Looking Down on Snowdon

Mount Attaviros is the highest point on the island of Rhodes. And we've lived here over 13 years and never gone up it. I have now though.

We've just had some good friends from decades back staying next door, along with two of their sons, one who's married and the other who brought his fifteen-year-old friend with him. Yes, all the usual clichés apply. We saw those boys born (well, the older of the two anyway, the younger was born after we'd moved away, even while still in the UK), and they're both taller than me now. Depressing isn't it. Well, it would be if they weren't such a great family and very good company.

Plus, they're up for a challenge. I'd read on Amanda Settle's lovely "Olive, Feta and Ouzo" blog about her expedition to the top recently and the fact that it was do-able in a car - if one was very careful. Me and the better half decided a couple of months back that we really ought to go up there for two reasons. One, the view and two, there's an ancient temple right on the summit that was demanding to be seen. Apparently it's dedicated to Zeus.

So, as I said, our friends, all six of them, were raring to have a go and, since my beloved was at work for the very last two days of her season, it was just me and them setting off last Monday morning in their two modest hire cars. Don't tell the hire company whatever you do. 

The road leading up to the summit begins at a junction along the road from Siana to Kritinia, right where the junction with the road to Embona is situated. In fact, the lane leading up to the summit is right next to the Embona turn, and is clearly signed with the words "Mount Attaviros"...

Photo courtesy of Google Earth Pro. The road bisecting the photo is the one from Siana in the South to Kritinia further North. So the gentle fork to the right above is the road to Embona, and the road leading off at a right angle and twisting back south for a while is the one leading to the summit.

Photo courtesy of Google Earth Pro. The road rising to the right is the one you need to take. Eagle-eyed readers will just about spot the sign saying "Mount Attaviros" on a post above the roof of the car. The road leading downhill is the one to Embona.

From the point where you set off up the lane, it's miles before you get to the top. It's also deceptively well maintained for the first mile or so. Then it becomes fairly level dirt and stones, then it deteriorates in places into sump-smashing gulleys and potholes. After that (which is probably about half-distance) it improves and the final mile or so is actually tarmac!! That's after you've passed the wind farm off to your right.

We actually got as far as the really rough patch before abandoning one of the cars. In fact, at first we parked them both up, thinking that we'd walk the rest of the way. The trouble is, each time you crest a rise or round a bend, the road just goes on, and on, and on. That's why Les, my friend and the dad of the family, decided (largely because his wife Claire declared that she'd never make it otherwise) decided to ignore the strong smell of burning clutch plate we'd been experiencing earlier and have another go with his little Japanese hire car.

The first car to be left to have a rest is visible below.

Four of the intrepid explorers. Sorry, five! Make sure you have water with you BTW.

Having passed the worst bit, huge sighs of relief as the car was once again moving upwards, except for the fact that there were seven of us and now only one set of wheels. Muggins here found himself walking most of the way to the summit and quite a long way back with the two fifteen-year olds. Yes, us kids who've been young a few decades longer than them can still do it when we have to. (Flowers to...)

The barrier lulls you into a false sense of security. Large sections of the way don't boast such a luxury. Sheer drops abound though, just to make it interesting.

Fortunately we'd chosen probably the best day all year to make the climb. In high summer it would be just too hot, and in winter it could quite possibly freeze your whatsits off, but Monday October 29th, 2018 dawned clear, with very low humidity and next to no wind either. We didn't see a cloud all day. The temperature, even at the summit, was around 24ºC and it must have been one of the very few days when the summit, at 3986ft was windless. Magic...

The temple area is extensive. It extends from here right to the summit. How they ever managed to build something like this a couple of thousand years ago in this location, the mind boggles. Imagine the estate agent's blurb though: "Suberb views, although the access road may need a little renovation."

Every direction you look in you spot some part of the island you recognise. A good pair of binoculars would have been a good idea though. Decent trainers or hiking boots are a must too. Anything else and you'll be glad of a mobile phone to call for the air ambulance for shipping a broken ankle (along with the rest of the body of course) to the hospital.

Thank goodness for the ten second delay. At this point we were still waiting for Les to ferry the remainder of the crew to the top.

That's Alimia island behind Harry (furthest person left). In the distance is Tilos, Nisyros and Kos.

A high-factor sun cream wouldn't go amiss either. Left to right: Connor, Harry, Claire and Les (Connor's parents), yours truly (looking the epitome of sartorial elegance in that Oakley cap, eh?), Reilly and her hubby Scot (also Les and Claire's son).

"Look where I am folks!" Reilly pans around.

That's Halki dead centre.

Reilly still impressing her folks back in the UK with her video skills.

Rhodes Town just visible in the far distance. Plus the Turkish mountains and Symi.

"The property is in need of some repair work." They just don't build 'em like they used to.

Halki is to the left in this one. Then, further back and slightly to the right, Tilos etc.

Someone had left this just two days before we got there. So we added our names with a ballpoint pen.

View from the front seat on the descent.

It was a fabulous experience, if somewhat exhausting. But I'd do it again in a trice and probably will in December, when John and Wendy turn up for a few days to take the Jeep back to the UK. So John ought to be up for taking his Commander (5.7 ltr., a beast!) up there. It will eat the surface of the lane for breakfast. May be an idea to dress for colder weather then though.

We finally made it to Taverna Savvas in Embona, where an excellent lunch was enjoyed by all. After that the girls mooched around a while, bought a rug or two an tasted some local wine...

House wine by the litter eh? Must be rubbish then. Actually, it wasn't, and Claire bought some.

On the way back I took the gang through Laerma and along the back road to Asklipio, passing the Thari Monastery on the way. This is the route I talked about some years ago in the two posts "Why Not Take a Drive?" and "Why Not Take a Drive 2". My wife and I love this road because it reminds us very much of the New Forest in Hampshire, England. Plus, we usually see deer when driving that road. Guess what...

So, if you're out here next year and fancy a bit of strenuous exertion which brings rich rewards, you'd better get out your walking shoes, some bottled water, some high-factor sun cream, a good pair of bins and some courage and get yourself up on top of Mount Attaviros. It's exhilarating. 

In fact, it was while we were up there that, since I used to live in Wales and that's where our friends live today (in Bridgend, in fact), we referred to Wales' highest peak, which is Mount Snowdon. We'd done the research see, and discovered that Attaviros is actually 426ft higher than Snowdon. So, if the two mountains were to stand side-by-side, from the top of Attaviros, you'd actually be looking down on Snowdon.

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Finally, those of  nervous disposition may not want to see the next shot. We dropped by on our old friend Mihali the 'smallholder' yesterday, uninvited. We hadn't had a chat with him for while, but we caught him rather busy, along with another mutual friend or two, in the process of skinning a pig they'd just slaughtered. See, call me a hard man, but I reckon that anyone who eats meat ought to be able to do this. Needless to say, we didn't hang around long, promising to drop by another time...

The beloved said she thought it was so barbaric. All she could think about was "the poor pig." We were reminded of a similar scene we'd witnessed in the run-up to Easter when we'd been on Naxos in 2014. Taking a rural walk in the mountains we'd come across a farmer doing something similar with a goat, which in that case was hanging from an olive tree (see this post from 2014. You have to read a long way through it to get to the relevant part). 

I must say that, although I don't eat meat, I was prompted to consider something important about the culture in rural Greece. The scene we'd just witnessed is a scene that's been played out for thousands of years in virtually all human communities, isn't it. It's only relatively recently that meat-eaters have been spared the grisly task of slaughtering their own food, being able instead, as they are nowadays, to go to a shop and purchase their meat in neatly prepared chunks and often packaged, in many cases not resembling something that had been a part of a living, breathing creature until recently at all.

I had to admit a certain respect for our friends. At least when they sit down to their pork steak or bacon rasher, they'll know exactly how it got to their plate.

I think I'll stick to killing lettuces and onions though.

Short Break Heaven

I know, it's not like me to post selfies. But here is me with the beloved walking the Old Town Walls on October 25th.

We've just enjoyed our now annual short break at a hotel in town, staying in a small hotel called the Elite. we've been enjoying simply wandering around, sitting in café-bars and people-watching. Well, I say 'people-watching,' but that's more what my better half does. I suppose I'm more of a 'people-listener,' which to be honest, she also does pretty well too.

It's not like we're being nosey or anything, it's just that you tend to get a really good feeling of the pulse of a place when your brain logs conversation snippets. Having been here for as long as I have now, and having one way or another acquired a good deal of the language, I find the whole world of the Greek 'old boy' culture has opened up to me in ways that I couldn't have imagined years ago.

I find it hard to think of any other expression other than 'old boys' to describe that generation of men with gnarled hands and walking sticks, thinning hair and weather-worn faces, that sit in groups putting the world to rights over their coffees and often backgammon or dominoes. At the risk of over-simplifying things, in the UK, very often the conversation revolves around the weather, football, or maybe what the members of the group did at work recently. Maybe there'll be anecdotes about workmates and stuff. Plus, it'll invariably be over a beer rather than a coffee. Here it's invariably about one of two subjects, politics or money. I've said it before, but when the weather's pretty much the same every day for months, there's not much point in talking about it. So Greek 'old boys' tend to leave that subject alone. There isn't much to be said on the matter anyway. But if I had a penny for every time I'd overheard a reference to money each time I've caught snippets of conversations around me this past few days, I'd probably be able to eat out for free at least one evening.

This morning we sat in the Aktaion café/pastry shop in Mandraki and tuned in to one or two small groups of seniors having their usual animated chats. 

Coffee and bougatsa - when you're 'on holiday' you've gotta do it!

Almost every minute you'll hear someone say, "Three hundred Euros," or some other sum, but always there are references to amounts of money. Plus, listen for anything more than a minute and you'll probably hear a few names of prominent politicians thrown into the mix as well. Often the two subjects entwine, as the participants express bitterness over how much their pensions have been cut in recent times. 

What I like (and I've doubtless said this before too) is carefully observing these groups and discerning, even more so in smaller villages, the fact that these men have known each other all of their lives. You just know that from the time they were toddlers they were playing together, they did their military service together, they married around the same time and brought up a clutch of kids, all the while living within a stone's throw of each other.

Sadly, this isn't the case so often in many other countries any more. Take the UK, for example. Something that could almost be described as the 'culture' there these days is this habit that people have of viewing a property as an asset in their progress through life, as each couple, or family, strives to climb the social ladder. No longer is a house a home, it's a material asset to be viewed as a way of increasing one's wealth. Thus you often hear the expression 'starter homes', yeah?

Here, what more often happens is that as someone adds a child to the family they'll simply build another room on their house. In the UK, school friends (and I include myself in this) very soon lose touch as everyone sets out on this endless 'property [and indeed employment] ladder' where people move, often great distances, away from each other, and thus those relationships that you see in the Greek Kafeneion become impossible to sustain.

I'm not trying to be judgmental, simply observational. The world changes, but in some countries it perhaps changes more so than in others. I have read though, that the most stressful experiences that one can have in life include a death in the family or social group, divorce or separation, loss of a job or moving house. Thus, with moving house becoming such a 'habit' for some, it seems to me that a lot of people are putting themselves under much more stress than is good for them, often voluntarily.

Anyway, to return to our four-night stay in Rhodes Town. We had a wonderful time, simply walking everywhere. We parked up the car and didn't return to it until Friday morning, when we'd checked out of the hotel and had to stow the luggage until it was time to leave town and come home.

We ate out in a few places. The first was one we'd only discovered last year, the excellent Megiston Taverna in the Old Town. These next few shots aren't all that good I'm afraid. My phone isn't too hot at night shots...

Retsina? "Well, go on then, just the one..."

"In that case I'll join you..."

Portokalopita, one of three freebies at the Megiston.

I love the atmosphere here at night. Sorry it's a little blurred. Nothing to do with the Retsina, honest.

The Megiston was every bit as good as last year, and it has to be the freebie champion of Rhodes. These days it's much less often you get given anything on the house. I understand that, it's getting harder for such places to make ends meet. But nevertheless, at the Megiston they brought us a dish of home-made smoked fish pieces, with garnish, with our main meal. They gave us each a delicious slice of orange pie ("Portokalopita" - see photo further up) as a dessert, and also they gave us a second bottle of retsina, all on the house. Hmm, maybe that does have something to do with the blurriness of that last photo above.

Moving swiftly on. The second night we tried a restaurant that we'd never eaten at before. Since our hotel was at the sharp end of town, only metres from the Casino and just off that beautiful plateia with all the date palms (called Square Gavriil Charitou), we decided to stay 'local' and wandered into the Napoleon, on the corner of Nikiforou Mandilara...

Photo courtesy of Google Maps

We ordered yemista pseftika (stuffed tomatoes and peppers, the veggie option) and a green salad. The green salad was listed on the menu as a lettuce salad, but to our delight contained cucumber, red onions and a few black olives. I found the yemista excellent, my other half was slightly less enthusiastic. I couldn't understand why!

One night we went for haloumi pittas at Angustino's fast food joint. It is what it says on the tin, but we enjoyed it. It was a wild and windy night, with the possibility of rain, but we got away with it. As it happened, for the first couple of days the weather was a bit iffy, but chose only to rain when it didn't matter to us. Phew!

On the last night we had intended to go to the wonderful Odyssey, with my good friend Babis, in the Old Town. Although it was clear (just a tad past full moon too), it was as cold as February after dark. So we just trotted around the corner to the slightly more pricey Louis restaurant, not five minutes from the hotel and right across the road from the Casino.

Although the house wine was a little more expensive than we usually like to pay, we ordered a Mediterranean salad, to be followed up by a haloumi pizza. The salad was one of the best we've ever eaten, containing croutons, sundried tomatoes, rocket and a whole bunch of other stuff, topped with flaked Parmesan cheese - yummy or what? It was almost a meal in itself.

The pizza was mammoth and we ended up taking two slices home with us. The staff were only too happy to oblige with a polystyrene box in a plastic bag. We ate those slices when we got home last night, along with my wife's delicious homemade dakos, with broccoli on top. All in all, for a restaurant where one could easily spend forty Euros a head, we ate our fill of truly excellent food, with a wonderfully smooth house wine (needed to be, at that price) and the bill came to €32.50.

Well, we're back home now and glad to be so, because we have a family of close friends from the UK staying next door and we want to spend a little time with them before they go home next week. They've kept the cat Mavkos fed for us while we've been away, plus even watered the lettuces when needed. What more could one ask?

So, in conclusion, the Elite hotel is just perfect for a brief stay in town. It's all brand spanking new, modern, compact and homely. We're very, very likely to go back there again next year. Most of the days we just walked, so here are a few shots taken during our short break in heaven...

No Junk, or 'There and Back Again'

Chatting to couple of friends the other day, fellow ex-pats from the UK as it happens, we got around to the subject of the ups and downs of the mail system here in Rhodes. They have been here almost as long as we have and are in the habit of regularly ordering stuff from Amazon to be delivered here to Rhodes.

If you know anything about living out here, you'll know that no one really has a proper address on a Greek island. You can make one up if you like, but in general, you put your postcode and the nearest village down as your mailing address and then you go and collect your mail either from the nearest post office or, as in our case, from a taverna in a nearby village. This is made possible by the fact that one of the ELTA (Greek Post Office, or equivalent of the US Mail) employees visits the taverna in question on alternate days to do a kind of mobile post sending and receiving service. 

Mr. Kyriakos turns up at the Agapitos Taverna in Asklipio village, heavy leather satchel at his side, sits at a table where he is of course served his Elliniko, and extracts all his accessories, which he arranges carefully on the table in front of him. He'll have a rubber stamp and ink-pad (of course), various forms, a wad of postage stamps, some elastic bands and a clutch of packages and letters for the locals who use the taverna as their unofficial post office. The system works well, most of the time.

There is usually a motley group of locals awaiting his arrival and the 'opening' of his tabletop 'shop' as it were. Some simply want to see what he's brought. I posted a photo of him back in January 2014, see this post. Others are able to use his service to pay their electricity bill, for example. Older Greeks still wouldn't even think of having a direct debit with the bank, or even of paying manually on-line, since they're still deeply suspicious of anything that doesn't involve hard cash changing hands. Plus, there is still a whole generation who haven't the faintest idea what the internet is. Even some who do are deeply suspicious of the whole thing. It can't be healthy, when you haven't got a wad of cash in your back pocket.

Returning to our conversation with our neighbours. They told us of a problem they had recently with a package from Amazon. Now, like I said above, they've bought from Amazon for delivery to their home here in Southern Rhodes for probably ten years or so. On occasion they've bought some pretty big stuff. I know because I've been up to the Agapitos to collect some mail and seen some packages almost as big as a washing machine awaiting collection by them. Yet this most recent package never arrived. After a respectable period of waiting, just in case it was going to turn up late (as does happen now and then), they contacted Amazon to find out what happened. They were told that the package had been returned to Athens and were given a contact number to call there.

Celia (name changed to protect the guilty) rang the number and enquired about the missing package and was told: "It couldn't be delivered because it didn't carry a proper address."

"But," replied Celia, "It's the same address we've been using for ten years and nothing's ever failed to be delivered up until now."

"I don't know about that." Replied the jobsworth in Athens, "All I know is that 'Celia Pritchard, 85109 Gennadi' isn't a proper address. The package will have to go back to Amazon."

"But, but, that IS our address!" Replied Celia, exasperation already assuming control in her brain. "There isn't anything else! Plus, every other package we've ever ordered from Amazon has arrived!"

Well, I could go on reporting this rather absurd conversation, but suffice it to say that Celia did finally get it resolved, but not without a fair degree of consternation on her part. But it well illustrates what I said at the top of this post, the fact that just about everyone in areas like ours collects their mail from somewhere, and thus as long as the letter or package carries the correct postal code, it ought to be sufficient for the thing to arrive at the correct point of collection. There are no home deliveries here. I have ordered a couple of things in the past, including a CD of an app for my MacBook from California. The usual form is, if they're using a courier (like UPS for example) rather than the regular mail, they take your mobile phone number when you place the order and the courier arrives in your vicinity, calls you and you arrange to go and meet him on the road. 

In fact, even when I renewed our passports a year or two back, the UK government passport office sent them by private courier and that's exactly how they were delivered. No problem. Mind you, I was rather bemused by the vehicle that the courier was driving. I got the call on my mobile phone and told the driver to wait at the entrance to a hotel that's just down the road from us. Of course, I was expecting to see a smart van with a logo on the side, which was why I sailed straight past the hotel, imagining that the driver had got the location wrong, because outside the correct hotel there was only an ageing pickup truck with a drivers's door sporting a completely different colour from the rest of the slightly dented vehicle. When I failed to find the van, I was able to call the driver back using the list of received calls on my mobile. 

"I'm there!" He declared. "You said the Rodos Princess and I'm right outside. Where are you?"

"Weird," I replied. "But I'll be coming past again in 30 seconds, give me a wave."

Thus it was that, as I drove back to the Rodos Princess, an arm extended out from this old pickup and summoned me. When I parked up, ran over to his driver's window, out shot another arm with an electronic machine awaiting my signature and, having complied, I was handed the package containing my passport. I couldn't resist, I had to ask him, "What's with the beaten up old pickup then?"

It turned out that the courier company's office here on Rhodes employed a whole team of freelance 'deliverers' to keep up with demand. Their only criteria for someone working for them in this capacity was that they have a vehicle. Well, he did have a vehicle, I couldn't argue with that. And, we got our passports safe and sound, so I had no complaints.

Thus we were lulled into a false sense of security. I recently applied for my UK pension. Now, I could go on about that for a while, owing to the fact that there must be some mixup. I mean, the paperwork says I turn 65 next month, but my mind doesn't see it that way at all. It is odd though, isn't it? I mean for decades you spend your life thinking that growing old, or being a pensioner, is for others, but not for oneself, right? Occasionally, though, the stark reality is driven home by someone in a t-shirt. I'll tell you what I mean.

I've been a lifelong Pink Floyd fan (with the exception of the truly awful "Final Cut" album of course). Due to the way the mind deceives one, I kind of feel that Pink Floyd fans are young new-age types, like me, eh? But last week I was sitting in the Top Three when an emaciated, wizened old bloke walked in, wheezing from decades of smoking too much (Yes, I know, strange saying that. To smoke at all is to smoke too much after all), propped himself on the bar, rolled a Rizla and ordered a beer. He looked like he wasn't long for this world, I have to say. The thing was though, he was wearing a Pink Floyd t-shirt. Aaaargh! Was I looking at the truth of the matter, right there before my eyes? Probably. Doesn't mean I have to accept it though. Go down fighting, that's my motto.

Anyway, to return to my pension application. I went on-line, found the appropriate multi-page form, downloaded it and set about reading the reams of instructions for filling it out. It looked like it would take me about, ooh, say, three weeks, to fill it in. I finally got through it all and bought an A4 envelope in which to stuff the thing in preparation for sending it off. Along with the form, they required the originals of both my birth and marriage certificates. That kind of thing always makes me nervous. Nervous that is, until I remembered how they'd sent our new passports to us. Surely something similar would happen when the Pensions Office was ready to return my certificates.

Oh dear. 

Of course I sent the thing off from here by registered post. I then waited a few weeks and then rang the Pensions Office in the UK to check that they'd received the form, along with those certificates. I have to say that the response I get when I call them is pretty good. Apart from the number of times you have to listen to a recorded message and make a multiple-choice decision and tap yet another number on the keyboard. Once you do get through, however, each time I've spoken to someone, they've been helpfulness itself. A tick in the credit column. The conversation I had with them on this occasion was pretty satisfying. Yes the form had been received and yes it had been processed and yes my pension was approved and I was going to receive it directly into my UK bank account for the rest of my... well, let's move on.

A couple of weeks later (I know, you're losing the will to live, but I am getting there...) I decided to call them again to ask about the return of my Birth and Marriage Certificates. Now it gets fraught.

"Ah, yes," said the person at the other end of the phone, "we did send them back, but owing to the fact that they couldn't be delivered, they came back here."

This was the point at which I had to fight to remain civil and respectful. After all, this person wasn't to blame individually. I sooo wanted to...

My Certificates had travelled 4,000 miles. 2,000 from the UK to Rhodes, then 2,000 miles back again because someone over here claimed that they couldn't be delivered. Actually, counting the first journey they made when I sent them with the form, they'd now travelled 6,000 miles.

Good eh? There was no point in arguing with this poor UK civil servant. The fault obviously lay with some berk over here. But after 13 years of living somewhere with an address that amounts to a five figure number and not much else, this was the first time that something didn't reach us, and it had to be two rather essential legal documents. I called the UK Department of Work and Pensions again and arranged, finally, for them to send them to our landlords John and Wendy and they'll bring them out next time they come.

Tell you what though. When your mail arrives at a taverna, despite the fact that you have to go and collect it, the plus side is - no JUNK mail!

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And, finally, to cheer you up a bit after all that, here are some photos I took yesterday whilst wandering around town, yet again!

It always pays to look up above street level. You often wouldn't otherwise see some of the more unusual and attractive buildings that pepper the town centre.

An example of the moorish influence in much of the architecture about the place. This building is right behind the Court House in the Mandraki area.

You'd never guess that this old and stylish, yet sadly derelict house is smack dab in the urban area of Rhodes Town, would you?

The clock tower is clearly visible in this one. See this post.

There are so many sites like this around Rhodes Town. You can walk straight past them if you're not careful. I love examining the inscriptions that one sees and to think about the fact that someone's hands carved them a couple of millennia ago.

Streets like this are immensely enjoyable and interesting. All winter long one can come into town and enjoy a spot of people-watching. To me, streets like this are what make towns worthwhile. It's the life-affirming vibrancy of these places I suppose.

Just killing Time

With a few hours to spare a couple of days ago, I snapped these while walking out on the harbour 'mole' at Mandraki...

And this last one's from the other side, at the top end of the harbour...

It's such a beautiful time of the year now. The temperatures are in the mid 20's, so it's much easier to wander around in the middle of the day without dissolving into a mass of sweat. The sun's lower and so there is more shade around too. I know I keep going on about this, but we could actually do with a little more rain really.

Nevertheless, from now until the end of December is probably my favourite time of the year.