Tag Archives: Greece

Those that Swim and Those that Don’t

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By the time we’re up and out and walking to the harbour in Agios Nikolaus the breeze has stiffened, raking the sea into choppy waves. It’s cooler. Knowing we’d be blown about on a ferry, we’ve packed fleece tops into our rucksacks but we’re still in shorts. We descend to the quayside and get our tickets at the booth, then follow others up and on to the boat, choosing seats on the middle deck, which has a roof but is open at the sides.

The boat is full, though not bursting at the seams and gets underway at the stated time of 12.30pm, reversing out of its berth and setting off out of harbour.

Once out of the shelter of the harbour it’s breezier still. We get intermittent snatches of commentary from a guide who is clearly as ‘end of season’ as everything else. He points out a few things along the coast- the ‘most expensive’ hotel and one or two of the islands. The woman opposite us hands out snacks to her two children and drapes them in towels to warm them up.

After about half an hour the boat pulls into a bay and shudders to a halt some metres from the shore. This is a stop for people to dive off the boat for a swim. Regular readers will know that swimming is not a favourite activity of mine and I’m only tempted into water if the outside temperature is so hot as to necessitate cooling. I’m even less inclined nowadays, since modifications to my physical self have occurred [but that is another story]. And by now, it’s cool- far too cool for cold water!

We descend to the lower deck, where a handful of braver souls are shedding their outer wear and plunging off the back [sorry- stern] of the boat with abandon, then swimming off into the lively waves. On this lower deck we can get coffee, which we do. Outside on the sea I watch as a flat cap bobs jauntily past, its confused owner patting his head to note its absence.

Coffee done and the swimmers return, clambering up the gangplank and dripping puddles on the deck. We return to our upstairs seats and the ferry resumes its travel towards Spinalonga and I succumb to an extra layer as by now the wind is cold, blowing across the decks and causing the boat to rock and roll. I’m grateful at this point for not suffering from sea-sickness- a condition I’ve only experienced twice [in spite of having made countless boat and ferry trips].

But I do want to get some photos, which means getting around to different points on the deck and this is tricky, involving hanging on to various fixed items with one hand while gripping my camera in the other. Yikes!

A little further and the tiny outcrop of rock that is Spinalonga Island comes into view. We almost circle it and then we’re pulling in towards a minute beach and the crew lower the gangplank- which rocks and slides, making disembarking a dodgy feat- although we manage better than some! We step off on to the shingle to wait for our alleged guide- now where can they be?

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Shore, Harbour and Lake

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Something we’re finding tricky here in Crete is finding a way to get around and see the sights without recourse to car hire or a tour. The long, long transfer from the airport has deterred us from booking a coach tour; we’re not willing to waste half a day visiting neighbouring hotels to pick others up. We’ve not seen one single, local bus on the roads around us, so it seems an island bus service may not exist…unless you, reader, know different? So we may need to accept that on this occasion we won’t get to see the Knossos etc.

One trip I would like to make, though, is to Spinalonga. Victoria Hislop wrote about this tiny outcrop in her 2007 novel, The Island.https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Island_(Hislop_novel). Spinalonga was the last leper colony in Europe and has a fascinating history. We don’t, however want to go on a pre-arranged trip.

But we have yet to see all that Agios Nikolaus has to offer, so we set off once more, this time to walk around the shore to the other side of town, past the tiny bay where we’d dined on a shared sea bream and along by the curving sea wall, There are few pockets of beach here, so hotels and guest houses have used their ingenuity to create beach-style areas from jetties and man-made platforms. Out to sea there are tiny islands which look uninhabited or have miniature churches crowning them.

Since the heatwave we experienced in the first days subsided, a breeze has set up, making it comfortable and perfect walking weather.

As we near the town harbour there’s a promontary bearing a marble and bronze statue of a bull and a maiden. This is the statue of Europa, overlooking the sea. But continuing round, the buildings thin out and the views become less interesting. There are a few beach bars here but we aren’t tempted by any of them and turn back towards town, deciding to turn in towards the harbour, where one leisure, tourist boat is moored and another is approaching. The side bears a large sign: Spinalonga! And I realise that all we need to do is walk here, to town and climb on a boat. Hooray!

There’s a small ticket booth on the quayside but we’re assured we won’t need to reserve tickets so late in the season. Result!

Across a small bridge there’s a miniature lagoon. Locally known as the ‘Lake’, it is surrounded by steep cliff sides and fringed with bars, the sun lingering on the outside tables long enough for an early evening beer to be enjoyed. Interesting excavations into the steep sides hint at ancient remains but again- no information. Further round there’s a minute, white chapel where tourists are queuing up to take selfies. The lake cannot be totally circumnavigated to we backtrack to the bars to reward ourselves for walking.

Across the opposite side there are more interesting resaurants, so it’s an area we’ll return to for a meal. In the meantime we have our trip to Spinalonga to look forward to.

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Agios

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After a few days, the heat wave relents and we’re able to strike out from our lofty location outside Agios Nikolaos to explore the town. As on so many Greek islands the place is inhabited by hundreds of feral cats; but unlike many I’ve seen in the past that have been in poor health or exhibited nasty injuries, these appear to be fit and well and thoroughly enjoying their lives- dozing on car bonnets, brawling and yawling in the light of street lamps and winding themselves around the chairs of evening diners. They are cared for by the residents, who put out food and water, but they don’t stoop to affection, even after titbits from the table.

So far we’ve only made it to the edges of town so we wander away from the sea to the centre, past a beautiful church with a stunning interior, then we turn into a steep street and stumble upon an excavation- Roman perhaps? There seems to be evidence of ancient baths and remnants of buildings that look Roman. There is, however no information whatsoever to describe or inform.

In his previous life, Husband holidayed in Agios Nikolaos, so it’s with growing excitement that he rediscovers the tiny bay lined with bars near the apartment he’d shared with a friend, although he pinpoint the exact spot. Fair enough- it must be 30 years ago that he was here. We discover some fancy restaurants overlooking the water and decide to return for a meal, also discovering a coast path winding back to the marina and avoiding the busy shopping streets full of gift shops.

Later we return to the favoured restaurant and choose to share a sea bream we’ve selected from the glum array of fresh fish in a chilled case. It’s enormous- more than enough for two- and delicious, and attracts the usual gathering of winsome cats, who are rewarded with some fish skin and a few bones.

On our return to the hotel we stop off at the bar. Each night, ‘entertainment’ is provided. This is in the form of a keyboard player, or a guitarist or a DJ and confined to the outside terrace, thankfully. We begin to find the antics of the bar manager entertainment in itself, as he appears to have warmed to Husband, bringing us an extra drink and, to our hilarity, calling Husband ‘Mr Carl Douglas’, which brings tear to my eyes. We realize he must mean Michael Douglas, because Carl Douglas was the black singer who brought ‘Kung Fu Fighting’ to the charts in 1974. The bar manager works with a young woman and they seem to always be there. He tells us he is soon to have a week off and he’ll be returning to his home to take over the care of his disabled brother.

The bar area is vast and rarely looks full, although there are still enough guests to justify entertainment, some choosing to jig about to the warblings of a singer belting out covers, others playing cards.

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Settling

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We arrive to the Miramare hotel, just outside Agios Nikolaos, Crete at 12.30am, after a two and a half hour bus transfer from the airport at Heraklion. By this time we’re tired, hungry [having not eaten since midday] and desperate to pee.

We trundle into the lobby, where the hotel’s night manager sorts us out a room, points out the WC and tells us we can get a meal in the hotel restaurant. Phew! [but no thanks to TUI].

We’re taken out of the entrance and down four flights of stairs to our room, which is large but somehow undesirable. While it has a restricted sea view, its balcony is next to the road and it feels cavernous and empty. But we’re tired enough to sleep. We’ll sort it out in the morning.

In the event, after breakfast, we explain and are quickly taken via golf cart to an available room at the top of the hill with a stunning view, smaller than the first room but much more cosy. We’re happy. Two ticks to the hotel management-

We’ve arrived to Crete during a heat wave, a stark contrast to home temperatures, so it seems best to take things easy until we’ve acclimatised. Breakfast is the usual hotel, buffet-style bun fight but there’s a huge array of choices. Then we opt for one of the three [three!] pools, which is opposite our room and take our books, choosing shade.

The hotel occupies all of a substantial hill, a short walk from the town of Agios Nikolaos. Walking to and from the town is not for the infirm, since there is a steep climb up to the hotel entrance and now that we’re established in a hilltop room, steps from the lift, so it will give us enough exercise between lounging around.

In the early evening we stroll down past a couple of bars and restaurants, past the cemetary and a beach ‘club’, [which remains a mystery] and to a stretch of the bay where there is a tiny, town beach backed by a marina. Here there are myriad bars and tavernas and it feels luxurious to sit outside on a warm October evening and have a beer while watching tiny children playing in and out of the water. Outside one bar there are a number of tables where Backgammon is being played, a serious matter- judging by the intense concentration of the players.

Then we must choose from the many tavernas lining the streets, although we noticed one on the way here, not on the sea front, which boasts an interesting menu and a quirky decor. It’s narrow but stretches back some way. It also has a few people lined up waiting for a table- always a good sign.

A flamboyant waiter guides us to a table, exhibiting extravagant gestures and handshakes. Little snacks and dips are brought for us while we peruse the menu. The meals are delicious- giant prawns and pasta for me and a risotto for Husband, all too much as I fail to eat it all- but eating out here is not at all expensive. We’re brought complimentary dessert in the form of a miniature jar containing cheesecake and a shot glass of liqueur so strong it makes my eyes water to sniff it. I oblige by eating the cheesecake but make my excuses on the Raki…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Triumphant Optimism

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Following the short, local jaunt to Bransgore Beer Festival using the van, it feels like time to go off and get some autumn sunshine. Theres a window of opportunity between engagements at home so we book ourselves a package…to Crete.

Many, many years ago [in the 1970s] I stopped off at Crete on a ferry bound for Alexandria [Egypt] but had no opportunity to see anything. Since then I have visited a fair number of Greek islands as well as the mainland and never had an unpleasant time. The forecast for Crete this October is for temperatures in the mid twenties- which will do nicely, given that we’ve been subjected to relentless rain and gloomy skies here in the UK.

The package deal uses yet another budget airline, which feels rash after the last experience, although there isn’t much choice.

We do our routine for Gatwick Airport- train to airport the day before the flight, hotel at the terminal and plenty of time to do all the flight things.

I’m never unhappy at the idea of an evening lolling around in the airport hotel. Next morning there’s more lolling before we meander across to the terminal. All the pre flight chores have become so automated that you wonder if we must fly the plane ourselves, too. Self check-in, self bag drop, self this, self that. Having dealt with all of that, we do security and navigate along the Ikea-style, zig-zag of what airports fondly call ‘duty-free’, which has expanded since last time.

I’m momentarily irritated to be inundated with unsolicited spray from various perfume bottles, which I consider an imposition!

We need to eat before boarding, since we won’t be offered so much as a mini-bag of pretzels on the 4-hour flight, so we get brunch, which takes some time. In the event there’s no time for anything else as we’re called to the gate, where I just have time to heave on my flight socks before we line up and file down the tunnel to the plane, where by some fluke of luck [again] we wangle ourselves seats together.

Then we wait…and wait…and taxi a bit…and wait. The internet has failed at the airport, meaning all planes are waiting- 45 minutes for us…

It’s dark and 9.30pm when we arrive to Heraklion. We stumble through passport control and collect our luggage, then out into the concourse where we’re directed to the waiting coaches and told a number which doesn’t appear to adorn any of the waiting buses. We trudge back and are guided to a bus with a dark, indistinct number and clamber on. Once everyone is on the bus, the driver decides he must go and use the facilities…

We get underway. The bus starts on the dual carriageway then turns off down a narrow, winding lane barely wide enough. It shunts and turns, drops two people off, turns back. This becomes a pattern- navigating narrow tracks that would hardly accommodate a car, reversing, swaying round impossible corners. The time ticks on. At about 11.30pm we begin to realise we won’t eat tonight and it feels a long time since brunch at Gatwick…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

The Trouble with Borders…

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Albania. Before we embarked on our lengthy trip to the Peloponnese I spent some time googling Albania van travel. The results were mixed; some professing horror at the very idea, others eulogising about the wonders of the country. So I was none the wiser.

One of the difficulties we anticipated was insurance. It appeared that we’d not be covered by our own company, or indeed any conventional motor insurance company. But others had obviously managed somehow. This was our preferred route to the Greek mainland, having looked at other ways.

We crossed Montenegro with just one overnight stop [as described last in week’s post]. The landscapes, once outside the town of Budva There was a tiny vehicle ferry crossing to cut across a bay, which was fun and then a great deal of marshy land. Montenegro is a small country.

Then we arrived at the border ro Albania. And here we became tangled in a giant melee of every kind of vehicle waiting to cross. Lorries, cars and everything else. It was hot. We’d no idea how to proceed, or what we needed to get into Albania, neither did we speak any Albanian- not being a language one employs all that often.

After some time, a couple of men approached our open wndow and addressed us in broken English, the younger one sporting a lanyard bearing a card, which at least lent some semblance of authority. Were they officials? The only clue was the lanyard, which could have come from anywhere. While we could understand little we did get the part about paying 50 euros, which came across loud and clear. We had no Albanian currency. We did have 50 euros. The choices were to go back, to stay put or to pay the euros.

After handing over the cash, we waited again, convinced we’d seen the end of the euros, but after a long, hot interval we were presented with a certificate- very official looking and with a shiny gold stamp. This, then was our insurance! But we still had to negotiate passport control, where a stern official in a booth waited. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in all the years of travel, it’s DO NOT JOKE, SNIGGER or MAKE SILLY REMARKS when going through passport control. Keep a neutral expression and be obsequious- which we did, and gained entry to Albania.

The roads were fine- better than when we’d done our day trip from Corfu. On the dual carriageway there were horses and carts among the vehicles but on the whole it was quiet. We found our campsite, glad to stop after a long, hot day of travel. We turned into the camping field and were greeted by a smiling teenager bearing a tray with iced coffees. Welcome drinks! This was a first! The campsite was excellent and boasted everything we needed, pitches draped for shade, well appointed showers and a washing machine. While it wasn’t busy we weren’t alone- several other foreigners had made it to the site.

Though we were keen to scoot on to the Greek border, the occupants of a neighbouring pitch told us we should not leave without seeing Berat, the local town, which we duly did, setting off and driving around, taking a look. It is indeed a picturesque and characterful place. But we had no wish to spend too long and soon we were heading off in the direction the SATnav instructed us to go. But the road Mrs Garmin wanted to take did not exist. We tried. We drove around…and around. I got out and showed some locals a map, upon which they shrugged and shook their heads. Albania is not well served by satellite mapping.

In the end we back-tracked a long way and found a fast motorway all the way to the Greek border- so we got there! But if we did it again we’d take a ferry from Italy!

Grace is also known as the novelist, Jane Deans. Her new novel, The Conways at Earthsend is now out and available from Amazon, Waterstones, Goodreads, W H Smith, Pegasus Publishing and many more sites. Visit my website: janedeans.com or my author page on Facebook: (1) Jane Deans, Novellist, Short Fiction and Blog | Facebook.

The Ghastly Gathering…

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Veteran regular readers of this blog may recall that here in our family residence we collect and curate an esoteric and hideous assembly of keepsakes [more here. ]

Our most recent expedition, which involved 15 countries threatened to be fertile ground for additions to the naff shelves.

A  nervous, hasty flit through Albania yielded nothing, owing to our not having stopped long enough to forage but since Northern Greece and The Peloponnese had been our goal it seemed fitting to acquire a suitably awful object derived from there. How appropriate, then to arrive at Nafplio and discover a wealth of such items! Nafplio is a veritable hotbed of ‘gift’ shops. After some deliberation we settled on this:

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-A fir tree, a church and an egg-timer all in one, it is also a fridge magnet! Were I ever to become a habitual user of egg-timers what better place to keep it than on the fridge? Sadly though I am neither a user of egg-timers nor is Husband a devotee of fridge magnets [a small collection of these was unceremoniously dumped many years ago when Husband confessed his abhorrence of them] so this cunning little object resides on the naff shelves, nestling among the other horrors.

I felt that if we were to obtain something dreadful anywhere it could be Bulgaria, judging from the appearance of its towns and shops. Belogradchik’s fortress and stunning rock formations are not universally known and the surrounding few cafes and gift shops are few and a little desultory. The coffee and snack selection was underwhelming. But a tiny shack with artisanal stuff yielded this:

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I am at a loss to explain what it is-or what the significance may be, as no explanation was forthcoming-or at least not one that we were able to understand. In the context, however of the naff shelves it is perfectly at home.

The greatest prize was won in the wonderful Market Hall of Budapest, where the first floor houses a plethora of magnificent souvenirs so that we were almost spoilt for choice. Once we’d spotted this particular item [shown below] we were in no doubt that it couldn’t be bettered. There was a range of Russian dolls but Husband, a die-hard Rolling Stones fan took a shine to this portrayal of his idols, looking as little like their namesakes as Lady Gaga to Saint Theresa:

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Sir Mick, here on the Russian doll bears a passing resemblance to Jon Hurt. And I can’t help wondering what Keith, Charlie and Ronnie would have to say about their diminished status-Charlie in particular since he has dwindled almost to nothing and manages to surpass only the tiny guitar-doll:

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And yesterday I was able to add another new contribution, kindly donated by Offspring, a gem gathered from a visit to Rome:

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Lovely!

 

The Bad, the Good and the Muddly

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It was all going so well. When I left you last week we’d found a place to stay in Budva, Montenegro, we’d seen the town and enjoyed a meal on the harbourside.

Next morning the local bin men obliged us by waking us up early, giving us a good start for our entry into the next country-Albania. Before we got there, however there was a dramatic mountain pass to negotiate, a journey that afforded stunning views of the Adriatic, it’s coastline becoming miniature as we climbed higher. Then it was a steep descent with hairpin bends. The landscape gradually flattened and there were lakes and marshes.

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Montenegro is a tiny country-smaller than Wales-so it doesn’t take too long to get to the border with Albania; but it does take a little time to get across the border. Again there is the issue of motor insurance. Whilst we queued at passport control a casually dressed young man sporting a badge on a lanyard approached and spouted a cascade of Albanian at us, seeming to be a question. ‘Yes’, said Husband-and ‘No’ said I. There was a short hiatus, during which Husband and I conducted what I shall term a mild dispute as to whether he was enquiring if we had motor insurance or enquiring if we needed motor insurance.

The discussion was swiftly concluded by Husband’s handing over of a fifty euro note, with which lanyard man disappeared up some steps. His companion-[a would-be translator] waved us into the queue. At this point Husband’s heels dug firmly into the footwell and would not budge; he glowered until he saw a return on the fifty euros.

‘Oh ye of Little Faith’. Lanyard returned brandishing a sheet of paper embossed with a gold stamp-an advance on the scruffy scrap of Montenegro. Whether it was worth any more than the paper on which it was inscribed is doubtful, however we would not have wished to put it to the test.

On then-to Albania’s highways, upon which cows, dogs, donkey carts, pony carts, moped  carts and an altogether eclectic mix of vehicles, animals and humans besport themselves. This is a country where the population has the utmost faith in other road users-so much so that they feel confident to wander across a ‘motorway’ or wheel a barrow along the central reservation.

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The driving is outlandish, with meandering across to the other side of the road commonplace. Somehow we arrived at the campsite we’d selected near Berat and swung through the gates to see a smattering of van and motorhomes-as usual the intrepid Germans-and even another British van.

This was a little oasis with shaded pitches, beautiful showers, a bar and a restaurant. We heaved that inward sigh that follows an anxious day of travel and determined that we should follow our site neighbour’s advice and take a look at Berat, The White City, Albania’s poster-boy city.

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Ever-hopeful, and armed with a scribbled map that Donna, the camp-site owner had drawn us, we drove into Berat.

Five hours and three attempts to find the road south later we retraced our route back past the camp site and back towards Montenegro. Frazzled, frustrated, hot and defeated we acknowledged that the road marked on the atlas could not possibly exist. Mrs TT [the satnav slag] had taken us in circles or onto unpaved, rutted tracks.

At last, at the end of a long, hot, dusty day we arrived to the Greek border and it was with a mixture of sense of achievement and relief. Greece!