New Writing Talent

I have enormous pleasure in presenting the following post to you, dear regular Rhodean Ramblers, because it's written by a good friend of mine who asked me what I thought of it. My response was to say that I think she has genuine writing talent as I found it tremendously entertaining and so, I hope, will you.

So here, for your enjoyment, is an installment from what I hope will become the first book by Victoria Anstee. It's called "Bed Bugs and Sweaty Armpits" and I'd love to hear what you think too. The action begins in South Wales and then moves on to Skiathos...

introduction:

This book has been put together using the many journals we kept of each holiday in Greece, with extra “incidents” donated by my husband Phillip, who often saw a different holiday to the one I happened to be on and was also the chief photographer and was therefore able to help jog other memorable moments into my mind that would otherwise have been lost. Many thanks for his patience.   And kids……… hope we haven’t embarrassed you too much, and if we haven’t ……just you wait for the sequel!

Meet my Family
We’re a funny bunch, not a yummy mummy’s ultimate dream, not daytime-TV-asbo-wannabe’s but a pretty normal family (we think). From the first day we sort of threw our bunch together life has been fun – and at times a little stressful. We work hard and hopefully have instilled that work ethic into our boys. Nobody in “our lot” has ever been in serious trouble. We’ve done the football training, rugby training, anchor boys, boys brigade, swimming galas, chess club, science club, “I wanna guitar and be in a band” club – normal family stuff.
 

To start there is myself – Victoria Anstee – Vicky until I was twenty-five – then Victoria because I thought it was more grown up and then back to Vicky when my friends said I sounded like a pretentious snob. Lots of jobs and I hate housework with a passion. I have never pretended to understand my kids (they are boys and they smell) but I love them to death, as does my husband Phillip.

So, Phillip could write a book all about himself – he’s got enough stories of his own to tell, He lived the rock roll lifestyle before settling down (but I’m the one with a laptop so he can’t). Christened Phillip Gareth Anstee he spent his entire life known as Gareth (being a Welshman) until we came to Greece, not one Greek person we met could say his name without sounding like they had some nasty flem stuck in their throats, so he swapped to his first name and was duly known as Phillipos forever more.

Joshua “our” eldest. Phillips son from a previous relationship and raised by him (I joined in when he was 10). An only child until my tribe “invaded” he has grown to be a caring and confident man who we are all very very proud of and extremely grateful that being the first of our brood to hit puberty that he sailed through it without any purple hair dye, cigarettes (that we know of) or other parents knocking at our door.
 

Christopher (one of mine) Blonde hair, blue eyes, those angelic baby pictures tell lies! A little monster that I adore. At the time of writing my little angel has gone “emu”– sorry –“emo” I don’t approve of the black hair or earrings – but I’ve been told I’m “sad” and “don’t know nothing”(what beautiful grammar my children have) so I will shut my mouth and wait till he grows out of it.
And finally to Thomas, a quiet lad (not) quite reserved (not) very helpful around the house (you see were this is going?) I lie – Tom is a vivacious and social lad who never fails to make me laugh at least twice a day, the boy who at the age of four announced he wanted to grow up to be prime minister (the others wanting to be a professional rollerblader and roller coaster designers respectively). The first in our family to become fluent (well know more words than me) in Greek.

Chapter one
Picture the scene: bags packed, house spotless, excited children immaculately dressed, mum eager to start the family adventure, dad making final checks of doors and windows before our leisurely departure. Reality: mum frazzled and in need of a stiff drink (its 4:30am) eldest kids refusing to get dressed, youngest falling asleep, bags overweight (I only finished packing twenty minutes ago) hand luggage not done, fridge still full of food that you know will have become a species in its own right by the time you come home and will have claimed the kitchen for its own, nothing locked up and dad more concerned that he has packed enough cds to listen to (even though it means losing one persons hand allowance to carry his stereo).

BANG.

 The house descends into darkness.
“What the hell is going on up there?”
“Nothing” choruses the youngest two.
Phillip runs upstairs to find the light fitting in the younger boys bedroom is now lying on the floor.
“Is wasn’t me” cried Thomas, “Christopher was hitting me with a pillow and it just fell down”
“I didn’t touch him, the liar,” protested his older brother “Thomas jumped off the top bunk and grabbed it and it broke”
“It was on accident,” sobbed Tom. (Everything was ”on” accident this year)
“For God sake you two just go and clean your teeth and then get downstairs!” screamed Phillip
“Vic, I’ll switch off the upstairs fuses and fix it when we get back”.
 I’m in too much of a panic over the thought of losing a passport before we get in the car to really care.


This is our first family holiday together. Phillip and Josh are seasoned travellers – especially in Greece. My children are unfortunate that they have never had a proper holiday (we were a day trip and picnics sort before meeting Phillip) I have not travelled since my weeklong school trip to Germany in 1986. So, not only am I extremely nervous about visiting another country I have spent the last month gathering statistics on how likely I am to die before we land at SKIATHOS AIRPORT. You may think that sounds rather over dramatic, but to friends and family alike we are known as the Welsh version of the Simpsons/Spencers (of some mothers do have ‘em fame), and if it can go wrong it usually does for us. My father arrives to take us to Gatwick, I will feel forever guilty that this poor man is having to drive us 5 hours to London, drive back, go to work, go home, pick up my mum and then drive to Scotland to begin their own holiday.

“Mum… close the window it's cold.”
“But I need a cigarette.”
“You’ve smoked five already and we only just gone over the Severn bridge.”
“Mum… Chris is sticking his elbow in me” whined Tom.
“I don’t have enough room, move over” moaned Josh, who is completely oblivious to the fact I’ve spent the last half an hour with a door handle in a place it was never designed to be.
“Will you lot pack it in?” snapped my dad “I’m trying to concentrate.”
Phillip continues to snore – the man who said he wasn’t happy accepting a lift and would rather drive-was fast asleep before we hit the Newport tunnel (20 minutes into our trip).

Airports are bewildering places. You cannot help being nosy, secretly hoping you will be the one to catch a terrorist or spot a celeb and get a photo on your phone before you have to switch it off. Instead you end up listening in to other people’s conversations and thanking God that you are not so common as to make such scenes at an airport.
 

“What’s the matter now? Right that’s it, I want to see your supervisor.”
“Yes darling I know, and now all these bloody tourists are causing delays and I have a meeting 20 minutes after I land.”
“Who is she to tell me my bags are too heavy? Don’t these people realise how many shoes you need on these hen weekends?”
“Well I didn’t have a problem bringing the chicken in from Delhi.”
“Come on shaz lets go get another pint of lager before we board, and you need to check your tan love cos its running into your sandal.”

Others look relaxed; their holidays have already begun.
And then there’s us. Do you think cattle feel this scared when they go to their “departure lounge?” Phillip is totally non-plussed. Joshua is hovering around the slot machines, Christopher and Thomas think this “is” their holiday and can they spend all their money in the gift shop? I’ve checked the departure screens thirty times in thirty minutes. Finally after what seems like a caffeine filled eternity we are called for boarding. I’m trying so hard not to be scared but a rabbit in headlights looks more chilled out.
 

Okay, engines have started; seatbelts are so tight I think I have a hernia; my mind is racing, filled with all the things that could go wrong. Damn I need the loo, never mind my bladder can wait till we land, sod DVT I’m not getting up. Is that the ceiling peeling in the corner? I thought it would be a bit plusher than this. Where’s my safety card? Do they ask us questions to make sure we read it? Oh shit, this is it, are we going backwards? I’m going to faint, breathe, breathe, and keep your eyes shut woman, don’t let them see your fear, think of the kids – you don’t want them to laugh at you.
“Jesus Christ woman! Gerroff me!” screams my usually placid husband.
The plane is silent. Everyone stares. Without even thinking about it I have grabbed Phillips leg. As a chronic nail biter I have no talons, yet I have managed to wrap my hand around his thigh muscle and squeeze so hard that I have burst the blood vessels and have left a perfect set of prints that CID would be proud of.
“I’m sorry,” I whimper.   
“Mum can I get my gameboy out yet?”
“Mum I need the loo.”
“Dad when the woman comes round can I have Pringles and a giant toblerone?”
I ignore everyone because the need to concentrate on my breathing so I don’t freak out far outweighs anybody else’s desires.
I turn to Phillip:
“When the woman comes around can you get me some alcohol?”
“I don’t care what it is, as long as it comes with a diet coke.”
Finally our descent begins. Why do pilots think that because they have a microphone at their disposal and a captive audience that automatically makes them comedians? They are here to do a job and they should just get on with it. Announcing five minutes before landing that you need 425 meters to land and the runway is 415 is NOT funny even if you giggle over the intercom.
The plane doors open and the heat hits me like I’m checking on a Sunday roast. Its only 26`c but it may as well be 46 compared to the miserable 12 degrees and drizzle we have left behind.
Being a small airport we quickly collect our luggage and head for the coaches, no rep in sight yet am I worried? Bloody right I’m worried, will I have to sleep in the terminal for the next fortnight cos I cant speak Greek and don’t know how to ask for help? Josh runs past me and clambers onto the nearest luxury coach, the nicest in the car park, rapidly followed by Chris and Tom.
 

“Oy you lot get off there!” shouts my husband, who promptly retrieves them.
“This is ours,” he says pointing to the “quaint” 1940’s heap of rust behind it.
As we pull away from the airport we all have our noses glued to the windows as we try to catch glimpses of the island we are invading for the next two weeks.


CHAPTER TWO
My husband thinks of us as ‘visitors’ not tourists, he likes to throw himself headfirst into his holiday, absorbing the culture, trying the food and attempting the language. He reads every guide book he can get his hands on to appear knowledgeable (usually resulting in knowing more than the islanders) and for a man who constantly lives by his watch suddenly adopts the Greek attitude of ‘siga siga’ and can often be heard humming ‘don’t worry, be happy’. I imagine myself as a young fresh-faced mum swanning around the Greek islands teaching my young the history of each destination (learning can be fun) whilst slowly acquiring a golden glow. I am not. I am a sleep-deprived wreck who has already burnt her forehead on her way from the airport who couldn’t care less about the scenery cos my flip-flops hurt and I need a shower from all the nervous sweating.
 

We arrive at our apartment. It’s a reasonably good choice. The hill is a bit steep, but that means better views. Having only one road stretching from one end of the island to the other we have chosen a resort in the middle therefore having equal travelling distance to either end (my suggestion). I make a quick inspection of our rooms. The brochure stated we had a sea view, and we do, if you put the patio chairs on top of the table, stand on tiptoe and wait for the wind to blow the pine tree to one side! I hide my disappointment though; we didn’t come here to stay on the balcony for a fortnight.

“Can we go in the pool?” scream the kids.
“No, we need to unpack” I reply.
“Yes you do” pipes up Christopher “but can we go in the pool?”
“Come on” says Philip, “Lets get something cold to drink and let them cool down”.

We traipse up to the pool and order drinks. I cannot swim and have a morbid fear of water (I’m starting to sound like a case for committal). I have tried very hard not to pass my fear onto the boys. Phillip and Josh are strong swimmers, Chris has had a few lessons at school; Tom has not. Chris protests that he can swim properly, dives straight in and he sinks like a stone. Josh goes into Baywatch mode and dives in to rescue him, Chris and Tom are immediately restricted to the kiddies splash pool. I cannot cope with this near death incident, and retreat to the apartment. I intend to unpack everything, but I fall asleep.
 

An hour later Phillip who is eager to start exploring wakes me. Under protest the kids are dragged out of the pool and we stroll down the hill to flag down a taxi. We all jump in to a brand new Mercedes looking forward to a leisurely drive to Skiathos town. Boy, were we wrong!
“Do all Greeks drive like this?” I whisper to Phillip as we swerve around a hairpin bend. Every corner was taken like a formula one driver, overtaking anything going slower than 70 miles an hour, oblivious to on coming traffic. I mouthed silently to the kids to put their seatbelts on. I was surprised he could even see the road for all the religious icons adorning the windscreen, and judging by his driving technique he certainly needed that amount. Within minutes we had been deposited on the harbour front. It’s a very cosmopolitan looking place and everyone looks rich! I feel like a tramp, already regretting leaving behind half my wardrobe in favour of my local department stores holiday capsule clothing; all khaki elastic waisted shorts and mumsy skirts. Phillip suggests lunch and everyone hungrily agrees. After finding a taverna and eating our fill we stock up on breakfast provisions and head back. Within fifteen minutes we are all in bed, another fifteen and we are all asleep.

The following morning we all awoke still feeling a little tired but looking forward to our first official day in Greece. The welcome meeting was being held at our complex so I dragged Phillip up to the bar.

“But welcome meetings are for tourists” protested Phillip.
“What the bloody hell are we then?” I puzzled.
“Look,” I said, “what will I do if something happens to you and I’m stuck here on my own? Please love, just humour me on this one ok”.

We sat through an hour of information we already knew, Phillip
huffing every time the poor rep told the guests something that wasn’t 100% accurate as stated in his guidebook, although he did shut up when she explained about the bus service (which we didn’t know). In fact, at the end she asked if anyone could guess her nationality and when my fantastically intelligent husband stood up and shouted the correct answer we were presented with a bottle of wine (She was Romanian).
 

Underneath the apartment complex was a mini-market and after a quick chat with the owners we let them hire us a car from a friend of his, unlike the other guests who had booked through the holiday company, the price was a fraction of what the rep had quoted and would be delivered to our door the following day. The deal done we decided to pack a beach bag, grab the kids and head for water. There was only one place Phillip had in mind; Koukanaries – one of the most famous beaches in Greece and ranked within the top ten beaches in the world.
 

Having only experienced the British coastline, it took my breath away to see such a long sweeping bay of golden sand and crystal clear waters in shades of blue that until that moment I always thought photographers had enhanced the colours for their brochures and postcards. Being terrified of water I refused to venture in any deeper than my knees and quickly retreated at the sight of fish swimming around my ankles, but the rest of the family were in absolute heaven, splashing around and feeding the fish the leftover bread rolls from lunch. A few hours was all it took for me to decide that this holiday was going to be the most relaxing two weeks of life, lying on my sunlounger, ice tea in one hand, book in the other whilst Phillip entertained the kids; sniggering to myself in a rather superior fashion when a rather loud British family was shouted at by a Greek man for littering and making them come back to pick it all up. By 5:30 the beach was almost deserted yet we had no inclination to move, we wanted to give the boys another hour of ‘burying’ each other in the sand to make sure they were worn out enough and hungry enough to agree with any of our evening plans.

“Arrrrghhhhh!” a piercing scream broke the silence.
“What the…” I thought, as I turned to see a sarong clad woman standing on a sunlounger just a few meters away.

There, listing to one side but obviously dragging its body in our direction, a mauled and bloody rat about the size of a small beaver (well – large). Having clearly been attacked by a cat this poor animal, with approximately 300 loungers to choose from, had opted to play out its final moments underneath Phillip. All maternal instincts thrown out of the window, I leapt several meters to the left, leaving my children exposed to certain death – well rabies at the least, and proceeded to mirror the other woman by standing on a lounger and squealing.

“Get rid of it!” I screamed.
“Don’t touch it” squealed the woman,
“Move it! Move it!” I yelled, the panic rising in my voice.
“Kill it!” screamed the woman.
‘God she’s changed her tune’ I thought.

Without a second thought for his own safety (What was it going to do? Jump up and rip his throat out?) my heroic husband grabbed one of the boys brand new fishing nets and scooped up the unfortunate creature whisking it away to a quiet corner. Picking up a large stick he hit it over the head to put the poor thing out of its misery.
The crowd of holidaymakers that had gathered to watch cheered.

“Hit it again!” shouted the kids “Hit it again!”
“Will you lot shut up” I hissed, the blood rushing to my face.
As Phillip deposited the now deceased animal into the nearest bin, I imagined Greenpeace arriving at any second to escort us from the island for animal cruelty.

“Did you see its eye hanging out?”  Relished Christopher
“Gross” said Josh, “but cool.”
“Mum, my new net is in the bin. Can I go and get it?” asked Tom.
“No! We’ll get you a new one.”
“Cool” replied Tom.
“Can we go now? I’m hungry.” said Chris.

My appetite had definitely disappeared.

The following morning we awoke to clear skies without a breath of wind and ate a leisurely breakfast on the balcony. Whilst Phillip organised the boys I went to get dressed. Opening the wardrobe door I came face to face with an orange dragon! Well ok, a big lizard, but having never been to Greece before and after the previous days events I wasn’t prepared to take any chances.
“PHILLIP!” I shouted.
“What’s wrong?” he puffed, running into our room.
All I could do was point into the wardrobe.
After five minutes of investigation Phillip turned to me and said “Are you sure there was a lizard?”
“I’m not blind you know.”
“Well it’s not in there now, you probably scared the poor thing away”
Feeling rather foolish I started to dress.
“OH MY GOD!” screamed Phillip.
Running into the kitchen my only thoughts were ‘Hah! The lizard must be in there! Now who’s imagining things?”
Instead, I find myself standing in a pool of water. Phillip had filled the sink to start the dishes and had left the tap running when he answered my screams for help. Before we even had a chance to turn off the taps there was a knock at the door. The cleaners had arrived. Dying of embarrassment we murmured ‘Kali Mera’ (good morning) rapidly follow by a ‘Signomi’ (sorry) but by the looks on these two women’s faces we didn’t expect a pleasant response. As the kids retreated into their rooms, Phillip attempted to take the mop off one woman but it was snatched back with a look of disgust at him from one and a pitying look aimed at me from the other. They whispered something to each other in Greek that we didn’t understand but had the feeling it wasn’t  ‘oh what a lovely family, we will really enjoy looking after this lot’. Quickly grabbing bags, maps and suntan lotion we ushered the kids outside to await our hire car, wanting to get as far away from the complex as possible before word spread of the calamitous family in room 5.
 

The front of the main complex building was awash with families all patiently awaiting their hire cars. Killing time, we stood and chatted with the owners, who being very proud of ‘their’ island, advised us on places to visit that were not on the usual tourist trails and made us promise to come back in the evening to tell them where we had been. Our gut feeling not to book through the rep was quickly confirmed as a correct decision, as a fleet of rusty small cars pulled up, all looking worse for wear, not one with a full compliment of wing mirrors, but a nagging feeling in the back of mind was screaming ‘if this is what they are getting – what about us?’ Families jumped in and one by one disappeared down the hill. We were left looking rather forlorn. The owners popped into their office to phone their friend and twenty minutes later a brand new, shiny blue car pulled up outside.
“Thank God for that” I whispered to Phillip, “I had visions of a donkey pulling a trailer”
Shouting our thanks we piled into the car and skirted the coastline, investigating small coves and then stopping for a picnic lunch. As I sat watching the sun tickling the sea the gentle breeze wafting over us I turned to Phillip and sighed “this is bliss, I’m so glad we came”.
 

The following morning we decided to head for Skiathos Town as we had only seen it by twilight so far. Wandering through the back streets we came across the local butchers. Now being from the UK we are used to scrupulously clean shops with hairnets and health and safety signs, so it was a little shocking to come across a spit and sawdust shop, a rather large man dressed in an apron that looked like something left over from a massacre and a huge old fashioned wooden chopping block so well used it bowed in the middle.

“Kalimera.” he gruffed through a haze of cigarette smoke
“Kalimera.” we replied, I’m keeping a close eye on where that fag ash is falling.
“We would like some bacon.”
“Ti?”      (what?)
“We would like some bacon.”
“Ti?”
Great…he doesn’t speak English…. why do we always assume everyone speaks English? We are such a lazy nation when it comes to languages.
I forgot to mention that my ever resourceful better half used to be a butcher, and with this he proceeded to gesticulate which part of the pig we wanted and in extremely pigeon Greek explain that British people eat it between slices of bread.
The butcher burst out laughing.
“What did you say?”
“I just asked for bacon.”
“Then why is he laughing?”
“I don’t know.”
“Perhaps you said it wrong?” (I still to this day have no idea what he found so amusing especially when we later found out that bacon is bacon in Greek! – although years later I had a whole group of locals in stitches when I proudly announced in Greek that I had three cucumbers instead of three sons!).

We decided that bacon was a no go and pointed at some chops instead, and the butcher turned around and left.
“Huh? Where’s he gone now?”
“Perhaps he doesn’t want to serve us.”
“How rude, shall we go?”
As we turned to leave he promptly stepped back into the shop carrying half a pig over his shoulder and slammed it onto the chopping block.
“You did say chops and not whole carcass didn’t you?”, but my better half is on the ball and realised that this was much fresher pork than on display and the butcher had obviously taken a liking to us.

Whack!
Cleaver in hand he started hacking away at the unfortunate beast.
“Stop!” cried Phillip.
With the amazing language of hand gestures and pointing Phillip proceeded around the other side of the counter and pointed at the cleaver and then himself. Puzzled, the butcher handed it over with a second thought…obviously amused at this turn of events, not a normal working day in any country I suppose.
With the dexterity of a surgeon he proceeded to carve 5 beautiful chops. The butcher roared with laughter.
“Bravo, bravo!” he cheered. (I am now blushing furiously…nothing that we do is ever normal – who goes into a shop and serves themselves?)
 

Chops wrapped in paper and a handful of other things from the cold counter (sliced cheese and a bag of frozen prawns – yes prawns!) we paid a pitiful small amount of money (£7) and left, Phillip grinning and shouting “efharisto” (thank you) whilst the butcher proceeded to light another cigarette and carrying on hacking at the pig in front of him.
A quick and uneventful (thank goodness) visit to the bakery and we drove back to drop everything off at the apartment.

With a handful of the prawns and ten ton of fishing tackle and rods we head for a tiny beach, so small it didn’t have a name. After parking on the cliff top we stumbled down the embankment, steep going down, even steeper going back!
Within twenty minutes Phillip had his first bite…”ooh” I thought, fresh fish for tea, as he proudly “hauled” ashore the tiniest fish I have ever seen. Not wanting to show my disappointment I shouted “yay” along with the rest of the family but quickly stuck my head back in my book while he cut up the poor creature to use as his next bit of bait.
“I’ve got a bite!” screeched Phillip.
I ignore him.
“Pass me a net quick!”
I still ignore him while the kids all run to his aid..
“Whoa!” gasp the kids in unison.
“Argggghhhhh” screams Phillip.
From the corner of my eye I see Phillip jumping away from the waters edge with his hands in the air. I prop myself up in time to see him wildly thrashing around with an OCTOPUS wrapped around his right arm!!
The kids are screaming, the few other holiday makers on the beach are all standing up like meerkats trying to see what all the commotion is, looking on puzzled as to why this guy is waving his arm in big circles shouting for help!
“MUM…MUM…come and help!” screamed Christopher.
Not on your Nelly I thought, ignoring him completely glancing around with the other holidaymakers pretending to also look for “mum”.
Minutes later a beetroot red Phillip appeared at my side clutching the now removed Octopus in a well-known supermarkets carrier bag.
“Why didn’t you help?” asked Phillip
I shrugged my shoulders. “Look at my arm” Big welts from the Octopus are circling his wrist.
“You will have to put some cream on that” I muttered. In a split second several tentacles fly out of the bag and wrap themselves around his other arm!
So tentacles firmly stuck, body still in the carrier bag Phillip is throwing his arm in the air again in circles trying to get the thing off while I sink deeper down onto my towel. Rushing to the waters edge he unties the bag with his free hand, the Octopus senses freedom, releases Phillip and with a huge squirt of ink darts away!
“Did you see that?” shouts one swimmer.
“Size of a dustbin lid” answered another.
“ I thought it was going for my face – but it wasn’t going to beat me” proclaimed Phillip proudly.
“Can we go?” I whispered, folding up my towel, “I’ve had enough for one day”.

Halki in Pictures

Last Friday, June 24th, on the Halki trip, I took the camera again and so, here below are some more Halki moods. Hope you like them...

(As usual, clicking on any of the pics will open it in a larger window)

Above: 

A forest of Agave flower stalks, sadly signifying that these particular plants will soon die, after probably 20 years of growing.

Above:

This is the bay where there is a very pleasant beach to the right, which is very safe for bathing and sports the required taverna too!

The couple in the pic above were Jean & Phil Sibley, who have just contacted me by e-mail since arriving home in the UK. I remember them well, but didn't ask them their names at the time. So, since Jean's now been in touch, I'm happy to name-check them here. Especially since they haven't taken legal action since discovering their photo on my blog!!

Above:

The Traditional House of Halki. Well worth a visit and signposted from the harbour.
Regarding the spelling, see text at the end of this post.

Above:

This woman was scaling fish, a traditional task going back for centuries. What brought me down to the modern day with a bump was the fact that, whilst carrying on a conversation with someone several metres away, she exclaimed at one point: "Tell her to put it on Facebook!"

 The above pic features two of my guests on the excursion. A lovely couple of Grecophiles from Poole in Dorset, UK, called Maggie & Phil. I was trying to remember who Maggie reminded me of. Then it came to me, didn't she once play the lead in "To The Manor Born"?

They used to have a place in Northern France, but having chatted with them about their impressions of Rhodes & Halki in particular, I'd say it's only a matter of time...

Why "Halki" and not "Chalki"?

Simple: Τhe Greeks read the "ch" as a gutteral "H." We Brits see it and say "chalkey" as in "chalk" with the "i" sounding like the double "e" in "see." 

The correct pronunciation is "Hal'key". With the "Hal" bit sounding like the computer's name in the movie 2001 a Space Odyssey.

So this is why I spell it, as do many Greeks too, without the "c". Although, just to confuse everyone, sometimes the Greeks will spell it "Chalki" when using the Roman alphabet (as is the case with the signs for the Halki Traditional House). The Greek spelling is Χάλκη. This is because the "x" in Greek is the gutteral "H" and if you want a real "X" (as in "taxi") you use "Ξ" in upper case or "ξ" lower case. 

Of course, you already know that the "η" is like an English "i"!

Still awake? Thought not!

Also, check out this post too.

Halki, June 10th 2011

Went to Halki for the first time yesterday. Took a few shots as we tied up then one whilst waiting for what turned out to be an excellent lunch in a waterfront taverna. Seems the speciality, which is ideal for vegetarians, is Halki Pasta. Home-made pasta done with finely chopped and fried onions. Add one Mythos = paradise! 

(click on any image for a larger view. The first one is now my desktop pic!!!)

Also, check out this post too.

Dragged Kicking and Screaming...

Well today I did my first excursion of the 2011 season. 

It was a very relaxed affair, involving collecting my 61 guests from a couple of hotels in the general Lindos area, bus-ing them to Lindos itself, where I took them on the shuttle bus from Krana Square down to the main square in the village, from where I walked them holding my clipboard aloft down past the Rainbird Bar and down to the jetty on Pallas Beach. There we boarded the "Captain Mihalis", captained by - yes you've guessed it - Mihalis, who's a very nice bloke in his late forties at a guess.

Once on board we cast off for Mandraki Harbour in Rhodes town, a voyage of about two and a quarter hours. Once we'd disembarked at Mandraki, I walked the guests into the old town, went for lunch with a clutch of them in Yiannis Taverna, which is a small traditional affair, even down to the checked tablecloths. If you click that link by the way, forget the review by LJML, London, and look at the rest!!

On the way back we stopped for a swim in impossibly calm waters at the top end of Tsambika Beach, before heading back down to Lindos. Another day at the office. Boy life can be hard sometimes.

Why am I telling you this? Well, the thing is, there was this English bloke among the four Brits I had on board with the rest, all of which were French and all quite charming I might add, and he was reading for quite a lot of the time. But he was reading on his Amazon Kindle thingie.

Now I've had readers request that I make my books available for use with the Kindle, a process which heretofore I had been led to believe would be a bit involved and consequently had shied away from since I'm just too busy at the moment. But since here was a fella actually using one of these new-fangled tablet-type things I thought, why not tap his brain a bit? Incidentally his charming wife was reading a real old-fashioned book made out of paper, much to my relief as she soon chipped in that she preferred to turn real pages, to my immediate and wholehearted agreement!

Nevertheless, since I am prepared to be dragged kicking and screaming into the 21st century, albeit reluctantly in this case, I proceeded to interrogate my guest about the formats that can be used on a Kindle and he confirmed that they do indeed work with PDF files. Had I known this months ago, I'd have done this sooner, but now - I hope much to the delight of yer Kindle user - you can click HERE, scroll down and find "Add to basket" under each title. If you haven't already joined lulu.com, you may have to do so at this point, but it's free and only takes a mo. Then of course you'll also be in a position to add a review to any or all of my works on the publisher's site too, what a fab idea, eh?

So there we are. I've taken yet another step along the road to modernity. Didn't even hurt all that much either, if the truth be told.

Beehives & Baby Toads

Snapped the pic above just the other day on a walk up the lane behind the house. It's a common sight at this time of year and I'm sure you've discerned that the "boxes" are beehives. The owners move them regularly, depending on the density of the wild flowers as the seasons bring about the dying off of one type and the blossoming of another. 

We love to see them as it means that our garden will be (and in fact is) full of honey bees, which don't bother us humans at all but make a soothing bumbly sound as they tirelessly go from flower to flower in the garden. We even wonder if the keepers deliberately site them within a couple of hundred yards of our place (and our neighbours up the hill, whose garden has arguably more blossoms per square metre than has ours!), since the garden provides a rich source of pollen for the little occupants. The only drawback to their presence is the little yellow pollen bombs that they leave everywhere, including all over your car, your washing and your patio furniture cushions. If you try and wipe these off while they're still moist you get a yellow stain that will never come out. Best left until they dry, when they can be removed with a fingernail.

There are, however, some other insects that drive us up the wall at this time of the year. There's a certain kind of beetle for example, which, when at rest, is hardly as long a a finger nail, very narrow and reddish rust in colour, but when flying sort of hovers in a manner that suggests that they haven't quite got the hang of this flying malarkey and so they tend to bump into everything, including your head. They'll drop unsuspectingly into your muesli while you're spooning it into your mouth if you're not vigilant. They're pretty dopey and, when flying, assume a slightly "bendy" shape, looking more like a kind of flying "bendy" insect than a beetle really, but, since their navigational skills are virtually non-existent, they can drive you bonkers while you're sitting outside for a while at the start of the day. They are perpetually drifting into your "space" and require that your plastic swatter be permanently at the ready. I don't think they bite, but they will alight on your flesh and quite gormlessly sit there while you swat them, unlike mosquitoes, which have lightning-fast reaction times and are maddeningly difficult to get the better of.

Another more welcome visitor, of which we have many at this time of year, is the Mediterranean Toad (for another post referring to these, click HERE). These can be quite large, some of them filling the palm of your hand, whilst others, like the one I snapped out on the tiles (aah, the recklessness of youth, eh?) at 6.00am this morning, are quite a bit smaller. Get ready for the "aaaaah" factor as I present to you the tiniest Mediterranean Toad I've ever seen...

As usual, clicking on any of the pics will open them in a larger view.

Why Not Take a Drive - 2

I was originally going to update the previous post (Why Not Take a Drive) after having done the drive today (Sunday May 15th), but decided that it was easier to just do another post. So some of the stuff in the previous post is updated in this one (best read the two, but read the other one first perhaps).

I've now taken a picture showing the sign on the main Lardos-Kattavia Road in Kiotari, just before the crossroads where you need to turn right toward Asklipio. Here it is…

The next pic shows the far end of Asklipio square, with the Nikolas Taverna to the right and Sylvia's Taverna is just a little further along that street right ahead, where you'll need to drive. I know, it looks a bit like it surely can't be the right road doesn't it, but rest assured it is. As you proceed along this "lane" you're pretty soon driving alongside a chain-link fence to your left, where I mentioned in the other post that there was an old hand-painted sign pointing toward Laerma, but today this sign was missing, so perhaps don't bother looking for it!
 

Once you've exited Asklipio down the short hill, you'll come across the "Scenic Route" sign that's in the first photo below. This will reassure you that you are indeed going the right way. It's the kind of reassurance you'll need after driving through Asklipio, I'd say. Carry on along this road, which takes you all the way to Laerma. Along the way you'll see such sights the like of which the next four photos give you just a flavour. Today there was still quite a flow of water at the largest of the fords, as you'll see below. Depending on what time of year you may do this drive, you may not see it at all. If you can discern the yellow hue to the countryside in these pics too, that's the wild flowers, which are in great abundance at present, whilst they still have the precious moisture from the spring rains in the soil, which will soon be drying up completely, thus withering the flowers until next year. Remember, clicking on any of the pics ought to open it in a larger window for a better view...

The next pic shows the small cafe/bar which I recommended that you stop at. But I must also recommend the first one which you'll pass as you descend into the village proper. First though, I ought to remind you that when you reach the Thari Monastery, you'll find that the main entrance and car park are right in front of you and you'll need to take the left hairpin as you climb the hill in order to continue on to Laerma.

Returning to the village, the first taverna/cafeneion/bar on the right is called the Igkos [ΙΓΚΟΣ] and is run by Panayiotis and his wife. Panayiotis spent many years in Germany, but returned to Rhodes some years ago to run the family's business. He's in his sixties, strongly built and is ready to pass the time of day with all his clientele, which is what he's doing in the next photo, that's him standing talking to some German-speaking guests who arrived just after us. The last pic shows my good lady along with Andrea and Heinz, our friends who live in Stegna and hail from Austria, although Heinz is fluent in Greek as he was brought up here and did all his schooling in Arhangelos.
Why do I now recommend Taverna ΙΓΚΟΣ? Well, we 'd originally planned to just have frappes, but as it was about lunchtime and I was peckish I asked Panayioti for a plate of chips.

"You don't want fried potatoes," he told me. "I do you our sliced oven potatoes and arrow peppers, with skordalia, much better."

"Sounds OK to me," I replied. "Bring it on."

Well, bring it on he did. He placed before both Yvonne-Maria and I a plate each of sliced oven-cooked potato, along with sliced green peppers (the one shaped like arrows) and every slice was smeared with a liberal helping of skordalia (garlic sauce, made with olive oil and mashed potato). He also brought us Horiatiki bread, that heavy, brown traditional village bread that we love so much and we had ourselves a lunch on our hands.

Panayiotis later came to ask how we were liking it and thus began an interesting conversation about why we spoke Greek, which elicited compliments from him regarding the effort we'd made in this regard. He explained to us how the taverna got its name, which I'll leave you to ask him about, should you get there one day soon. After a few more minutes during which the four of us ate and talked, Panayiotis exited the front of the building carrying a tortoise, which was easily large enough to cover a dinner plate then then some.

"Is he a pet?" We asked. To which he replied, "No, he was just passing through.I found him in the middle of the road so I picked him up and gave him some slices of tomato to eat."

"Right," I replied, and too quickly for my own good got a laugh when I suggested: "Probably in a hurry to get somewhere I suppose!" Since he'd been found ambling, in the way that tortoises do, down the middle of the road. While the entire taverna's clientele joined in appreciating what a fine specimen it was, a cat sauntered past with a huge lizard protruding from his mouth, back end first. I don't think the lizard stood a chance of survival, the way that cat was carrying him, as his front legs and head were evidently half-way down that cat's throat already I shouldn't wonder.

Good job we'd almost finished eating.

Why Not Take a Drive?

If you're coming to Rhodes any time soon I'd like to suggest an excursion to embark on should you hire a car or motorbike. For some simply beautiful scenery, albeit exhibiting the scars of the fires of 2008, then you really ought to drive from Kiotari up to the village of Asklipio and take the road through the hills to Laerma. This road has only been surfaced with tarmac in the last couple of years (though to witness the damage to the surface from the winter weather - and shoddy workmanship - you'd think it was longer!) and is very (that is, very with a capital "V") "curly". I know, "curly" isn't the most commonly used adjective to describe a country road, but it's the only one that really gives the right impression of the road in question.

Travelling south from Lardos on the main road through Kiotari you'll come to a crossroads, where to the left is a road leading the few hundred yards down to the nicest part of Kiotari beach (where you'll find a smattering of traditional beach front tavernas and a bar, see pic below) and to the right is the Asklipio road. Just prior to the crossroads on the right is a huge new sign advertising a taverna in Asklipio called "Nikolas". You can't miss it - it's that big. There's another sign right on the crossroads itself too, just in case you needed another reminder of the taverna's existence and location. Take the right at the crossroads and climb the 4 kilometers to Asklipio village.

When you enter the village you'll see the square below to your left and the road continues along the upper right hand side of the square, where to the right and a few feet higher is the Agapitos Taverna, where my wife and I collect our mail, run by Kyrios Agapitos and his wife Athanasia. They serve as a sub-post office too and you'll note the small ELTA (Greek post office) sign on the wall above the geranium-filled garden terraces beside the steps leading up to the taverna's main terrace.

If you thought Lindos was the be-all and end-all of quaint Greek sugar-cube villages, then Asklipio will delight and surprise you. If you take the time to stop the vehicle in the square by the recently restored Byzantine Church and village museum to the Church's left, then wander the streets on foot, you won't be disappointed. The village is full of photogenic streets and lanes (not to mention occasionally breathtaking views), many sporting outdoor bread ovens (for some photos, see links at the bottom of this post), most of which are still in regular use. Choose the right hour to make the walk and you'll be rewarded by the irresistible smell of baking bread. In fact, my wife and I were walking through the village on a bright, sunny day back in March and struck up a conversation with an old "ya ya" who insisted on giving us a chunk of sweet bread that she'd baked in the very oven beside which we were talking. The village or "horiatiko" loaf is round, dense, brown and keeps for ages. Ingredients vary, but this particular loaf had cinnamon in it and we chewed it gratefully in the car later as we drove back down toward home.

The best thing and the greatest difference between Asklipio's streets and those of Lindos is the fact that in Asklipio there are no tourist shops, with all their wares hanging in such density and profusion that you can no longer appreciate the simplicity of the whitewashed village houses and "avlis". For some more photos of Asklipio and the Kastro's view, click HERE.

At the far end of the square is the right turn that takes you up the steep and occasionally poorly surfaced road to the kastro, which is well worth exploring for the stunning 360º view once you're up on the wall inside the kastro itself. But continue on for the Laerma road, passing the aforementioned Nikolas Taverna on your right and, a few metres further along the street (which narrows alarmingly, so please don't be alarmed), Sylvia's Taverna too. At this point you'll probably doubt yourself as, despite the fact that as you entered the village you'll have seen the sign indicating the one may indeed travel on to Laerma by passing through Asklipio, this "street" is getting not only narrower, but decidedly badly surfaced to boot.

Never fear, because, just when you've decided that you're going to end up in a field or down a dead-end alley, you'll spot the hand-painted sign saying "Laerma" with a small arrow on it too, fetchingly daubed on a piece of wood and hanging jauntily from a bit of chain-link fence on your left, thus confirming that the stout-hearted travellers will indeed find the way.

(pic below shows scene as you enter Asklipio, you'll need to keep right here)

(the pic below is just north of Asklipio. This one was taken, though, with the car pointing back toward the village)

Once you've driven past this sign and begun a short descent you'll notice that you are indeed exiting the village and as you drive down a short hill you must ignore the urge to take the first left by going straight on, past a steep, rough track which joins the road from the right and also passing a small citrus grove, above a bank which is also to your right. Now you're actually on the road to Laerma. It's very twisty turny (yup, "curly" in fact!) and rises and falls over small hillocks which eventually make way to larger hills and more beautiful views of the ever changing valley which you're skirting. Not too far north of Asklipio you'll know you're going in the correct direction if you note the small solar energy installation between the olive groves a few metres from the road on your right. It's a field not much different in size to a tennis court, but contains a grid of solar panels, none more than a few feet high, which rotate with the sun. They may not look all that conducive to the rustic Greek scenery, but give me these things any day over a power station!! They make no noise and require very little maintenance.

You're now in deer country. This area, which soon begins to sport hundreds of burnt tree trunks from the 2008 fires, is a favorite spot during the winter time for locals (us included) to come with their chainsaws to gather logs for their wood-burners and fireplaces. In wintertime we saw deer here on several occasions. One time a family of seven or eight strolled across the road right in front of the car. The best chance of seeing them during summer is to drive along this road at dawn or during early evening. But you can be lucky any time as the deer seem to be quite comfortable and not often phased in this untouched mini-wilderness. The times when we've seen them have often been during late morning.

The scenery on this road is ever changing and puts me in mind of several different parts of the UK, especially during the winter months. Every undulation or turn in the road offers another beautiful vista to gaze upon. One part is hugely reminiscent of the New Forest in Hampshire, which is not in fact, as anyone who's been there will testify, all forest. Large parts of this stunningly lovely National Park are heathland and in such areas one can often spot wild New Forest Ponies. Other views along this road are much like some areas of South Wales, one part particularly reminds me of the hills above Treorchy in the Rhondda. The [mining] pits having long gone, so anyone who thought that this area of Wales would be full of slag heaps and drab terraced streets would do well to go there now and take the road up to the Bwlch. Be prepared to amaze yourself at the scenery, it's - as the Americans would say - awesome. Then again, there are areas of Scotland too that you'll probably also be reminded of as you cruise this road.

At a couple of places the road fords a stream, which may be dry during the summer months, but it's evident that it is a ford during the wet season since there is a concrete base in the stream bed enabling ordinary cars to cross without too much difficulty. We've driven through quite a fast-moving current there several times during the winter, since they don't normally get particularly deep. If you visit this area during the early part of the season the fords may just bear evidence of the current that flowed just a few weeks back.

This road constantly throws views at you that scream "Stop here and take photos or have a picnic!!" The sad sight, though, of thousands of now scorched fir trees helps one to imagine just how wonderful this drive would have been before the fires, but it still is a superbly enjoyable experience to drive this road nonetheless. Eventually, you'll round a bend and make the ascent to the Thari Monastery, set in a superbly tranquil "nook" in the hills. It can be seen just how close the fires came to this place when you witness how near to the buildings burnt tree trunks can be seen. The fires of 2008 covered thousands of "stremmata" (one stremma is 1,000 square metres) and making this drive will show the individual just how much of an area was devastated. Thankfully the ground level vegetation is now recovering well, but of course trees take an awful lot longer to do likewise.

Just a few km further and the road enters the village of Laerma from the West. As you get into the village proper you'll descend gently and see a traditional taverna/bar on your right, then just a few metres further down and just before the church, a lovely cafeneion with a terrace under a huge tree which sits a little higher than the road to the left. I'd recommend you continue down to the T-junction, which is the heart of the village, and turn right. This road will eventually lead you back down into Lardos, some 15 km away, but as you drive around the bend from the T-junction you'll see a few tables and chairs on the right beside the road, shaded by a tree and sandwiched between the road you're on and a small turning which drops away down the steep hill to the right. The views from these tables are fab and the small taverna/bar which serves them is across the road on the left. It's the ideal place to relax with a drink while you absorb the atmosphere and the view, or even better, to take a light lunch of Greek salad, tzatziki and maybe a cool beer or two, while chatting with the locals.

Following this road back down to Lardos also affords some spectacular views, making this whole excursion something that I don't think you'd forget for a while. You'll also come away with the abiding impression that Rhodes is anything but spoilt by mass tourism. The old Greece is still alive and well here, I promise!

Maybe it would be good to read the follow-up post to this one, HERE.

Asklipio video Youtube:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LgAPm4ptXtU&feature=player_embedded#at=303
Good site with photos:
http://www.greeka.com/dodecanese/rhodes/rhodes-villages/rhodes-laerma.htm