Paul and Mel's Greek Islands '06

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2010-01-14T10:16:00.000Z

Foreword

I have never had better holidays than I have had at the Greek Islands, and I am happy to say I have had two of them now.

I have been to countries all over the world but nowhere have I experienced a better combination of climate, sites, and natural beauty as I have on the Greek Islands.

Of course, the warmness of the client is matched by the warmness of the people. As in all places, there are exceptions to this rule - certainly I did not find anybody to write home about (pun intended) in the city of Piraeus. But overwhelmingly they Greeks I encountered were helpful, warm and charming. They also reminded me of many friends and acquaintances I made in Melbourne, Australia which has a thriving Greek community and it is them I thank for giving me a passing knowledge of Greek phrases and culture.

Being a blog, you are able to jump from chapter to chapter, picking and choosing which parts suit your mood or intent. Indeed, I have provided hyperlinks in most chapters so that you can do just that. But I would encourage you to read each chapter in order as some later chapters refer to material in earlier ones. Besides, as my friends will tell you, my stories can take a little telling. So you should not be surprised if a gag told in Chapter 8 has its beginnings in Chapter 1.

This is not a guide to the Greek Islands, though you will most likely be able to get some useful information out of it. Nor is it an advertisement or series thereof. If I speak highly of a place or thing then it is because I think highly of it. Certainly I can tell you that I paid full price for everything as I was, and am, a regular tourist. The flip side, of course is that my experiences are my own: I cannot even remotely guarantee that you will have the same or similar experience and have no intention of doing so.

Rather, this blog is more of a meandering of thoughts and experiences, of which the Greek Islands - or at least those we visited - are a the principle character.

Finally, I would encourage you to leave your comments. Feel free to disagree or let me know what your experiences have been. Certainly, I get a kick out of it reading them.

Yasou.

Final thoughts

2007-07-01T17:17:00.000Z

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Having been home for some time now, I still look back to my time in the Greek Islands in 06 with much fondness. The chora of Paros, the caldera of Santorini, the relaxed nature and friendliness of Folegandros, the unexpected fun of Ios and the beaches of Naxos still bring to be a longing. A longing for the next holiday. The next adventure. And while another adventure on the Greek Islands is not looking likely any time soon, any other future vacation really does have a lofty benchmark to beat.

Until next time

Paul (& Mel)

Chapter 18

2007-06-30T10:01:00.000Z

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That night brought about the worst nights sleep I had on the trip. The room at the Hotel Spiros had a slightly smokey smell to it so we left the windows open. It turned out that the windows has some kind of switch built into them to deactivate the air conditioning when they were open. No matter what trickery I employed, I could not get the aircon to run with the windows open. Choosing heat over stench, I woke up several times during the night from the heat. Finally, at about 5am, my priorities shifted and I closed the windows.

My lack of sleep caused even more problems waking up promptly enough to sit down for the hotel provided breakfast, but we did get to our seats on time. After scoffing our respective breakfasts, Mel and I headed out to find a scooter for hire.

I had been umming and ahhing about scooter hire throught the trip. Sure, we hired a quad bike (at Mel's instance), but Mel and I are scooter riders from a long way back and it seemed a shame not to scoot around the islands. Saying that, Mel suggested we leave our safety gear at home and, mindful of the kind of accidents that tourists have on their holidays, I was not so keen to ride. None of that mattered on this day, though. Naxos was probably proving a little sleepy for us. Our logic was that one of the reasons we might not be getting the maximum value out of Naxos was because we could not easily get to the beaches The Guide all to frequently referred to. Thus, we would hire a scooter and scoot to whichever beaches we pleased. Our trusty stead cam in the form of a Kymco 90cc 2 stroke. After riding out to one of the further beaches - the name of which escapes me - we rode back to one of the nearer beaches, Beach Anna, where there was far less wind. It was a nice beach. The sand was clean and the water was clear, with my (by now) familiar hardy little fish. Of course there was the obligatory naked German baby frolicking about.

We had a great day at Beach Anna and probably our only gebuine beach day during the entire trip. We paid a few Euro for a sun lounge in front of a hotel and tarted chatting to Cliff and Karen, a couple from Canada. They were very good value and while Karen was off in the water I chatted about a great range of things with Cliff, Though none of the things we speak about come to mind as I write this, I am quite certain it involved how we had the solutions to all the world's ills. It was that kind of chat. But before long it was time for us to head back to the port town and our hotel. By now the wind had really picked up. So much so that the decidedly average helmet I had been given when I hired the scooter - which was really much more like a baseball helmet, with couple of (now exposed) bolts around the temple region fastening a make shift strap to it - kept coming off the back of my head. Faced with the option of either having the helmet fly off into a car behind me or having an accident trying to keep the damn thing on and having the aforementioned expose bolt drive into my temple, I took off the helmet and rode bak to the scooter shop Easy Rider style. I felt pretty good about that. Clearly, I lived to tell the tale.

Dinner on ths night was at Scirocco, in the Naxos town square. From our first day in Naxos we haded noted this establishment was fairly well full all of the time. Taking this as a good sign, we took a seat. The signs were right.

Continuing The Moussaka Challenge, I found that the Scirocco version of this classic Greek dish was second only to the magnificent Mousakka of Apolloz on Paros on my very first night of this Island adventure. Mel tells me she liked her meal, too, and the service was really quite good - polite, prompt ... and with no requirement to badger passers by to enter. Top all of this off with a €26 bill and I can tell you that I wa quite pleased with my last meal of this holiday.

To commiserate our final night on holiday, we had cocktails at a fairly swank looking cocktail bar right on the water so that we could see our last Greek Island sunset. And what a sunset it was. Certainly one of the better ones we had seen, so we quickly whipped out our cameras and took some snaps for memory sake. The sun then disappeared between what looked like a slot in the clouds and did not return for the remainder of the evening. It seemed quite poetic.

On our final morning in Naxos I awoke to two things. The first was loads of rain. Given that we had clothes drying on some chairs outside our hotel room, it was quite a scuttle to get them inside. The second was thunder. Plenty of thunder. More thunder than I recall ever having seen. Every five second or so there would be a flash of lightening and a few seconds late there would be thunder to accompany it. I was deeply concerned that such a store would prevent the fast boat on which were booked making the journey from Naxos to Pireaus for the onward journey back home. This only added to my pre flight, cat on a hot tin roof thing I have before most flights Have I packed everything? Have I forgotten anything? What time is the flight? What time is the boat? Where is my passport? Do we have time for breakfast? On reflecton, I really do feel for Mel during these times.

By the time we had finished our breakfast the lightening had subsided and the female proprietor of the hotel - who really was a nice woman, though I never did get her name - has quite confident that the inclement weather was not going to cause our boat any problems. Eventually, she would prove to be correct. But in the meantime, Mel and I turned down her offer to have her son drop us off at the dock so that we could take one last look around the shops of Naxos town. What we did not know then that at 9:30am nothing much of interest was open. So we ended up down by the port anyway and chase the last cafe, as you head toward the dock, to kill some time in. It was really quite a nice cafe, too. Two girls sat beside us and, Greece being Greece, lit up a cigarette each. As was our way on this trip, we did not say anything to them because smoking is what the Greeks do. But this was the end of our trip and we really had had enough of cigarette smoke, so we moved down a couple of tables. How bad did we feel when one of the girls waved to get our attention and then told us that if we had said something they would not have lit up. She seemed like a nice, genuine woman. But I think it might have been a case of damned if you do, damned if you don't. I had no intention of trying to force my Anglo-American values onto the locals. Still, I felt terrible. Still do.

The day got better, though. Courtesy of a nice guy at the counter of the ferry ticket sales outlet, we took advantage of a free upgrade to business class on the fast boat to Pireaus, which got us to Pireaus with a couple of hours to kill before we needed to head off to the airport. I have mentioned previously that Pireaus holds no great place in my heart and I can tell you that Mel is of a similar mind. I can, however, qualify this by saying that I developed a new found admiration for the dodgy street sellers of the dodgy merchandise you see all over Pireaus. When we had first arrived in Pireaus two weeks ago it was quite sunny, so the sellers were flogging CDs, binoculars and videos. As soon as the rain turned up, as it had on this day, they were selling umbrellas. You have to give them credit for their versatility and opportunism.

Anyway, rather than hang around a place that neither of us was really into, we decided to take the Metro into Athens for a whistle stop tour. As an English speaker, it is a breeze getting around Athens. There are plenty of signs in English and even the Metro voice overs have an English option. I imagine this is a side effect of the recent Olympics Games. Regardless of the cause, I found getting around a very comfortable exercise. With no real destination in mind we got off at Victoria Station. The surrounding areas looked quite a bit dodgy, to say the least, so we promptly headed south to what looked like more friendly pastures. While I do not want to assert to strong an opinion about Athens - having been there for all of an hour and a half - what Mel and I saw was not much different to Pireaus. That is to say, we did not think much of it. We saw some buildings of significance up in the mountains above the city (yes, I feel like an idiot not knowing what they are) but we felt underwhelmed. We quickly dived down a quaint looking mall and picked what must have been the most crowded place in the mall to eat. As the weather was still not suited for al fresco dining, we moved inside. We almost turned straight back around for all the smoke in there. In fact, we even told the waiter that the smoke was just too much for us, but either he did not quite understand us or he was a very smooth operator because all he did was lead us furthe into the restaurant where, obligingly, Mel and I sat down. In the end, I was quite that he did as the staff were friendly and the service was prompt. Certainly more so than I have come to expect in London.

For reasons unknown to me, Mel and I spent much time pouring over the bill we received at the end of our Mel. Suddenly we realised that we were beginning to understand the Greek Alphabet. That was an exciting moment. Unfortunately, one of the waiters misinterpreted this and ran over to check our bill was ok. It was, other than my observation that the mean we had eaten cost almost double what it would have on any of the islands we had visited. This, I understand, is the nature of big cities everywhere.

Following this insight, we left for the airport. Our holiday was over.

Chapter 17

2007-05-12T07:13:00.000Z

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I am not a heavy sleeper. A little too much sunlight hits my eyes in the morning and I am up. A little bit of thought enters my mind during the night and I am up. Mel starts snoring and I am up. Not on this trip, though. Man, had I been sleeping. I was going to bed at 12am and waking at 10am. Plus there was the almost daily afternoon kip that Mel and I had become most fond of. That's a lot of sleep. This could only mean one thing: I was relaxed. This is a big thing for me. I have already gone on at length about this so I won't do so here. Suffice to say that it is tough for me to relax. I was experiencing no such problem at the Hotel Spiros on this particular morning - nor had I experienced much of a problem in this area for several days prior to arriving at Naxos - rising only just prior to the cessation of serving of the the obligatorily complimentary breakfast in the dining room. Mel and I raced downstairs and promptly served ourselves a hearty breakfast. Of course, I was careful to avoid the water from the communal tap that was masquerading as bottled water.

Mel and I then promptly headed out to the beach. En route, Mel purchased an inflatable bed for €4 so that she could float about the warm, shallow waters at the beach by our hotel. We walked a fair way along the beach before deciding on a spot. We each took up a place under an umbrella and on a beach lounge. It was not long before we spotted a person patrolling what turned out to be his spot on the beach and requesting €3 for each of the occupied lounge chairs. It might sound like I am having a bitch about having to pay for these facilities, but this is not the case; I am happy to pay. If it means that I am comfortable and relaxed then the facilities are worth more than sticker price. And now that were were settled I could look forward to a long day of sunning, wading, chatting, people watching and reading of Bill.

Except that it didn't happen. Minutes after we had settled in to our prime beach positions we could see lightning on the horizon. A storm was heading our way. Fast. Then the rain came. Being the kind of guy who is aware of the kind of things that can go wrong, I figured that the flat terrain of the beach combined with the metal spike of the umbrella under which we were sitting could not be the safest place to sit during a thunder storm. So it was that after a good, oh, 15 minutes on the beach we headed back to our hotel room. At that point, the €6 we had spent on our sun lounges looked like a less than fruitful investment.

Despite the rain, the walk back to the hotel was not as unkind as rain would otherwise suggest courtesy of the warmth of the day. Besides, once we had dropped off Mel's equally-at-the-time-stupidly-invested in inflatable bed at the hotel we were free to do a spot of shopping. This shopping was not before its time, I can tell you, because to say I was short on clothes would be somewhat of an understatement. A couple of plain, white Gap t-shirts I had brought with me had become decidedly less than white and I had either thrown them out or should have done so. After successfully purchasing two tops the rain had cleared and we headed toward the most recognisable symbol of Naxos, the Monument to Apollo, but we did so via The Labarynth.

The Naxos Labarynth was more what we had come to expect of Greek Island choras. Rather than the disappointingly western main town of the port, The Labarynth was all about white blocks of quaintness. We spotted a few places to eat in The Labarynth and decided we should dine at one of them later.

The Monument to Apollo (or 'Portara') is a mystery to me. It looks like a marvelous door frame that leads to nowhere and sits on the edge of the Naxos coastline. It is visible from pretty much anywhere within the port town. That is it. That is all I know. I should know more. I should want to know more. But I do not. I walked Mel there and we took some photos. We ticked the box.

By this time it had gotten quite hot again, so we made back toward the beach spot we had abandoned earlier. The beach patroller who had previously charged us for a spot on the beach was kind enough not charge us again. Either that or the charge is for a full day's usage. Either way, it was good that he remembered us. Mel lost no time getting use out of her inflatable and I wasted no time getting stuck into Bill and doing some people watching. There was a rudie-nudie German baby with a pink bandanna having a whale of a time with her parents. I hadn't really noticed this till mid afternoon but I am quite certain that she had been doing so, with much gusto, since around lunch time. She would have slept well that night. I reflected that as we get older we seem to lose the capacity for having that kind of fun. How do we get that back?

There was a middle-to-late aged Chinese woman walking around the beach offering her services as a masseuse. At the best of times this kind of service goes against my sensibility. Massage by the beach necessitates the placing of an unknown person's hands on my bare skin. Who knows where those hands have been? It might occur to you that these thoughts and the frequency with which I have them is downright silly. Certainly it has occurred to me. Indeed, it did that very day. At least, for a very short while. Specifically, it was until the woman took a break from trudging up and down the beach, at which point she hocked up loogies non-stop for no other observable reason other than she took pleasure from it. And this woman wanted to charge money for touching my bare skin. Right.

That night we headed back into The Labarynth (which is also called the Old Town) and ate at a place called Lucullus. It was not a good meal. I had a very bland chicken kebab. So bland that if it had come off my own BBQ for a guest to eat I would be forced to make some apologies. It seemed to be served with microwaved rice, but I cannot be certain. The service was below average. Just as we had the night before at Poppi's we were coerced into eating there by some vociferous haggling by the proprietor or staff there. Just as with Poppi's we had been disappointed with the outcome. Thus our Rule of Haggling Restaurants was born: there seems to be an inverse relationship between the level of haggling and the quality of the restaurant and these should be avoided.

And that, for the second day on Naxos, was pretty much that. It wasn't a bad day. It wasn't a great day either. Tomorrow was going to be site-seeing day, since The Guide highlighted Naxos as being a great island to do so.

What we couldn't know then was how deceptively large Naxos is and how big a chunk out of our day just getting to the site seeing would take. On our agenda was a visit to the Apollo Kouros. As a much younger man, I remember by best friend at the time's cologne of choice was Kouros, by YSL. So when The Guide mentioned the Kouros (which means 'handsome young man' according to the only source I checked) I thought I owed it to this long lost friend to take a look. The price of this nostalgia was a 4.5 hour round trip to the town of Apollon. The Guide refers rather glowingly about the lushness of the Naxos countryside and, yes, it is unexpectedly green when contrasted with the other islands we visited on this trip. But it did not make that 4.5 hours of my trip go any faster.

When we arrived at Apollon, I found it a little depressing. One restaurant dominated the shore line and the staff (or proprietors, I never could really tell) were relentless in haranguing passers' by to eat there. According to the Rule of Haggling Restaurants, now well embedded within the psyche of Mel and me, there was no way that we were going to eat there. We went to a convenience store to grab a bite instead.

The Kouros is only a short walk from the town. But there was a problem. We had to walk through Jurassic Park to get there.

It occurs to me that the way you view life is all down to your frame of reference. A young girl sees her 5' 7" father as a giant until she associates with boys who are taller than that. For most automotively challenged people with mechanic friends, their abiity to fix all range of motor related dysfunction is always a revelation. My frame of reference always seems to be slightly askew and in this instance is was couched by my siblings. All sisters. My sisters vehemently dilike creepy crawlys, by which I mean insects, spiders, snakes and all your other regular suspects. But their dislike extends to most living things - I imagine possums and squirrels fall into this category as well. But it would be along list and I imagine there is no way that I could effectively catalogue it here. Being the youngest, perhaps most impressionable, of my family I have picked up this foible. Suffice to say that I am not the blokiest bloke I know. It bugs me a little but not a whole lot. With this in mind, en route to the Kouros from the town of Apollon via the dry paddock behind the houses of the residents of Apollon, we encountered several large and (to my eye) ugly lizards. By large I mean about eight to ten inches long. This kind of freaked me out just a little. What freaked me out a lot more was the weirdest thing; the noise made by the slap of the lizard's feet on the rocks as they scampered about. It freaked me out so much, I might have done a little hop forward, expediting my passage through a particularly treacherous stretch. Mel would suggest I started to run but stopped myself because of her presence. Mel has always been a liar, but I should not digress form my point - life is all about your frame of reference and I am telling you that to get to the Apollo Kouros I had to navigate my way through, of all things, Jurassic Park ... goddamit.

Having survived my ordeal and arrived at the Kouros it reminded Mel and me of the statues of Easter Island, it was laid on its back. We waited for some younger folk to clear off before taking some photos of it. Ticking that box we went back through Jurassic Park (though I had negotiated a brisker step with Mel on this occasion), back passed the badgering restaurateurs to wait for the 1pm bus to take us back to our hotel. We waited at the bus stop for quite a while but we wanted to make certain that we did not miss the bus as it was 2.5 hours till the next one and we'd seen as much of Apollon as we had cared to see.

On the way back to the Chora on the bus Mel and I kept ourselves entertained by counting the number of churches we could spot. That number cam to 52. 52 churches along a stretch of about 40 kilometres of road. This is a seriously religious neck of the woods.

I should also add that for all the skill of the bus drivers we encountered - they really do negotiate an impressive number of obstacles on the journey to Apollon in the form of traffic, buildings and windy roads and narrow streets - they can not prevent you from getting car sick. I do not really suffer from motion sickness but even I felt the effects just a little. If this is a problem for you, try to sticking to the front of the bus.

All of this driving made us tired and we went back to our room for a rather longish snooze. During the day we had spotted a Mexican restaurant called Escoban. At the beginning of our trip I had vowed to eat as authentically Greek as I could for the entire trip. By now, though, I had eaten more Greek food than I had a taste for and the thought of something different was greatly appealing. So after our post-snooze shower Mel and I headed over to Escoban. It was empty when we got there, which always gives me the heebiegeebies because I feel that if a restaurant is any good then it will have at least some people there all of the time. Mel and I were the first diner at Escoban on this evening and it took quite a while for people to start rolling. I need not have been concerned as the service here was about the best we had experienced during our entire trip, courtesy of our waiter whose hair seemed to be a king of funky blonde-orange. The food was pretty good for the price we paid and the servings were generous. The san grias hit the spot and after our first two half-jugs our waiter gave us a third one for free. We stayed there for many hours enjoying the music, which was some kind of latin pop-rock with a tinge of R&B. By now the place was quite busy and why not - certainly we had a great time. Appetites well satiated, we headed home for the night.

Not for the first time on this trip, I reflected that good times can strike you at the most unexpected moments. When they do, we are truly living.

Chapter 16

2007-05-12T05:47:00.000Z

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The final cab off the island-hopping rank was the Island of Naxos. The Guide had good things to day about Naxos, with great beaches and Greek artifacts amongst its attractions. But on my previous trip to the islands, I did not think much of Naxos. It was a little too sleepy, a little to ho-hum for my liking. But Mel was keen to take a look (largely based on The Guide's recommendation, I imagine) and I had already imparted enough of my will by proposing we visit Paros and Folegandros to preclude me imparting any more. Besides, perhaps I would appreciate what better appreciate what Naxos had to offer this time around.

Once we had landed on the island, instead of doing the run around for accommodation we had become accustomed to, we sat down for a bit to eat and waited for the post-boat arrival rush to subside. This was a sign that Mel and I had become used to arriving at islands without pre-booked travel. We were becoming just a little brave about it. Blase, perhaps.

That was not the only change to our routine. Mel - who had seemed had enough of scouring around to find accomodation - suggested that we go to the accommodation booking centre by the port rather than walk randomly around the town in pursuit of accommodation. In hindsight I can see this decision made quite a bit if sense. The port town is quite large, certainly larger than most of the towns (of choras) we had visited. To walk around this town with luggage in tow would not only have been taxing, it would have been impracticable. In hindsight I can say this. At the time I felt that Mel was messing with my routine. I don't like having my routines messed with. It is a failing. I don't care. As such, I felt uneasy about this new approach. This unease got worse when the woman we approached at the counter of the accommodation centre went on to tell us about a whole manner of things - beaches, archaeologically significant sites, museums, tourist destinations - other than the one thing we were inquiring about: accommodation. I felt she was trying to distract us from the task at hand. Anyway, Mel expressed a primary desire to be by the beach and a secondary desire to have access to a pool (of course). In response, the woman at the counter initially recommended The Poseidon at €50 a night. He baulked - it just did not seem right for us. She then recommended The Naxos Royal at €80+ (not exactly sure what the '+' means ... let's say it means 'in excess of') a night which looked the goods but was booked out. Eventually, we settled on the Spiros at €70 night. I am not certain what to think of the Hotel Spiros. Our hosts were friendly and paid for our cab from the accommodation to their establishment. It was not expensive, but it was a nice touch. The rooms were large. They were ok, but not notably good. We had to change rooms after the first night, which in itself was no problem. But it was interesting that the room we had on that first night had electrical wires sticking out of the walls. I am quite certain they were not dangerous, but they were a sign of an incomplete room and I feel that it looked unprofessional. In that same room, a copy of a German clit-lit book titled 'Liebe um Mitternacht' (which I cleverly - or at least I would like to think - translated as 'Love at Midnight', much to Mel's delight and I imagine much to the dismay of my Year 9 German teacher who hated me for all the right reasons, but that is a story for another day) had been left behind by the previous tenants. The cleaners had not picked it up, which I again felt seemed unprofessional. On a later excursion on foot, Mel and I saw one of the proprietors / managers walk to the local water tap to fill up a water bottle, as opposed to purchase a fresh drinking water bottle, which seemed a little odd to us. On the plus side, the pool was pretty good and I have to reiterate that our hosts were very friendly, which goes a long way to forgiving any perceived ills.

The remainder of that first day in Naxos was a very lazy one for us. We went straight into afternoon nap mode once we had settled and when we awoke we had a shower and went out to get something to eat, which was tougher than we might otherwise have imagined. On the road from the port to the hotel fronting the beach there are a swathe of places to eat. However, of these about five or six are desert only establishments and only two or three are restaurants or cafes in which you can eat a main course, dinner type meal. I have never before seen a food strip so interested in desert. So we walked up and down the strip a couple of times and were badgered by the people working at them to have a meal at their place rather than their competitors. I hate that. The Lygon St strip in Melbourne, or Little Italy as it is known by the locals, used to suffer from the same thing. Then the local government passed a law banning it. That is a good law. The Naxos local government should pass a similar law.

Anyhow, for want of a better option, we ate at Popi's, run by two Greek Mumma's with whom I imagine you would not mess. They ran their shop their way. They bossed their staff around in the manner that suggested they would always let you know who the boss was. Of all of the people badgering passers by to eat at their restaurant, they were the most vociferous. They were the most persistent. This is not to say they were without charm. Personally, I find matriarchy appealing. I can't explain that. But if they badgered passers by the most and I detest this kind of badgering then logic dictates that there's no way we would have eaten there. But we did. We shouldn't have. Everything was very oily. Mel did not eat her calamari, which was of the lots-of-little-whole-squid variety rather than the rings-of-a-large-squid variety that she - nay, I - am accustomed to. The upside is that the resulting unsatiated appetite left us plenty of scope to try out one of the many aforementioned dessert places. Again, though, our experience was less than fulfilling - my chocolate cake was dry. This might sound picky, but I say that if a food strip places the kind of emphasis on dessert that this one had then you would think that the establishments there might feel a certain pressure to produce the best desserts possible. It would seem they might not. Surely, then, the forces of competition would weed out the string from the weak. My experience was that it did not. Time for me move on, don't you think?
Move on we did, to a €4.50 a pop cocktail spot for a one-off.

Clearly I was underwhelmed with our first day at Naxos. Perhaps it is because I was expected to be underwhelmed.

Chapter 15

2007-04-06T06:41:00.000Z

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Australia must be the best part of 10,000 kilometers away from the Greek Island of Ios. So imagine my surprise when the first ten or so accents that I hear at the port of Ios are all Australian.

I have always wondered what other nationalities think about the Australian accent. I imagine that the English outside of London still find it a little novel and endearing, but those in London are so over it due to over exposure. I imagine that South Africans believe it makes Australians sound at least little stupid. I think one reason for this is that the South African accent is the polar opposite of the Australian: they hit their consonants very hard while Australians roll over theirs. Which is odd in one way, in that a very soft South African accent sounds very much like a very harsh New Zealand accent and it can be quite difficult to pick a Kiwi accent from an Australian one. Though it must be said that a harsh Kiwi accent is easily differentiated from a harsh Australian accent. My favourite English speaking accent is Welsh, but the English don't seem fond of it at all. Most people I have encountered who originate from English speaking countries nominate Irish as their favourite accent, but I have never been overly fond of it. This is also an over exposure issue, I think.

From an American point of view, as best I can tell, there are only two accents - American and not. I can't tell you how many Americans have asked me what part of England I am from. South, I tell them. Deep, deep south. And my accent is as broadly Australian as a non-Strine Australian accent comes. There is probably an opportunity for some social commentary here around the domestic-centric nature of American media, but this is no social commentary piece. But there is a reason I have spent so long on the topic of accents.

For all my supposition about what other nationalities think about the Australian accent, it occurs to me that many Australians are not particularly fond of the Australian accent themselves. It does not have the sophistication of the middle-class English accent nor the clarity of the American accent (yes, there are many American accents, but it could be argued that, for example, both the drawl of a Texan and the tightness of a Boston accent are both more intelligible than an Australian one). It does not have the lilt of the Irish, nor the character of the Scottish. Nobody personifies the problem that Australians might have with their own accent abroad than former Prime Minister, Bob Hawke.

Bob Hawke, in my view, was a seminal Australian leader. He brought about massive economic and legislative reforms that resonate today. He brought unionism under some sort of control through arbitration, rather than Thatcher-style obstinance (though, it must be said that it could be argued that Thatcher was rather more effective at reducing unionism influence than Hawke - a union man himself - was). He was clearly a very intelligent man, if his Rhodes Scholarship is any measure. But his accent was very much blue collar Australian. So for all of this, if Hawke were to be judged on his speech alone, I believe it would be far easier to identify him as the man who had, at one time in his life, held the Guinness World Record for drinking a yard glass of beer than one of the greatest leaders Australia has had. And I think that many Australians feel this way, too. No matter what their achievements, that they will be judged by their accent. They feel that their accent is immediately associated with the simple things in life, like BBQs, camping, alcohol and sport rather than anything remotely cerebral. It is when Australians are abroad that these feelings are most obvious, because this vocal contrast is most evident. Bob Hawke's successor, Paul Keating, called this the Cultural Cringe. 10,000 odd kilometres away from Australia, the Cultural Cringe is what I was experiencing.

It is not the Australian tourists that were causing my cringe - that was to follow - it was the sprukers offering accommodation. If you are looking for an exotic holiday experience the last thing you want to hear, as an Australian, is an Australian calling for more Australians to stay with them.

The other accent I heard a lot of was American. It must have been holiday time in The States. With all of these Australians and Americans I could not help but wonder whether Ios was the new Bali. Not that there is anything wrong with Bali. I love Bali. But much of Bali, with its pandering to the tourist trade, could not be called exotic. At least, not any more.

Not surprisingly, we did not take up the offer of our countrymen to stay with them. Instead, we took the public bus into Ios town to seek accommodation. The last time I was in Ios, I had a devil of a time trying to find accommodation. I went from place to place only to be told that they had no accommodation for me. At one point, I stumbled across an establishment that catered to the Nordic crowd. In particular, it seemed to appeal to Swedes. Swede women. Swede women not wearing any tops. By the pool. Playing pool, water and miscellaneous ball games by the pool. With each other. I know this sounds overtly stereotypical, but this is what I saw. I went to the counter - which was also manned by a person who also appeared Swedish- and asked for a room. He asked me hoy many people it was for. I told him I was alone but I was happy to pay for a two berth. He responded that he had no rooms. I looked back to the semi-naked frivolity of the pool. I was prepared to pay for a birth room, I told him. He responded, again, that he had no rooms. I went all the way up to offering to pay for an eight birth room for little old me but his response did not change. Sunken, I trudged off to find alternate accommodation. Make no mistake, if I could only have remembered the name of this place, I would have made a bee line for it on this trip. Mel would have had here want of a pool met and I would have had my want of staring at bare chested Scandinavian women playing with each other by the pool met and everybody would have been happy. Really happy. Obscenely happy. Right ... where was I ...

Oh, that's right, what's-her-name and I, sorry - Mel and I, were looking for accommodation. As it turns out, we had arrived at Ios right at the end of their tourist season. Some restaurants and bars had already closed for the year. We headed up a rather steep hill toward a large, modern establishment called the Lofos Village right at the end of the road up the hill. It had a nice pool, too. I sent Mel to inquire at the reception counter while I checked out a seemingly more dubious establishment a little further on. Returning to meet up with Mel, she told me that they had a room for €80. Good enough for me. We met up with the girl Mel had met at the reception counter - an Australian, of course, who took us to our rooms. The rooms were not wonderful, but they were not too bad either. Certainly, we had been in worse on this trip. Bags dumped, we headed for the beach.

I do not know why we thought it was a good idea to walk to the beach. It really is slightly further than a comfortable walk. And we made a wrong turn along the way, further lengthening our trek. At about the half way mark, we desperately needed some liquid. It was quite a warm day. We stopped off at a convenience store which was staffed by its elderly owners. On my previous trip to Ios, I felt that the business proprietors did not exactly exude that they wanted tourists there. But at this pitstop, they were more than friendly. They were warm. Charming, even. Certainly, my 'Yasou' concluding our transaction was heart felt. Importantly, theirs seemed to be too.

When we did finally arrive at our destination, one things was obvious - the main beach at Ios is really quite nice. The sand is white and the water, for all the petrol fueled water sports going on, was clear. We made for one of the busier sections of the beach - Mel and I like to people watch. Soon the reason for the crowding in this particular section of the beach became clear. We inquired at a counter offering water sports and sun lounges in the vicinity about the price of renting a sun lounge and umbrella and the proprietor who served us - another Australian - told us they were being offered for free. Her logic was that it was probably their last week of operation for that holiday season and if she had to choose between squeezing a little extra money out of the remaining tourists on the island - as the other proprietors on the beach evidently were attempting - or having an energetic vibe with the same remaining tourists then she would choose the latter. I found that sentiment rather endearing.

We picked a couple of sun lounges in the middle of a group of Australians and Americans. It was difficult to choose otherwise. I had a bit of a wade in the water and found that because it was a very shallow for a long, long way out the water was very warm. Again, there were loads of those little fish that we had seen at every other island, bar Paros. Hardy buggers, these fish. At one point during my wade I came upon an empty yogurt container that some inconsiderate traveler had thrown into the water. Yet, the container was swarming with the little fish much like a sunken boat that would otherwise be considered debris forms a reef that marine life transform into a ecosystem. To take a line from Jurassic Park, life finds a way.

Returning to the sun lounge to read a little more Bill and eavesdrop on my fellow sun loungers' conversation, I saw a man walking the beach with his donkey. Not the kind of thing you see every day. At least not the kind of thing I see every day. He was selling home grown grapes and, as it turned out, home made wine made from the home grown grapes. Something told me that his enterprise had less to do with making money than the pride of selling his own product. Unfortunately, his packaging left something to be desired. However good his wine might have been, it was stored in recycled soft drink bottles around 1 litre in capacity. Recycled soft drink bottles would have to hold a position several rungs below the wine cask in the pecking order of wine presentation. I did not dare contemplate a purchase. Some braver Australian girls adjacent to Mel and I did take a sample from a lid of one of the bottles, though. They were not compelled to purchase, though, and the man and his donkey went on their way. At about that point, the donkey half of the man and donkey grape and wine selling conglomeration decided to take a piss. A massive piss. Right on the rather clean, white sands of the main Ios beach. In the midst of everybody. Gladly, the donkey did not give anybody a spray. And it is not like I took offense. I mean, the donkey was only doing what donkeys do. But should you ever find yourself at the man beach on Ios, I recommend that you take a good, hard look at the sand before you put your towel down on it.

That part of the day felt way to short. The next thing we knew we were back in the hotel having our afternoon kip in preparation for the evening to come.

And what an evening we had.

It occurs to me that whether you have a good time or not is largely dependent on your point of view. At the age of 26 when I had last visited Ios, getting very drunk, getting the attention of as many women as possible and loads of loud music appealed to me. I had heard that Ios might satiate these interests. Unfortunately, I found Ios over the top in all of these areas. Just too much of a good thing. Like eating too much chocolate, it can make you sick.

At the age of 33, my interests centred on different things. Certainly, I am more ... well ... seasoned. I still enjoy good music - who doesn't. But I like rock, not dance so much now. I like a drink, but I don't like getting drunk so much now. But I do enjoy a chat as much now as I did when I was 26 and this is where Tracey comes in.

Tracey was a waitress at the Lord Byron Restaurant, which we came upon after a bit of a walk around the Chora. And can I say, the chora of Ios is one of the better ones. Along the way I stopped inside a convenience store. There was a guy there playing what looked to be something akin to Kino. He was having terrible luck, so he asked us to pick his numbers. Now, remember, that I had just come off the ferry reading the Greek Island Hopping Guide siting issues of male rape on this island. I also had thoughts of my previous trip, where I really did not care for the attitude shown by the locals shown toward visitors. So I was mindful that this might be part of a scam. Maybe I would select the numbers and then he would demand money from me. I don't know - my mind just kind of works that way. Nevertheless, he was quite insistent, so I chose some numbers for him. He thanked me. We left the shop. That was it. No scam. Rather, an interaction of note with one of the locals, which is always one of the things I cherish on my holidays. But we need to get back to the Lord Byron.

We picked this restaurant because it had some outside seating that seems like it shouldn't be there, but was all the better for it. It was almost part of an underpass. It was perfectly lit - not too bright. I was not convinced, though, as it broke my first rule of restaurants - there have to me people eating there, otherwise, it might be a sign of a less than average establishment. But I was more hungry than choosy right then, so we took a seat. Tracey came out quite promptly. She was English, originally from Portsmouth. I tried to start a conversation with her by talking up her soccer team, which had been surprising everybody by their success in the Premier League at the time. She did not really have an interest in that. Luckily for us, the conversation between Mel, Tracey and me did not have to depend on the grand game of soccer. Tracey liked a chat. She really liked a chat. This is not a snide, cheap shot. I like a chat, too. I really like a chat. I really liked Tracey. So did Mel. Every time Tracey would come out, we would have a chat. A good chat. Tracey had been on Ios for 18 years. Even now I find that quite staggering. Portsmouth is no London, but from my point of view Ios is no Portsmouth. I considered that the men of Ios might have similar skills to the men of Folegandros. The islands were, after all, neighbours. No; as best I could ascertain Tracey was single. A very old man came to have a chat to Tracey and the owner of the Lord Byron. He was carrying an impressively sized pumpkin, though very little of the conversation seemed to focus on it. It was a nice interaction between somebody who was most likely born on this island and the relative new comers. It was friendly and neighbourly. It made a statement: this was a community. I would never have thought that about Ios.

Tracey explained this man was 80 years old and lived down toward the port. Every day he walks up the long and windy road to the chora, lugging a pumpkin at least the equal of the one we had seen on that night. I can't remember whether he gave them or sold them to the restaurant, I was probably enjoying the beer I was having at the time too much to make a note of it. It probably doesn't matter. What was important is that there was a bond between these people and that Tracey glowed in conveying it.

Tracey went on to tell us a great many things that night. About three years prior to our visit, it snowed there. Who could imagine! And when the snow melted, it caused floods that removed virtually all of the sand from the beaches. What a disaster that would have been for the tourist trade. She told us that the restaurant would probably only be open for another week, at which point all of the remaining food stores would be cooked and the locals would be invited for a party. This is what happened every year, she told us. Tracey reminisced about the Halloween parties the restaurant would hold for the locals and how much fun they were. Despite her focus on the fun, I could not help but think about her buddy the 80 year old man struggling to meet the demand for pumpkins and trudging up the hill from the port to the Chora more often than an 80 year old man ought to. I hope they kept something special aside for him.

Clearly, Tracey had fallen in love with this place. While I can't understand what would keep a foreigner there for 18 years, I most certainly understand her happiness and contentedness - she had found her home.

Amongst our discussions, though, I did find one thing just slightly odd about our Tracey. She had been to Australia three times. That is more than almost any Pom I have come across. But she always went to the same place. And that place was not Sydney or Melbourne, or any other capital city. Nor was it Ayres Rock or Broken Hill or some other far away place, which I would kind of understand as well. It was Rye, a coastal town on the Mornington Peninsula in Victoria. Rye is about one and a half hours drive from Melbourne and is a weekend get away place. People have holiday homes there. The population swells inordinately around holiday time. It has a very strong Italian element there, probably because the next town along is named Sorrento. There is nothing wrong with Rye. I have great memories of Rye as a teenager. I visit fiends a family there still and I still like it a lot. But if I were in Victoria and it took me 22 odd hours and £1000 odd to get there I do not think Rye would be the first place on my agenda. It would not be the tenth. And even if it were, the Mornington Peninsula is such a great area for touring, I would have a look around. There are the Red Hill wineries, that not only make a good drop but cook up a storm as well. And the scenery in that region is ... well ... I love it. There is Arthur's Seat which looks out over the sea. There is the Portsea pub which, while expensive, is a great place to meet up with friends and have a drink and a beverage. And, again, Melbourne is only an hours drive a away. In Melbourne, you can catch a game of Australian Rules Football during the winter or catch a game of cricket during the summer, both at the famous MCG. You could go to The Melbourne Cup or the Grand Prix. You can eat at some fine restaurants and drink at some fine bars. Alternatively, you could hop on the ferry from Portsea and get off on the other side of Port Phillip Bay, the Ballarine Penninsula. There you could take a look at the Otway Ranges, or surf at Bells Beach. Or you could drive down the Great Ocean Road, one of the world's great drives.

Or you could just stay in Rye, which is what Tracey had done. On three occasions. The only equivalent I can think of is flying 22 hours from Melbourne to Heathrow and then heading straight out to Brighton and staying there. And only there. Don't go to London. Don't go to The Cotswolds. Don't go to The Lakes. On three separate occasions.

But I say this sincerely - it is very difficult for any one person to assess why any other person does anything, really. We can guess, but we would probably be wrong. Moreover, none of this matters. We had a great time at the Lord Byron and Tracey was a big part of that. For this, both Mel and I are truly grateful.

Another reason we had such a god time was that the food was really good. I had not expected that. Ios was the party Island, so imagined that food would only be seen as a necessary evil, a lining of the stomach, something to regurgitate later in the evening. Not at this restaurant. Again, I must have been enjoying the beer and the conversation a little too much as I did not make a note of what Mel and I had ordered. But I do remember having enjoyed it immensely, as had Mel.

In between chats with Tracey we had chats with Julie and Andrew from Seattle. They were really nice and for all my subtle (and not so subtle) digs at Americans I must say that as a general rule I find Americans to be engaging, entertaining and friendly, almost to the point of being warm. There is a familiarity in conversation that is reminiscent of having conversations with Australians. They just let you in faster than, say, London-ites. There are fewer barriers to earnest conversation.

For all that, though, my recollection of our conversation is painfully patchy. As was my way during this trip, I made a few notes so that I might recall it at a later point, but looking at my notes I can see that Tracey had a penchant for good wine and Andrew ... well, all I have there is something about McGuyver, construction via Happy Days (what the hell does that mean!) and ... oh, I think he might be a snowboard instructor. We spoke about their work a bit, but I am a little scared to be too detailed in my recollection of our chat for fear of getting them in trouble. Suffice it to say that I have always maintained that Melbourne, Australia is a great place to buy a coffee. The southern European influence there has brought with it great coffee makers. Lovers of coffee. These coffee lovers don't set up coffee chains, they set up coffee shops. As with many places in the world, there is a prevalence of coffee chains in Melbourne that makes many uncomfortable. Unlike many places in the world, London amongst them, you can buy really good coffee in Melbourne from a coffee shop. So is there a market for coffee chains in Melbourne? Or has it been more difficult for the chains to get a foot hold in Melbourne. Maybe. At least, this is what I think we were talking about. I would like to be more specific, but I have to be mindful that these people were on holidays and, well, that will do on this topic.

It must have been getting on by now and I wanted to get back to the room for a sleep. I was not eager to frequent a bar because the last time I was in Ios I had not enjoyed that experience at all. But I felt I had an obligation to Mel to at least have one drink at one bar. That bar - Mel's selection - was The Orange Bar.

The Orange Bar was empty when we got there and that suited me just fine. I was seeking a fairly quiet end to my surprisingly enjoyable evening. Mel had chosen this place for the shots on its drinks menu, which were concocted to taste like popular chocolate bars. There was shots based on Toblerone, Mars bars, Bounty bars ... and so on and so forth. I could do this, I thought. One shot, one beer, Mel's happy and back to bed.

But this bar had a couple of stings in its tail. Good ones. Mel chose this bar because of the chocolate bar shots. What she did not know is that this bar was also a rock music bar. I love rock. The UK is almost devoid of good rock music, at least as most of the rest of the world defines rock music. They talk about Brit Rock and so on but for me it is almost all crap. It is diluted. It is self indulgent. The men who sing it sing about why they are sad and you think they might want a cry. They should be singing with an anger that make you want to yell along with them. That is the way Nickelback and Linkin Park do it. And that is how I like it. Or they should sing about loose women like AC/DC and Bon Jovi did it. That's what they had going on at The Orange Bar and that was courtesy of Panos - rock music connoisseur.

Panos was Greek but he was not from Ios. I really liked him. He was friendly and liked a chat (and, as mentioned, lord knows I like a chat). Not only did we speak about our day on Ios and our great meal, we spoke about rock music while he loaded tracks from his CD players. I would express my concerning and belated love of all things Bon Jovi and he would play a track. He would play Killing Joke's Love Like Blood and I told him that it sounded just like the opening to Motley Crew's Dr Feelgood, at which point he popped the latter onto the CD tray and then promptly disagreed (you should check it out ... I am SO right). On revealing my Australian origins he gave the most recent INXS single a spin (could have come straight out of 1988, I swear). There were lists on the walls of the bar: Top Bands; Top Front Men; Best Song. I disagreed with almost all of Panos' selections but I am certain that he knew it did not matter. These lists were discussion starters. And they did.

By now, Mel and I had just about had one shot of each type of shooter in the menu and I had consumed enough beers to start getting that bloated feeling. But we weren't quite done yet. Panos informed us that a Contiki group were due sooner than later and that his other half would soon join him as he required an extra pair of hands. Mel and I saw this as an opportunity not only to catch an eyeful of beer swilling antipodeans but also get to meet Panos' other half.

Wendy was English and had been a holiday worker on Ios before deciding to get into the chocolate-bar-shot-come-rock-bar business. She had been a dental nurse in her 'normal' life and had heard that there was a bar in Ios up for sale. She spoke to the bar owner - Panos - who had purchased the bar three years earlier. Panos had told her that the business was not doing well. This honesty policy was at odds with making a profitable sale but, in spite of this, Wendy bought the bar and spent the first year learning the ropes, with Paros alongside. Five years later, she added the concept of the bar including Mel's new favourite drinks in the world. Somewhere in between, Wendy and Paros must have hooked up. Mel and I were certainly glad they did for despite the Contiki crowd arriving and being far less entertaining than we had hoped, our stint at The Orange Bar capped off what had really been a fabulous day. Many hours later than I had originally anticipated, we headed home for the night.

At 4:30am I was woken by the sound of a tremendous chunder coming from an unidentifiable room from with the hotel. In the morning, Mel told me that she had heard a separate incidence of vomiting, this time enhanced by the sound of vomit hitting toilet bowl water. I took unusual solace in this. Our day had been such a good one I had begun to think that I had made up all of the previously negative feelings I had about that island.

The next day was another clear and warm one. The day before the Australian girl at reception had said, and I quote, 'One of the boys will take you back to the port (in the morning)'. 'One of the boys ...' sounded quintessentially Australian to me. Not in the cultural cringe way, but in that warm, familiar way. Sure enough, the boys did come. Mel and I jumped into the back of their mini-bus with our luggage. Up front was the hotel owner in the passenger seat (who appeared, as an aside, disturbingly young) and yet another Australian in the drivers seat. This guy was from Perth and while I forget the details of our conversation it was the warmth and familiarity in his voice that I remember the most. On reflection, I feel this part of the trip strengthened a thought of mine that I had already held. Sure, Australians as a rule may not be the most polished of people but they have got something about them. Something good. Something I like being around.

Arriving at the port, Mel popped into the post office in the hope of sending off a couple of postcards. The guy behind the counter was really nice in telling us that he had just run out of stamps. During peak season, he told us, we was selling 300 stamps a day. The day before he had sold 180 in two hours. He offered to hold our mail and send it when a new stock of stamps arrived. What a nice guy! We declined, but in this case it really was the thought that counted.

Looking back, there is something to be said for surprises. I expected nothing from Ios. I expected less than nothing. I expected to loathe every minute. And then I found good beaches. Then I found good service. Then I found good food and a good bar. I still cannot say that I would go back to Ios during peak season, but out of season Ios just might have something to offer.

Here is to surprises.

Chapter 14

2007-02-18T09:49:00.000Z

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The next day arrived with a certain sadness. Due to the comparatively irregular nature of ferries servicing Folegandros we were only able to spend two nights there. The next boat after that would have us stay there four nights. While Cornelia would have loved that - she was encouraging us to stay, which of course was good business for her, but it was such a soft sell that there was no way we could take offence - but that would have meant eating into our planned itinerary too much. In hindsight, maybe we should have stayed on. It had taken us almost all of our short time just to understand what the island was about - relaxation, non-commercialism and a kind of laid back friendliness. We could have done with another day. But maybe not two. Not on this trip.

It would be remiss of me not to reflect on Cornelia - our host at the Anemomilos Apartments - just a little. She struck me as being one of the most refined women we had met on our trip. I can't put my finger on why this was. Her English was very good. She was charming and friendly. She ran a good, clean and appealing establishment. We liked her. Again, I am not sure why, but I imagine that she would be great value around a table with good food and wine to be had. She would have good stories to tell. Maybe it had something to do with the 'certain skills' of the men of Folegandros.

I imagine that you are thinking that there is no link between the story I was telling about our hostess, Cornelia, and the men of Folegandros. I imagine that you are thinking that I might have just been a little too affected by my experience with the man at Agathi beach with the octopus in his trunks. On both counts, you'd be wrong.

Upon check out, I could not help but ask Cornelia about my observations from the day before about the women who worked in the cafe-come-milk bar and the restaurant we had dinner at, that neither had seemed Greek.

Cornelia was quick to point out that the woman at the restaurant was German, while the woman at the cafe was a Dane. When I had asked what would have brought them to this place, her answer was instant - the men of Folegandros. They had come to this island and met the men of their dreams. And they had stayed.

The men of Folegandros, Cornelia told me, have 'certain skills'. Her words, not mine.

They were not the only examples of this, either. She went on to tell me that the proprietor of the Evangelist Bar located at the port - a Folegandros man - had an English wife. Cornelia suggested that I should speak to her to find out what the 'magic' (and again, that is a quote) is all about. I would love to have done that, but there was no time on this trip.

Unfortunately, Cornelia was not in a position to have her own, personal opinion on this phenomenon. She was married to Dimitris, who we did not see much of during our time there but from what we saw he was a friendly and helpful man. Dimitris, she told us, was not a man of Folegandros.

After all this talk about the skills of other men, it was time to leave. Corenelia gave us a warm kiss and hug goodbye and Dimitris drove us down to the port, which was far more busy than it was when we had arrived. Several boats were pulling in to create an instant and mobile fresh fish market. People were coming from the towns to buy their fresh fish. Cats - even more so that was usual in the Islands - were everywhere. They seems even better looked after here at the port than we had seen elsewhere. I saw a man feed a litter of kittens.

From the terrace of a block of apartments I heard a rather vociferous American woman speaking on her mobile, but for all to hear. She proclaimed loudly to whomever was at the other end of the line that she had found the most lovely spot to stay at and I think it is fair to say that our guide book had slightly undervalued the merit if this particular port. Certainly, the locals spoke fondly of the beaches in the areas surrounding the port especially in the times when the summer winds - or Meltimi - blew up (counter this, though, with the tid-bit we received from the bar girl the night before that the best beaches were slightly to the north of Algia, which she preferred because they were largely tourist free and often completely empty).

Of course, on this day we are not at the port for the sake of sight seeing. We are there waiting for a boat, then Nisso Thira. When it arrives, half-an-hour late, it is clear that the Nisso Thira is even older than the Death Ship, Dimitroula. The Greek Island Hopping Guide mentioned with some warmth that the Thira used to be called the Kythira and that when it was re-christened- re-launched, if you will- the new owners simply pained over the K and Y. To me, this was a sign of cost-cutting, which I hoped was not reflected in the maintenance of the ship ...

Most of our trips on the ferries between the islands, and indeed the mainland, were done under cover. Mel was not so keen on travelling up on deck. I never did ask why. On the Thira, this meant that we took refuge in the bar. While run down and a little decrepit, there is one very cool thing on the wall of this bar - a knot tying display showing all manner of useful knots that are used by seaman and how to tie them. I have always been fascinated by these kinds of knots and had almost bought a knot-tying book from a discount book store just before the Greek Island trip. I just think it would be cool to know how to tie knots. It is my affliction. I will deal with it.

However, there was one significant problem with the bar. There was a strong, strong ... overbearing smell of diesel, which again raised questions for me over ship maintenance. Not helping, was the Greek guy across from us who was lighting up his cigarette. I have no problems with the smoking - remember, this is Greece - but I constantly feared that he would not only light up his cigarette, but the whole boat as well. Eventually, the fumes got to us and we headed up onto the deck. The seas were choppy, so despite my ever present hunger, I do not buy anything to eat in case this was the day my stomach decided to be affected by sea sickness.

The Nisso Thira was taking us to Ios. For me, Ios was everything I was NOT looking for on this trip. Ios was the party island. Ios is where you go to get drunk. Really drunk. Vomitously drunk. Violently, vomitously drunk. It is where you go out until 6am and wake up at 2pm, just in time for happy hour. It is where it is not only commercial, but in your face commercial.

I had previously visited Ios as a 26 year old, when my stamina - nay, inclination - for such things was stronger and even then I hated it. I had troubles finding a room and even when I did I was next to rooms full of boys with ghetto blasters fulfilling the 'blaster' part of their function. The town did not come alive until 11pm and it was then that alcohol became more than a beverage, more than an intoxicant. It was the thing that was worshipped. By everybody. All of the time. It was the kind of place that Greek Island Hopping guide hated, too. It highlighted the risk of rape to women who had consumed copious amounts of alcohol and then wandered home on their own. It highlighted the risk of rape to men, too.

We were only going to Ios because we had to. The boats to the wonderful Folegandros were comparatively irregular, almost all of them took us to Ios and none of them connected directly to an ongoing ride to Naxos, our true destination. When I had learnt of this, I was devastated. I receive an allocation of 25 days of paid leave from work and I had to waste one of them on the island of Ios. I could not get over it. I whinged about at for at least a day leading up to our boarding of the Thira. To say I was expecting very little of the one day we were forced to spend there would be a gross understatement. The last time I was there it was over crowded, overly drunken and not very friendly.

But I know something now that I could not have known then. That the one day we spent at Ios might just have been about the best day we had on the entire trip.

Chapter 13

2007-01-21T14:15:00.000Z

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There are men and then there are manly men. One of the traits of manly men, as I see it, are that they are largely unflappable. I am so flappable. Take, for instance, my phobia of moths.

Wikipedia defines a phobia as '... a strong, persistent fear of situations, objects, activities, or persons. The main symptom of this disorder is the excessive, unreasonable desire to avoid the feared subject. It is the unreasonable part that stands out for me. Moths can't hurt you. A person can squash a moth with but a fraction of their strength.

I know all of this, yet still I hate moths. They are fluttery and knock into things - including humans. I know this sounds stupid but this is my phobia. Most of us, if we dig deep enough, will have a phobia. Mel has a phobia common to many - snakes. I have a friend who was certain she had no phobias at all, but after digging around over a meal one night we discovered hers: being in deep, open water. She can swim just fine, but the fear of not knowing what was beneath her was the cause of this irrational fear. I have another friend who often teases me for my bug phobia, or Entomophobia, but she is scared of birds. That is to say that she suffers Ornithophobia. So we all have them - heights (Acrophobia), planes (Aerophobia), spiders (Arachnophobia), enclosed spaces (Claustrophobia) ... we each have our poison.

All of this leads me to my point, on the wall of the entrance into the courtyard of our hotel was the biggest, fattest moth I had seen in some years and I was so flapped. Every time I walked passed it I kept my eye on it and I lengthened my gait. Poor Mel, to be going out with such a fool ...

There are several ways that I like to wake up in the morning. One, is to the sound of magpies singing. I don't know why I like this, I just do. Another is to the smell of bacon and eggs being cooked by someone other than me. Another is by the sound of children playing. I can say that one way I do not like to wake up in the morning is to hear a man in the throws of passion. Despite my wont, at 7:15am Mel and I were woken by just such a thing. I can't remember ever hearing such a thing. The lack of self-control was really quite disconcerting. This guy really had a pair of lungs on him, too. Mel and I wanted to get a look at him, but we couldn't isolate the source of the yelling. A shame, that. I would really liked to have tried to have made him a little uncomfortable about it. Lord know he deserved at least that.

Anyway, that morning we walked past my 'friend', the moth, and looked for breakfast. As is norm, Mel picked our eating spot and, again, according to one of my two criteria she had failed because she had picked a spot that was rather less frequented than those I could see around us. As is the norm, I acquiesced rather than entertain her fourteen criteria. As was becoming the norm on Folegandros, our waiter was not presented as well as I have come to expect in my everyday life. He was shoddily dressed and his hair was a mess. His presentation was not helped my his largesse. In short, our waiter looked like a slob. He was forgetful, too. I ordered yoghurt with fruit and nuts and it came without nuts. Our drinks did not come at all, until we pointed this out to him. However, not for the first time on Folegandros, there was sense in overlooking these things because our waiter was a good guy. He liked to chat. He asked where we came from and, to him, Australia was an exotic place he aspired to visit. He had plans to go to the Whitsundays and cruise from island to island and bask in the sun. And after each conversation we had, he would squeeze my shoulder (in a heterosexual manner, I assure you ... not that there is anything wrong with that!) like a long-time friend might do. I liked him. Which made things all the worse when the Ugly Americans turned up.

Every nation has its ugly travelers. Ugly Australian travelers are loud and sometimes drunk. Ugly English travelers are loud and invariably drunk. Ugly Americans think things should be just like they are in America, no matter where they travel to. Take the two Americans who were dining not too far from Mel and me. The male of the two was trying to order eggs over easy. No matter how loudly he said it, or how slowly he said it, he could not understand why the person taking the order - my good friend Slobosaurus Rex - couldn't understand what he wanted.

I knew what eggs over easy meant. So did Mel. But this is more of a result of the overt Americanisation of Australia (and displacement of local culture, I am afraid to admit) that is taking place rather than the ubiquitousness of the term worldwide. Indeed, I have tested this out on many colleagues in the UK and I can tell you that not many Brits at all know what eggs over easy means, either. Nor do they know what sunny side up means.

So at the American's third loud and slow attempt at asking the waiter for eggs over easy, I interjected, 'Excuse me ... he means that he wants you to fry the egg, and then flip it over and quickly cook the other side'. With that, the American's simultaneously said 'Thank YOU!' to me and made the eyes at me like it was a relief that not everybody at this restaurant was a moron. Slobosaurus looked at me and said 'Thank YOU!' and looked at me like it was a relief that not everybody at this restaurant was a moron. Mel and I looked at each other like we knew exactly who the morons were.

Cultural exchanges complete, we finished our breakfasts (which were OK, but nothing to write home about), asked for the bill, waited (and waited) for the bill and then headed off. We saw Red T-shirt from the night before, setting up the Melissa restaurant for the day, and he gave us a wave. I thought that was a nice touch.

One thing I could not get over was hoy many times we saw Orthodox Priests out and about socialising. We had seen them at dinner the night before and again this morning at breakfast. I am not a religious man by any measure, but I imagine that having priests among the people in such a way gave them more credibility and made the religion more accessible. Coming from a Catholic background, I had never seen this before. I cannot ever remember seeing a Catholic priest hanging out with his posse on Chapel Street. In London, I have never seen likewise in SOHO. I think the Catholic church are missing a trick. It is not like the Catholic church does not need a few recruits around about now ...

By now we had formed some opinions about Folegandros and several of these differed from what we read in the Greek Island Hopping book we were packing. The book told us that the island did not have an ATM. Because of this, Mel and I tool plenty of cash to Folegandros - something in the area of €400. Well, I can tell you that Folegandros does have an ATM. The book also stated the island was expensive. To us, the €75 for our room was a steal and the restaurants were affordable too. The book might also have mentioned there was a lack of good, modern hotels on the island. Again, we Mel and I thought the Anemomilos was a fine example. We walked around the town again and found it to be more lively than when we had first arrived. It was not what I would call vibrant, but it had its charm. Shops were open, we could look inside and the people we found in them were generally obliging and friendly. Mel almost bought an snorkelling set, but thought better of it. This turned out to be her biggest mistake of the entire trip. More on that later.

Over breakfast, Mel and I had contemplated a lazy day by the pool at the hotel, but on the way back to the hotel after breakfast decided that we should check the bus timetable and, if the timing was convenient, that we would head down to the beach. Sure enough, the timetable was conducive to such an excursion and we went back to our room to grab our beach essentials - a towel and a book. On the way back to the bus stop we ducked into a cafe-come-milk bar by the bus depot. I did my best to charm up the rather attractive attendant there with me best 'Tikanis ... Kala ...' but I did not get the effect I was looking for. Certainly, she did not respond in Greek. I looked closer. If I did not know any better, I would have guessed that she was not Greek. Eastern European, maybe? With the expansion of the EU, finding an Eastern European in Greece would not be unusual. But Folegandros? What would bring her here? We would eventually find out, but that would not be until the next day.

On this day, though, fifteen minutes after buying some drinks for the beach at the cafe-come-milk bar staffed by the (maybe) non-Greek we were on the bus to Agathi beach.

On the bus, I could not help but reflect. If I had come to Folegandros as a younger, single man I would have been disappointed as there is not a lot to do, in younger, single man terms. But contrasting Folegandros with the busy time we had in Santorini, it all made sense. The people are friendly and not relentlessly selling. There seemed to be more locals here than tourists. On the plus side, this lent a homely feeling to the island. The slight downside is that, on occasion, we felt like we were intruding on their lives. Certainly, we felt that way at the bar, after the wedding, the night before. I was warming slightly to Folegandros, but at that point I could not see myself returning.

Introspective complete, the bus arrived at Agathi. What a nice beach it turned out to be. The sand was OK and the water, again, was crystal clear with those same little fish coming right up to the landline. The water was quite warm. We were sheltered from the wind - Mel's pet hate at the beach. Like a duck to water - pun intended - Mel jumped into the water and looked at me to do the same. My old swimming chestnut raised its head again. The water got very deep, very quickly at Agathi and I was concerned about being able to keep afloat, so my water activities were restricted to a gentle and shallow wade. At this point, the penny had finally dropped and Mel fully accepted that I can't really swim. Unperturbed, she used some nearby rocks as a diving platform. She was having a ball. It was at this point that Mel caught site of some fellow swimmers who had brought along their snorkelling gear and were having a great time. As I said, biggest mistake of the entire trip.

I, on the other hand, was baring witness to a remarkable spectacle. A man who was about 55 who had been doing some snorkelling came out of the water and onto the beach. He then reached for his groin. I thought he was just doing a little 'adjusting', which men need to do from time to time, especially in a beach environment. Then he reached into his swimming trunks, which I thought was a bit much. He might have needed to adjust himself, but a little subtlety might be required in this public, family environment. It was then that we pulled an octopus out from his swimmers. Amazing. He must have come across this one while he was snorkelling, killed it (or at least, I hope he killed it, for both of their sakes) and then stored it down his trunks for the swim back to shore. I do not think I haver been so impressed - and disturbed at the same time - by what another man has done with his swimming trunks. This, I reasoned, is what manly men do.

But he had another surprise in store for me. He started fiddling around his trunks again ... and pulled out another octopus! How could I ever look at myself in the mirror again.

What a great couple of hours at the beach this had turned out to be. And according to the locals, this was not even the nicest beach on the island. Depending on how windy the day was, there were several other options.

That is when my own penny dropped and I started to understand what Folegandros was all about. Nice beaches, easy to get around, not much to worry about ... this was a great place to relax.

We headed back to our hotel on the bus we arrived on. I decided that having been to the beach I really ought to get my hair wet and took a dip in the pool. It was here that I experienced the first rule of Australian international travel: you will almost always come into contact with another Australian. Australians travel. It is what we do. I would like to tell you why, but to be frank I am not certain. Perhaps it has something to do with the geographic isolation of Australia itself. Perhaps we need reminding that we are part of the world at large. Regardless, the first rule of Australian international travel took the form of Betty and Roy from Hawthorn, from my home city of Melbourne. They were cycling tourists who had been cycling their way through Europe before meeting up with some friends on Folegandros. They did not like Santorini. They were watching their pennies and on Santorini, that meant having accommodation right beside a nightclub that stayed open until 4am. I understood that though, of course, did not share their experience. They went on to tell me about all the little towns they rode through in Europe, most of which drew blanks from me. Still, they were both very nice and it was nice to touch base with some countrymen.

If there was one thing that was certain on this night it was that I was going to choose where we were going to eat. My two criteria were going to reign over Mel's fourteen. Not that Mel did not try to enforce her will upon me, lobbying for an admittedly cute and romantic restaurant just outside of the Chora. But at up to €25 for a main meal - close to top notch London prises and about four times what we were seeing at the other restaurants on the island - I put my foot down. Instead, I chose a place that was in the centre of the Chora and elevated, so that we could see into and over the Chora. On the previous night it was full to the brim and on this night it was not much less so. It must be good, I presumed. I presumed correctly. Dinner was great. We opened up with a mixed entrée, I had grilled aubergine for a main while Mel had a chicken dish. Yum. The woman serving us - tall and reasonably fair haired - did not look Greek to us at all. She looked rather more Germanic or Dutch. What would bring a German or Dutch woman to the island of Folegandros to serve to expat Australians? We would eventually find out but that, too, would not be until the next day.

We could see Red T-shirt's restaurant, Melissa. They started of quiet. Then a group of eight came in and things got rolling for them. They were full of patrons in no time. I could not help but think that all was right in the world. Or at least my part.

Contented, we headed to the bar from the night before. Devoid of inebriated post-wedding goers, it was a great place to be. The owner was clearly a gadget freak - Yamaha amp, Bose speakers and a very expensive mixing desk indicated that. There were a wide range of beverages. The girl working the bar - the same from the night before - was very friendly and made whatever we asked, even if she had not made it before. She was keen to learn. To that end, if you should ever find yourself in this bar you should find that ordering a lemon, lime and bitters or a Kahlua and milk is not a problem. They only played Greek music in the bar, but unlike on Santorini it seemed apt and I would not have had anything else. Speaking to the bar-girl, she told us that the wedding last night was not of locals, but of mainland Greeks who often came to Folegandros every year. Or every other year. The day before, I would not have understood that. On this day, however, I understood that just fine.

We headed back home to retire for the evening. Falling to sleep was different than the night before. Last night I could not help but think, 'What are we doing here? There is nothing here ...'. These thoughts were replace by the satisfaction of looking for something - a quiet, restful, enjoyable, out of the way spot that not so many other people have been to - and finding it. I slept rather well that night.

Chapter 12

2007-01-21T12:14:00.000Z

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There is an old gypsy curse, may you get what you want. Or something like that. I can't profess to being an expert on all things gypsy. I can't profess to being an expert on anything gypsy. My complete lack of gypsy knowledge aside, I could not help but feel that I had become, at least in a small way, a victim of this curse.

Vardia Bay, of the Greek Island of Folagandros was decidedly non-descript. It was even a little baron. As at Noussa, the water was very clear and little fish came right up to the landline (if anybody can tell me what these little fish are, please do). But thankfully, in comparison to the hustle, bustle, smell and throng of the ports we found in Paros and Santorini, there was very little commercial activity going on. Certainly, it ws not the hell on earth of Pireaus. There was one girl handing out car rental brochures, though even she was unobtrusive and not imposing.

A bus sat at the port waiting for its new lot of passengers, which included Mel and me. The bus driver was a friendly guy, which was unusual for a Greek Island, in our experience. He was about 50 or 55. He seemed nice.

And then it happened. Something that had not happened on any other island. We had taken buses on Paros and on Santorini and they had never done on their buses what then had happened on this bus. As we stepped onto the bus, the bus driver smiled and then ... then he took our money in exchange for tickets!

'What is the big deal?', I hear you asking. Well, as anybody who has ever been to the Greek Islands before will tell you, you don't pay the driver as you get on. Oh no, that would be too simple. Instead, the driver waits until everybody gets onto the bus - and can I tell you that in the case of the bus that runs from the New Port of Santorini up to Thira this will invariably be one crowded bus - and then he will start driving. Only then, the drivers faithful companion - the fare collector, if you will - walks through the bus and amongst all of the people collecting fares as the bus rocks to and fro and lurches from side to side.

They'll have none of that on Folegandros. It is much too ordered for that. Much too calm.

The drive to the Chora revealed an arid, almost desolate countryside. I wish there were more to report. I certain wished it at the time. I asked myself 'What are we doing here? There is nothing here ...'

We arrive at the Chora during what must have been the siesta part of the day. At least, that is what I was hoping. Almost nobody was around. It was all very quiet. There was one conversation between two locals that was taking place. But that must have been 45 metres away. We never would have heard it in a 'normal' town because it would have been drowned out by the din. There was no din here. In fact, I felt compelled to speak quietly for fear of disturbing the peace. 'What are we doing here? There is nothing here ...'

As soon as I got off the bus I was on a mission to find accommodation. Given my problems with accommodation in Santorini, I was eager to get that sorted out as soon as possible. On Folegandros, however, this was dead easy. Mel pointed at a room about 20 metres from the bus depot - if a small, dirt roundabout where the one bus on the island stops can be called a depot - overlooking a sheer drop into the ocean and before she could say 'It might be nice to stay there ...' I made a b-line for the reception of the hotel in which the room was located and had the proprietor and host,Cornelia, showing us to a very nice room that would cost €75 a night. Wouldn't you know it, the hotel - the Anemomilos Apartments - had a pool. A nice pool at that. With all the boxes ticked, we told Cornelia that we would take a room for two nights. The only problem was that our rooms were not cleaned yet from the residents of the night before. Along the lines of making lemonade from lemons, we headed into the Chora for a look-see.

The Chora did not look out over the sea as Santorini does, so it was not so picturesque. It was not well maintained in the manner of Parakia on Paros had been, so it did not have that charm either. In fact, the word non-descript came to mind again. Maybe it would have helped if everything was open, which it was not. Maybe it would have helped if the woman who served us in the supermarket - one of the few things that was open - had been a little friendlier. Maybe it would have helped if she was friendly at all. Maybe it would have helped if there were some people around. 'What are we doing here? There is nothing here ...'

With nothing much else to do, we headed back to the hotel room. Still, they had not been cleaned from the night before. Again, along the lines of making lemonade, we took to a seating area the hotel had beside the pool and ordered a couple of drinks. This, actually, turned out to be a nice place to be. As we sat waiting for our drinks we stared out over the sea. Through the haze we could only just make out a couple of other islands but to this day I do not know which islands they were. The proprietors' son then came out with the drinks. He was decidedly non-Greek looking. Sure he had dark skin, but he had green eyes which I thought was less common. His hair was also lighter than I had expected. But his drinks were good and that, on this day, was what mattered.

By now our rooms were clean and we could move in. Cornelia had been nice enough to arrange to have our bags taken to our rooms while we had been waiting. All that was left to do now was get acquainted with our rooms - which were pretty good, I have to say - and make for the bed for the afternoon snooze.

We woke up rather hungry. I was also at a bit of a loose end. Really, we had done nothing all day. I was not certain whether we had just wasted a day of our holidays. I looked out from our balcony onto the Chora. There were many people heading into town dressed in their best. Clearly, there was something happening in the town tonight. We showered up and headed back into the Chora for something to eat. By night, the Chora looked much better than it had during the day. The town was well lit, but with soft lighting so that it looked warm and inviting. Even a little romantic.

But romance does not feed a hungry stomach. Well, not for long. When choosing a place to eat, my preferences take back seat to Mel's. With good reason: when it comes to deciding on where to eat I might have two criteria at any given point in time and Mel will have fourteen. It is much easier for me to let Mel choose a restaurant that accounts for her fourteen criteria and then fit my two around her than to choose a restaurant myself and hope that her fourteen criteria might be met.

Why, then, Mel chose the Melissa restaurant - other than the obvious fact that it was her namesake - is beyond me. It was kind of empty (and, for the record, for me an empty restaurant might mean the restaurant is not that good - occupancy is one of my criteria). It was not the best looking around either. Nor was it particularly well positioned nor did it have a nice view (location being my second criteria). What it did have was a waiter with a slouch, a mono-brow and a singularly unfashionable red t-shirt. It was at that point that I needed to give myself a reality check. We were on a small, quiet, little known island where men's fashion and the aesthetic appeal of two separate eye brows are not only low on the agenda but are, perhaps by definition, foreign. And we were the foreigners. So with that thought, I gave myself a brief mental slap about the face and decided that it was time to order. To my delight, moussaka was on the menu so I was up for the third round of the Moussaka Challenge. It was pretty good - nowhere near as good as that in Paros but significantly better than I had tasted on Santorini. Mel's calamari was also pretty good, she told me, though perhaps lacking in salad. Moreover, Red T-shirt was friendly and obliging which, of course, gave me cause to give myself a second mental slap about the face.

After dinner we headed to what might be the only bar in the Chora. It had a certain charm. It was small. Tiny, almost. The girl behind the bar was friendly and attractive. There was an older couple at the other end of the bar. Mel and I ordered our drinks and made for a quiet corner of the bar. Soon enough, though, there was no quiet corner of the bar. It turned out that the people we saw from our hotel room balcony heading into town were doing so in search of a wedding. Well by then, it seemed, the wedding was over and the slightly younger guests from the wedding were looking to continue the night's drinking. Now the bar was heaving and Mel and I were drinking whilst trying to keep our elbows close into our bodies, which is never fun. The Greek music was blaring from the admittedly quality audio system and, Greeks being Greeks, the crowd was dancing. I do not know why, but this was all lost on me this particular evening. I did not want to be around it. I might have even been sulking. With that, we headed home.

For our first day in Folegandros, that was fairly well that. I couldn't help but feel slightly underwhelmed. There didn't seem to be that much to do and I was not certain that I had any interest in that kind of holiday. So as I went to sleep there was only one thought on my mind. 'What are we doing here? There is nothing here ...'.

How wrong I was.

Chapter 11

2007-01-14T13:59:00.000Z

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You might have heard of the actor Bill Pullman. Born in Hornell, New York, he made his big-screen debut in 1986 in the comedy Ruthless People, which starred Danny DeVito and Bette Midler. Bill followed that with lead roles in Spaceballs, The Serpent and the Rainbow, The Grudge and, among many others, Sleepless in Seattle. I have done the research and he really does have an extensive body of work. Nevertheless, he is not the first actor you might think of, given any particular situation.

The following day we said goodbye to our gracious hosts after breakfast and we took the taxi that Mr Rigas had arranged to take us down to the Old Port. Sure, it cost €15 - much more than the bus would have cost - but it was a far more civilised way to get there. And given that the Old Port is one of the less civilised places I have had occasion to visit, I viewed the taxi ride as the teaspoon of sugar that made the medicine go down. Part of that sugar was our taxi driver who - rare in my experience with taxi drivers, London Black Cabs aside - was a likeable character. Not only did he arrive on time but he was friendly and knowledgeable, so that when we told him the island we were heading for he replied, 'Ah! The Dimitroula', in reference to the boat we were about to catch. A quick check of our tickets confirmed his knowledge.

I have to say that the name Dhmitroula did not fill me with confidence. Just as Fairstar, in Australia, was the funship I kept thinking that the slogan for such a ship might be 'Dhmitroula, the death ship'. This is silly, I realise.

We had a more than a little time up our sleeves before our slow boat was due so we grabbed something to drink at one of the dubious looking cafes located at the port. If you are watching the pennies, this is a bad move and I would advise against it. It cost us €2.50 for a Sprite and €3.50 for a frapaccino. Ouch. Surprisingly, to me anyway, was that Mel told me that it was a damn good frapaccino. This brings me to a point: the Greeks make a damn good coffee. Not that I drink coffee, but if Mel's feedback can be used as any guide you should find good coffees for the drinking in Greece, even in a dodgy spot like the Old Port of Santorini. Contrast this with the difficulty Mel seems to have in finding a good coffee in so-called cosmopolitan London and it makes you wonder why the hell the Poms are finding it so difficult to learn how to make a coffee. Briefly, I will put in my two cents here: I blame the proliferation of coffee-chains in London (Starbucks and Cafe Nero come to mind) and the surprising lack of Italian and Greek emigrants here (surprising given the proliferation of just about every other nationality here in London) who bring coffee making skills and tastes with them. This is one of the things that makes my home town of Melbourne in Australia so wonderful: The Poms may tease Australians for what they perceive as a lack of culture - an assumption made due to the comparative youth of Australia as a nation. But the abundance of first, second and third generation Australians of foreign origin has brought with it many positives including, or so I am told being a non-coffee drinker, great coffee that is abundant. Which is why, it seems, the chain of Starbucks is not making quite the speedy inroads into the Australian market that it has elsewhere. How do I know this? One, I watch a too much TV and I think I picked up on it on a current affairs show in Australia. Two, we met some Starbucks employees on our travels. But the remainder of that story is one island hop away. So I had better return to this slow boat we were waiting for.

As the Dhmitroula pulled into the port I could not help but notice that it was not a new, shiny boat by any stretch of the imagination. I immediately had my doubts as to whether it was a well maintained boat as the hull was discoloured with what might have been rust, especially where the part of the boat the anchor retreats into when it is not in use (which I trust has a name, but I am no seaman, confirmed by my lack of swimming ability). We board the boat and following the instructions of the crew we make our way to a seating area known as the Pullman Seats, though I cannot be certain whether or not they are named after the not-the-first-actor-you-think-of Bill. These seats are are strictly economy class. At the time of purchase we were not given a more expensive option though at that point in time I kept thinking that if there was a more expensive option avalaible then we should have taken it. I make certain that I am aware that the life jackets are about 15 metres directly ahead of me (note to self: life jackets are called Zozibia in Greek - that might come in handy) and I sit down in my allotted seat which, again, was some distance from where Mel's allotted seat was.

What was it with the people that book the tickets in the Greek Islands? Not that the girl who booked our ticket wasn't a nice girl. Indeed, this particular girl was the classic example of how charming Greek women are when it all comes together. She was charming, confident - almost bordering on bossy - and with slightly sleepy eyes that show that she is going to do things her way and at her pace. Though she had more facial piercings than I am comfortable with, she was helpful, patient and, yes, attractive. At least Mel thought so ...

Anyway, mindful of the incredibly rude woman we had previously seen in full flight on the Naxos and not wanting to create such a scene we sat alone and far apart in the Pullman section of the Dhmitroula waiting for it to fill up. It never did and just after we pulled out from port I went to join Mel.

I probably need to explain my nervousness about being on a boat that looks far from the state of the art. The simple truth is that Greek Island ferries not only can sink, but they have. Quite recently, in fact. In October of 2000 the Zeus III ran aground just after leaving Naxos for Santorini. It sank in 20 minutes. Despite the lifeboats on board being out of use, all 38 passengers were rescued although an 82 year old American tourist died later due to a heart attack. Three days earlier the Express Artemis ran aground carrying 1,026 passengers. It was refloated and could continue its journey to Piraeus and, thankfully, no injuries were reported. Two days earlier the Express Samina - sister ship to the Artemis - hit an islet as it approached the island of Paros. Water rapidly filled the lower decks and the ship sank within half an hour of the collision. At least 77 people died. The Express Samina would have been taken out of service the following year on reaching the 35-year age limit for Greek ferries. Every time the Dhmitroula shuddered - and though I do not know why, but it did shudder quite regularly - I looked at the sign marked Zozibia and thought about the Express Samina.

Fortunately, my thoughts were distracted by a couple, also in the Pullman Seating area, one of whom had the loudest most annoying mobile phone ring tone. As it turned out, it was a Greek dance tune, but it could just have easily been Girls Aloud - it was just plain annoying. And the owner must have been popular, given how often it rang. At the risk of sounding just a little staid, what happened to phones that just rang instead of sang?

Then the boat shuddered again. Dhmitroula, the death ship.

Fortunately, the other couple in the Pullman section came to my rescue again. The girl of the couple, not happy enough to have an annoying ring tone, was now playing a song on her phone on speakerphone so that we can all share in the experience. I think it might have been the same song as the ring tone, but I cannot be certain because even this early on in the holiday all Greek music is sounding the same to me. Not happy with this, she starts to whistle. Whistle. Whistle loudly though, it must be said, with no vibrato as she could not have been older than 28 years old. By now, you should know my policy on whistling so you can make up your own mind as to my level of angst at that point. Not happy with her level of public annoyance, she then starts to click her fingers. Sure, she kept great time and I can appreciate that. But I can't say that I was appreciating the talents of this one man band at that point. At that point I am almost begging for enough silence to return to my 'Dhmitroula, the death ship' train of thought. Certainly, the boat tried to help as it shuddered again and again. But the annoyance of this woman ... it was really something.

And her boyfriend did not turn out to be the voice of reason to take her off this course of nonsense. He did not touch her on the arm and in a lowered tone tell her 'Darling, there are other people on this boat and they may not appreciate all of this noise you are making ...'. Rather, he joined in by dancing a jig along with the speakerphone, the whistling and the finger snapping. On top of this, he started playing with his beads.

'Playing with his beads' is not a euphemism for something else rather less sanitary. I saw many Greek men with a set of beads - about 10 beads - on a string about 8 inches long. They would either just shift them about, much like you would beads on an abacus, or flick them around like mini-nunchucks. It is this flicking that drove me a little crazy because they make noise. Not loud, nor rude. But annoying just the less. But as travelers to a foreign land ... well, you know where I am going with this.

It was, then, with great relief that I walked up to the top deck so that I could witness our entry into Vardia Bay. Vardia Bay is the main port of the island of which I knew the least about. It was my off-the-beaten-track island. It was the island most people miss on their brief encounters with the Islands. And that is what made me nervous. Did people avoid this island for a reason? Or was it just small enough, just out of the way enough to have eluded detection on most people's radar?

And with that thought in mind, we stepped of the Dhmitroula and onto the island of Folagandros.

Chapter 10

2007-01-03T00:10:00.001Z

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The more I get on in life the more I realise that life is all about interpretation. Take, for instance, the story about Irene Chrysovalantou.

The year is 303 A.D. and the Emperor Diocletian prohibits everybody and anybody from possessing the Scriptures - as in bible scriptures - in what I can only assume was an attempt to halt the spread of Christianity. Despite this, a woman and devout Christian by the name of Irene Chrysovalantou was found in possession of said scriptures. This crime, along with refusing to deny the Christian faith, put her in a spot of bother with the local authorities.

As punishment, the local governor had her sent to a bordello. A house of prostitution, if you will. Not satisified with that, the governor insists that she spends her time there naked and has her chained up so that every young dumb and full of ... trouble ... lad and every scab ridden sailor could take advantage of her with a minimum of fuss.

But a funny thing happened. Not a soul laid a hand on our Irene, despite the ease of access and government encouragement to do so. Rather miffed, the governor had her put to death either by being burned to death or shooting an arrow through her throat or both, depending on who is telling the story.

Now, from where I sit at my kitchen table, there are three possible reasons as to why nobody touched Irene during her time of incarceration. One, is that the good lord rewarded her years of devout Christian faith by protecting her from the intentions of the local lads. The second was that those who knew Irene as a good sort - as in a good woman, not one to sleep with - protected her from the intentions of the local lads. The third possibility is that Irene was a thoroughly unattractive woman. The christian orthodox church chose to settle on option number one and made her a saint.

Saint Irene is the namesake of the Greek island of Santorini.

But Santorini was not the original name this island. The original name was Thira. I have no idea as to the significance of the name Thira and struggle to find references to it in the New World Encyclopedia, otherwise known as the World Wide Web.

I mention all of this for two reasons. The first is that the Greek government is in the process of officially reverting Santorini to its original name of Thira. For me, I feel a little saddened by this as all of my memories here are gathered under the name of Santorini and I will have one less story to tell at dinner parties - the story of Saint Irene. The second is that today - in the scheme of telling my Greek Island hopping story - was day-trip-on-a-boat day and on that day we were going to Santorini's live volcano, Io and Thirassia - or little Thira.

First thing in the morning we headed down to The Old Port, as opposed to The New Port where we had first arrived, via a cable car. In sharp contrast to The New Port, which is busy, crowded, noisy, smelly and generally not a great place to be, The Old Port has its charm. It is small,unfussed and perhaps even a little picturesque. We were running a little late so we hopped on the boat quickly and were on our way to see the volcano.

Of course, when you think of volcanoes you think of hot, running lava, steam shooting up from the earth, and maybe the odd geiser. At least, that is what I think of. There is none of that going on at the Volcano of Santorini (or, Thira, if you must). Here is the odd plume of steam - if you look closely enough - coming from cracks in the ground. There is volcanic rock everywhere. And, you know, I am as excited by rock as much as the next man. As long as that next man is not a geologist. It is baron, almost martian. The odd place smells like sulfur, but then again so does the bathroom after Mel has a decent session on the toilet. But I paid my €1 admission fee to the volcano and got to tick that box, so that was that.

The boat then headed off to one of the hot pools in the area. They are hot because of the volcanic activity in the area. As we approached the hot pool, we could identify them by the discolouration of the water. About 25 metres from shore the boat turned around so that the stern faced the hot pool and dropped anchor. In a flash Mel had stripped down to her bikini and looked at me to do the same. Not that I was wearing a bikini, but you get the idea. And this is where I need to digress.

I remember being a six year old boy in Grade One at St Albans East Primary School going to swimming lessons and rather enjoying the learning of the skill of swimming. I might have enjoyed it, but my Physical Education teachers did not because I had a habit of swallowing what must have been litres of the chlorinated, people infused water. There are, of course, many jokes to be had about my inability to keep my mouth shut, even at that early age, but I would ask that you keep your mind on the story at hand.

The effect of swallowing so much pool water was that it would cause me to vomit. On the bus on the way back to school. Hence, my P.E. teachers' reticence to take me on swimming lessons. This reticence eventually turned into omitting me from swimming lessons altogether and the legacy of this remains: I can't swim. Well, at least not in any meaningful way. I could probably keep my head above water for a minute, maybe a minute-and-a-half. I can swim, maybe, 25 metres. Maybe. And, by my reckoning, it was about 25-30 metres from the stern of the boat to the hot pool by the shore.

Clearly, I am not shy about telling the story behind my inability to swim. As an extension of this, you should assume that I had told Mel about it. I can add that I have probably done so on several occasions. Yet, there we were on a glass bottomed boat (oh ... did I mention our boat had a glass bottom?) in the middle of the Mediterranean with a hot pool 25-30 metres away that we are supposed to swim to and Mel is looking up at me like a Golden Retriever looks up at its owner just after the owner picks up the dog's lead in preparation for taking it on a walk through the park. Suffice it to say that I had to send Mel off on her was on her own and I played the role of bag-man.

Oddly, this was not to be the last time that Mel - to my bemusement- was of the thought that I had, over the 5 years we have known each other, somehow overstated my lack of swimming ability. But for now, back to the glass bottomed boat.

With Mel safely back on board and with me safely handing her bag back to her we made our way to Thirassia. Mel and I chose the front of the boat as our vantage point and I must say that I enjoyed myself thoroughly. It was not a perfect day, climatically speaking, but it was a good one - perhaps 25-27 degrees Celsius - and there was only the odd cloud in the sky. The spray made by the boat surging through the water would occasionally treat the bow dwellers to a cool and refreshing spray. The water was clear. The view up from the Caldera of the sheer faces of the islands was, if not quite breathtaking, certainly inspiring. Which made me all the more angry to see a man to the starboard side of the boat flicking his cigarette butt into the majestic Mediterranean.

I have referred previously to the Greeks' love of smoking. I have also previously mentioned my genuine belief that as travelers to a foreign land that we can not expect the locals to hold the same beliefs as we do. If the Greeks want to smoke, let them smoke. If they want large billboards up in their cities encouraging more people to smoke, let them have large billboards. If they want to sell cigarettes to young people ... and I understand if you feel this point is arguable, it certainly makes me a little uncomfortable ... then who are we to say otherwise? And if these people want to smoke in a restaurant - an enclosed,indoor restaurant - well then, as visitors to a foreign land, we just have to suck it up (pun not intended). But it is beyond me how any self respecting human being can look the natural beauty mother nature has to offer right in the eye and then throw litter into it. This is probably the mentality that turned Piraeus into the cesspool that it is today and I think the Greek government should legislate in this area to protect its environment. In other words, I think this knob who doesn't know any better than to throw his cigarette butt into the jewel that is the Mediterranean should be fined to such an extent and with such regularity that he soon learns that such an action is not acceptable.

It is with some surprise then that I say that the waters around Thirassia, and most of the Greek Islands we went to visit, are really quite clear. And there are fish that come right up the shore in search of food. Nature, it seems, can be quite robust.

Our guide book said that only fisherman and sailors frequented Thirassia and that tourism did not have a great impact here, so I was not expecting much. I was pleasantly surprised. The port is OK in that it is fairly clean and not too busy. Some of the people from our boat tour had decided their experience of Thirassia would be to wade in the shallow, clear waters and I get that: this would be very relaxing and we did not have the time on Thirassia to do much else. Mel and I, though, thought that we might take a quick look at the main village of Horio, which like Fira on Santorini, is at the top of a sheer cliff face. Unlike at Fira, Mel and I thought that we would walk there, up the zig-zagging path that was much like the zig-zagging road the bus from the Old Port of Santorini took to get us to Fira. This path, though, was a pedestrian only affair. Pedestrian and donkeys, as it turned out.

Just as on Santorni, one option of getting up to the town from the port is ride a donkey. The things is that I am not big on riding animals - they have a mind of their own and I would prefer not to be on one if they should suddenly think that they don't particularly like having someone on their back while they are climbing a bunch of steps. So I convinced Mel that the ten minutes we were told it would take to walk up to the town would not only be an adventure, it would also be an opportunity to burn off a small portion of the many meals we ate during the day (holidays being holidays). Now, I am not saying that the walk from the port to the town from the port is any more than ten minute but I can certainly say that it FEELS like it significantly more, especially when a group of smiling, happy fellow tourists atop a pack of donkeys pass you as you sweat, puff, pant and occasionally swear. My tip here is to spend the €4 and to be just a little brave - if donkey riding is not your thing - and get yourself on top of one of these trusty steeds. Should the steed you are upon decide to start break-dancing half way up, just remember that my policy is that of all care, no responsibility.

Mindful of our time restrictions, we only took a brief look around Horio. It is a sleepy place and our walk was only disturbed by a restaurant at the top of our climb who was hawking for business. Tourism here is, no my at least, non-existent. Saying this, I could see myself staying here if I could find a reasonable room at a reasonable rate and a place to eat. I am not certain if such things exists, but I hope that they do. To an extent, it occured to me that the relaxed nature of Horio should be what visiting the Islands is all about. Thankfully, on our trip, we would find such a place. But that would be getting ahead of ourselves.

We returned to the port and had a bite to eat at one of the several cafes there. Mel had a swordfish souvalaki, which she quite enjoyed. The lamb version, which I had, was rather less satisfying. Nevermind; by that time, we had a boat to catch.

Second last stop on the itinerary was to stop over a reef which, of course, plays to the strength of the glass-bottomed boat. This was rather underwhelming as aside from the odd small fish I did see one rather large eel. The most excitement for me occurred when an older lady nuzzled her head between Mel and me to get a look. Personal space for this woman clearly was not an issue, though I took a little pleasure trying to stand closer to Mel, creating a tight grip around this womans neck. I am surprised she got it out when she chose to.

The boat then passed my Io and we had the option of getting out there and making our own way back to Fira. Given our visit to Io that day before, we opted to stay on the boat, which then returned us to the Old Port. And at the Old Port something that surprised me and that was to surprise myself.

Despite my angst about riding animals I decided to join Mel on the adventure of a lunch time that is riding the donkeys back up to the town. Now, there are two ways that I could interpret the donkey ride. One is that the donkeys are damn smart and well trained because with a minimum of fuss and a disturbing lack of interest and intervention from their handlers as they navigated their way up the steps. Sure, they squashed the odd pedestrian against the walls of the path along the way, but that is part of the charm. Sure, when one group of donkeys needs to get passed another group of donkeys heading in the other direction there is a crush and thrust that I can only describe as a rugby-like donkey scrum, but this is part of the adventure.

The other way of interpreting this donkey ride is that I am one hell of a donkey-rider. I am sticking with the latter.

Either way this was just about the best €7 (for both of us) that I spent on the trip. I did, however, have a pang of guilt when I saw one of the donkey operators at our destination treat my trusty steed a little more roughly than I thought he (or she ... I am not an expert and I did not look, to be honest) should have been treated with. It made me think that perhaps the life of a pack donkey was not all it should be.

All in all this had been a good day and we returned to the hotel to prepare for the evening. You will recall that we had to move rooms on each of the two nights we stayed at the Cori Rigas and while that could be viewed as inconvenient, it did give us a chance to have a look at what else the Cori Rigas had to offer on the back of the wonderful room we stayed in the night before. Again, the room was fabulous. It was quite small - certainly smaller than you might think for the price - but the bed at the far end of the room had a window right beside it, from which all you could see was the caldera. It was just like sleeping on a platform that hovered over the mouth of the ancient volcano. I loved it.

That night we ate at Pirea and while the food was only OK the service was good and prompt, the latter we found to be rare in these parts. Over dinner we discussed the only real goal I had for this trip and that was to find an island that I had not been before and was off the well worn path tread by other travelers. This island would be quiet and peaceful and beautiful. It would also have a few eating a drinking options and the people would be friendly, not overly conscious about making a buck a tourist-driven-buck and relaxed. It turned out that we found such an island, but first we had to get there.

Chapter 9

2007-01-02T23:14:00.000Z

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This day had begun in a decidedly average fashion. And, in this case, I use the word average as a euphemism for rather below average. Facing eviction from our room at the Athina I was faced with the challenge of getting us some new digs for the night. The reason it was I alone and not Mel was that I was the one who had turned down the Scirocco the day before. I had my reasons, but Mel would have been happy there. After all, it had a pool. But today was a new day and I really could not be bothered running around looking for accommodation again so I thought I would go, cap in hand, back to the Scirocco. It was about 10:30am. Again I was greeted by Arthur the Albanian, but this time his tone was slightly different. "No ... we do not have any rooms! Why didn't you come back last night?". No need to rub it in, Arthur. So I headed closer into town and I tried a few more spots. No luck. It was getting late - after lunch - and I was worried more boats would be docking bringing more tourists and more people requiring accomodation so I had to hurry. In desperation, I back tracked to a point about 50 metres behind the Athina and found the Cori Rigas Apartments. Speaking to the Proprietor, Mr Rigas, who manned a table in the restaurant area. We could have a room for two nights as long as we were happy changing rooms each night. Not perfect, I thought, but it will do. I ask if I can see the rooms. "No ... all full ..." came the reply. Hmmph. Regardless hunter (as in hunter/gatherer) fashion, I took much pride in telling Mel that I had sourced or accommodation for the next two nights, despite the fact that I could not get in to see them. We left our bags with him, in the restaurant area. I wanted to leave him a deposit to be certain of retaining our room. Mr Rigas would not have it. He seemed like a nice man but I wanted to be sure of our accommodation. "You have better things to do with your time than arrange accommodation with me!" he said in a understated yet reassuring tone. At the same time, two Australians were checking out. When they spoke to Mr Rigas, they referred to him as Mr Rigas. I do not know why I found this reassuring. We then spoke, as countrymen are prone to do. Great place, they tell me. Mr Rigas is a good man, they tell me. Lived up to the feedback they had heard, they said. I certainly hoped so. My fears were to prove unfounded, but I was not to know that as we set off for Io on an inherently unstable quad bike. That, I believe, is where we were in the story.

Or rather, we were leaving Io. Mel again took the reigns of The Hog - the 50cc quad bike - and we headed to the black beach of Perissa. To get there, we had to go back down the backroads to Thira and on to Perissa. Traffic was getting a little busier so it was not quite as uneventful a ride as was the one to Io. But I am here to tell the tale so I can say that the trip did not end how I had feared on many occasions along the way that it might.

On arrival we found the soundscape to be dominated by a wedding reception taking place in one of the bars. It was really loud. Inescapable. We strolled down a path that ran alongside the beach which was full of sunbeds. On a black beach, of course, sunbeds are a necessity. Lying down on a volcanic beach's black sand does not go well with ones designer togs. Or any other togs for that matter. There was a very large woman on the beach who had no togs on at all, which was rather unfortunate. On the other side of the road was the obligatory blue-domed white church and the entire stretch was peppered with eateries. And that, as far as Mel and I at Perissa was concerned, was that. Time to get the wheels turning again for the return trip to Thira. This time, I would take the helm.

Traffic had increased on the roads yet again from the previous occasion and it was starting to make me nervous. What's more, the wind had picked up to almost a gale. The flimsy helmets we wore on our heads - much like baseball helmets, but thinner and lighter and, in the case of my helmet, with an exposed bolt sticking into my head - were blowing off. Mel thought I took a couple of corners too fast and thought I should have slowed down to account for the wind. Should have ... could have ... suffice to say that we arrived in Thira, returned the bike and headed to the Cora Rigas Apartments for our first look at our accommodation for the night. We met up with Mr Rigas in the now familiar restaurant area and he took us down to our room.

Score! It was a long room that extended into the ground itself, underneath a donkey track. There were two distinct sections - a reception room at the front and a bedroom that is accessed through a pair of double doors that was quaint, authentic and romantic all at once. The furniture is not as old as the 250-year-old room itself, but it is suitably un-new. Our balcony overlooks the caldera nicely. Mr Rigas explained the workings of things in such a manner as to be totally charming. Mel did not get her pool at this place, but the look on her face told that she was as taken with this place as I was.

Happenstance is a funny thing. If I had initially accepted the Scirocco things might have been easier and Mel would have had her pool. But I would have been underwhelmed and this would have weighed down the entire leg of the trip. We might have gotten lucky, but isn't that what island hopping is all about?

Chapter 8

2007-01-02T21:47:00.000Z

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I buy, therefore I am. I am certain that this would sound better if it were in Latin and it is not like I didn't do a fair old Google to find out what the phrase might be in Latin. Never mind. What it means is that if I feel I want to do something or be something then I will purchase the paraphernalia associated with said thing. If I want to feel like I am a better keyboard player than I am, I will buy a keyboard. If I want to be a guitarist I will buy a guitar, and then an affects unit, and then and amp before I even think about a lesson. Then there is Mel's favourite example. Before I got my motorcycle licence and before I even knew I wanted to ever ride a motorbike I bought a helmet, a jacket, some jeans with Kevlar inserts and some very serious boots. I bought the gear so, in my mind, I was already 80% the motorcyclist. Thankfully, I purchased a scooter (much loved) about a year after that so most of the gear came in handy. With the glaring exception of the boots which would have looked out of place on a 600cc tourer let alone a 150cc scooter traveling around Melbourne's CBD.

Of course, the purchase of motorcycle safety gear goes hand in hand with my risk averseness, or rather my awareness of things that can go wrong. I remember being around the age of eight or ten and reading a sealed section of a Wheels car magazine in Australia. It covered road safety and the sealed section was required as it had photographs of what could happen when the roads weren't so safe. I recall one photo vividly showing one perfectly formed - if bloody - leg and the other leg which was the source of the blood. A motorcyclist had come off and the bone of leg that hit the ground had been sheered out of the leg so that the leg's skin and bone was attached to the cyclist's hip, but below that they were separate. I would rather do what I can to avoid that.

Which brings me full circle as to why I got my motorcycle licence in the first place. On my previous occasion the Greek Islands I couldn't help but think that getting around the Islands on a scooter would be both exciting and convenient. Of course, my awareness of what could go wrong meant that I was hesitant to hire a scooter. I had no experience on a motored-bike other than the BMX I attached a lawn mower motor to (long story: another time) and, remember, I did not have the associated gear so I could not have been ready for it. It is all about the gear. When I returned to Melbourne I fairly promptly booked in for lessons at Honda's HART centre at Tullamarine and in due course got my licence.

Before Mel, who also has a motorcycle licence, and I had left for this particular trip to the Islands we discussed whether we would be riding scooters at our destination. Given my safety concerns and the limited packing room available in our commendably small bags we decided that we would not.

On arrival, the allure of the scooter-hire was immediate and powerful. Mel, particularly, felt a strong pull. But Mel is that sort of girl. She went skydiving and laughed all the way down. She abseiled down a 15 story building in the City of London and complained it was boring. She is the opposite of me in this area - she has a complete unawareness of what can go wrong. Either that or she has a strong ability to ignore it.

Admittedly, I too was interested in this forbidden fruit and as soon as I gave Mel a whiff of that interest she had me inside a rental garage and had her credit card and licence out. Based on a previous positive experience in Hawaii, she opted for a quad bike.

Quad bikes are an odd thing. Logic says that four wheels on the ground must be more stable than two. However, logic also says that a quad bike does not lean and is quite tall in comparison to the width and length of the footprint its four wheels make. That is a long winded way of saying that quad bikes are inherently unstable. This inherent instability, along with a complete lack of safety gear, was at the forefront of my mind as Mel drove us via the backroads to the beautiful city of Io, to the south of Santorini. Yet even in my highly stressed state - and I can say that even when I am not so highly stressed that I am relatively highly stressed - I could not ignore the wonderful scenery along the way.

How we came to take the backroads to Io is a story worth telling. Early on in the journey, Mel and I stopped at a petrol station still well within Thira. Old school style, a pump attendant came out, took the cap off the petrol tank, peered inside and told us we would only need €3 to fill the tank instead of the €5 we had asked him to put in. Nice of him, really. Then we asked him the way to Io. At first, he pointed us down the main road, which was well signed as being the route to Io. Then, just as we were about to leave he gave us the local tip for a better route to Io, via the coast. His English was not great, but a wave here and a 'Ella ... ella ... ' there put us in the right direction. I really appreciated his effort and left him a tip. And I can tell you it was not the kind of tip that I gave to the dodgy mini-cab driver that took us to Gatwick. Back to the most unstable road trip.

The trip to Io was, surprisingly, without incident. Sure, Mel turned off the wrong way once and we ended up doing the kind of all-terraining that quad bikes are designed to do. But traffic was light and the roads - perhaps due in part to acceptance into the EU - were quite good and we arrived in Io in one piece (if you have ever seen the move that Tom Arnold makes in True Lies, where he takes cover from machine gun fire behind a pole and then check to see all of his bodily parts are still attached you will get some idea of how I was feeling when we arrived at Io).

Io looks great. Its buildings are beautiful and authentic in the Greek style. But it is not as old a city as first appears. In the 1950's, Io was ravaged by an earthquake. This is not surprising, of course, as Santorini is built on a volcano. Io was rebuilt, thankfully, in the traditional style leaving us with the beautiful village we were seeing on this day. If you have received a postcard depicting a blue-roofed, white church on a Greek Island then the chances are that the photo was taken in Io. It is difficult to take a picture in Io that does not look like a postcard. This is not an exaggeration. It is often said that the sunsets in Io better even those in Thira, though I have not experienced this first hand. It is on my to-do list.

Mel and I spent the day taking photographs - or postcards, if you will - and ambling about. We made a few enquiries about accommodation and were pleasantly surprised by how much cheaper it was compared to similar accommodation in Thira. Certainly, if I am on Santorini again I will opt for accommodation in Io.

After I used up my second 1/2 hour of internet access at a surprisingly located EasyInternet spot we headed up to a roof-top cafe for lunch. This was my only unpleasant experience of the day. We ordered four things from the menu, but several more items arrived at our table that we were ultimately charged for. I could have made a fuss, but I could not see how I would prevail. Besides, it was quite pleasant looking out into the caldera from this new (for me) vantage point and I did not want to ruin it by getting into an argument with the locals. Still, beware of this tactic should you find yourself in the area.

All photo'd out, it was time to get on the quad bike - aka, The Hog - and to get those wheels a'turnin'. We were headed for the black beach of Perissa.

Chapter 7

2007-01-02T20:20:00.000Z

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September is shoulder season in the Greek Islands and with that in mind I thought two good things would happen. The first is that we would be able to obtain accommodation rather easily. I had done this island hopping previously and I never had any problems, other than on the party island of Ios (of which I will speak later). The second is that we would be able to get this accommodation at a reasonable rate. More than reasonable, in fact. Again, referring to my previous sojourn I fondly remember that the Greek Islands represented tremendous value as a holiday destination. This was confirmed by our cheap finds on Paros.

But this was Santorini and, importantly, this was Santorini post Euro. Everything was more expensive and if this was shoulder season I would have hated to be among the throng at its peak. We took ages to find a place, not helped by Mel's aforementioned desire to stay at a place with a pool. We were quoted up to €283, albeit for the stunning Porto Fira (really, I liked it a lot but €283 is big bikkies). Coming in at €110 was place called the Scirocco where the nice (yet somehow spooky) guy that greeted us there suggested that we were much better off buying our own supplies at the supermarket when I asked what the provisions for breakfast might be. I think he missed the point a bit. We took a look at the rooms at the Scirocco and I have to say that I was not impressed. They were clean and tidy enough, but they were not what I had expected we might settle on. On my previous visit, I stayed in a wonderful hotel near the town, dug into the cliff face of the caldera. I could not settle for the Scirocco.

What we did settle on was the Athina hotel, at €180 per night. Certainly not cheap, but this it would seem was the going rate. And Mel got her pool. Besides, the girl at reception told us that we could only have the room for one night. I could look for a cheaper place in the morning.

Finally settled, we looked out over the front of our room. The sun sets on the far side of the caldera, behind Thirasena. The caldera itself is subject to a wonderful blue haze as the sky darkens from the top down as a result of the Earth eclipsing the sun. The Dutch cruise liner we passed on the Naxos earlier that day starts to light up against the background. It has positioned itself to take in the views both of the sunset and the now glowing city of Thira, which clings to the caldera face. The clouds in the sky have two faces, dim grey on top and a vibrant red underneath.

Yes, it felt like we were on holiday. It felt like we were somewhere special.

When the sun had faded to nothing our minds turned to food and drink. For me, this meant that I was on the second leg of The Mousaka Challenge. It was no contest. The second leg of The Moussaka Challenge took place at Strogili in Thira and I can say that Appoloz on Paros left it for dead. The second leg of The Moussaka Challenge was a dry beast compared to the creamy Appoloz offering.

The service at Strogili was also rather tardy. A fellow diner - and fellow Australian, as it turned out - lost her patience, put her fingers between her lips and let out an immense whistle. Thankfully, it she did not whistle a tune or else I would have really lost it. Having obtained the attention of the wait staff, she then loudly - but politely - pointed out that she had been waiting to pay the bill for some time and it would be nice is someone took her money. Some Australians might have experienced what former Australian Prime Minister Paul Keating described as a cultural cringe, but I thought that her approach had a certain charm about it. If I could let out such a whistle, I would have done so then. But my policy on whistling curtails my wont to practice it.

I really like Thira. There is a bustle to it that borders on party-town (which I usually loathe). I believe that there are more bars in Thira than on the whole of the party island of Ios, which is saying something. But there is a greater variety of clientèle in Thira. There are honeymooners and old age pentioners on their retirement trips intermingling with travelers and hen's nights. Besides, the life I had before I met Mel contained memories of two very successful nights I had with the ladies I met in Thira. More successful than I can suitably recount on this blog. Suffice to say that even Mel perks up a little when I recount them to her.

But this evening was not going to be quite like that one. Mel and I went back to our room to gear up for our first full day on this wonderful island.

And on that day, I would do two things I promised myself I would never, ever do.

Chapter 6

2007-01-02T12:16:00.001Z

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You can never get up to early to catch an important ferry ride, I always say. With that in mind, we turned down the Atlantis Hotel proprietor’s offer to provide us with breakfast (at a profit, I am sure … but our host is in business to make money so who am I to take offense?) and made straight for Parikia. Sure, we were early. But that would give us a chance to eat, for breakfast, the quintessential breakfast of Paros – crepes.

No, I did not mean to type Paris instead of Paros. I don’t know whether I expected souvalakis, hommus, and feta to be the sole offering at every restaurant I frequented, but I was disappointed with the amount of non-Greek food on offer in Paros. This artificial need for Greek authenticity did not last, as my wont for Mexican food at a later stage will illustrate. But the preeminence of crepes, pasta and pizza irked me. For me, a holiday and holiday food are inextricably linked: mee goreng in Indonesia, burgers in the US, fruit in the tropics, pretzels in Germany, roast lunch in the UK and beer in Belgium.

So I sit down to eat what turns out to be a massive cheese, capsicum (peppers, for you Poms), tomato and mushroom crepe.

As a person who speaks English natively, it is easy to be smug about how other nationals butcher our language. Never mind that I kept saying 'Good Morning' in Greek - phonetically, Kali Mera - well after 6pm because it was the only greeting I could remember. Never mind that I did not know what 'Thank you' was in Greek (phonically, 'Efcharisto' is the answer, should you be wondering).

Nevertheless, I have no problem that I chuckled for a good few days every time I looked up at a menu board to see that there were two types of crepe usually on offer: sweet and salty. To me, sweet crepes made a lot of sense - I mean who doesn't love Nutella, or sugar, or syrup on a crepe. But who wants a salty crepe? Who wants a crepe with a great wad of salt on it? It wasn't until I realised that, to the Greeks, that salty crepes actually referred to savory crepes that things made more sense. Enter the chuckles ...

Anyway, it was a bloody good crepe and it filled in the time waiting for the Blue Star ship 'Naxos' to arrive which would take us to Santorini. We would have hung around this particular cafe for longer, but a group of adolescents - who really were very nice and even a little charming - were conversing at what seemed to be at the top of their lungs. This was not unusual in Greece. In fact Mel, who is not one to make broad and sweeping statements about anything, felt obliged to express to me that she felt the Greeks were a nation of yellers. As in screamers. Certainly, we often heard (again, phonetically) 'Ella, Ella ...' (translated; 'Come, come ...') being shouted throughout the streets with volumes defying the friendly nature in which they were offered. Not that I am one to throw stones. I am often told that my voice is foghorn-like itself. At breakfast in a cafe, though, it made for difficult conversation. And then came the smoke.

Do the Greeks love a smoke. I hadn't seen cigarette advertising on a billboard for about twenty years, most of which was spent in Australia where such advertising has long been illegal. In Greece they were everywhere. And they seemed to be working because many, many Greeks smoked. Many young Greeks. Just like the young Greeks at the table beside ours.

I was genuinely surprised at the amount of smoke that six pre-adults could produce. Especially given the amount and volume of talking going on amongst their group. It might have raised the attention of the local fire department, but I imagine they were all on a smoke break (cue snare drum roll and cymbal).

I'll say this just once: when you are in someone else's country you have to respect what they do. Just because we don't smoke around food in Australia, or in the UK generally, we can't expect Greeks to hold that value. If you want people who have that value then stay home. Nevertheless, all that smoke and all that yelling did not encourage us to stay at this particular cafe. We headed to the port to catch our boat to Santorini.

And that was not the most pleasant experience either. The boat was well over 15 minutes late all those waiting were gathered around the nearby roundabout in the middle of a substantial amount of traffic. When the boat did come we were hurried into the stern of the boat where the transported cars were kept so that the Naxos (remember, that was the name of this boat) could make up some time. If that was not enough, some guy in very close proximity of my left ear started whistling Popcorn. Popcorn, of all things! When the stern closed the boat itself started beeping out a tune ... something classical, but that is all I remember. Then the whistling guy starts whistling that tune!

I don't understand why people are so comfortable about whistling in public. And I am not talking about wolf whistling or whistling for affect, as in "(Descending tone whistle) ... that's a stiff price, Bob". I am talking about whistling a tune. Loudly. And, if the perpetrator is over 50, with vibrato. If I were to start singing ... say, a showtune ... let's pick Cabaret - loudly and with suitable vibrato, which is none as I am well shy of 50 - then I would attract a measure of attention. None of it positive. Most of it along the lines of 'Loony', 'Shutup', and 'Annoying'. Yet people are more than happy to inflict their whistles upon the general public and, more importantly, me. And if I was to say 'Shutup, you loony ... you are annoying me ...' well that would make me a bad person in the eyes of society. Or so I believe. Let me know what you think. In the mean time, I have a story about a boat to return to.

Once Mel and I were out of the stern of the Naxos, we headed up onto the deck to find our seat. We did not reserve any special seating, or at least not knowingly. When we found our seats,though, we found them to be in a separate area of the ship, much like a business lounge. Clearly, the person who sold us the ticket was happy to charge us a pretty penny for this seat. Certainly, no price options were mentioned when we bought them. Nevertheless, we were in a nice part of the ship and I was not too fussed that we might have paid a premium for our seats.

The second strike against the person who sold us the tickets happened when Mel and I also found that our seats were apart. Six rows apart. On opposite sides of the aisle. Of themselves these mistakes were an inconvenience. But for me - who is aware of what might go wrong - occupying the unoccupied seat beside Mel presented its own problem. Or, at least, problems in my mind: Would someone come to claim their seat? Would things get nasty? Would I not be able to get the seat allocated to me - six rows back - and have to stand on the deck ... alone? Silly thoughts of a silly and petty man, you might think. But wouldn't you know it, my worst fears were realised. Though, fortunately, they were realised upon someone else.

I was in the middle of watching a Greek movie of dubious quality. The male actors all had long hair, Fabio style. They did not seem to be great actors, though of course the subtleties might have been lost on me due to my lack of understanding of the Greek language. Still, I feel there are only so many times so many actors can place their hands to their foreheads and throw said foreheads back in anguish, uttering what seemed to be - to my untrained ears - the Greek equivalent of 'Mama Mia!'. They all wore dark suits and sunglasses. They were gangsters, as it turned out. Anyway, it was around this point in the movie when the gangsters blew a hole in the wall of a safe to steal what seemed to me a floppy cucumber (I don't get it either) when the cucumber hit the fan a few rows ahead. Two women - I thought they were French but Mel thought they might be Greek - confronted a couple. 'Come on! Move! We have tickets! Move! Come on!'. I have always thought of the French (and the Greeks) for being a rather charming lot so I can safely say that these two sows were not what I believed to be indicative of either nationality. When they sat down, they continued to inflict the vociferations upon the rest of the cabin. At least the people who originally had their seats were quiet. These two disgusted me.

Anyway, I got down to reading just a little more Bill Bryson and before I knew it we we in the mouth of the caldera of Satorini. Mel was eager to stay in her seat - I don't think she was feeling the best - but I encouraged her to come up top with me. I had seen this site before and knew that should be disappointed if she missed out. Sure enough, we arrived up top just as the Naxos navigated the narrow entry into the caldera. With the volcanic formations, cliff-side residences and clear water, Mel was soon smiling.

Santorini is really a wonderful place, but before we could experience that we had to trudge through yet another hell-ish port. The new port at Santorini reminded me of Pireaus, which is not a good thing. Hordes of people selling accommodation, smelly motorbikes, loads of cars ... and not a clue about what to do or where to go, despite that I had been there previously. What Mel and I did know is that we needed to catch the public bus to Thira, the main Santorini on the caldera. Certainly, the port was full of buses, but all of them seemed to be chartered by tour operators. We walked all the way to the end of the rather large bus depot and then half way back we spotted a very modern green bus with the word 'Thira' emblazoned across the top of the windscreen. We threw our luggage into the storage areas by the bus's side and hopped on the bus. The port is accessed by a very thin and windy road and, as on my previous visit, I am amazed by the dexterity of the bus driver in navigating it.

About 45 minutes on and we arrive at Thira with only one more obstacle to overcome. Over enthused accommodation hawkers surround the bus and get uncomfortably close - physically close - as we gather our luggage by the side of the bus. Like a swarm of blow flies they offer what they feel are words that cannot be denied; 'Cheap, cheap ...'. One woman in particular I found ruthless and she approached me on several occasions, in spite of me using as harsh words as I am comfortable using. No promises of cheap accommodation are going to win my business on this night. On this night, I will sleep by the caldera. The majestic caldera. All that was needed was some suitable accommodation.

Who was to know how difficult it prove to find suitable accommodation.

Chapter 5

2007-01-02T12:15:00.002Z

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For reasons that are not entirely clear to me, Mel became infatuated with swimming pools during our time in the Islands. On every island we ended up going to we spent at least one night at a hotel with a pool. Often, hotels with pool facilities cost far more than their non-pool equipped competitors. This would not have been so hard to swallow if my otherwise long-suffering-other half were to make full use of such premium facilities. In hindsight, I can safely say that I would be surprised if Mel spent more than a combined 45 minutes in all of the pools we had access to. Not by the pool or looking at the pool, but in the pool. In the water. If I had known that in advance, I might have put my foot down and opted for more reasonably priced accommodation. As it was, my aim was to please.

With this aim to please and motivated by the pool-equipped-at-bargain priced Hotel Atlantis we had found the day before at Naoussa, Mel and I leapt out of our beds and packed in preparation for our move to Naoussa. It made no real sense to do so – we were leaving Paros the day after, the port was easy walking distance from the Hotel Stella and there was nothing really wrong with our room. Nevertheless, pack we did and move we did (How very Yoda of me).

One benefit of moving to Naoussa was that there were a couple of beaches that were just a hop, skip ad a boat ride away. The hot tip we had in regard to the beach we should frequent was Monastiri. Now, I would like to tell you that Monastiri was a fantastic beach. I would like to tell you that the water at Monastiri was clear and warm. I would like to tell you that the beach at Monastiri was crowded enough to allow for a modicum of people watching and sparse enough to allow for the occupation of a patch of sand large enough to avoid that feeling of beach-claustrophobia, should there be such an affliction. Hell, I would be reasonably pleased if I could tell you that Monastiri had a crap beach, that was cramped and where the water was inundated with seaweed. The fact of the matter is that I have no opinion at all. This, of course, must be the case because we never went to Monastiri. Never saw the beach. Never got to put my towel on the banana lounge for hire. Never got to shake the sand out of my towel and onto the couple unfortunate enough to have chosen a patch of sand beside Mel and I, nor were we unfortunate enough to have made the mistake of choosing a patch of sand beside a similarly towel-shaking couple.

You see, for all the talk in the various Greek Islands guide books of the wonderful beaches at Paros there is one thing about Paros that, I believe, is underemphasised and somewhat mitigates the attraction of said beaches. In fact, Paros is plentiful in the one of the four natural enemies of the beach: wind (rain, sharks and donkey urine being the other three. ‘Donkey urine?’ you ask. Patience, dear reader. All will be revealed …). Paros is windy. More importantly, Paros in Autumn can really be quite windy, and without the offset of ridiculously sunny weather – which is de rigour in summer. But most importantly, if you are thinking I am making a big deal about the wind and its effect on having fun in the sun by the beach then I should make clear now that my partner in Greek Island-crime on this particular occasion has an aversion to wind and beaches that borders on fervency.

The upshot of this is that Mel got to pick her hotel with a pool – the Hotel Atlantis – and for the only time on our trip, as it turns out, we got good use out of it. Mel got to sun herself for the first time on our trip and I got to read my current Bill Bryson book. Oh, and we both took the occasional dip. This may not sound like much, and I hate to reiterate, but this is about as imposing as we were to get on any pool we had the fortune to frequent (or is that cost a fortune to frequent?).

But back to Bill Bryson: I love Bill. Well, I love the way Bill writes. Witty, intelligent, interesting and not just a little puncey. But I never finish his books. Short History of the World, Troublesome Words (which is a reference and not really a book, I imagine), Made in America … it is not like I don’t like them, but I run out of puff. I am not certain whether it is me who runs out of steam or Bill who becomes increasingly incessant about things in which I have no interest as the book winds its way to its conclusion. Nevertheless, the copy of Down Under I brought with me represented my fourth attempt at finishing a book written by Mr Bryson. I wanted to know whether he viewed Australia through a similar looking glass as I did and if I could not finish one of his books on the Greek Islands, where being lazy and reading books was my modus operendi, then I would give up on his books once and for all.

It might sound like we had an uneventful day, but I can sum up most of the day in three sentences: We woke up at 10am that morning, were out of the Hotel Stella by 10:45 am to catch the 11am bus to take us to the Atlantis and dropped off our bags in one of the ‘garden rooms’ there; By noon we had lunch and by 1pm we found out that getting to a Paros beach by boat was not an option due to the wind; We made it back to the hotel to hang out around the pool. That’s it. But after the effort of getting to the islands, I was eager to do a lot of nothing.

I punctuated my time by the pool by looking up from my book and laughing from time to time – thanks, Bill – while Mel listened to her iPod. Time was ticking by, but before it came time to start thinking about the 4pm snooze, Mel and I took a walk into and around the town. We took some great photos around the coastline, which was far less developed than I would have expected of any coastline. Nevertheless, buildings were going up. I love the simplicity of the Greek house – they put up a square, concrete frame, they then fill up the gaps with brick and paint the whole lot white. Viola – authentic Greek accommodation.

All of this walking around made us very tired, so it was time for a snooze and post snooze dinner. Dinner was about the least satisfying of our entire trip. We grabbed a spot in a restaurant by the water. As friendly as our waiter was, it did not make up for what was, from the start, an ordinary experience. About now, I should mention that the Greeks love cats. Cats were everywhere in Greece, much to my chagrin and Mel’s delight. They are all strays, yet they are all looked after by the locals. They are in the streets, by the wharves, in people’s homes. And in the restaurants. In fact, they were in the restaurant in which we were eating. Two cats were fighting throughout the restaurant. At first it was little funny. Then it was, like, enough already. I hoped that those who worked there might throw a little cold water on them – that ought to have done the trick. But nobody threw any water, because cats in Greece really do get their own way.

Anyway, back to our friendly waiter, whose approach to serving could best be described as just a bit leisurely. Just a bit. In a fateful moment of indecision, we took up the waiter on his offer to order for us. We didn’t qualify this at all, so I ended up with fish dip.

Now, fish dip for me is one of those foods that I don’t understand how people enjoy it. Fish balls are another. Tuna from a tin is another. The common theme, of course, is that I do not like fish. Unfortunately, the fish dip looked much like hommus and I took a great big swig. I didn’t do it twice.

Then there was the after-meal shot. I accept that most nationalities have some form of moonshine as part of their backwater cuisine, but for me to have one with dinner would be to suggest that I were eating in a backwater. Hmmm …

All’s the while I am staring at a balding – and I mean really balding - lady at the table next to me. My understanding is that women – as a group, worldwide – are increasingly balding. But in Greece more women seem to be going more bald, more often. We saw them everywhere. The upside of this is that they never seemed to wear scarves, so clearly it was not a source of embarrassment within their community. But, again, back to our friendly waiter.

As I get older I am increasingly aware that people are, well, people. This maxim leads to a number of profound observations, including one that a waiter who is as annoying in his tardiness as he is in his fish dip food selection may be the father of a particularly delightful young boy. In particular, I found much delight in the young boy who was the son of our fish dip selecting waiter of tardy disposition not only because he was playing with his dino-mechanical shooting toy thingamajig with the kind of gusto that only a young boy can muster, but he was the only local in the entire restaurant to display any disdain to the still-fighting cats by shooting them with said dino-toy. You have got to love kids.

The night came to an end with a inoffensive bill of €20 between us – including drinks – which almost made up for the otherwise lack lustre meal experience. Almost.

That was just about it for Mel and me in Naoussa. But before leaving, I had a unique opportunity to test my will power. Or, more specifically, Mel’s complete lack of will power.

Two days in and Mel is struggling with the whole pooh-paper-in-the-waste-bin. Sure, she complied. But she couldn't help but whine about it. On a seemingly unrelated topic, I spend more time at home on the internet than I really should. I know it. Certainly, Mel knows it. But with a bit of email here and a bit of Amazon, Google and The (Melbourne) Age there … minutes can turn to hours. And sometimes some more hours.

Bringing these two disparate personal flaws together was really quite easy. Mel was certain that I could not stay away from the internet during the entire trip. I was certain that Mel would whinge about the pooh-paper issue incessantly. Hence, a wager was placed that I would not access the internet – not once – while on holiday. Unless, of course, Mel uttered a single word about her displeasure regarding the Greek Island restrictions relating to toilet paper and toilets. Such an indiscretion would afford me ½ and hour’s internet time.

12 hours. That is all it took for me to get my ½ hour internet access.

Enough distraction. It is time for the main event – Santorini.

Chapter 4

2007-01-02T12:15:00.001Z

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Prior to just about every holiday I take I tell myself that I'll be certain to partake in a modicum of concerted and deliberate physical activity while I am away. A run, a workout at gym ... not overly strenuous but with a certainly regularity is my intention. To that end, I will pack some gym kit – runners, gym shorts, t-shirts I am happy to write-off to sweat. However, with the glaring exception of a road trip I once took with a gym-going friend to Sydney from Melbourne around seven years ago my ability to maintain the motivation to do so while I am on holidays is in no way equal to my ambition.

Aware of this, I surprised even myself the following morning when I went on the run-cum-walk that I told myself I would have and met up with Mel in the chora for breakfast at 11 A.M. We both ordered fry-ups, which I realise would have more than offset the benefits of the run-come-walk I just had, when it dawned upon me that we had only booked our room at the Hotel Stella for one night in the hope of finding something a little more up-market. There was nothing inherently wrong with the Stella - I certainly appreciated the single-only beds, as they kept me safe distance from the kind of snoring Mel is inclined to produce, the volume levels of which belie her small stature – but the room could certainly be described as having only the basics. But the potential effort required in finding better accommodation more than offset the possibility of finding such accommodation – which is my way of saying that we both felt like having a lazy day – so I had about 15 minutes to let the hotel know that we wished to stay an extra night or two. I tried to ring them on my mobile, but the phone number I had was the local-only variety and I did not know what international and national prefixes I had to use to make it work. Meal already ordered, I bolted back to the Stella. I was conveniently decked out in my running gear so it seemed a natural thing to do. Pathetically, running for 10 minutes back to the hotel completely exhausted me. Gasping for air, the ladies at reception thankfully picked up on my intentions for an extra nights stay between breaths. I promptly turned around to make the 10 minute return run. Completely out of breath, I returned to the table where Mel was sitting having just been served.

It felt like one of those moments when you run to catch the Tube in London and the door closes just behind you. You look round the carriage hoping that someone has witnessed your uncanny ability to make that particular train journey happen. Occasionally, someone does and nods in your direction in appreciation of your effort. More often, London being London, nobody shows any sign of noticing anything and you smile to yourself and look rather stupid. I like to refer to these moments as Urban Indiana Jones moments. I rather like them. You might reason from this that adrenaline is not a big part of my daily life. You'd be right.

Returning to the room after breakfast for a shower and a change of clothes posed two problems, both toilet related. First, Mel was starting to freak out at the Greek policy of not flushing toilet paper down the toilet and, rather, storing it in a foot-operated bin beside the toilet. The second and not entirely unrelated problem is that I had left quite a reasonable quality deposit in said toilet that was refusing its onwards passage into the greater Greek Island sewage system despite many attempts. Ultimately, I found that a combination of nudging this particular nugget toward the toilets s-bend with the provided toilet brush whilst simultaneously flushing produced the desired result. There's a travel tip you won't find in the other guides!

While we are in the bathroom I have to comment on the Greek Islands showers. Much like many London showers, the shower head is not affixed high up on the shower wall but, rather, is hand held. I hate this. I cannot shake the thought of having another person washing their bits and pieces with one hand and then using that hand to hold the shower head. Then I come along and hold that shower head with my hand and wash my bits. Assuming the it is not in the cleaner's remit to specifically decontaminate the shower head handle on a daily basis, the link between my bits and all other previous occupiers of said bathroom's bits is a little close for my liking. But then again, I am just a bit sensitive about these things.

All clean and presentable, we headed for the general area of the port to catch the bus to take us to Naoussa. Or original plans for Paros were to stay at Naoussa instead of Parikia but 9 p.m. arrival the night before had pretty much put paid to that. All of the travel books and most web opinion had rated Naoussa quite highly – certainly they had painted a more pleasant picture than that portrayed of Parikia – so we were quite eager to take a look at it. In general, the vox pop was right; Naoussa really is quite nice. While I still think that Parikia has the nicer chora, Naoussa has far more appealing views into the sea. Mel tells me she likes the feel of Naoussa and if being lazy is your thing I would have to agree as it has slightly sleepy character. We priced out some accommodation in the area - a couple of places we fancied were Anna's at €25 a night and The Atlantis Hotel, with a pool, at €30 – and these compared very favourably with clean but otherwise spartan Hotel Stella at the aforementioned €25 a night. We were very tempted to stay in Naoussa that night and use the Stella as glorified baggage storage. However, more logical heads prevailed over lunch (which was a lovely grilled veggie and cheese crepe each ... though the Naoussa flies were proving persistent to the point of aggravation to Mel) and we took the bus back home to the Stella. The return bus trip seemed much quicker than the bus trip out and it seemed like no time until we were back at the hotel for the traditional 4pm snooze.

I say 'traditional 4pm snooze' for this is my wont on lazy, summer holidays. I like to get up before ten in the morning, walk about and see the sites and, if time and schedules permit, return for a kip at around four in the afternoon. Waking up at around six means that after showering one is ready for heading out around seven for a look around and pre-dinner beverages. That makes for a meal at around half-eight or nine and post beverages at about ten. Many reading this may feel that I am wasting the best part of the day by having a 4pm snooze, but I am fortunate in so far that Mel shares this wont. To each their own, I say.

On this occasion, however, I slept until about half-seven when Mel's expressions of delight regarding the current sunset she was seeing from our room window woke me. Having been to the Greek Islands before I mentioned that eye-catching sunsets were something she would become used to.

Before getting onto the topic of sunsets, I feel compelled to point out that I am not like the character portrayed by Brendan Fraser in Bedazzled that cries at the beauty of the sunset and I am not like the part played by Wes Bentley in American Beauty that feels that there is so much beauty around him in every day things that he is almost driven to cry all of the time. I believe I am rather more pragmatic than that. Stoic, even. Nevertheless, I also feel compelled to say that even if you never really noticed sunsets before, in your every day life, I would be surprised if you didn't notice them – and notice them with some measure of affection – during any summertime vacation you may choose to spend in the Greek Islands.

So when Mel expressed her disappointment that some low lying cloud was interrupting her view of the moment that the sun touches horizon I was quick to assure her that she would have many more opportunities to such an event.

Sunset gazing done we headed out to find a place to eat. The previous night's dining was so enjoyable that I did not think that we would top it. In retrospect, I think we might have. After a little less effort walking around the chora than the night before we settled on Apolloz, in part because there was a photo of the proprietor standing alongside Sean Connery, presumably taken after he had enjoyed a night of fine dining at Apolloz. As a man I think it is fair to say that most men would follow their instincts to dine where the quintessential James Bond dined. It is all about the innate desire to be more like James Bond. The gadgets. The women. The danger. The death. Ok ... not the death ... but most guys reading this will understand what I am on about.

Our dinner at Apolloz marked the beginning of the Moussaka Challenge. This challenge was to involve my consumption of moussaka at each island we would visit and the rating of said regional moussaka. The moussaka at Apolloz may not have been traditional but it was very enjoyable. It had a gravy-and-soft feel to it that I was not to find at any the other islands we were to visit and I am happy to spoil the ending by stating that I did not find a better example on this holiday.

And thus, having had our first full day in the Greek Islands we headed back to the Stella – and our snore minimising single beds – for the evening.

Chapter 3

2007-01-02T12:14:00.002Z

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There are around 1,400 islands that make up the Greek Islands and these are visited by millions of people every year. Though Mel and I had not yet decided upon our itinerary, Santorini was our only fixed destination. If you have seen a postcard showing the Greek Islands then the odds are that the photograph you had seen was taken in one of the two main towns in Santorini that straddle the Caldera. I had spoken about Santorini to Mel often, warmly espousing the views, the equal of which I had not yet seen. I am also fond of Paros. It has good beaches, a decent place or three to enjoy a beverage and a well presented and picturesque Chora (major town, in Greek Islands speak). Besides, Paros is the hub of the Cyclidic Islands and is inexpensive to boot. Still, I encouraged Mel to get her own opinion as to where we should head by pointing her towards the book Greek Island Hopping (herein most referred to as 'The Guide'), which was to become our confidant, teacher, bible and friend over the next two weeks. It is not a perfect book and is not without error. But it was a useful companion and tool.

Arriving at the new Athens airport – its newness owing to the recent hosting of the Olympic Games, I imagine – was a non-event. It is clean, efficient and not much else. Far from an insult, I mean this as a compliment. An airport, much like an Australian Rules Football umpire, is doing its job best when you don’t really notice it is there. From here, we would need to hop the X96 bus to hell on earth – Pireaus. More on that in a moment.

I knew that the X96 bus was to be our chariot into hell’s own fire after asking the lovely girl at the information counter at the airport. This conversation started in the same fashion so many of my conversations would go in Greece. I would use what little Greek I had picked up living in the outer western suburbs of Melbourne to get the ball rolling and then I would have to throw up my hands after I had exhausted my extensive vocabulary of … oh … ten words.

‘Tikanis’, I would start.

‘Galla’ would come the reply. I knew this meant ‘Good’.

A further reply would then come, ‘Qhdjkdl dhjdl dhdjd hjdl dlaqywtdeuidos lxz …’ or, at least, that is what I made of it. I would then throw up my hands implore the locals for the kind of understanding travellers can never take for granted but always do. I must add that the Greeks I came across, almost to person, were more than happy to oblige with whatever English they had at their disposal. The lady at the airport, I must also add, had more than enough English up her sleeve to address my trivial concerns.

As an aside, I cannot blame the Greeks for thinking that I was Greek after uttering my the very few Greek words I had at my disposal. For one thing, my very few words are pronounced impeccably. There is a sound that the Greeks make in their words that is somewhere between a G and C (or K) that I think I have nailed. Secondly, I imagine my physical features are not unlike that of a Greek man, though I am not Greek. My sister commented as such upon our return during the compulsory viewing of the 300-odd happy snaps that Mel and I had taken on the trip.

The X96 bus takes about an hour to get into Pireaus and was really quite full. A couple of fellow travelers to the rear and locals pretty much elsewhere. Soon after leaving the airport we passed a great big blue building. ‘Ah … already I feel like I am really in Greece’, I thought. ‘They really do love their blue buildings. How nice and how authentic and, moreover, how surprising to see such a magnificent blue building so close to the airport’. It was just about then that I realised that this grand, blue store was, in fact, an Ikea store.

Driving around the outskirts of Athens I could not help but feel slight pangs of guilt. On my previous trip to the Greek Islands I helped a couple of Greek guys, who were brothers, have a great night out at bar called Murphy’s on Paros – continuing the world-wide trend of totally inappropriately located Irish bars - by spontaneously befriending some English girls, some Irish girls and a gaggle of American girls. We all hung out together, dancing with inordinate vigor to Bon Jovi’s ‘It’s My Life’ despite the fact that it had already been played five times that night. We had a whale of a time. Meanwhile the swarm of Italian men who had descended upon the Greek Islands during the peak season and found themselves at this particular bar had to be content dancing with other men. Their friends, I imagine. But men nonetheless. On my last day in Paros I saw my new Greek buddies at the ferry dock and one wrote down their address in Athens. He told me that if I was ever in Athens and did not look them up that it would be an offence to both them and their entire family. The truth of the matter is that I lost their contact details almost immediately and really had no way of getting in contact with them. Still, I could not shake the feeling that my time in Athens represented nothing more that flipping the bird to the parents of two really good guys.

Anyway, with overwhelming feelings of guilt and a new found appreciation for the kind post modern minimalist neo-Greek cubist architecture that is an Ikea building, it felt like no time till we were in Pireaus. The last time I was in Pireaus I felt like it was quite the cesspool. Since then I can say that nothing seems to have improved. It is a dirty, smelly, surly semi-industrial city-come-suburb and we had to kill a couple of hours there before our boat was due to arrive. Countless people of dubious character approached us with equally dubious merchandise to sell. Watches, sunglasses, pirate CDs, binoculars, mobile phone cases and last, but certainly not least, a 10 pack of tissues were mercilessly flogged to us. It did not matter that we were sitting in a restaurant. These people would just waltz on in, insistently showing their wares to Mel and I as we sat at a table eating.

And, oh, in what fine establishments did we eat! One particular place springs to mind. It had a four page menu full of wonderful selections to choose from, but only four of these dishes were on offer. And there was a wide selection beers listed on this menu, but when it came down to it I could choose any beer I wanted as long as it was an Amstel. Eventually, we found a place to eat that was inviting enough. There is a café located at the docks, right up towards where the ships leave from. Sure, we were still pedalled goods of questionable quality and origin, but it was a relaxing way to spend an hour-and-a-half waiting for the fast boat to Paros.

Taking the fast boat is not a cheap option at €40 a piece. Working in the UK, I could take some solace from the fact that there are €1.6 to each GBP. Nevertheless, it didn't take much imagine to see that this rather necessary element of island hopping was going to prove quite expensive. But if you have ever island hopped before and taken the slow boat you know that half way through the trip you will, invariably, lament that you did not dig that bit deeper into your wallet to find the money for the fast boat. If I remember correctly from my previous time at the Greek Islands, the slow boat from Pireaus to Paros , takes about five hours and the fast boat about half of that.

Not that this seemed to be the case on this particular journey from Pireaus to Paros. The speed of the fast boats depends, in part, on reasonably calm waters and I think it is fair to say that the waters on this particular day were not reasonably calm. I do not usually get ill on boats, but on this occasion I did get a little bit of a headache and my appetite was not at its usually voracious level – though this might have been due to the dodgy ricotta pie I purchased on board. Mel tells me that she saw one guy vomiting with much gusto into the tried and true receptical that is the sick-bag. If this were the only upshot of all of this vertical boat activity then that would be that. Unfortunately, though, it also meant that our supposed fast boat took four hours to get to Paros – not much of a time saving given the premium price of the ticket. Worse still, we arrived at Paros at 9 p.m.. Surely all the decent accommodation would be gone by then.

The truth of the matter is that we did not really look so hard for decent accommodation and were happy to settle just for accommodation. Period. And on this rather woolly night in Parikia, the port town of Paros, accommodation was found in the form of the Hotel Stella. The people who ran it seemed nice enough. The room they showed us was clean and, importantly, I was starving so I was eager to put my bags down and clock into a nice restaurant. Besides, at E25 a night – or about £8 each – it was an opportunity to recover some of the expense of the fast boat.

With bags safely allayed, we set off to find a bite. Unusually, Mel was even hungrier that I was. Perhaps that dodgy ricotta pie I bought on the ferry was still having an affect on me. She kept suggesting places to eat and I kept knocking them back, hopeful of finding a place a little more memorable in which to dine. My vision was rewarded when we came upon the Levantis restaurant. It was a semi-open-roofed affair with a friendly waitress. The terracotta coloured walls and loose-pebble flooring lending a romantic atmosphere to the evening. My grilled cous cous was more than passable and Mel's beetroot salad seemed to hit the spot. Dessert was a white chocolate and sour cherry sensation for Mel and a so-so cheese platter for me. The only downside of this evening was that Levantsis would set our expectations for restaurant quality artificially high. It turned out that Paros provided by far the largest number of better quality places to eat than any of the islands we were to visit. In fact, what we could not have known at that point was that the Greek Islands, in the main, are not home to many quality places to eat at all. My advice is this: satiate any foodie desires you might have in Paros before you head off to any of the other islands and then forget your foodie desires completely. This will help to avoid disappointment.

Parikia is roundly indicted – unfairly in my view – by most travel guides. I agree that the views over the water are not the best compared to many other islands, but I feel it has a great mix of things to do and – as I have already mentioned - one of the nicest choras of the islands. The streets are narrow, the buildings are impossibly white, there is a reasonable opportunity to shop and everything was neat and tidy. Certainly, during our search for a place to eat, Mel was impressed.

Fully fed and roughly acclimated with our environs, it was time to retire. It was about midnight and our journey had started at 3:00 A.M. Whoever said that getting there was half the fun must never have, I imagine, gone anywhere notably fun.

Chapter 2

2007-01-02T12:14:00.001Z

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I am often late. I don’t know how that happens. I am acutely aware of how rude it is to be late and worse still to be consistently late. I hate it when other people are late. Yet, despite all of this and the aforementioned setting of two alarms in the morning for special occasions I must – to my own dismay – admit to being one of those perennially late people.

This admission, of course, in no way affected my disappointment when our cab driver rang me on my mobile to tell me that he would be 15 minutes late, 15 minutes after he was due. We booked the cab the night before for 3:30 A.M. and even Mel was asking the rhetorical, yet obvious, question as to whether there is a purpose at all in pre-booking a cab.

It should be noted that we had booked a mini-cab, not a black cab. For readers outside of England, all you need to know is that there are two types of cabs in London: black cabs, which are the ones you will be familiar, driven by drivers who need to obtain ‘The Knowledge’ (a comprehensive test of street and directional knowledge built up over a number of years and, it would seem, being made increasingly irrelevant by GPS and SatNav), and; mini-cabs, which are not miniature in any way I can discern but are, in fact, driven by pretty much anyone who wants to use their private car for such a purpose (this is not quite accurate – a spate of rape attacks by dodgy mini-cab drivers forced the government into introducing a licensing system. In the main, though, the term ‘pick of the crop’ does not come to mind when I think of mini-cab drivers). As you might expect, mini-cabs are cheaper than black cabs. And given that it is about a 45 minute drive from our place to Gatwick and public transport is not an option at the ungodly time we needed it, we were keen to exercise the cheapest option available.

So our mini-cab driver arrives 30 minutes late. This was not such a problem as my proclivity to consider the worst case scenario had trumped my propensity for lateness. That is to say, I built in a fair bit of slack into the morning’s timeline.

The car he picked us up in was more of a problem. It was a dodgy VW Passat, the boot was full of personal items – a pram, some tools and items of clothing, as best I discern at that hour of the morning – and I had to move a bulky, slightly smelly coat from the back seat in order to sit down unhindered by the slightly disturbing thought of smelly-bulky-dodgy-cab-man jacket resting underneath my otherwise pristine buttocks. I could have just thrown the jacket onto Mel’s side, but her tolerance of this would have disturbed me more than it was worth, so I just threw it into the boot.

Our cabbie was about 60 years old and apologised profusely for being late, though something told me that he might just have the same issue with timeliness that I have. Given that we were still on schedule to catch our plane I’d rather he’d apologise for the mess that was his car. Soon enough, I would wish that he would apologise for his driving. Soon enough, he would.

Our vehicle kept moving from lane to lane. I wasn’t so bothered as I reasoned that our driver was making use of the kind of space that become available on major arterials at 4:00 A.M in the morning. It wasn’t until the cabbie spent a disturbing amount of time and distance on the painted divide that separates freeway (or motorway, depending on your dialect) from off ramp that I thought something might be awry. The near merging into a fast moving truck confirmed my suspicions (I must confess; I let out a yelp).

Five minutes out from Gatwick the cab driver confesses that his erratic driving is due, in no small part, to him having left his driving glasses at home. For the next five minutes, every available set of eyes in the car were focused on the road ahead.

You may be surprised to know that I still left the driver a tip at the trip's conclusion: ‘It is dark; your are old and quite blind – wear your glasses’. Forgive me for indulging in such an obvious gag.

Mel and I canter up to the notifications screen, looking for the gate from which our 6:25 AM EZY5085 flight to Athens to due to depart. But if you arrive on time there is a good chance that your flight is still a country or so away, so there is no way that the airport staff can know the gate at which your flight will be arriving. Knowing this, I still fret somewhat until a gate is allocated. Eventually, Gate 13 appears against EZY5085 on the notifications screen and we make our way over.

I do not consider myself a bad flyer but I do consider myself a bad take-off-er. My logic is hard to question: as a rule, planes crash when they take off and when they land. At least when you land, as my train of thought goes, you are on the way to a safe place to land. So I figure it is worth being a little edgy on take off.

And it is at that point, when the engine noise of the aircraft escalates from loud hum to formidable roar in preparation for take-off that the phrase ‘Low Cost Airline’ takes on a particular resonance for me. Where exactly are this mob cutting costs? Sure, there are the things we see – the lack of food service, the cabin crew that are ever so slightly eclectic than, say, the cabin crew on a Singapore Airlines flight. And I am certain they meet all the safety standards the ‘premium’ airlines meet, but who do they employ to meet these standards? Mechanics who are only good enough or qualified enough to be satisfied with less pay? And what of the pilots? Is an EasyJet pilot paid the same as, say, a British Airways pilot? If it is less, what kind of pilot does that buy you? One who has come just out of training, perhaps? And whilst the cabin crew was headed up by a suitably camp head steward (‘… please watch as the ssscintillating Sonia indicates the direction of the plane's exits …’ - I am not exaggerating in any way what our head steward said, this line is verbatim) I took very little solace from that alone.

Did I say I was not a good take-off-er?

Chapter 1

2007-01-02T12:12:00.000Z

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I am not the kind of guy that finds relaxation easy to come by. Some might call me uptight. Others might call me panicky; a worry wart. I like to think that I am just more aware of things that just might go wrong.

I have a routine common to many men – The Three Amigos. Just as The Three Amigos went Hands on Shoulders, Hips then Thrust … Whoa , my Three Amigo move is Wallet, Keys, Mobile … Phew. This is a manoeuvre shared by many men, but I make it my own by doing it constantly. Constantly.

When I have a plane to catch, I check, and check, and then check again not only that I have my ticket, passport and other travel accoutrements, but that I have not read the time of the ticket wrong, that I did not read the airline incorrectly and that I am going to the right airport – even in a one airport town. And I check. And check. And check again.

When I stay in a hotel, I take my own towels. I mean, who knows whether the cleaners have changed the towels since the previous occupant? And if they have been cleaned, how do I know they have been cleaned properly? And what kind of filthy, dirty laundry has been thrown in together with these towels? Can I trust that? Can I leave that to chance? No – I’ll bring my own, thanks.

As I said, I like to think that I am just more aware of things that just might go wrong.

So I can say, with a certain heightened sincerity, that I was surprised as anybody when I was due to return from my previous trip to the Greek Islands I mistook A.M. for P.M. on my Easyjet plane ticket. Normally, that would not matter. In the normal course of events I would have checked the ticket the night before. I would have then checked the ticket again first thing in the morning. The whole journey to the airport would then become one long ticket-checking exercise. But this did not happen. I trusted that I had correctly distinguished A.M. from P.M.. So when I walked into (the Greek) airport around 6:30 PM I was a little surprised to see that my flight number and changed. It didn’t even occur to me that anything was awry. There was a very long queue at the Easyjet counter. As it turned out, their computer system had gone down. I know this, because I asked a girl at the counter why my flight number had changed. She was so unable to comprehend the stupidity of my question that she went off to find out why. Then it dawned on me: I should have been there at 6:30 AM, not PM. When she returned, I asked if I would fit on the next flight. She had no idea. Of course she didn’t: the computers were down.

At that point I did something completely unexpected. I chuckled. If I was stupid enough to confuse A.M. with P.M., I reasoned, then this I should be prepared to pay a certain price. That price, as it turned out, was a one way ticket on the next British Airways flight to Heathrow.

For me, this was a complete paradigm shift. No stress, no fuss. Go with the flow, spend a bit more and get on the next plane. And then smile. I can only put this extraordinary response down to one thing and one thing alone.

It would seem that I had found the ability to relax.

I wish I could claim total responsibility for this newly found status. I wish it were all my doing. For if it were, then I would surely have learnt something. I would have learnt that there is more to life than the petty trivialities I allowed to occupy my mind. Instead, my pedantic, phobic and – dare I say it – anal demons have returned in full force. I wipe my Coke can before I drink from it get the gunk off it – a habit originally borne for fear of catching Leptospirosis from rat urine that may, potentially, reside around the rim (I know, of course, that this is highly unlikely but I still struggle to break the habit). I open toilet doors with my pinky as I am least likely to stick a pinky into my eyes, or nose, or any other orifice likely to warmly welcome any nasties I might pick up (pointer fingers, I have witnessed, find their way into all kinds of places). And now I rather enjoy slipping a t-shirt over hotel pillows, as a kind of pillow-prophylactic, should I have to stay at a hotel.

No, I am fairly certain that it was the Greek Islands themselves that brought about this dramatic, if temporary, change. The sun, the (sometimes) sand and the (complete lack of) surf are terribly compelling. Combine that with a lifestyle of sleeping, eating, reading, sleeping, eating, dancing, drinking and sleeping again and, of course, the laid back Greek nature and, well, something had to rub off.

So it was with much anticipation that I looked forward to the current expedition to the Greek Islands. I had spoken about it often and in much detail with my long-suffering partner, Melissa (herein referred to as Mel, Moo, or The Other Half). I had shown Mel photos and told her plenty of stories about my time in the Greek Islands. It would seem that I had delivered a more than sufficient sales pitch because it took very little persuasion for her to start looking for prices of airfares on the web and even less persuasion for her to hand the completion of that task on to me.

I could write at least a chapter outlining my disdain for the on-line travel booking. Bugs in web sites, important information given insufficient emphasis on the booking page, the fact that some sites only accept a certain subset of credit or debit cards and that other sites accept a completely different subset … let’s just say that I hate online travel booking.

The problem is that I hate offline travel booking (that is, going into a travel agent) even more – they don’t ring you back, or they ring you to sell you something when you don’t want anything, they upsell you … I would rather deal with a bad web site than a bad person, but I still feel I maintain the right to whinge about it.

Suffice to say that I ended up booking (another) Easyjet flight online. It cost more than I initially imagined it would, the web site was buggy (as best I recall) and I just swallowed the inflated price, the inconvenient departure times and the generally negative booking experience in order to get the damn thing booked.

Soon enough the big day came – as big days do. I set my mobile’s clock to go off at 3:00 A.M to catch a cab to get to Gatwick for our 6:25 A.M flight (did I mention something about inconvenient departure times?). I also set my travel alarm to go off at 3:15 A.M. – remember, I like to think that I am just more aware of things that just might go wrong.

Little was I to know that something just might have gone seriously wrong, due to the forgetfulness and myopia of our cab driver.