Above us, the compacted scree slope was green with shrubs and Mediterranean pines. There was a garden set back in ancient, gnarled olives, behind which a row of white-framed windows reflected the late-morning sunlight. The house matched the slope rising around and beyond it, its ochre-tiled roof seeming to melt into the hillside. Higher up there were walled, terraced enclosures; higher still, where the mountain’s spur met the sky, goats made gravity-defying silhouettes against the dazzle.
“I show you!” said Nichos, turning right onto a track that wound dizzily through a series of hairpins to the house. We hung on as he drove with practised ease almost to the front door, parking his taxi in the shade of an olive tree heavy with fruit. Then he was opening doors for us, calling out to his wife: “Katrin—hey, Katrin!”
We stayed an hour. We drank cold beer, ate a delicious sandwich of salami, sliced tomatoes, and goat’s milk cheese. We admired the kids, the goats and chickens, the little house. It had been an effective way of changing the subject. And we didn’t give Nichos’s reticence (was that what it had been, or just poor communications?) another thought until he dropped us off at Villas Dimitrios.
The place was only another mile down the read, as the crow flies. But that coastal road knew how to wind. Still, we could probably have walked it while Katrin made us our sandwiches. And yet the island’s natural contours kept it hidden from sight until the last moment.
We’d climbed up from the sea by then, maybe a hundred feet, and the road had petered out to little more than a track as we crested the final rise and Nichos applied his brakes. And there we sat in that oven of a car, looking down through its dusty, fly-specked windows on Villas Dimitrios. It was…idyllic!
Across the spur where we were parked, the ground dipped fairly steeply to a bay maybe a third of a mile point to point. The bay arms were rocky, formed of the tips of spurs sloping into the sea, but the beach between them was sand. White sand, Julie’s favourite sort. Give her a book, a white beach, and a little shade, and I could swim all day. The taverna stood almost at the water’s edge: a long, low house with a red-tiled roof, fronted by a wooden framework supporting heavy grapevines and masses of bougainvillaea. Hazy blue woodsmoke curled up from its chimney, and there was a garden to its rear. Behind the house, separate from it and each other and made private by screening groves of olives, three blobs of shimmering white stone were almost painful to look at. The chalets or ‘villas’.
Nichos merely glanced at it; nothing new to him. He pointed across the tiny valley to its far side. Over there, the scree base went up brown and yellow to the foot of sheer cliffs, where beneath a jutting overhang the shadows were so dark as to be black. It had to be a cave. Something of a track had been worn into the scree, leading to the place under the cliff.
“In there,” said Nichos with one of his customary shrugs, “the well. Water, him no good…” His face was very grave.
“The water was poisoned?” Julie prompted him.
“Eh?” he cocked his head, then gave a nod. “Now is poison!”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “What is it—” indicated the dark blot under the cliff “—over there?”
“The well,” he said again. “Down inside the cave. But the water, he had, er—like the crabs, you know? You understand the crabs, in the sea?”
“Of course,” Julie told him. “In England we eat them.”
He shook his head, looked frustrated. “Here, too,” he said. “But this thing not crab. Very small.” He measured an inch between thumb and forefinger. “And no eat him. Very bad! People were…sick. They died. Men came from the government in Athens. They bring, er, chemicals? They put in well. Poison for the crabs.” Again his shrug. “Now is OK—maybe. But I say, no drink the water.”
Before we could respond, he got out of the car, unloaded our luggage onto the dusty track. I followed him. “You’re not taking us down?”
“Going down OK,” he shrugged, this time apologetically. “Come up again—difficult! Too—how you say?” He made an incline with his hand.
“Too steep?”
“Is right. My car very nice—also very old! I sorry.” I picked up the cases; Julie joined us and took the travel bags. Nichos made no attempt to help; instead he gave a small, awkward bow, said: “You see my house? Got the problem, come speak. Good morning.” Then he was into his car. He backed off, turned around, stopped, and leaned out his window. “Hey, mister, lady!”
We looked at him.
He pointed. “Follow road is long way. Go straight down, very easy. Er, how you say—short-cut? So, I go. See you in two weeks.”
We watched his tyres kicking up dust and grit until he was out of sight. Then:
Taking a closer look at the terrain, I could see he was right. The track followed the ridge of the spur down to a sharp right turn, then down a hard-packed dirt ramp to the floor of the valley. It was steep, but a decent car should make it—even Nichos’s taxi, I thought. But if we left the track here and climbed straight down the side of the spur, we’d cut two or three hundred yards off the distance. And actually, even the spur wasn’t all that steep. We made it without any fuss, and I sat down only once when my feet shot out from under me.
As we got down onto the level, our host for the next fortnight came banging and clattering from the direction of the taverna, bumping over the rough scrub in a Greek three-wheeler with a cart at the back. Dimitrios wore a wide-brimmed hat against the sun, but still he was sweating just as badly as we were. He wiped his brow as he dumped our luggage into his open-ended cart. We hitched ourselves up at the rear and sat with our feet dangling. And he drove us to our chalet.
We were hot and sticky, all three of us, and maybe it wasn’t so strange we didn’t talk. Or perhaps he could see our discomfort and preferred that we get settled in before turning on the old Greek charm. Anyway, we said nothing as he opened the door for us, gave me the key, helped me carry our bags into the cool interior. I followed him back outside again while Julie got to the ritual unpacking.
“Hot,” he said then. “Hot, the sun…” Greeks have this capacity for stating the obvious. Then, carrying it to extreme degrees, he waved an arm in the direction of the beach, the sea, and the taverna. “Beach. Sea. Taverna. For swimming. Eating. I have the food, drinks. I also selling the food for you the cooking…” The chalet came with its own self-catering kit.
“Fine,” I smiled. “See you later.”
He stared at me a moment, his eyes like dull lights in the dark shadow of his hat, then made a vague sort of motion halfway between a shrug and a nod. He got back aboard his vehicle and started her up, and as his clatter died away, I went back inside and had a look around.
Julie was filling a pair of drawers with spare clothing, at the same time building a teetering pyramid of reading material on a chair. Where books were concerned, she was voracious. She was like that about me, too. No complaints here.
Greek island accommodation varies from abominable to half decent. Or, if you’re willing to shell out, you might be lucky enough to get good—but rarely better than that. The Villas Dimitrios chalets were…well, OK. But we’d paid for it, so it was what we expected.
I checked the plumbing first. Greek island plumbing is never better than basic. The bathroom was tastefully but totally tiled, even the ceiling! No bathtub, but a good shower and, at the other end of the small room, the toilet and washbasin. Enclosed in tiles, you could shower and let the water spray where-the-heck; if it didn’t end up in the shower basin, it would end up on the floor, which sloped gently from all directions to one corner where there was a hole going—where? That’s the other thing about Greek plumbing: I’ve never been able to figure out where everything goes.