A tale of Greece

Greek Truckers.......

The word truckers being synonymous with? Sounds like? It certainly saves me typing it. If not saying it. Often in this case. Considering i've spent my working life with them I would of thought they may have had a little more consideration.

So it is here in Orymos on the eastern coast of mainland Greece that I find myself biding my time in the country that offered so much, but is giving very little. The, ahem, 'truckers', have been on strike since I arrived a week ago at the sun drenched port of Patras via the isle of Cephallonia. A great surprise and also great pity to discover the ferry stopped en route at Cephallonia, as had I realised this as opposed to being too busy pointing out the failings of the Natwest automated fraud system to the rather insipid Scotsman who reliably informed me that if I went and found a phone box they would accept a reverse charge call to save me the cost (he didn't quite understand the in which case why isn't the number a free call one then?) and hurriedly trying to ensure that I actually made the ferry that was due to sail within the hour. I would most likely have taken advantage of the stop at the home of one of the type of stories Mum loved - a story of struggle and hardship lived through laughter, compassion, hope, and ending with the endurance and longevity of true love, and explored for a couple of days. C'est la vie.

I digress. Back to the point in hand. The dispute has led to fuel supplies being rapidly depleted to non existence by yesterday morning. After a near week of playing hunt the petrol, and hopping around 15 stations stations scattered between motorway services, towns and small villages with proud signs of having a petrol station when none others do within 30km. Seeing abandoned vehicles, families stranded at motorway services disgruntled and dismayed at having no option but to sit and wait and wait whilst their holiday passes by without them. So it is that I find myself here, not by choice, but from pure necessity. The tank of lpg that I have been protectively nursing as emergency fuel since filling in Italy (knowing full well before arriving that the Greeks do not sell lpg virtually anywhere bar stations at airports) has been used and emptied. The petrol guage is teetering and dancing between empty and below quarter, which I can assure you is as reliable as a chocolate fireguard. Bless it's 41 year old electrickery. I do have my two fuel cans. Sssh, don't tell anyone, i'll be hung drawn and quartered judging by the tantrums i've seen thrown at stations of late. However, I am loathe to use them, knowing full well that they will provide me with no guarantee of reaching somewhere to replenish their thirst.

Time to park, remonstrate, read and ruminate and.....catch up with one of the practicalities and do some washing. Having completed the 'camper' drive by which entails an exploratory drive around the locality. Looking to see what is around, who is around, and to get a general feel whether this will be somewhere that when you shut out the world and lay enclosed in your camion casa, that you won't in fact feel as if every hint of a footstep and hushed voices behind the nasa esque shiny window covers (another story, but the bain of my daily activities) is going to be the source of a potential intrusion leading to the annoyance of fumbling around for the rubber mallet from the comfort of the hammock.

Nice looking spot on the beach I thought to myself. Pleasant enough little town. A few cafes, restaurants and bars, a petrol station that promises fuel someday. A supermarket a short amble across the road. Well, the sign says supermarket, but in actuality it is more akin to a corner shop that hasn't quite yet decided what to sell and so stocks everything and partially nothing. Could life be better considering the circumstances? Look, even an array of helium filled balloons tied to a tree and the pick up parked nearby. Very twee I think, if not maybe a tad odd....

On with the washing and out with the travelling line. Looking back across the way from my enforced new 'home' I also spot a caravan. A woman peering out from in, surrounded by posters of a brightly smiling young greek lady. One bowl to wash, one to rinse. Reminding myself of just how much water it does genuinely take to perform the task of filling a washing machine, selecting program E and then waiting for the drum to stop it's spinning. My twin bowl set up doesn't seem so eager to perform without assistance. A few cars coming and going as people visit the beach and clear cooling waters, but pretty much it appears myself and the balloon keeper have this spot predominantly to ourselves.

Speaking of the balloon keeper, i've noticed that they have multiplied. Most definitely there are balloon keepers of varying sizes, ages and genders. On feeling the eyes, I spot they are peering out from the rear of said pick up and now notice that the full accoutrements of home appear to be piled into the pick up. Together with those young inquisitive eyes. The keepers all seem nice enough, waving and returning smiles. Another rinse and time to hang I feel. A tanker pulls in, a truck, followed by a coach with the young smiling greek lady plastered in a rather enlarged size on the side. Travelling Cantinas with their fairground ride bright paintwork arrive. Then the cars start. Here and there at first. I notice the balloon keepers washing and changing as I look up from my book whilst my freshly laundered shorts, boxers and t shirts swing in the breeze. But the cars, the cars. They just keep coming and coming, cramming and creating spaces over and over.

A sudden crash of drums, a guitar riff, an unintelligible to my dumb lingual ears voice....hmmm, sounds reminiscent of a sound check.........

So, here we have my semi idyllic biding spot, bursting to the seams with cars, milling with people upon people, and all the while my fresh laundry dangling for all to see. How quintessentially not the done thing....

It transpires the smiling young lady on the posters and the coach is in fact a singer of pop acclaim touring mainland Greece, the makeshift stadium hidden behind the trees, the tanker hired to carry fuel for the coach, the truck and itself so the tour can go on as explained to me by the Dutch truck drivers who were fascinated by Mums bus and fortunately not my laundry. My beach side retreat a concert parking lot. Sodding truckers.....

On the up side, it was for one night only, and since arriving in Greece I have made my way from Patras to teeming streets of Athens. Stumbled to the Acropolis and stood in awe at the vista provided of the unimaginable expanse of Athens in the shadow of the mighty Parthenon. A short burst of rain, the first I have seen since I left the UK, and a glorious rainbow just to add to the already spectacular sight. I've got lost in Athens. I've got lost getting through Athens. I've got lost getting around Athens. I arrived at the majesty of the temple of Poseidon in Sunio after spending time with Dimitria and George on a small cove beach in their fellow VW camper. I didn't judge. You can all think your own thoughts. All I will say is yes they are a couple. They made me Greek coffee. I smiled and was polite. I made them a cafetiere. George through Dimitria explaining it was very watery, hippy coffee and putting it to one side. Oh not to be polite and have the direct approach of the Greeks and to have explained how to me greek coffee tastes like someone thought it was a good idea to add a spoonful of dried dirt to plaster your teeth with grains reminiscent of sand.....I smiled politely instead of course. Although unbeknown to me later that evening it appeared that I would inadvertently get my own back. Having decided to barbecue on the beach, I invited George and Dimitria to join me. It was at this point that I discovered that the Greeks are not the worlds biggest on spiced food, and also discovered that George is asthmatic on seeing him turn red after taking a bite and a chew and gasping for air. Dimitria running off and returning with his inhaler. Possibly the watery coffee would of helped here? As a point of note - they were great company and a pleasure to spend time with. Please take the humour as it is meant, not as a slight against anyone.

I got lost in Athens. Again. I queued for petrol. Did I mention I got lost in Athens........ The dulcet tones of the sat nav lady speak to me no more. Since she has no map of Greece, she has nothing to say and spends most of her time showing me as an arrow driving in the sea. Perhaps it is finally her way of getting back at me for ignoring her so much through Spain, Andorra, France and Italy and making her recite "recalculating route" more often than she'd like. I got lost in Athens. Truckers.

When I was no longer lost in Athens, I have had to resign myself to playing hunt the fuel, watch the guage. Mostly having to break my rule of not using motorways and most surely missing the sights, smells, sounds and education of the minor roads and all that they bring. A musing thought. It is a little like life in someways. You can take the 'motorway' and reach your destination directly, quickly and efficiently. Be temporarily pleased, then feel perhaps hollow with the lack of their being more and moving quickly on to stave off the feeling in the hope that the next will bring what you seek. The lack of foundations that the journey itself can provide. Eyes open or eyes shut? I queued for petrol. I was turned away as the pumps ran dry. Unable to join in the Greek tantrums, but quite able to laugh from a distance at the ridiculous dancing that anger and frustration can bring. I drove past the sign for Dion, stuck in my confinement to motorways looking for petrol, the gateway to Mt Olympus. Frustrated and a tab bitter. Truckers. I drove on, 40km on, the twelve peaks housing the gods of Greek mythology receding quicker than a worrying monks hairline. I queued for petrol. Truckers.

I found petrol! Expensive petrol being as 'we have super only' - of course you do. I turned around (not being the easiest of tasks since coming off a motorway here most definitely doesn't mean you can get back on the other side....not the truckers fault, but since it's the word for all i'll use it anyway, truckers) and headed for Dion, Zeus and his fellow Olympians shrouded by the clouds.

The pictures I can assure you do not do the Olympus national park any justice. Nothing but your own eyes and sense of wonder will. The road that takes you from the base into the heart and up to 2419m is introduced by a hut with a lady who tells you to stop.....whereupon you are asked with a wry smile where you are from, whether you have been here before, that the road ahead is 10km long, that it then stops, and maybe you will come back.....If you want to know how it feels to be humbled by nature and in the true sense of the word, alive, then it is 10km of road that you will never regret traversing. The road takes you up and up, winding deep into the heart of the mountain range whilst taking you ever closer to the summit. I do wish dragonflies weren't such a damned nuisance to try to photograph, but then I forget. Their lives are short and with all the freedom of their wings beating so fast, who can blame them for being a constant darting buzz over and under and around and around. I'm going to say little more, the pictures can try to give you an idea of the home of the gods, the ice cold clear waters, the purity of the air and the retreat chosen by St Dionysus.

So that is a rather long yet abridged version of Greece. Camped on a beach with balloon sellers who are of course in fact members of the many Greek homeless and poor. The children knowing no more than play during the day, interspersed with harsh and sometimes brutal chastisings. The evenings spent if still young enough being carried from table to table, Mothers or Sisters hands outstretched. The elders holding their lurid coloured helium filled balloons for sale, or luminous whistles or glow sticks. One of the days was briefly a little different. Looking around a strange mans camper, bewildered by explanation of each item pointed at in a language unknown, fascinated by the fridge, opened and closed a thousand times to show the passers by. A short game of football on the beach and then flakes all round causing bemusement and smiles at the discovery of chocolate inside the bright yellow wrapper, before heading back to the small tent now erected in the back of the pick up truck they call home.

Still, i'm not so foolhardy not to have seen the looks of intent behind the adults eyes.

Not my ferry accomodation, but the reason why there are dogs being walked around the ferry and here are their very own cabins from Italy to Greece

The isle of Cephallonia

Port of Patras

And through the windscreen you'll see....

Probably not as good as Mum was.....

George and Dimitria

My Italian stowaway now living in Greece