In early March after a month on Tilos, when green leaves were just beginning to unfurl out on the fig trees, Mark and I flew to England for work and to see our families. I planned to stay just ten days or thereabouts, and didn't want to put the hound through the whole flying thing, so Stelios offered to look after Lisa. As she raced around his garden through grass still wet from the morning rainstorm, we sat in the dark listening to scops owls calling, and Stelios got Mark tipsy on raki. 

The following morning, we caught the ferry at dawn. I’d been stressed about leaving Lisa and home, especially as coronavirus was already a threat, but the skies were so fantastically beautiful, a mix of cloud and sun, that I soon began to enjoy it. When we passed an empty island off Symi, I gazed at it and thought how, when I got back, I'd try to do some walking there in this wonderful time of year. The sky and sea were deep blue in Rhodes and we sat on our hotel balcony feeling the sun on our skin, then for hours on the quiet beach, our faces getting ever so slightly sunburned. 

We were fairly relaxed as we flew out the next day, with no idea that within a couple of days, the situation would change as the news about coronavirus and its implications very quickly got worse. Plans to go to events and see people got changed and then cancelled. Soon it was a question of bringing forward my travel plans to make a dash for home before movement was restricted for no-one knew how long. Mark would stay with his mum, who although a trooper is 88, and near his children who are in their twenties, and complete the work he had planned.

On the 18^th, I should have been on a plane to Athens then Rhodes. The days before were horrendous, trying to find out how this would go as things changed constantly. Greece had already shut down bars and restaurants and schools to reduce the spread of the virus, and declared its sensible, calm policy of ‘We’re Staying at Home’. I’d have to be quarantined for fourteen days, but would they allow me to travel home to do that? I noticed islanders on social media dissuading any arrivals from abroad. Even if I quarantined myself, what if I did carry the virus to Tilos with its very basic medical facilities?

Mark had encouraged me at first to go back, saying I’d be impossible if I stayed (who, me?), knowing how my sense of self is wrapped up in living in the wilds of a sunny island, walking and swimming. My parents, knowing the same, also encouraged me to go home where I’d be safer and happier, away from the madness.

But as we got up that morning and Mark drove me to Heathrow, both of us too upset too speak much, leaving seemed more and more wrong. Knowing anything could happen in the next months, should I go back to the place I love and more importantly Lisa, or stay with my family and my partner who wanted to look after me, with hugs and love? Nobody else could make this decision for me.

In the departures hall of Heathrow, where people of all nationalities walked grimly about in masks or in tears – nobody going on holiday – I still could get no information about how I’d be received in Greece. In the end, the only important consideration was Lisa, that dog I love so much. I called Stelios, and he told me to do whatever I thought was best but that he would be happy to keep looking after her. ‘She’s no problem,’ he said, ‘though she does snore a bit.’ He is, after all, the man who named her, who has always been a big part of her life. 

Assured that Lisa would be protected and have everything she needs, I left the scary departures hall and walked back to the car, where Mark was waiting for me in the drop-off zone, and told him I was staying.

That afternoon, exhausted from an extremely tense few days, relieved to be together, we went for a walk around some lakes, near where Mark fished when he was a kid. We stopped in a hide and watched a little bit of sun poke through the clouds and light up the water, while the coots paddled closer. Mr Anorak had even brought a pair of binoculars we could use to watch the nesting grey herons and snow-white little egrets across the other side, and the great crested grebes diving and reappearing. There were quite a few people out walking or fishing, most of them happy to smile and chat a little. 

I loved seeing little blue forget-me-nots, and plucky great tits making raids at a feeder while mallards foraged below; marsh marigolds, a noisy jay and a green woodpecker; tufted ducks with their jaunty black quiffs and bright eyes, pochard ducks with their lovely chocolate-brown heads and grey backs. Eventually, walking back along the canal at dusk, we stopped to listen to the quiet and the song of the blackbirds. In times of crisis, isn’t it wonderful to appreciate simple things like nature and a warm hug? Whatever we have to go through in the coming months, the cycle of nature will continue, the days will get longer.

The next day I walked alone through the fields in fine, drizzling rain. It was good to see the buds beginning to unfurl on the tips of bare branches. With life reduced like this, perhaps I appreciate more the feel of springy grass under my walking boots, the colours of lichen on a tree trunk and the songs of the birds even on a grey, wet day.

Just think how it will feel when the sun comes out.

This crisis is interrupting the distribution of print books temporarily, but my new book Wild Abandon will still be released in May – initially as an e-book, until things get back to normal. I hope it will provide a reminder of Greece for those who can’t get there. I may have to read it myself.

February Night Out

 

In the middle of February, we’d been back on Tilos for over a week, enjoying warm sunshine, wildflowers and mountain crags and ever-changing seas. We’d swum and walked and listened to the waves and the birds, cut off from the world. By Saturday night, it felt like a treat to put on glad rags, leave Lisa in charge of the house, and go down to Livadia.

If the north of the island had been balmy, Livadia seafront had borne the brunt of recent weather. Paving stones and rocks had been hurled about and lay scattered with seagrass and bamboo washed in by waves. Picking our way over the debris, we made our way to a shuttered and closed Mikro Kafe. The paper sign nailed to the door still announced it would be open from 6pm, but clearly not this weekend. We made our way back to Kyriakos Grill, the only place open.

We were the only customers, so we chose the one by the robust wood-burning stove, and ordered food and drinks, laughing at our quiet Saturday night. But slowly, slowly, they came: one table after another filled up. Familiar faces, people I hadn’t seen for a while, strangers. We strained to hold a conversation over the hubbub. People squeezed into every available seat. The souvlaki and chips tasted delicious.

Delos confirmed the football would be on the following Thursday: Mark’s team Arsenal would be playing Olympiakos. It happened to coincide with Tsiknopempti, the day when Greeks eat lots of grilled meat before giving it up for Lent. Two years before, I’d spent it in a taverna in Emborio, on Nisyros, which had been lively and packed to the gills. Occasionally, Apokries or carnival festivities happen in an impromptu way. We looked forward to it.

Thursday was the first cloudy day so we skipped the swim that was almost becoming a daily event, but ended up walking up a nearby hill to the remains of a farm, where I found an intact old stone cistern, then down a lovely almost-dry riverbed, the rocks worn smooth. I had bought fresh calamari and I cleaned and fried them semi-successfully that afternoon. Mark had a tentative taste, but not being keen on them at the best of times, preferred to save himself for the grilled-meat extravaganza that we would linger over during the game.

Just after 9pm we left Lisa contentedly curled on the couch, and drove across the island and down the hill into Livadia. The square was completely dark and empty. We turned right past the closed kafeneio, and it was hard to ignore that Kyriakos Grill looked surprisingly dark too. Laughing nervously, I parked the car and we walked back to find that although there were people inside, it showed no signs of being open for business. Somewhat desperately, I said something about football to Alexandra, who was still behind the counter, but it was in vain and we closed the door behind us somewhat dejected and rejected. There were no other options to celebrate Tsiknopempti in Livadia.

There would be sustenance, at least, at Remezzo on the harbour. As we made our way there, I spoke enthusiastically of the baguettes that Popi toasted, heaped with ingredients. The harbour café, although not the cosiest of settings on a winter night, was busy with army lads, all of whom had clearly just eaten and were waiting for their ride back to the base. I stepped up to the sandwich counter, where Popi was ready to take our order – only, she said, she’d just run out of baguettes so only had tost, small and now somewhat forlorn-looking squares of bread. We drank a beer, ate them, and headed to Petrino on the square to watch football.

A group of people I didn’t recognise had a table of empty beer cans, a packet of Papadopoulos biscuits, and a cute black puppy that squealed in the terrifying way puppies sometimes do. There was a young guy who works for the port police, too, and a local who runs a minimarket. We ordered glasses of the same cheap wine we buy in boxes for home and were grateful for a bowl of crisps. Mark even remarked on the flavour.

The game began, the two teams evenly matched, at least in the sense that both of them boasted quite a lot of players from neither the English nor the Greek capital. Arsenal even had a Greek player, whose name sounded like a whole sentence whenever he took control of the ball, Papastathopoulos. As the game progressed, the puppy company left and locals drifted in. The bartender half-filled tall glasses with ice and rum or whisky, topping up with a little mixer. Someone came in holding a few betting slips, and mentioned a large number. The word malaka was bandied about. The port policeman did some double-checking on his phone, grew sulky and disappeared. The game proceeded in a desultory fashion – even I could tell. Suddenly, the mood changed for the better.

The port policeman had returned, carrying two Tupperware boxes. One was full of broccoli and potatoes, the other with horta, boiled spinach-like greens. The men gathered, squeezing fresh lemon over them and digging in with forks. The TV signal was lost for a moment, but nobody seemed to care very much, too busy gorging on fresh vegetables, dripping juice all over their mobile phones. The oldest guy shouted across to the port policeman, and finally a lively discussion ensued.

‘How much did you pay for the broccoli?’

‘It’s two-fifty in Megalo Horio.’

‘In Rhodes it’s two…’

‘We pay three here…’

‘How long is it since you last boiled horta?’

‘Never – it’s my first time!’

The pouring of rum and whisky continued as the plastic boxes were emptied. There was talk of fishing, of bets on different teams. Nikos turned and asked me what team I supported in England.

‘Oh, I don’t follow it,’ I said. ‘But,’ I added naively, ‘Mark supports Arsenal. And you?’

‘Olympiakos.’

Mark watched Arsenal score a goal and suppressed his cheer. The food was finished, and gradually things grew quiet again.

The Aqueduct, Kos

It was October but still hot and summery when I walked out of Kos town towards the Asklepion.

On other occasions, in other directions, I'd found too much fast traffic on the main roads, and ferocious guard dogs on the back roads scared Lisa. This time, I found that from the Casa Romana there was a pavement along the road. We followed it as far as the Jewish cemetery, a memorial to those who were taken away to their deaths in the final months of World War II. Then we detoured on a track through an olive grove into the Turkish village of Platania. There was sprayed graffiti on the old fountain. I continued uphill on a quiet road until there were cypresses growing either side.

I’d had vague thoughts of re-visiting the Asklepion, the ancient hospital of Hippocrates, but neither the attendant nor the cats were very welcoming to me and Lisa. So I walked on, catching glimpses of the site through a fence. Then, a little way beyond, we came to an intriguing stone tower. 

Wandering off the road to investigate, I found sections of an old aqueduct. 

I passed through a fence keeping goats in and descended into a pebbly riverbed with a stream still just about flowing although it hadn’t rained for six months. Lisa sat gratefully in a pool after the heat of the walk. 

We continued until we reached a narrow waterfall over a dam, where the ruins of a watermill stood, a stone inscribed with ‘1955’. This place could have been used from ancient times until sixty years ago. 

I sat on a rock with streams flowing slowly on either side, listening to the trickling water, watching blue and red dragonflies dance about, until little green frogs tentatively surfaced beside me.

Then we returned to Kos town on a slightly different route, having discovered another deserted place.