For our inaugural visit to luscious Lakka on Paxos back in 2022, cash was king. Flashing the plastic in shops, restaurants and cafés was definitely frowned upon. We suspected this was a hangover from the financial crisis of the previous decade, which brought Greece to its knees. On our return trip this year, cash was still the preferred method of payment, but cards were much more widely accepted. So we mixed and matched to spread the load, settling up when we got home. Complimentary Wi-Fi was pretty much available everywhere, so wherever we ate, the code was first thing on the menu. At one particular harbourside taverna, the Wi-Fi code was:
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.
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 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.
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.
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!
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 no–fuss – 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.
I gloriously misspent my youth trawling the sleazy dives of many of the world’s great metropolitan sin bins – London, Amsterdam, Paris, New York and Los Angeles among them – and cruising the hedonistic no-holes-barred gay fleshpots of Europe – Ibiza, Sitges, Gran Canaria, Mykonos. My dance card was rarely empty and I had a ball. But, there comes a time when the spirit is no longer willing and the flesh is in bed by midnight.
These days, a gentle week around a cool pool with a good book, a glass of something local and Liam by my side is what gets the pulse racing. Let me take you on a walk through laid-back Frikes, our latest tranquil bolthole, a cute village on the northeast coast of the pine-dressed Greek isle of Ithaca.
According to Homer – the ancient bard that is, not Simpson – it took Odysseus ten years to make it back to his gaff on Ithaca following the Trojan War. Clearly the legendary and less than heroic hero had a truly terrible sense of direction. But I guess an epic just isn’t an epic unless it’s an endless gods-given obstacle course designed to test the mettle of your everyday sweaty beefcake in strappy sandals. We, on the other hand, should make it in just a few hours, gods-willing and assuming the wildfires don’t get there first. I’ll keep you posted.
After flying into Corfu, we had some time to kill before our ferry to Paxos so we dropped off our suitcases at left luggage and went for a casual stroll around Corfu Town. Suddenly the skies darkened, the heavens opened and Mad Mother Nature threw a hissy fit with an instant snap, crackle and pop storm. And who can blame her? Caught completely off-guard, we and everyone around us rushed for cover to the nearest café. Our jovial host couldn’t believe his luck.
The storm passed as quickly as it had arrived and sun-kissed calm was quickly restored.
Three hours later we were in the village of Lakka, our home for our lazy week in nirvana. Our digs were typically Greek – squeaky clean but basic – with friendly staff, cheap local plonk and dodgy electrics. The pool, however, was a shimmering jewel surrounded by lush pine-clad hills, just the ticket for dossing and dipping.
Paxos is a sceptre’d isle of endless olive groves and randy crickets, partially protected from the stresses and strains of modern mass tourism. Laid-back Lakka is on the north side of the island, wrapped around one half of an iridescent yacht-sprinkled bay. Picture-perfect and taverna-stuffed, the pretty village of alleys and squares is an unhurried cash-only kinda of place. Leave the plastic at home.
Perking the Pansies 