The Tourist Trail

It's a funny old world really. I mean, here we are living in Rhodes and, following a fairly breathless season in which we've been busier than ever and having made the decision to work a little less next year as a consequence, we decided to look for a little hotel break in Rhodes town. Many of the hotels in town do very good deals at this time of the year and so we trawled the net for something a couple of weeks ago. Of course, I came up with nothing. Having specified on several "booking" web sites that we wanted Rhodes town, I was less than delighted to be offered a few nights in a hotel not beyond five minutes from home!

There was nothing for it but to call in Brenda, our good friend from Pilona, who had found us a short break deal this time last year and always seems to be able to come up with something. It must be me I suppose. I like to think I know my way around the internet, but every time I look for something like this I draw a blank. Well, not a blank exactly, but something that's not quite what we're looking for. Either the package isn't right (we try and find half-board for a break like this and I'll end up with B&B for example) or the price isn't very good. Then we go and ask Brenda and she e-mails back within a few hours with a fab deal at a hotel (run by Mitsis, a pretty well established Hotel company in this part of the world). This one was a corker and we had to go for it. What's weird is that here we are living in Kiotari, in the South of Rhodes Island, and we book a short hotel break in Rhodes Town through a web-site in the UK in £ Sterling.

What we're paying for three nights half-board is less than one would expect to pay for a meal in the restaurant in the hotel where we're now domiciled as I'm writing this post (though I'll probably be back at home before I finish it). So today we ambled all over the town and ended up having a frappe at Mandraki at the "Court House" Cafe. I dunno if that's actually what it's called, but you'll know the one I mean if you're a Rhodo-file. Sitting there under that huge and stately tree this morning, on October 22nd in something like 25ºC was perfect, just perfect. The boats, their sterns all lined up along the harbour, bobbed in the manner in which we'd expect and the world went about its business around us. because there's a charity walk in town tomorrow to raise money for some hi-tech equipment for the hospital, there was a band set up just to our right, at the bottom of the pedestrian street which runs down from Cyprus Square and right on the corner of the National Bank building, playing primarily Greek tunes which my wife could sing along to. She almost got up, but thought better of it. But it wouldn't have surprised me if she had.

I was put in mind of a particularly annoying comment I'd read just the other day on a forum on the BBC's Travel (Lonely Planet) web site. It was in response to someone's question as to where in Greece to go for a first visit as a "Greco-novice." Advice was being sought regarding what islands would be good to visit. There were, of course, many suggestions, a lot of which I agreed with, but one comment irritated me immensely. It said something to the effect of: "Don't go to Rhodes, avoid it like the plague. It's totally spoilt by tourism and quite hideous." ...or words to that effect. I'm not exaggerating, it was in that kind of language, those terms. Needless to say I posted a reply!

Yes, Rhodes has its tourist traps, its manic and less than scenic bits where it's "built up" as it were. But this can be said of Crete, Corfu and several other islands. But does that put it in the "Spoilt" bracket? I beg to differ and for several reasons. Firstly, because a place is busy doesn't necessarily mean that it's "spoilt by tourism," as our wonderful half an hour in Mandraki this morning more than adequately showed. Yes there were tourists around, but there's nothing wrong with that. Every single one of us who gets on a plane and goes somewhere could be classed as a "tourist," even if we're among a select few on a remote island without an airport. But there are quiet places which are "essentially Greece", and busy places which are just as "essentially Greece". All around us in the cafe there were locals, their conversations wafting over us with a mixture of subject matter, but primarily the words we heard most were "strike," "money," "Papandreou," "pensions," "prices" and the like. Well, what else would you expect, given the current dominant subject in the news?

Anyone who says that Rhodes is spoilt has no idea what they're talking about. This is a large island with a lot of places to explore. There are so many wonderfully "essentially Greek" villages, like Lahania, Mesanagros, Istrios, Laerma, Vati, Asklipio, Arhipoli, (I could go on for a very long time) all with their outdoor stone bread ovens still in the street and still in regular use, all with their old men sittting outside their favourite cafeneion playing dominoes, or setting the world to rights over their "Elleniko". Little ya yas all in black can be seen all over this island as they trudge carefully on their bird-thin legs along their village's main street to or from the olive grove, the vegetable patch or the village's single store - assuming the village even has one that is. Or maybe they've just been out gathering "horta". Donkeys can still be seen in many places, apart from the Acropolis in Lindos, doing what donkeys have done in this part of the world for centuries. 

In fact, even the village of Lindos itself - where, granted, it's fairly frenetic during the high season as coachloads of under-dressed grockles file through the narrow streets absorbing the character of the place (they wish) while hunting for that little set of coasters or a wall plate to take home for some lucky member of the family or other - reverts during winter time to what it really still is, a small Greek village. It's in the winter when you really see the character of Lindos, but, well, with tourism nowadays being one of the few growth industries, who can blame the villagers for jumping on the bandwagon and making their living this way for six months of the year. To be truthful, it's rather good having the bustle during the season when you know you can have the place all to yourself from November through March. More people should come in winter if you ask me, the weather's like a British summer and the island is green and pleasant. The people reward you with broad smiles and when the sun's out you can still find an open taverna or cafe. The difference is that the proprietors have time to sit and talk to you, instead of being run off their feet.

Take another scenic drive

In fact, here's another suggestion for a scenic drive which ably demonstrates that 90% of this island is unspoilt. Get yourself to Kolymbia and take the road towards Epta Piges (Seven Springs). By all means stop at Seven Springs if you want to. Like the Butterfly Valley, it puts me in mind of the UK with its broadleaved trees and cool atmosphere beneath them when the sun's out, which it usually is. On my excursions this past summer I've regularly taken my guests along this road [in the other direction] on the way back from Kamiros Skala where we'd disembarked from the Halki boat. My way of describing this route, which takes you through the delightful villages of Arhipoli, Eleousa and Dimylia, is to explain that it shows the traveller every kind of landscape in Europe in miniature. During the high summer there are rolls of hay in meadows that put me in mind of the sweeping hills beside the A38 between Exeter and Plymouth, there are breathtakingly steep pine-clad mountainsides that have me singing like Julie Andrews in "The Sound of Music" they are that reminiscent of the alps. The only thing you won't see is the snow-capped peaks above them. Every type of scenery between the two can be glimpsed along this road, which eventually brings you out at Fanes on the west coast.

From there take the left and follow the road down the coast. As you travel this route be sure to take the right turn as you enter Kalavarda, signposted Kameiros (among other places) and soon you'll be put in mind of some of the route down California's West Coast in Hemingway country, south of San Francisco. To your left steep hills leading up to craggy mountains, in which perch tiny white villages, while to the right you have the wild shore of the west coast, with its slightly rougher seas and occasional sighting of  a dolphin if you're really lucky. Even in the high season, traffic here is sparse...

Pretty soon you arrive at Ancient Kameiros, where the road leading up to this fascinating ancient village is almost opposite the site of a small bay, which is served by two or three tavernas, our favourite of which is the Porto Antico, where we took lunch yesterday, as it happens, on our fairly meandering route home from the short break we'd taken in town. Needless to say, I'd broke off writing this post at the hotel and started again when we got home. In fact, I wrote a little whilst sitting at Taverna Porto Antico (see below photo), because I showed the blog to Mihalis, the very nice man who showed us to our table and took our order for what turned out to be a delicious lunch of fried sliced aubergines, skordalia, lettuce salad, chips (yea, well, alright - but they were home-made) and Haloumi (I know, it's from Cyprus, but it's fast becoming adopted by the Greeks, great eh!). We helped it on its way with some chilled Retsina and fresh plain yellow bread - none of that commercial garlic-bread rubbish!! 

When we'd finished they brought us a plate with a slice of chocolate pudding and two slices of moist walnut cake and a dollop of vanilla ice cream - on the house. So I ordered an Elleniko to accompany it. "Teleio! [perfect!]" 

To imagine a better location for a taverna would be difficult and we resolved to make the effort next year to come here for the sunset, since it's on the right side of the island and they make a thing about their wonderful sunsets. They'll be closing next week, but will re-open in March. Considering it's the last week of the season we couldn't believe how busy it was on a Monday afternoon.

Just before I close what's turned into a bit of a rambling epic (sorry 'bout that folks), which all started because I'd seen red at that irresponsible comment on the Lonely Planet Forum;  I want to return to the Old Town, since we'd set about wandering through it over the weekend in search of a picturesque little square where we'd once driven our car on a dark winter's night not long after we'd first moved here. We'd gone out for a drink with our friends and they'd told us to follow them. We hadn't realized when they'd said that, that it would involve driving into the old town and getting the car round some seriously tight and narrow corners, but we were rewarded when we arrived here...

It could even be France, couldn't it? We walked back here during the evening too, to be rewarded with the sight of these tables being dressed with tea lights in lanterns and looking impossibly inviting.

Just around the corner are the tavernas Odyssey and Romeo, both of which are set in a superb little corner of the town away from the main thoroughfares. See the next two photos.

Conclusion:

If Rhodes is to be avoided because it's ruined by mass tourism, then perhaps we don't want the kind of person who thinks that here anyway. The kind who make judgements based on insufficient research and experience will always draw the wrong conclusions, won't they.

You're Having a Laugh...

On the Greek TV news the other night, they were interviewing people in the street and asking them if they knew any jokes about the current financial crisis and the austerity measures, trying to find out if people are able to see the funny side. Here are a couple of jokes from Joe (or should that be Spiro?) Public...

A Man wakes up in the middle of the night to see a shadowy figure in his room, going through the cupboards and drawers. The man is shocked, turns on the bedside lamp and asks the burglar:

"What are you looking for?"

The intruder replies, "Money!"

To which the householder replies, "Hold on, I'll join you!"

What's the difference between a Pizza and a Greek worker? The pizza can feed a family of four.

Just had an enjoyable evening at the poolside bar at the Summer Memories Apartments in Pefkos with our good friend Bob Potts. Bob lives in Cumbria and was telling us what a wet summer it has been. Now 82 and still most certainly vital, Bob has been visiting Pefkos since 1993 and is well know to a lot of the locals. Whilst here, he usually takes a trip on Gianni's Glass Bottom Boat.  Quite often while aboard he sits right behind Gianni as he drives and carries on a conversation with him. This past week, during one such conversation, Giannis asked Bob why he keeps coming back, to which Bob replied, quick as a flash...

"I like to support the Greek economy!"

Straight away Giannis whipped out a cold beer, handed it to Bob and announced to the other passengers, "That's for his support of the Greek economy!"

The Pegasus

She's getting on a bit. She's around 60 actually, but she's still beautiful and her history is most interesting. Her name's "Pegasus" and she's not a winged horse or even a woman, she's a boat.

Her owners are Kostas, who I have met, and his dad, who I haven't yet had the privilege of meeting. I came across Kostas one Monday whilst spending the day aboard the "Free Spirit", the boat which does the "Bay to Bay" excursion which I'm escorting once a week during this season. Kostas was aboard all day and whilst in conversation he told me that Perry (the owner of "Free Spirit") was his friend and advisor, helping him and his dad get started with their "Pegasus" project. 

Wasn't there a potential conflict of interests here? I thought. The way Kostas described "Pegasus" it seemed that it was a boat of similar age and character to "Free Spirit" and therefore wasn't it likely to take business away from Perry? Apparently not, since Kostas explained that not only would they operate her out of Mandraki, whilst Perry operates "Free Spirit" out of Lindos, but that they would coordinate once "Pegasus" was commissioned, even working in harmony wherever possible.

This was a relief, as the horror stories one sometimes hears about the methods employed by some Greek businessmen to thwart their competitors' efforts would make your hair curl. If your hair's already curly, it would more than likely straighten it! I broached the subject with Kostas, who's a very intelligent and educated man and well aware of his compatriots' darker side. More on that below.
 

Kostas was delighted when I told him that currently I'm doing a "Rhodes by Day" excursion for Zorba's Travel in Pefkos and that I'm in Rhodes town kicking my heels for 5 hours every Tuesday.
"You must come and see "Pegasus", he said. I didn't need much encouragement. "She's moored in Mandraki, up toward the clock tower end. I'll be there as there's still a lot of work to be done, finishing touches and the like. Come right aboard and we'll have a drink and talk some more."

 
So, last Tuesday, after having traipsed from the Top Three Bar (just up from the New Market where the coach drops us off) over to a street in that warren of "working" streets (full of workshops, car parts stores and industrial supply stores with dusty windows) just off Canada, which is the other side of the Old Town from where I started out, to find the Suzuki dealer and order a couple of water hoses for my car, I sweatily walked all the way back to Mandraki and strolled along the quay in search of the "Pegasus." Not before having been told, as I'd expected of course, that the hoses weren't in stock and that they'd have to be ordered from Athens. Ah well, another sweaty stroll next Tuesday too then.

Strolling along Mandraki, despite the August heat, is one of the great pleasures of being on Rhodes. Yes it's a bit noisy, with pedestrians, scooters, coaches vans and cars all competing for a few inches of scorched asphalt, but it's vibrant. One has to dodge the endless procession of tourists from every part of the globe, walking as if they'd lost their vision and their hearing whilst in deep contemplation of a map and demonstrating evident failure to quite understand where exactly they are. As anyone who's read my ramblings will know, my wife and I believe that "people-watching" ought to be an Olympic sport anyway; so, whilst it's a little more comfortable to be seated with your frappe in a pavement cafe to make your observations, it's still hugely entertaining to do the Mandraki stroll as long as you're not in a hurry. It's also wonderful to know that back home in the evening all I'll have for company (apart from the beloved significant other, of course) will be goats, Chukas, various other small songbirds and the occasional Scops Owl during the night.

I didn't know exactly what I was looking for, but what I did know was that "Pegasus" was going to be a nice "curvy" boat with a history, making her easy to spot among the more modern yachts and excursion boats, many of which were absent at this time of the day anyway (which was around 1.00pm by now), off plying the waters along the island's East coast.

Then suddenly, there she was, all seductive in her newly painted white hull and stained wooden superstructure. She's a beauty and no mistake. I walked up the gangway (gangplank, passarel, board-thingie, oh I don't know what you're supposed to call them!) and called out. No reply. She appeared to be devoid of human presence. I peered into the cabin and saw the door to the downstairs deck. "Below" isn't it? Give a landlubber a break here OK guys? There were floorboards up in the central corridor, then I saw that the "forward" door (hey, I'm warming to this now, eh?) was ajar and there was the hint of movement from within, plus the strong smell of wood-stain, no doubt the marine variety.

Once again I called, "Kosta! Is that you?"

 
A familiar face appeared at the door and, as it registered who I was, it burst into an ear-to-ear grin. It belonged to Kostas, fortunately for me, since if it had been anyone else I'd have had to explain why I walked aboard someone's boat without permission. He emerged in his entirety, wearing shorts and a vest top, brush in hand and bade me take a seat on the shady stern deck ("avast behind!" Or something like that, oh I was born to this, don't you think?) while he found something whiffy in a jar where he could place his wet brush. Joining me on the deck he immediately shook my hand with vigour, apologized that there was no food aboard and offered me a cool drink.

"I've only got Coke or chilled water I'm afraid. Should have done some shopping, but you know how it is when you get stuck into a job, you don't tend to stop for little things - like eating." I concurred, understanding completely. Cold water was just what I wanted anyway and he soon placed a condensation-covered glass on the small table between us and kept it filled for the duration of my stay.

"You want to take a look around?" He asked. Silly question. So we did a tour around the main deck, which was all pristine and freshly painted and stained. I expressed appropriate appreciation for the fact that her mast was still the original wooden one. Beautiful though she is, the "Free Spirit"'s masts (she has two) have been replaced with metal ones. The one mast on the "Pegasus" is evidently her original, a fact of which Kostas is quite proud. This mast even has a bit of "rigging"on both sides, which will add to every child's vivid imaginary view that they could be on a "pirate" ship.

Kostas near the bowsprit

"How old is she?" I asked Kosta. "She was built in Kalymnos around 1951," he replied, "and she wasn't used for fishing, she was a sponge boat. At that time the sponge fishing industry was huge, of course. My father and I had the opportunity recently to buy her and so we decided that we could do her up and take guests on excursions. I mean, all these modern boats are OK, no criticism intended, but this boat has history in her deck boards, she has Greek culture stamped all over her (as does "Free Spirit" of course). We felt that people would like to go on a boat like this as it really feels like you're in Greece. It's a truly Greek experience. The other boats are the same of those you can go on anywhere really. Don't you think?"

 
I could only agree again, as these are exactly the sentiments which I share with my guests aboard the "Free Spirit" every Monday as we depart St. Paul's Bay for a seriously laid-back day of swimming and [for the guests anyway] sunbathing. I usually say that when they get home and show their friends and family the photos of this day, they will say: "That's exactly the kind of boat we'd imagine spending the day on when you're on a Greek island!"
 

I ventured the question to Kosta of how other boat owners in Mandraki would react to another boat starting up in the excursion business. Wouldn't they be annoyed? His answer was very pragmatic. There had already been "noises" from some directions regarding those who thought they could make life difficult for Kosta and his dad. Someone knows someone in the office that issues permits, someone may "accidentally" damage "Pegasus" during the night, that sort of thing. He isn't phased. He's Greek after all and says he and his dad are ready for whatever comes. In a free market everyone's entitled to have a go. Let's see how we get on shall we?

I admired his attitude and wished them every success. Continuing my tour I could see that they had some very comfortable-looking cushioned pads, made to exactly fit the side seats along the deck as well as the roof of the "below" cabin, so that guests would be able to stretch out anywhere and everywhere whilst at sea. Plus we climbed up to the "bridge" (I reckon I was Long John Silver in a previous life, what do you think?) where I was invited to examine the traditionally spoked "wheel" and the newly installed electronic gismos that the law requires of every vessel these days. We then went "below" (pieces of eight!) and he showed me the cabins and toilets, all looking spruced up, surprisingly roomy, shipshape and Bristol fashion (splice the main brace and watch that lanyard Jim-lad!) before we ended up back on the "aft" (you're impressed, I can tell) deck, well ready to consume some more chilled water, which Kostas had a plentiful supply of.

We talked some more, the conversation consisting primarily of Kostas giving me a Greek lesson by correcting my mistakes, something which you have to accept and listen to if you're going to make any progress, even though it can irritate sometimes. The fact is though, that if someone's bothered enough to offer to correct you, it's usually because they appreciate your efforts and want to encourage you to continue. They often express this in words too, as did Kostas on this occasion. So I enjoyed sitting there, windmills of the Mandraki Harbour within eye-shot, the sounds of everyday life in Mandraki during the middle of August behind me, while this most likable of men gave me my very own private lesson for free. Can't be bad, can it?

All too soon I had to think about going. I knew that Kostas had work to do, but he had been far too gracious to remind me; so I stood up, bade him goodbye with many thanks for both his kindness and his abilities as a teacher, and promised to keep in touch. I told him that he must let me know as soon as "Pegasus" was ready for business, as I'd be only too pleased to remind anyone and everyone of the opportunity to go aboard and pass what would inevitably be a memorable day along the coast of Rhodes on board this superb old boat. He told me that they hoped to do some business before this season ends, possibly throughout September and most of October. I hope they do too.
 

Ain't she pretty

If you find yourself in Mandraki Harbour any time soon, I'd recommend you stroll along toward the Clock Tower end and see if you can spot the "Pegasus." She's next door to the "Orca", a peculiar looking modern white vessel that has a glass bottom and does thirty-minute cruises out of her berth in Mandraki. If "Pegasus" is up and running, by all means tell Kostas how you heard about his ship and if you take my advice, you'll purchase your ticket then and there.

Update 31st Aug: I've scanned the card which Kostas gave me. You'll notice that this one was when she was still based in Kalymnos, but the e-mail address and phone numbers still apply...

Update Sept 12th: She's replacing Free Spirit doing a "Bay to Bay" from Lindos (St. Paul's Bay) and I've just spent today aboard with Kostas, his dad Spiro and friend Thanassi. Perry was along too as the Free Spirit has some technical problems which is why they're running the Pegasus in place of her. More info and photos from today some time soon. The excursion can be booked by either calling the above number, talking to a TUI rep on Rhodes, or calling Perry direct on (+30)6932-647152. If you do call, please tell them you found out through John's web site, thanks!

Update Oct 13th: She's now tied up again in Mandraki, the season having essentially finished. Roll on next May!!!

(Click on any image above to get a larger view)

Cats and Corners

I was in town on Tuesday with some guests from Lindos & Pefkos and, since I knew I'd have some hours to kill, I took the trusty camera along with me. Wandering into the old town I started turning down any small side street that took my fancy and was amazed to find that, merely feet away from the throngs, there were totally deserted and enchanting back streets that, from the total lack of scantily clad bodies, could easily have deceived me into thinking that it was more likely January, rather than the second week of August - apart from the temperature of course. Even the sounds of tourism disappeared just a few yards down these warren-like walkways, some of which were so narrow that even a moped would have needed to grease its rider's legs with Vaseline to get through - or so it seemed.

Of course I began snapping away and, on reviewing the photos and discarding a few as I went, began to notice that, quite without intention, I was snapping photos with a cat or cats in them. Thus the title of this post. Of course, once I'd realized that the cats were featuring here and there, I sought one out, as you'll see below.

The only thing in some of these photos that reminds one of the fact that we're in the modern day is the ubiquitous motorbike or scooter, which unfortunately are a fact of life in any Greek scene today. Don't suppose you can blame the owners in many cases, since a car would certainly be out of the question, given the narrowness of the residential "streets" in which I was wandering.

So, here, hopefully for your delectation and delight, are some "off the beaten track, but only by a few feet" moods of the Old Town in August (plus an errant one of a fruit and veg seller right next to the taxi park in Mandraki who just took my fancy!)...

As usual, clicking on any of the above will open it in a larger view

Viola's Snapshot

•• Update, Sept 7th: the picture has now changed! so Viola's pic is now below••

The new banner photo at the top was snapped by a fellow rep, Viola, who's a guide from Germany working for TUI over here this summer.

She came to Halki on Saturday as a day out and ended up working all day translating for me for my German-speaking guests. This shot is the moment when we disembark the boat on arriving at Halki, when I hold up my board showing the guests the time at which the boat departs for the return to Rhodes. She caught me unawares!

We had no less than 9 nationalities on my bus on this particular day. We even had a few from the Czech Republic, who, fortunately for me and them, were helped by Rudka (hope I've spelt that right sweetie - if you are reading this!), a young Czech rep who was also with us for the day (phew!!).

When I show the guests this sign whilst on the bus I usually explain that, at great expense to myself, I've prepared something which can be read in all the languages, so they'll be able to understand the departure time. We do this at the butterfly valley too, before going on to Kamiros Skala to meet the Halki boat. Usually gets a laugh. If it doesn't, then I know I'm in for a fraught day.

I'll be preparing a  new post about Kyria Levkosi'a soon, She's the ya-ya who runs a taverna on Halki with her sons and daughters. She's told me some fascinating stories about both herself and the island. See chapter 34, entitled "Moussaka and Maladies" in the book "A Plethora of Posts",  coming up as soon as I can get time to prepare it (if you click these links, you'll find it's now on sale in Kindle format & in book form from the publishers lulu.com. - as of Dec 2011 )

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.