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.

Computer Says No

The queue is as quintessentially British as fish and chips, a Sunday roast or a post-pub kebab. I’m all for it. It appeals to my first-come-first-served sense of fair play. Every-man-for-himself is where anarchy reigns and the Devil thrives. And, for those of us in cattle class, queuing is an indispensable part of modern-day mass tourism. Corralling the great unwashed makes for a brutal experience at the best of times. It’s the price we pay for a fortnight in faraway places.  

We’ve just landed back from a restful and life-affirming two-centre tour of the Greek Ionian Islands – Paxos and Corfu. More of this to come. Remarkably, our connections – taxis, outbound flight, ferries and transfers – went without a hitch. That is until we hit the greatest hitch of them all – the global IT meltdown. Picture it, Corfu Airport: rising temperatures, queues going nowhere, tetchy toddlers, blank screens and blank faces on (understandably) clueless staff and stoic Brits mumbling ‘organised chaos’. It makes you proud.

Image courtesy of ‘Little Britain’.

What to do when ‘computer says no’? Go back to pen and paper, of course. Our suitcase disappeared down the conveyor belt with a hand-written tag. That’s the last we’ll see of that, we thought.

But actually, it worked out ok in the end. We arrived back at Norwich International Airstrip only 90 minutes late – as did our luggage. Well done to all the staff at Corfu Airport who kept their heads. And special thanks to the better half of our local innkeeper who hung about to pick up two wilting pansies and deposit them back home.

Cutting Room Floor

I’m off-air while Liam and I are perking our pansies on pretty Paxos. While we’re away, here’s a selection of photos that ended up on the cutting room floor, blog-wise. It’s an eclectic mix of random snaps – local and London – plus a really ancient polaroid of me back in the eighties on godfather duty. The babe in arms is now in his forties and his own babes in arms have reached school age. Yes, I feel really old.

Banquet at The Angel, Loddon
Norwich Ukulele Society
School LGBT Helpline
Glitzy London Minaret
Spooky London Church
Easy, Boy
Drippy Garden
17th Century Weaver’s Cottage – Our First Norwich Gaff
Our Vows, Renewed
Yuletide Dino
Bond Bug
The Godfather – Yes, That’s Me!

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!

The Merry Husbands of Windsor (Part Two)

Day two of our merry Windsor trip was big castle time. I’d forgotten how relentlessly busy the town gets. The castle receives about 1.5 million visitors a year, and for a small town of only 32,000, that’s a lot of bodies. By the mid-afternoon rush hour, you can hardly move for slow-moving happy snappers.

These images were taken in the early morning before the hordes of day trippers arrived.

The queue into the castle was snaking, and security was airport-style. The weather was stuck in April, and as the forecast wasn’t good, we thought we were in for a drenching. But the sun poked through the low clouds and the rain held off. We spotted the Royal Standard flying from the Round Tower, so His Maj was at home. Sadly, we weren’t invited in for tea and cake.

First stop, the series of interconnecting state rooms, a riot of Georgian bling – lavish and impressive with walls plastered with old masters, perfect for hobnobbing with presidents and prime ministers, princes and potentates. Way too gaudy for my tastes, though.

I much preferred the elegant interior of the 14th-century St George’s Chapel, which was up next on our agenda. It’s called a chapel but it’s the size of a cathedral. And it’s gorgeous.

Visitors are not allowed to take photos inside the castle buildings, so these internal pictures are all stock images.

It had slipped my mind that the late Queen is interred in the chapel, in a modest roped-off niche she shares with her parents, sister and husband. It took us by surprise. We joined the mourners filing past in silent respect.

In fact, the chapel is pretty much stuffed with the bones of long-dead monarchs and assorted worthies. Liam even stumbled over the grave marker of that much married, lecherous old tyrant, Henry the Eighth. Off with his head!

After our big castle fix, we dodged the click-clicking throng by escaping across the river to Eton. Despite its famous school for the grossly over-privileged, pretty Eton is much quieter than its big sister. We polished off the afternoon, tourist-style, with the tea and cake we weren’t offered by Charlie in his castle on the hill. Another merry day.

The Merry Husbands of Windsor (Part One)

For about six years until 1993, I lived in Windsor. The pleasant Berkshire town is famous for one thing – an enormous, sprawling castle. Established in the 11th century shortly after the nasty Normans conquered Anglo-Saxon England, the castle has a commanding position overlooking the River Thames, guarding the western approaches to London and dominating the town that grew around it from virtually every angle. The vast pile has been a royal residence for most of its millennium-long history, projecting muscular power and proclaiming who’s the daddy now?

Although I’d often wander around the castle grounds back in the day, I never once ventured inside for a nose about. ‘Let’s go, then,’ said Liam. Sure, I thought, better late than never. Besides, I fancied a mince down memory lane and a chance to show Liam my old manor. So off we went.

First up was a short walk away from the town centre to a terraced house on Albert Street which I once shared with a man with a cloney moustache, drop-yer-knickers eyes and a naughty, licentious grin. We’re still friends – in a Faceache kinda way. Every Englishmen’s home is his castle, so they say, though ours was a bit smaller than the big one up on the hill. The street has changed little in the 31 years since I was in residence, except our old gaff is now a different colour and has replacement windows and a new front door.

After the photoshoot we retired to the pub round the corner for a wine-fuelled memory-rich chat. I recalled the time when I’d been out on the lash with some fellow bean counters from work and got back late. It was November 1992. As I staggered out of the train station, I saw flames rising above the castle, lighting up the night sky. Being three sheets to the wind, I thought I was imagining it. But no, the castle really was on fire. The blaze destroyed nine of the principal state rooms and damaged countless others.

After the dose of nostalgia, we wandered back into town for cocktails by the river. And these husbands got very merry indeed.

Lost Boys and Fairies

Sometimes something just turns up without warning, punches you in the gut and has you reaching for the Kleenex. Such a thing is Lost Boys and Fairies, the three-part prime time BBC drama about a gay couple – Gabriel and Andy – applying to adopt a child in Wales. No big deal in these more liberal times, you might think. It’s all about love, right? Except it is a big deal. Not because of the gay angle but because the adoption process is forensic and intrusive. It has to be. Kids in the care system are often already badly damaged, and getting it wrong can finish them off for good.

Cue the gradual opening up of old wounds for lost boy Gabriel – the strict chapel upbringing, the relentless bullying, the repression, depression, an over-fondness for risky pleasures and eventual salvation through sequins and song. Brilliantly scripted, peppered with Welsh, tender performances and gloriously showy musical interludes. Glitzy and graphic, the drama pulls no punches. At times, it’s uncomfortable viewing. Does it end well? Watch it to find out, but don’t forget the tissues.

Not Gay At All

Back in the seventies, catalogue shopping was all the rage and buy now, pay later was my old Mum’s mantra. The entire family was kitted out on the never–never, all for a few shillings a week for 52 weeks. Her catalogue of choice was Freemans and no one was more excited than me when the latest glossy collection dropped on the mat. For some strange reason, I was always drawn to the men’s underwear section – endless hours of fun thumbing and fumbling. I can’t think why. But, for me, it brought a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘mail order’.

My best friend at primary school was a boy called Christopher and, one Saturday, Christopher and I decided to go newt hunting on Wimbledon Common. He arrived at my gaff fully prepared for our safari in all-weather gear – sensible shoes and waterproof anorak. And what was I wearing? A little two-piece number I’d picked out from Mum’s catalogue – matching tight t-shirt and skimpy shorts in sunny yellow towelling with bright blue piping.

I was 10. Not gay at all. And, yes, it rained.

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.

Liam and Merlin
Cows A-grazing
Pony A-chewing
Wet Fields
Hardley Flood

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.

Oystercatcher
Sedge Warbler
Robin
Greenfinch
Kestrel
Cetti’s Warbler

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