Tag Archives: travel

Small Island

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Once upon a very long time ago, a beautiful, olive skinned Maltese woman met and was courted by a red-haired, British sea captain. They married and she was brought to live in Plymouth; at least- that’s the vague bones of the story of my great grandparents and I may have embellished even this, sketchy tale. But my mother somehow inherited the olive skin and the jet black hair which I assume were attributes of my great grandmother.

It has taken me all these years to visit the small, Mediterranean island of Malta, birthplace of my great grandmother and ideal, we think, for an early spring break.

We can fly from our local airport- a mere 10 minutes taxi ride from our house. I’ll skip the grim realities of flying with a budget airline this time, having detailed the joyless experience in a previous post…

We arrive in the dark, mid-evening and are transported to our hotel- an enormous, shiny block at the end of the peninsula of Sliema, which faces, on one side, across a stretch of water, the beautiful and historic capital, Valletta. We have not stepped out of the plane into a hot and balmy night. It’s breezy and tolerable- warmer than at home in the UK but not ‘sitting outside’ weather. Still…we’re here.

After being shown to a vast room complete with vast bed, we return down to ground floor and are just in time to consume the remnants of dinner- which had been ‘Tapas night’ but was now a range of tenuously described tapas in a less than newly prepared state, for which we pay a princely sum- not being in a position to seek an alternative. We repair to the bar, whose meals would have constituted a better proposition, had we known they were available. Still…

After breakfast [the usual hotel buffet-style bun fight], reception furnishes us with a map and we’re lucky to meet Karen, who is a fount of information and ideas- then we set off to explore, although in a slow manner, due to my incapacity of the hip. It’s sunny but with a cool wind as we walk [hobble in my case] down past the conglomeration of high rise flats and hotels that comprise Sliema’s waterfront towards the bend housing ferry terminal, bus stops and cruise jetties. The other side of the road is lined with cafes and restaurants- all busy.

We’re beginning to find our way around and Karen has given us some good ideas. We can get a pass for two bus tours plus a harbour tour, which seems a good deal and will give us a chance to see as much of this small island as possible in our week. For now, we’ll attempt a ferry crossing to Valletta for an initial look round, which might be challenging for me, given that I’ve acquired a hip problem. Still…

The ferry is efficient and only takes a few minutes to travel the short stretch of water between the two cities, although when we disembark, the first hurdle looms- an extremely steep climb up to the first level of Valletta. There are, however, a couple of ‘golf-cart’ type buggies offering ‘hop-on-hop-off’ tours for 5 euros, which seems cheap- and we are about to discover why. The buggy takes us up and around a few of Vallettas narrow streets then stops in the main square- and that’s that. Still…

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

Margaret from the Bakers’

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Here’s an even older story, inspired by my own father’s fall down the stairs at our house!…

I was even later than usual last night. I take my time getting home, dawdling, unlike setting out in the mornings, when I rush off like a rat up a drainpipe, to use one of dad’s expressions. It’s not that I’m ever late. It’s that my workplace, well, that’s my favourite place in the world. I can never wait to get there. I love everything about it, from the warm, homely smell of the fresh baked bread, to the cackling laughter of my two workmates, Pam and Vi; from the noisy bustle and jangling shop bell to the colourful rows of regimented doughnuts and cherry Bakewells standing to attention in sugary limbo until bagged and ready for action.
Like I said, I was a bit late and as soon as I stepped into the porch I could tell he was rattled, as normally he calls out to me.
“Is that you Margaret?” he will say, which is daft for a start, because who else is it going to be?
If the BBC news at six begins in my absence my dad has no one to share his disgust and outrage with, no one to acquiesce to his views, nod in conformity and admire the wisdom of his analysis. I put on my cheeriest smile before opening the living room door.
“Alright, Dad?” I asked him, realising, of course, that he wouldn’t be. He was scowling at the TV set, a bitter cloud of resentment hanging around his Parker Knoll armchair.
“Why are you so late?” he growled, still fixed on the screen.
“We were short of a few things, so I stopped off at Palmers. I’m getting your tea now. A bit of fish do you tonight?”
Ducking into the kitchen before hearing the inevitable moan I grabbed an apron and began peeling potatoes. I couldn’t explain to Dad what had delayed my homecoming, because he’d be bewildered that the allure of the travel agent’s window could be more powerful than the contents of the six o’clock news, especially when accompanied by his own, insightful comments. Those advertised destinations stir me with their exotic promise; their glamorous names resonate in my mind: Goa, Madeira, Indonesia, Bali, Madagascar. Whilst there is no question that I will ever journey beyond the boundaries of this country I am at heart a traveller, voyaging wherever a travel guide, a brochure, my armchair or my dreams transport me.
An urgent ring of the telephone jerked me from my reverie, so that I dropped the peeler into the saucepan to answer it.
“Hello Margaret. How are you? Is Dad there?”
As usual I noted the lack of pause between enquiry into my wellbeing and the unnecessary query as to Dad’s whereabouts. I took the phone through, mouthing ‘Frank’ as I passed it to him. From the kitchen where I’d resumed supper duties I could hear my father pontificating on the failings of this government and the dreadful consequences of not reintroducing National Service. When I returned to retrieve the handset I was surprised to learn that my brother was still on the line, wishing to speak to me, an occurrence likely to contribute further to Dad’s displeasure.
“Yes Frank. What’s up?”

“What did he want then, Frank?’”
“Oh, he was just asking what you might like for your birthday”. Taking a moment to absorb this he shook his head.
“Frank knows what I like. Dunno why he’d need to be asking you!” I shrugged my shoulders.
“Shall I put one of your Dad’s Army’s on? You like those.’”He grunted in the affirmative and was soon engrossed in his favourite DVD, part of a box set Frank had bought him for Christmas.
Settling down at the kitchen table with a cup of tea and the latest ‘Hercules Tours’ brochure I ran my fingers over the glossy cover where a photo of the Taj Mahal at sunset called to me like a siren to a sailor.

At work next morning we were sorting out the delivery, stacking the shelves, lining up the pasties under the counter when the door opened and Hot Rod walked in. That isn’t his real name, not the ‘hot’ part anyway; just what Pam and Vi call him. He’s working on the shop conversion next door. Vi nudged me, an ostentatious wink distorting her round, pink face.
“Customer, Margaret!”
I put Rod’s custard Danish into a bag and gave him his change, waiting for him to leave before turning to look at the girls, who were leaning against the loaf slicer, undiscarded tears of laughter welling up and about to flood the shop.
“Tell you what”, declared Pam, “If I was single there’d be no stopping me. You could do a lot worse Margaret, couldn’t she Vi?”
Vi nodded, adding an ambiguous “Or even if she wasn’t single”. Vi never made a secret of her unhappy marriage to Den, whose unsavoury exploits she’d frequently described.
“Have you thought any more about the quiz night on Friday, Margaret, up at the snooker club? We could do with you on our team, with you knowing so much about countries, capitals and all that. Do you good to get out, too. Your dad can cope for a couple of hours, can’t he? My Kevin will come and pick you up. “
These two women have invited me out more times than I’ve made ham sandwiches and I’d always declined, citing my father as a reason, but for once I felt a bubble of rebellion growing inside and heard myself say, “Alright. Why not” to the flabbergasted looks of my friends.
At home I scrutinised the contents of my narrow wardrobe, hoping to discover some forgotten item that might be suitable for an evening out, but the occupants of the hangers retained a resolute familiarity in their service as work clothes. I could not recall the last time I’d been to a social gathering, still less the outfit I’d have worn. Perhaps I should buy something new, although I was forced to acknowledge that dressing for Friday’s outing was the least of my problems.
I waited until Thursday evening to broach the subject. I made sure I was home before six, made his favourite liver and bacon for supper, agreed that Frank had done very well for himself and was the best son anyone could have. Once this eulogy had subsided I took a breath.
“I’m going out tomorrow night, Dad. Pam from work’s invited me to a quiz. She and her partner are picking me up at seven.”
Although I’d taken pains not to blurt it out in a rush, my announcement rang with triumphant accomplishment as if I’d entered into high society, like Eliza Doolittle going to the races. I felt myself redden as he turned to look at me, something he rarely does, a small, perplexed frown knotting his brow.
“Pam from work?”
Keeping my resolve, I maintained the cheerful smile I didn’t feel, nevertheless I began to bluster in an attempt to mitigate the awful consequences my absence would bring about.

“I’ll do your supper, Dad, before I go and I’ll make sure you’ve got everything you need to hand. You can always phone me if there’s an emergency. I won’t be late back so I’ll be here for bedtime as usual.”
He turned away, seeming to sag and shrivel in the chair like a cushion with the stuffing pulled out.
“I’ll be going to bed now, Margaret, if you please.” That was all he said, but whilst I couldn’t escape the feeling of portent his silence carried I was filled with a bullish determination, so that I muttered ‘I AM going out’ repeatedly while I got his Horlicks and made his hot water bottle.

There was a skittish, party atmosphere in the shop next morning as the girls teased me about the evening to come, a flippant suggestion from Pam as to whether ‘Hot Rod’ might like to join us and a cross-examination from Vi over the intended outfit. The pleasure I normally derived from these exchanges, however was tempered by nagging anxiety, as my morning ministrations had been met by stony, grim faced silence from my father, prompting me to whisper ‘I’m STILL going out’ as I left the house.
Later, dashing homewards it was difficult to say whether my feverish nerves were due to the impending, unaccustomed jaunt or uneasiness about my father. Letting myself in I sensed a barely perceptible alteration in the atmosphere as if the air held an electrical charge, even though the television was burbling away as usual and Dad ensconced in front of it. I got no response to my ‘alright, Dad?’ or when I brought him the tray bearing his supper, upon which I’d lavished great care and attention.
“Right Dad, I’m going up to get ready now”, I said, but might as well have told it the TV screen. I went up and began attempting to squeeze myself into a black skirt I’d last worn about eighteen months ago and which had seemed a good idea for the quiz outing until I tried the recalcitrant zip. Gearing up for one last tug I was holding my breath and wrenching in my girth when I caught the sound of a thud from below. I let go of the zip and nipped out to the landing, skirt sagging round my hips. Beneath me at the foot of the stairs lay my father, prone, limbs flopping like a rag doll’s. I ran down. My heart beat with a strident pounding that throbbed in my chest and ears. Leaning down I noticed a liquid red line emerge from under his head and flow along following the join in the laminate floor. I straightened, stepped over him and into the kitchen. On the table the ‘Hercules Tours’ brochure remained, impassive, bearing a picture of the Taj under a blood red sky. I grabbed the phone and the kitchen towel, sat down on the hall floor. I lifted his head gently onto the towel, then my lap, observing the pale, waxy pallor of his skin, the shallow rasp of his breathing. I punched 999 into the phone, gave all the details.
“It’s alright Dad. There’s help coming” I said, as I smoothed the wisp of baby soft hair from his face. His eyelids, papery and almost translucent, trembled and his thin lips jerked to produce a word.
“Margaret?”
“Yes Dad. I’m here. You’re safe. Stay still now, till the ambulance comes.”
His voice quavered as a glint of wetness materialised in the corner of his eye.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Margaret.”
There was a distant sound of a siren now, as the ambulance approached. I looked away from him.
“I know Dad, I know.”

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

Meet Polly

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In a post two weeks ago you met Ray, a lonely, lost soul who hung on to the sudden lifeline of a stranger like a drowning man. [ https://gracelessageing.com/2024/12/22/new-fiction-for-christmas/].Now you can meet the stranger, ‘Polly’..

I’ll tell you a secret. My name’s not Polly, actually. I invented Polly just for a new campsite. . It’s a name I haven’t used before and won’t use again, which is a shame because it’s one of my favourites. At the last place I was Edwina, or ‘Eddie’ to anyone I shared time with.

There’s only one person who knows my name and that’s my friend-with-benefits, Viv. Incognito, that’s me; like MaCavity the Mystery Cat, although I don’t come across as mysterious. I appear more of a jolly, cosy kind of person, which is the persona I adopt when meeting anyone. I like T S Elliot and I like cats. I’d have one if my lifestyle permitted it.

Another thing is I don’t like returning anywhere, which starts to get tricky when you’ve lived this life for a few years. I like to get to pastures new, see new faces and have conversations without getting involved and bored witless.

Don’t get me wrong; I wasn’t always a wanderer. I did start adult life like most people: job, home, friends, night at the pub, gym session, visiting family. I was even married once, briefly- to a man, too!

I meet a lot of people in my nomadic existence, many of them solo travellers, many of them lone men. From experience, I know better than to spend more than a few hours with anyone.

Thing is, folks always want more. You meet, you spend an hour or so and it’s pleasant enough, but then they clamour for another bit of you. They want to cook you something. They want a day out. They want sex. They want to stay over. They want to go on holiday. No thanks. In the beginning, I used to try and explain. ‘Enough is enough’, I’d say, ‘I’m moving on’. And they’d get upset, affronted, take it personally. I began to find it easier to slip away without saying a word, so that’s what I do now.

I can live like this because I work from home- from Daisy, my van, that is. I write travel articles for a number of publications. I’m quite good at it, having developed a reputation for impartiality. I don’t have a lot of overheads. Sometimes, in the winter, when the weather’s bad, I park up at Viv’s for a week or two, then off I go again.

It’s getting towards the end of summer now, which means a lot of sites will close, limiting my options for places to stay, but I can always cross the channel and head south. Sometimes you can almost smell the end of season in a place. Take the site I was at last night. There were dozens of ‘regulars’ there, retired, people who’d been there months. Some were starting to pack up, some leaving with their caravans, others leaving in cars. I met one long-termer- Ray. He was parked up next to me. I watched him returning from the showers then I made out I’d forgotten to bring a tin opener [I hadn’t] to see what he was like. I could see he was a lone man as there was no evidence of a woman- especially seeing the state of his caravan!

I asked him if he fancied going to the bar later on. This is what I tend to do- hook up with someone for a meal so I don’t have to sit on my own like a pariah. When I called for him I could see he’d made a bit of effort with his appearance, tidied himself up a bit. Ominous.

They did an ok pint in the bar and the menu was adequate, if not gourmet. Ray, though, it was as if he’d been storing up all his misery, waiting for me, ‘Polly’ to sit and listen to it. Yes, I know his wife died. Yes. I know he’s lonely. There are organisations and clubs that exist for people like Ray. Not me, though. He wanted to hear about me, too, but I managed to steer him off life histories by asking him about the local walks- a common ploy for me. I’d no intention of walking anywhere, mind and not with Ray, who seemed to think we were going out along the coast path in the morning. Oh no, nooo, not me. I’d be far, far away by the time he surfaced. And I was…

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

New Fiction for Christmas…

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End of Season

You could tell what kind of day it would be without sitting up to pull the blind. This morning was gloomy, overcast and reflective of the mood that clouded Raymond when he woke. Today there was no need to throw off the duvet, stand up and stretch, take a chair and his morning tea outside to survey the world. No, no, today was a day to lie still and wallow in the dingy light and the sporadic smatter of drops on the windows. Just to check, he raised a finger to a corner of the blind. Grey clouds were racing across the hill opposite and rain spattering the glass. He sighed, let the blind drop, sank back on the pillow.

Mary would have said, ‘we should count our blessings, Ray.’ Mary had been fond of her homespun epithets. ‘Look on the bright side’, ‘time will tell’, ‘it’ll all come out in the wash’,were some of her favourites. She’d told him he must get out and about, have adventures while he still could. Now look at him- incarcerated in the self-same caravan they’d bought to share adventures in.

He stared ahead at the wall opposite, not much further than his feet, cream coloured, plastic and dimpled, a few scuff marks. He’d lost the urge to keep the van spanking clean and spruced, couldn’t remember when he’d last cleaned the shower cubicle and loo or the fridge and last night’s dishes were still lingering in a reproachful heap in the sink.

He sat up, scratched his chin where a couple of days’ stubble had accumulated then edged his way around the bed and through to the dining/kitchen area where he shrugged on his default navy cardigan over vest and shorts before collecting his threadbare towel and his washbag from the tiny shower. As he stepped out and down on to the grass a cheerful voice called ‘Morning Raymond! You’re late this morning. Heavy night, was it?’. Ray scowled at the retreating backs of his neighbours, Geoff and Julie, as they walked their terrier up the drive towards the dog-walking field. He trudged down towards the shower block, clutching his cardigan together as a stiff breeze blew droplets of rain across the site.

A hot shower and a shave in one of the site’s pristine cubicles partly restored his mood to neutral, although he could think of nothing to plan today, other than a cup of tea with the day’s news. But as he exited the block and headed back to his pitch, he noticed he had a new neighbour on the other side to Geoff and Julie; a two-tone, green and cream VW had pulled in next to his van. There was no sign of a driver, which was lucky because Raymond, attired as he was in sleep shorts, greyish vest and disreputable cardigan, was able to scuttle back inside before anyone emerged. He changed into cleaner shorts and a T-shirt, filled the kettle and waited at the window to see who the new arrival might be.

When the kettle whistled he turned towards the hob and was surprised by a knock on his door, opening it to see a middle-aged woman, large, colourful and grinning up at him. She wore a hand-knitted poncho and a jaunty, crocheted bucket hat with a yellow flower on the brim. Unruly curls of red hair were escaping from beneath the hat.

‘Hello! I’m Polly. I’ve just arrived and I realise I’ve forgotten to bring a tin opener. You wouldn’t happen to have one, would you?’

Raymond spluttered then came to his senses. ‘Uh- yes of course. Hold on and I’ll get it.’ He rifled through his cutlery drawer, managing to find one, hoping it was clean, then handed it down to Polly, who, much to his shame, was peering into the gloom of his van. He felt his face heat up, aware of the bedding piled high on his caravan bed and the unwashed crockery in the sink.

It was early evening and he was slumped on the bench seat watching TV when the knock came again. He jumped up, straightened his cardigan and opened up to see Polly smiling and proffering the tin opener.

‘Thanks,,,er,,,’

‘Raymond- Ray. You’re welcome.’ He cast around for something else to say, something to keep her there a little longer. He couldn’t invite her in- not with the state the van was in. She gestured rowards the hillside, towards the bar/cafe.

‘Is the bar open every night, Ray? I thought I might give it a go and have a night off cooking. Are the meals any good?’

He swallowed. ‘It’s not bad. Depends what you like. It’s just pub grub- pies, scampi and stuff.’

She nodded. ‘Fancy joining me, then? Later? I’ve got to get a shower and everything first, of course.’

He blinked, blushing again. ‘I…’

She laughed, a big, hearty guffaw that warmed his heart, ‘I’m not asking you to marry me, Ray. I just fancied a bit of company while I eat a pie and have a pint’.

Raymond exhaled, unaware he’d been holding his breath. ‘Yes of course’, he blurted. ‘I’d like to’. He felt his shoulders relax.

‘See you about seven, then? I’ll knock when I’m ready.’

He managed to nod and waited until she’d climbed back into her VW before closing his door, experiencing a tremor of panic at the idea that he’d be going on a date. What could he wear? He rummaged in his clothes locker in the vain hope of finding something presentable, throwing garments out on to the bench, mostly unwashed and all creased and scruffy. With no time to wash anything he delved into the heap, coming up with a purple, 2003, Iron Maiden T-shirt and his least filthy pair of jeans. Remembering there was an iron in the laundry, he took the items down there and preyed that nobody he knew entered. At least he’d showered and shaved that morning, which gave him more time.

Back in the van, he studied as much as he could see of his outfit in the mirror inside the cupboard and sighed. It would have to do.

She was prompt; seven o’clock sharp she knocked. He grabbed his jacket and stepped out, noting that polly still wore the poncho but had ditched the hat.

‘Um…what would you like to drink?’ he asked her, as they stood studying the beer taps.

‘I’ll have a pint of best, Ray, if you’re offering. Thanks!’

He ordered two pints and followed her to a table, bemused. Mary never drank beer and would have a small glass of white wine, or if it was a special occasion a gin and tonic and if it was Christmas, a modest glass of sherry.

At the table, Polly was studying the menu, frowning. ‘Have you had a pie here, Ray? I’m thinking I might try one.’

‘Yeah- I’ve had all the varieties of pie,’ he said. She looked up from the menu.

‘Because you don’t cook much? Or because you’ve been here a long time…?’

There was a pause. ‘I suppose it is a long time, compared to most people. I come every year and I stay all season. We always come…came…’ He petered out.

‘When you were married, you mean?’

Raymond found himself talking about it all; about Mary’s death, about not wanting to be in an empty house, about all the things he wish he could do. At last he came to a jerky halt, aware that he might not be the best company Polly could have chosen.

‘I’m sorry’, he muttered. ‘You don’t want to hear all this.’

She placed a hand on his arm and he felt the warm, reassuring pressure on his skin.

‘It’s fine. None of us gets to middle age without some burden, without a blight we carry round with us for the rest of life. Some burdens are heavier than others.’

He rallied. ‘What about you? What’s your burden?’

She shook her head, her mass of curls flying out in a ginger storm. ‘Let’s leave it and choose our dinner, shall we? I’m going for steak and stilton and a heap of chips!’

Raymond was to realise he was unused to talking when he woke in the night with a dry throat, his jaw muscles stiff like they needed oiling. He got up and drank some water then got back into bed, drifting off in a reverie of imagined dates, companionship and shared travels. What a wonderful, cheerful, vivacious woman Polly was! She’d drawn him out, made him laugh, given him a glimpse of what living could be like.

He woke to shafts of sunlight piercing the gaps in the blinds and illuminating his walking boots, where he’d placed them on the floor last night after a frantic search. He lay smiling for a moment, recalling the plans they’d made to go walking today after he’d told her about the joys of the coastal path and the stunning views that rewarded strenuous hill climbs.

For once, he was eager to begin the day, swinging his legs to the rug, folding his bedding and stowing it in the locker above the driver’s seat before filling the kettle. He unlatched a blind. As it slid down, sunshine flooded in, temporarily depriving him of sight. He shaded his eyes, staring out at the field. He frowned, continuing to stare. At nothing. There was nothing. There was a space, some slight indentations in the grass…four, tyre-shaped, where a two-tone VW had been.

He stood for a long time, gaping, rubbing his neck. Then he reached down, pulled the blind up and latched it, before dragging his duvet out of the top compartment. throwing it on to the bed and climbing back underneath it.

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

The End of Summer

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We’ve arrived to the tiny island of Spinalonga, Crete and have stepped down the wobbly gangplank and on to the beach, where groups of people are milling about. Presumably, some of them are waiting for boats to leave. Others must, like us, be waiting for a promised guide.

We walk up some steps towards a path by an archway, where a woman is checking tickets and go through the archway into a tunnel and out the other side. There are more, bewidered visitors milling about but still no sign of the fabled guide- no mustering call, no sign. Hmm…

Returning to the ticket checker yields no result as she makes a vague gesture towards the beach where we came from. We saunter back through the tunnel and out on to a paved path, then on towards the ruins- and inside the tumble-down walls of one, there is a gaunt, middle-aged woman wearing a lanyard and speaking to a small gathering. We assume this is the guide, shuffling in at the back, although it’s difficult to catch what she’s telling us, out here in the breezy air at the back of the small crowd. All I manage to glean is that Spinalonga, famous for being home to Europe’s last leper colony was squabbled over by various countries and cultures for its trading position. She tells us very little about the lepers, who, I’m ashamed to admit, I’m most interested in. Having read ‘The Island’, [Victoria Hislop] however I do know quite a bit about the inhabitants.

The talk is short- no more than about 10 minutes- then we’re left to wander and we follow the path up through the ruined buildings and on round the island. The first few metres has a row of shops. Further on there is a shell of a hospital building and as we approach the corner there are old fortress walls from the pre-leper times. We round the bend and pass a little church, high up near the top of the island, then drop down back towards the beach where we’d disembarked. There’s a cafe at the end of the path, although when we enter there’s very little on offer- a packaged, croissant-like cake is all we can find to stay the pangs on our return journey.

Then it’s back up the precarious plank on to the boat and we’re on our way again. The breeze hasn’t become any less boisterous and the temperature has not climbed as we leave Spinalonga and head back towards Agios.

It’s our last few days here on Crete; still sunny, still warm in sheltered spots. We discover a sandy beach by descending steep steps and turning right, away from Agios along a coastal path. There are sunbeds for hire and it’s a change of scene for a relaxing few hours with a book.

I’d definitely return to Crete, perhaps to a different part. It’s an island of contrasts- rugged, snow topped mountains which can be skied in winter and an arid interior as well as ancient sites and beautiful beaches. But life isn’t easy for Cretans- there’s been no rainfall since April and the olive crop is failing. Tourism, then is all they can rely on.

We return to gloomy Gatwick and our UK winter. Ho hum…

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

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