Tag Archives: Holiday

Halkidiki revisited

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A few days ago we travelled back to where we spent our first Greek holiday – 35 years ago. But instead of travelling via plane and coach we arrived by boat.

Back in the 1980s, and newly married, we had scraped together enough to book a kind of bargain B&B package holiday in Greece… somewhere! We knew we would be staying in a B&B nearish the beach on the Halkidiki peninsular – the rest was a mystery. The room and location would be chosen by the tour operator – filling empty rooms we guessed.

We had landed at night in Thessaloniki and piled onto a bus, while the travel guide told us we would be dropped at our “surprise” hotels! We asked where we were going but it was just a name and we weren’t any the wiser. After lots of stops and as the coach got emptier and emptier, our names were called as the bus drew into what appeared to be the middle of nowhere! As we stepped off the coach into the balmy Mediterranean night, we could make out a square three story building with a few lights on at the entrance. We were ushered to our room with a balcony and as we fell asleep we wondered what we would wake up to the next day. We hoped it might be a little bit of paradise – a million miles from our little terrace in Nottinghamshire.

When we woke up bleary eyed the next morning, the light streamed in. From our balcony we could catch a glimpse of the turquoise water on the other side of the Taverna. I remember the water was so clear and such an amazing colour, with the sun shimmering across it, the sand soft and hot. We ate meals under the trees, walked a few kilometres to the nearest town along a wide road and enjoyed boat trips, scooter rides and lazy siestas in our room. We were very happy to be located out of the town in what felt like the countryside.

Locating this little country Taverna 35 years later turned out to be tricky! For one thing it turned out to be on the westerly peninsular called Kassandra, rather than the middle one, as we had imagined. And from google earth, there also seemed to be buildings all along the quiet beach we remembered. Could it have changed so much in 35 years? After a long search on google earth and street view, scouring our memories for distinguishing features on the landscape we reckoned we’d located it – the balcony and shape of the building matching our memories of photographs of me, in the days of stringy bikinis!

Setting sail from Porto Koufo we set our course on the far peninsular – little more than a blue haze on the horizon. What felt a long time later we were both scouring the shore with binoculars trying to pinpoint the right part of the beach. Eventually we spotted the only square flat roofed building the right distance from the town, but no longer on its own, it was one of a string of buildings on a busy umbrella-laden beach.

Once anchored off we paddled boarded to the beach still not quite sure if this really was the place. But as we wandered to the front of the building behind the beach it all fell into place. Although there’d been changes, it was still recognisably the place we had stayed in 1987.

A friendly member of staff asked if we needed anything and we unfolded our story. He was delighted we’d made it back. Yes, they were one of the first hotels in the area and had been all alone by the main road, until more development popped up over the years and a new main road was built. In fact his grandfather had built the place and it was still a family run business.

We enjoyed a frappe overlooking the beach, just as we had when we’d stayed there. But this time instead of looking out on the water wishing we could be on it, we were looking across at yacht Riou – bobbing on the bright blue sea in front of us.

It wasn’t quite as beautiful and tranquil as it was all those years ago, but it was a lovely trip down memory lane and we were pleased, having come all that way, to have found our little piece of history together.

Then it was back to the boat to catch the wind for the distant shore, where further adventures awaited.

Goodbye Magnolia

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Blue sky. Turquoise sea. White walls. Not a spot of Magnolia in sight, which is some kind of atonement for the most stressful final ‘March out’ last week.

Now I’m lying in a white washed room listening to the water lapping on the shore, just metres from our blue shuttered doors. Thankfully it’s all behind us and almost forgotten.

There’s nothing like packing your rucksack and hopping between Greek islands to put a bit of distance between us and those frustrating military systems.

We’re part way through our Greek summer adventure (part 1) and have sampled the delights of the magical island of Santorini. We enjoyed a roof top pool with a panoramic view and sipped G&Ts on our balcony looking down on cruise ships and yachts floating past beneath the soaring cliffs of the volcanic island. We also tried out the crazy local buses to the old town of Oia and wandered the paved narrow streets filled with blue and white pottery and scarves.

On Friday we set sail for Paros on our second ferry. I felt quite smug skipping past other foot passengers struggling with huge suitcases as I mounted the stairs, very happy with my rucksack. I was slightly less impressed a few hours later carrying food and water, plus the rucksack, and attempting to get on the water taxi to our beach. We perched on the front of the little boat with two girls and I was pleased that I managed the jump off onto a concrete jetty without a drama. We were almost there.

We had hoped to be collected by our Air BnB host, but her car was off the road, so we were on foot. It wasn’t far along the beach, but the bags and the rucksack were getting a bit heavy in 32 degrees plus. I tried to match the giant strides of my travelling companion ahead, marching beside the sea, with a row of sun beds on the left. “Not far now,” I thought. Seconds later I was flying headlong onto the sand, as a small trip sent me face first onto the beach. There was no chance to rebalance as the weight of my rucksack sent me hurtling forward. I was unhurt, but embarrassed, as a walnut tanned man came forward to ask if I was OK. Didn’t I know there was an age limit for wearing a rucksack? I laughed and struggled to my feet unaided and followed the long strider, who was totally unaware of my fall!

Dropping the bags beside a tree below a pretty blue shuttered building, I checked my phone for our host’s number and picked up a message from her to say she could pick us up after all, as she had managed to borrow another car! The phone had been off to save the battery… Oh dear, we’re here now anyway! She kindly carried my shopping into the room, which had another view of turquoise water, framed by a line of trees and pink flowered shrubs.

Having spent a large proportion of our budget on eating, drinking and transport in Santorini, we counted out the remaining cash on the bed. We needed to economise a little, so we stored away our food and downed some water. Luckily we had a bottle of duty free gin to keep our spirits up!

The first night we enjoyed a take away delivered to the door, which we managed to make last for two days. We would splash out on a frappe later – with 2 straws!

Looking at our beautifully white washed walls, I can only smile now about last week’s ‘March out’ fiasco, which left us both seething, but has now become something of a joke! Who will be first to spot something painted magnolia?

When we moved into our army house almost four years ago, we’d asked permission to paint a few rooms white. At the time the man in charge had said it was fine, and that we didn’t have to return them to army standard magnolia, as long as it was a neutral colour. We’ve really enjoyed our fresh white walls, looking out on the rolling hills and the sea beyond.

At the ‘March out’, the person checking the house shook his head and announced that all the rooms painted white must be returned to magnolia or we would be charged. No amount of explaining what we’d been told would do – we had nothing in writing and the man in question had now left his post.

The house, he admitted, was spotless and a good deal cleaner than when we’d taken it over. The white washed rooms looked crisp and fresh, but they were not “army issue” magnolia, so unless we painted them back there would be money to pay for redecorating. Adding insult to injury the same man had visited our quarter a few weeks earlier to check for any issues and told us all that needed doing was to tidy up the garden and do our best with limescale in the bathrooms. He had failed to spot the offending white walls, which would have given us a chance to redecorate or time to fight our case.

What should we do? On one of the hottest afternoons in June, the one of us that wears uniform asked him to return the next morning after we’d repainted. (The other one sulked and muttered about writing to the newspapers;) I have never engaged in decorating with such bad grace and I have never disliked the colour magnolia so much as I did that afternoon. After three days of solid and nail breaking scrubbing and cleaning in the house, we had planned an afternoon relaxing at our favourite beach. Instead we sweltered with rollers, paintbrushes and dust sheets, returning our rooms to a dull magnolia. The job was made even more infuriating knowing, as our neighbour pointed out, that the next occupants would probably prefer white walls.

It’s done now and thankfully the Greeks love white! You can be sure when we next need to choose colours for our home Magnolia will never be an option!

Sticks and stones and broken bones

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The sound of a wailing siren growing louder was some kind of relief last Monday, as I shivered on the steps beside our hotel. An hour earlier I’d been posing for photos in the cable car and toasting a great day on the slopes with a beer and apple strudel at the top of the mountain. Now all I could think about was the pain in my back and how much it hurt to breathe.

After almost 30 years of injury-free ski holidays, it seems my luck had run out. I had managed a spectacular slip on the way to the ski lockers which, while skis and poles went flying, had somehow thrown me against a concrete wall beside the steps and it felt like my back was splitting open. When the men in red arrived from the ambulance, there was an amusing moment (if I’d been able to laugh) as they asked if I was wearing something to hold up my chest. All done with sign language. “Ah, you mean a bra? Yes I am! But I can’t take it off!” Luckily, my shocked ski-buddy was able to help them out, although undoing my bra didn’t stop the pain.

I remember a very tricky transfer onto a stretcher and being manoeuvred into an ambulance. Up above I saw two fellow hotel guests we’d shared a meal with the night before waving sadly at me from their balcony – I tried to smile back, knowing it was the end of my skiing for that week. In the ambulance I tried to answer questions about levels of pain between 1-10 and my address and date of birth, when all I could think about was how much each twist and turn and bump down the mountain roads was hurting. I knew I was breathing too fast and eventually the oxygen mask they’d fixed to my face began to help.

I’m not a fan of hospitals. I have a tendency to burst into tears when I walk into one – pathetic I know! This time it was full of people speaking Austrian, with occasional spurts of English. There were a lot of men in white coats and clip boards and worst of all my special person was sent away to the waiting room while I was wheeled off for a scan. Sometime later I was told I’d broken four ribs, plus a little damage to some bones on my spine, but that was nothing to worry about, apparently. I wasn’t going home yet.

On the ward the nurses were friendly and kind and spoke great English. Throughout the first night I was looked after by a nurse who reminded me of Villanelle from the TV series “Killing Eve”. She even had the same accent. Thankfully, she was there to help me recover and get to the bathroom, not kill me! But when she smiled and leaned over me I was a little unnerved.

The next morning the men in white coats returned bright and early and the ‘big dog’ doctor told me I could go home as soon as I could manage my own pain. I was thinking, ‘just give me loads of painkillers and I will manage it fine!’ It wasn’t quite that simple, as it seems I had to manage on limited painkillers in order to be released. I was looking forward to going back to the resort and our cosy hotel, all I needed was all the hospital paperwork and a ‘fit to fly’ certificate. That afternoon I was feeling better (mainly due to the morphine) and told them I’d like to go home please – ASAP.

A very tall bearded doctor found me in the day room, to tell me that unfortunately I couldn’t leave until the next morning and even worse, he couldn’t give me a ‘fit to fly’ certificate either. Err.. how would I get home then?Train or bus perhaps he suggested. Apparently, the injury had a slight chance of leading to a collapsed lung if I was exposed to the higher pressure in a plane – they wouldn’t want me to take that risk.

So began several days of complicated planning, discussions and phone calls to our wonderful medical insurance company. I became an inmate of room 305 – which felt a bit like room 101. I made lists of things I’d get rid of including concrete steps, boxes of tablets with very long names, low soft beds that were almost impossible to get out of and shag pile carpets that ate up earrings for supper. I watched lines of skiers snowploughing down the nursery slopes until the sun sank behind the trees and the lights of a piste basher flickered on the hillside. I looked forward to the evening meals and the banter with our new-found friends, Steve and Ann, who poured wine and ordered beers while discussing routes home and making us all laugh with their tales of past holiday misadventures.

On Saturday night we heard that British Airways had agreed to fly me home, despite Austrian medical advice. It was a relief, but also a little scary. What if the Austrian medics were right? What would happen if my lung collapsed on the flight? I reasoned that I had two, so maybe the other would be enough… it was a bit of a guess.

Staring out at the aircraft landing and taking off between the mountains, I didn’t mention my fears. I thought about sending three WhatsApp messages to each of our children – just in case. But I decided to send a photo of their father eating a frankfurter instead and tell them I’d see them all soon. As the plane taxied down the runway, a hand slid into mine. My chest felt quite tight and I could feel the pain in my back as I breathed in. Here’s hoping, I thought. Thank goodness for ‘in flight’ meals – once they were over, I began to relax. We were half an hour in and the lung seemed to be holding out.

When we landed at Gatwick I braced myself for the bumps, but was delighted and surprised by the softest landing ever. As passengers filed off the plane, the captain, in his blue peaked cap, was shaking everyone’s hand and blushing beneath his beard as they complimented him on the landing. “Did you know you had someone on board with broken ribs?” he was asked. He smiled slowly, “Of course we did and we did our best,” he said.

It was only on the taxi drive home that I realised I wasn’t the only one who was worried at the start of the flight. “I’d googled it,” he said. He’d also found out from a medical friend the night before what he should do if the lung had collapsed… something to do with thrusting a massive needle or a biro into my chest if the worst happened. “Where were you going to get that from?” I asked. We’d both seen something like that being done on ‘Doc Martin’, but I’m not sure about trying it for real. Thankfully, we didn’t have to. 

Now safely back home I am learning how to pick things up with my feet and walking and sitting like a puppet, without bending, keeping my back straight. The only thing that frightens me now is unexpected sneezes or getting a fit of the giggles, which hurts sooo much I end up crying, which also hurts. I know I’m fortunate not to have done more damage and that I will be able to ski another year, if I dare.

From the Rockies to the ‘top of the Rock’

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Hooters and sirens, the smell of car exhausts mingled with hot dogs and Chinese food, blue sky glimpsed between endless towerblocks – it was a world away from mountain air and the scent of pine trees we’d been breathing in a few hours earlier.

We’d landed in the Big Apple and it took a bit of adjustment.

“Which part of England are you from?” drawled a friendly hotel receptionist.
“Dorset… in the south.”
He nodded and a slow smile slid across his face.
“Have you been there?”
“Never, but I heard it’s nice.”
I think he was just pleased to have correctly identified an English accent.

New York was steaming that afternoon. It was a humid 30 degrees and every other person was wearing trainers. My boat shoes didn’t quite fit. This was a flash trip to the city we’d planned to visit in 2012, but Hurricane Sandy had blown away our plans that October. I was looking forward to soaking up all that the city had to offer.

It was almost my first time in New York. The very first visit was just before Christmas when I was 17. I was on route to South America and had landed in a snow storm. My mother and I had used our best English to direct the taxi driver to what we thought was the right location. It wasn’t. After a second hefty taxi fee to the correct bus terminal we found we’d missed our connection and had to wait all night in a Greyhound station. With our luggage stacked around us, we whiled away the hours watching long haired characters picking through the bins and being chased off by patrolling police. It wasn’t the best introduction to America – things could only get better.

We’d been sent tips of “must see” places from friends who had recently moved back to the UK from New York. I compiled a list and tried not to look at the ticket prices. We had four days and a credit card. Our days were packed and varied but there was one constant – the walking! There was usually a slower start, to let breakfast go down, and at the end of each day we’d arrive back at our hotel with sore feet, so grateful for the air con and the enormous comfy bed.

My personal highlights were: 

  • Approaching the Statue of Liberty by boat and thinking about the mice on The Rescuers
  • Walking beside a sparkling Hudson River and trying to picture ‘Sully’ landing his plane
  • Seeing The Vessel at Hudson’s Yard for the first time which took my breath away and made me even more proud of our architect son who was part of its design team
  • Soaking up the city lights and a sparkling Empire State Building from the top of the Rockefeller Centre (Top of the Rock) at night
  • Cycling through Central Park which had a lot more hills than Hyde Park
  • Walking across the Brooklyn Bridge and humming ‘I’ll be there for you!’
  • Listening to ‘You’ve got a Friend’ in the Carol King musical on Broadway
  • Taking a ride in a yellow cab driven by a taxi driver called Jean, who asked us to pray for him and his family

I wouldn’t want to move to New York mainly because:

  • The traffic – there’s too much
  • The noise – also too much
  • Too many tall buildings
  • The pound – you don’t get much dollar for it at the moment!

But I love the fact that… Manhatten is surrounded by water and you can glimpse the blue of the Hudson river at the end of lots of streets. I also like the wide pavements and occasional green oasis like Bryant Park punctuating the high rise buildings… the fact that you can wear whatever you like and no-one will care. Everyone is relaxed and people don’t seem to walk as fast as they do in London… but maybe this was because it was July 4th weekend.

In the middle of our stay we visited Ground Zero and the 9/11 memorial museum. I didn’t include it as a highlight because it wasn’t a comfortable experience. However, the architecture and the tone of the whole area respects the thousands who were killed and the many hundreds who sacrificed their lives to try and save others. I found myself staring into one of the two black pools where water flows into a dark central opening and where the names of those who died are engraved around the edge. It’s a solemn place and the museum itself takes visitors on a journey through the unfolding story of 9/11, almost minute by minute. An interactive graffiti wall allows visitors to add their doodles, comments and reflections. While I watched someone who stated they were from the Muslim faith wrote a poignant message which mingled with one by someone whose father worked in the World Trade Centre and was among those who had come home that day. I left hoping and praying nothing on that scale ever needs to be built again in response to a terror attack.

New York is still a bit crazy, but full of surprises and definitely worth visiting again. In any case, it was so much better than a night spent in a Greyhound station;)!

Mountain trails & trespassing

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Planning a holiday with all five Farmers is tricky to say the least – how do you please everyone? Fine weather helps and usually something ‘boaty’ does the trick and so we started with a few hours messing about in a boat. But it was the wrong kind of boat for me because there were no sails, just a very noisy fast engine. Still, everyone enjoyed the doughnut ride, three managed some impressive wake boarding and we also motored into a few secluded rocky bays where we anchored and swam in the shelter of sea caves.

We were on an island tour of sorts, heading first for the remote and slightly inaccessible Akamas peninsular, which involved some very potholed tracks, much to the delight of the boys, who looked with envy at every passing open-top jeep. We found a lovely fish restaurant overlooking the sea and promptly ordered lamb from the menu..well, some of us did! We were like Swiss Family Robinson, all jostling about in a big red minibus, packed with food, drink and beach stuff, while whoever was in the front took turns to throw wrapped sweets to the sugar starved passengers in the back – it was a bit like tossing fish to seals, but they were slightly less noisy and kept complaining about the lack of yellow chewies…

Although I’m a sea lover at heart, the two highlights of the trip for me were in the mountains. The heat here has been incredible for the past week and now we officially have a heat wave! A heat wave in Cyprus with average temperatures of 37/38 can’t be good…we’re heading for the 40s and we are sizzling. What do you do when it’s too hot for the beach? Head for the hills of course…so day 2 we waved goodbye to the sea and the boat and set off into the mountains as a pink sun was slipping into the sea behind us. Enter the Troodos mountains where pine trees line the road and red roofed cabins are tucked in steep valleys, with craggy rocks forming the breaks between the trees. As night fell, so did the temperature and after a few false routes in one mountain village we found our way to the top just below Mount Olympus. Our destination was a cabin near the village of Troodos and all we needed to do was collect the keys….sounds simple. But we were running late. This was in part due to the need for showers after speedboating and the fact that there was only one and that it turned out to be a tap in a cubicle and not a shower….then we had to pick up water and tea which we’d forgotten. Combine this with switchback mountain roads, a lack of signs and a navigator who was trying to read a book at the same time and the result was that we arrived around midnight to collect keys and get directions for the cabin. Helpful directions were given and we set off, negotiating more hairpin bends on a road that got progressively narrower until we found ourselves in front of a serious looking barrier that promptly lifted, so we drove in. Suddenly a man emerged from the cabin just inside and rushed towards the car torch in hand looking worried. We wound the window down and told him we were looking for our cabin… “Not here, you can’t stay here.” He seemed very adamant. But we have an email, we’ve booked and this is where they said we should come… He shook his head and called over a colleague. He shook his head too and looked shifty. Our presence was making them uncomfortable. Our driver became more insistent. Are you sure it’s not one of those cabins over there, should we drive and look? We have the keys here… They looked concerned and glanced at one another. “It’s not here, no you can’t come in here.” This seemed a bit rude and unhelpful. It was very dark and late and we needed to find our cabin. The bald headed man shone his torch into the back and promptly shook his head, “You should go to the campsite.” OK so the back was filled with sweet wrappers and sandy towels, but we weren’t visiting the Queen. A third man was called over from the cabin, this one had a bomber jacket on and was reaching behind him into his waistband in a Starsky and Hutch-like manor. What is this place we wondered? And why are all these people on the gate at midnight? They were becoming more insistent all shaking their heads in unison. “You must go, you can’t stay here. This is the President’s house.” So it all became clear, we were talking to his bodyguards – no wonder they were edgy. We decided to call it a day, or a night and turned around back up the hairpin road to where we’d come from. We would wait to be invited. If only he had known who we were, I’m sure he’d have offered us a room free of charge. Our cosy cabin in the woods was eventually found and so was the cool weather. We eagerly hauled out blankets and sat round eating pizza, excited about the possibility of sleeping under a duvet for the first time in months!

The next morning it was still hot, but several degrees less than the coast and we followed a trail through the woods down a steep valley to a waterfall, where the water was icy and refreshing.
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Two of the party were volunteered to hitch a lift back to the car to save us the hike back up the hill and when we had almost given up hope of seeing them again the big red bus appeared round the bend. Walking on a high trail around the summit of Mount Olympus later that afternoon we were treated to spectacular views across the Troodos mountains, where we looked out on a sea of hills in ever paler shades of blue, until they were just a mist on the skyline. That night we ate beside a roaring fire in the cabin lounge, after we had sent out a firewood party to forage for pine cones and dead branches in the dark. They returned from each foray in a flurry of huffing and slight panic due to a plague of biting flies who had swarmed around their legs in the trees. From what I gather they barely escaped with their lives and may be permanently scarred from the experience. How strange that we should revel in lighting a fire in August and snuggling under duvets in the chill of the mountains.

Our second mountain top experience was in the north of Cyprus, where we left the burning sand dunes to drive up to an ancient crusader fortress – Buffavento castle. Buffavento is one of three ruined castles clinging to the craggy hills above Northern Cyprus, which run like a backbone towards the wild expanse of the country’s eastern tip, known as the ‘pan handle’. And it is these same hills we watch the sun set behind each evening from our house. Turning off the road at the top of the ridge we followed a single track road which clung to the side of the mountain and gradually snaked its way upwards. Passing places were few and far between, sheer drops were everywhere and the mini bus could barely take each corner without its wheels running precariously close to the drop. We were all feeling nervous and as the bends got tighter and the road narrowed, we almost decided it might be safer to walk the remaining few kilometres. Finally we reached the end of the hair-raising road and it was a 40 minute hike up the side of the mountain to reach the castle silhouetted against a clear blue sky above us. As we tackled the 500 plus steps and winding paths, we paused for breaks and water each time there was shade. Each rest stop was a chance to look at the immense view of the parched plains spread out in front of us and the city of Nicosia – a hazy jumble of buildings and roads. Eventually the path crossed over the top of the ridge and we could see the other side of Cyprus below, the coastline edged with sandy bays scooped out of the landscape and lined by a deep blue sea. The path and steps continued upwards and it was another 15 minutes before we reached the first crumbling gatehouse of the castle where the views got more and more spectacular. A sign above the gatehouse told us that Buffavento had been captured in 1974 by the Turkish army after a raid at 4am and a battle which lasted till midday. Looking out from the highest point in the castle’s crumbling ruins we could see Cyprus spread out before us – east towards the pan handle, west to another cascade of misty blue mountains, south to the dry plains and Nicosia, then north to the scolloped coastline framed by a sparkling Mediterranean. Here was Cyprus in all its summer glory and we were standing on top of it.