Ex Crete

16 September, Monday

The hardware shop in old Kissamos could have been the place where Zorba bought equipment for working Basil’s lignite mine. I bought some packets of Greek seeds. I’d always wanted to grow Greeks.

Christos the shopkeeper seemed delighted with his sale, inviting me to pick one more item as a gift. So I pointed at his wooden box / makeshift till full of Euro coins. He laughed heartily, telling me he liked me because I had a very good joke.

The box of cash wasn’t available so I chose gerbera seeds instead, believing gerbera to be the plural of gerbil.

 

17 September, Tuesday

I left Paleochora as uniformed men began closing the streets. This happened every evening in small towns so restaurants could spread themselves out and diners could dine traffic-free. A wonderful idea unless you’re a stranger in town not knowing an alternative route to get back to where you came from.

Days earlier I sussed a way through a hillside council estate which commanded spectacular views of the town, the Libyan Sea and the distant island of Gavdos.

Whilst taking a photograph, a wave of sadness washed over me. It wasn’t like me to not want to go home to Bulgaria.

 

18 September, Wednesday

The sea looked beautiful but the sky didn’t. Poor weather followed me until I was near the airport and a thunderstorm struck.

Irakleio’s third world aerodrome still awaited the discovery of the hoover and mop but had lovely staff, raising a smile or two from deep inside of me. A wondrous moon shone as I walked across the tarmac, just as it had done on that first Cretan trip when I had fallen in love with my island of dreams.

With the plane still standing on a Cretan runway, lovely Bulgarian voices around me made me feel I was home.

 

19 September, Thursday

Comparing Cretan holiday paradise situations with my Bulgarian home paradise garden, there was a noticeable lack of sea in the latter along with profusions of cats and mosquitos. An endless flow of the finest Balkan coffee (produced in Brazil, the largest and hottest of the Slavic states) facilitated the resumption of the reading of Zorba the Greek.

I unzipped my bag and washed my smalls, or was it the other way round? A slightly better than meagre pile of remaining Euro cash didn’t warrant a visit to the bureau de change but was sufficient to spark ideas for another trip.

 

20 September, Friday

Following a seventy-minute flight between two airports in the same time zone I couldn’t claim to have jetlag. But I definitely had lag; that can’t be arsed feeling that overcomes the intrepid traveller upon returning to normality.

I hadn’t just been in Greece, but ancient Greece. Crete to be precise. Land of the Minoan Civilization. Surely the Bronze Age was a different time zone. Perhaps if Icarus had not flown so close to the sun the wings that his father Daedalus had made for him from feathers and wax wouldn’t have melted and he’d have become the first jetlag victim.  

 

21 September, Saturday

Phone calls from Rado the Roofer reminded me that commencement of work on the new roof was imminent. Time to close my book and shift a winter’s worth of logs away from the back of the house. The satisfaction gained from using my wheelbarrow always reminds me that my roots are in Ireland.

The physical exertion took my mind off the fact that today marked the start of autumn and the terrible darkness. Curse all that Earth rotating on its axis nonsense! But muscular pain seems to block out mental pain, so I think I’ll move the logs again tomorrow.

 

22 September, Sunday

It was Independence Day, again! The one to mark the overcoming of the Turks (with enormous military help from Russia) in 1878, thus ending cruel Ottoman occupation.

In September 1944 the Soviet Red Army entered Sofia to end Nazi rule and Bulgaria’s part in World War Two.

We’ve other days to rejoice breaking free from Russian influence in 1908 and 1989.

So on any Bulgarian Independence Day we must check our diaries before deciding if it’s a day for waving or burning Russian flags. Having lived here over eight years this was my thirty-third Independence Day. My bunting’s in tatters.

 

23 September, Monday

It was Independence Day, yet again! A public holiday on a Sunday doesn’t work so we had it today instead, though all the real festivities, both sombre and merry, had been on Saturday. I think today was the day for intensive rehydration and eating comforting fat boy breakfasts to eradicate from our bodies all traces of rakia which, I am told, is a drink that cures everything… but not hangovers. Certainly no holiday for pharmacists.

This weekend also saw independence days celebrated in Malta, Belize and Mali. I’m thinking of forming a twinning association. What a party we could have!

 

24 September, Tuesday

Via the medium of Skype, my friend Darena in Sofia teaches me Bulgarian in return for English tutoring. However, she began her language lessons thirty years before me so she’s as near to fluency as I am to total uselessness. She’s able to tell me this in both tongues, one bearing a slight Yorkshire accent.

Our weekly lessons resumed today after the summer break. Just like on those first days back at school the discussion topic was ‘what I did on my holidays’. She had visited wonderful art galleries and traditional music festivals. I had mostly lost and found cats. 

 

25 September, Wednesday

I spent the day writing this. Due to the combination of being away from my computer and being a bit slack, I had fallen behind for the first time. Luckily I had notes. Having little connection with the world beyond, I need this journal to remind me what day (and month and sometimes year) it is. What you’re reading now might be about yesterday and might be about tomorrow, but it definitely happened and I was there to witness it.

Anyway, we had a thoroughly enjoyable pancake day, though saddened a little by the passing of dear old Arthur Askey.

 

26 September, Thursday

In a distant corner of the garden I found some baby trees that I’d forgotten about. This is the time of year for replanting, so I did! But next month may have been better because the weather at the moment is still a little sizzling.

Strange, it had seemed, returning from Crete to find weather at home warmer and sunnier than the holiday weather. Crete welcomes almost five million foreign tourists each year. I hope they don’t find out that we have better summer weather. We’ve only got eight coffee mugs. Our lack of sunbeds and parasols should dissuade them.

 

27 September, Friday

Rado the Roofer and the Roof Felt Five began work on our new roof. Their first task was to have a cup of black death coffee and a cigarette. Task two was to damage our wall-mounted internet cable. If you can’t read this at the moment, don’t worry, I’ll be back online soon-ish.

The roofers aren’t working tomorrow. They’re all attending a colleague’s funeral. Funerals are always arranged within a day of a bereavement in Bulgaria.

There were six on a roof and the little one said, ‘Roll over! Roll over!’ So they all rolled over and one fell off.

 

28 September, Saturday

Such a terrifying feeling to find your bank not just closed but boarded up. Peeking through a window to see if my money was lying around on the floor I saw only dead wasps and a sad, redundant pen swinging on a chain. I walked 400 metres to another branch where I found financial peace of mind. Sadly, bank pens have become obsolete.

Every afternoon this week I’ve painted. Not masterpieces but railings and sheds. Enjoying late summer sun, my exposed flesh bronzed nicely. Some bits are dark green; exactly the same colour as the sheds and an inquisitive feline.

 

29 September, Sunday

As the morning’s radiant blue sky turned to black, Rado’s boys stripped away more of our roof. Fortunately, they finished today’s work and the patching up of the gaping hole the very second that the first raindrop struck.

Ninety-nine million raindrops later, the inside of the house miraculously remained dry and the garden was beautifully drenched. I love the summer months but it’s a relief to know that evening irrigation sessions are finished for this year.

By 7:00 pm we had total darkness; a truly awful situation overcome only by thoughts that the vernal equinox was only 174 days away.

 

30 September, Monday

The rain stopped late morning. The month stopped without incident fourteen hours later.

I drove across the new bridge that spans the river to see where it would take me. It took me to the other side of the river. I saw the old woman who grazes her goats near there. They all looked well. I’d worried that bridges and goats might not be compatible.

And now I’ve finished twelve months of this 100 words per day challenge. Well done you for reading 36,600 words. To make sure you really have read them there’ll be a written test next month.

 

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Image:

My own photograph of the Gulf of Kissamos, taken from near the village of Ravdoucha in Western Crete.

 

Part One:

The Old Man and the Libyan Sea