Day four of our brief visit to Kefalonia, and the pockets of my swimming shorts are filling up with rocks
We have arrived, by dint of a wrong turn, at the wrong beach.
This is not a sandy beach on the southern tip of the island, but a pebbly beach further north along the eastern coast.
The rocky shore line is so uneven and unstable that it can only be comfortably negotiated while wearing flip-flops. The locals are clued in on this, but my family is not.
We move like toddlers, staggering clumsily and occasionally shuffling forward on our bottoms.
The beach is composed of many thousands of smooth white pebbles. Yet my daughter has decided that her small collection is utterly irreplaceable.
Her hand-selected stones accompany her into the shallows. She bobs around in the water, clutching fistfuls of them – “my precious rocks” – and I’m required to manage the overflow via my pockets.
During one period of play, I bounce her vigorously enough in the surf that a couple of pebbles slip from her grasp into the sea.
Recriminations are immediate. Daddy is 100% culpable for the loss.
“You have to go and find them,” she snarls tearfully, before marching to shore and sitting down indignantly next to her towel.
“They’re somewhere over there,” she explains to her grandmother, gesturing vaguely at a wide swath of ocean, 4ft-deep, as if it will be no major undertaking for Daddy to identify her two unremarkable pebbles amid the many hundreds on the sea bed.
* * *
I’m not the kind of person who would buy a cheese-and-onion pastry from Greggs every week, but I am absolutely the kind of person who would regularly buy a spanakopita from Gregory’s.
* * *
A flight of swallows darts around the swimming pool, wheeling around in the late-morning air.
I spin around in the water on tiptoes, trying to keep sight of them, watching their boomerang silhouettes before their little cameo ends.
There are other, malingering visitors to the pool – pigeons and a stray cat also stop by for a drink.
We make the mistake of offering a small bowl of milk to the latter guest. The next day we find him lounging on some cushions in the den.
The freeloader looks up at us with contented eyes, and mewls his greeting in a presumptuous manner.
* * *
Foreign kitchens, like foreign roads, force you to briefly rewire your brain.
Nothing is where it should be, and some expected items are missing. This villa has a shortage of condiments and a surfeit of toaster slots.
I like a good paring knife. Something short and reliable that’s perfect for preparing my daughter’s favourite snacks: apples, cucumbers, carrots and cherry tomatoes.
Our paring knife back home is my most trusted kitchen tool. I usually wash it by hand to avoid the inconvenience of hunting for it in the dishwasher.
I’m uncertain about where I might find the equivalent knife in this unfamiliar kitchen, so I resort to slicing fruit with a menacing eight-inch blade.
I hate knives like this. The sight of them, more than the handling. They look violent. Leaving them anywhere besides the safety of the knife block seems to invoke the spectres of Norman Bates and Michael Myers.
But I can’t argue with the results today.
The rest of my family has retreated from kitchen to siesta in the cool bedrooms downstairs.
I sit alone and slowly eat slices of perfectly ripe banana while drinking black coffee.
* * *
My daughter is learning to swim. Finally, on the last full day of our trip, she is making breakthrough after breakthrough.
This includes a sudden uncharacteristic willingness to put her face fully underwater.
I encourage her to experiment with doing this while wearing her goggles.
A thought occurs to her: “Daddy get your goggles and let’s wave to each other underwater!”
Now, both wearing our goggles, each with a hand clasped on of the swimming pool steps, we take a deep breath and simultaneously duck down into the blue.
My underwater daughter beams with delight and we wave to each other for the first time in a strange new environment.
It’s a small step that feels momentous.
We may as well be two astronauts signalling to one another during a space walk.
You can read part one here.
