Ah, the end of the week. For some. Not for those who work every day from now until November with no day off, even though they are supposed to have time off from work. We all know ‘everyone’ does it, even with the new signing-in and signing-out rules now in place, where workers clock on electronically, and off again at the appointed time. This is so that ‘they’ (the authorities who ensure workers are being fairly treated and not cheated) can keep an eye on employers. ‘They’ do this to ensure that employees have time off, and don’t work over their hours. Of course, all that happens is the person signs off, but carries on working. This means, when ‘they’ are on the island inspecting paperwork and ensuring the employee is being treated fairly, everyone does as they should. As in: ‘You’re not at work, you’re just minding the shop for a friend,’ is the instruction from the boss, followed by, ‘If you see them, phone me,’ and off he goes home.

Anyway, it’s Friday, and no-one is trying to fiddle the system by having their workers sign in, off, and then carry on working. Of course not. Here’s a change of subject:

That was yesterday morning, and a fine sight to see in the greying of the dawn, what with the silvering of the sea and other suitable adjectives. I observed the tenders running back and forth all day, as around them, the daytrip boats came and went. This ‘Straits’ business doesn’t seem to have affected shipping in this area yet – that I know of. I noticed an increase in one price (of a ferry ticket), but that might have been on the cards anyway, and it was only €1.00. Some folk in the UK keep asking me, ‘Have you noticed any problem with your boats yet?’ as if they are hoping for a complete breakdown of law and order in Greece because of this crisis in the ‘Straits’, where, in fact, it seems to be their country that’s suffering a breakdown of everything from common sense to decency. I blame the ‘Straights’ for everything. This wouldn’t have happened had it been called the Gays of Hormuz. If that had been the case, they could have redecorated the tankers and given them curtains by now, not fired bombs at them.
And here’s another change of subject. Give him a wave:

That’s a [fill in name here] cactus that, apparently, only flowers for a day or so, and yesterday was the day. I approved of the wave it gave as it burst into life, but I think that has already gone, and I don’t want to check this morning when the sun comes up, in case it’s not there anymore. Bless. It’s probably clocked off and gone home for the weekend. Have a good one yourself, whatever you are doing.

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What do the following have in common?
Toothpaste, peas, milk, cheese, onions… You know, it’ll be quicker if I just show you the photo:

So, what does that lot have in common? Well, they all come with reusable plastic bags that will eventually end up hanging from branches up near the tip and stay there for a hundred years, but apart from that… That, on the table, is what €50.00 will get you these days when shopping on Symi. I’m not pointing at any one shop here, in fact, if I am, it is at the cheaper of our supermarkets; there are others I know of that charge more for certain things, while others charge less. You have to shop around, but generally speaking… That little lot will cost you an orange fifty.

We used to have a greengrocer in the village, sadly not for long enough, and after shopping there, you could have covered the table in €10.00 worth of veg, and that would have lasted you a week. Now, that medium-sized tin of coffee was €7.00-something (the double-sized one is only ten, but they didn’t have any), and the biscuits are a luxury. At least, they would be if they didn’t have chocolate on them. The cheapest thing on there is probably the tin of tomatoes, as you can still get one for €0.80. The veg is rarely priced around here, so it’s always hit and miss regarding cost, but last year, a cauliflower was going for €5.00, and it was a small one, mainly made up of greenery. It was a special event.

Milk appears to have doubled in price over the last couple of years, but the price of a five-litre wine box has taken 20 years to go from €10.00 to €15.00. Lord! I sound like I doing an episode of ‘Houseparty’, which, in case you have forgotten, was a Southern TV, afternoon show that ran from 1968 to, surprisingly, 1995 – and I say ‘surprisingly’ because it was rubbish. Just a group of gossiping housewives (probably can’t say that these days), who sat around getting enthusiastic about blanket stitch and Mary’s muffins. It was a cheap afternoon programme that I still remember fondly. I think, today, they call it ‘Loose Women.’ Or is that, Lose Women? That’s one I always have to look up.

And talking of looking up, it is what Neil did yesterday evening, and this was the result.

This was my version.

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Chapter 24 wasn’t going as smoothly as I’d hoped, so I set aside the typowriter after a couple of hours, and went to do something less creative instead. I pottered. The pottering around the house led to the idea that I might take a short 20-minute walk around the village, while pottering became pondering, and as I stepped out of the gate, I realised the air smelt like 2002.

Early in 2002, we were living at a house at the very top of the village, and after the wet and cold of winter (and that winter had seen much of both) came our first spring on the island. This came with the knowledge that we had to find jobs for the summer, but the summer was not yet; there were still a couple of months to go during which I could… What? There was no work, we had a little money left for the winter, the sun was rising later each morning, and the air smelt of spring. It was the same yesterday for some reason. There was a freshness to the air mixed with the knowledge that if this wasn’t a working day, that wasn’t a bad thing. I didn’t have to type 4,000 today; I’d done 1,500, and that would have to do.

I must admit, I didn’t see as much to photograph yesterday as I would have done 24 years ago, not that we had phones with cameras or internet in those days. (I’d only just bought my first ever Nokia and was learning how to text.) But the point of the exercise was to think, not to photograph.

A sound stopped me in one of the back lanes – the one where I knew a house was repossessed by a bank many years ago, the tenants of the deceased owner evicted by them, and the house has stood empty ever since, to the point of dereliction. Such a shame for a family or anyone needing a home, and a complete waste of money for the bank who probably doesn’t even know they own the property. Somewhere along that lane, I heard an unusual dove call; not the usual quaver-crotchet-quaver (staccato) of a collared dove I can hear outside the window as I type now, but something I’d not heard before. I found the dove high on a pole and tried to capture a photo, but it was too far away. I should have recorded the sound, I suppose. I wondered if it was one of the turtle doves that have taken up residence in the village these past couple of years. Maybe.

Anyway, I wandered on, climbed up to the road and ambled down, nodding to passing acquaintances, waving to car windscreens where the sun’s reflection meant I couldn’t see who was waving at me, nor even driving, but I waved anyway, and carried on.

The oregano is in bloom along the side of the road, and, as always, I remembered too late to bring a bag and pick some. And back to the village, all quiet and just getting started.

Parents escorting children to school, the delivery guys meeting up outside the supermarket for the first of many chats before biking or walking away with boxes and water bottles for customers. Some people in and out of the bakery where, by the lively chat, you’d think the gathering was an evening cocktail party, not a first-thing bread collection. Through the square where Lefteris had been at work since at least five, and where a few early coffee drinkers had gathered to fortify themselves with a strong Eleniko before heading off to work. Across the square with a wave to Michaelis guarding his empty-for-years peripteron (there is a reason, but it’s not for now), and around the corner to home.

Where, as I had completely forgotten to consider chapter 24, I took a book to the balcony and spent half an hour being on holiday, watching any sea activity (there was still not much), and reading a biography of John Steinbeck, before returning to the pottering.

I’m still no further forward with chapter 24, and I will return to it as soon as I have posted this, posted on my other blog, answered the emails, fought of the ‘Hi, I am reaching out…’ emails trying to get me to invest in spurious, nay, fraudulent publicity scams run by the hopeless with the help of AI, and made another cup of tea. That’s my plan for the morning. What’s yours?

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The other day, I saw one of those interestingly unusual ‘things’ on Facebook. I’m not sure what to call it; it wasn’t exactly a news headline, nor was it a throw-away piece of trash, such as a photograph of any number of world leaders or wannabe politicians who have no idea about anything other than how to look like a frog in a cloth cap. It was, in fact, an image of an owl.
Rather, two owls.
Rather, the same owl twice, and this owl appeared on a coin.
Two coins.
One, a one Euro coin and the other, a tetradrachm minted in Athens (or surrounding area) sometime between 510 BC-ish and two centuries later.

The thing is, I had one of those in my desk drawer, so I took a dodgy photo of it next to my own one-Euro coin (I only have the one), and here it is.

I have had this thing for as long as I can remember, and all I recall about it was my father telling me my grandfather found it in Palestine when he was there in WWII. I’ve known what it was in and out of my own history – discovering details and then forgetting them – and this morning I was in a ‘can’t remember’ phase, so I went and looked it up as best I could. On one side is the owl, and the coin was nicknamed ‘glaux’ (owl) because of it, and on the other side is the head of Athena looking to the right. She has a large, sharp nose and an earring, plus a flower in her hair. There is also an olive branch on the obverse, which suggests mine was minted after 479 BC, and is probably from the Athens area, although it also looks like an image I saw of one from the Cyne area, which is on the (now) Turkish mainland near Lesvos. Anyway, the thing has been around for a very long time and is usually kept locked in my lockbox, not that it is particularly valuable because there are hundreds of them sill in existence. But still, I like it.

I wonder if I should clean it, and if so, what with?

I’ll hold off on that for now.

Here’s an interesting piece about the coin from the Alpha Bank collection. https://www.alphapolitismos.gr/en/numismatic-collection/our-coins-and-banknotes/silver-tetradrachm-athens/

In other news… Oh, there’s some new paintwork at Lefteris’ kafeneion which is already causing discussion. Personally, I like it. It makes the place even more cosy, and the addition of some new plants and the latticework at Rainbow also give that a little charm-lift for the season ahead.

And, talking of ancient coins and new paintwork, here’s an ancient landscape taken from a slightly different angle. Right, I’m off into chapter 24…

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It’s all going to kick off again soon, just you wait. To what am I referring? Handtuchkriege, of course. Otherwise known as ‘towel wars’, this is a story of a skirmish which could drastically change the face of beach behaviour as we know it. You probably read the story and thought, Oh, how ridiculous, but unfortunately, it’s true. A man has successfully sued a holiday company because he was unable to find a sunbed. He was out at dawn with his towel, hoping to bag a lounger for the day ahead, and imagine his horror when he found them all already booked by other people selfishly putting down their towels before him. ‘Outrageous!’, he cries. ‘Ich bin offended. I demand retribution!’ Which he finally got through a court in Hanover. The bloke said he had tried to beat the morgendlicher liegestuhl sprint, the ‘dawn dash’, but he was never successful, and his children had to lie on concrete. Therefore, I’ll have €986.70 compensation from the travel company who are clearly responsible for the behaviour of tourists who booked with all and any other travel companies, because this is my €7,000 holiday, and someone other than me must be responsible.

Here are a few suggestions for how this situation can be avoided, Sir.

1. If no sunbeds are available, rather than choose the hardest surface you can find for your little ones, perhaps you might suggest they lie on the sand. Even pebble beaches can be made acceptable with some bum shuffling when fitting into place.

2. If your wife and progeny are not happy with their surroundings, perhaps you might take them to somewhere with a warmer, more heated clime, such as Gaza, where they will, I am sure, find plenty of abandoned beds — and homes, livelihoods, and possibly even some children who would not complain about having to sleep on a hard surface.

3. You could, of course, always bring your own sunbed. After paying €7,000 for a trip to Kos, I am sure a little extra luggage allowance wouldn’t break the bank, and after all, people take all manner of things on holiday with them these days. Holidaymakers pour from airports carrying lengths of rubber tubing for some nefarious reason, while others travel with entire sets of sports equipment: skateboards, skis, rugby posts… Why, you could even buy your personal sun lounger its own seat on a plane. These days, you could probably marry it.

And so it could go on, and probably will. Not only will the floodgates of American-style ridiculous litigation now be open, but, in Greece, the sensible parts of the government are restricting the number of beaches where the ancient teaching of ‘put down thy bed and veg out’ can be utilised. This is to keep in check with their Natura 2000 policy. “As of April 2026, Greece has expanded its “untrodden beaches” list to 251 locations within Natura 2000 protected areas, where sunbeds, umbrellas, and commercial activities are prohibited.”

I can’t wait to hear from visitors who’ve set off at dawn to walk to a distant beach only to find a midnight Handtuchkriege raid has taken place. Every one of the 2,000 sunbeds crammed side by side is taken, leaving little room to breathe, and offering every chance of spreading a new virus and/or bad feeling because the person beside you has brought their children — how dare they! —  and those children are flatly refusing to spend their holiday on concrete. The same visitor will return earlier the next day to find the government have ordered all but six of the things off the beach because a) the beach business had greedily overstocked, b) that’s what the national law says for this ancient place, and c) they would have taken the last six, too, but the towels were stapled to the sunbed.

Honestly. I don’t know. Mutter, mutter, ‘Not like it was in my day,’ common sense has left the station…

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