our place we walk up about twenty metres of pathway with occasional steps, passing a cottage on our right where a delightful and friendly old ya ya called Chrissie lives. She's always to be seen in her courtyard, with her walking frame, and there's always the most delicious smell of cooking coming from her ever-open kitchen door. The pathway is a dead-end, so there is no other passing pedestrian traffic to cause a noise nuisance. 

When it comes to eating out, there's a very adequate supply of tavernas and restaurants, all of which, it seems to us, offer excellent fare, generous helpings and a freebie at the end of your visit. OK, on a DIY holiday you have to budget for eating out, but we've so far not failed to be totally stuffed, eating meze-style, and the biggest bill we've so far had (including a half-carafe of the house wine almost every night) has been 29 Euros. The smallest (and we still could hardly move at the end) was last night at the Ostria, where we ordered fava, taboulé salad and Imam (a kind of of baked aubergine dish with loads of subtle additions, making it extremely tasty), plus the house wine, and the bill was 19 Euros. We were especially touched because it was our second visit. I'll tell you why...

The first time we went there, about a week before, Antonis (who runs the place and also sits on the local council) asked us what tipple we'd like to round off the visit. We asked for Mastiha, which he apologised for not having. So I ended up with a very acceptable huge measure of Metaxa and my better half with something else. Last night, part-way through our meal, the other Antonis, the rather diminutive and very friendly waiter, shot off on his motor scooter, soon to return with a bottle wrapped in a plastic bag, which he was quite evidently trying to smuggle past us without our seeing it. When we asked for our bill, which, as I said, was a princely 19 Euros, Antonis was overjoyed to present to us (with a great degree of ceremony) two huge glasses of our favourite liqueur, Mastiha. They must have been at least quintuple measures. Now, when you consider that to order a couple of glasses of the stuff in a bar would set you back 3.50, maybe 4 Euros, that's 7 or 8 Euros we didn't pay on top of a bill of only 19. They hardly made a fortune out of us, but such is the hospitality of the Patmians, which (apart from at Hora, which was just strange!) we're experiencing continually.

By and large, we're in seventh heaven staying here and will definitely be paying another visit to this beautiful island. But I haven't finished yet. Stay tuned for the next instalment.

Oh, yes, of course. Back to my point. Wouldn't you prefer to stay in a faceless hotel, where, once you get inside, you could be in any one of a hundred countries around the world? Answers on a postcard please...