Tag: Greeks

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.

Postcards from Corfu

Postcards from Corfu

The A Gays

We chose simple and we got sublime. Our billet is a modest studio (A1 for the A Gays) overlooking a sparkling pool.

The Little Terrace

All we have to do is drag our tired old carcasses the few yards from bed to lounger – perfect for the R&R we crave. Most days we laze about dipping and sipping, reading and dozing. We deliberately booked the week after schools went back – to avoid over-wrought brats who scream and splash. We hadn’t wagered on the toddlers, though. We’re being diverted by the neurotic antics of four nervous grown-ups dancing round Lola, a tiny tot wearing a kamikaze-style sun hat and what looks like a suicide belt. Lola’s only word is ‘NO!’ and she repeats it a lot.

Elleana the Great

Our landlady is a magnificent Corfiot matriarch called Elleana – not one to cross, we think. Liam has charmed her with warm talk and a few well-practised words in Greek. It’s done the trick. She keeps a well-stocked bar which we’re eager to drain. Corfiot wine is surprisingly quaffable given it’s stored out the back in three-litre plastic bottles.

Elleana’s gaff is protected by a shaggy guard dog. He likes to call round for a sniff, frisk and lick. We’re not sure of the make or sex but we call it ‘Hector’.

The dog

Wasps around the honey pot

The vine harvest has brought the last hurrah of the season for squadrons of wasps. Puny by comparison to their angrier British cousins, they’re more annoying than menacing and are only really interested in sipping from the glass Liam keeps topped up by my side. I’m happy to share. Several have drowned during the mid-afternoon Bacchanalia. A leathered Brummie reclining at the far end of the pool keeps insect spray to hand. Every so often we hear ‘pssssst’, ‘pssssst’, pssssst’ then she returns to her chick lit. We call her ‘Ms Raid’. The wasps may be irritating but the mozzies are less voracious than expected. Either that or our four years in Turkey have turned our blood to poison.

The Youngest Gays in the Village

The resort is serene and spartan – just a few tavernas and pizza parlours – and most of our fellow visitors look like they’ve been pickled. It’s a novel experience being (almost) the youngest gays in the village. The locals are friendly and obliging, if a little frayed after a long hot summer. Liam was nearly laid low by an upturned beer crate. Fixed to the pavement with duck tape, it was there to cover a big hole.

Jack on the Road

Overheard

As many know, I’m a subtle (and sometimes not so subtle) eavesdropper. Here’s a few random throwaway lines picked up on the radar as we gadded about:

What’s the wever tomorrer?

‘ow do I know? Do I look like a weather cock?

She’s very end of season, that one.

No, Joan, I don’t ‘ave a pair a woolly knickers.

For maximum effect, such quotes are best recited with a northern accent.

It’s all Greek to me

Sunsets are spent playing cards and Scrabble accompanied by the hard stuff. As the light gradually dims, we resort to mini-torches to read the letters. Liam tries to cheat with Greek and thinks I won’t catch on in the dark.

Wine that glows in the dark

 

Déjà vu

Our soporific Ionian idyll delivers unexpected familiarity. Closing my eyes, I’m transported back in time to another land of barking dogs, crowing cocks, randy crickets, loose cattle, manic drivers, ripe drains, pine-clad hills, goats, potholes, bugs and a nightly spectacle of glorious sunsets.

In the end, who could tell the difference between a grandma riding a donkey in Greece, Bulgaria or trotting through a Turkish village?

Turkey Street, Chapter 13, Blesséd are the Meek

As I observed in a book I once wrote. Ok, headscarves, hassle and the call to prayer are missing and they don’t play cricket in Bodrum but you get my general drift.

Coming soon… Postcards from Albania.

Albania

 

Don’t Mention the War

The Turkish scooter fraternity rarely wear crash helmets. For the few that do, Second World War style German helmets have become this year’s latest must have accessory. Young men foolishly speed along the pot holed rain-soaked roads like extras from ‘The Great Escape’ suicidally weaving through the traffic in reckless abandon. I doubt these fashion hats offer much cranial protection as they look a trifle flimsy and the riders seldom bother to fasten the chin strap. These boys have a death wish. I can’t see the craze catching on across the water. The Greeks have long memories of real life German military bikers washing their boots in the sea on their side of the Aegean in 1941.