Washed Up on Skafi Beach

We were leaving Skafi beach when Mum and I noticed lifejackets strewn on the pebbles.

All sorts of things wash up on Skafi; visitors make shelters out of driftwood and artworks out of old shoes, and clothes are sometimes hung across the cave at the far end to scare the goats away when the farmer, Menelaus, doesn’t want them drinking seawater.

The lifejackets were odd, though. They seemed expensive and new, and I wondered if they’d inadvertently been lost from a charter yacht. This is the season for yachts to be mishandled by holidaymakers, and in fact during these days at the start of July, one was just about to enter the harbour at Livadia in an ill-advised way during a storm, and sink Nikos the fisherman’s little varka.

Closer inspection revealed the floatation devices were different sizes, including a few for small children. Alongside were items of clothing. Hours later we learned there’d been a new arrival of Syrian refugees, and I guessed they must have arrived at Skafi.

This month, Tilos became a dropping-off point of choice for people smugglers. Not for the first time, this fairly empty bit of rock with its deserted coves just a few miles from Turkey has become a convenient place to leave people who’ve paid to escape a war-torn country for a new life in Europe.

The next day, though it was very hot, Mum and I walked with Lisa to Politissa, the ‘monastery’ in the hills above Livadia that’s only used once a year for the celebration of the Holy Virgin in August, or for the occasional wedding. It’s recently become a useful spot to house the refugees, and their friendly faces lit up to see Lisa cooling off in some flowing water.

It encouraged us to walk up and say hello, which is how we met a young woman speaking excellent English who’d just a day earlier been washed ashore in an unknown land with her children. They’d arrived at Skafi in the dark of night, and been told the boat had a problem and they must get out at once, taking nothing with them. Several of the children – shy, wide-eyed, now gleefully stroking Lisa and clutching their toys – were very young, while over in the corner a smiling man held a baby only a few months old. It must have been terrifying as they jumped ashore on a wild beach surrounded by rugged hills, with no lights visible. They lit a fire, and in the morning they saw a path and the young men walked to see where it led.

For now, they were safe, although the mother found it hard to explain to her kids why they couldn’t go for a swim in that lovely blue sea down the valley (they’d been told, as their papers were processed, that they could go for a walk in the early evening). They could sleep in peace and make food and had been given clean clothes, and it was sad to think that these were probably the best days they’d have for a while, before they were shipped off to a holding centre somewhere.

Later, we swam, feeling grateful, and when we drove back to Livadia in the evening we went back to Politissa. A young man greeted us cautiously and asked what we wanted. We showed him a picture book and some finger-puppets for the kids – perhaps something to keep them entertained on the long ferry journey to come. He smiled. ‘You have one more for me?’ Beema had taken the kids for a walk down to the sea, and he asked if we wanted to wait but we expected they’d be a while, and I had a dance class to go to. We danced outside the church, in the cool of the evening.

A few days later, Mum and I went back to Skafi one morning, watching eagles circling above; having awoken early to the sound of cicadas and crows and bees, and set out swiftly, we had the beach to ourselves at just after nine, and the water was a perfect topaz blue.

At first, the lifejackets seemed to have been removed, but Mum figured out that the windstorm might have blown them in to shore, and sure enough we found them all in the scrub bushes. Fearing they’d be scorched by the sun and left as rubbish, we gathered them up and carried them towards home. As we stood in the shade of a tree near Menelaus’ enclosure on the way back to the village, tourists passed us on their way down to the beach, and I laughed, realising we looked like we were selling our armfuls of lifejackets; perhaps we’d do better business down in Livadia...

As we neared Megalo Horio, we looked down into the valley and saw people at the little chapel of Ayia Paraskevi. Only later did we find out it was Anna Parliara, the Silversmith jewellery maker, along with her partner and son, celebrating her birthday by painting her chapel.

A couple of days after Mum left, I went back to Skafi on my own one day with Lisa. The weather had turned strangely grey with clouds, though the beach was still colourful with brick-red sand, and the bay empty except for a yacht.

I swam around with a mask and snorkel and watched the fish: the loners with the rough, chocolate-brown downward stripes and a flash of blue on the side, which hide in the shadow of rocks when they see you; skaros, purple-brown with big scales like armour, and comical yellow eyes that look up at you anxiously; and the tiny ones with the forked black tails and white bellies, curious and bold, that swim right up to you.

When I got out and lay on the beach, I felt something strange – tiny drops of rain, just a few, lovely in the soft, warm afternoon air. On the walk back home, I saw a green-blue roller fly across the valley as I reached the top of the hill. And I noticed more lifejackets, and empty water bottles, and wondered if there had been more refugees.

It was true. Back in the village, Marios told me proudly that he was up all the night before. He’d been working on his car (as always) when he heard a voice in the dark, ‘My friend, I want water.’ He ended up walking up from Skafi with that group, helping them find their way. ‘I like Syrians. Is good people.’

Later, I was taking Lisa out for her final walk of the evening around midnight, when I saw Maria whispering over the wall to Marios.

‘More refugees!’ she said. ‘Kristoforos call me. They arrive now at Skafi.’ The two policemen had gone to Menelaus’ enclosure to try to find them. We joked that Tilos would become Syrian at this rate – after all, there are only 300 residents of Tilos, and if the Syrians keep coming every few days… ‘We give them Mikro Horio,’ joked Marios, referring to the abandoned village. Suddenly, we heard voices. ‘What’s that?’ But it was just the sound of a private party in the village.

Artsy Rooms at the Pallas Athena

I was really in no fit state to be walking through the doors of a smart new boutique hotel. 

My flight from Sydney a month ago arrived in Athens at 6 a.m. I’d spent the most gruelling section pinned into a middle seat for more hours than I’m usually awake, my back protesting so much that I couldn’t sleep and the only thing that kept me going was watching seven episodes in a row of House of Cards. Thank you, Kevin Spacey, I love you.

The Etihad flight connected at Abu Dhabi, where I waited impatiently amid the masses for a missing boarding pass, and guzzled the most essential glass of wine I have ever had. I had no idea how much 40 Emirati dirham was, but frankly I would have paid it if it was 40 US dollars.

Aegean welcomed a handful of passengers on board their section of the journey with sweets and smiles and let us all lie down across three seats each, so at least I was feeling vaguely human in the morning as I took the Metro to Monastiraki station and, turning my back on the Acropolis, walked down one of the liveliest streets in the city, Athinas, passing the buzzing central markets.

A week earlier, I’d received a press release about the opening of the Grecotel Pallas Athena. What intrigued me was the design element. One of my favourite things about Athens, as you may know if you’ve been reading this blog for a while, is the street art. The Pallas Athena, a five-star boutique hotel owned by the leading luxury hotel group in Greece, has 63 rooms/suites individually decorated by street artists. I was catching a ferry back to Tilos so I couldn’t stay, but I could drop in for breakfast.

Feeling somewhat self-conscious, I was welcomed into a cool lobby and my backpack was whisked out of sight as I was invited to make myself comfortable in the dining room/lounge with its airy terrace on the first floor. Refreshed with grapefruit juice and mini-pastries, I learned about the hotel concept, then had a tour around a few of the rooms.

The hotel opened in January 2014 as the newest boutique art hotel in central Athens, and has both chic art suites and whimsical graffiti guestrooms, featuring such artists as ‘b’ and ‘Dreyk the Pirate’. All the rooms were bright and uncluttered and comfy-looking. For single travellers or couples, they're stylish, playful and relaxing. For families, the spacious interconnecting rooms would be brilliant fun. There was even an octopus...

I felt I wouldn’t be doing a serious job of checking out the hotel if I didn’t sample the Eau de Grèce luxury bathroom products by Agreco Farms in Crete, where the hotel group originates. 

A body sculpture gel to ‘refine your silhouette, giving a more toned and firm appearance’, felt like just what I needed, after twenty-four hours of stuffing my face with airline food. Though first I’d need a bath.

Thanks to the Grecotel Pallas Athena for a delightful welcome. I should add that the hotel group was a leader in environmentally-friendly practice as early as 1991, which is a big plus point for me. And, checking out their website today, I see they still have some great room deals available. Well worth checking out for a city break, or if you're passing through to the islands... The Daskalantonakis Group also has super-plush places in Crete, Mykonos, Kos, Rhodes, Attica, the Peloponnese and Halkidiki.

The Best Things in Life

A couple of days ago, I took my friend Ali to the ferry - she'd been staying with me for a holiday - and went into Remezzo bar on the quay to buy a couple of frappe coffees for us, when I realised I didn’t have any change. I sheepishly handed Popi behind the counter a fifty and apologised for not having any small notes, psila.

‘Na’seh kala kai na echeis panta hondra,’ she replied. May you be well, and always have large notes.

Last year, my freelance contract as commissioning editor came to an end, reducing my income in a stroke by about two thirds. I was overdue for a change of scene, but for someone who’s always cautious about money, I won’t lie – it was scary.

While continuing to work as a freelance editor and writer, I decided to use the opportunity to set up on my own as a literary agent. Having worked as an agent before, I know it can pay in the long run – but ‘in the long run’ are key words, since it’s all commission based on sales, and there are vast amounts of work involved in setting up new contacts alone. Keeping the faith that I’m doing the right thing has been hard. As if that weren't tough enough, I’ve also started trying to write a new book. And more recently I’ve been helping out at the Tilos Park information office – which pays very little, if anything at all.

And yet, I've never been happier. And since I returned to Tilos after my travels in April and May, which a friend nicely called 'island-hopping' (Rhodes-England-Australia), I've been appreciating the little things about life here that I love. Beyond the simple pleasure of being welcomed back by practically everyone I see, this week has been full of special moments. The more I get to know people on the island, the more I speak of the language, the richer life here becomes.

Michaelia looks after the ancient chapel just below my window and often stops on her way past for a chat. She’ll soon be living up at the monastery of Panteleimon for a month, she said, to help with preparations for the festival. On Friday afternoon she was on her way back from the church service on the eve of Psychosavvato, ‘Saturday of Souls’, one of three services to commemorate the dead, the previous being at the start of Lent, Apokreo. She told me to go inside and get a plate, so she could give us some kollyva, the Greek Orthodox memorial food made with sesame, sultanas, almonds and wheat berries.

That evening, Ali and I went to Sofia’s kafeneion for a drink, which turned into several thanks to the generosity of Nikos, who told Sofia so quickly to bring us beers that she’d already opened them before we could protest. He regaled us with stories of his cooking. When we’d first arrived, the kafeneion was quiet, but soon there were six men gathered around a card table, four playing and two watching. Sofia sighed and said ‘I watch but I don’t understand,’ and joined us at our table instead, telling us about the cattle she and her husband used to keep. Although people rarely milk the goats here on Tilos, she uses their own goats’ milk to make rizogalo, rice pudding, which she’d be cooking the next day. Ali, a very generous guest, went to pick some up for us.

On Saturday, arriving a little early at dance class in Livadia, I chatted with a friend called Seva – one of several Sevas on the island. She asked me where I live in Megalo Horio, and said she used to live there when she was seven. She was born in Mikro Horio, around the time when everyone started abandoning the village; when the junior school closed down in the 1960s, they had to move to Megalo Horio where the other school was. ‘They were difficult years, those,’ she said. ‘People were leaving, going to Australia and America. Boys started work early in those days, but there was no work on Tilos. So when we all finished school, my parents took us to live on Rhodes.’

After a week of changeable weather, cool with clouds, the weather turned hot and sunny on Sunday, and Ali and I walked to Skafi beach through the green valley and spent hours in and out of the water while Lisa chased ants. In the evening, we ate once again at Kali Kardia (‘the Good Heart’), which was lively with the usual suspects from the village. We ate shrimp saganaki – shrimp in a spicy tomato sauce with feta – and souvlakia with cold white wine.

Tuesday evening after Ali left, returning home after superb kalamari and relaxing conversation at Omonia with my friend Anna, the moon was already bright over Megalo Horio. The only sounds as I walked home were the sheep, sheep’s bells, and Scops owls.

In the morning, awake early, I walked Lisa to Eristos and saw hazy sunlight pouring over the top of Amali mountain, still grey in shadow, and the dew gleaming in the tamarisk trees; while to the right, the orange and flesh-coloured cliffs already in full sunlight reflected their colours in the still water. We had the whole stretch of beach to ourselves. Along the road there and back, there were bees in the trees – the acacia and terebinth.

Lisa always stops outside Michalis’ house and wags her tail hopefully until he goes inside to get her a treat. But yesterday when I was walking alone down the seafront in Livadia, I heard ‘Ela Jenni!’ I turned around and saw Michali at a friend’s table, proffering a forkful of something, which I took and ate. Mmm, delicious. ‘Fish roe?’ I asked. ‘Yes, tuna eggs.’ Then he offered me a shot glass of raki to wash it down. ‘Make a wish,’ said his friend.

When I set out from the village in the afternoon to walk Lisa, old Polixeni with her black clothes and her walking stick shouted across the street, ‘Are you not talking to me? When I love you and respect you…’ I greeted her and she swiftly crossed the street and gently hit me with her stick.

I slowed down as I drove across the island from Megalo Horio to Livadia this morning, passing the abandoned village of Mikro Horio, and as I noticed the purple thyme flowers and pink oleander along the road, I thought again about Popi’s lovely expression about the large notes. That would be nice too, but thankfully life in Tilos is about much more than that. Some visitors to the Tilos Park office asked if living here was sometimes boring. Never.