Continuing the squiggly bits

Of course, what goes up must also come down, and the descent beckoned. Not quite as steep, this dropped a small way before climbing the back of another ridge, to a town called Spartillas. This is a larger village, similarly clinging to the edge of the ridge, and looking south east over the coast towards Kirkyra town. The views are spectacular, a fact which has prompted the local property developing fraternity to turn out in force. Descending from Spartillas is a broad, well surfaced, recently improved roller coaster, much grander in sweep and scale than the scrabble up to Sokraki, but no less fun to drive, if somewhat easier. And between each turn, a new block of apartments is being built, each offering a slight variation on the ‘Luxury/Sea View/Apartments’ recipe.

At the bottom, we turned north, hoping to find Gerald Durrel’s one-time residence, The White House, where he lived and wrote several of his most famous books. This is in Koulami, so the guidebooks assured us, and so to Koulami we went. There is a very pretty (closed) taverna located on the harbourside, a quintessentially tranquil spot. But only one road in, and no opportunity to turn round, so our only escape in the face of a parked delivery van was to retrace our own wheeltracks halfway back up the hill. No sign of Gerald, though.

Having escaped Koulami, and with the smell of fried clutch receding, we turned instead to the neighbouring bay of Kalami. And almost immediately reached The White House. You believe everything you read, too? There it was, and to rent as well. Must come back and pen my masterpiece. Carried on through Kalami as we had seen a sign pointing to it earlier on the main road, and presumed that forward was simpler than reverse. O sweet naivetie!

The rain, which had accompanied us from Spartillas, had increased in intensity with every meter descended, and was now torrential. Our road went from smooth and paved to gravel track. Then concrete, with lateral ridges inscribed to aid traction on the steep sections. Onwards and upwards our game little Fiat pulled, somehow finding purchase where there was none, spinning first one wheel then the other, but always somehow forwards, upwards, onwards. This was at the limit of my driving experience and comfort, but more by good luck than good judgment, we finally emerged at the main road south, at Agni. South again, to Kirkyra, in search of internet, laundry and lunch. The rain got heavier.

Splashed south through the deluge to Kirkyra town without finding any of our three objectives, and so did a quick 27 point turn across the traffic and headed back to Paleo. Nothing on the way, not a fruit and veg stall, not a traditional woodfired bakery, not a free taste of Kum Quat, could prise us from the warmth of our car.

Home, lunch, and warmth, pausing only to admire the rollers breaking turquoise over the harbour wall. Quite a swell sight.

Rules of the road?

There are two different failures in driving on the roads in Dubai, one with an obvious solution, one not.

The first group of awful drivers are the product of the Driving Instruction system here - pupils are required to take a lengthy and expensive series of 'lessons', yet many of the worst offenders appear to be the instructors themselves. Next time you come across a school car without a pupil in it, observe the driving. Do they use mirrors? Indicators? The correct lane? Do they anticipate and accommodate other road users, do they demonstrate courtesy and consideration behind the wheel? Or are they teaching their poor, vulnerable, gullible pupils all the worst habits that we daily encounter on the roads of this city?

The solution seems obvious - in order to have better drivers, we need better instructors. Properly trained, equipped, licensed and remunerated, obviously. But we also need a common, agreed and understood set of rules for them to teach, a combination of courtesy, roadcraft and legislation, designed to ensure safe, smooth and efficient passage for all road users around this city. The UK Highway Code would be a good place to start, but there must be other equivalent systems, perhaps better and more appropriate to this region, which we could adopt as a standard. Any suggestions?

The other group are more difficult, those who know what the rules are, but ignore them anyway. Here I include especially all the hard shoulder queue jumpers, the lane bargers, the light flashers and crazy speeders whose lives are so much more valuable and important than ours, whose right to be at the head of the queue outweighs any other drivers need or right to travel on the same road. Here I think a solution is not more cameras and radars (useful though these might be), but more active policing of the known trouble spots. Nothing would be more effective than the embarrasment and inconvenience of a roadside booking, of being caught and made to publicly suffer the consequences of their inconsideration. I have seen it in action on roads around the Greens, but sadly not often enough. The deterrent effect seems to last only a few days, and the perpetrators go straight back to their old habits. More, please.

Dubai - my way or the highway?

An interesting spat in the Gulf News this morning, between the Police and the RTA, regarding the imposition of a minimum speed limit of 60kph on certain roads. On this, I side with the police.

The RTA's declared intention is to reduce accidents, but whilst their motives are worthy, their reasoning is not. Far better to educate drivers, and specifically those idiots who insist on travelling at a slower rate than the surrounding traffic in a fast lane. Inevitably, they get passed on the 'inside', in an empty but theoretically 'slower' lane to the right. In the UK, there is a rule requiring drivers to move to the lane nearest the edge of the road that is available to them - if that is full, then they can travel in the next lane, and so on. The lane adjacent to the centre of the road is supposed to be for passing only, though in practice this often gets filled with cars, and the 'slower' lanes are left empty, causing the same frustration as we experience here.

The American solution is different - drivers may pass a slower moving vehicle on either side, provided the road is clear to do so. This has the effect of freeing up the traffic, and aslo necessitates much more active use of mirrors and indicators. Though in theory this is the more dangerous of the two systems, in my limited experience it makes for much smoother progress in traffic. Relative differences in speed tend to be fairly small, and most drivers are very clear about signalling their intentions.

Perhaps the ideal solution is a combination of the two - a clear understanding communicated to all road users about lane discipline, and a rule that requires them to move to the right-most empty lane as soon as there is space to do so. Couple that with a campaign to promote the use of indicators, and visible, active policing of the new rules, and we might actually make some progress.

On the Menu...

Cockerel Pastitsada and Rabbit Stifado

I love it when resolutely touristy establishments have the courage or the passion to serve truly local food, regional specialities that concede nothing to the global march to monoculture and bland international acceptability.

Smurf’s Taverna, down on the beach in the last bay in Paleocastritsa, is one such. Page One on his menu, front and centre, are Corfiot specialities. And they did not disappoint. My Rooster Pastitsada was a venerable old bird indeed, endowed with large bones, sinewy muscles and real flavour. This was spiked and sweetened with cloves and cooked for ever in a rich tomatoey stew before being served simply with some buttered pasta.


Better Half’s Rabbit Stifado was equally unctuous, saddle and leg braised with sweet button onions and flavoured with both tarragon and fennel. Not sure if the accompanying chips were historically accurate, but they tasted good anyway and who’s going to turn down a chip or two?

Washed down with a bottle of Mythos beer, this made for a leisurely and thoroughly satisfying long lunch. And admit it, when was the last time you even saw the word ‘rabbit’ written on a menu?

The Squiggly Bits

Today, we went looking for the squiggly bits. Kirkyra is a mountainous island, the northern end forming a roughly conical shape with steep cliffs on its Eastern and Western coasts, with a more gentle slope to the North. Between lie a series of mountain ridges and steep sided valleys; where progress along their length is reasonable, travel across their width near impossible.

The main road describes a rough circle around perimeter of this northern end, with only one major route directly north/south, from Roda on the north coast back through Skripero and Tzavros back to Kirkyra town itself. To reach any of the many popular beaches and resorts, you must branch off this major circuit, and descend the steep sides of the cone. Some of these roads are spectacular and challenging in all but the most agile car. Goodness alone knows how they get the tourist buses down…

However, it is in he interior where the real fun is to be found. In less peaceful times, villages were almost always built at the top of cliffs and ridges rather than at the bottom, for protection against the ravages of marauding pirates or other unsavoury characters. Height afforded excellent vision, tiring access and easy flight down the other side. To this day, many of Greece’s prettiest villages owe their remarkable preservation to this simple fact, and still cling to their precipitous eiries. No car will ever navigate those narrow lanes and steps.

(Coastal villages adopted a different defence, building their streets in narrow and deliberately confusing layouts to make life difficult for anyone but a resident of the town. You only have to wander around present day Mykonos to judge how effective a strategy that could be.)

So, the original footpath along the crown of the ridge has become the main road through each village, but you can’t move the houses back. As a result, these main streets are often little wider than a car, and leave no room for such niceties as pavements or pedestrian access. Rather, it is the car that is the alien, and walking, donkey or moped the norm. As a small concession to modernity, access to many of these villages is now traffic light controlled, allowing a sort of tidal flow, with passage in one direction only at a time.

The particular squiggly bit we were seeking is the climb from the main Skripero/Kiryaki road to Ano and then Sokraki. On our small tourist map it resembles the sort of line an anatomy teacher might use to describe your small intestine, convoluted in the extreme. However, our map lacks any form of contour, so we have no way to judge the height or severity of the climb, only the cartographer’s contortions to serve as our guide.

Up we went. To say that I am increasingly impressed with our little Fiat is a considerable understatement – small tin box though it is, it has also coped with every single challenge we have thrown at it (thrown it at?). And this was a doozy. I lost count of how many 180-degree hairpins we scrabbled round, because there wasn’t enough time before reaching the next. Probably thirty or more. Each with what seemed like less than 50 yards from one corner to the next. We were rarely out of first gear, occasionally in second, and never third. At times, we could see the apparent track of the road as a line through the trees impossibly far above our heads, only to find ourselves gazing slack-jawed back down from that very terrace a few minutes later. Back and forth we zigged and zagged, the weather growing wetter and windier with every meter we climbed. And then, right at the top, a village. Cold, bleak, but in summer blessed with uniquely impressive views and welcome coolness.

Slow life in the fast lane

Every day it happens. Travelling along Sheikh Zayed Road, you come across a knot in the traffic, everyone bunched up together and swerving round something.

That something can be any size and shape, but they all have one common denominator - driving significantly more slowly than the surrounding traffic, yet refusing to move to a slower lane on the right. ffs, why?!

Ignorance. Arrogance. Stupidity. Or a combination of all three.

Such behaviour is inexcusable. If you want to drive slowly, drive in a slow lane. That way, people who want to drive at the available speed limit will be able to do so unimpeded.

But no. These middle lane numpties bimble along in blissful ignorance, chatting away on the phone, picking their teeth or catching up with the day's news, all the while oblivious to the chaos they cause.

Hanging's too good for 'em...

Carciofi corfiot

Whilst driving around our corner of the island, we had noticed a number of small vegetable plots fenced around with what looked like cardoons, or possibly thistles. Of course, turned out to be much more interesting – artichokes, the first of this year’s crop, tender and fresh and bursting with flavour. We found some in the supermarket cum pub in the centre of Doukades (turn right, coffee and a stiffener, turn left, coffee and fabric softener). The shopkeeper proudly told us they came from her garden that very morning, so artichokes it was.

Buttered Artichokes ‘Villa Nola’

Fresh artichokes, at least one per person
Lemons
Butter (lots!)
Salt, pepper, bread

If you’re lucky, your artichokes still have a length of stem attached. This is precious! Trim the stalk a couple of inches below the globe. Pluck a few of the toughest outer leaves from the globe, but don’t go daft – if they’re as fresh as ours, almost everything is edible. Quickly peel the stalk, then split the artichoke in half from stalk to top. Drop both halves in water acidulated with the juice of a lemon, then fish one back out and remove the choke with a teaspoon. Do this carefully – you should be able to get all the furry seeds out without wasting any of the precious flower. Once cleaned, drop it back in the water. Do the same with all your artichoke halves.

If you have that precious stem, peel it and cut into bite-size chunks.

To cook, simply poach everything in a generous pan of boiling salted water to which you have added the juice of another lemon. Young artichokes will be ready in ten minutes, older specimens may take a further ten.

Melt too much butter in a small pan, and warm some rustic local bread.

To serve, drain your artichokes and arrange cut side up on a big plate.
Fill each one with melted butter, grind some pepper over, and let your guests dig in. Provide even more melted butter, and bread for every last precious drop of juice. The stalks are sweeter and have a flavour all their own.

Red wine works surprisingly well, something rich and spicy.

Morning all!

Paleo this morning is a town awaking from hibernation. Though many of the supermarkets are still resolutely shut (despite hopeful signs proclaiming the opposite), the tavernas are beginning to show signs of life. Owners are outside, sweeping away the detritus of winter, washing terraces and tables clean of the accumulated dust. Builders’ merchants are thriving places, and everywhere are signs of construction, renewal, enhancement. The scent of burning olivewood punctuates our drive through the village, as various owners clear their terraces of last year’s leaves. Everyone seems to be wearing overalls, or rubber gloves, or carrying a paintbrush. The sound of saws and drills competes with the clatter of cement mixers and the buzz of a myriad mopeds, each carrying some vital missed component or supplies for the crew. There is a tangible sense of renewal and expectation in the air, as Easter approaches and with it, the promise of visitors and business and profit. Residents here have six months to create a year’s revenue.

Last night saw an unusual nocturnal visitor to our little terrace. Long after the sun had set, I noticed a small, pulsing light on the outside of one of the panes in our door. Too strong to be missed, this flash was repeated at intervals of a few seconds. Having never been so close to a firefly before, I was intrigued, and watched it from behind the glass for several minutes. Switching off the internal light magnified its apparent brightness - these miniature flashes were astonishingly bright, LED-like in their intensity. Later, our luminous visitor flew off, first down the length of our path, and then back along the lower terrace, all the time flashing his beacon and describing a convoluted path through the air, like the spark from a welder’s torch as it dances across the floor. Sadly, there was but one such exhibitionist last night, but I will wait and hope for more.

Traffic and construction

Dubai’s inestimable Roads and Transport Authority is this morning reported to have launched a new initiative where residents may report problem hotspots for attention and action. The number to call is 8009090, and I imagine it will be well used, though I am less optimistic that the information given will be acted upon. Nevertheless, it is a commendable start.

I have a number of suggestions, and judging by the volume of traffic stationary in the jam beside me this morning, an equal number of similarly frustrated fellow drivers. Those of you who live in the Greens/Lakes/Springs/Meadows area, and who have reason to travel Dubai-wards on Shk Zayed Road, will certainly appreciate the first..

1) Sort out the chaos at the Greens, Al Barsha and Shk Zayed Road access. Every morning, there is a long, near stationary queue as every single vehicle from this large residential district tries to join the highway. All of them, no matter which exit from the various neighbourhoods, has to pass through a series of artificially narrowed pinch points in order to do so. The first is the uncontrolled and undefined junction between the Greens, the access road, and the new exit ramp from what might be called Al Barsha 2, the large residential development of high-rise accommodation blocks facing the Greens. Three into one is forced to go.

2) At the end of this first crawl, you are faced with the challenge of joining a slip road towards Shk Zayed Road, which carries every single vehicle leaving The Lakes by its Junction 5 exit, everything from Emaar Business Park and all the construction traffic from the Jumeirah Lakes Towers development opposite the Marina. Two into one must go.

3) Now these two streams of traffic must merge and pass through a small, single carriageway kink past ‘Al Barsha Station’. I find it barely credible that anyone with an ounce of traffic management experience could have possibly sanctioned this arrangement, but the location of the piers for the station makes it look worryingly permanent…

4) Pass this hurdle, and you straight into the back of the next. All of the traffic traveling from Al Khail Road has now joined the fray, and four lanes become three, then two, then one again before making the dash into the fast-flowing game of dodgems that is Shk Zayed Road at 8.00am in the morning. Here there is stationed a policeman, but his presence serves only to unsettle the already harried and aggressive drivers who have finally reached this point, and who are bent only on flooring their throttle and getting the hell outta there. More chaos. Four into one.

Overall, a total of 9 different streams of traffic converge on this single, awkward access, and the ensuing frustration and delay is as awful as it was predictable. Two things need to be done immediately – the route needs to be dualled throughout. And there need to be many more points of access to Shk Zayed Road – a further 8 would be ideal.

Long term, there must be a combination of education, enforcement and incentive, but that is the subject for another post.

Thoughts on views

Later, taking coffee in a pastitseria high on the bluff, we gazed down the length of the island, a splendid vista ranging from the mountains of Albania to the East to the southern mainland of Italy low on the western horizon. From such a vantage point I was moved to wonder to what extent the landscape before us was naturally afforested, and to what extent man-made. There are some 4 million olive trees on this island, so I presume that the landscape is indeed very much the creation of its occupants and owners. Though it is hard to discern a single road among the trees, their overall colour is a uniform blue-green, and in places there shows a regularity of placing that is too specific to be natural. Though this landscape may be man-made, it is also very ancient, changing little with each generation, save to accommodate the needs of each as they succeed the last, the occasional radio mast standing proud of the trees, or hotel occupying a cliff where once only trees and goats had a foothold.

Likewise, the architecture of the villages. Certainly, most of it predates the motor car. Streets are narrow, cobbled, wide enough to allow the passage of a couple of laden donkeys. Steeply pitched roofs with terracotta pantiles testify to the nature of the climate, and shutters both protect windows from winter storms and allow shady circulation of air in the stifling summer. Overlaying all of this diminutive charm is a modern intrusion – cables. Power lines, phone cables, wires of every conceivable nature and purpose are strung willy nilly through this townscape, across lanes, up walls and down poles, in a pragmatic but unsightly chase for the comforts of technology. Surely, the must be a more aesthetically pleasing solution than this? Or is it simply that a built landscape I find fascinating, historic, quaint and often beautiful, is for its residents simply old, cramped, awkward and unimportant?

Paradise and lunch

George duly arrived, and off we went. Our destination turns out to be a sort of general store attached to the local petrol station, but the cheerful young man behind the counter is polite and friendly. We stocked up on essentials, sampled local olives and feta, bought expensive gin and cheap wine, some basic veg and essential tea bags, and suitably provisioned, headed for home. About halfway back, George stopped the car to talk to a driver going in the other direction. “This is Spiros, he give you car”. Spiros, it transpired, had come to the villa to deliver the very car he was driving, and found us out. So, it was arranged he would return in another half hour or so, and we would sort out the paperwork then. Several hours later, suitably breakfasted, we hear the sound of approaching wheels. Spiros returns.

He explained that the intervening time had been entirely spent on cleaning the car, which his son had been driving through the winter. On later, closer inspection, one has to wonder what the ‘before’ state was…

However, I went back down with Spiros to his office and car rental shop (roughly half way back to the petrol station supermarket), to do the bureaucratic bit and sign the paperwork. Handed over enough money to secure the use of something comfortable, entertaining and impressive. In return was given the keys to a Fiat Seicento, a car which redefines basic. And small. Though on later reflection, it is actually a very sound choice of car for the roads and terrain around which we will be driving, can’t help feeling that its diminutive stature wasn’t matched by a diminutive rental…



Still, it seems willing, and is certainly capable of climbing the vertiginous roads commonplace in Paleo and surroundings. Our first afternoon’s meanderings took us up to several of the local villages. Doukades is a pretty little inland village, home of Elizabeth’s Taverna (which George the Taxi Driver describes as ‘very dodgy now, was good, but now…’ Instead, he recommends Thuka (directly opposite), apparently only a taverna for the past two seasons. Will sample it later. We continued in a rough figure of eight, came almost back to Paleo but instead turned uphill to Lakones. This clings by its toenails to the edge of the bluff above Paleo, and is reached by the sort of road movie directors dream of. It writhes up the hill in a series of switchback hairpins, highly entertaining to look at but a tough task in our little buzzbox. Who needs power steering anyway…

To the top, through Lakones, and on to Makrades, described in our guides as a great place to buy local olive oil and wine. If only it was open…

However, we did get to the ruined Venetian fortress of Angelokastro, and mighty impressive it is too. Perched high on a promontory, it stares out to Italy in the distance, and would be terrifyingly difficult to attack. The sides drop clear away to the sea a thousand feet below, and the only access is a narrow, fortified path to the single entrance gate. We would have explored further, but due to some boring bit of EU bureaucracy concerning health and safety and the possibility of some careless tourist damaging themselves in the process of visiting a fragile, chaotic ruin that pre-dates health and safety legislation by, oh, at least several millennia, this, too, was closed.

By way of recompense, Makrades was now open instead. On opposing sides of the road stand an olive wood craft shop, and an olive oil and honey tourist trap. The woodcarvings were really rather good, with intricate, well-executed detail and sinuous forms carved into some truly sensuous wood – trees that have stood for three or more centuries offer a gloriously rich patina and depth of colour to their grain. The wood itself feels warm, silky, smooth. And though the animals represented are fairly predictable, I strongly suspect there is an olive-weed souvenir in my future…

Across the road is the oil stall. Here you can taste the fruits of these venerable trees, in extra-virgin oils typically Greek in their colour of deep amber gold. Helping to further loosen the tourists’ dollar were a series of local wines, to be sampled free of charge, and a liqueur distilled from kumquats called, imaginatively, Kum Quat. Kum Quat may be popular among the coach parties and thirsty backpackers, but to me it tasted disturbingly like the sorts of medicine more often administered to cure colds. Each to their own. The stallholder very graciously gave us a bottle of local ‘muskat’ wine to accompany our small purchase of oil, saying that we were her first of the season, so we left Makrades with fond memories and promises to return. Which we will honour, I’m sure.

Kirkyra nights 1 - Cor food

Artichokes. Rabbit. Very old cockerel. The food here has been nothing if not varied.

The fact that we are staying in a completely self-catering villa, and that all of the local tavernas are still being sprung clean from the ravages of winter, is something of a double-edged sword. Though in truth, the challenge presented is one I enjoy probably above all others. Except driving fast cars. And the other thing, of course…

Back to cooking. Following our raid on the the local petrol station, we now have some basic supplies. The challenge tonight is to turn them into something approaching a palatable supper. Better Half had been exploring, came back armed with bunches of wild sage, rosemary and fennel. The fridge yielded up onions, a pepper or two, and a hand of local sausages. This sounded like a plan.

[b]Kirkyrian Sausage Stifado with wild herbs and pasta[/b]

Sausages – as many and as coarse/chunky as you can find
Onion – one large or two small
Peppers – ripe or unripe, but definitely local and misshapen
Tomato – big, fat, ripe, juicy ones straight from the vine
Herbs – whatever is available growing in the local hedgerow. Or packet.
Red wine – the chewier the better
Olive oil – extra virgin from the roadside stall in Makrades. Or Spinney's own.
Butter, salt, pepper

Pasta – anything designed to hold a sauce, as rustic as possible.
Cheese – whatever local, hard, sheeps cheese can substitute for parmesan

Saucepan with lid, or casserole that you can use on the top of the stove.


Chop the onion into largish chunks and soften in a pan with a nob of butter and a glug of oil. Slice and deseed the pepper or peppers, and add to the onion. Slice the sausages into bite-size chunks, and add to the same pan. Try to ensure they get a bit browned, but you don’t need to cook them through, just colour. Chop and deseed the tomato, and add to the same pan. (Counsel of perfection - when deseeding the tomatoes, strain and reserve all the juices. These can be used to enhance the flavour of the stock.) Chop the stalks of your herbs, and add at this stage. I had sage, rosemary and fennel, and used roughly 2:1:1.

Keep some sage and fennel leaves for later.

Once everything in the pan is softened and beginning to colour, add a very generous amount of red wine (this is your stock) and bring to a gentle boil. Now cover and reduce to a bare simmer, or place in a lowish oven. Let it cook absolutely undisturbed for an hour while you sample the local wine, olives, feta, vine leaves and local wine.
After an hour, check your stifado, and adjust the seasoning if necessary (the sausages will have added plenty already) If it is cooked, turn of the heat and let it rest while you cook the pasta. If you can’t read the packet, go for 9 minutes in plenty of boiling salted water and test to see if it’s reached the the texture you like.

If you’re being posh, drain the pasta, toss with a little butter and olive oil, some shredded sage leaves and freshly ground black pepper. Spoon the sausage stifado on top, and garnish with more fresh herbs.

Otherwise, chuck the pasta in the same pan as the sausages, stir it all together and serve from the pot. More fresh herbs are good. Ply your fellow diners withlots more of the local red.

Kirkyra, Kirkyra, for a very unorthodox Easter.

George looked very fetching in knee-length leather boots and stiletto heels. And it helped if you knew that the Greek letter ‘L’ is an inverted capital ‘V’. Still, there was George, as promised, with his piece of paper, and the last leg of our journey was about to begin. Gave our spirits a nice little lift, after our other spirits had been officiously lifted by some jumped-up refusenik in security uniform at Athens airport.

(A word of warning – duty free liquids, properly purchased and receipted from Dubai Duty Free, unopened and in their original packaging, are not acceptable aboard internal EU flights. We were allowed to buy our entitlement, fly with it aboard Emirates, carry it through customs and security into Greece and the EU, but not then onwards within Greece. For that, you must a) buy your supplies after Boarding Card Control in any EU airport, and b) have your goods sealed inside a ‘tamper-proof’ plastic bag provided by the vendor. And don’t even think about losing your receipt for the purchase… Anyway, our carefully selected, venerably aged and much anticipated Duty Free was stopped at security, and the only way we could board our flight was without it. So while we were destined for a sober and early first night on holiday, some officious little upstart was no doubt destined to be getting very relaxed indeed on the spoils of his phyricc victory. Welcome to Greece, indeed.)

George turned out to be Maria, his wife, sent in his stead to collect us from Kirkyra (Corfu) airport. True to form, George’s steed was that quintessential Greek taxi, a Mercedes saloon, but not the regular million miles example. This was barely run in, and a very comfortable chariot it was to cross the island to our destination, Villa Nola in Paleokastritsa. Paleo, as it is known by aficionados, is an extended village, rambling around five little bays on the west coast of the island. Hugely popular in summer, it seems to consist of an endless parade of Supermarkets, Bike Hire shops, tavernas, rooms to let and more supermarkets. All of which are closed - we’re here ahead of the Easter weekend, and also ahead of the season.

In fact, this is probably a blessing. One can only imagine what the traffic must be like, especially with the endless procession of tour buses reputed to be visiting the monastery on the headland at the end of the village (we’ll see this later). Now, though, the roads are wonderfully quiet, the verges overflowing with flowers instead of parked cars, and the air blissfully free of drum’n’bass.

Still, George the Taxi Driver had got us here, even if the task was actually accomplished by sending his wife. A true Corfiiot, our George. After a series of rather garbled telephone conversations, we were able to communicate to George that we didn’t have any food, any form of phone facility, and nae swally! Not good for a couple of dedicated bon viveurs en vacances. Ever the trooper, he volunteered to come round on Sunday morning after I phoned him, and then take us to the only supermarket in about twenty miles that would actually be open that day. (And most other days, as we were to find out.) Ah but, how to phone? Had I a phone card? No. Then I must take his wife’s! And this is what we did, so the following morning I set off to explore. Vila Nola sits at the end of a precipitous road that barrels up, around and through the burgeoning olive groves that cloak every available inch of cultivable ground. And much that isn’t. There is however a shortcut, a footpath that descends the hill almost directly to the entrance of the Delphini Taverna, our should-be destination every evening for food and sustenance. Down this footpath, through olives, lemons, oranges and oleander, past derelict farms and sagging cottages, down more steps and then, much sooner than expected, out onto the main road. So it wasn’t really that far after all. Found a public phone, and after a certain amount of rattling of receivers and insertion of cards, actually persuaded it to work. I was probably the first person to have used it in six months… Confirmed that George was now healthy enough to drive himself, and that he had nothing better to do on his day of rest than show a couple of starving tourists where to buy their groceries. He was on his way.

I retraced my steps up the hill and steps, crushing olives underfoot with every pace. At one turn, there were a clump of cala lilies growing wild, so couldn’t resist taking one back for the better half to decorate her morning cuppa. For someone so much exposed to desert and heat, the amount of vegetation here is quite staggering. Everything is carpeted with a blanket of flowers and herbs, the trees are already heavy with olives, fallen lemons and oranges moulder beside the path. Before this holiday is out, I will have plucked a lemon fresh from the tree for my pre-prandial g’n’t.