There was a hull of a hellabaloo outside the house yesterday. There I was ‘stood sitting there’ as Hilda Baker might have said, reading my book about the life of John Steinbeck when it all started kicking off up on the telegraph wire. There was this little chap chirping its beak off, loudly, and non-stop, apparently for no other reason than a good chat. There were more of his kind in and around the pomegranate tree, though they were all too small to catch on my phone’s camera to any decent extent. I’m not sure what bird they are. I think they might be a kind of warbler, or a chiffchaff. Noisy things when they get chatting.
You might need to turn the sound up on this short video I took, but believe me, it was a lot louder in real life.

I carried on reading about America’s most successful author of the 40s (that’s as far as I’ve got so far), and the racket in the trees got worse. A blackbird came to join in, and sat up on the wire clacking like that old Remington typewriter I mentioned yesterday. Flitting back and forth, having a good old go about the price of a sunbed, or ‘boat people’ or something, and I put my reading aside to do some detective work. It didn’t take long to find the cause of the Great Matter playing out in front of me, and there it was:

It (its preferred pronoun) was sitting so still and was so camouflaged by the background, I’d not noticed it. It was a little like the spider in the kitchen this morning. I’d made a cup of tea, and was just leaving the room when I saw one rappelling down the cutlery drawer. It must have been right next to me as I pottered about, but I’d not seen it despite its size. ‘Ooh, one of the biggest I’ve seen,’ the husband enthuses as he wraps it in a towel and takes it for a walk down the lane to rehome it (making sure, this time, it doesn’t leap onto his head).
Back a scene: I wasn’t able to get a good shot of the cause of the disturbance from that angle, as you might be able to see, so I went next door to my office and managed to get one with the sea behind it.

The owl just sat there, only occasionally turning its head, and did nothing for a whole chapter, by which time, I was growing tired of the noise. I was just about to go inside when the owl, after a couple of good scratches, flew to the building opposite, and perched directly above where the chiffchaffs (or whoever) have nested in the tree. Well, the blackbird wasn’t having that, so it tried to scare the owl away by dive bombing it, flying past so close, the owl was obliged to ruffle its feathers, but refused to budge.

I had to leave them to it in the end, but when I came back to the scene a while later, it was all very quiet. The owl had gone, either with or without its afternoon tea, and calm of some sort had been restored. Until the next time.
Anyway, have a good weekend, and yes, I did mean to say ‘hull of a hellabaloo’ because it sounds like a line from a Disney song that way.

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I was just doing that waking up thing — blundering about the necessities of the early morning, kettle on, find mug, turn on laptop, open windows, make sure we still have sky, collect tea, stare at blank page and wonder what to write — when my eyes strayed to a post on some social platform, and I noticed someone had asked a question I have been asked many times in the past. Why are the churches on Symi locked? And the answers given…?

As Frances Fisher says in ‘Titanic’, “My dear! Let me tell you what an odyssey that was.”
Some people remember a time when the churches were all open to the public, and maybe they were, but in my experience, that was in the last century. The only time I’ve been able to wander into a church and have a gander is when there has been someone there to unlock it for me, when a service has been taking place, or on the day of a special event. (Although, in his retirement, Petros used to open Haritomeni Church for passers-by, and then try and sell them oddments he’d found lying around on the street, but that was when he was alive.) It’s possible to find the courtyards open, though sometimes you have to slip your hand through the gate and pull the latch, but I’ve never known any chapels or churches to be left open all day. (Except for one.) Maybe some were, back in the day, but they are not now, and the reasons given on the ‘social’ post were sometimes so presumptuous as to sound uneducated – no offence if you hold the same belief. One reason given was that ‘I had heard there were a lot of boat people and maybe it was to keep them out.’ Now, if you want to know what’s wrong with the yUK right now, then the term ‘boat people’ is a good place to start. I assume Mr or Mrs Armitage-Shanks was referring to the refugee crisis in 2015/16, where we and many other islands hosted upwards of 500 refugees in one weekend – and cared for them. ‘Boat people’ are what the newspapers called refugees from Saigon back in 1975, but these days, in some yUK papers, it means ‘People who are coming to take your jobs and steal your benefits.’ But let’s not get started on that. Let’s just agree that, no, the churches were not locked up because of refugees coming across. That wasn’t the reason then, and it isn’t now.

‘They have visitors from Turkey,’ was another out of the left filed of what sounded like the right wing. What the hell has that got to do with anything? Are Turkish (by which, I assume them meant to say ‘Muslim’ with a twist of their lips) visitors coming over to ransack and steal, to burn and pillage as though this was 15th Century Romania? Unlikely. There were other wrong guesses too, but to my mind, the main reason the churches are locked is the same reason as every other unmanned place of worship in any country is probably unlocked; because we’re living in the 20th century. Leave your chapel unlocked; someone wanders in, slips over, and sues the Church because they have had their holiday ruined (by their own foolishness). Theft, of course, but thieves are just as likely to be Christian, atheist, or anything else as they are to be Turkish or Muslim. I think what some people were trying to say without realising it is that we now have a small Muslim population living on the island, and those commentators are afraid of them for some bad-journalism-instilled reason. I can tell you, Mr Armitage-Shanks, more pleasant, helpful, respectful and law-abiding citizens I have yet to meet. Like them, I am a guest who has found sanctuary in this country, and one thing guaranteed to have me kicked out of it would be to rob a church.
No, in my experience, it is hard to find one of the large parish churches open just so the tourist can wander around. We don’t have the resources to put staff on the door all day, as you may have in Little Whinge-on-Sea, we don’t have guides poised in every narthex as they had in Transylvania (and excellent they were too), and the churches have no reason to be left abandoned all day. Well, you just wouldn’t, would you? Not anywhere.

I think it was the blindfolded dart playing by commentators that had me rushing for my Remington Monarch, aiming their accusations without foundation, and guessing from a non-charitable direction. I think the simple fact is that these days, is that no-one can afford to leave anything unlocked, whether it’s a church or a museum (and many churches are living museums), or a whatever, you simply can’t risk vandalism and theft, misuse or whatever in any place from any quarter. When visitors (northern Europeans from Christian countries), feel they can wander into private courtyards and onto private terraces because they have a sense of entitlement after paying €50.00 for a day trip, what hope is there for the churches? You can imagine:
‘Over here, Maureen, we can have our sandwiches in this pew.’
‘Sandara… Ooh, get a photo of me with this picture of a bloke with a beard. It’s got gold on it.’
How about a selfie inside the Holy of Holies, botoxed lips kissing the chalice?
‘No-one’s going to mind if you take one of them, Bert. It’ll be a souvenir…’

The number of times someone’s asked me how to get to ‘the church’ (as if there were only one), and I’ve told them directions knowing full well it will be locked, well, that’s another odyssey, and I’ve been doing it for at least 23 years. There is only one chapel I know of that is permanently unlocked. It’s small, a delightful place to go for contemplation and to light a candle, leave a few euros for doing so, and, of course, I always close the door after me and bolt it, though anyone can slip that bolt. And I am not telling you where it is, in case ‘Boat people’ get to hear, and Saladin invades so he can claim it as his. Blimey. That was more than I intended to write. Sorry about that. I’m off.

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Well, I’m up far earlier than I intended today, and with not much on my mind apart from what chapter 36 is to be about. I had a scroll through some social media groups ‘n’ stuff to see if I could find you anything relevant or of interest, and I can tell you that Nanou beach is now open. In the days when I used to spend time on beaches, this was one of my favourites. I’ve not been there for years, but I hope it remains the same; unspoiled, with an almost prehistoric atmosphere and landscape, peaceful, and with a traditional taverna. A fair number of wasps too, I remember, but that was to do with the position of the bins, and was 100 years ago now, so I expect it’s changed for the better. Sadly, I can’t find the only photo I have of the place, from 1996, but if it ever turns up, I’ll share it.

One of the boat rental services is open for business too [Symi Blue Water]. The Poseidon around the island yacht is running more regularly, as long as it has the numbers, and the bus has put on more hours, though I can’t remember exactly what they are, so that’s not very helpful. It’s still not always possible to get a taxi at night (always has been, though things have improved a little in recent years), so if you’re staying in the village and heading to the harbour for the night, you might need to check the time of the last bus. Symi Fishing Trips have started up (that link takes you to their Facebook page), and I reckon, just about every other business is now up and running (though maybe not all the beaches just yet). With temperatures forecast to hit the high 40s this year, remember the basic rule of staying hydrated: Beer is not water. Nor is coffee, tea, G&T, wine, etc.

In the summer, we get through a six-pack of water a day between the two of us, so at least 4.5 litres a day of pure water each, and around 2.00 litres a day in the winter. I have a glass beside me on the desk and am constantly sipping away without realising it. The same by my end of the sofa. That’s probably why I have to wake up at 03.30 in the morning, which is why I am here doing this in the middle of the night.

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Today, I can mark myself free from alleged book promoters ‘reaching out’ to me because I’ve not found any such emails in my inbox so far today. Then again, it is only five in the morning. This is probably the first time in the last three months that I’ve not received an invite from a dubious-sounding book group in Idaho, or been invited to talk on WXYZ radio. In the past, I’ve even turned down invitations to attend conferences in Buttbang-Nowhere, and rejected the idea that I might like to be featured in a newsletter which reaches the entire population of Monowi, Nebraska. (Population, one. Elsie Eiler, who is the town’s mayor, clerk, treasurer, librarian, and the proprietor of the local tavern, where, I am told, it gets really wild on late nights. (Honest. Look her up.)) So, I have a clear desk, which also means there’s nothing in the inbox to amuse me, sadly, but maybe I’ll get something later.

Amuse? Well, yes. They are better than bills, which seem to come all too frequently these days.

And that brings us on to everyone’s favourite subject; sunbeds. The air is abuzz with speculation. What will the prices be at X this year? How much are they charging over at Y? ‘There are far too many at Z beach, you’re packed in like sardines.’ I have already heard that a couple of times, and it’s a shame. I mean, it’s a shame that some beaches around here are now more about raking in money than they are about preserving what it was that attracted people to them in the first place. Where, 20 + years ago, we’d spend holidays on beaches because of the solitude and scenery they offered, now, I avoid them like Farage supporters. I can think of many things I’d rather do than lie in a row of 20 others who have long ago given up on their bodies, sharing their odours, listening to their packing arrangements and news of Jim’s bowel movements since he ate that funny foreign food. I’d rather listen to a piece by Bartok than lie in the sun trying to read a book. I mean, just getting comfortable takes all the joy out of the experience. On your back? One false move and the sun blinds you, your arms ache, and it’s a pain to turn the pages. On your side? Apart from suffering a dead arm and shoulder after a few minutes, you run the risk of looking up from your Maeve Binchy to find a stranger’s wrinkly backside squeezing out of a swimming costume while they’re bent over trying to move an immovable sunbed. On your front? Again, aching shoulders after no time, and with varifocal glasses… at that distance? Forget it.

There’s also the question of privacy. Years ago, we used to climb down rocks and find a small cove all to ourselves. Now, there are steps down to the same place, and no doubt, within a few years, someone would have built a beach there, and be offering the use of exclusive sunbeds for exorbitant fees. Within a few years, the traditional peace and quiet — the non-commercialism and ‘genuine’ experience visitors come to find on small islands — will have long ago ridden the Noddy train to oblivion. What was a naturally self-sustaining beach in an ancient landscape that’s remained unchanged for thousands of years is now a regimented cantonment of regulated sunbeds (price increases with quality) where people come, undress, lie down, get up, dress, trudge off, and leave their mark. I’m not pulling out one in particular, because they’re all on the same journey, only at various stages of transition from pleasantness to profit. But when I see some, I can’t help thinking of one of those post-war holiday camps, like Dymchurch, where everyone stayed in an identical hut and did identical activities… or was that a more sinister kind of camp? I don’t know…

Anyway… I still don’t see the fun in slobbing out by ‘slabbing’ out like a display in a butcher’s window, with who knows who doing who knows what only an ankle’s distance away. If I were to spend a day by the sea, and it hasn’t happened for roughly ten years, I wouldn’t spend between five and €15.00 for the alleged pleasure. Apparently, you might even expect costlier sunbeds later in the season, and there’s a rumour that, in places, if you’re solo, you have to pay for two, because, presumably, tourists only bathe in pairs. Other places have a much fairer offer, of, say, €10.00 for your (presumably) hosed-down slab, but if you buy a drink, that price is subtracted from your bed bill. I’d go for the Champagne and stay all week if I were you.

Right, while I am in a waffling mood, I shall get on with Chapter 35, and leave you in peace to read your Maeve Binchy.

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Saturday morning: Woke to the sound of the overflow gushing outside the bedroom window, and managed to prevent it from making me rush to the bathroom. It was just before five, and I remembered that, when falling asleep the night before, I had heard the clock tower bell strike the half, as clear as what it was: a bell. I also recalled what various people had said the day before about the coming weather. These forecasts ranged from a possible shower to a yellow weather warning, but that is to be expected these days. There are as many variations to weather reports as there are apps to predict them, yet the simplest one is free, easy, and accurate. You stick your head out of the window, and if it gets wet, it’s raining.

Not long after five, the thunder started, and stayed with us until at least half ten. It was one of those storms where, when it makes itself really known, you cry, ‘Unplug everything, Maureen, and fetch the sandbags!’ Except we don’t actually say that because we don’t have sandbags, and neither of us is called Maureen. Not even in private.

When it was safe to plug back in again, I spent much time researching the effects of cadmium ingestion (in powdered form), and what might be safely mixed with it to give it the appearance of flour. (Don’t try this at home.) Following that, it was a case of discovering how one could test flour for cadmium without causing it to give off poisonous fumes (again, don’t try this at home). That successfully researched, I then went on to source the address of the Jewish Master Baker’s Association, so I could be accurate when describing the antisemitism taking place outside. Having recently addressed the issue of how one made explosives in the late 19th century, the progress of the Irish Question in 1894, and other anarchist-related subjects, I fully expect a knock on the door any day now.

It is all, of course, for the latest novel, which is now at over 120,000 words and almost at the top of the hill. The hill is metaphoric, but once my imagined carriage of clues gets there, it will face a downhill race to the, hopefully, thrilling climax my characters have yet to invent for me, and me for them.

Which brings me to today. Storm gone, clear sky, it’s planning to be warmer again today, and ‘just right’, you might say. I have nothing planned, but the usual stint at the typowriter, and I’ll start that as soon as I’ve posted this, checked the emails, replied to whatever, ignored the spammers (only five today), and seen to the ‘admin’ of the day — number one: make a cup of tea.

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