The fishing boats follow the fish.
The turtles follow the fishing boats.
The tourists follow the turtles.
A small group of visitors clusters around the edge of the quay at Argostoli, waiting for the reemergence of a loggerhead from beneath the stern of a sleek 11m sailing yacht.
Loggerhead turtles glide in the these waters, occasionally surfacing a wise, beaky skull to snort briefly in the morning air.
We’ve been tracking one particular turtle as it makes its way along the quayside, disappearing beneath the hulls of the moored sloops and small yachts.
After a short period spent standing awkwardly in the company of strangers, our collective anticipation cools. We realise that this large squat reptile has outsmarted us, and will not be making a return appearance.
We disperse to squint at the surface of the glittering topaz waters, waiting for our next catch.
* * *
It is the first night of our six-day stay in Kefalonia
My five-year-old daughter labours to sit upright as she surfaces once again from a brief, restless sleep.
Staring into the dark of an unfamiliar bedroom, she asks, haltingly, “are we… on dry land again?”
* * *
Eggs, prepared in any fashion, are my favourite food.
I love how versatile they are: not only inherently satisfying but also a blank canvas for complimentary flavours.
In the UK, we stick to the primary and secondary colours: scrambled, poached, fried, soft boiled, hard boiled, the occasional omelette. But venture abroad and you find eggs prepared in exotic and unfamiliar ways.
Years ago, in a cafe in Kerala, I had my first encounter with shakshouka – eggs poached in tomatoes, peppers, onion and garlic.
Now in Greece, I discover strapatsada: scrambled eggs in tomato and feta sauce, served with warm wedges of soft bread, usually served in summertime.
* * *
Although it is 2022 and I’m on a family holiday, I find myself listening exclusively to early Kesha, as if it were 2010 and my main ambition was to obliterate my short-term recall with a tidal wave of ouzo.
* * *
We stop for groceries at a branch of Lidl.
“It’s like a memory of home…” my daughter says wistfully, as we enter the familiar environs of the German discount retailer.
The big giveaway that we are no longer in South London is the striking presence of a tall, bearded and elderly Eastern Orthodox clergyman.
His appearance in Lidl is incongruous to our eyes: clad in dark black robes, wearing his distinctive kalimavkion, his long white hair pulled back in ponytail, pushing a trolley with a watermelon nestled in the child seat.
* * *
Over the past year cicadas have acted as my preferred masking white noise, piped in via an app on my phone or tablet.
Now I’m sleeping in the land of cicadas. If I step outside of the villa, the drum of their timbals is inescapable.
Perversely, when I head to bed, the windows are shut and their natural masking buzz is silenced – it’s the manmade thrum of the air con unit that cuts off the ringing in my ears and sends me to sleep
* * *
You can read part two here.
