We were back in Greece - the land where time stands still.

We'd spent a tortuous night waiting at Venizelos for our domestic flight but due to strong winds over the Aegean several flights were continually shunted through the time table and ours was nowhere to be seen. In future it might be an idea to bring a camping mattress so at least we could rest on the grass outside.
Then eight forty-one am and suddenly things began to happen. We were boarding - or were we? I was grumpy. Sandy was convinced that it's attitude that conquers stress in our travails - I wasn't so strong.
It was mid-morning when our kindly taxi-driver dropped us at a taverna in the village and by then we were numb with fatigue.

But it never lasts and once we'd been made welcome by the owner, and our omelettes and coffee were on their way, we switched off and watched the world with a passive, relaxed attention. A man walked along a track in the valley below the walls; a lady adjusting her headscarf while talking to her friend; kids squealing excitedly in the square. It was Sunday and the church bells tolled. Near the counter a group of men playing tabla nodded and wished us, "Kalimera".
We were in Greece.

After breakfast, we crossed the square to the tourist office where we were heartily greeted by an earnest young guy who looked like he had just crawled out of bed, barely dressed but earnest. After insisting we keep the office door closed so the air conditioner would work, he tried a couple of times to contact his friend, a local hotel owner, who usually had rooms for rent but there was no answer. "Maybe you come back in an hour and we try again - it's Sunday."

Yes, we were definitely in Greece. We wandered back to the taverna and took our seats near the tabla men again. One of them had overheard our problem and offered to take us to his hotel where he thought there might be vacancies. We were amazed. He actually offered to leave his drink and his friends to try and get us a room - remarkable. But when he rang the hotel reception bell there was no answer there either. He persisted until a bushy bearded man appeared and warmly greeted our friend. He introduced himself as Nikos. After some talk our friend left and Nikos took us to see our new home, asking us on the way if we were the couple the guy in the 'info' office had mentioned. We turned a corner and stepped into a charming, older part of town. Along a narrow passageway, up a flight of stone steps, through a stable door and into a small, beamed room.

Small and beautiful but the one next door was much bigger with the advantage of a large flat roof - big enough to use as another room and ideal for sleeping under the stars.  So a price was struck, hands were shook and we returned to thank our friend for his help but he'd gone.
We move in and once our stuff was spread around, it became home. I checked the perfect two-ringed camping cooker and already my mouth was watering. It felt right to be in an old house within the community without shops or hotels, or even a taverna. A few doors away, lived an old lady who sat outside her little house all neat in headscarf and widow's weeds who'd nod and smile as we fussed about.  

      The village spreads along the spine of a hill towards a ruined castle and that overlooks a small bay and a narrow beach. We could trace a  road that snakes down from the castle for about a mile before it straightens out parallel to a tidy     tourist village. Half way there, amongst the trees, a pretty ouzeri sits back off the road right opposite a bridge that leads through scrub to a semi-secluded beach. It was all lovely and tempting but we were far too tired to do much more than get our bearings, ramble back into the village and sip a restorative lemon tea before we got some rest. At least the wind had died down and the sky had a rosy tint.

 We woke in early evening on the roof beneath a ceiling of stars; an early warm peaceful clear blue skied evening, and there we lay there and gazed in peaceful silence at our horizon and beamed. A rocky outcrop, the castle, the mountain behind us, the homes with their unusual chimneys, the greenery and always - the dependable sky; the deep flawless, never ending sky.
By then we were almost dizzy with hunger and went hunting down towards the swash and the swoosh of the sea in search of food. Half hidden in the woods where the road meets the beach we passed a rather large water tank and it was there we became bewitched by the fragrant aromas of cooking. Out of sight from the road, almost on the beach itself, we discovered a beautiful ram-shackle open-air estiatorio at the foot of some steps. Lying amongst the bushes half-hidden, half-completed, was the name-sign apparently discarded and with no other diners in sight we wondered if it might be not yet be ready for the season. On the way in we brushed past a pretty girl who gave us the sweetest, shyest smile I'd ever seen. She was lovely. "Yiassas" she said, then she was gone.

Suddenly, like a genie from a bottle, we were greeted by a skinny bohemian hippy, his mighty floppy jet black hair waving about as he welcomed us. He brought us water 'to refresh' whilst he got under way, asking questions, informing us of the specialities, intelligent, funny. His name was Spiro and he was the waiter. We took to him instantly. As he rattled on, we discovered a compassionate man, a wise man, and one we felt we'd known for ages. Sandy thought he might be an old Zen sage from some previous life. We ate a delicious aubergine salad and vegetable moussaka then drank too much wine and talked and talked with our new friend about his trip to Africa, his love for the brotherliness of the Bedouin, and of painters and writers. What a fabulous evening. But later, climbing the hill to our little palace, we bought a bottle of Ouzo for a night-cap and under the stars we sat on the roof and filled our glasses but within a couple of minutes we'd crashed from a very great height.

Next morning a friendly sparrow fluttered between aerials until he landed on our roof in search of a mate. He threw back his head and sang his heart out. And how he sang. He was delightful. Every morning he acme to profess his dying love for whichever female he might attract,  singing, ruffling his feathers, puffing out his chest and sticking out his wings in unparalleled display. We took to leaving bread crumbs and water to help him keep up his strength.
Above the castle buzzards drift and hover with at least two gold crests and countless noisy sparrows but my body wanted the sea and wasted no time in taking short cuts along old work tracks through scrub and bracken down to the secluded beach until at last it crunched onto the pebbles. Apart from mask and snorkel and fins it slipped naked into cool waters and launched forward into the silent whispering bay above a dappled sea bed - home to countless graceful innocent sailors silently swimming in their own magic world. Clouds of living colour meander above the creamy sand against the purple, blue and yellow of the flora and the rocks; the living organism that's the sea - and I was in it, back to the beginning. Childlike in joy and freedom. Swimming into caves and coming eye to eye with larger fish and the only sounds were someone's steady breathing and the click of a snorkel. In time, I cruised parallel to the shore and quietly came to a satisfied rest, peeling off my mask and fins, and clearing my sinuses with a snort. Slipping and sliding, I crunched my way amongst boulders and scratchy undergrowth along an ancient river bed running through the cranky old gorge. And the heady scent of thyme was everywhere. 
                                                                                                                                                                                                        Drying in the sun, I collected pebbles from the shore to make little stupas. I'd find a niche, balance the flattest one there, lay on the next and the smallest on top of that. It was so absorbing I was dry long before I realised. As I dressed I remembered a guy from the other day who'd found a track up towards the castle and I wondered where it was. I searched for a toe hold or anywhere to begin my climb and then found overgrown steps amongst the rocks. A scramble led to a narrow path past a little chapel and beneath an arbour of olive trees to join the road at the bridge. With every twist and bend the steep road back to town seemed more arduous than before and by the time I reached the school I was quite breathless. But just as I was about to have a rest, gasping to a standstill, the kids gathered at the gates and urged me on, shouting and giggling and grinning like heroes.

The town square is very beautiful with the usual surrounding banks, Olympic office, school library and tavernas. In centre, a large paved area where the kids go mad and play all evening till bedtime. Within its low walls grow geraniums and roses and even courgettes amongst the shrubs and trees. When the kids go home, they just leave, and all their toys and bags and balls are kicked under the benches for next time. 

We sat and marvelled at the simple joy and oneness with their feelings. They have the capacity to experience the world directly and without the intervening filter of labelling that passes for knowledge. We had it as children too but were educated out of it and now we need to recover our primal innocence if we want to enjoy the world as it really is.

On the south side of this square are five huge palm trees happily bombing those seated beneath it with oily palm nuts. There are lemon trees, bougainvillea, almond, plane, oleander, hibiscus and pepper trees. There's also one lying on its side that looks like it recently fell over. Cicadas create a cacophony. That may be because there are lots of tiny flying things that give a nip like the prick from a pin and I bet the birds think they're delicious. Sandy just presented me with an almond that dropped into her lap from above.
 
Spiro told us of a village set right in the heart of the island. Every Sunday is market day and when the weather is right, the village square is buzzing. "You can simply sit and merge with the vibrant parade of life." That made me realise I wanted to see as much of the island as possible but with very little public transport I'd have to hire a car - or hitch.  So next morning, I rambled along the only road with any traffic and within an hour I had arrived at the next village. It was mid-morning by then and time to put out my thumb. After only about ten minutes a car stopped and the door fell open. "We're going to the Sunday market if you want a lift." It's a family outing and they squash up to let the visitor in so in I squash and instantly am bombarded with question from the young boy and his sister. After a while, the little girl starts humming a jolly tune and the boy joins in with words and then the mother and father and when they come to the finish we all clap (except the driver) and soon we are all laughing and we're all together having fun. I think I was in their car for about an hour but it seemed like minutes. They dropped me in the square and off they went to grandma's for lunch. 
 
Fascinating hardware stores, butchers selling extremely fresh meat, flowers and plants for sale, comforting old stone-floored tavernas with high wooden ceilings and fat old wooden chairs looking like wooden chairs should; huge mirrors; wall lamps and posters advertising kitchen products; stairways that once led to heaven - or hell; a semi-circular bar; walls carrying old family photographs; and hardware shops, dark & musty selling everything from delightful tiny oil lamps to sacks of grain and baseball caps. For breakfast, bacon, egg and strong black coffee. The village felt safe - safe and buzzing. And as ever, the people are courteous and glad to be of service. Off the main square is an area of old houses, with some for sale, and narrow passageways overgrown and crumbling full of real people in happy confusion . At siesta things wind down and some stalls are taken down. I got talking to a Californian ex-pat packing up her oil paintings. Her house was near our castle and she offered me a lift back in around twenty minutes or so. I wandered round the square watching it clear of stallholders but after a while, I felt - once again - the classic example of being in the wrong place and at the mercy of another's generosity. Ellen and her friends, all US ex-pats, were matured hippies and groovy - but not where I wanted to be. Suddenly, I realised she was nowhere to be seen and wondered if she'd forgotten my lift but one of her chums assured me she was busy with her weekly shop before heading back. The whole village was sleeping and Ellen was taking forever - but at least the sparrows were chirping. And then she reappeared laden with plastic bags and so I helped her carry them to her car. As we were loading up a man approached waving his hand in the air. It was the worker who'd found Sandy and I our roomy room at Nick's. He introduced himself as Yiannis Papadopoulos and invited me for a drink and how I would loved to have gone but if I wanted to catch the lift back to the Hora I had to say no. We shook hands and I thanked him once again and waved him off as he drove away.

The road to the Chora swims through an astonishing holy ocean of bright yellow furze that washes the mind from all past sins. Scattered amongst this fairyland are abandoned buildings and shallow gulleys where once ran pristine rivers and lakes. It is still possible to mark their courses and even though well-drilling has drained most of them some puddles still bravely hold their ground.      
The village cowered beneath a turbid sky. And as Ellen dropped me off outside the house of our neighbour I could sense its anger in the far-flung grumblings as it began to snap. And as Ellen dropped me off outside the house of our neighbour I could sense its anger in the far-flung grumblings as it began to snap. Our lady sat in her doorway and smiled. She seemed relaxed and twinkly as only senior ladies know how so I asked to take a photo. She rearranged her headscarf, made herself comfortable in her chair then to my shame, very softly she began to weep. She looked so miserable I kissed her soft grey cheek and squeezed her hand and tried to reassure her. I apologised and just as I backed away, I bumped into the man from the info office who was standing a little way behind us. "Hello. Don't worry about the lady. I have come to sit a while with the her as I do from time to time since her husband died the last year. She has had a hard winter." "I think she is a little deaf." I said. "Yes, loud TV." said he.

A strengthening westerly suggested it might be time to visit a waterfall we'd heard about over on the sheltered east coast and so we set off across the yellow plateau towards until we came to a pretty dense old wood. Forced to leave the car, we tramped down and down into a dell almost entirely concealed by the woods and there as if by magic, came the remarkable sound of running water. Though not huge, about twenty feet high, our waterfall was enchanting. Its water had a life of its own, warbling from the rocks above into an icy pool in the dell, and all enclosed by shrub and boulders and greenery.                

A place of faeries, spells and legend. We were like children again. We had never been so close to falling water, or felt its gentle spray, or been so entertained by the buzzes and tweets of its creatures, or ever felt the soft and comforting isolation of a secret grotto which then came and wrapped itself around us.

 We left our magic grotto to climb back to a path that took us past some very fine Venetian villas and into remnants of a mediaeval village, still alive with shadowy ghosts in our imagination. Two or three buildings lined what must have been a street and on some walls were faded motifs of goods on sale inside. We found the taverna, a butcher's and a bread shop and the rim of a deep and dangerous gorge and saw the distant ruins of another fortification. It was treacherous to go much further so we headed back to a taverna by a stream where we could rest and watch the trusty ducks and geese parade.

 That evening, as the blue melted into the purplest navy and with millions of stars overhead, we sank into a couple of chars outside our favourite taverna, Byron's 'Beggera'. We ordered a well-earned lemonade for Sandy and a raki for me but they were a long time coming. Byron was engrossed in an item on the TV news about Rembetika until he glanced in our direction and said, "Please, go inside and serve yourself. This will finish soon." I could hardly believe my happy ears. We sipped our drinks, the TV item closed and Byron came to join us. Once he gathered where we'd been he told us all about the ruined village. Once the mediaeval capital on the north east coast of the island it had been sacked by the pirate, Barbarossa, in the middle fifteen hundreds, and the several thousand inhabitants had been sold into slavery. Byron was like the waterfall now and rambled on about war, Jacques Cousteau, historic Greece and life in general until our heads were swirling with imagery and disbelief. So another three rather large glasses of Raki later, I was forced to ask for our bill. He glanced at our glasses. "Five euros", and stood to go inside. Just then his wife phoned from upstairs to tell him his dinner was ready. Sandy joked, "Do you always go when your wife calls?" He grinned. "I like my dinner hot."

Of all the windy nights I've known in Greece, that last night on the island  was the most tempestuous - and yet the morning had started gently enough with our hard working sparrow chirruping, cicadas sawing in the pine woods and just an occasional door wheezing, and then the wind changed and started worrying every cubbyhole and cavity. We wanted to take home something for our windowsill, so not long after breakfast we wrapped up against the sandy gusts and spent the morning in the woods collecting seeds and marjoram and thyme. On the path that leads to an old wartime military post, I'd built a large stupa a couple of days earlier and was surprised to see it still balancing - particularly after the recent threats of a force nine. Anyway, it became a little too gritty for the beach so we went home to make our last lunch from whatever was left in the fridge: a good chunk of feta, a good handful of local olives, some livadi sesame rolls, and a half a glass of retsina each. There was plenty. I smiled at the tiny leaves and twigs still clinging to the last of the cherries in their bowl.

After our banquet we climbed the ramparts for a last look over the curling roads we'd walked, the beaches we'd swam from and the woods where we'd lost our way. Our visit was done. But there was one final surprise to come. At end of the castle hanging over the drop to the beach we found the remains of a chapel. We must have missed it before and were quite surprised how intact it still was - and then, just as we turned to leave, something caught our attention. Some interesting colours on a wall.      And then it hit us. It was a fresco - naked to the sky. The fading image of three two-dimensional figures living there, right before our eyes and somehow still clinging to the plasterwork and the stone after all the tempests and the years. A great parting gift.   
On our way back through the delicious fragrance of wood-smoke and jasmine, Sandy found some peculiar pods amongst some flowers by the gate. She prodded one and it shot up in the air hitting my leg. The one I held seemed to move so I threw it down thinking some creature was living and moving inside but in fact the pods were bursting with sap which ejaculate whenever they're squashed, and this propels them forward to seed again.

 With the idiot wind there was a good chance our flight would be grounded or delayed or both and we were quite anxious to say the least. By bedtime the air was hot and windy and our usual good humour had no joy as we packed our bags to the of rattling latches every time there came a gust. Neither of us could sleep and with every door in the neighbourhood banging its head off and anything that couldn't bang - crashing, we dozed at best. I thought of that tree in the square and thanked Zeus for cardboard and its wedging properties. I'd put my pillow in the fridge - a tip given by another light sleeper - to help me get some rest and we'd even dowsed ourselves in citronella against mosquito attacks. We kept our doubts to ourselves but, unable to ignore the groaning, we knew we would not be sleeping deeply that night. Outside the wind seemed to be organic; a roaring, worrying, muttering howl of a storm. It disturbed us continually although once, on my way back from the toilet, I'd cast a bleary eye over the village and noticed there'd been a power failure. The only light came from the billions of silent, immovable stars. A complete dome of victorious twinkling lights.
I'd heard a buzz. No doubt my nakedness would be breakfast for the local mosquito if I stayed outside our room. So we sat on the bed and tantalised the nasty through the glass. It was furious. We could clearly see it and hear its tinny whine.

 Six am couldn't could not come quick enough. Through the French windows the sky was leaden. Suddenly, the alarm and we were glad to be on our way. Oranges and lemons clustered like a new dawn against the stars. It was time to leave our Villa Nick and take our bags to the taxi. Standing in the lane, we heard a shout and to our great astonishment and joy, there was Spiro leaning out of the door of his old banger and grinning behind his shades. He had just finished his shift and was sipping coffee at the wheel. Clearly, he was drunk. "Get in."  
I winced at his battered old car. "No thanks. We're in a Mercedes."
"Yeah, but I have the best music."
And he knew we wanted to go with him and as we talked he actually held our hands and it was hard to brave. Then he said, "I'll see you at the airport. I am meeting my wife." And he was gone.

I wondered if we would ever meet her and soon we did. It was in Arrivals and the moment we met she said, "I know you." Then I remembered her from when we first visited the 'water tank'. She was the smiling girl we had collided with at the entrance. Spiros told us how they met. "It was Tuesday April 13th 1999 and I was at a party and had drunk too much wine. As I fell asleep at a table, my hair caught fire. I asked an old girl friend to put it out but before she could, a very slim, attractive girl, a complete stranger, whom I had admired all evening, tenderly patted out the smoke. It was love at first sight and we have been together ever since."

It is always good to be in Greece. You learn peace of mind from people with fewer desires. They seem more content with their lot. They're happy just being, and not so interested in 'becoming' and they don't measure success in terms of acquisitions. They realise success as a deeply personal thing - not an accolade awarded us by others. 

And then we were going home, and I knew we'd take certain feelings back with us and they'd become part of us and how these feelings become more lasting than just a memory. 

  

 

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