It’s that old devil called water again. Yesterday was water intake day, and because we had run out the day before, it was vital we had a full tank, otherwise, we would be dry until Friday. So, we’re waiting and waiting, and the needle on the meter isn’t going round, and Neil had to go down town for something, and was going to call into the town hall to ask why, when, on his way, he noticed other people’s water supply was on and it was coming in, so why not us? I checked again and discovered the water was coming in, but only as far as the garden tap (not that we have a garden). From there, it runs directly to the water tank only, yesterday, it wasn’t. So, I tried the hose to see if that would run from the garden tap to the tank, which is about six feet higher, and no, it wouldn’t. So, I went and bought a better hose from Mr Chan, whose name probably isn’t Mr Chan, but that’s what the locals call him, but not even his hose made a difference. Neil was back from town by now, and we discovered that water would run through the house and dribble out (better than nothing), but only to a certain altitude; after that, nothing.

So, we had to resort to buckets, 20 of them, up and down the spiral stairs until the tank was full of soup. Pouring the buckets in, rather than having the steady flow from the main pipe, disturbed the sediment that’s built up at the bottom of the tank over the years. Sediment? From rainwater? Yes, well, no, because it’s not rainwate,r it’s some strange water-effect substitute provided by a desalination plant that doesn’t quite desalinate, so we’re constantly seeing yellow water coming out of taps, and rust-coloured water-effect substitute in the WC now and then. All very odd, and no, we don’t drink it.

Anyway, the plumber called later, took a look at the pump, which still goes off every ten minutes for no reason, checked our pipes for leaks (none), took the mains pipe off, blew down it and will come back tomorrow to check it or change it so we can fill up without having to go up and down with buckets. Then he went to knock on the door downstairs to check for leaks. However, he decided, en route, that it was siesta time and he would come back later to see the soldier who must have a leak despite what he says, and I don’t mean that kind of leak, Missus. But, apparently, he either didn’t call back, or he did, and the soldier was out because the pump’s still going off. But at least we have a tank of yellow water to see us through until next top-up day. We also now have five buckets of spare water, a new hosepipe and stronger calf muscles just in case.

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Other things that happened during my week off and since… Let me see… I mentioned the birthday, and if you’re on the same social media as us, you will have seen pictures from Harry’s 18th, so that happened. He chose to go to lunch at the Kali Strata Restaurant, where he works in the evenings, so he had a chance to enjoy some of the fare he nightly delivers to other people, and the meal was as special as it always is there. Even more special for H as his brother was cooking for him and came to join us at the table for a present opening. H’s birthday is the same day as Sam’s name day, so we were able to sit with big bro for a short while between his shifts and do more present sharing.

There have been other kinds of celebrations and events taking place too, as today’s photos show. Thank you to Penny for letting me use them.

That was in Yialos late the other night. I think the concert was also last week?

The harbour has been busy with boats, which is always good to see, but the roads have been over-busy with visiting traffic, as you might have gleaned from my earlier photos. We got caught in this last Friday when we decided to take a taxi up to the village. We do this now when it’s too hot to walk up at midday, or when we have too much to carry, as we did last week. Hats off to our taxi drivers for their patience and good humour. It took roughly 10 minutes to get from the taxi rank to Petalo, that’s the bottom of the hill leading out of town.

First, he had to negotiate the tourists who’d just got off a Sebeco. The tavernas along the way were full, and the chairs were out almost to the road, so you can’t pull too far that way, and the quay is on the other side, so you can’t go that way. Visitors have a habit of standing in the middle of the road like a herd of ruminating cattle contemplating their bare navels and wondering where they left their brains, and no-one likes a horn blower (unless it’s Ioan Gruffedd, or perhaps Gregory Peck), and you can’t even nudge them out of the way. Next came the tour groups gathering in the road and in the bus stop parking bay waiting for the talk about the island, and then came oncoming traffic, including the bus, followed by another bus, followed by the line of people who’d come of the Panagia and who had walked around from the ‘new’ port, and then came a stream of cars…

Oh, first had come one car who though she owned the road and sat there waiting for the taxi to hitch up its skirts and sidestep into the sea so she could pass, and she had the bus behind her, and the only thing she could do was reverse, or try to. Our driver was laughing by this point. She did some farting about and managed to get herself wedged into the side of the road, with pedestrians streaming around her adding to the confusion, but finally, by the time we’d negotiated her back several yards, we were almost at Petalo, and the bus was halfway back up the hill, and the road to the ‘new’ port was closed to traffic because of building work, and still the herd was streaming from somewhere and inching between the cars, and finally…

Totally bonkers. Luckily, many of those visiting from the mainland will have returned there or are now on their way back there with their cars, so there may be a little more space on the roads. One day we’ll get to the point of a radio play I wrote b ack in the 90s, where it turned out there was more length of vehicle on (an island’s) roads than there was length of road, and everyone decided to go out for a drive at the same time leading to one of those square ‘nine’ puzzles where you have one space, and you have to slide tiles (vehicles) around to get home. Anyhow… That was last week, and now, it’s back to work.

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Yesterday, I mentioned a few of the things that had happened last week, one of which was a bush fire. I say ‘bush’ because I’m not sure if a forest was involved. I think not. But there was a small fire on the other side of the island, apparently, just above Moroni Bay. As with much news on the island, word travels fast. Harry told me at 16.30, which was, I am told, not long after the thing started. I’d been wondering what the seaplanes were doing out in the bay…

They’d come from elsewhere to assist, as had a helicopter, and according to the Rhodes newspaper, the thing was out and dealt with by 17.15, so lasted an hour or less. The planes stayed around to keep the area damp and under surveillance, I guess, before finally departing a few hours later. I think there was a concern it could spread inland towards Nimborio – which is a fair way away, I’d have thought that the safety of Roukouniotis and surrounding area would have been more of a concern, but then, a fire anywhere in such dry conditions is a concern.

Happy to say, no-one was hurt and nothing was lost, the services were here within minutes, and everything came to a happy pass, as they say in fairytales, so there’s no need to worry, no need to panic and put up ‘Stay safe’ messages on social media as if we’re all going to go running headfirst into danger, no need for thoughts and prayers, or to mark myself safe from… All done and dusted, or wetted more like, and it was a while ago now. I didn’t want to cram all my exciting news into one post yesterday, so I’ll witter on about something else tomorrow.

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After a week of nonsense, we’re back to more nonsense in the usual way as normal service resumes. It’s been quite a week, and I will tell you about it as the days go by. We’ve had all sorts of things happening, including festivals, a big birthday, a bush fire, the biggest tuna salad ever, an horrendous traffic jam, and last night, strong winds which have left us sneezing and bunged up with dust. Oh, I also released another book in my Victorian detective series, ‘Snake Hill.’ It’s now on Kindle, but I’m still waiting for the full cover so I can release the paperback version. Hopefully, that’ll be along this week.

We’ve also had some lovely late September weather, even though it’s August, and the wind (now a breeze) has helped keep things cooler than usual. Mind you, these days, there’s no point talking about the usual weather for this time of year because who knows what that is? It’s weather. It’s either there or it’s not, and if it’s not, then we really are in trouble.

I’ve been meaning to mention the new bakery in the village, which has been open for a while now. It’s where the old wood-over bakery used to be. It’s had a revamp and has expanded.

I must now get on with chapter four of the next book in the series, which, so far, has turned out to be one of those that writes itself (if only).

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The Days Pass

Despite the trials of modern travel and modern travellers, Shirl soon finds herself relaxing. This has much to do with a large piece of limestone that has a very ancient story to tell. It does so silently, which, after being a woman alone in Greece for a week, she is happy about. You see, Shirl has quickly come to learn not to ask a Greek man a question for risk of getting an answer.

It’s not the language thing. Just about everyone she meets under the age of ninety speaks English of some sort, even if it’s highly Americanised, thanks to television programmes and a private English teacher who hailed from Southern Texas, but who was a) the cheapest to hire and b) the only one available to fly out for a season. However, he’s been deported now, because his contract was for a year, but his visa was only for three months, and Shirl’s quite pleased, because asking a Texan to teach the King’s English is a little like asking the Wests to run a creche.

No, the problem, she has discovered, is philosophy. Having given birth to it 2,600 years before yesterday, Greek men have taken it to heart.

‘Can you tell me the time of the next bus?’ A simple question asked of a waiter.

‘Pah! The bus is for those who make no money. Why would I take a bus? To show my family I have no respect in myself? I take my car, because it is mine and I have earnt it. I am right, yes?’

‘Well…’

‘Yes. I am right.’

And that’s the end of that.

Actually, that was what Shirl has come to think of as a quickie. Only yesterday, she happened to ask another waiter what was good on the menu and got what she calls a virtual quicky because it wasn’t that quick, but it wasn’t as incessant as some monologues she’s had to listen to.

‘Is all good on my menu. Is made by me. Yes, me. I do this because it is love. Food is the way I say, I love you. It brings me from my heart to the heart of the inside of my customers, those who I love, and I feed with love, so it comes straight from here,’ (slaps heart area), ‘to my customer insides, where it warms you with my love.’

‘Yeah, and comes out as shito. Just the Greek salad for me.’

Other encounters are ‘longies’, and that’s a polite way of putting it, Shirl thinks as she listens to diatribe after diatribe. Personal philosophy pours from the mouths of local lads as young as the latest social media craze, as it does from the beaten moustaches of the ancients who doze outside bars of an afternoon. No-one, it seems, is capable of holding a discussion that does not revolve around their view of life, love and the universe, and they/he is always right. To debate otherwise is to invite a Jehovah’s Witness into your house to meet the Mormon boys on their mission. To stay silent only produces more of the same spouting, but still, Shirl’s in Greece. It’s what happens.

What also happens are fellow Brits, and much as she tries to steer clear, they find her. Phil and his inanity were bad enough, and she only made it through that lunch with the help of her support post, but those she encounters elsewhere… Heavens to Betsy!

There are those who arrive pre-stained and slightly orange but who think if they say nothing about it, everyone else will be too polite to notice.

There are those who arrive as white as if they’d just read their restaurant bill in Mykonos, but who think they are untouchable, and so parade in as little as possible for the first day, and in calamine lotion for the rest of their trip. These are usually men.

Next, come they who believe they have the body of Venus being transformed from a pearl to a goddess in an oyster. These special creatures waft through even the most traditional and out of the way villages in heeled shoes with a piece of string between their legs in a failed attempt at modesty, and a stretch of something across the top to distract from the pimples on the exposed arse. If they’re trying to be Venus, then they’re being transformed from a manufactured imitation piece of sand to a laughingstock in an ashtray that might once have held a clam.

And then, among others, she discovers those who gather at the same tables in the same kafeneion at the same time of day, every day, she discovers a mild form of competition. It can be found in snatches of conversation that she overhears while taking her afternoon coffee.

‘You can’t sit there, that’s where Raymond always sits. Is Raymond here yet?’

‘He’s coming on Tuesday, staying at Katerina’s for a week, moving to the village for his second week, we’re having lunch on Friday, and we’re all doing the boat trip on Sunday.’

‘Oh? Boat trip?’

‘Have you not stayed here before? This is our, what is it…? Our tenth time.’

‘Oh, only ten? We first came in 1989.’

‘As late as that? You won’t remember Spiros, then. He was only a boy when we first met him in eighty-two.’

‘You mean him, serving that lady, there?’

‘Yes, that’s him. Like our grandchild he is.’

If he was, you’d know his name’s Yiannis, Shirl thinks and finishes her drink.

Despite all this, as every day passes, she becomes more and more enamoured with the place, the people, their eccentricities which are only eccentricities to others, the pace, the care, the rocks, and even parts of male philosophy. It’s all going so well, she’s not been sectioned for holding conversations with inert objects. Yet.

Exit, Fade, and Cut.

It’s all going well, she’s learnt to avoid the traps, and she’s now a different person because she has decided a few things. For example:

Why pay for a costly sunbed when a towel on the beach will do? Why opt for a fancy lunch when a few supplies from the super market (sic) will suffice? Why dress in expensive designer outfits for dinner (who you gunna impress?) and pay a fortune for a spit of foam beside something resembling a golf ball and titled, The waft of the Aegean or whatever, when a family-run village taverna is all you need? In other words, Shirl had realised it’s the simple things in life that matter.

Talking of which, the husband arrives. (We forgot about him.) At this point, we’re left to assume there’s a happy ever after. The husband has come to realise that the wife is of some importance, Shirl’s got an illegal job working in Costas’ café on days when the IKA or Tax aren’t on the island, and even her rock’s now a tourist attraction. Packs of ‘influencers’ line up to take pouting selfies beside random lumps of limestone, and one of them is the new he/her/they/etc. friend of the travelling companion (we also forgot about her). Thanks to Shirl, her island is now thriving in the way a wasp’s nest thrives, but among the mayhem, she/you/we/us will always find a peaceful spot, a beautiful view, and most of all, a friendly welcome.

‘I’m gonna miss you!’

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No, I don’t know why I wrote all that either, but it was fun. Btw, I’m not talking about any one person here, so I’m not talking about that Costas, or that ferry, taverna, accommodation or even that island. I’m just talking. Have a good weekend. Back on Monday (with photos).

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