A Bit of a Knees-Up

My other, nay better half (best not get that wrong, eh?) is always on the lookout for an opportunity to strut her stuff on the dance floor. Not your modern rubbish of course. No, she wants to dance Greek steps to traditional Greek music. But the fact is, we don't often actually get to an event, for all kinds of reasons.

But last night, just for a change, it worked out OK. There was a Greek Festival being held slap bang in the centre of Pefkos and it was primarily in aid of the fairly new and still developing website mypefkos.com. It was due to kick off at around 9.30pm and, when we arrived at around a quarter to ten it was already in full swing.

As is the usual sequence at such soirées, the first hour or so consists of a dance troup or two doing various dances from various islands in their full traditional regalia. This bit is frustrating for the likes of my wife, since she's itching to get up there. She's not a show off. She just has it in her blood and wild horses wouldn't keep her in her seat if and when the appropriate opportunity arises, which it did a little later. But at this time the floor's surrounded by a thick layer of tourists all busily clicking away with their iPads, phones and cameras. Standing room only for the meantime.

After all the formal stuff is out of the way, the profile of the audience can be seen to change. The tourists drift away, ever enticed by the lure of a bar with a big TV screen showing the current sporting event, or simply the desire to flop down in a comfy chair with another drink. But, as the evening wears on the locals emerge from the woodwork - often in their best bib and tucker and, although the numbers are a little less, the dance floor grows ever busier with people who were brought up on this stuff deftly stepping around the floor in ever-lengthening lines, exhibiting very clearly the fact that in all likelyhood they were doing these steps before they could talk.

By 11.30pm or so the crowd around the periphery had noticeably thinned, it was much easier to get a seat at a table, but the audience had become 80% Greeks of all ages. Men and women would approach their group's table laden with souvlaki for everyone and staff were prowling the audience with cardboard boxes full of chilled beer in cans. The numbers stabilize now and even begin to increase as midnight passes and the band is really cooking. Had I not had to get up on Monday morning to do another Lazy Day Cruise, we'd have stayed to the end, which would have been around 4.00am I'd guess.

So, here's a pictorial record of the proceedings. My better half is clearly visible in a number of these, oddly enough...

That's my girl, with her back to me!

I'm ready with the water bottle as she passes...

The fella with the shorts blows my comment about "best bib and tucker" out of the water doesn't he.

Who needs gyms when you can have a workout like this? Yup, she's still out there.

The most I've seen of her all night.

Mind you, I did get up a few times myself. No chance you're gonna see any photos of THAT though!

Of Moussaka and Men

Yesterday's trip to Halki went really well folks. 

Firstly, the sea was mercifully calm, resulting in one of the most pleasant crossings in a long while. 

Secondly, our good friends Kevin (a music freak like me) and Judy turned up at Levkosia's Taverna, having deduced that I'd probably forgotten all about the fact that we'd arranged to meet on the quay-side as the boat came in and so intuitively followed the sign of the bright yellow polo shirt. They also had in tow a really personable and instantly likeable couple called Graham and Wendy, both of whom have been coming to Halki for years, as have Kevin and Judy. Graham is an artist of some stature and has produced (and published in book form) some really marvellous illustrations, including one of Halki harbour which he presented to the Mayor some years ago. I am awaiting much more info about his work via e-mail and, when it comes, will be making a bit of a splash about him here. Keep tuned in folks. He and Wendy also have a much-sought-after pad down in Cornwall, right on the coastal path and overlooking the sea, which had me longing for an opportunity to take a break there. Take note Cath and Griff - you may be reaching for your mouse to book a stay down there once I reveal the details!!

Graham & Kevin

Some bloke fixing his nets, but nevertheless affording me the opportunity of taking the archetypal Greek harbour photo...

Wendy and Judy (he's not REALLY going to put this on the blog. ...is he?)

Yes folks, it's almost impossible to cruise into Halki without whipping the camera out...

And, thirdly - Levkosia, bless her, after having chided me mildy for the fact that our paths hadn't crossed in weeks, instantly asked me if I'd like a vegetarian Moussaka to take home with me. Now, once I'd got it home and safely ensconced it in the freezer, that was fine...

...but, can you imagine the difficulty presented to someone with a rucksack, a clipboard and 48 guests to shepherd aboard the ferry and subsequently aboard the coach on our arrival back at Kamiros Skala, by having also to carry a "tapsi" full of still hot, fresh-from-the-oven moussaka as well? Imagine too that, as the coach journey back to Kiotari progresses, how the aroma of fresh Moussaka floating past one's nasal passages tortures one, as one's hunger grows with each passing kilometre.

Of course, Levkosia's son Mihali, ever the gent, managed to find a cardboard box to lodge it in, so, there I was strolling nonchalantly back to the ship, rucksack over one shoulder, clipboard in one hand and cardboard box full of a huge Moussaka teetering in the other. As you can see from the above piccie, I made it.

What can you say about such kindness though? I've now lost count of how many Moussakas Levkosia's made just for Maria and I. Fortunately, yesterday a lot of my guests followed me to the taverna and quite a few (from the UK, Scandinavia and Germany) sampled the regular mince-containing Moussaka. They all confirmed that it was indeed something special. Regular readers of my stuff will already know that it's the best Moussaka in Greece. If you want to know why I can say that, unequivocally (phew, that one even surprized ME!), you'll have to find where I told the story in one of the RFR books. I can't remember which one now, oh, just read 'em all. (What a PLUG, eh?)

Anyway, why did that delicious fresh Moussaka go into the freezer? Well, see, they don't know it yet, but since Kevin and Judy are coming over for a nice lazy meal out on the patio next Saturday evening - guess what we'll be serving up...

When the Wind is Not a Wind

Alexandros is what I'd call the "Deck Manager" on board the Nissos Halki, the boat that plies the waters between Halki island and the tiny port of Kamiros Skala on the West coast of Rhodes in perpuity. Winter or summer, that boat makes the crossing, making an exception only when the weather's so rough that they have to stay tied up at one end or the other.

Alex is a thin rake of a man, probably sixty-something and no doubt has many decades of experience with all things nautical in the Aegean Sea. He has a shock of grey hair which rather puts me in mind of the old sixties rock and roller from the UK, Joe Brown [excuse for a link there. Much overlooked and very talented musician who nowadays sounds like a cross between Eric Clapton and J.J. Cale,so can't be bad eh?], although his face is considerably thinner around the jaw line. Of course, Joe probably dyes his these days, but Alexandros most certainly doesn't. 

His standard dress code is the ubiquitous horizontally striped polo shirt that no Greek male of a certain age would be seen dead without (if you don't get that, just you cast your eyes about next time you're in a Greek street!) along with a pair of faded and slightly too large blue jeans, even in the height of summer when the thermometer is groaning under a showing of around 40ºc. Alex always has a three-quarters-smoked cigarette which usually is also three-quarters ash hanging off his bottom lip and has you on tenterhooks waiting for that ashy bit to drop off at any moment. Much stress is caused for anyone talking to him who is distracted by this regular phenomenon.

He cracks a well-wrinkled smile born of a face that's never seen sun cream and has always been exposed to the torrid Greek sun. He's always on the ship's gangway to welcome us aboard and usually we exchange slaps on the back during our weekly greeting as I lead my band of excursionists aboard for the Halki crossing.

Alexandros is a no-nonsense Greek. So, as we plied our way across to Halki yesterday, on mercifully much calmer waters than we'd endured the preceding week, I decided that he'd be the man to answer a burning question that was preoccupying my mind. See, as regular readers will know, I've stated on a few occasions that local Greeks tell me all the time about how the Meltemi [that strong wind which blows North to South across the Aegean during the high summer weeks] stops around the middle of August. In fact, more than one has said "August 15th", to my incredulous ears. But last week we had some very high winds for several days, and this around the end of August/beginning of September. So strong were they, that I was staggering around the decks waving a liberal supply of plastic bags for the hapless landlubbers to throw up into! 

"Alexeh," I asked, "I thought that the Meltemi was meant to have stopped by now. What was all that about then, last week?"

"You mean the winds? Yes, they were pretty wild. We had to stay in port one time early last week, it was so rough."

"But," I pressed, "How come the Meltemi hasn't stopped by now?"

"Ah, yes, well," he countered, "It has. The Meltemi only blows during the afternoon or early evening. That what we had last week wasn't the Meltemi, it was just the wind."


Yea, I know. Greek logic eh?

Some Natural History, a Flat Tyre and Some Water Melon

We often take for granted that we know a little about the wildlife here, including the "livestock" with six or more legs. Just the other day on the Seven Springs trip, I asked someone if they knew what was making that noise they could hear as we walked along the path to the glade where the restaurant in the forest, the tunnel and all the rest of the stuff people come to see are located.

"They're crickets," was the reply I received. Using the most tactful tone that my voice could muster, I replied, "Well, actually, they're not." I then offered the info that crickets make that chirp-chirp noise with a short pause in between, whereas this noise was more of a single rasping note repeated, well, like this really...

Yes folks, what you hear predominantly during the daylight hours here during high summer is the humble cicada. There's some stuff about cicadas in this post from 2012. They don't start to make their distinctive rasping noise until the temperature crests 28-29ºC, which is why they're extremely rare in Northern Europe and very common throughout the Mediterranean. If a cicada flies at you it can be a fraught moment, but it needn't be. Notwithstanding their size, which can rival that of a small bird, at least that's the impression they'll give you if they're flying towards you, they are harmless and it's very unlikely you'll see one flying anyway. Usually they'll cling to a branch and emit their powerful sound for hours on end when the temperatures are sizzling. The photo on the post referred to and linked above was one I found on line, but finally, the other day, I managed to shoot a couple (camera-wise of course) in the garden. That's one of them in the video above, and here are a couple of stills for good measure...

Mean-looking they may be, but harmful they ain't. I'm rather fond of them truth be told. They always herald high summer and, in view of their penchant for sounding off when the temperature's over 28 or so, they tend to switch off in unison as the temperature descends during the evening. In a valley like the one where we live, their sound can be deafening until dusk; when, as if one had switched of a radio, they stop all at once, leaving an incredible stillness right across the valley, soon to be filled when the darkness advances by the tree frogs and crickets, who'll do their bit all night.

Another creature that looks like it means business is the Oriental Hornet. I'm grateful to my neighbour up the hill for holding out that they are in fact hornets, since I'd mistakenly concluded a while back that they were a kind of wasp. Having accepted that she was right I Googled "hornet" and came up with this link. Yea, I know, the page is headed "Bees, Wasps and ants", but the info relates primarily to the Oriental Hornet, a bunch of whom I snapped in our garden yesterday as they were busy crawling all over a nozzle on our watering system in their relentless search for moisture...

The page which I've linked above is from Cyprus, which is the island referred to in the first paragraph. But the info holds good for most of the Eastern Med. Now I regularly see people in a deep state of aggravation when they're approached by these feisty-looking creatures, but I'd draw your attention to the second paragraph in the piece on that page, where it says in part:

"It is not normally aggressive and if a hornet alights on you (rare), just let it fly away in its own time. If it senses it is being attacked, it may emit a pheromone which could warn others which could [only could, mark you] become aggressive. ...The best advice is to leave the Oriental Hornet alone and it will do the same."

You know something? this holds true of so many creatures doesn't it. We've been living at close quarters with these babies for years now and to date have never had any issues with them. Yes, they'll come and investigate, but they're not really interested in humans and if you sit still for a moment they'll soon tire of you and move on. They're big it's true, which is probably why so many people are freaked by them, yet we regularly shower outdoors and they'll even fly through the spray while we're doing so without having a go at us in any way. 

I first began to see them in a new light some years ago on holiday in Skiathos. Whilst I was in a near-comatose state on my sun-bed with Chris Rea's "On The Beach" album filling up my eardrums from the Walkman, I began to see these fierce-looking beasts zigzagging along the beach just above body height from the sand. First reaction, had I been more awake, would have been to flail my arms around like the rest of the world, or maybe spring up and run for my life. The fact that I was seriously chilled out helped me to remain still and I soon began to notice that not a single human was being pestered by the Hornets. They were simply going about their business, which necessarily brought them into close proximity to us humans.

I feel quite sorry for them. I mean, fat chance they have looking like they do, don't you think? While sitting at a table at the Seven Springs restaurant just last week, I had my back to a family of three American Greeks. They were evidently on vacation here. Amongst themselves they talked in American English, yet were able to converse in fluent Greek with the waiter. I couldn't see what was going on without actually turning around, but the party consisted of a woman with probably her grown-up son and daughter. The daughter I'd have guessed, was around twenty years old or so. Before long she was up and out of her chair and running a good twenty feet away, from where she emitted all kinds of cries of anguish about something or other and made it perfectly clear that she was not going back to the table at all costs. It seems they'd ordered souvlaki and chips (at least, that was what it looked like when I stole a surreptitious glance) and no sooner had their food been placed in front of them than a few oriental Hornets had dropped by to investigate.

You know, even when they have been a little tardy in making their retreat, I've found that a gentle wave of the hand will soon get them to give it up as a bad job and zoom off somewhere else. Nature dealt them a tricky hand. It's just the same with some hairy, tattooed bikers isn't it? They look really mean, but are really just regular guys. Witness the important lesson in this brill lager ad. Really, don't you think we're conditioned somehow by our upbringing or something, to react violently and over-defensively when coming into close contact with a lot of the livestock with which we share this planet?

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On Friday I did the Butterfly Valley and Halki trip as usual. It's the only day in the week when I have to get up at an indecent hour and be at the first hotel stop to meet my coach usually at something like ten to seven in the morning. This particular day I went outside at 6.40am or so to get into the car for the brief drive down to the Rodos Princess, where I was to meet my first guests and the coach at one and the same time, when I noticed that the front drivers-side tyre on the car was only half-inflated. Oh joy, I had a puncture didn't I. There was no time to do anything about it, apart from hope that it would be OK enough to get me the mile or so from the house, down the dirt lane and along the road to the hotel. If I'd stopped to change the wheel at home first, there was no way I'd get to the coach in time.

Driving down the lane and along the road I could hear the wheel making that flopping sound that tells you that the tyre is well down on pressure. Mercifully, I got to the hotel, parked up and went to meet my driver and first guests of the day. So, as you can imagine, I spent all day thinking of how great it would be to have to change a wheel (which would almost certainly be completely flat by 7.00pm or later that evening, when I expected to arrive back at the first hotel for the last drop-off of guests) before I could make the short drive home to a shower and a gin and tonic.

As a rule I carry a small dish in my rucksack when on an excursion. I do this because I like to encourage my guests, if they're willing, to perhaps leave a small tip for the driver. In the UK we have a kind of tradition anyway of having a "whip-round" for a coach driver. It's a unwritten law. Thus, with a small piece of blue tack I'll afix the dish to the coach's dashboard and announce to my guests as we approach our first drop-off of the return journey that should they agree that our driver has done a good job for us, they may wish to leave something small in the dish. I make no apology for this for a good reason. These guys deserve our respect for the long hours that they work, seven days a week for the entire season. They'll often drop me off at the end of an excursion, only to tell me that they then have to begin an "αναχώρηση" [anaho'risi = departure], and so they'll be off to start another run of pickups en route to the airport. By the time I'm home, had a refreshing cool outdoor shower and am swishing the slice of lemon in my G&T, my driver is often halfway back to the airport and not sure exactly when he'll be getting home.

Couple the above with the fact that they don't earn a huge amount and you see why I like to help them out a bit. A driver will often thank me effusively when we reach then end of our route for the day, when I'll un-stick the dish and pour a load of change into his hand before saying goodnight. 

Well, anyway, last Friday, just to make conversation really, I told Kyriako the driver about my puncture and how peeved I was that I'd not be able to drive home right away, but rather have to get my hands covered in road dust as I'd be changing a tyre first. I thought no more of it. Twilight was beginning as we drove up the gentle rise toward the Rodos Princess near my home in Kiotari, where we were to drop off a Belgian family who'd been with me all day and I'd then be saying goodnight to Kyriako. The car was evident as we turned the coach into the hotel's reception area, flat tyre and all.

Our guests climbed down, after first adding to the nice jingle of change now sitting in the dish, and I handed Kyriako his "earnings". He couldn't thank me enough and I was (as always really) well pleased that I'd made his day as I also climbed down from the coach, wished him "kalo dromo" and walked off toward the car. My wife was waiting there too, since she'd walked down to the beach for a swim and was going to hitch a lift back home with me. Kyriako waved to her as we turned into the hotel.

No sooner had I reached the car, thrown my rucksack onto the back seat and begun to empty the boot (trunk guys, OK?) of all the paraphernalia we keep in there in order to get to the spare wheel, jack and wheelbrace, that we felt the presence of a huge vehicle drawing up right behind the car. Looking up as I heaved the spare out of the boot, I was amazed and surprised to see that it was the coach I'd been on for the excursion, and Kyriakos was behind the wheel, gesticulating at me to leave things be. He cut the engine, leapt down from the coach and shooed me away, at the same time wresting the car's jack from my hands. In order to do this he'd had to turn the coach around again from the direction in which he needed to go and then drive up past us, turn again and finally draw up behind us. We're talking about a 59-seat triple-axle bus here too, so long you could put a bowling alley in it.

Both my better half and I almost cried as this humble guy, evidently simply wanting to show me how much he appreciated the few extra Euro I'd dropped into his lap just minutes earlier, set to and changed my wheel while in his driver's uniform. When he'd done the task and stashed the wheel and tools in the car, his hands were black. I offered him a towel from the car, the one I use to lay over the dashboard when it's left in the sun, which he refused, telling me, "I have some water in the bus Gianni."

Kyriakos did all this although he'd told me earlier that, once he got home he'd have to clean the coach before starting work at seven the next morning. How long would it take him to clean the coach properly? About two hours. He stood to get home at around 8.00pm, after which he'd begin the job of cleaning. I drove us both home with the pair of us wet-eyed over this man's kindness. Kyriakos is from Athens and his wife and two young children won't see him until the season ends, so that make's it early November at best.

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 Finally, a heads-up for a humble little taverna way down in the remote and sleepy village of Lahania. I have mentioned it before, in a post now to be found in chapter 39 of book four in the "Ramblings" series, A Plethora of Posts.

Chrissy's is owned by an Orthodox Priest, one Papa Giorgo, who is the only man (whom I've met) of the Greek cloth I have time for, sorry to say. Regular readers will know that I don't have much "truck" with pomposity, but this guy's anything but. Sadly, most Orthodox priests seem to me to be the very epitomy of that characteristic, but Papa Giorgos is a really nice, smiley friendly bloke with no side to him whatsoever.

Walking through the village the other evening we saw him standing by the door and so hailed him with a "kalispera sas". He responded with his usual huge grin and bade us sit a while and take some "karpouzi" [water melon]. You know what, he puts me in mind just a little of the American actor and comedian Robin Williams. I don't even know precisely why, but it's who springs to mind when I talk to Papa Giorgo.

I suppose it's true to say that he's ever on the lookout for opportunities to spread the word about his little traditional establishment, but then, oughtn't everybody to be? I can highly recommend the place anyway and if you visit you'll be sure of a hearty welcome and a huge grin from the place's proprietor.Yes he gave us a few cards, but he also gave us a plate of delicious water melon entirely for free.

The Road Goes Ever On...

As I do tend to make the claim to be an aging hippy, I of course have read The Lord of The Rings several times, not to mention The Hobbit. Thus, friends, any time I find myself in a bucolic beauty spot (No, bucolic doesn't mean you need to reach for the Gaviscon. Look it up. See, you become more araldite by reading my blog [and yes I was joking when I typed "araldite" before you start correcting me. Honestly, some people are sooo slow, and not too erudite either!!]) ...anyway, where was I? Oh yes, any time I find myself in a distinctly rural setting (see, now you don't have to look "bucolic" up) I tend to imagine scenes from the aforementioned books.

So, the reason why I brought Tolkein up in the first place? Doing a new excursion every week to Seven Springs (Epta Piges, επτά πιγές) every Tuesday, I'm kind of given the feeling that I'm one of the "Fellowship of the Ring" each time I lead my trusty band of guests up the winding path from the road to the grove in the forest that is Seven Springs. 

At the risk of boring anyone out there who's done it and got the t-shirt, or perhaps even stroked the python, there may be some reading this who'd quite like to see what the place is like. Firstly, it is beautiful. Secondly, if anyone can pinpoint where the actual seven springs are they'd definitely score a few brownie points with me.

Not that it really matters. There is at least one spring, a fact made evident by the beautifully clear, refreshing water that flows through the valley immediately below the "Restaurant in the Forest Grove". Take a look at their own web site, which is a bit basic, but quite informative, with quite a few pages bearing explanations and photos. Then, friends, cop a load of these (some of the photos below already appeared in the previous post too)...

Plenty of paddlers here. Understandably, given the temperatures in August, even in the shade of the trees.

Not a bad place to eat a meal.

The tunnel's 183 metres long. This is the way in.

So's this.

And this is the exit at the other end.

So's this!

Across the lake from the tunnel's exit. the lake is fuller during winter time.

If you're thinking of going, this is probably the best shot of the map at the restaurant that you'll find. The only other two I found on line were illegible. Click on it then "save image" (right click) and you can print it out.

Leaving the Shire...

To reach the grove from the road, all this series of photos shows you the path one has to follow. If you arrive in a car, you can, however, drive up a concrete lane to a parking area.

This is part of the ruin of an old mill. Just discernible on the map above, right down at the bottom left.

Just a few more metres to the road. These shots were taken during the walk back down.

The 2-D photo is deceptive. It's quite a drop.

The entire walk, whilst looking formidable in the photos, is only about 5 to 10 minutes and is easily manageable for anyone with two legs. In fact, one of my guests had a prosthetic one yesterday and he made it!!

Finally, as we passed Lindos on our way to Butterfly Valley and Seven Springs, I shot this through the front window of the coach. 

Honestly, the traffic, even at this time of the morning!!

Any Bream Will Do

OK, so it's high season, too damn hot for gardening and we decided it was time we had another outing. So last Sunday, August 18th, we set out early, ooh, I'd say about 11.30am (!!) to go and see a couple of nice places and take lunch out somewhere. As it happens (plug, plug...) I was due to start another new excursion on Tuesday (which we in fact did) which consists simply of Butterfly Valley followed by Seven Springs, following a circuitous (oooh, big words eh?) and picturesque route from and back to Kiotari, picking up guests through Pefkos & Lindos along the way. We arrive back where we started early in the afternoon, a veritable delight and a doddle.

Yes, well, I've been going to Butterfly Valley every Friday during the season since summer 2011 (prior to proceeding over to Halki), so there wasn't much need to check that out particularly, but I have to admit to not been overly familiar with Epta Piges, or Seven Springs, so - in the interests of research and a selfless desire to help my future excursion guests - we decided to include the popular beauty spot in our route for the day. Well, we've only lived on the island for eight years this very week, so give us a break. Lots to see, lots to do, you know the drill. 

Another place I felt the need to see for myself was the Italian Aqueduct and man-made circular pool at the top of the village of Eleoussa (check out this post). I'd read before about the species of fish called the Gizani, which is extremely rare, yet lives in this very pool up in the hinterland of the island. Take a look at this page for more information. This fish is one of the most endangered species in Europe and yet, here we are with a thriving colony right under our noses and nothing is said about it. Maybe that's the way the conservationists want it, I don't know. But I wanted to see a Gizani or two for myself before it was no longer possible.

Slap bang in the middle of the village of Eleoussa, these fascinating Italian buildings, which had been intended as a sanatorium, now stand crumbling in the hot sunshine.

Rather sadly, this pool and aqueduct, again built by the Italians, was deserted when we got there. We were both quite sad to think that so many people pass very nearby in their hired vehicles and don't even know that this is here.

The fish [Gizani] are clearly visible when you stare into the inviting water. Not supposed to take a dip though. The cafe (below) was all closed up and looking forlorn here too.

The pool is a mere 100 metres walk up the road from the square with all the old Italian Buildings

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Arriving later at Epta Piges we decided to take the car up the winding crumbling concrete lane which leads several hundred metres up into the pine forest to the parking area. Once you get into the pine grove where the restaurant and souvenir shop are located it really is an impressive place, especially if you walk down through the terraces of tables and chairs, cross the wooden bridge over the vigorously-flowing stream (yes, even in August) and head up the valley to the left toward the springs themselves. I was quite mesmerised by the trees along the dusty path...

I was expecting a couple of Hobbits to pop out from behind a tree here at any time.

The entrance to the 186m long tunnel leading to the lake on the other side of the hill. You walk it in almost total darkness and up to your ankles in water.

Not a bad place to take a light lunch, eh?

So, after I'd done a pretty thorough reccy, while the beloved sipped at her frappé at a table on the restaurant's terrace, we were ready to press on and find somewhere to eat lunch. 

It had been quite some time since we'd gone down to Stegna too, the cozy little seaside resort over the mountain and down a couple of miles of James Bond-ish road from Arhangelos. We'd gone down there back last winter, when the regular road had been closed and the detour route had tended to put one in mind of the London-Sydney Marathon Rally. Do they still run that event? There you are, you see. the wonders of good old "Daily Mail hated" Google. Next year, 2014, I just found out they're going to run it the other way round. When we'd driven down to Stegna last November, I remember thinking there should have been a couple of extra jerry cans of fuel on the back and a roo-bar on the front of the car to make it feel at home. At least now the regular road is back in commission, affording spectacular views as your ears pop on the way down to the seafront itself.

When the road empties out on the seafront at Stegna, it immediately turns 90º to the right and you see right above the beach and merely feet from the turquoise ocean, Taverna Kozas. I'd always thought that it would be a good place to eat lunch and, her beside me having agreed, we found a spot in full sun, just past the tiny harbour, to park the car and strolled a few minutes back to the taverna itself. Yup, when we returned to the car a couple of hours later it was going to be a bit hot. No, a lot hot. Thank heavens for air-con.

http://stegnakozas.gr/ There are a lot of nice photos on their website, some showing the winter seas, since the taverna is open in wintertime too.

My wife decided to order a Haloumi and Parmesaon salad, plus we ordered some houmus too. They brought us some delicious village bread, sprinkled with olive oil and herbs, which we soon set about reducing in size while waiting for the rest of the food to arrive. I wanted some fish and, ever aware that to order fresh fish means looking at that part of the menu where it says €55(!!!) and haggling while they weighed whichever fish you selected from the cold cabinet, decided to ask if they had Tsipoura, which (of course you knew) is Sea Bream. If you see this fish on a menu it's usually priced realistically at somewhere between €10 and €13. So I asked the rather burly-looking bloke who'd come to take our order if Sea Bream was on.

You know that scene in Fawlty Towers, when Basil reveals just how ignorant he was of wines whilst serving a guest who evidently knew his stuff? It's the one where Basil says, "Most people wouldn't know the difference between a Bordeaux and a Claret," only to be corrected by his guest, who tells him that a Bordeaux is a Claret. Plus he doesn't understand what it means for a wine to be "corked", replying to the man at the table, "What do you mean "corked'? I just uncorked it didn't I?!" Basically you're given that really cringeworthy feeling of someone out of his depth. Of course in Basil Fawlty's case, it's the proprietor not the customer, in mine it was the other way around.  

No sooner had I asked if they had Tsipoura, than my host stared at me like I was in dire need of a towel for the region just aft of my audio organs and replied:

"Tsipoura is not a local fish. That's why it's usually cheap. It's out of the freezer. Here we only serve freshly caught fish in season." Whereupon he gestured theatrically with his left arm back into the bowels of the establishment, where I could see the dreaded cold cabinet awaiting my pleasure. He continued, rather patronisingly I thought, "if you'd like to follow me..." and off he went, safe in the knowledge that he had me hooked and that I would be close behind. Arriving at the glass-fronted cabinet, he proffered a few different fish of varying sizes and we eventually agreed on one which would suit me, since my wife wasn't going for the fish. He of course assured me that this one was freshly caught in local waters and slapped it on to the stainless steel dish of his scales to see what the damage to my wallet would be. After a bit of haggling we arrived at €12, which I have to say I was pretty pleased with. 

"Fried of done over the charcoal, sir?" he asked. At least here he seemed to approve of my choice to have it char-grilled. It's the only way in my book.

Having returned to the table and put my wife's mind at rest with the fact that we wouldn't be selling the car to pay for my extravagance, I poured us both some chilled Retsina and we took to admiring the location, which is truly gorgeous. it's the archetypal taverna location for me. Just feet from the crystal clear waters and affording splendid views of the Aegean Sea...

The fresh basil's a nice touch, but I wish I'd removed that plastic cup for extinguishing cigarettes before I snapped this one!

What's the fish then? See below (a nice touch of suspense there, eh?)

 After a respectable period of time, while my fish was gently cooking and absorbing that exquisite aroma you only get from charcoal, it arrived. Now, I have to say that all the food was very tasty. No complaints there. The salad was huge and consisted of some very fresh lettuce leaves, fried Haloumi and sliced Parmesan, plus a few other veggie ingredients which on the whole pleased my better half greatly. Poured over that; sorry, let me re-phrase, drizzled over that (hey guys, do I know my culinary expressions or what? I don't watch Master Chef and learn nothing you know) was some very flavourful Balsamic glaze. The houmus was TDF and so was the bread. I didn't know what would come with the fish, but decided that I'd act like I knew what was going on when it arrived, whatever!

When our burly host brought it to the table it sat alone on an oval dish. Very a la carte I suppose. No chips, no rice, no sliced tomato or cucumber. But then, I suppose in some of these slightly more select fish restaurants that's how they do things. I didn't really mind, since the salad, houmus and bread had already put my stomach well on the way to capacity anyway. Our host proceeded to de-head the fish and gut it of its main skeleton for me, before placing the dish between my hands and declaring that "You eat this fish with your fingers, sir. You don't use cutlery." before once again walking off. Now I don't know about you, but at this juncture I had no idea whether he was just having a laugh to see if I'd fall for it. So, deftly re-positioning my body so that the staff wouldn't see very well, I set about my grilled fish with my fork. It was delicious and completely lived up to my expectations. As usual my beloved wanted to sample some of it and happily she agreed that the flesh was very succulent and cooked to perfection. As you'll have noted from the photo above, I did actually have a go with the fingers just a little.

When a little later the burly one returned to ask if I'd enjoyed it, I took the opportunity to ask him what it was called. He replied that it was called "Sargos". I was to consider myself enlightened. Mind you, I'm still quite sure that Sea Bream [Tsipoura] is a locally caught fish, but maybe just not in season. I wasn't about to argue the toss with this guy though, having already lost quite a few points.

Having asked for the bill we were rather thrilled to receive one of the biggest freebies we'd had in a long while...

That's a melon sorbet on the left, with a dollop of vanilla ice cream over a hot chocolate mousse on the right. yea, that's what I thought. I cleaned both bowls.

So, there you have my report on the taverna called Kozas. As I sat down to write this post I decided to do a little Googling about the fish called Sargos. Guess what, it's common name is Sheepshead...

...but it's a member of the Bream family.