6pm, Saturday January 20th:

I’ve just been outside for a last stroll around as the last light fades. It’s already a month after the shortest day and the daylight hours are lengthening noticeably, something I always find immensely exciting and encouraging. As I checked that the redstarts who spend the hours of darkness perched and sleeping on the wooden beams on the wall of the house next door were indeed in residence (see this post), I heard my first blackbird of the year. In the UK blackbirds usually begin to sing in February, and if it’s been a hard winter that’ll be later in the month. I’ve noticed it before, but here they start several weeks earlier, and I’ve just heard the first one serenading the dusk. They’ll go on singing until August, when they stop until the following year. As long as you can hear a blackbird singing, you have the best months of the year still ahead of you.

I saw another badger a couple of nights ago too. This time I saw it from our very own sun terrace at around 1.30am. As per usual, I was out prowling around the garden, looking for feline interlopers and hoping to catch the sound of an owl or watch some bats, when, as I stood at the wooden rail of the sun deck, ten feet above our steeply rising drive below, I saw some movement immediately below where I was standing. Shining my tiny torch down and expecting to see a cat, I was ecstatic to see that it was a full-grown badger ambling up our drive. It then turned right into the undergrowth of George’s little triangle of wasteland just across the lane. It’s where we keep our compost heap and my wife occasionally has a small bonfire to burn household waste that we don’t want to end up in landfill. I knew that it would be in vain, but nevertheless dashed into the house to grab my phone or the digital camera, hoping to snap a photo this time but, alas, by the time I got back out there Mr Brock was nowhere to be seen. I would so love to snap a photo of one some time, so I’ll keep on the lookout.

11.00am, 26th January. Neighbours, everybody needs good neighbours… 

There were weeds that needed extracting from the path around the gate from our lower garden into the lane leading up through the village, so this morning we knuckled down to get it done. The best way to get these kinds of weeds out from among the crazy paving of the path and the steps outside the gate is with a small penknife, a dustpan and brush and a lot of determination. The only thing you have to be careful of, is not to run the knife the wrong way along the narrow gaps in the cement and stones that make up the path, as in, along with the direction in which the knife springs shut. You have to run it against the knife’s spring mechanism, otherwise you risk seriously maiming a finger or two. It’s a golden opportunity, though, when working around the gate, to interact with a neighbour or three, even four. Our house is actually ideally positioned so that, if we so choose, we can spend an entire day without being within sight of another human being. On the other hand, should we decide that it would be nice to enjoy a little social intercourse, then working in the lane or the lower garden affords us the opportunity to do so.

Today we hit the jackpot. Maria, across from us, had recently seriously hurt her left hand, as mentioned in this post and, as we beavered away removing weeds, she emerged from her mother Evangelia’s house and came out to say hello. Her left hand, once so heavily bandaged you couldn’t even see the fingers and thumb, was now kind of strapped up with a few elasticated – well – straps. She asked how Yvonne’s shoulder was doing and we asked how she was doing and there followed that mutual exchange of injury comparisons that we humans seem to so often engage in. She says her injury involved a break in one or more of the bones in her wrist and that it could take a couple of years to heal completely. Bad news for someone who has to work in a hotel in Agios Nikolaos during the tourist season. She says that if she can’t manage to work then she may well have to see what help she can get from the government. Contrary to what many would have you believe, there is actually some money available to people with long term injuries of chronic health issues who are still of a working age.

Shortly after she went her way, Giorgos from the house behind ours scooted down the hill on his Honda 90. He’s become even more affable of late, I think maybe because he’s finally realised that we can indeed have a conversation with him. I think he felt that we didn’t speak the lingo, or at least not well enough, in times past and so kept our verbal exchanges to a minimum. Now he’s always happy to stop while passing and do something else that we all tend to do, and that’s to state the obvious. “Getting some weeds out, eh?” He enquired amiably. How do you respond to such a question, and do so without sounding unfriendly? I knew, and it came to me in a flash, so I answered, “εννοειτε,” which translates literally as ‘obviously,’ although people tend to use it where we Brits would say, ‘you bet,’ or ‘you’ve got it,’ and thus it’s not taken as offensive. 

It’s a fact about human relations that neighbours invariably talk about complete trivia for a few moments, but whilst doing so cement a closer relationship each time they do. It’s more the fact that each side of the chat there’s someone who wants to transmit the feeling that they’re happy to have the other as a nearby resident, that they accept them warmly, and thus the community spirit is further strengthened. Blimey I do sound philosophical today, don’t I?

Next to pass, trundling down the hill on his quad bike (engine off, to conserve fuel) is the diminutive Dimitri, the ever happy chappy who lives with his mum Maria below us. He it is, too, who delivers our olive oil when we have a need. The last time we needed some oil, I gave the large 5 litre plastic bottle that we use to have it transported to us to Maria, and she assured us that Dimitri would be up with it directly. Usually, if we give them the bottle, within a day Dimitri can be heard charging up our drive on his quad to deliver it. This time, though, three days went by and no oil. We began to worry. Were they maybe running low on their own supply and didn’t know quite how to explain to us that they could no longer supply us with oil? Were they embarrassed to ask us for a little more cash, owing to what’s happened with the retail price of olive oil this past year or so? We do pay them for our oil, as it’s only right to do so, but what we pay them is a trifle in comparison with what you pay in the stores these days. A couple more days passed in which we didn’t get the opportunity to tell them that, if they had a problem, not to worry, we’d not be offended if they could no longer help us. 

You’ll understand what a heel I felt when, finally cornering Dimitri on a day when it was spitting with rain, and he was gathering logs in his arms to take into the house to feed their stove, I asked him, “Is there a problem with supplying us with oil? If so, you only have to say. Or if you want to up the price, we won’t be offended.”

“No, no no!” He replied, “Everything’s fine. I’ve been unwell, I’ve spent a few days with a bad cold and I didn’t want to give it to you. I’ll be up tonight, OK?”

“Are you sure, because if you want us to give you a little more cash, we can…”

“No! Gianni! No, there’s no need to pay us more, the usual will be fine, honestly. Look, it’s no trouble whatsoever, you can always ask us for oil, and we’ll always have some for you, OK? And let’s not hear any more about paying us more for it.”

True to his word, when we got up from our siesta that very afternoon, there was a bottle filled to the very brim with home-produced extra virgin oil waiting on the bench outside our front door. I immediately charged down to their house with the cash, plus a few extra Euros anyway, since we couldn’t believe how little they usually ask us for. When Dimitri answered the door, I thrust the money at him, at which he said, “There’s no need to worry about being so quick, Gianni, we know you’re not going to leave the country!” Then, noticing how much was now in is hand, he peeled off the extra money and tried to give it back to me. This time it was my turn to insist. “No, keep it. If you like, treat it as a tip, you can have a couple of coffees on us!” He acquiesced, but only reluctantly. 

Photo time…

Above: Cormorants and gulls on the rocks near the town beach, making use of my nifty little Canon’s zoom.

Above (2): The sea front at the Waikiki bar last Tuesday, January 23rd.

Above: A couple of shots of the ‘kourabietha’ (although not enough snow to make it look the part), again with my camera’s zoom. And, finally, a few shots in the village, late afternoon Wednesday 24th…

Actually, the last one above, of the pot in the niche in the wall, is our driveway.

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