Category: Hotels

Idyllic Ithaca – the Return

It’s taken quite a while but we’ve finally recovered from our frolic-filled sojourn on Ithaca. For our second expedition, we were accompanied by a couple of fellow village people who added an extra helping of spice to the mix. We had a ball. We haven’t laughed so much in years. It was well worth the hour-and-a-half delay at Stansted Airport, the three-and-a-half-hour flight to gorgeous Kefalonia, the hour-long taxi trek across the island to the pretty port of Sami, the two-hour wait for the thirty-minute ferry to Ithaca – enough time for a liquid lunch – and, finally, the half-hour cab ride to Frikes.

Even the ferocious squadron of wasps sharing our breakfast buffet each morning didn’t manage to spoil our picnic. Neither did the nasty mozzie bite on my once pert posterior.

Our ouzo-fuelled romp was liberally sprinkled with hot-off-the-press gossip, laced with the lewd and the rude. Here’s a few choice phrases chucked into the drunken conversations. A bit of camp old nonsense, I think, but if bawdy double entendre ain’t your thing, then best change channels now.  

“Need to get some water on my aubergines.”

“Our neighbour’s always going up my back passage.”

“Well, there was that time when my friend shat in a Pringles tube.”

“Apparently, Keira Knightley buys her onions from a veg shop in Bungay.”

“So, the doctor just shone his torch up my backside and said, nice and clean.”

“Oooo, you’ve got a lovely little foible!”

“You gotta keep your own hair on your own seat, right?”

“It’s true! She came home with a pickled foetus in a jam jar.”

“So there I was, just standing there holding my swimming teacher’s long pole.”

“It’s like butter off a water’s back.”

And the evergreen classic…

“So, is your cervico intacto?”

 “Oo-er. Didn’t know you spoke Latin.”

Massive hugs to our splendid travelling buddies. Thank you for the good times to be treasured. You know who you are.

Idyllic Ithaca, we shall return again.

Heaven’s Gates

A few years back, we spent a truly heavenly time on Crete celebrating our 10th anniversary. It was so peaceful, so life-affirming, that we’re thinking of doing it all over again for our 20th next year. As I wrote at the time…

“Our Cretan idyll delivers unexpected familiarity. If I close my eyes, I’m transported back in time to another land of randy insects, loose goats, old men in tea houses and pine-smothered hills.

Ok, no headscarves or hassle, and the call to prayer has been replaced by the chimes of the local blue-domed monastery, but looking at the following snaps – the first of our Cretan digs, the second of our old stone house in Bodrum – you get my drift.”

That was then…

Aphrodite Guest House
Bodrum House

This is now…

Then, guess what we stumbled upon at the end of our recent modern-day Greek odyssey in a hidden corner of our Aegina hotel? We took it as a sign from the gods.

So we’ve decided to return to the place where the original odyssey of Homeric legend ended. Yes, we’re going back to Ithaca and, unlike Odysseus, it won’t take us ten years to get there.

Postcard from Aegina

Our modern-day Greek odyssey came to a sweaty end with a few days on the pretty island of Aegina, just a short ferry hop from the Port of Piraeus in Athens. We arrived at the port on the hottest of days and everything was overheating, not least Liam’s mobile phone, which decided enough was enough and shut down without warning. Unfortunately, our ferry e-tickets were loaded into his Google wallet, so blind panic started to set in. A nice young sailor felt our pain and let us board anyway.

Liam had booked the gorgeous Bamboo Cottage in the lush grounds of the Rastoni Hotel, and it was perfect – just the ticket for winding down and resting our weary bones after all that exertion clambering over tumbledown stones perched on hilltops.

Being so close to Athens, Aegina is popular with city day trippers and weekenders who like to party. Come sundown, the fancy harbourside bars and restaurants fill with trendy young things doing what trendy young things do everywhere – chatting, flirting, larking about and having fun. We preferred the backstreet bars where the ambiance is less frenetic for those of us longer in the tooth.  

On our last night, just after the waiter had taken our food order, there was a sudden power cut, plunging us all into darkness. Memories of long lights-out nights in Bodrum came flooding back. After a few moments, a generator fired up. As the courtyard filled with diesel fumes, a small lapdog in a massive pink bow at the next table yapped in competition with the mechanical beat. Mercifully, mains power was eventually restored, the air cleared and we were able to eat our meal without the restaurant smelling like a petrol station or us choking to death.

We left the Rastoni Hotel the next day with fond farewells from our kindly hostess. She asked us to come back again. That would be a big fat yes.

I’ll leave you with an image of the Alps as seen from the window of our return flight. Missing Greece already! I feel another trip coming on.

Journey to the Centre of the World

Our final sleepover on our three-day Greek odyssey was in a slightly faded, old school hotel with gaudy trappings that wouldn’t have looked out of place in one of Saddam Hussein’s flashy palaces. Nevertheless, our room was clean and comfortable, and meals were wholesome and plentiful.

Well-fed and watered, we journeyed to Delphi, the sacred precinct dedicated to Apollo and considered by the ancient Greeks to be the navel of the world. In fact, the name ‘Delphi’ likely comes from the ancient Greek word ‘delphys’, meaning ‘womb’. As such, Delphi held unique religious and political influence, attracting pilgrims from across the Mediterranean. It also attracted their cash and ‘corporate’ bungs from city states competing for holy favours. Ye Gods, those ancients knew a thing or two about raking in the cash and making a mint.

The sanctuary was most famous for the Oracle of Apollo, whose cryptic prophecies would be delivered through the Pythia (a priestess) after she sniffed something she shouldn’t. People could wait months for a chance to consult the pretty-boy deity, but a sneaky backhander might get you to the front of the queue.

The entire enterprise was closed down by the puritanical Theodosius I in 391 – the very same Christian Emperor who called time on the Olympic Games two years later. I bet he was a laugh at a party. Just like Olympia, it’s hard to visualise how magnificent the sanctuary once looked in its heyday. But Delphi’s position, cradled by lush pine-clad mountains, is even more spectacular, and the museum even more impressive.

After more tales of the ancients from our guide, Demitrios, it was time to head back to the big city. But not before a lunchtime pit stop in Arachova, a cute little town of narrow streets and stone houses clinging to the slopes of Mount Parnassos.

Our grand tour may have reached the end of the road, but we’re bringing home the lurv with our very own piece of classical Greece – an image of Aphrodite, a memento to hang on a wall. It’s not the real thing, obviously. No smuggling out priceless antiquities in our hand luggage. No, we picked her up in the museum shop. Now for a well-earned rest from our sweaty labours. Aegina’s up next.

Postcard from the Peloponnese

Our three-day whistle-stop tour of some of Greece’s most famous historic sites was both tiring and inspiring in equal measure. We were blessed to be in a small group of just five in our (mercifully) air-conditioned minibus. Our fellow travellers were all Australians. I like Aussies. We share a similar irreverent sense of humour.

Demetrios, our well-versed tour guide – an archaeologist by trade – really knew his onions. He spun a good yarn, bringing the ancients to life by blending fabulous fact with fantastic fiction. Throughout our odyssey, he told tales of war and heroism, murder and mayhem, loyalty and treachery, greed and generosity, morals both highbrow and gutter – a no-holes-barred mythical soap opera on acid. All the vices of gods and humans were laid bare, literally in the case of the many fine chiselled statues of beautiful young men with their willies hacked off by scandalised Christians.

Our first stop was the Corinth Canal – not an ancient site per se; it was completed in the 1880s. But it was a welcome comfort break after the long slog escaping the urban sprawl of Athens. And the canal, cut through the hard rock of the narrow Isthmus of Corinth that separates the Peloponnese from the mainland, is impressive, despite being a bit of a white elephant.

Second stop was the spectacular and well-preserved 4th-century BCE theatre at Epidaurus, with its reputation for almost perfect acoustics – ably demonstrated by Demetrios as we stood in the orchestra pit. The echo was remarkable and a little spooky. Unsurprisingly, the theatre is still in use today.

We pit-stopped in modern Epidaurus for a bite. It’s a handsome port town on the Saronic Gulf. Sadly, it was way too hot to explore, though we thought the old British classic phone box in the café was a welcome touch.

Fourth stop was Mycenae, an acropolis almost as old as time itself, sitting on a hilltop 900 feet above sea level. An entire period of Greek civilisation between around 1,600 BCE to about 1,100 BCE is named after it, so it’s no wonder it’s a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

Mycenae is inextricably linked to Homer’s Iliad and the fanciful tales of Troy. Arguably, the most impressive structure still standing is a beehive-shaped building with a pointed dome known in modern popular folklore as The Tomb of Agamemnon, the legendary warrior king who led the Greeks during the Trojan War. It’s highly unlikely to actually be the treacherous old bugger’s final resting place, but never let the truth get in the way of a good myth to lure in the eager punters like me. Liam said I looked like an over-excited boy scout as I gazed in awe at the 3,300-year-old roof.

After a sweaty and exhausting first day, we were only too pleased to be dropped off at our digs for the night, just in time for a well-earned dip, followed by a glass or three of tasty local plonk to watch the sun go down.

Tomorrow, Olympia beckons. Let the ancient games begin.

Postcard from Athens

Our flight to Athens was delayed by an hour but was otherwise uneventful. However, once landed, there was a tortuous slow shoe shuffle to passport control which stole another hour. Thanks for nothing, Brexiteers. By the time we got to baggage reclaim at the end of a seemingly endless series of travelators, our holiday chattels were the last cases riding the carousel. It made me wonder what we would do if, whether by accident or by design, someone were to walk off with our smalls. Let’s hope I never get to find out.

Greek summers are famously hot, hot, hot and Athens is top of the weather charts – swelter-wise. That’s why we chose June rather than August for our classical tour. We didn’t reckon on an early record-breaking trans-continental heatwave with the mercury hitting the low forties. Mercifully, the modern metro train that whisked us into town was air-conditioned.

The first pit stop on our Greek odyssey was in the Monastiraki neighbourhood – once the heart of Ottoman Athens – centred around a busy square, rammed with shops and stalls selling everything from junk to jewellery and places to eat, drink and make merry while watching the world go by. Liam even took to filming what looked like a fun-filled folk dancing display, only to discover it was a pro-Palestinian rally.

Athenians seem particularly keen on graffiti, which adorns pretty much everything – some of it artful, most of it not. We felt that if we stood still for long enough, we’d get spray-painted too. And we’d been warned about pick-pockets. But despite the bustle, the blistering heat, the ugly tags and the artful dodgers, the area had a real urban buzz that we found irresistible.  

The splendid Attalos Hotel, a short case-wheeling stroll from Monastiraki Square, was our lodgings for the night. The staff were friendly and obliging and our room was cool, cosy and comfortable. But most welcoming of all was the intimate rooftop bar with its truly amazing views. Yes, that’s the Acropolis as the backdrop.

Even though we were city centre supping, the drinks bill didn’t break the bank, particularly as our delightful barmaid gave us last orders on the house. Yamas!

Gay Paree, Ooh La La!

We had a ball in Paris for our double anniversary. It was my first trip to the City of Light since 2003, and I’d almost forgotten just how drop-dead gorgeous it is. Back then, I was wandering along the side of the Seine taking in the view when Lindsay Wagner – yes, I do mean ‘The Bionic Woman’ – cycled past. Since then, the whole cycling malarkey has really taken off. The locals, young and old, big and small, have hopped on their bikes with typical Gallic gusto, and many of the wide avenues now have dedicated cycle lanes. Best keep your wits about you.

We chose well, hôtel-wise, a distinctly quirky and deliciously personal boutique B&B in the Marais District. Our innkeeper’s mother had a pair of French poodles which spent their days curled up on the bottom two steps of the trés élégant staircase like flokati scatter cushions. I was amazed no one trod on them, particularly after a few sherries. Ok, I mean I’m amazed we didn’t tread on them after a few sherries.

This trip, we didn’t sight see – been there, done that, bought the fridge magnet. Besides, the weather was way too good to spend time on high-brow pursuits. Instead, we people-watched in pavement cafés. Unlike many big cities these days, everyday people still live in the centre of Paris and it was fascinating to observe ordinary Parisians going about their business weaving through the wide-eyed camera-clicking set.

Our favourite watching spot was opposite the gloriously industrial-looking Pompidou Centre – or Popadom Centre, as Liam likes to call it – which looks like someone’s gone a bit mad with a giant Meccano set.

Much over-priced plonk was consumed and I got a touch of sunburn. Parisian waiters have a reputation for rudeness. This is something I’ve not experienced either this time or before. A smile and a few words of schoolboy French can help oil the wheels and fill the glass.

So, no Eiffel Tower or the Mona Lisa and no Arc de Triomphe or Sacre-Coeur. But there was one must-see: Notre Dame Cathedral. Lovingly rebuilt, with no expense spared after the devastating 2019 fire, Our Lady has risen from the ashes reborn and renewed. We just had to take a peek, along with the thousands of others. It was well worth the very long queue.

The old girl looks magnificent. And yes, we bought another fridge magnet.

Postcards from Corfu Old Town

Following a week or so of life-affirming lolling and libations on Paxos, we’ve switched it up a gear for a couple of nights in Corfu Old Town – Kerkyra to the locals. We’re staying at the Hotel Konstantinoupolis, a beautiful but faded 19th-century neo-Venetian pile overlooking the Ionian Sea with a faint but distinct whiff of Poirot about it. The aircon in our room provides blesséd relief but our over-zealous shower floods the entire bathroom. Ours is the balcony with the open shutters to the right of the second-floor hotel sign. It was too hot to sit out.

Buzz Town

Designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site, Corfu Old Town is a caramel-coloured labyrinth of lanes and alleyways stuffed with rows of old Venetian-style tenements – all wooden shutters, ornate balconies and grandma’s bloomers blowing in the wind. Down on the street, tourist tat vies for space with posh shops and designer labels. There’s a real buzz in the super-heated air.

Feeling Hot, Hot, Hot

It’s hot, really hot. The face-slapping sizzle on Paxos was moderated slightly by a sea breeze and a cool pool. Not so in Corfu Town. To stop these old pansies from wilting completely, we dive in and out of air-conditioned souvenir shops for a pretend thumb and browse, and pitstop at various watering holes along the way to our final destination, the trés élégante Liston, an arcade modelled on the Rue de Rivoli in Paris. It’s simply stunning. We take up pole position to people watch the shuffling lines of sweaty cruise ship oldies in socked sandals, bum bags and floppy hats.

Rude!

For our culture fix, we had a gander around the mercifully cool Museum of Asiatic Art housed in the Palace of St Michael and St George. Constructed by the British between 1819 and 1824, the neo-classical palace was built for the colonial high commissioner and the Ionian Senate. The collection is impressive, with artefacts assembled from across the Asian continent – paintings and pictures, silks and Samurai swords, vases, masks and magic carpets, and more Buddha heads to shake a slapstick at. Liam was rather taken by the flamboyant camel drag, but his interest really piqued with the display of erotic Indian sculptures. Yes, they really are doing what you think they’re doing.

So that was Paxos and Corfu – two iridescent islands, fourteen clammy days and enough cheap plonk to sink a frigate. We shall return. But maybe not in July next time.

Postcards from Paxos – Second Delivery

Some Like It Hot

We knew Paxos would be hot, but we didn’t know quite how sizzling. The mercury rises with each day that passes – 38 degrees and counting. Afternoons are either spent cooling off in the pool or quenching our thirst in breezy harbourside cafés watching the ebb and flow of the yachties from the fancy boats. Some struggle in and out of the small dinghies that ferry them back and forth. Yes, we do laugh – discretely.

All the Nice Boys Love a Sailor

We made an excursion – to nearby Loggos – for a spot of lunch. The bus was blissfully air-conditioned, with fares collected by a formidable Greek grandma – not a woman to trifle with. Smaller than Lakka, Loggos is every bit as cute. The swarthy fisherman we spotted gutting his catch was pretty cute too.

Sundowners

Sunsets in Lakka are glorious and best watched while sipping a stiff cocktail strong enough to put hairs on the chest. Talking of chests, our cocktail waitress has a novel way of keeping her cool – stuffing a hand-held fan down her cleavage. Village food is more hearty than haute cuisine, and the very quaffable house white is probably poured from a bucket out back. But hey, who cares? Tastes good to me.

Star Struck

Lakka isn’t quite St Tropez, so imagine our surprise when we spotted Tim Rice, he who wrote the lyrics for global musical megahits like Jesus Christ Superstar and Evita, among other smashes. We guessed he’d dropped anchor and jumped ship for dinner. Liam also spotted Frances de la Tour, the wonderful character actress who once flashed her tits at me in a West End play back in the seventies. All for her art, of course.

Thank you to chatty man Kostas for a memorable time and also to our wonderful Albanian chambermaid, Manuela, who has an economics degree and is fluent in three languages. Manuella works two jobs to keep food on the table for her family.

We shall return.

Postcards from Paxos – First Delivery

The Crack of Dawn

We were up at the crack of dawn for our sunrise flight to Corfu. Although we’d booked our seats with TUI, one of the world’s largest travel companies, they’d run out of planes so they hired in some help and we boarded an unmarked Boeing in virgin white. Who were they? No idea but the safety instructions were in Czech (I think). Our journey – flight, taxi, hydrofoil, taxi – passed without incident, and a few hours later we were putting out our smellies and putting away our smalls. Kostas, our handsome nothing’s-too-much-trouble host, had taxied us from the ferry port, chatting ten to the dozen all the way. I was a little alarmed when he called himself a cretin until I realised he meant Cretan, from Crete. More alarming is his habit of driving hands-free along the narrow country lanes.

Upping Our Game

Compared to our last visit in 2022, we’ve upped our game, accommodation-wise. Our pretty digs for the next twelve days are bright, spacious, comfy and clean. Mind you, Greek showers do tend to be on the small side, and we end up wearing the shower curtain while wiping down the business end.

Cock a Doodle Doo

Living in a rural Norfolk village, we’re used to the dawn squawk. But we didn’t reckon on the all-day Grecian-style chorus of bolshie cocks and randy cicadas. So we loll about our warm salt-water pool plugged into Spotify to drown out the racket. It’s a small price to pay for our little slice of paradise.

Luscious Lakka

Paxos is a blesséd isle of endless olive groves and breathtaking views across the Ionian Sea. Luscious Lakka is on the north side of the island, draped around one half of a sparkling, yacht-sprinkled bay. Picture-perfect and taverna-stuffed, the pretty village of alleyways and squares is a relaxed, laid-back kinda place.

They Think It’s All Over

The peace was only broken when the England Football Team reached the Euros final. There wasn’t a spare chair in the village. Sadly, England lost to Spain. “They think it’s all over. Well, it is now,” to echo the famous words of a footie pundit when England won the 1966 World Cup. Liam sank another ouzo, then another, to drown his sorrows.

I had to carry him home.