Penny asked me the other day, ‘What’s happened to Roger?’
Roger, you may remember, is a young rock lizard living under our sofa, except now, he’s not. At least, I don’t think so. He appeared on the day we were first able to leave the front window and door open, when the weather had turned a little warmer, so I assume he wandered in, with his little rucksack on his back, and found a lovely collection of warm dust to snuggle into beneath the sofa where the vacuum cleaner can’t reach and where we rarely dare to venture. He spent a few days gathering mosquitoes about the room, inspecting behind my old trunk, behind the TV, and even exploring the kitchen. Now and then, he’d waddle across the carpet towards us, look up and around, and decide against conversation before waddling back to his home. His temporary home, because we haven’t seen him for about a week now. He’s either under the sofa sitting on eggs, or whatever they do, or has waddled four-footedly back outside into the, now, even warmer climate.

Wherever he had gone, I hope his stay hasn’t put us foul of these new temporary-letting rules, which I’ve heard about but, I am reassured, do not concern us. Electrical certificates, the number of days per year you’re legally allowed to Airbnb for (and who knows how many illegal days the personal touch leads to thereafter), and other restrictions intended to help long-term renters and first-time buyers alike. Anyone trying to find a sensibly priced long let on the island these days faces a lot of uncertainty, an uphill battle, and a greedy rent, from what I have heard. But at least Roger won’t have that to worry about as he finds a nearby rock to call home. We often see his clan from the balcony. There was one that used to compete in parkour events (solo) along the parapet of the house below, and another, larger, who used to guard the rocks covering our cat’s burial cist on the wasteland next door.

They are not the only wildlife we get to see. The swallows are back right now, as are some other migrating birds. We’ve had a pair of collared doves here for so many years they must be different pairs, but who can tell? There’s the little owl that sits on another nearby house and uses our balcony rail to watch from. Bats occasionally do a fly past as nothing more than quick, dark shadows against the night, and we’ve had a chicken raise her chicks in the inaccessible ruined garden beside the wasteland. Then, of course, there are the cats. Skulking, as they do, sleeping everywhere and anywhere, ditto digging for relief. Most of the time, though, they are hunting for something else and pass by wailing for a shag like teenage tourists in Ibiza.

As for insects and the like, yes, we have had to humanely remove Symi spiders to someone else’s property under the cover of darkness. (Only kidding, Louise.) The cockroaches (all called either Nigel or Donald) are more pesterous than lost tourists, but thankfully, less common, and they react less violently when sprayed with Teza or Raid. All manner of cute little flying things inhabit the courtyard. Although we have to dispense with the blackfly, we don’t mind the beetles, crickets or other well-known musical combos who play there, but the Ottoman viper was soon ejected. Don’t get me started on the flies. Inside the house, we have taken precautions against mosquitoes by rejuvenating the plug-in thing and keeping the hatch to the broken and now stagnant sterna closed against whatever is living down there. More roaches, probably; Linus, William, his son, James, et al.

But there we are, and here I am about to launch into chapter 18 of the next first draft, which means, it’s now time for me to bug off.

By the way, these are older, random photos because I just accidentally deleted my blog photos file, and am having to download them again from OneDrive, which will take days because that thing is so slow to do as it is told.

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The weather has changed again, and yesterday, I had some things to do outside in the courtyard in the afternoon. This, of course, meant spending some time under the bed. That’s where my exclusive collection of summer clothes lives during the winter, away from dust and mould in a suitcase. I never knew I had so many pairs of shorts. I must have done some online shopping late last year and then forgotten about them, but the surprising thing is, the ones I was wearing last year still fit me this year, except, somehow, a couple of pairs have gone the other way, in that they are too big. Usually, the suitcase shrinks things over time, but not in this case. My jubilation was short-lived when I realised that I don’t have any summer shirts, only t-shirts and a couple of unrecognised ones that must have been donated at some point. If that was the case, the donor obviously meant to give them to the chandler as spares for a ship’s mainsail, because one alone could clothe half a rugby team. No idea where they came from, nor what I am going to do with them. Come to that, I’m not sure what I will wear when I can no longer leave the house in a hoodie or jumper because it’s too hot. I think soon, I will have to remind myself what is in the other suitcase, and what I can bring out of retirement from the spare wardrobe.

Of course, we do have some clothes shops on the island, but nothing at prices I can afford, and the days of wearing the latest tourist fashion are, for me, over. I simply don’t function in blue and white, or in t-shirts with my address plastered over them. Our address, according to my recent tax statement, is simply ‘Symi.’ We, like many others, live on a street with no name, and at a house with no number or title, other than that which we have invented for ourselves. I think, on one bill, the address, in translation, is ‘The house of Mrs Lady who died over 15 years ago,’ but at least I have the electricity bill in my name, although that also just says Symi.

The point of this nonsense is to address the thorny issue of having an address, which we do and we don’t. I needed to pay my graphic designer for some work, and she uses a payment thing/card/company that I don’t. Somehow, years ago, I managed to sign up for this payment method or processor, and all was fine until recently, when, for an unknown reason, they wanted me to reregister before I could access my little-used account. This means the proof of address thing has to start again, and who knows how I managed it last time. The utility bills are in Greek (and have no full address), the company wants a house number, but we don’t have one. They want something official, but won’t take things like PayPal account screenshots or other transfer and banking services. My Greek bank doesn’t print my address on the electronic statements, and the alternative there is to go to the bank and get a letter from the manager. The same goes for anything official, it’s either in Greek and the company want Latin characters, or the address is insufficient, being only ‘Symi 85600’, or the address only exists online, and screenshots won’t do. So much for paperless. My pension? Ah, now there, I can help you, except I can’t without having them send me a letter from Ireland or Malta, because my annual correspondence is now out of date (must be within the last six months). Health insurance and house insurance from Generali? In Greek. Anyway…

How I got to that from trousers under the bed, I don’t know, but that’s my early morning state of mind for you. This is just one of the issues when living on Symi permanently, and how others manage it, I don’t know. I am going to try again with my pension as that’s the only thing that has what this payment company want: a typical, normal person’s address of house number, street number and so on. I know I said we don’t have one, and we don’t, but there you go. I am sure all you helpful folk will rush forward with ideas, but I’ll save you the trouble, as I have already tried them or used them. Once, I even went to the mayor, and he signed a piece of paper, the Town Hall staff stamped it 12 times, and even that didn’t satisfy the organisation that wanted me to live at Number 1, Acacia Avenue…. Ah well, life goes on, and at least I am able to post pictures along with these first-thing rambles.

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And welcome to Monday. I don’t know about you, but we get some kind of weather here every day, and this weekend was no exception. Thunder rolling around last night, some spatters of rain earlier, sunny skies before that, and not cold.

My goal for the week is to paint a chest of drawers. It will be while preparing for this and emptying the drawers that we will realise how much ‘stuff’ we keep in the kitchen. (That’s where the thing lives.) I know there are some spare sheets at the bottom, lots of baking paraphernalia, some Balti dishes, all the tea towels, and a couple of drawers full of things that might come in handy one day, which we’ve never used. I am sure I will let you know about the progress.

Meanwhile, I saw something at the weekend that helped put into perspective that age-old question, ‘What is it about Symi…?’ The answer, to my mind, is ‘All kinds of things,’ and here’s an example of what I think I mean.

Two tavernas, both alike in dignity, in fair Horio where we lay our scene… But not in grudge or at war with each other, just neighbours, and one young by comparison to the other.

The Kali Strata Restaurant has got new awnings, so diners are sheltered if it’s raining, and the place looks even smarter now, with fresh paint for the season ahead.

Next door, ‘Georgio’s (Taverna George and Maria), is a place where local workers sometimes order their lunch. If the taverna is closed when they break for siesta, they collect their orders from the Rainbow. Later, or the next day, or whenever they pass and the taverna and bar are closed, they return the packaging so it can be reused.

I just saw the two on my way to the shops the other morning, and it struck me as highlighting the wide variety of ‘things’ that make the island what it is. I don’t know, it’s six on a Monday morning, I’ve had a lie-in, and I’ve not woken up yet.

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What can I tell you? Grey skies and some rain didn’t stop us from going to dinner at Georgio’s last night, where he had a dish on the menu I’d not seen before; pork baked in the oven with feta and potatoes. Everyone’s favourite dishes are still on, of course, and his chips remain the best on the island, as far as I am concerned. Prior to this, I spent the day writing, reading, and generally pootling about, and today, I have not much on either. Apart from writing another chapter of half thereof, gathering materials to repaint a chest of drawers that’s in the kitchen, wrapping up and putting away heaters and winter things, and maybe, just maybe, opening the summer clothes suitcase under the bed to see what, if anything, is in there, and what, if anything, still fits. That adventure might wait until Sunday. I mean, we must all have something to look forward to. 

I thought, as it’s a Friday and I’ve not much else to tell you, a collection of photos in a gallery was the way to go, so here you are.

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It’s all about steps. The pop group. As was. I hear they’ve made a musical based on the classic songs of ‘Steps’ using their wonderful music, those national treasures of melodies that saw us through the late 90s and early new century. Such original and breathtaking sounds, like their famous cover versions of other people’s work. Of course, the musical is packed with modern-day relevance, and makes me wonder how we’ve managed to survive for so long without a musical about this pop group. To my mind, these ‘jukebox musicals’ are the creative equivalent of an AI-written CV. So unoriginal. So un-creative. But that’s me in a cranky mood. Anyhow, someone came up with the idea of putting together a bunch of songs and then weaving a biography around them, and if you can do that and the songs are by the person the show’s about, why! You’ll have an immediate West End transfer the moment you open at the St Mary’s Bay Community Hall, Lower Wiggenfield. How fab. Not.

No, not those kinds of steps, but these:

The not-so-secret entrance to the Kali Strata and the way up to the village for those who want or have to walk up. These are, though not the Kali Strata. Check the sign on the left, and follow the arrows. The name of the shop is a gorgeous, independent fashion opportunity at the bottom of the Kali Strata, where you can pause and browse after climbing the first flight. Think of it as base camp.

To find the helpful sign and those blue steps which are not the KS, you will need to follow directions. (Turn left at that sign and carry on up.) Here, we could return to the thorny issue of Google Maps Vs Navigating Symi and issue the warning: If G-maps shows you a road running through any kind of Symi conurbation, the chances are, it’s not a road. Oh, the joy of seeing a car squeeze its way around the windmill (soon to reopen), past the Village Hotel, breathe in even deeper as it passes Sotiris’ support market and the Hotel Fiona, before reaching Job 38:11 between the two restaurants. Hitherto shalt thou come, but no further! You can’t drive up the Kali Strata. Nor down it, strangely.

So, to find these blue steps and start your summit attempt on foot, imagine you are standing in the harbour looking at the row of cafes and shops, with the taxi boats, sea and open bay behind you. Over there on your left is Yiannis’ souvlaki place, head for that, pass the fruit and veg stand, and you will see the blue steps. That’s how G-maps should work. If in doubt, ask someone.

Of course, once you start on the climb, you have to keep going…

And going…

Until you reach the second right-angle turn (the one with the view where that nice bar used to be 100 years ago), and keep going up until you meet someone stuck in a car or on a moped staring forlornly down at you and arguing that Google Maps is never wrong, and these wide, age-weary steps are, in fact, a road.

You can then, if you have inclination and legs left about your person, carry on, up and through, and left and right, and up and across, until, by luck or design but rarely by a computerised map, you read the top of the village.

You’re way away from the Kali Strata now, but the steps continue, as they will until the day you leave the island. There are even steps in Yialos, and if not steps, then you will meet a slope. Symi life is full of ups and downs, you see, and going up and down steps is one of them. Unless you have motorised transport, of course, in which case fine, but you’re advised to stick to only the roads that look like roads, and not try to follow the KS up or down on your Vespa. I’ve seen it done on a mountain bike (there’s a great video on YouTube involving a descent from the Kastro church to the harbour, through the village (I am in frame 1,076), and down), I’ve seen a digger come up part of it on its caterpillar tracks, and Lefteris, when younger and not a father, used to ride his trials bike down parts of it.

Anyway, I will leave you with the Tragedy of a Steps musical to contemplate (currently nearing the end of its first tour), and step into my day.

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