Europe – Let Luce!

Up to Snow Good

Posted on 25th Feb 202325th Feb 2023 by luce

The agonised expletives that left my mouth when I first felt the pain in my wrist were sufficient for nearby skiers to think that they witnessing a heart attack at the top of the slope.

When Pierre, from the mountain rescue team, told me that people had thought I was having a heart attack, I momentarily wondered if I was making too much fuss. I had fallen and landed on my left arm from an almost stand-still position (I wasn’t even skiing!). However, lying in the snow, feeling pain like no other, I felt justified in my use of language.

Soon strapped into a stretcher, I clutched on for dear life with my good hand and clenched what I could clench, convinced that I was going to roll off. I knew that I would be expertly skied down the mountain, but it was still unnerving to be so low at snow level as we journeyed down the slope that I would normally have been travelling along upright on skis. The discomfort was excruciating so I diverted my thoughts to childbirth to compare the extreme pain. At least this kept my mind occupied until we arrived at road access.

Helped into the waiting ambulance, a form then had to be completed. There I sat, laughably incompetent, unable to read the form due to not having my reading glasses, unable to fill out the form myself due to my damaged writing hand and unable to sound out some letters in French to spell my address whilst someone else wrote. Although my French was adequate, I realised I was lacking some basic alphabet knowledge.

However, as luck would have it, there was an injured Bosnian man in the ambulance who didn’t speak French, but did speak English.

“Ah give it to me!” he said to the medical staff in slight exasperation, “She can tell me. I can fill it out for her.” With his own ski injury to deal with, he probably wondered if we would ever be leaving to get to the medical centre.

Minutes later, form filled out, he passed it back to the medical staff and off we went. Despite his damaged knee, the man from Bosnia sounded in relatively good spirits and, whilst I tried not to show any weakness through pain, I was grateful for the distraction of his conversation. He had previously lived in Leeds and also in Birmingham, but now he lived in Germany and he was staying with friends in Annecy and where was I staying and what was the accommodation like and what did I think of Brexit and what was the name of the other Brexit man, not Johnson, but the other one…It took me a few moments to realise that he was talking about Nigel Farage and I was glad to contribute and felt useful in recalling his name.

At the medical centre, with Farage forgotten, I watched my wedding ring being sawn off. I hadn’t removed it in 30 years and it felt like a momentous occasion that I needed to acknowledge. So I shared this information with the doctor, who politely and reassuringly told me that a jeweller could solder it back together. He probably had more pressing things to think about given the unusual shape of my lower arm.

“Oof!” the doctor exclaimed when he looked at the first x-ray and saw the double fracture and misplaced bone.

“Genial!” the doctor exclaimed when he looked at the second x-ray and saw the success of his manipulation of my bone.

Later that evening, with my arm safely ensconced in plaster, I relaxed with a beer and marvelled at the expertise of the rescue team and the medical attention I had received, where everyone had worked cohesively with the perfect level of reassurance and efficiency and with a welcomed small dose of humour – just what the doctor ordered!

cinema, Crete

Tickets, cinema, action!

Posted on 11th Oct 202212th Oct 2022 by luce

Yesterday evening we went to the cinema here in Crete. The film ‘Mrs Harris goes to Paris’ was light-hearted and enjoyable and hit the spot for an evening’s entertainment. The added thrill (for me at least) was being at the cinema in a different country. Before the film started, I noticed that I felt a certain sense of childish excitement and anticipation. It was at that point that I inwardly acknowledged and self-diagnosed that I have a fondness, appreciation and affinity for going to the cinema when abroad.

I have never intentionally sought out the big screen overseas but rather it has come about by chance. Since ditching full-time employment for intermittent travelling to various European countries, both near and further, we have realised that there are only so many dinners out that a human body can ingest and so an ad-hoc cinema trip has offered an alternative evening’s entertainment. As an English speaker, there is an obvious language advantage as so many films are made in English/American and since visiting a few different European cinemas over the last couple of years, I have happily realised that films are not always dubbed into the local language.

Last night’s film, however, did offer a little problematic amusement in some scenes. As the film title indicates, Paris is the setting for much of the film and therefore it would have been amiss not to include some French. I am guessing that in the UK there would be subtitles for the French, but here in Crete there were already Greek subtitles for the Greek market. Therefore, at odd points during the film, I found myself blunderingly trying to listen to the rapid French, whilst at the same time, read the Greek subtitles to identify key words to help my understanding. The idea was to then patch the French and Greek together to make it fit with the story…all this in split seconds before the scene moved on. Lost in translation springs to mind but I think I got the gist.

A particularly delightful aspect about a cinema trip in a different country is that it gives an added insight into the local culture and, believe me, the innocent buzz of seeing the decor, using the cinema toilet or comparing popcorn habits can be enlightening! Last night, as we were unsure if we were allowed to take in our own metal water canisters, we had left these at home and so had to buy water at the cinema. I smiled as I paid and took my two bottles of ice cold water, pondering on how refreshing the total price of 1€ was compared to the pounds one can knock up in a UK cinema just by glancing at the pick and mix.

Here in Crete, even buying the tickets gave me a thrill. I approached the street-side window of the tiny booth which housed one elderly man and his till. I loved his till! There are two prices for this cinema: 5€ (Mon-Wed) and 7€ (Thurs-Sun). This somewhat old-fashioned till had not just one, but five buttons in a row each labelled with 7€ and another five buttons in a row each labelled with 5€. I’m still pondering on why you would need five different buttons that do the same thing?

In my best Greek, I asked for two tickets for ‘Η κυρία Χάρις πάει στο Παρίσι’ and after an agonisingly slow finger scroll down a piece of paper mounted on a board in front of him, the ticket man finally established which screen we were in. ‘Πέντε’, he said holding up five fingers. As his finger then hovered over the till, it was tantalising to watch, wait and see which of the five buttons labelled 7€ he was going to press. I could hardly contain myself!

After securing the tickets, we had to walk two short paces to the door and give them to another man (also many years into retirement) who tore them to confirm purchase. Then we were inside and it was time to investigate the retro delights of the Greek cinema decor…

A unique design – not an easy approach to this door from the spiral staircase!

Crete, Greece

Now Ewe See Me, Now Ewe Don’t!

Posted on 29th Apr 202229th Apr 2022 by luce

I’d woken up to another glorious day. With a gentle background of sweet-sounding birdsong, the warmth of the Cretan sun offered its daily comforting welcome as I gradually opened my eyes. I carried my morning coffee to the balcony and settled in the hammock with my book. Bliss, I thought, appreciating the time to do nothing else but enjoy my surroundings and indulge in a good read.

After about half an hour, it was time to make the leisurely move from hammock to table for breakfast. Relaxed and without rush, I ambled through to the kitchen and went out the back door to take in the view – the gorgeous mountainous landscape which stood proud in the distance beyond the expanse of the vivid blue of Souda bay.

Suddenly I stopped.

“A sheep!” I shouted in panic to my husband.

There standing in front of me and staring at me was a woolly creature and it didn’t look friendly. The reason for my startle was that it should have been on the other side of the fence but it wasn’t, and without that fence as a barrier, I suddenly felt extremely vulnerable.

“Sheep!” I yelled with a greater sense of urgency.

Somehow this particular sheep had got through the fence – a metal fence which was secured on top of the low stone wall acting as a perimeter and thus separating our property from the adjacent field.

Spot the hole between the fence and the wall! *(Photo by Heather Knibb)*

My immediate thought was that the elastic had gone in my pyjamas and so I knew that I was in fear of tarnishing my upstanding character with our immediate neighbours. Should they look up from their balcony to witness me straddle-walking across the land in an effort to prevent my pyjamas from falling down whilst I confronted a sheep…this was not an image I wanted to share! I also had no footwear on and to walk barefoot through the blanket of wild flowers would not have been sensible given that there were also cacti, thistles and other such pricks, not to mention a possible sighting of a snake or two (not poisonous in Crete, I hasten to add).

Clutching the waist of my pyjama trousers, I rushed back into the house to quickly change into more fitting attire and also to grab my trainers. My mind was racing: who do you call to help with a sheep rescue? Should I shout for our neighbours? Should I ring our friends further up the mountain? Should I ring the shepherd? How would I ring the shepherd if I didn’t have his number? Was there a Cretan Sheep Rescue Helpline?

My main concern was that the sheep would end up in the swimming pool and I had visions of my husband and I splashing, heaving and swearing as we tried to haul the waterlogged animal out with its entrails of bedraggled chlorinated wool making it a dead weight beneath our arms. I quickly shut off my thoughts before I had a chance to consider what a dead sheep’s eyes would look like close up, let alone how we would explain to the shepherd in broken Greek that he was now one sheep short in his flock.

Whilst hopping around the room on one foot trying to put on my trainers quicker than was humanly possible and thus not getting either shoe on correctly, I felt like I was in some inane comedy sketch where all I had to do was eventually fall over and I’d get a laugh. My mind was still buzzing with thoughts about how we were going to get the sheep safely back onto the other side of the fence before it rampaged across the patio and ended up head first in the pool. Was there a manual for such a rescue? Too late if there was: I didn’t have that bloody manual and even if I had, I certainly didn’t have time to consult it and now was also not the time to Google ‘How to get rid of an unwanted sheep’.

After just a few minutes, I ran back outside appropriately dressed with a fitted waistband and my feet safely ensconced in my trainers.

“Where’s it gone?” I said stopping abruptly.

“It went back through the fence,” came the reply. My practical husband didn’t even look up as he casually continued to replace the stones on the wall where the gap had been.

“What do you mean, it went back through the fence?” I exclaimed trying to contain my frustration at not having had the chance to gain my Duke of Edinburgh award for sheep rescue. I felt robbed of an adventure!

Moments later, I relaxed and felt a wave of gentle relief as the frantic mind-whirring stress of the last few minutes ebbed away. I was, in truth, thankful to that sheep who had the foresight to make the sensible decision to head back to where it had come from.

It turned out that I didn’t need a manual after all…but I did need some new pyjamas.

Crete, earthquake

Shake, Croissant and Roll

Posted on 31st Oct 202131st Oct 2021 by luce

Tuesday 28th September 2021 7:47 a.m.

My first experience of an earthquake.

I was already awake when the hotel bed unexpectedly started moving. It felt as though an invisible someone was at the end of the bed pushing it back and forth. Woken up by the tremors, my husband suddenly sat bolt upright in bed, wide-eyed and confused.

We looked at each other and a wry smile immediately came over my face as my first thought was that perhaps the couple in the next door room were having an early morning shag! (We were staying in a nice beachside hotel but it did have rather thin walls.) However I then realised there was absolutely no sound: no heavy breathing not even a grunt or two and no bed frame squeaks. In fact, there was nothing but an unusual silence. Almost instantly, I became aware of the eerie quiet that hung in the air. Finally the penny dropped; it was another earthquake.

24 hours earlier, as we had woven our way along the Cretan coastal road to Rethymon and then headed through the mountains to the south of the island, we were oblivious of the earthquake (measured at 6.3 on the Richter Scale) that had occurred whilst we were on route. We had felt nothing and we only discovered news of this first earthquake later in the day when we had arrived at our destination, the coastal town of Mátala.

At the time we casually brushed off the idea of an earthquake; we hadn’t felt it, we saw no evidence of it, so we didn’t worry. However later when we saw a BBC news report, it became apparent that it was more serious than we thought. A frantic phone call with one relative, who had seen the news from the UK, enhanced our concern as we considered the severity of our location which was just 40 miles from the epicentre.

It was with these thoughts that we woke up in our hotel room to the second quake – this one we felt – which was measured at a magnitude of 5.3. To die-hard experienced earthquakers, perhaps they would have just relaxed in their room, lay on the beach, taken a dip in the pool or enjoyed a beer in the beachside bar, but to us earthquake novices, we felt a deep sense of unease that morning. We decided to leave. We abandoned our planned sightseeing which would have taken us closer to the epicentre, and agreed to head back to our dwelling on the north of the island further away from any earthquake movement.

Decision made, we soon sprang into action. Never have I showered so quickly, nor packed up my things so efficiently and never, never ever have I eaten so little in a hotel buffet breakfast. It seemed scandalous to depart so swiftly without taking advantage of the abundance of croissants, Greek yoghurt with honey, toast, cheese, eggs, rolls, bottomless orange juice and coffee, but sometimes you have to weigh up the odds and make a sensible decision. Earthquake versus big breakfast? Or to be more dramatic: life versus calories? In less than half an hour, we had fled the area.

In the days that followed, where little if any earthquake movement was detected or reported, we pondered on our decision to up and leave so quickly. Upon reflection, perhaps we could have continued our sightseeing and perhaps we overreacted by departing so suddenly but hindsight is always a wonderful thing. At the time, it was a scary moment of the unknown and I shall not forget how I felt at the silence of the tremors.

To end on a more lighthearted note, a return trip is planned and I look forward to finishing my hotel buffet breakfast!

Car breakdown

Motorway To Nowhere

Posted on 26th Sep 202126th Sep 2021 by luce

“Take your high viz off!” my husband hissed at me with a panic-stricken sense of urgency. About to squat behind a smattering of branches which gave a meagre leafy covering from the lorries and cars rushing along the M20, I laughed and was grateful for his warning. It had been an hour since we had broken down (and donned our high viz jackets for safety) and I had no choice but to use the primitive outdoor facilities that the grassy slope offered. Had I not removed my high viz, my attempt at having a discreet motorwayside wee might well have been a delightful fluorescent show for passing drivers.

An hour earlier, our car had decided it had had enough after a ten hour drive through France. Exiting the tunnel onto UK soil, the battery light illuminated in red and then about 20 minutes later, the car started to lose power. Having just passed a sign warning of no hard shoulder for 8 miles, I quickly pulled into the emergency SOS zone, which conveniently appeared as if answering my silent panic.

After an immediate call to the Highways Agency via the SOS phone, we were soon contacted by our breakdown company who said it would be a five hour wait. However, after highlighting the precariousness of our location, we were promised an update within half and hour where they hoped to improve on the wait.

Our next thought was safety. The emergency lay-by was framed with a wall (about 6ft) which was edged with a metal rail. “I’ll give you a leg up,” my husband said. I looked at him amused as I contemplated the extra pounds and years my body had accumulated since he had last given me a leg up, but then I realised that he was serious. So after a joint entertaining effort of a clumsy lift and a few undignified heaves, we managed to climb to a safer place. Once up on the ledge, I looked down and wondered if I would ever get down again.

At first, our spirits were positive, but as we waited and waited watching an endless stream of cars and lorries race by, our energy began to flag. It was now midnight, our phone batteries were low and, although it was still officially summer, we were getting cold. We could do nothing but wait. With no improvement on the predicted five hour wait and with no updates as promised, we began to feel a little helpless as time slowly ticked by. We called again. The wait on the phone to the breakdown services was depressing. No answer. Kept on hold, I desperately hoped that someone would pick up but instead I listened to a chirpy automated voice on endless repeat suggesting that I opt for an electric car as my next purchase. My patience was running thin and my language was certainly getting worse.

As midnight came and went, we began to wonder if anyone would ever come and rescue us. Looking at my husband who was now wrapped in a double bedsheet that he had retrieved from the car, I felt angry with the breakdown company. We were stranded in a dangerous location and they had basically shut down all communication with us. An update of some sort would have been comforting.

Feeling irrationally sorry for myself, I looked up the number for the Kent police headquarters ready to call and spout off about human rights and the expectation of us having to potentially sleep on the side of the motorway. However moments later, I pulled myself together and steered away from my ludicrous self-pity as I pondered the plight of those who were homeless and genuinely had something to worry about.

Around 01:30, our saviour came in the form of a 26-year-old who drove a local breakdown truck. (His arrival was all thanks to the Highways Agency who had helpfully intervened and who were equally frustrated with the silence of our breakdown company.) Never have I been more grateful to see another human being and he didn’t even batter an eyelid when he opened our car door and smelt the waft of over-ripe Camembert which was quietly festering in the now warm cool-bag.

Chatting animatedly on route, this young driver shared his life story and was just the tonic we needed to take our minds away from the previous few hours – hours which had felt endless at the time but which instantly dissipated into the past as his stream of warm and friendly words filled the truck.

Next time maybe we’ll take the train.

Travelling to France

Are We There Yet?

Posted on 30th Aug 202130th Aug 2021 by luce

Each summer, for the past twenty years or so, we have packed up our car, bundled the kids in the back and headed off to the Lot-et-Garonne region in France. Two adults and four children with luggage in a seven-seater Galaxy easily filled the space and the ability to stretch out or unfold was a valuable commodity.

This August, however, it was just the two of us. Our kids are no longer kids, and even if the youngest two siblings had wanted to join us, they couldn’t. Without a double vaccine, adults are currently not allowed to travel to France without an ‘essential reason’. Going on holiday is unfortunately not deemed to be essential and the two of them had not been double-jabbed at the time of departure. So with just us parents in our seven-seater, it certainly felt a little different.

When we first set off, I looked in the rear view mirror and saw empty space – a void that I was not used to. No teenagers slouched in their seats precariously held in by their seat belts; no limbs tangled in a blanket or draped over bags and no mishmash of piled high luggage limiting my view of the traffic behind.

I had taken advantage of our new ‘empty nest’ situation and had lavishly packed a multitude of items which would cater for any possible occasion on this holiday. I had a bag for my yoga blocks, belt and mat; a bag for my latest crocheting projects; an unnecessarily large wash bag; a bag for more clothes than days and a separate shoe bag with a range of footwear that I would probably not wear whilst away. Yet despite this, the luggage remained a meagre pile which lay low and lost in the boot.

The car was eerily quiet: no child had started on the snacks within five minutes of leaving home and no child was throwing up into a discarded empty plastic bag which had been found in desperation in a hidden side pocket. In the silence, I relished the idea of belting out a few tunes or enjoying a podcast at a higher than necessary volume. However, due to buying the wrong connector for my phone to access my playlists and podcasts (which I didn’t discover until underwater in the Eurotunnel) I soon realised that my entertainment was going to be limited to CDs. The upside of this was that it meant a trip down memory lane, delving into my music collection from years gone by.

As we drove, I felt strangely liberated singing aloud in-and-out-of-tune with no criticism from the back. There was no one to complain and no volume control needed to be maintained. I sang along to songs that I knew word for word which I hadn’t listened to in years: Barclay James Harvest, Melanie, Scouting for Girls and more.

At lunchtime, as family tradition dictates, my husband and I swapped the driving. Taking up the passenger role, I was free to fill the baguettes – baguettes which had been bought from a crowded and somewhat unsavoury service station. This year, it was quietly noted that we only needed one baguette. In the past, the kids’ unspoken rule was that I was the trusted lunch maker and with nostalgia, I recalled which family member had which filling. In my opinion, you can’t beat butter and marmite.

On these trips, crisps would often be passed back and forth, but it was hit and miss whether the bag would be empty before us adults in the front would even get a look in. This year, however, gluttony was rife as the crisps stayed firmly between my husband and me in the front.

After a doze, I became aware of an unusual comfort in my surroundings as I realised that I didn’t have a child’s foot propped at the side of my headrest. I sort of missed that foot, but I was equally enjoying the agreeable reclining position of my seat which had been newly unleashed in the space available.

As we swept past familiar fields of beckoning sunflowers and the undulating landscape of vineyards, I smiled a contented smile. Filled with nostalgia of the past and enjoying the tranquility of the present, I mused on how perhaps one day, when my husband and I are old and frail, we may be passengers driven by one of our children on this same journey through France. Will we be the ones snoring in the back, complaining about aches, asking for food and awaking from intermittent car naps asking, ‘Are we there yet?’

Crete, Travelling

Let Loose Again

Posted on 6th Aug 20216th Aug 2021 by luce

It has been about nine months since I have stepped foot out of the UK and at first it felt a little strange to be on the move. As I tore myself away from the familiarity and comfort of home, which has been the base of my lockdown life, a sense of muted excitement lulled in the air, mixed with a slight reluctance.

It felt like the world had shrunk and that anything beyond my locality was just a little bit scary. It felt like one of those times where it would have been so easy to stay put, so easy to stick with the familiar, so easy to stay at home. I was excited about heading to Crete but not at all thrilled about the journey itself which would take me to public locations where I would have to mix with people in situations that I hadn’t for nine months.

Heading to the airport, I lowered my expectations of what it might be like: check-in, the flight, getting through security, mixing with people, passport control… I imagined long queues, chaos, delays and disorganisation. This mindset was my way to avoid any disheartened disappointment where I knew the world was still figuring out how to deal with often changeable covid-related rules and regulations in public places.

Despite the unsociable early hour of the morning, thankfully we arrived at a relatively quiet airport, which was free from the usual mad rush of passengers starting the school holidays. This gave a promising start. I was hopeful. We immediately joined a not-so-long queue of fellow bleary-eyed passengers, and waited to get our documents checked before heading for a much needed coffee. As the queue shuffled along at a pleasantly steady pace, my spirit was lifted further and I soon realised that the entire airport operation was well organised and prepared. I almost felt guilty for my negativity but I was equally pleased to be proven wrong.

Papers checked, bags dropped, security passed and stomach fuelled, we were aboard the plane within an hour of arriving at Gatwick. And despite my awareness of the close proximity of the passenger in the seat next to me (which felt odd after so much social distancing) the thought that every adult on the plane had had their papers checked and in most cases had been double vaccinated, gave some element of safety.

Landing just a few hours later, I felt the welcoming heat of the Cretan sun and a warm gentle breeze on my face.

It felt good to be let loose once again. ☀️ 🇬🇷

Greece

A Police Encounter

Posted on 7th Dec 20207th Dec 2020 by luce

As 31st December approaches with EU-UK talks dominating the news, I thought I would share this small anecdote…

Three months ago, I paid a visit to a Greek police station. It was a beautiful sunny morning and my husband and I had driven to Vryses, a small town in Crete. We were there to collect our Greek residency cards – so not anything illegal, yet I still felt a little nervous and now, upon reflection, I realise why. Not only had I never ever visited a police station before, but I was also dealing with the Greek law enforcement – a complete unknown.

As I write this, I fondly recall my student days in the late 80s when I had two encounters of a very brief and distant kind with the British law: firstly when marching in Central London against the poll tax and secondly when protesting at Earl’s Court meat market with several other like-minded vegetarian individuals. I’m not even sure they can be considered as police encounters but that is as close as I get, so thankfully my contact with the police has been few and far between. And just to be clear, for the record, I have none.

With the uncertainty of Brexit and possible restrictions on time spent in mainland Europe for UK citizens, Greek residency had fast become a popular topic of discussion and so we had decided to pursue the process to at least get us into the system; nothing would be lost from applying. Having uploaded and sent all the necessary paperwork, we had received an email from the police informing us that our cards were ready and that we should visit the station to collect them.

In the heat of mid-morning, it took a few minutes to work out which building was the actual police station. On the right hand side of the road stood a proud church – clean and charming looking as though it had recently received a fresh coat of paint; similarly, the adjacent building – the town hall – was smartly dressed in cream with terracotta highlights.

Opposite these two buildings was a slightly different story. An empty concrete shell of a bungalow stood within a bed of overgrown grass which had long since seen a mower. This unkempt green mop extended to a second, yet inhabited bungalow. This, we soon discovered, was the police station, a building that was hardly visible from the road as it was hidden behind a metal railing fence and leafy trees. Despite the neglected grass, the well-established trees growing in front of the station gave the impression of wholesome heartiness with a twist of love where lemons hung from the branches.

Approaching the bungalow, we saw a dark doorway ahead where we could just make out some evidence of life and so that’s where we headed. I cautiously peered into the dark room and hesitantly took a step over the threshold and smiled with a friendly ‘Καλημερα’. A hand shot straight up from the back of the room to indicate that I should go no further. This hand belonged to a balding, bearded, somewhat fierce-looking man with a solid physique who sat behind his desk directly opposite the door. His expression of apparent disdain was in fine tune with his hand gesture. At least, however, he did have the courtesy to acknowledge my existence since the lady sitting at a desk to my immediate right must have been so busy that she hadn’t even seen me.

‘You come back in one hour (slight pause) because I am busy,’ the policeman ordered sharply in a deep throaty guttural – and possibly cigarette fuelled – voice.

I stood for a moment feeling slightly surprised, awkward and indignant. If I’d been in England, I would have politely requested clarification on the specific time that I should return to ensure that I was actually going to be seen; however, given that I was a foreigner here to complete an application for residency with the joys of Brexit looming on the horizon, I certainly wasn’t going to rock the process by being a disgruntled customer. I sensed that my reaction could easily sway the decision of this somewhat formidable looking man; there was no messing with him. After he had spoken these words, I hesitated, looked around and walked meekly away, whilst inwardly fuming at the apparent lack of manners. However now was not the time to raise a complaint about being told to wait an hour. Now was the time to step away with reserved British politeness.

After a short wander around the town with a caffeine stop at a local cafe, we returned to the police station an hour later as instructed. A few random tourists were now hovering outside the office with an air of uncertainty of what to do, where to look or whether to speak. Clearly the power of the man inside had got to us all and clearly this was his allocated hour of doom where he had to deal with a motley crew of vague and bewildered foreigners, who were expecting residency but who hadn’t yet perhaps mastered the Greek language.

With the pecking order established amongst us, I didn’t have to wait too long to approach the doorway, but I was very quickly stopped again with a hand gesture, this time by a younger policeman who said that no one should enter the office. Perhaps he had been called as back up?

This time, the balding man (who had forgotten to say hello the first time) had transformed into the jolly, friendly giant; he completed our application and issued our residency cards with unexpected ease and efficiency. My nerves had been causing a riot inside as I hoped he wouldn’t notice that the four passport photos, which we had had to submit, didn’t match. Of course he noticed but it didn’t matter, he only needed three photos after all. Perhaps his initial brusque attitude and the strict instructions for the application were a clever ploy to set the fear of something among us?

Handing us our residency cards, I noted, as expected, that they were dated until 31 December 2020. We knew that this was the case from other people who had already applied (and given that the Brexit deal/no deal was still without conclusion), but I felt compelled to risk asking why they were stamped only until the end of this year. The reply from my new law enforcement friend was a deep loud smiling guffaw, ‘Will you still be alive after that? Fingers crossed, see if we are all alive then!’

Head held high and clutching the freshly stamped residency cards, my optimism refused to dwell on his parting words of an uncertain future and I left with a smile of success.

face masks, running

The Unmasked Runner

Posted on 23rd Sep 202027th Sep 2020 by luce

Everyone understands the severity of this virus and the majority of people agree that measures imposed to restrict the spread are vital, but today reinforced my view that we also do need to apply some common sense.

Here in Crete, the current rule states, ‘Mandatory use of face masks in indoor and outdoor public spaces.’ Earlier, as I was about to embark on a run, this ruling raised some interesting discussion in our household. Mask or no mask?

Picture the location: I was up a fairly remote mountainside, with the exception of a smattering of houses – some occupied, others not. The landscape is largely untouched, where proud olive trees stand collectively in the fields, fields which are separated by low walls made up of precarious piles of stones. The bell tinkering of the sheep, who roam daily in a nearby field at sunrise and sunset, had silenced. The lonesome farmer had already moved them on. Looking around across the expanse of the land, I saw no one. It was here, on this mountainside, that I would begin my run. First along a deserted dirt track and then on a trail that would lead me down the hill – down a quiet tarmac road which sees very little action.

My initial thoughts were how could I possibly run with my nose and mouth covered with a mask – the temperature was already in the mid 20s and a full sun was shining. However, as I pondered further, I realised that if I didn’t, strictly speaking I would be breaking the ruling. I mulled over what I perceived to be the madness of running in a mask; the idea of exercising and thus breathing heavily whilst constricted by a fabric covering didn’t sit well in my mind. And yet, to fully comply with the ruling, anyone out in public should wear a mask. Surely this is where common sense had to come in?

The CDC (Centre for Disease Control and Prevention) states that ‘masks are recommended as a simple barrier to help prevent respiratory droplets from traveling into the air and onto other people’. As we all know, Covid-19 spreads mainly among people who are in close contact with one another (about 6 feet or 1.83 metres to be precise) and the importance of mask wearing where people are close to each other is clearly understood. The chances of me coming in close contact with anyone on this run was next to none. In fact, not next to none, it was none. If I was to meet another soul walking or running then we could easily maintain the distance of the road width (approx 3-4 metres) should we happen to pass each other.

I pondered further on the ruling versus common sense. After about 2 km, I would have to pass through a tiny village (with one small local convenience store and a taverna) and then a second village, which although larger, would still be fairly empty due to the early hour. Continuing downhill, I would eventually reach the quiet sea resort of Almyrida, which sits nestled in a gentle and quieter-than-normal bay. Here I would end my run. Here I would mingle with the somewhat despondent local employee in a cafe who, if his establishment was lucky enough to be selected, would be tending to the odd tourist seeking breakfast. August had ended, holiday makers had left – or not even arrived, the place was quiet.

After much thought, I decided to carry my mask as I ran. That way, should I meet anyone along the way, I could easily put it on at a safe distance before we crossed paths. I decided that I would wear the mask when going through the villages, but not along the deserted road. And so finally I set off.

For the first kilometre, despite not meeting a soul, I felt an element of guilt. I almost expected a police officer to stroll out from behind a prickly pear cactus as if waiting to catch me! Just before reaching the first village, I did actually pass an older lady who was strolling up the hill on the opposite side of the road. For the record, she wore no mask. This made me feel a little easier; I wasn’t the only one who was applying some common sense in our remote surroundings. In fact, she was the only pedestrian I passed for the entire five kilometre route. It was that remote.

As I reached the second larger village, I stuck to my decision and slowed to a masked walk. The tavernas had not yet opened and the local store was empty so other than a couple of cats, I was the only life form on the road. I suspect that many would consider me a touch over cautious; others perhaps not. Once through the village, I unmasked (keeping it close to hand) and continued down the twists and turns of the silent tarmac, yet still on the lookout just in case my sweaty undressed face met another. Soon, however, I arrived at the beach, masked up and headed for a well earned breakfast. Whilst contemplating my journey down the mountain, I released a final sigh of leftover guilt mixed with a feeling of ridiculousness at my worry of breaking a rule which was based on close human contact of which I had none.

Upon returning to the house, I googled a little further and was pleased to find that the CDC have a section entitled, ‘Feasibility and Adaptations’ which suggests that mask wearing is not always possible in all situations. It mentions running and suggests, ‘…conducting the activity in a location with greater ventilation and air exchange (for instance, outdoors versus indoors) and where it is possible to maintain physical distance from others.’ So after my initial concerns, my subsequent research and the sight of another lonesome maskless runner later in the day, I am content with my decision to be a law abiding citizen whilst applying an element of common sense.

Greek taverna

A Taverna Tale

Posted on 15th Aug 20208th Sep 2020 by luce

We had just finished a delicious meal of beautifully prepared traditional Greek food at a gorgeous taverna located in the heart of a small, peaceful village.

Set slightly to the edge of the taverna was a table with four chairs, where three local men were each enjoying a cold Greek coffee frappe and a cigarette or two or three…The fourth seat was occupied by the waiter (also the taverna owner) who joined his friends for a chat, a drink and a smoke in-between serving customers.

At intermittent stages over the course of the evening, a bell was rung in the kitchen. This prompted a delayed reaction from the waiter/owner where he would slowly rise from his seat, stroll inside, collect the food, serve the customer and then return to his position at the table with his friends to resume the conversation.

Don’t get me wrong, he did an excellent job in his role as front of the house. He was friendly, helpful and attentive and his relaxed demeanour was welcomed with a casual, homely approach that was perfect in this local family taverna.

As our meal came to an end, I pondered on what was going on in the kitchen. In the relentless heat of 30+ degree temperatures, juggling the timing of all the orders, the women were cooking the starters and main courses. Earlier in the day, the women had no doubt prepped vast quantities of vegetables, including countless tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, aubergines and courgettes for the array of mezze dishes. In advance of service, the women would probably have spent hours baking moussaka, boureki and pasticio. And we haven’t yet even considered dessert production. I was exhausted just thinking about the late evening hours that would be spent washing up and cleaning in preparation to begin the whole process again the following day. Factor in bringing up children – that’s a handful.

‘Who is paying?’ asked the waiter/owner as he brought the bill over to our table. Standing patiently beside the table waiting for our answer, he wore a slightly dishevelled look as if he’d just got up from a relaxed afternoon in front of the TV and had been disturbed by the doorbell.

‘He is,’ I replied indicating to my husband, who happened to have the cash in his wallet having been to the ATM earlier in the day. Another meal, it might be have been me paying: a joint account and together 30 years, it makes little difference who puts the money down at the end of a meal. On this particular evening, it was my husband who happened to have the cash.

In response to my answer, the waiter replied, ‘Ah, it’s always the man. The man, he always pay.’ Musing on the implication of his remark, I smiled outwardly in polite passive agreement, whilst inwardly chuckling at what I perceived to be the irony of his comment. He may have had to momentarily vacate his seat at the table with his friends but there was a hidden hive of activity in the kitchen. 😉