Tag Archives: island

A night to remember

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“Watch out!” Came the call from the skipper, but it was too late. Seconds later a wave launched over my head and I was completely soaked..

Our night out in Dubrovnik hadn’t gone completely to plan. The idea was to enjoy a balmy evening at a cafe soaking up the atmosphere of the beautiful walled city. We’d dropped anchor in the bay outside and as we lowered the tender into the water the clouds were gathering – there was a possibility of a shower, we thought. As the dinghy set off there was an odd sound from the outboard engine and a few minutes later it stuttered and stopped. The waves were picking up and the catamaran was beginning to disappear from view. I glanced down at the bottom of the boat where two oars lay side by side… it could be a long row back.

There were sighs of relief as the skipper found the fuel connection issue a few minutes later, and we continued our evening expedition into the little harbour.

Dubrovnik has changed a bit since I was last there, 15 plus years ago. The cafes and restaurants had smartened up and everything looked shiny and more sleek than I recalled. But in essence the city is still stunning with its pale smooth cobbled streets and narrow passageways lined with cafes and lights leading up to the walls. If you’re a ‘Game of Thrones’ fan it also feels rather like a film set!

Soaking up Saturday night fun in the busy streets we eventually stopped for a drink at a cafe with a jazz band. The senior saxophonist also provided the vocals – picking out his audience with his laughing eyes and making us clap and smile as he swayed to the music in his jaunty Panama hat.

We’d hardly finished our drinks when the rain began and the band brought their set to an abrupt finish. As it was only a short lived shower we wandered through the back streets weaving our way slowly back to the port, not realising it was almost midnight.

In the harbour we suddenly saw how much the wind had picked up, with white horses rushing in from the bay. Having four of us in the tender turned out to be a good thing as the boat sat a bit lower and we were grateful for our 25 horse power engine, which I was hoping wouldn’t misbehave.

Outside in the bay the waves began to slam against the front of the boat and we all stared hard trying to spot the welcoming light from the top of the yacht’s mast. It was nowhere to be seen – just the ominous black shape of the island it was anchored beside.

Maybe it hadn’t been such a great idea heading into town so late!

The boat was being buffeted by the waves, and occasionally one hit us at the wrong angle and we rocked perilously. It was an inky black night and my fingers gripped tightly round the edge of the dinghy where I was balanced. I was really hoping the boat’s anchor had held and the yacht was still where we’d left her. There was a hush onboard as we were probably all thinking the same thing.

Suddenly we spotted a lone anchor light in the distance and moments later we were drenched by a particularly large wave that broke across us. At least the water was warm – we were laughing, but we were all aware that many more waves like that could capsize the dinghy and at night that would be serious.

As we eased in line with the back of the yacht, we gained a little protection. But with the boat tipping and rolling in the waves, securing the tender and stepping off was not going to be easy – we weren’t quite home and dry yet!

But steady hands and strong arms ensured we did all make it back on board in one piece, although we were completely drenched!

It had been a night to remember and one of the most “white knuckle tender rides” I’ve ever had.

Waiting for adventure

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It turns out sailing a catamaran is all about waiting..

Two weeks ago we flew out to Greece to join another couple on their yacht to sail with them on a voyage to Venice. We were excited about the trip and all the new places we’d visit and very much looking forward to sailing a catamaran for the first time. We knew it would be very different from a monohull.

Unfortunately things haven’t gone quite to plan and the trip has turned into a bit of a saga. But as one of my colleagues told me – “There’s always a story!”

We planned to spend a few days exploring the island of Lefkas before setting sail. After a couple of days soaking up some sunshine, in between rain showers, we took a break from gazing at the azure blue sea, and headed inland to find a waterfall. The dry river bed en route didn’t look promising, but as we climbed we began to hear the sound of water and before long a tumbling stream appeared, visible at point between the arching trees and ferns and bushes sprouting from the banks and rocky outcrops. The path wound up beneath a steep ravine and huge boulders.

At the end of the path was a beautiful green pool, where water was streaming down a moss lined cliff. It wasn’t much of a waterfall, but it was fresh and tranquil and the sound was calming. I couldn’t resist a dip, so quickly slid into the water, staring around for ducks. I could hear them quacking, but couldn’t I spot them. It was then I spied two bright green things on the rocks beside me. Frogs basking in the sun and making a very loud sound just like ducks!

On returning from the frog pool we had some bad news as we heard the new propeller for the catamaran was stuck in customs at Athens airport.

However, the extra night on the island gave us the pleasure of meeting a most joyful Greek host – Costas – “call me Gas” – who served us coffee and homemade cake on arrival and made us feel welcome in his home on the cliffs with spectacular sea views. Breakfast was a lavish spread laid out in his rustic kitchen with everything from strawberries to croissants and cheese!

Further delays with customs meant we had to extend our road trip for a few days up the coast of Greece while we waited for the propeller to arrive. But we enjoyed visiting Parga, a pretty Italianesque coastal town.

The down or the upside of the delays, depending on your perspective, was that there was plenty of time to meander in the local shops and buy nice things! I managed to add a few more kilos to my rather full bag! Our BnB host in Parga was Kara (which she told us means ‘joy’ in Greek) and she lived up to her name with her enthusiasm for life and her warm welcome.

She was busy whitewashing a tree trunk when arrived, her clothes paint splattered and a smile spreading across her face. After throwing open the shutters to our room with its panoramic sea view, she sprang onto her motorbike and whizzed off.

The next day as clouds hovered we headed inland to explore a renowned river called the “Springs of Acheron”. Sounding like something out of a Tolkien novel, it lived up to its name. And although we weren’t venturing on the high seas we did find ourselves wading and sometimes swimming through the clear icy waters rushing through a narrow canyon.

An hour upstream we began to lose the feeling in our hands and toes and had to turn back. The river of Acheron features in Greek mythology as the gate to Hades… Despite the sunshine when we got back to the car we turned up the heaters and put on everything we had to warm up. Those icy waters would have put out the fires of hell!

When we arrived back at the boatyard the beautiful catamaran was at last ready for launch and we held our breath as she was lifted and then very slowly lowered into the water – all 19 tons of her!

So the adventure could begin.. after a bit more waiting as it turned out!

Incognito angel to the rescue

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It was the kind of anchor drama I’d been dreading. The man in a snorkel mask treading water by our boat said the words neither of us wanted to hear, “It’s stuck hard, I can’t move it. You’ll need to get professional divers.” A neighbouring skipper had volunteered to dive down and see if he could free our anchor, now stuck six metres down wedged under, what looked like some kind of metal frame.

Less than an hour earlier we’d arrived at the distant marine reserve island after a six hour passage in pretty heavy seas and gusty winds. We were already tired. The waves had mounted steadily during the course of the passage. At their height we were being pushed, tipped and rolled around, with four metre waves breaking onto the boat. We were both completely soaked after an hour or so and I wished I hadn’t bothered with shorts and T-shirt and stayed in a bikini. After we’d put in another reef, we settled into the lurching and rolling motion. I was glad the trip across wasn’t any longer, because although we were making great progress at 7.5 knots, six hours in a rolling sea felt quite a while!

After we’d dropped anchor at the island in a quiet bay, there was yet another semi daunting task to be completed. Due to the location and wind direction we needed to take lines ashore to tie us to the rocks. I was dreading this, as on previous Mediterranean holidays it’s been a task for “the boys” – this time it was down to me to paddle board over with lots of rope, negotiate the spiky rocks and sea urchins, and worst of all tie bowlines to make everything secure. (I’m only good at these 70 per cent of the time!)

Sometime later, after swearing, “I’m never doing this again”, “I hate doing this” and “I can’t do this”, and then the inevitable sea urchin encounter on my left hand… I swam back to what I thought was a secure boat, at last. But a final check of the anchor had almost been the final straw, when we saw, instead of wedged in the sand, it was jammed under some iron debris on the seabed.

Tension was rising. We were in a nature reserve at the north end of the Sporades islands, it was beautifully quiet and remote with no phone signal whatsoever. So, how would we call for divers? And what would it cost to free our anchor? The skipper took the paddle board ashore and climbed a nearby hill in search of phone signal. There were plenty of bleating goats, but still no signal. His face was grim when he returned to the boat. There were various options to consider, none of which we wanted to do, involving leaving the anchor and returning with divers, deploying a kedge anchor and trying to free it ourselves somehow… a few prayers were said.

The answer came quite quickly in the end in the form of a “Greek angel” called Nasos.

Nasos, a skipper on another yacht in the bay, was woken up from an afternoon rest by his crew, who’d been alerted to our dilemma and plea for help. It wasn’t long before he was alongside in his dinghy, snorkel and flippers to the ready.

“Where have you come from?” He asked.

“England,” we said!

“No, today I mean!”

We explained we’d sailed from Halkidiki and he was surprised, as he’d also sailed across from the same port an hour earlier. He said we must be tired, as it has been quite a tiring crossing.

“I will try and help you,” he said. “ Are you with a flotilla?”

“No,” we answered. “We’re on our own, that’s the problem.”

“Don’t worry,” said Nasos.“ You are not alone anymore, Nasos is here. We will solve it together!”

What a lovely thing to hear!

A few minutes later after carefully examining the anchor position through his mask he dived down. Very soon after he reappeared and said the magic words, “It’s free!” He explained the anchor had dragged and been caught in what was actually an old bed frame on the seabed and he had been able to yank it free.

We were so relieved and grateful, but as we’d only just met him and we were all wearing very little, we couldn’t hug and kiss him, instead we gave him a bottle of gin! Nasos, the incognito angel, even helped us re-anchor and re do our lines without too much stress. What a difference it makes when you have a “friend” to tackle a problem together.

After a restful and peaceful night on anchor we went to thank Nasos again and enjoyed real Greek coffee and sweet treats on his boat with his crew. We laughed about being caught by a bed and wondered how it had ever come to be on the bottom of the sea in such a remote place.

I’m not sure what to rename this little bay. It could be ‘Bedframe Bay’ but perhaps ‘Angel Bay’ would be more appropriate? We hope to catch up with Nasos again before he heads back north, if only to find out what other “angel missions” he’s been called to 😉.

A cup full of surprises

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“Surprise!”
It’s a word that either brings joy and excitement or trepidation and wariness – depending on your perspective.

I like surprises… well I like ‘good surprises’ like a bunch of flowers, an unplanned evening out or unexpected visitors at the door.

On one particular birthday I arrived home from work to find the drive lit up with fairy lights and a large pair of knickers decorating the front door… I knew something was up. When I stepped inside I saw a large group of friends, some from far away, who were all grinning at me as I stood by the open front door. It was unexpected and there was lots of laughter, except I felt a bit work weary and in need of a change. I was ushered upstairs where clean clothes were waiting and it was the start of a lovely Bridget Jones themed party that helped take the edge off turning 40.

Out sailing last week, it was also drawing towards the end of a long day. We’d set sail mid morning and the wind was strengthening. It was still a few miles to go before we would arrive at the safety of our next port and the bows of the boat were dipping and crashing through the waves. The sea that had been calming, seemed to be building up for heavier weather. Suddenly a dark shape caught my eye as it disappeared under the boat, then another and another and out across the other side two dolphins jumped in unison their bodies glistening in the late afternoon sunshine. We smiled and laughed – it was a lovely surprise and helped us on with the last leg of the journey.

Sometimes it’s the little things like this that surprise me. They offer a glimpse of joy when I’m not expecting it.

I’m constantly surprised by the beauty of the sea and the changing coastal scenery around our home where there always seem to be unexpected views and finds, from abandoned boats to useful bits of driftwood. Today was no exception. sea viewOn a walk to the beach I’d been keeping an eye out for colourful painted rocks hidden around the island. One ingenious army wife came up with the idea of painting some rocks and leaving them in various locations for children (and adults) to find… it’s called Thorney Rocks and has its own Facebook page. Coming across the hidden gems now makes walking round the island even more engaging as we wonder what surprise rocks we’ll spot in unusual places.

I didn’t notice any rocks this morning, but sitting down amongst the pebbles watching the receding tide I spotted something yellow and ‘unpebbly’. It turned out to be a tiny teacup. I don’t know what made me look down or how it got there… I suppose it must have been left by a forgetful fairy after a beach tea party!

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Anyway it was a good surprise, but easily missed. If I’m not careful surprises pass me by because my head is so full of ‘to do’ lists and issues I don’t have time to look around and see them. They may not be the gob-smacking surprises that leave me gasping for air, but they are the kind of unexpected sights or detail that prompt a smile and offer a glimpse of joy.

P.S. If you’ve lost a tiny yellow cup the size of my thumbnail do get in touch, I have it safe. It is currently part of the beach treasure trove on the bathroom windowsill…

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Scars with a story

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I am scarred, bruised and a little bit achy today. It’s been caused by a combination of activities on boats and bikes, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Were you one of those children whose knees were always bleeding or scabbed? I was. I also remember standing by the sink on numerous occasions and that awful sting when someone tries to dab them with a paper towel. Most people grow out of this. But my legs and arms chart a tale of adventures over the years, which have included a long white scar on my arm from being caught on the anchor chain of a yacht, an angry red mark on my shin from a mini cycling accident and more recently another deep scar on the other shin from tripping on ancient stone steps in Cyprus.

There have been a lot of these kinds of incidents over the years. The most memorable or dramatic from my childhood was on a cycling expedition in Kent with my brother and some friends. We were hurtling down narrow winding lanes, screaming with excitement, when suddenly a Tjunction appeared in front of us and my breaks failed to stop me. I flew off the bike and wound up with my chin impaled on a barbed wire fence and quite a lot of blood around. After being lifted off the fence, dusted down and told to ‘man-up’, I cycled slowly home and went to find my mother at the bottom of the garden. She was doing something with vegetables and I was looking for sympathy and shock. I told her the dramatic tale. She chuckled, barely glanced at my rapidly healing chin, and said it didn’t look too bad. This must be where I get my sympathetic maternal approach.

Last weekend I tested out my sailing skills in a little dinghy, which turned out to be great fun but very slippery. After sliding around in the bottom of the boat as I tried to tack the bruises were accumulating and then on a rather unplanned speedy arrival at the shore I tried to jump out neatly and grab the boat before it hit the side. After slipping on the mud and rocks as I slid out and spectacularly failing to stop the boat, I found both my knees were bleeding when I stumbled ashore.

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Yesterday two of us cycled round the path on the edge of the island. It was bumpy and very narrow at places – there was even a section a bit like a velodrome where we had to cycle fast to stay upright on a concrete bank which sloped away to the water. I thought like an Olympian, looked straight ahead and kept peddling fast. I hadn’t fallen off for several miles until we reached a gate by a marina where we had to push the bikes for a few metres. After inspecting the boats for sale I got back on as the gravel path widened and within a few seconds the wheels skidded from beneath me and I was lying on the ground with the bike on top of me. My cycle buddy was standing a few feet away holding his bike and laughing. “I saw the gravel and decided to get off,” he said… More matching scars and scrapes on my shins to join the bruises and scabs on my knees.

Now what shall I do today to make my arms blend in… mowing the lawn or cutting trees?

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sea addict

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I have to confess. I’m addicted. I can’t go a day without it and I’m afraid I may get a little shaky if I don’t see it. I didn’t realise it could be so addictive or I’d have been a bit more careful. Photographs don’t do it justice – they don’t capture the smells and sounds that make it such a wonderful ‘drug’.

I never imagined moving to live beside the sea would be so delicious and leave me craving for a sight of it every day. This afternoon I ‘ran’ to the beach (not the kind of running you do when being chased by hungry lions – just the kind that keeps pace with a slow cyclist). I knew it was going to be beautiful when I noticed golden blades of grass casting sharp shadows on the sand in the dunes. A bright white sun was starting to slide towards the horizon across the channel lighting up the ripples in the muddy coloured sand as the rays danced across the water. There were shallow dark pools on the wide expanse of empty beach. In the distance a solitary sailing boat bobbed mid channel and high up in the distance a flock of migrating birds swooped and swirled in a cloud, before disappearing out to sea.

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This is a special place. The only sounds were some strange sea bird noises and what I think might have been baying seals on the sandbanks. This afternoon it was as quiet as a nature reserve. I had the beach to myself. The light was unreal in a golden ethereal way. It felt like it was going to be the kind of night for smugglers to pull up their boats and haul their contraband up the beach…the kind of night for stories and secrets to be shared around a fire on the cool sand while the waves creep closer.

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I’m not sure how or why I’ve developed this addiction to ‘see the sea’ over the past few weeks. I could also describe it as a love affair because no matter what the state of the water – dark and stormy, grey and choppy or calm and blue – I can’t help but love the view. I even love it when the tide is out and messy dark green sea plants are left exposed, with the channel a remote blue strip beneath the boats. There is a reassuring rhythm to the tides. I’ve been waking up trying to remember what state the tide will be at – we can’t go far around here without noticing if it’s in or out. Now we’ve stuck a tide chart up in the kitchen and most days someone checks out the tide times and heights.

The sea here gives me a sense of space and freedom as its wide-open skies wrap around the island. It’s a sea of possibilities. A reminder that there are so many stories out there as people set sail or launch into open water – a lone fisherman inspecting his nets, an anxious sailor battling against a retreating tide, or a man on a motorboat heading into the deep. It’s a place of inspiration too. There are mysteries here to unravel and stories to be told… even crimes to be solved. I’m going to indulge my addiction for now. After all it’s not expensive or unhealthy and I have a suspicion the sea has something to tell me. And most of all – we live here…

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a turtle for company

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It was 6am and the sun was creeping up the horizon with a smudge of pink appearing behind the trees lining the bay. Yesterday, I was the lone swimmer crossing the calm waters to the far side… well I thought I was. As I peered down to the ripples of sand on the sea bed I was very happy to spot a friendly turtle munching his way along just below me and a few moments later I watched him pop his head up for air as he checked out my front crawl style. Ploughing on from one salmon pink buoy to another it was comforting to think that there was someone or some thing out there with me.
   
 It’s that time of year again, when a few mad swimmers prepare for the island’s Bay2Bay swim. Friday morning will be a 4am start for those of us travelling from the other side of Cyprus for the open water swim of 1 nautical mile around from one cliff lined bay to another. We’ve been told to take breakfast and a pillow. I’m worried I will be even slower than last year, despite mastering front crawl, I find myself needing to break into breast stroke to calm my breathing… so ‘mastered’ probably isn’t the right word. But whatever my ‘time’ I’m determined to enjoy it – it will definitely be a lot warmer than swimming in the English channel or even the Solent. Something I will have to adjust to very soon.
The imminence of our move back to the UK this September was brought home today as I passed the first set of folded packing boxes at the top of the stairs along with some giant reels of sellotape. I remember this well – my life of ‘packing boxes’ – which is exactly where this blog began more than two years ago. Now the next adventure begins.
It’s not quite as exciting as a foreign posting, but I am looking forward to coming ‘home’ to be nearer friends and family and moving to our very own small Island… which we will share with a few hundred other army families and personnel!

As much as I love the UK I know I’m going to miss:

  • looking up at the stars while floating in a sun-warmed pool
  • never worrying about the weather for a BBQ
  • clothes – not wearing many
  • living life outside
  • mediterranean food – especially bags of free oranges and grapefruits
  • palm trees in the garden and crystal blue waters in the sandy bays
  • our view of the mountains
  • the sound of crickets buzzing day and night
  • visits to the numerous cafes, bars and restaurants we love
  • But more than all this I’ll miss the friends we’ve made, some of whom are moving on too, but others who we hope will give us the perfect excuse to return and visit in the future.

So packing boxes can wait a few more days because the sun is shining, the crickets are singing and there’s swim training to be done!
   
 

rock climbing in flip-flops?

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Rock climbing in flip-flops wasn’t what I had in mind when we planned a trip to Crete, but sometimes it’s good to have surprises…

Last week we went island hopping for a few days – swapping our lovely Cyprus for Cretan village life. The third night was spent on the lower slopes of the island’s highest mountain, where we sat gazing across a vast panorama of hills and sparkling lights, with the sea a dark blue haze in the distance. At our backs there were rock-strewn mountains, while the sound of bleating sheep and the tinkle of goat bells were the only noises to break the silence. It was perfect. Made even more so since we had returned from the village laden with food and wine… some of which was free!

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On an early evening sortie up the canyon next to us, we wanted to see what was around the corner. The corner proved elusive and after a series of hairpin bends, where we spotted broken barriers above the sheer drops below and hard to negotiate rock falls across the road, someone was all for turning back, except there was no safe place to turn. At the top of the canyon, there were fields full of fruit trees, which was surprising in such a desolate landscape. We hunted for gaps in the fences or overhanging branches so we could scavenge some of the tempting green and red apples that were lining the road, but just out of reach. There were none. Slightly deflated we turned around and headed back down the treacherous road. As we started to skirt round a white truck parked by the field loaded up with crates of apples, a man stepped into our path with his hand raised signalling us to stop. A young girl at the back of the truck, smiled and said, “wait please.” We did as we were told and seconds later the man, appeared by the car his hands holding out huge red and green apples. What an unexpected gift! We took them and thanked him and he went off to fetch more… loading us up with a good supply. Munching on the fresh fruit while we negotiated the bends, we felt well rewarded and very grateful for the farmer’s unexpected generosity… but there was more to come.

In the village down the road half an hour later, we went in search of two essential ingredients: pizza and wine. After a few false starts we found a little cafe-come-shop and asked if they had bottles of wine. “Yes of course’” they guided us to the back, where two locals were sat on high stools watching the football on a TV screen above the bar. Bending down the barmaid filled a small glass from a large box with a tap, just in front of the counter. “Oh, we really wanted a bottle though”…we said uncertainly, feeling a bit like secret alcoholics.
“Taste first”, she ordered.
We sipped. It was very pleasant. We nodded our approval and said, “Do you have a bottle?”
An empty plastic water bottle was found behind the counter and this was filled with the red nectar…until we said ‘stop!’ That will be 3 euros.
Wine. Check.
Now for pizza.

Eventually after trying three more small shops, we found one with pizza in the freezer, while we chose tomatoes, cucumber and debated over onions, the lady at the till said, “please,” offering us freshly harvested grapes piled on a plate, that a little group of them were tucking into. They were all sat around the counter – a lady in black with a big smile nodded and a man in a long blue robe and a grey beard was smiling and munching cheese. I took a grape, but she shook her head and handed us each a whole bunch with a napkin.

Tucking into our pizza and wine, followed by grapes and apples under a starry sky, we decided we liked Crete very much and we were touched by the generosity of strangers. The next morning we watched half a dozen eagles soaring just above us, which was an extra treat. The place we were staying translated as ‘the observatory of the eagle.’

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The trip was full of little adventures, mostly on narrow switch back roads without barriers and steep drops below. After a particularly harrowing journey like this that seemed to go on forever, we arrived at the top of some cliffs above a wide sandy beach. There was a way down via a steep sandy bank which turned into a sand dune and took us neatly down to the crashing waves and lots of what turned out to be naked people sunbathing or charging into the water. Ignoring the big-bellied men strutting proudly down the beach swinging their wares, we enjoyed a refreshing swim further along the bay. An alternative way back, was partly up a sandy bank, which then turned into a steep rocky scree slope. A couple had headed up it a few minutes earlier and I was told it would be easy. Bag slung over my shoulder and carrying a straw hat, the hot sand was a doddle, but as we trailed up the rock slope slithering to find a foothold in flip-flops, I was instructed not to look down. Mistake. What looked steep from below looked terrifying from half way up and although someone thought there was a path – there wasn’t. As going up was definitely easier and safer than going down, I carried on putting one foot in front of the other, my arms trailing monkey-like ahead of me to grasp any rock that looked sturdy enough to hold…and eventually I reached the ridge at the top. Thank goodness I was wearing clothes.
Rock climbing in flip-flops. Tick.

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Other Cretan highlights included a rainy gorge walk and a boat trip to a former leper colony. It was a fun week but as we touched down on our own Mediterranean island and drove on the familiar roads back, it felt good to be coming ‘home’.

Cypriot harvest

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I feel like I want to reach out and give Cyprus a great big hug today. Driving past ploughed fields of red soil, gazing across at parched olive groves and stony hills scattered with limestone rocks and scrubby green bushes, I’m beginning to feel connected to this barren part of the island.
There are friends here now – in the villages we pass – people we share a joke with or who subtly hand me baskets of fruit grown in their gardens and nearby orchards. We’ve been enjoying the delights of local fruits for the past week which has included succulent and sweet smelling guavas. Every time I open the fridge the scent is a reminder they need eating.
Last Sunday we came back laden from the Muktar’s house (like a village mayor), where we had joined in the special event to mark the 10th anniversary of his father-in-law’s death. His mother-in-law is a beautiful Cypriot lady. By beautiful I mean she is someone who spreads welcome, hospitality and care and it is this inner beauty that shines out. Small, with dark hair, olive skin and a smile that creases across her face right up to her twinkling brown eyes, she is often dressed in black and whenever I see her she is always bustling off to fetch food or drink. Even on this sad day remembering her husband’s death she had time for a joke, asking if I would be jealous if she sat by the Major! We were late arriving, but treated like honoured guests as dish upon dish was bought to the table from a pastry roll filled with olives to Cyprus delight (a kind of gelatine sausage made from grapes) and even a refreshing but strange dish of pomegranates and bugler wheat. The hospitality was amazing and we listened as they explained some of the Orthodox church traditions and how the different festivals and occasions were celebrated. The Muktar told us ‘name days’ are celebrated more than birthdays…people don’t know when their birthdays are, it doesn’t matter, but they all have a ‘name day’ when they celebrate the saint of their particular name. This could be a slight problem if you aren’t named after a saint! Anyone heard of Saint Rachel?
We talked about the war and the village and the struggles for local people and we laughed as different ones around the table were teased. Then we talked about Jerusalem, which his mother-in-law had visited over a number of Easter trips. There was talk of miracles, visions and strange happenings, and we listened enraptured by her obvious faith and assurance that God is very much at work, even in the midst of strife and conflict in that sacred city.
We left laden with various dishes wrapped in kitchen roll, a massive bag of grapes from her sister’s garden and as if we couldn’t carry anymore, she picked pomegranates from a tree in the front garden and these we’re bundled into our already full arms. It wasn’t just the food I was full from; it was how they had filled up our hearts, welcomed us into their home and made us feel part of something. I don’t belong here, but gradually I am feeling more connected with both the land and the people… and I’m looking forward to breaking open those pomegranates, since a knowledgeable friend told me the best way to deal with them.