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.
(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.
posted by EyeOnDubai at 1:57 am
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