So, we finally got around to sitting down with our neighbours, former village mayor Angla’i’a and her hubby Giorgo a couple of weeks ago. As per usual, as soon as Angla’i’a caught sight of us through her screen door she told us (ordered us, more like) to sit at the outdoor table under the shade of their vast rubber tree and she’d be out in a minute with our Ellinikos. Of course, as always you don’t only get a cup of thick, syrupy Greek coffee, you also get a nibble or two, and in this case she served up a plate of koulourakia and another of melomakarona, both made by her own fair hand, naturally. Yummy. Outside her front door she had the other, larger table completely covered by a net, which was supported to keep it off the surface by a few sawn-off plastic water bottles (empty and upturned, of course). Spread across the surface of the table was, from where we were sitting, what looked like a mass of dried leaves.

Yvonne, curiosity getting the better of her, had to ask right away what it was that she and Giorgo had under that netting. “Tarhana,” replied Angla’i’a, which is also known as ‘Tragana,’ apparently.

Once she told us we knew, because we’d come across the stuff before. In fact it was Angla’i’a who’d given us a jar of it a couple of years ago. If you’ve never seen it in the state in which people store it, when dried it looks like dehydrated soya mince, or some such. When we were given a glass jar full of it, Yvonne knew what it was, but had never had occasion to use it before. It’s not, to be brutally honest here, all that appetising in its dried state, I can tell you. If you clicked on that link above you’ll already have seen that it’s composed mainly of a fermented mixture of grain and yogurt or fermented milk, and has a texture of coarse, uneven crumbs, and it is usually made into a thick soup with water, stock, or milk. When we popped open the jar that Angla’i’a gave us we nearly threw up, it smelt that rank. In fact, even though it’s vegetarian, it does a pretty good job of making you think that it’s got some kind of rancid meat in it too.

Our curiosity satisfied, we moved the conversation along, since Giorgos had joined us and we wanted to ask after his knee problem. “Eh!” He replied, “it is what it is. I just put up with it.” It doesn’t stop him, a near 90 year-old, from getting up every morning, crossing the road and tending his horafi, where he still grows a selection of vegetables for the table. He reckons that he’s cut back how much he does there nowadays, but you could have fooled us. There had been another tremor a few hours before we sat down together, so we asked what they thought of the possibility of a big quake coming some time.

“Earthquakes don’t worry me, they don’t keep me awake at nights,” said Angla’i’a, “No, what worries me is fires.” That made some sense, because we get small quakes all the time here, which is a good thing and lessens the possibility of us getting a huge one some time. But every summer, by the time you get to the end of July/early August, the land is so dry that fires can start even with the sun’s rays being magnified through a half-empty discarded water bottle thrown carelessly out of a car window. The landscape is so parched that a cigarette end can result in many stremmata being consumed by flames within hours. It’s illegal to have bonfires after April and before the rains start, usually in late October or November, for obvious reasons. If you have a patch of land that’s overgrown with weeds, it’s law that you have to cut it and dispose of the cuttings, before a certain date (varies a bit each year) in April, or you risk a hefty fine.

We caught up with our neighbours and their news, which mainly consisted of Angla’i’a’s negative comments about our new mayor, Manoli, who’s actually her nephew. Seems, though, that there’s no love lost between them. We couldn’t help but remark on all the things he’s been doing, or getting done, around the village, to which her reply was, “Yeah well, they all hit the ground running when they’re first elected. They get paid for all kinds of stuff they do during the first year or two, then after that the funding dries up, so they make sure they get what they can out of the government at the start of their term, then they do naff-all, sit around in the kafeneion most of the time.” We were in no position to comment on such things, of course.

As always the clock caught up with us and it was time to take our leave. You never leave, though, without first being given a gift, and this time was no exception. “Hold on, before you go…” said Angla’i’a, already on her way into the kitchen through the screen door. She came out a few seconds later with a plastic bag stuffed full with Vlita, a kind of horta that’s a village staple for the table of modest rural folk. It grows wild, usually around the perimeter of an irrigated field, and consists of large dark green leaves. I can’t say I’m all that fond if it, but it’s a rich source of iron and Yvonne froze what Angla’i’a gave her and now adds it (finely chopped) to her bolognese and chilli sauces, curries and even a traditional lentil soup that she makes from time to time. On top of all the leaves was a plastic container inside of which were a dozen or so Melomakarona, which are more often made for special occasions like Easter, Christmas, name days etc. But many housewives make them simply because they want to, and we’re well glad that our friend is one such woman. They’re simply scrumptious and go excellently with an iced coffee on the veranda of a morning.

It was good to have once again spent some quality time with this humble, hospitable couple, who were the first to make us welcome when we first moved into our house in the village one month short of five years ago. They genuinely seem to miss us if we let a few months go by without dropping in for a chinwag. I don’t know where the time goes. Well, I do, it goes the same way as all the time before it, but it’s good sometimes to remember what’s truly important, and being good neighbours is well up there in the list, isn’t it.

And so to the photos. The top photo on this post was taken at dusk as we ate a delicious meal at the waterside restaurant the Vira Potsi, right beside the Venetian Fortress that stands at the entrance to Ierapetra Harbour, last Monday evening. Not only did one turtle turn up, but a pair of them. My photos aren’t all that good, but here are the rest of them anyway, as just about everyone who was dining that evening crowded to the edge of the quay to strain to catch sight of these wonderful, elegant, gentle creatures…

On Sunday evening there was a lively food and music festival on the waterfront in town too, all the food was contributed by restaurants and households in the surrounding area and it was all free to those who came along. The music ranged from traditional Rebetiko, through techno, to country and even a spot of heavy metal from a band of amateur school kids, rounding out the evening.

To round this one out, here are some more random photos that I quite like…

•

Click HERE to go to my Amazon Author Page. There you can browse and purchase all of my written works.

I was reading an article recently in the rather dubious UK newspaper the Daily Express, and it was all about how lovely is the island of Lefkada. I had no argument with the description of Lefkada at all, and none with the idea of promoting it as a place to visit. What I did find rather too difficult to swallow though, were the words, and I quote: “Any jaunt to Rhodes, Crete, or Mykonos – three of the best-known Greek islands – will inevitably involve negotiating hoards of tourists looking to go to the same restaurants, bars, and sun spots.“

Now, as you’ll probably know, I lived on Rhodes for fourteen years, and have now been living in South East Crete for almost five. I’ll make no comment on Mykonos, since I don’t believe that it should be grouped along with the first two islands anyway. But, to read that the idea of coming to either Rhodes or Crete would inevitably involve negotiating “hoards of tourists looking to go to the same restaurants, bars, and sun spots” made me see red. Incidentally, adding to my feeling that’s it’s very poor journalism to so generalise, is the fact that the word ‘hoards’ is incorrect. If the writer was referring (and the context strongly indicates that he was) to large numbers of people, then the correct word is ‘hordes.’ Enough said on that then.

My view on how Rhodes has changed over the years still stands, and yet I can’t let that article pass without mentioning that there are nevertheless still many very quiet spots on that island where the true Grecophile can find the ‘real Greece,’ definitely away from the masses – fact. A true gem of a seaside village on Rhodes is Stegna, plus the area where we used to live, Kiotari, although having suffered the construction of a few huge A.I. hotels in recent years, nevertheless still offers quiet spots for those who look hard enough, as does the delightful village of Gennadi, just 4 km down the coast from there. Arhangelos itself, although quite a large village, is very essentially Greek, even during the tourist season, and I could go on.

Here on Crete it’s an even bigger insult to say that you’d be ‘negotiating the hordes,’ since Crete is a huge island, well over four hours from end-to-end by car and, I’d say, probably 80% of it is wild and unspoilt. Just because Crete has a number of airports and a few resorts that have become very well known as offering the kind of holiday that people who want a ‘lively’ time would look for, doesn’t mean that the entire island is crowded and noisy. Crete has too many untouched villages to even mention (among them the one where we’ve made our home, in fact) and miles of quiet coastline where you can find beaches with sparse numbers of sun worshippers, even in July and August. We’re fortunate enough to have landed in the municipality of Lasithi (there are only four such ‘counties’ on Crete, and they are Chania, Rethymnon, Heraklion and Lasithi. The first three are named after their main town, but are all primarily rural in the vast majority of their land area), and apart from a couple of tourist ‘hotspots’ like Agios Nikolaos and Elounda, the place is primarily agricultural and you most definitely won’t encounter any hordes. Lasithi is blessed with numerous wonderful beaches and coves, most of which are never overcrowded, and there are waterside tavernas, like the ones I’ve talked about in some of my recent posts, for example “Local Haunts” and “Food for Thought.”

The photo at the top of this post was taken at one of our regular summertime haunts, the “Cacao” café at the Western extremity of the village of Gra Lygia. We go there usually on a Sunday, at around 11.30am, where we order a couple of freddo espressos and stretch out for an hour or two while taking the occasional swim. That photo above was taken on Sunday July 28th at precisely midday. The ones below were also taken on various Sundays over the past few weeks…

Looking at the above shots you’ll have noticed how crowded the place is. Why, you can’t even see the surface of the water for leaping bodies (heavy irony), eh? Gra Lygia beach is a couple of kilometres long, by the way, and is populated I’d say by 90% locals. Don’t come to Crete, you’ll be negotiating the tourist hordes…

Incidentally, I read a lot on Facebook about how much cash people have to shell out for a couple of sunbeds and an umbrella these days. Each to their own, of course, and I know that some people don’t like parasols and sun beds. OK, let’s not argue about that one. I happen to love them because at my time of life you want comfort, end of story. What I definitely do not like is when they’re so close together that if you stick your arm out you can end up molesting the woman on the lounger beside yours. That’s a real possibility in places where they take the mick out of the tourists, I’m afraid. Also, they need to be sparse enough for locals and others who don’t want to use them to be able to find a decent enough sized patch of beach to ‘camp’ on with their mats and towels. In such conditions, I don’t see anything wrong with them. What’s most wonderful about our area though, is the fact that almost all the cafés who have umbrella and beds around here don’t charge for them at all, as long as you buy a couple of drinks. In other words, the beach ‘furniture’ is simply an extension of the tables and chairs further back, and closer to the building. Now that’s reasonable, right?

The majority of local Greeks do not want to spend an entire day on the beach. We too tend to do what they do, which is to turn up, order a coffee, then spend an hour or two relaxing before leaving again. If you’re gonna be charged an arm and a leg for sun beds, you’re going to find that slightly galling, right? I’ve even talked to Greeks who’ve been visiting Ierapetra from the more touristy parts of the island, and they’ve not even known that sunbeds are free on our beaches, as long as you buy a drink. A mature couple was standing beside the beach last season, evidently Greek, when I said hello while passing. They asked me, “Excuse us, but how much are the beds here please?”

I was well pleased to be able to tell them how the system works on our beach, at which the wife remarked to her hubby, “It’s a different Crete down this way Manoli!” They were residents of Hersonissos, which is only just over an hour away by car, but may as well be the other side of the planet when it comes to the ‘hordes.’

The eagle-eyed amongst you will have spotted that our drinks in those photos are not in those ubiquitous cardboard cups with those dome-shaped plastic tops, through which you poke a plastic straw. For some time now we’ve been following the ‘green’ advice about carrying our own cups and straws with us. I’m not boasting or sounding off here, but we do truly believe that if everyone did that it would make a vast difference to the amount of trash that ends up in the environment. Our ‘flasks’ are double-skinned metal ones and they keep the drink cold for ever. In fact, even if we take a couple of hours to sip our coffees to the end, the ice is still intact inside. usually in this climate in those cardboard cups the ice is long gone within half an hour and what remains of your coffee becomes decidedly tepid, yuk. Our straws are aluminium and last forever. We simply wash them in some drinking water and lick them off before packing them away, then give them a thorough clean out when we’re doing the washing up back at home. All too often the straws given when you order an iced coffee are made of black plastic, which is the worst kind. I’ve read many times that for some reason black plastic is non-recyclable, which is why garden centres are switching from black to gray for pots in which they sell new plants and seedlings. Not only that, but when they bring you your drink the straws are packed in those annoying little see-through plastic sleeves, which instantly blow away on the breeze if you put them down even for a second. We’ve found that if you proffer your own reusable cups when ordering your coffee, the staff are only too pleased to take them from you and fix the coffee in them, thus saving the café the expense of buying ever more cardboard cups and plastic tops. The cups we use cost us about €8 each and we’ve now had them for almost ten years and counting. There’s an idea for you if you care about our planet.

Returning to the main theme of this post – by all means read that dubious article in Britain’s Daily Express, but if you feel like sending them some feedback, you’ll have my vote. The moral of this post then is – don’t believe everything you read in the papers!

•

Click HERE to go to my Amazon Author Page. There you can browse and purchase all of my written works.

I don’t know why it’s taken me so long to notice this, but the other day, as we were walking through town to get to the beach for our regular freddo espresso and a swim (tough life, I know), I read a couple of those blue signs that are usually affixed to a corner of a building and that tell you the name of the road or street that you’re on. It suddenly struck me, after 47 years of either coming to Greece or living here, that almost all of them are some person’s name.

I got to thinking, how many street names in Greece do I either see or already know that aren’t named after some dead person or other? My home city is Bath, UK, and I began trawling through the names of city streets there that I can still recall. You’ll find Barton Street, Lower Borough Walls (and Upper too), New Bond Street, Milsom Street, Wood Street, Argyle Street, The Paragon, Hay Hill, Belmont, Guinea Lane, Upper Hedgemead Road and so it goes on. Regular street/road names in the UK are things like Acacia Avenue, Hill View, Church Close etc. 

Here, though, I’d say that 90% plus of the streets and roads are called by the first and last names of someone who’s died. Next time you’re walking around a Greek locale, take a look and see if you don’t agree. You’ll see streets with names like Adelfon Hana (Brothers Hana), Nikolas Anagnostakis, Stamatis Kokinakis, Georgos Papadopolis etc., in fact they’ve almost all got both the first and surname of whoever they’re named after (occasionally abbreviated in order to fit the name onto the sign, owing to the fact that Greek names do have the tendency to be rather long and stuffed full of syllables, don’t they) on them. Seems like not many are named after females, though, wonder why?

I just thought it was interesting, that’s all. 

The top photo this time was taken on Sunday at Gra Ligia, where we’d just been for a swim. When you live somewhere like this, it’s hard to imagine what it must be like to be among the hordes in the more over-touristified places, it really is. Couple more shots from Gra Ligia (on July 21st no less!!)…

In the previous post I mentioned that we finally got to eat at the beach taverna in Koutsouras called the Kalliotzina. Here are the photos I took during our wonderful meal there on Sunday evening July 14th…

The choccy pudding with ice cream, BTW, was the freebie! Definitely going to go there again for lunch some time. The menu shot shows the system that a lot of restaurants have adopted here these days, and it works really well. Instead of them bringing you a menu from which you verbally list your order to the waiter/waitress, you get a personal catalogue on which you write the number of whichever items you want (they give you a pen), before the staff take it to the kitchen and your food gets prepared. It works like a dream.

Finally, last night (Sunday 22nd) as we sat at one of our favourite waterfront restaurants, L’Angolo, where Nikoleta who runs the place and takes all the orders knows what we’re going to order before we even open our mouths these days, all the diners were enjoying the blood-red moonrise as the full moon crept over the horizon when a vibrant thumping sound began to emanate from further down the promenade. At first we thought that the Aperiton Café had a live band in, as they often do during the summer months, but no, it couldn’t have been, because the sound was growing louder. Something was making its way along the seafront in our direction. We soon found out what it was…

It did become a bit ear-splitting when they passed right by our table, but it was great fun and all for a very good cause, apparently. The crew wore t-shirts and vests emblazoned with the logo ‘Keep the Spirit Alive,’ so I Googled it today and found out that it’s a youth movement to keep alive the memory of a local man, Giorgo Kouvaki, who was a local physiotherapist, acupuncturist, musician and photographer who died prematurely a few years ago. Details about him can be found here. Below are a few stills from the occasion too…

In the last few frames you can spot the moon between the drummers as it had by this time lost its red hue and was climbing higher into the sky. It’s also visible in this below shot of Yvonne, as we’d just left the table and begun our walk back to the car…

I’ll be rambling on about our recent coffee with the neighbours in the next post (probably!).

•

Click HERE to go to my Amazon Author Page. There you can browse and purchase all of my written works.

Cats, of course, are famously more independent than dogs, don’t require taking for walks and don’t wake up the neighbourhood in the dead of the night by barking for an hour without seeming to have any logical reason for doing so, apart – that is – from the desire to make sure that if they can’t sleep, then they’re going to make flippin’ sure that no one else does either. OK, yes, now and then a couple of local male cats will have a slanging match and go at each other hammer and tongs with their claws, but it doesn’t usually last long, although sadly it often results in the loser in the altercation coming off with a torn ear, or a nasty wound about its head or neck that would require a visit to the local A&E were it a human.

The beloved and I have always understood that to own a pet is a great responsibility, and it requires much sacrifice, which is precisely why we’ve spent most of our married life not owning one. In times past when my parents were alive we’d sometimes spend a few weeks back in the UK and to worry about what to do with a pet during that time was a principal reason why we decided against the whole venture. A couple of years ago however (and I know I’ve mentioned this before), a small black and white kitten (feral, of course) took to following me around the garden, to the extent that he quite stole my heart. The little perisher wheedled his way into our affections, so we started buying food for him and, before long, he’d well and truly got his paws under the table and was to all intents and purposes our cat. He lived with us for a couple of years while he grew into a formidable and handsome male, with a glossy coat and gentle disposition. We could do anything with our Mavkos, and he’d revel in the attention. Here are some photos of him, even though it still pains me to look at them (as I shall explain below) –

We became so soft on that cat that we’d also buy little packets of treats for him and he always knew exactly when it was time for coffee on the terrace. He might be nowhere to be found, but as soon as we opened that screen door with the tray in hand he’d come trotting around the corner of the house from the veranda and insist that he got his little dish of treats before ever we could settle down for our coffee. Once he’d finished his little dish of ‘nuggets’ as we used to call them, he’d sit there between our two sun loungers and look first one way, then the other, before deciding which of us would receive the privilege of having him curl up between our legs, his head on a human thigh, where he’d expect to be smoothed and tickled for half an hour or so.

Then, one day, about a year ago now I suppose, he started with his absences. At first he’d be gone for four or five days, then turn up like butter wouldn’t melt, usually around coffee time, and expect his treats and cuddles quite as usual. These absences gradually increased in length and we were sure that he’d found another house in the village where they’d taken to this amazingly affectionate cat that was obviously at home around humans and begun feeding him there too. Frankly, we were OK with this because the first time we’d been away while he was ‘our cat’, as it were, we’d enlisted the help of Angla’i’a to come and feed him while we were away. She’s no longer in a position to do that, because her legs won’t get her up the fifty metres or so of our drive any more, it’s simply too steep for her. So to be able to go away and not have to worry about Mavkos was a blessing.

The problem was, and anyone who knows cats will also know this, you never really own a cat, it’s more that he or she deigns to live with you. It seems to me that loads of cats the world over have more than one home, often without the original owner ever finding out. Back on Rhodes we’d hosted our neighbours’ cat each time they’d gone to the UK for a month or so each spring. The cat was called Simba and wasn’t even originally theirs to begin with. He’d moved in with the couple who’d bought the house that was built above and behind their place, and had belonged to Nicola, the new resident there. The trouble was, the more dogs that Nicola adopted, the more time Simba would spend on Ron and Janet’s terrace with them until, inevitably, he decided to throw his lot in with them to escape the hassle. When they went away he’d move effortlessly down the hill to our place and was effectively our cat for the duration of their absence. When Ron would come home he’d be very keen to collect Simba, since he’d missed that cat terribly. It’s not surprising really, because he and Simba were virtually inseparable all the time that Ron was at home. Simba would follow him all around the garden, sprawl on his lap while Ron read the papers on his Kindle device during the daytime and flop onto the sofa with Ron of an evening. When they got back to Rhodes from the UK, the simple act of Ron carrying Simba back up the hill to their terrace was the signal for the cat to return home, whenceforth it would be our turn to miss him for a while!

So, with all the above in mind, you’ll understand how we felt when Mavkos simply didn’t come back any more. Simba had disappeared a couple of years before we left Rhodes, and when he first went away Ron was beside himself. He’d wander the dirt tracks and forest trails around the house calling for the cat to come home, but he never did. There were no other houses within a sensible distance for a cat to relocate to when we lived in Kiotari, so we had to conclude that one of two things had happened to Simba. Either he’d been poisoned (a regular and barbaric habit of some of the locals in rural areas around the Greek islands), or, somewhat like an elephant, Simba had known that he was unwell and was going to die, and so went off to curl up in some concealed nook somewhere to go to sleep for good.

Once it had become apparent that we were to experience a similar loss with Mavkos, I ended up really identifying with Ron and how he’d felt at the loss of Simba. In fact on more than one occasion I scoured the village hoping to find where he’d decamped to with the idea of trying to coax him home, or at the very least making sure that he was happy and well cared for. No joy.

Mavkos came back just one more time, after a gap of about three months. At least we were relieved to see that he was OK physically and seemed to be well fed. He turned up right on cue as we were settling down to sip our iced coffees on the terrace one morning, only we didn’t have any packets of treats for him this time, so we fed him a few small chunks of Graviera (he loved cheese!). After that, he trotted off and we have never seen him since.

Our experience with Mavkos led us to decide that never again would we adopt a cat. To be honest, a lot of ex-pats take one look at a feral cat and decide, “Oh look! Isn’t he cute! Lets’ adopt him/her.” And they do. Unless you catch a feral cat at less than six months of age though, even though it can well acquire the habit of coming to you for food, it’ll never allow you to stroke it or pet it. After about 6 months it’s too late. After our own experience though, garnered over 19 years of living on a Greek island, we well understand how it is that lots of ex-pats end up caring for lots of cats, sometimes well into double figures. They simply look so cute. The fact is, though, that they are wild animals and their resemblance to the domestic cat is not really a good thing. As ferals they live off vermin and insects, and during the winter months they’ll eat vegetation too. When well-meaning foreigners turn up here and start feeding them cat food, they get lazy and no longer have to go hunting for rats, mice and lizards on which to survive. I once watched a feral cat on Symi chase down and devour a Symi spider, and it was not a pretty sight. That said, it was however somewhat reassuring, because if you’ve ever seen a Symi spider (and I talk about them quite a bit in my ‘Ramblings From Rhodes’ book series) then you’ll know that for the arachnophobe they’re a total nightmare. They’re easily as big as a tarantula and when one walks across the path that you’re following you hang back out of respect and let it go its way. We’ve stayed in various accommodations on Symi and once or twice had to deal with one of these monsters and it’s a daunting task, I can tell you. So, to be aware that the feral cats eat them is comfort indeed. But then, if those cats are used to being fed by well-meaning (although IMHO missguided) ex-pats, then they’ll have no need any more to hunt down their food. They thus become part-domesticated and the vermin population of the area prospers.

So, determined as we are not to become owners of another cat, you can understand how hard is our internal battle not to get too soft on White Sock, Groucho, Woebegone and Ginge, the ferals that regularly hang around our door when we’re pottering about at home. See, even to have given them names is to almost lose the battle, I know. It’s White Sock who’s dozing on the steps up to our upper garden in the photo at the top of this post. It’s also him staring in through the mozzie screen of my office while I write upstairs in the first shot below. There’s cunning old Ginge in the second shot below, scoffing a little food that we, in a moment of weakness, put out for him…

Here’s Groucho, the crafty little…

I don’t have a photo of Woebegone, so-named because he always looks like he has the cares of the world on his shoulders. Don’t let anyone tell you that cats can’t show feelings in their facial expression. Woebegone has a way of looking at you that says, “Poor me. No one loves me and the other male cats always pick on little old me.” It’s true, I tell you.

So, here’s the situation at present as I see it. Those puddytats mentioned above by name we do occasionally put food out for. What we are determined not to do though, is to feed them daily. That would be the beginning of enslavement, and we’re not prepared for that. Plus, we shall be going to the UK in September, and we don’t want them to suffer on account of our absence. It takes nerves of steel, I can tell you, not to rush to the cupboard and pour some cat food into a dish when Ginge is meowing at the front door, but it’s for his own good. Once you learn to be firm, you soon notice too that the cats don’t starve. None of them turns up looking emaciated, so they do OK. They’re first of all feral cats and must be allowed to remain so.

Dammit, Ginge even wants to be smoothed now. Courage, John, courage!!

•

Click HERE to go to my Amazon Author Page. There you can browse all of my written works.

You know, I’ve read so many ill-informed comments from people on social media about the awfully sad death of Dr. Michael Mosley on Symi, that I decided to express my view in a simple blog post. These two questions have annoyed me somewhat:

“How could his wife have let him go off on a walk like that?” 

“How could someone get lost on such a small island?”

The sad fact is that, no matter how well-informed someone may be, they’re not always ready for the realities of walking in the midday sun when the temperatures are in the upper thirties, maybe forty C. 

The only reason I feel qualified to talk about this particular tragedy is the fact that, apart from anyone who actually lives on Symi, I probably know as much about the terrain where the good doctor went walking as does anyone. My wife and I not only spent a number of 3-week holidays on the island before ever we moved to Rhodes in 2005, but for ten years I was an excursion escort on Rhodes, taking guests to Symi sometimes twice a week for much of that time. We also spent a couple of short breaks there during November while living on Rhodes.

We’ve spent many happy hours on Ag. Nikolaos beach from where Doctor Mosley set out, and the coastal walk from Pedi to that beach is tricky, but well trodden and, as long as you watch where you’re putting your feet, you can manage it without incident. Setting out from Pedi along the coast Eastward, you simply follow a series of red paint dots which are to be found on various rocks along the way. The last fifty metres is a steep downward climb to the beach itself, and thus when you’re returning to Pedi, you start out climbing upward until it levels out somewhat. 

There are various theories about what Dr. Mosley did once he’d reached the North end of Pedi beach, and the roads at that end of the bay can confuse a walker. It’s very easy to be disoriented when it comes to which way is North for example. I’ve stood at that spot many times and, when we first went there, thought that a quick trek over the mountain at the far end of that side of the bay would in all probability bring us down in no time to Symi’s main town and harbour. In fact, the size of the peninsula at the far end of which sits the rather remote tiny resort of Agia Marina is very deceiving. Plus, the terrain there is like another planet, as it’s virtually totally devoid of vegetation, and thus affords no shade, and it’s very uneven and rocky underfoot. It’s what I’d call ankle-twisting, or even ankle-breaking territory. It’s not the kind of landscape that anyone should attempt to traverse alone, or at the very least without a mobile phone. 

Yvonne and I once actually made the very walk that brought about Dr. Mosley’s death, although there were two of us, and we didn’t attempt it at the hottest part of the day. We did, however, make it to Agia Marina, which, although pleasant enough, didn’t leave us wanting to make another visit. It’s surrounded by the most barren hillsides you can imagine, and the best way to get there is by sea. To make that walk you need at least a litre of water each, plus it would be a good idea to carry a few energy bars too. A high factor sun cream all over any exposed skin is a must, as is a hat. At least Michael had an umbrella with him, so that was a help.

Of course I’m in no position to draw definite conclusions, but on studying all the reports and seeing the videos on the TV news, my firm belief is that he thought he was making a shortcut back to his accommodation in Symi Harbour. He’d left the beach telling his wife that he didn’t feel so well, probably a touch of sunstroke I’d imagine anyway, since they’d already walked out to the beach earlier in the day. If he’d gone left instead of right at the North end of Pedi bay, he’d have made the climb on an asphalt road into Chorio, the village that sits in the shallow valley high above Symi Harbour and affords views both down to Pedi and to the harbour, if you know where to go and stand. From Chorio it would have been a simple, if slightly arduous descent down the Kali Strata, and he’d have got back to his accommodation safely.

Once he’d committed himself to attempting to climb the mountain between Pedi and Agia Marina, he probably reached the point where he felt he had no choice but to press on, even though the landscape before him probably didn’t turn out to be what he’d expected to see. When we did the walk, we knew we were heading for Agia Marina, but I theorise that once he caught sight of the place, he thought that his best bet was to head there and ask for assistance, probably a boat, to get back to the harbour. If you take a look at some of these screenshots I’ve taken, courtesy of Google Earth Pro, you can see just how large the peninsula is that separates Pedi from the bay to the East of Symi Harbour. Also, it’s obvious that, once he’d set out to climb that hill, he was going in the opposite direction to the one he wanted, but without knowing it.

How people can ask questions like, “How could his wife have let him go off on a walk like that?” It’s beyond me. He was a grown man, a sensible and very fit man, by and large. He would have given his wife no reason to assume that he couldn’t have made it back to their accommodation, surely. There’s even a bus (used to be a 15 seater, not sure if it is these days) that goes between the two bays regularly.

As for the other question, “How could someone get lost on such a small island?” – Once again, to ask such a question is to misunderstand the meaning of the word ‘small.’ Looking at the screenshots I’ve posted here (see below), one can easily see that a walk on such a headland is going to be gruelling to say the least. Symi may be a ‘small’ island in comparison to other islands, but how long does a walk need to be in 38-41ºC when one probably doesn’t have enough water or food to embark upon it to begin with? The pathways on that peninsula are rough to say the least, and you do encounter a few stone walls that need to be either crossed, or negotiated around.

Below: The second photo shows the location of Chorio, with the Symi waterfront just visible to the far left. Agia Marina (where he was found) is that tiny bay at the far right end of the peninsula, where there is also a small island off shore. The last shot below gives an indication of the extreme barrenness of the terrain he would have been walking across.

There, that’s what I think. I believe that the good doctor was a victim of a mistaken sense of direction, that’s all. Sadly, he lost his strength just metres short of his goal and, had he not collapsed behind a wall, would have soon been spotted by people within the boundary of the Agia Marina resort and assistance would have surely been rendered. Circumstances conspired against him. It’s desperately sad, and one cannot but ache for his wife and family, not to mention all those who’ve enjoyed and benefited from his informative and entertaining TV presentations in recent years.

Below: Setting out from the far end of Pedi Bay (opposite side to the Ag. Nikolaos path) –

Don’t please, either, believe people who spout on social media about how this affects Symi’s reputation as a place to visit. Talk about irresponsible and ill-informed. I read some bloke’s comment on Facebook, something like, “Symi’s not so nice a place to go now then, is it?” That’s balderdash, pure and simple. Lots of people have met their deaths or been seriously injured in remote places in the UK, leave alone a beautiful Greek island. It’s nothing to do with Symi or its terrain, but everything to do with a few unfortunate circumstances catching up with the unwitting victim.

I doubt that she’ll ever read this, but I wish to extend my deepest sympathies to Dr. Claire Bailey Mosley, Dr. Michael’s loving wife, and indeed to their children. I, like many others, have enjoyed immensely her husband’s TV shows over the years, and the fact that he cared deeply about people and their health always shone through.

•

Click HERE to go to my Amazon Author Page. There you can browse all of my written works.

June has come in with a bang. We’re being hit with a heatwave that is bringing us August temperature in the first week of June. As I type this the shutters are all closed and we’re only venturing outside when absolutely necessary. I hope it’s not a harbinger of the entire summer before us. The thermometer in the shade on the veranda reads 40ºC and, since there’s virtually no wind, it feels like you’re stepping into the oven when you go out the front door. I can only imagine with a large degree of horror what those people in India must be going through right now, where the reports are that temperatures are nearer to 50ºC than they are to 40.

Since we’re not even taking our iced coffees out on the terrace at the moment, any social intercourse with our neighbours is currently severely limited. Mind you, we always know that Evangelia, who’s (I’m sure I’ve mentioned this before) nearer to 90 than she is to 80 these days, is OK. See, she has a very distinctive sneeze. When we first heard it a few years ago we thought that it was either some species of bird that we weren’t familiar with, or maybe a small child being chastised in a corporal manner by its parent. Most days she sneezes at least once or twice and, if we don’t have any radio or music playing, we hear it over here. When it happens we look at each other with a knowing glance and without words communicate the fact that she’s OK, she’s ‘about’ as it were. Only a few days ago, when we actually had a slight breeze and the heatwave hadn’t yet hit us, she’d reminded us that we would always be welcome to go over to her house for a Greek coffee at around 5.00pm any day. Her daily programme never changes, and ours doesn’t a great deal either. The only problem is, we usually sleep from around 4.00pm until 5.30, or even later, and she goes for her siesta at 12 midday. She’s up and about again while we’re sipping our Earl Grey after lunch and thinking about going to bed.

Still, one day it’ll all come together. We’d like to sit with her again, since its been probably a couple of years since the last time, and whenever we’re in the lower garden, just across the steep lane from her tiny alleyway, she tends to have the knack of appearing in order to exchange a few neighbourly words.

I was trudging around Dingly Dell the other day, since I’d failed to drop off to sleep during the afternoon, and I came across one of the local goat herds. You don’t have to see them to know that they’re in the vicinity, because the clanging of their bells (I wonder if they ever get driven mad by those things hanging permanently around their necks) signals that they’re approaching, or that you’re approaching them. On this particular occasion, as they came into view, I also heard the telltale sound of the goatherd whistling and calling to them, usually to get them to go in a specific direction. I stopped in order to ascertain where the goatherd was, because, if he wanted the goats to pass anywhere near my position, I might well have proven to be a nuisance. Goats here will generally avoid any humans with whom they’re not familiar, and so, if I come into their field of vision, they’ll change direction so as not to allow me to get within about ten metres of them. I stood stock still as a couple of goats emerged from the undergrowth onto the lane a little way ahead of me, and scanning the hillside I could see the goatherd a couple of hundred metres across the valley.

I decided to retrace my steps a couple of hundred metres or so, so as to not impede the goatherd’s work. Within minutes the bells had receded to a distant tinkle and the sound of a moped could be heard approaching along the very uneven and occasionally steep path that I was following. Soon, rounding the corner in front of me came the Honda 90 in question, and riding it was none other than Manolis, our new village mayor. On seeing me he skidded to a halt in order to exchange a few neighbourly words, but I couldn’t help noticing that both of his hands were heavily bandaged up, with only the tips of his fingers showing. After both of us had discerned that the other was OK, I couldn’t help but point to his hands and ask what had happened to them.

“Oh, nothing,” he told me.

“Nothing?” I replied.

“Well, I had a little accident with some revma.”

Now, in case you’re not familiar with the Greek word ‘revma‘ it literally means ‘flow,’ but is invariably a reference to mains electricity. The voltage here in Greece is similar to that in the UK, it’s about 220v, whereas in the UK it’s 240. It’s so similar that, as long as you have the correct adapter, any device bought in the UK will work just fine over here, and vice versa. If we have a power cut, or – to use the current in vogue expression – outage (See my dystopian short story of the same name, which I rather neatly chose to call ‘Outage.’ Oh yes, I know how to keep in with the trendy youth), people will simply say, “We’ve lost revma.” or “We don’t have any revma.”

So, for Manolis to dismiss the cause of his injuries as ‘nothing’ was to minimise the fact that he’d evidently been tinkering around with some mains electricity and gone and got his hands burnt in the process. Ouch. I asked him if it still hurt, and received a vigorous nod of the head to affirm that it did. The nod was accompanied by a knowing smile too, bless him. Now, my Dad (and here’s another pretext for using the term ‘bless him‘) had been an electrical engineer and knew all too well about the dangers of fiddling around with live cables and fuse boxes and the like. So, armed with the knowledge that my Dad had imparted to me when I was a lad, I knew what could well have happened in Manoli’s case. Judging by the bandages (which he still sports a week or so later) he had a close brush with death, to be honest.

Nevertheless, he restarted the machine, shrugged his shoulders as if to say, ‘I’ve experienced worse,’ gave me a wave and was off down the track in a cloud of yellow dust. They’re a tough breed these Greek villagers.

Just before I post some recent photos of the garden and village, I am so excited to report that we’ve now had two sightings of barn owls within fifty metres or so of the house this past week or so. Barn owls are unmistakable, as they look almost completely white and somewhat ghostly from underneath while flying and they also don’t make a sound. They fly ‘silent,’ which is one way in which they can catch their prey unprepared. One was perched on an electricity post and took off as we got near to it while doing one of our hikes around the village on a sleepless night during the small hours. The other was sitting on the veranda wall of our neighbour’s house, surveying the olive grove below, and took off as I came within a few metres of it, not actually aware of its presence until it took flight. We hear Scops Owls every night here these days, but they tend to nest in tree cavities, of which there’s an abundant supply on these olive tree clad slopes. Barn owls have the propensity to make use of derelict structures too, and will prefer an open window or roof space on a disused building more often than not. This was why we never saw them in the valley where we used to live on Rhodes, even though we’d often seen them in and around nearby villages.

Here in the village there is an abundant supply of disused buildings, which is sad in one way, but rather fortuitous when it comes to barn owls. It’s not very likely that I’ll ever get the chance to photograph one, but if I do, it’ll sure as eggs is eggs get posted on the blog here. Here are some photos. Mainly the garden, but also in the village…

•

Click HERE to go to my Amazon Author Page. There you can browse all of my written works.