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!

Even the Ducks Are Pissed Off

These constant rainy days are really starting to get on my tits. I’m not unfamiliar with big weather. As an army brat in faraway Malaysia, there was the annual inundation during monsoon season, with overflowing sewers and flooded classrooms. And then there was the ‘Great Storm’ of 1987, which barrelled across the land and ripped off half the roof of my house. In more recent times, as semi-retired Aegean gentlemen of leisure, Turkish winters taught us a lesson or two. Spare towels were requisitioned to stem the relentless tide of water flowing under windows and doors as angry tempests crashed ashore, overwhelming storm drains and trapping us inside for days on end. Our Bodrum gaff was only saved from flash floods and floating cars by stout stone garden walls. They don’t tell you that in the guidebooks.

Norwich may well share the same latitude as Calgary in Canada, but the Gulf Stream flowing up from Mexico keeps our islands relatively warm, winter-wise. It also keeps them damp. But enough is enough. We’ve just endured the wettest winter since 1836, and so far this spring, hardly a single dry day has gone by. It’s not big weather, it’s boring weather. Even the ducks are pissed off.

But to provide some cheer, I finally got to see seven swans a-swimming. Two proud parents and five cygnets were spotted mucking about in Loddon Staithe*.

The photo is courtesy of Loddon Town Council

*A staithe is a riverside dock traditionally used for loading and unloading cargo. These days, they’re used for mooring leisure boats.

Seven Swans A-Swimming

With the sun finally poking through the grey clouds, we grabbed the chance to take a walk down by the River Chet for the first time in an age. As we strolled between the reeded bank and boggy fields past cattle and ponies chewing the cud, we thought it would be fun to repeat our The Twelve Days of Christmas theme to pick out more calling birds. I know, we really ought to get a life. When we approached the bird sanctuary at Hardley Flood, Liam whipped out his handy Merlin app. Ironically, we get a stronger signal down by the waters.

And, yes, smart-arse Merlin identified a few more birdies. I give you an oystercatcher, robin, greenfinch and warblers, sedge and cetti. And then there was the magnificent kestrel stalking its mousey prey from above.

Ok, we didn’t get seven swans a-swimming, but I think a regal pair, flirting in the murky waters churned up by passing pleasure boats, is good enough for anyone.

Two Swans A-swimming

Come Rain or Shine

Even by the usual erratic standards of these rainswept islands, the weather so far this spring has been damp and dismal – rain, rain and more bleedin’ rain, with angry storms blowing into the meteorological mix. And it’s been unusually cold too – the central heating is still firing on all cylinders. Climate change? Don’t ask me. The owner of our local corner shop hates this weather; it’s bad for business, he says. Country life hereabouts is dominated by the grey herd and they don’t go out to graze when it’s wet, apparently.

But one advantage of all this water is that the garden has burst into action, virtually overnight. As long as Jack Frost doesn’t come a-calling we should be in for quite a show this summer, with the pansies fully perked. Here’s hoping.

A rare sunny day.

Unlike some of our fellow wrinklies, we go out come rain or shine. Afternoons spent nodding off in a riser recliner while watching Loose Women on the box is not my idea of a riveting retirement. Give it a year or two, though, and that might change. And since our favourite Norwich eatery has reopened – new and improved – after being closed for a while, we’ve popped into town a couple of times for a boozy set lunch. The Last Wine Bar and Restaurant has an extensive and eclectic wine list, and we’re always up for something a bit more than the everyday, tipple-wise. On our first visit, the prix fixe was accompanied by a cheeky little dry white from the Lebanon, and our second lunch was washed down with a full-bodied red all the way from Georgia – the country on the Black Sea, not the US state. Georgians have been cultivating grapes on the slopes of the South Caucasus Mountains for eight millennia or more, so they know a thing or two about the Devil’s brew. I’m not so sure about Georgian glass-blowing skills, though. The bottle was so fat and heavy it took two hands just to pour the plonk. Still, it didn’t stop us indulging.

Გაუმარჯოს – gaumarjos! (That's 'cheers' in Georgian, I hope.)

Amsterdam, the Big Tulip

Before we got hitched, Liam and I had both enjoyed the many meaty treats of old Amsterdam. Needless to say, it didn’t include a cultural cruise around the august galleries of the world-famous Rijks Museum. These days, life is mercifully more sedate. Randy times with likely lads on the pull are but a distant memory, and nights on the tiles have given way to days on the trail.

First up on our cultural pilgrimage was the Homomonument, a memorial to those poor souls persecuted for their sexuality during the Second World War. Opened in 1987, the monument takes the form of a giant pale pink triangle jutting out into the Keizersgracht. The pink triangle was the badge gay men were forced to wear in the Nazi death camps. And we all know what happened in those places.

This is the one site I’d seen before. Here’s me in the naughty nineties. The second picture is me now. Obviously, I haven’t changed a bit!

To my shame, I’d never visited Anne Frank’s Huis, so I was determined to right this particular wrong. It was a sobering lesson in everyday evil. Lest we forget.

And, yes, we made it to the Rijks Museum – huge and impressive but way too busy, I thought. There’s little time to take in the art without being bothered by jostling, happy snappers. Well, if you can’t beat ’em…

The following day we took an audio tour around the well-sculptured Royal Palace on Dam Square with its lofty ceilings and twinkling crystal chandeliers. It was great fun, apart from the couple of young pushy queens who didn’t understand the simple concept of the queue.

As our long weekend coincided with Storm Babet tearing across Northwest Europe, we were expecting lively weather. And we got it. We coped by drinking through it; like we needed an excuse.

Despite the inclement weather (and contrary to the images below), the city was rammed. Weaving through the obstacle course of talkers, walkers, cars, trams and manic cyclists coming at us from every which way was quite the challenge. It’s a miracle we didn’t come a cropper. But we survived unscathed.

The Big Tulip really is cool. We will return.

Postcard from Ithaca

Sleepy Frikes on the idyllic island of Ithaca was simply sublime – serene and restorative. The peace was broken only by the ringing of goat bells in the surrounding hills and wind chimes singing in the breeze. There was one exception, though. Some excitable sprogs commandeered the pool and did what excitable sprogs do everywhere – splash and scream – while their parents buried their heads in their tablets. Mercifully, it was just for the one afternoon.

I always thought Tom Conti’s fake Greek accent in Shirley Valentine was way too much until I heard our poolside barman speak. Young Luca’s deep and rich dulcet tones sent a dribble down the spine. No wonder Shirley dropped her knickers.

Lazy days basking at the pool were followed by an evening stroll down to the tiny harbour for eats and treats. Food was gloriously nofuss – hearty, fresh and generous, and all washed down with robust local wine.

We made only one excursion during our stay – to the cute hilltop village of Stavros for huge portions and a quick gander around the fancy Orthodox church. There we witnessed a devout young lass kiss each icon in turn and an old girl in widow’s weaves gossiping with God on her phone.

And then came the tempest. Greece has endured a biblical summer season – heat, fire and flood – with devastating consequences. Storm Daniel – the most deadly and costly Mediterranean cyclone ever recorded – rolled over Ithaca trapping us in a harbourside taverna. Locals feared the worst as they rushed about battening down the hatches. ‘Best order another carafe,’ Liam said. And so we did.

In the event, we got off lightly. Tragically, this can’t be said for other parts of Greece – or, a few days later, for Libya.

Deep and Crisp and Even

After a ridiculously warm November, we’ve been hit by an early winter arctic snap. Newly abandoned spiders’ webs are frozen in time, autumn leaves are cracked and brittle. It’s Sunday, we’re staying put, curled up cat-like, warmed by the log burner and a sherry or two. But who’s gonna venture out to the log store for extra wood?

Tit-faggots and Tittle-me-fancies

After an unseasonably warm October with elderly chaps flashing their knobbly knees to all and sundry on the streets, November has cooled down nicely, with ever-shorter days, damp nights and misty mornings. To perk up these tittle-me-fancies, we upped the tog on the duvet, pre-ordered the Christmas tree and topped up the logs for the wood burner. We also took a restorative Sunday stroll along the nearby River Chet to forage tit-faggots. The muddy path was littered with ’em.

If you click the first image and look really closely, you’ll spot a tittle-me-fancy lurking in the rushes.


According to Keith Skipper’s Larn Yarself Norfolk, a tittle-me-fancy is a pansy, and tit-faggots are bundles of sticks for kindling. Well, tittle-me-fancy that. Gotta love this Naarfuk lingo.

Ant Wars

We returned from our glorious Greek idyll to a heatwave and an invasion of tiny black ants. The little buggers were climbing up and down our narrow cottage stairs, marching across our dining room floor and, horror of horrors, crawling all over the Pinot Grigio.

I know ants have their uses – helping to maintain a healthy topsoil and all that, and generally we live in harmonious co-existence. But that’s outside in the garden where they belong, not under our floorboards. They had to go.

Not in the house. Not on my watch!

Liam said.

He fought back with chemicals – sprays, powder and traps – a toxic assault of shock and awe. If he’d had napalm or mustard gas in his arsenal, he’d have used them too.

Then emerged the fatter, horny variety with wings, lusting after their mid-air shag-fest, triggered, no doubt, by the steamy weather. But instead of taking flight for their annual orgy, they staggered out of various cracks and crevices like drunks at closing time. We’d won the battle but have we won the war? Only time will tell. Odds are the colony has been living beneath our feet for ages. I’ve read that the queen can survive for 25 years. She might see me out.

Tomorrow belongs to the creatures that creep and crawl.

Tenerife: Was it Worth it?

Not really. Our digs were great – comfy and well-dressed – and the staff were fantastic but, let’s face it, the point of any holiday in the sun is, well, the sun. There’s a bit of a clue in the title. And there was precious little sun in Tenerife.

“The sun’ll come out tomorrow,”

Liam sang.

And it did for a couple of afternoons only to disappear once again behind a thick blanket of cloud. Talking of blankets, we put extra layers on our bed to keep warm.

There were no sunny coffee mornings on the terrace, no quick dips in the pool to cool down or sultry evenings on the sauce. We tried to make the best of a bad lot – drinking through it at various watering holes in buzzy Puerto de la Cruz with its trendy old town.

We were rather taken with the Fanny Bar

…and the murals

…and then there was the graffiti.

We even managed a day trip to La Orotava, a pretty inland Canarian town.

But in the end, when rain was forecast, we thought sod this for a game of soldiers and came home a week early. Still, as disappointing as it was, we try to keep a sense of proportion. After all, there are real soldier games going on in the world.

And there’s always Greece in July to look forward to, assuming our flight isn’t cancelled again.