Yes, this old chestnut again – and yes, we do do chestnuts in the winter, if you can get them. I know it’s August, and 35° out there, you’re keen to be at the beach, or on the patio with a G&T under the parasol, but it’s only 7.00 and it’s cloudy, so you’re making do with this.

What do you do in the winter is one of the most asked questions around these parts, and it’s mostly asked by first time visitors. After a couple of visits, people realise they’ve asked the clichés and start looking for something more intelligent and deeper to ask, for example: What’s the weather like in the winter? Some rephrase it to sound knowledgeable: I suppose it’s quite warm in the winter? You suppose wrong, Sir. Come in February when it’s 5° inside the house if you venture further than three feet from the heater, where many can’t afford to run the aircon on warm, or more than one two-bar fire, where not everyone has a wood burner, carpets or gas central heating, and where you might end up sitting on an electric blanket, under another one, with your gloves on, watching John Mills in ‘Scott of the Antarctic’ and thinking he had it easy. No, what we do in the winter is a variety of things, and here are a few:

These are all indoor things, obviously. There are outdoor winter sports to enjoy too, such as making your way home against the flooded lanes as the rain pours, and the lightning knocks out your router for a few days. There’s the game of ‘Hunt for Fresh’ in the supermarkets when the boats are delayed or not running, and there’s the constant round of Hunt the Bucket to play when the roof leaks. Oh, and we also kneel on sofas, taking photos of music stands for no discernible reason.

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I started out putting together next year’s Symi Dream Calendar and ended up with a new-look website. Ah, well, that’s how Thursdays go, I suppose. This was all before nipping downtown, paying my insurance bill (which involved a walk around to the bank where the air conditioning is perfect for dying off after a walk around to the bank), then some shopping, then lunch at Trata followed by a swift one at Pavlis before being whisked home in a taxi. Luxurious. Still, the new-look site is challenging me to make it look better, which I will do bit by bit, what with the images not being the right size in the left column, which I really want on the right, but I don’t know how to do that as it’s not a plug-and-play feature, but needs coding, and onwards…

The reason I changed the template was because the old one wouldn’t allow me to put anything new in the widget area – that’s the column on the left in this case. I wanted to place the Symi Dream Calendar 2026 at the top, but was unable, and the only way was to use a more modern template. So, that’s what’s at the top now, only it’s a bit skewwhiff and I need to fiddle with the proportions of the image. If it looks fine to you, then I’ve managed to do that. If not, then I’ve not but hopefully will in time. Anyway…

I have great admiration for the taxi drivers on Symi, especially when they get the short straw and have to leave Yialos just as a Sebeco has come in and another is about to leave, and at the same time, the Panagia has docked. We’ve had, for a long time, the congestion at the bus stop, where tour guides gather their gangs just as the bus is pulling in or out, and the boat has unloaded into the road. That’s one thing. Now, though, at certain times, you have to contend with hordes of people walking around from Petalo, which means passing them in their lines, tramping like refugees glad to have hit dry land, on the narrowest part of the road, while dealing with oncoming traffic, waving to your mates, talking about the weather and trying not to fall in the sea. I reckon it’s high time that stretch of road was widened somehow. I only know of a couple of cases where someone’s car has gone into the sea, but it does happen and now with three unloads around near Petalo a day from Rhodes, it’s only going to get more dangerous. There may not be the same numbers as clamber off other day boats, but their path into Yialos is not a welcoming one.

And so off into the weekend, where I have a website to fiddle with and a new story to think about. Bye’all. PS. The Symi Dream Calendar is only available from this link. Not from us, Harrods, Fortnum’s, Galeries Lafayette? Nope, only from that link.

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I was just hanging around on the street corner, waiting for himself to come out of the shop, when I noticed the late afternoon light. The way it warmed the upper storeys of the houses, and caused long, out of perspective shadows on the walls. It highlighted the mismatch of solid buildings against the organic shape of the tree and brought into focus the straight lines of the electricity cables. These cables are everywhere on Symi, they have to be. I once heard talk of them going underground, but can you imagine the riot of upheaval that would cause?

Here’s the photo:

And now, here’s the same paragraph after being run through Crap GOP or whatever that AI thing is called. I have highlighted the parts I find particularly ridiculous.

I was loitering casually on the street corner, idly watching the world go by as I waited for him to emerge from the shop. It was late afternoon, that golden hour when the sun begins its slow descent, and suddenly I became aware of the way the light transformed everything around me. It spilled generously over the tops of the buildings, casting a warm, honeyed glow on the upper storeys, turning pale stone to soft amber. The sun’s low angle threw long, exaggerated shadows across the walls, bending perspective and making even the most familiar shapes appear strange and theatrical.

That contrast caught my eye—the heavy, man-made solidity of the old houses standing firm against the unruly silhouette of a nearby tree, its branches twisting upward with no regard for symmetry or structure. Overhead, the electricity cables drew taut lines through the air like strokes from an unseen pencil, cutting across the soft organic shapes below. These wires are everywhere in Symi, strung across alleyways and rooftops like an accidental web. I remember hearing someone mention a plan to put them all underground once—but the very idea felt absurd. Can you imagine the chaos? The digging, the disruption, the sheer drama of tearing up these ancient, tightly-packed streets? It would be a kind of madness.

I mean, why take 99 words to say something when 217 will do?

I don’t know why I started down this path. I meant to tell you that it’s a lovely 27° this morning with 70% humidity at the moment. I have to go down the steps later to pay a bill, collect a package, maybe slip in a quick lunch, oh, and to buy some things our village shop doesn’t have right now. Before that, though, I need to start thinking of my next story, and I rather like the title, ‘A Kind of Madness,’ but I’m not sure I approve of how it came about.

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(Not last week’s overtime.) It’s a late start today thanks to a lovely evening with Jenine, catching up on news and chat while having a Scena pizza delivery, so here’s a quick dive into a folder that is titled, ‘Last week over time’, which gives me a nice collection of memories, including:

Having lunch at Spitiko with Harry, watching day trippers disembark a boat, a view along our lane, the village square looking much as it did in yesterday’s photo, Taverna Zoi, a morning walk, Neil and his brother, me and my brother (how come? (I was on a trip to the UK)), the Romney Marsh flag, and me sitting on a cannon when I was 16 in a photo taken by my old bestie who recently composed the music for the Life of Pi, and I have to mention that at every opportunity just because. So, with nothing else to tell you, here’s that little gallery.

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Is it because it’s siesta time that the village square is just about empty of a mid to late afternoon time? It often used to be quiet in July and August, I recall from when I worked there. Yet, it wasn’t always every day. There were many days with most tables full at both bars from four in the afternoon onwards, with a slight lull between afternoon and dinner time as people left to ready themselves for a plate of moussaka. Yesterday, at around 16.30 this was the sight from my old perch at the bar.

I worked there for about 12 years, and Neil has worked there now for ten, and we both agree, it has been very quiet this season. Where is everyone? Well, some very regular visitors to the island are no longer with us, others we know of are waiting for medical matters and can’t risk leaving their home country just in case they miss a valuable slot. Others… No idea. On one hand, the mayor and the council debate over day-trip taxes, and on the other, meanwhile, so many people have rushed to Airbnb their properties in the hope of lots of cash for little effort, but, it seems, the longer-term stayers are not here to use them. Well, obviously, some are, but not as many as usual. Newspaper reports suggest many Greek families are not travelling to the islands because of lack of finances, and they may be one thing, but we also used to have many Italians and French people coming at this time of year. So far, there’s little sign of them in the village of an afternoon as there once was. If the numbers are the same as usual, then all well and good, but certainly the siesta hours in the village, which were popular, are no longer so.

I just wonder why. I’m not saying this is dire, or good, I just wonder at the reason. All the privately owned holiday homes around us are currently occupied, so it seems holiday home owners are here, but as for other longer-term stayers? Who knows what’s become of them.

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