Category: Weather

Room With a View

When we first waded ashore to the fabled isle of Ithaca, we stumbled upon a tumbledown wreck of a house, perched by the waterside and overlooking a pine-dressed Frikes Bay. Sad, unloved and barely standing, a wonky For Sale sign hung precariously from the front wall. It was the ultimate doer-upper (or puller-downer and start again-er). But with such a glorious aspect and a view to sell your soul for, we expected it to be snapped up in no time and transformed into something truly magical. Over dinner, we fantasised about snapping it up ourselves. Romantic notions of the perfect place to live out our dotage were encouraged by the robust local plonk. The more we drank, the more possible it seemed.

Of course, the next day, reality dawned and all romantic notions of our place in the sun evaporated. Like many Greek islands out of season, not-so-idyllic Ithaca is cold, wet and closed, wild winter tempests could sweep us out to sea without a paddle and what about healthcare for our aging bones? Also, the prospect of trying to learn a new language with an unfamiliar alphabet made our old brains hurt. The booze from the night before didn’t exactly help. Besides, the curse of Brexit meant it was nigh on impossible anyway. That was two years ago.

Imagine our surprise when, this year, back in Ithaca, we stumbled upon the same tumbledown wreck with the same wonky For Sale sign hanging precariously from the front wall. We started to romanticise all over again. Well, an old boy can dream, can’t he? I wonder…

My Garden Follies

After a long hot summer of sweaty nights, autumn waits impatiently out to sea and nights are cooling. The changing season has brought with it a welcome respite from the semi-drought. Apart from the occasional monsoon-like downpour that evaporated almost as quickly as it landed, we’ve had very little rain this year. And as East Anglia is the breadbasket of England, the thirsty fields are desperate for a good drink. Our little plot has managed to get through the dry patch relatively unscorched – with the help of a couple of water butts replenished by the odd thunderstorm.

And with shorter days, cosy evenings and frosty nights on the horizon, it won’t be long before the garden goes into hibernation and I’ll have to put away some of our garden toys – my follies, I call ’em – which can’t take the cold. The evil eye hanging from a branch is looking particularly worse for wear. I should’ve bought a new one when we were on Ithaca. Oh well, there’s always next year.

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!

Buddy, Can You Spare a Dime?

Homelessness is a complex issue, and there are so many reasons why someone might find themselves without anywhere to live. But we live in a rich country and I can’t help thinking that the scourge of homelessness is worse than it needs to be. I’m not given to petty envy. I’ve nothing against the wealthy as long as their wealth has been honestly acquired and they pay their dues instead of squirrelling it away in various tax havens. As for tax dodging billionaires, how much money can any one person possibly spend on themselves in a lifetime? As Francis Bacon – the 17th-century former Chancellor of England, not the famous artist – allegedly said:

“Money is like muck, no good except it be spread.”

But, more positively, there is help available to those who both need and seek it, at least there is in Norwich. I recently picked up this Pathways Norwich signposting leaflet.

Is it enough? Is it ever? Sleeping rough must be tough at any time of year. Imagine how much rougher and tougher it gets as winter cloaks the streets. I know Christmas can be expensive and many people struggle to pay the bills but, buddy, if you can spare a dime, please do.

Whatever Christmas means to you, wishing you and yours a warm, dry and peaceful yuletide.

Pantos and Parties

Storm Darragh barrelling across angry skies couldn’t keep us from our annual panto and party pre-Christmas pilgrimage to The Smoke. The London Palladium pantomime this year is Robin Hood, starring the outrageous queen of high and low camp, Julian Clary, and his usual cast of merrie men and women. The vocal act is Jane McDonald – every pensioner’s favourite cruise-line crooner – as Maid Marion. And the likely lass from Yorkshire can really belt out a tune. Lavish, filthy and with a plot as flimsy as a Christmas twig, the show is a belly-laugh sacrament that’s become a firm festive fixture for these two village people.

The gusty winds and horizontal rain drove us into various watering holes to dry off and warm up. Everywhere was rammed. But even these two old merry men don’t drink before midday, so we spent one morning wandering around the splendid Museum of Science, one of the holy trinity of world-class museums along Exhibition Road in South Kensington – the V&A and the Natural History Museum being the other two must-sees. Like the pubs, the various galleries were rammed, not with dripping trippers but with wide-eyed kiddies in backpacks and waterproofs. It’s a fascinating place to spend a few hours, whatever the weather.

We also had the good fortune to catch up with family for much-missed hot gossip and to meet the latest editions to the clan – twin girls. And gorgeous they are too! It made these two old festive fairies very proud great uncles.

Cruising Down by the River

I stumbled upon a strange fella lurking among the trees who gave me the old ‘come hither’. So I came hither. Okay, that’s not true. I’m a little long in the tooth for that old malarkey. Having said that, while my sell-by date might have long expired, I like to think there’s still a bit of mileage left in my use-by date. Liam, on the other hand, may disagree.

In reality, a glorious autumn day took these two old codgers for a shuffle down by the River Chet. We’re making the most of the fine weather while it lasts – it keeps us out of the pub. It won’t be long before the trees will be totally bald and the bone-chilling drizzle will force us back to the bar for a hot toddy. Tod had better brace himself.

Making Hay While the Sun Shines

After a damp start, our East Anglian summer warmed up nicely during August. It dried up too, with hardly a drop for our thirsty plot. It’s been perfect weather for bringing in the crops. Ancient lanes hereabouts have vibrated to the rattle of massive farm machinery driven by burly farmhands. Time to make hay while the sun shines. Such is harvest time in England’s breadbasket.

August also witnessed the bonfire of the boats. A row of pleasure craft went up in flames on the nearby River Chet. The inferno spewed thick, choking smoke that could be seen for miles around. We’re used to the never-ending march of walkers passing by our gate. We weren’t expecting fire crews from across two counties. Fortunately, no one was hurt.

Courtesy of Facebook

And we saw an increase in pretend dogfights above our heads – loud and menacing. Jet fighters from a nearby NATO air base thundered across the hazy skies, playing catch-me-if-you-can. Let’s hope it remains just a training exercise.

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.

Lakka, the Return

I know I sound like a stuck record, but we’ve really had it with endless drab skies and drizzle. A few sunny days does not a summer make. So we’re off to catch some rays in gorgeous Greece, returning to the pretty resort of Lakka on Paxos, followed by a couple of days wandering around Corfu Town. We’re flying from Norwich’s very own international airstrip. Let’s hope we don’t take the rubbish weather with us. It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve huddled beneath a dripping parasol while the folks back home sweltered through an unexpected heatwave. Wish us luck!