Building the AcropoLiz

The back driveway of Kalithea Villa starts at the highest point of our land below the road and comprises a series of long curves which descend very steeply in parts. Initially we couldn’t understand why the edges had high haunches, with banking on the corners to compete with the ‘Cresta Run’, bobsleigh course. That was until our first storm! Water poured off the mountain, down the road, under our back gates and formed a gushing river down the drive. The way the house tucks into the mountainside has been cleverly engineered to ensure maximum collection of water and presumably, channeling the water so effectively, reduces the capacity of free running water to undermine the structure of the property. We are not on mains water, but rely on two reservoirs. The water from the back driveway goes through a mesh filter and two separate filter chambers into the secondary reservoir directly under the boatshed. Water from the seven flat roofs collects roof upon roof, is then directed through a simple filter system of stones and sand, and collects in the main 18,500 gallon reservoir under the kitchen and the kitchen patio. Water run-off from the front driveway is similarly filtered before it is directed to the swimming pool. We have had the water from the reservoirs tested and it proved purer than most bottled water and as good as standard tap water.

Set to the side of the house on a flat patch on land at the base of the lounge windows, the boatshed has commanding views over the straits and as such was named the Acropolis by the previous owners. Its lower position gives a slightly different perspective to the view from the lounge; it is not framed by the terracotta pot or patio walls, but does enable me to see slightly further around the corner of our mountain and thus to the tip of the Maleas peninsular. From our first viewing of the house I declared that this would be my office. Supportive as ever, Waldo renamed it the “AcropoLiz” and made the conversion a high priority in his list of things to do.

The building was open at both ends, reached from a slight ramp at the rear and with access to the garden and terraces from the front. In one corner of the 5.5m by 4m cement floor is an access point to the reservoir. The far side wall was half bricked and topped with five curved archways joining pillars along the wall. The inside wall had two such curves and the back half of the wall was solid brick and cement where it faced the mountainside. The curved sections at the top of the side walls had been made by pouring concrete into a wooden fabricated mold. Someone had taken the trouble to build into this precision curve a decorative meander or ‘Greek key’ design across the top. However such effort has been lost as the builders simply picked up and fitted these concrete sections at will and thus some have the design on the outside of the building, whereas others face inside. Along the front half of the inside wall is a stone bench which may simply be designed for sitting on or a feature made out of a need to buttress the wall against the mountain. The walls stand about 2.5m high and the apex of the pitched roof is about 3.5m from the ground. The roof is tiled with local terracotta tiles.

Given the driving winter rain that predominantly comes down the valley and the summer breezes which come up we decided to brick up the back wall and only have openings to the front. We planned to brick up the archways except the front one of the side wall. The front section of the building would be all glass with a small opening window and glass in the top section of the door. This would mean that I would have plenty of wall space on which to run bookcases, a small seating area and window space for my large curved desk. Here I could look to the side and across the valley or to the front and down the valley to the sea for my inspiration. I did wonder how much such an inspiration would be restricted to my ability to accurately describe ships, rolling sea mists, or bright azure seas or whether the ever changing vista would simply be a distraction. But time will tell.

We had visited Kyria (Mrs.) Anna at the local hardware store: a regular haunt of ours. Her husband Pangiotis would measure, manufacture and fit the double glazed windows and doors. We had received the written quotation on a previous trip to Kythera and ordered the goods to be ready just before our return arrival date. On our first day back we visited Panagiotis to learn that he had lost the scrap of paper with the measurements on it. He hadn’t thought to look at his copy of the nicely printed quotation which his wife had prepared for us! So he returned to measure up, and as usual it would be ‘no problem’. When we telephoned to ask why he hadn’t turned up on the appointed day to fit everything he declared that he had forgotten to ask us what style door we wanted and would we pop up to see his selection. We were quite surprised at this for neither of us could recall any options being visible in his workshop. It turned out that our choice was to have one big panel or two smaller ones and these could be a plastic ‘tongue and groove’ effect or plain glass. Panagiotis looked rather sheepish when Waldo asked to see our windows. He had not actually started making them yet, he wanted to come back and measure, again, just to be sure. But he assured us that everything would be fitted by the weekend.

The following Monday we were up early so that we could visit Panagiotis to find out why he had not turned up and then go to the builders’ merchants to order the rest of the materials and ask them to recommend a good, reliable brickie and plasterer. The peace and tranquility of breakfast on the patio was soon broken by a small convoy of men coming down our steep steps at the side of the pool, walking around the pool, under our patio and to the boatshed. Each was carrying an aluminium frame. I counted four. It was looking hopeful. Excitedly we finished our toast and coffee and walked down to see Panagiotis and his son lift the first frame towards its allotted space. Oh dear. The look of consternation on Panagiotis’ face was clear. He reached behind his ear for his pencil. The frame was too wide. Panagiotis marked off where he would have to cut and refix. Then complete horror shook his whole body as he realized that the frame was also not deep enough. He looked up and caught my eye; the poor man didn’t dare look at Waldo. Silently I held both my hands out in front of me with fists clenched as if I were holding the frame. My fists were level and I rotated them 90° so that one was directly above the other. The tension turned to smiles as the frame was turned and found to fit the space almost perfectly.

It took Waldo a lot of miming and finger pointing, and Panagiotis up to three fittings per window before we were satisfied. At one point the front window had been fitted inside the curve of the pillar such that the top section could not open as it jarred the edge of the pillar. Something had gone wrong with the door measurements and the concrete floor had to be channelled to make it fit. But the half day job was now on its third day and nearing the end to the point where Waldo felt we could leave them to it.

It never fails to amaze me how men in general and Waldo in particular know everything. The size of a brick, or how to work out how much cement is needed per square metre of bricks is just not the sort of detail most women carry around in their brains. But as Waldo had measured, scribbled and scratched his head I consulted my Greek dictionary. I wrote down the words for brick, sand, cement, plaster, brickie, plasterer and made sure I knew the phrases such as ‘when can you deliver?”, “how much will it all cost?” I knew the builders’ merchant spoke no English, so I had to be prepared. What I didn’t know then was that, unusually for this cosmopolitan island, nobody involved in the building of the AcropoLiz spoke a word of English and so my linguistic skills and Waldo’s ability to mime developed considerably.

The builders’ merchant was skeptical, he wanted to be sure we were ordering the right quantities. When we asked him if he could recommend a good brickie and plasterer he relaxed and immediately got on the telephone. About an hour later I found myself bouncing up our mountain track in a car with Andreas who was to be our builder. After a lot of arm waving, many cigarettes on Andreas’ part, I came to know the different Greek words for rough plaster and smooth plaster and to be able to say ‘I don’t really care which, as long as it doesn’t let spiders in’. Andreas telephoned the builders’ merchant to confirm our needs and we shook hands to seal the deal and agreed that he would come, with his Albanians, on Saturday. (Greek authorities used to bus Albanians back to their country, until it was recognized that they were a cheap source of labour, primarily to meet the building needs of the Olympic Games. Now that the building boom in Athens is over many of these men and their families have dispersed around Greece in search of work or have been forcible relocated. Thus, all over Greece the word ‘Albanian’ has become the synonym for ‘labourer’.) Despite it being Easter, Andreas and his gang would work on Monday and finish by Wednesday, a week away. In the meantime, we would arrange for the delivery of the materials and ensure that everything was brought down the steep driveway to the boathouse, ready for work. We raced off the pay the builders’ merchant, but he would not hear of it. After everything was delivered to our satisfaction, some time when we were passing we could call in and pay. We then agreed that the material would be delivered the following morning between nine and ten o’clock. I made it absolutely clear that the sand and loose chippings were to be dumped at the entrance to the top driveway. I even drew a little map for the last thing I wanted was to wake up to find our car blocked in the main driveway.

Satisfied with our efforts and released after the tensions of dealing with Panagiotis we decided to treat ourselves. For the first time ever we decided to lunch at our favourite beachside taverna. The first people we saw in the taverna was Panagiotis and his men, busy working their way through plates of fried squid, octopus, and salad. Just as the Greeks say ‘Ouzo without meze is not Ouzo’ so we say that ‘meze without Ouzo is not meze’. We ordered Stella’s special array of tasty titbits: small meatballs, small local sausages, chunks of feta cheese, slices of tomato and cucumber, fried slices of squid, a few prawns, dollops of fish roe pâté, garlic yoghurt with cucumber, and humus. We spent a delightful hour watching seabirds dive for tiny fish darting in the shallow water of the bay. We were making the most of the chance to relax for the next two days would be busy moving the bricks and building materials for Andreas. We were just on our last sips of Ouzo when a heavy lorry passed on the road between our tables and Stella’s kitchen. Waldo leapt out of his seat shouting ‘my bricks’. Watching the lorry through the village Dino, Stella’s partner, confirmed it was turning up our road. With no time to pay, Dino waved us on as we ran for the car. We caught up with the lorry about half way up to our house and spent the next hour supervising the delivery.

After moving some five hundred bricks Waldo recognized that it was just not going to be possible for him to move all the bricks, three tons of stone dust, ten bags of cement and fifteen plastic bags of lime. Controlling the wheelbarrow down that steep drive took too much strength. Not for the first time we decided we needed a little “Bobcat”. I resolved that once we sold our house in the UK, that would be my next combined Christmas and birthday present to Waldo. In the meantime we called down to see Eddy who lives at the bottom of our road. Eddy was out but his wife explained that his machine was awaiting a replacement engine to come from the mainland. We had had a few tons of earth delivered some months previously and went in search of the lorry driver: the earth must have been loaded with a machine that could shift our bricks. Unfortunately it was a grown-up JCB, far too big for our driveway. We telephoned our friend Goran, a local farmer. He didn’t have one, but he would find out who did. Sure enough he soon called back to say that George, who repairs tractors, had one. We went to see George: yes, he could move our bricks, but his “Bobcat” was in a field ten miles away; if we could find someone who could give it a lift to the house he would do the work.

It was late afternoon on Friday when Goran arrived with George’s bobcat on his trailer. He pulled up close to our banking and George drove straight out of the trailer, onto our bank and down the driveway. It took four hours of hard work loading the bricks and all the building materials, but the “Bobcat” made easy work of moving everything down the steep driveway. I put all the lights on outside the house to help George see where he was going as it was pitch dark by the time the final load was brought down. The last we saw of him was tracking up our mountain road in his “Bobcat” which had no lights. He travelled by the light of the moon and all we could see was the tip of his cigarette as he disappeared around the corner.

Breakfast the next morning was once more interrupted as Andreas, true to his word, appeared with his chief plasterer, the very handsome Manolis and three Albanians. It was clear that Andreas had not expected Waldo to move all the bricks, stone-dust, lime and bags of cement. Waldo is a small man and does not look particularly strong. I told Andreas that Waldo has honey in his tea every morning, and Kytheran honey is known to be the best in Greece – clearly it works. As if in response Manolis appeared asking Andreas where he wanted the full bag of cement that he carried in his arms as easily as if it were a household bag of sugar. It was a treat to see the men work. They knew exactly what they were doing and took pride in the finished job. As long as coffee, water and biscuits were forthcoming about every two hours they worked tirelessly. Andreas kept disappearing, but is was clear he trusted the men implicitly and they did not betray that trust and worked steadily.

Whether it was Andreas’ disappearances, the men’s liking for my coffee and biscuits, or just the size if the job it was touch and go as to whether they would finish by the time we were leaving the coming Friday. I had told Andreas that we were leaving for the airport at 11.30, but by the time Takis the taxi-driver arrived Andreas was nowhere to be seen. We were very concerned that we should pay our dues on time. Halfway down the mountain we met Andreas, bemused that we should be leaving so early when the ‘plane wasn’t due to take off for another hour, and anyway it was always late. I leaned out of the taxi and told Andreas that we were very pleased with the work and had left the money in an envelop with Manolis. He just smiled. He was pleased that we liked his work. As for paying, ‘no problem’ we could have given him the money when we were next on this island.

Don't Move House During the Olympics

Despite our set criteria, we ended up falling in love with a modern house built in the style of Frank Lloyd Wright. In fact some pieces of furniture in the property are copies of some of his interior decor and others are in the Bauhaus style. It has a plunge pool and is set in some 10 acres of land, mainly terraced with some 40 olive trees but mostly scrub land in need of attention. The surrounding garden has palm trees, huge agave plants, lots of oleander, bougainvilla and jasmine as well of fruit and nut trees: orange, pomegranate, vine, pear and almond. We have electricity and telephone but are not attached to mains water or sewage. Thus we collect our own pure water from the seven rooves of the house and store it in two large sternas. We have three bedrooms, a large lounge, large kitchen, a spare room used as junk room, Waldo's office and spare single bedroom. The hall is massive and spans two storeys as the entrance to the house is at the top level with a mezzanine floor. Waldo has a huge garage large enough to park 4 cars and a workshop. I have me eyes on the old boatshed which will become my office. But what 'sold' the property to us was it's isolation and view. Half way up a mountain we can see just one house at the bottom of the valley. The rest of the view is up the valley, across the valley and down to the blue sea, across the straits to the Maleas peninsular of the Peloponnese. The silence is heaven.

The joy of taking ownership of the house we have named Kalithea (Good View) Villa soon paled into grey cloud of panic at the thought of what to do next. Our plan has been to sell our twenty-six roomed ex-children's home, house in South Wales and move to a two or three-bed roomed apartment. This would serve its purpose for the few years until I retire and we can move to Kythera on a more permanent basis.

Now Waldo and I are very alike; we are both hoarders and we are both repositories for our families’ large furniture as they downsized from sprawling farmhouses to modern, easy-to-manage properties, and we seem to have claimed much furniture left over from previous owners of houses we have bought. In fact, in our thirty-nine years together, we have only ever bought two three-piece suits, one oval bed, a set of bedroom drawers and vanity unit, a pine kitchen dresser with matching table and chairs, a ‘fridge and a washing machine. Except for the first three-piece suit, we still have and use it all. But each room of our three-storey Edwardian home is crammed with furniture, clocks, favourite vases, candlesticks or china given to us by Aunties Mary, Betty or 'Big Elsie'; grandmothers’ cast offs and the gifts of well-meaning friends who see our family clutter on display and, believing that we collect such items, buy more to be displayed and gather dust.

The idea of sorting our furniture to fit into a small apartment was something we had been putting off. But we could not keep our heads in the sand any longer and decided to divide things up into three lists: to go to Kythera, to our new flat in Cardiff and the final list was itself sub-divided into three: to be sold, sent to a charity shop or binned. The tasks of sorting, sifting and throwing were not appealing: Waldo found more and more reason to be in Kythera sorting out Kalithea Villa and I was always busy in work. Eventually I decided the time had come and set myself a target to clear out at least one large bin-bag of rubbish every week. I started filling up our dining table with various pots, vases, china ornaments and sets of china that I thought had a value. There were some nice art-deco pieces, a Clarice Cliff jug, a Belleek dish, Pool pottery, a Swansea pottery tea-service and a few other pieces which I believed had value. I’d seen enough TV programmes to know that a set of six cups and sauces with a chip or piece missing was better split into a set of four complete pieces and the odd cups of saucers sold in job lots. So I sorted and sifted and carried precious crates of goodies to the local antique market. I’d already spent Saturday after Saturday walking these markets eyeing up specific stalls and observing the manner of the stall holders. Thus each selling trip had a cargo destined for a specific stall holder: china tea services for one, Toby jugs on another trip, art-deco pieces on another; coronation mugs and paraphernalia and so on. It took three months of Saturdays and Sundays, spreading myself among different markets, not making myself too familiar, calling out different stall holders to the boot of my car each time. But, with the exception of one cup and two saucers I cleared everything and had more money in my ‘Kythera pot’ than I had hoped for.

Waldo sometimes accompanied me on these trips and we started walking into the realms of the furniture sales. Each time we returned home we would walk around our house pricing items of furniture and decided what we would sell: a chaise longue, a walnut faced étagère, a glass fronted display cabinet, an Edwardian swivel vanity mirror, the large top book case section of a writing desk, various small cabinets and tables and a large glass case containing two stuffed pheasants. How to get rid of them was the next challenge. The cost of transport, the risk of items not selling and the fact that the auctions were not particularly frequent eliminated the auction house option. I even contacted the TV programme ‘Cash in Your Attic’: we were interviewed, accepted, had items valued, but then put into a forthcoming series which was too far away for our needs. Eventually we plucked up courage and chatted to a furniture stall holder in one of the antique markets. To our surprise he called to our house after work that evening, agreed to buy absolutely everything we had for sale except for an oval, walnut inlay table, and came to collect the items the following day. It was swings and roundabouts on the prices, but on balance we had slightly more than we had hoped for, and he had solved our transport problem. We were happy with the outcome and our Kythera pot was expanding.

The next stage in our development was to start selling at car boot sales. The first one was a frightening experience as we were clearly identified as rookies and mobbed as we were unpacking the car. But after a few horrendously early Sunday morning starts we were accepted and plied our trade. We soon recognised that sixty percent of our takings for the day would be taken between 7am and 10am before the sale opened to the public, for it was the dealers and ultra-keen buyers who came in the early hours. The next few hours would drag by and account for about one fifth of our sales. Then there would be a final spurt in the last half hour as everyone was packing up, this was a time I came to hate for this was when the meanies and the desperately poor came with their ploys of ‘you don’t want to take that home with you’ or ‘you won’t sell that now’ and they would offer pittances for anything that took their fancy. I soon started working the displays each week and anything that hadn’t sold in three outings was consigned to a charity shop or the bin. We’ve still plenty to get rid of next summer and we are finding ourselves clearing the knick-knacks from Kalithea Villa to grace the boot sales of South Wales.

Each piece of furniture and precious item with ‘value-for-life’ was earmarked for Kythera. We measured spaces for the Welsh Dresser, Victorian bookcase, teak units and various tables and display cabinets. Then we set about finding a removal company. We pondered over the exorbitant prices and debated the pros and cons of using a small local company or a large international one. In the end we plumped for the latter on the grounds that their international experience would stand us in good stead for removal of our precious belongings to the relatively remoteness of Kythera: a decision which proved to be completely misplaced and an utter waste of the ‘extra’ cost.

Perhaps the first warning signal should have come when the sales representative for the company insisted that he had seen the island promoted in his package holiday brochure the previous year; we knew that the island does not feature in such brochures. But we passed this off as confusion with perhaps Kerkyra (Corfu). We pushed on with the conversation and planned to the last detail the events that would have to take place between us signing the contract and receiving our goods, unbroken in Kalithea Villa. We agreed specific dates, some with accepted minor variations when men would pack our goods and load the 11,000 cu.ft. container, deliver it to Southampton dock, for the ship to leave port, arrival at Piraeus, custom’s clearance, delivery by another ferry to Kythera. We then had the momentous task of sorting our the insurance, a minefield of expense based on complicated mathematical formulae which, for example, adds pounds to the cost of insuring a set of six glasses over and above the individual rates. Because we were not moving household goods such as kitchen equipment and bedroom furniture, most of our contents were classed as luxury items which carried a premium and so we spent ages reclassifying them. I had to count every item and on the basis that only if the ship sank or the container went on fire would my 1,851 books be destroyed, I gave them no value.

When Waldo returned to the removal company office with the completed insurance forms he double checked on the timings and agreed with them the dates that he would now book our air tickets to ensure that we would be on the island to receive our goods. Waldo was actually going to the island three weeks before me, I would join him the week the container was due and help sort out the house before traveling to the island of Lefkas where I was speaking at a conference. A week later I would return when my cousin and her husband were then joining us for two weeks holiday.

The packing went well. Two older ex-employees were pulled out of retirement for the big job. On the third day two young chaps arrived as reinforcements; but between conversations on their mobile telephones and tea breaks they did not pack much, no more than six cases between them. I was very pleased that the older men had only allocated books for these irresponsible boys to pack. On opening these boxes I found a jumbled mess; if they couldn’t get same sized paperbacks in order what chance would my expensive china and glass have had? Loading the container was not helped by the fact that it took place on the Monday after we had had a new lawn and brick pathway laid over the weekend. Everything was taken out of the front door, over the newly laid path now covered with wooden planks, up the ramp to the van, through the van and over the ramp from the back doors to the container. The container lorry, removal van, lorry with the new lawn turf, the flat bed truck with the rollers and other garden equipment, together with an assortment of the men’s cars, our two cars and our camper van, evicted from the garage, meant parking vehicles on both sides of our road across our frontage and the neighbours on both sides of us, blocking the driveway to four flats. They are all elderly people who have no need to rush in the mornings, but we had to wake them at 7.30am to ask them to get their cars out if they wanted to go anywhere during the day. It was 18.30 before we waved goodbye to our container.

As agreed, the removal company contacted us a few days later confirming that the container had been loaded on the ship bound for Athens. Then we heard nothing. A few days after the due time we telephoned to find out if the ship had arrived and Waldo had the response that “Kathy deals with this sort of thing and she is on holiday for two weeks”. After a number of telephone calls and visits to the office the local manager informed us that they really only dealt with removals within the UK and didn’t really know about foreign moves: they knew nothing and were not interested. Calls to the company’s London head office were just as disinterested and all they could give us was the name of a shipping agent in Athens. Nothing of the promised service promoted when selling their contract was forthcoming. When Waldo made contact with the shipping agent the only records she had were for half a container of goods in the name of Edwards and going to Crete. Twice or thrice daily telephone calls to the removal company provided no further information over the next two weeks and our stress levels and tempers were rising rapidly.

Athens was closing down normal services in favour of the Olympic Games and Waldo was due to fly out within days when we received a distressed telephone call from a man in Piraeus who declared that he had been trying to contact us on Kythera but we never answered the telephone. The carefully planned and agreed programme or indeed any paperwork had not been forwarded with our container and it had taken him days to be given our UK telephone number. Transport to and from the port was now being closed and we would have to wait until after the end of the Olympic Games before our container could be moved.

Two days later Waldo arrived on the island when there followed the silliest period of this so-called professional international company’s service. The local office in Cardiff had forgotten to inform us that in Greece we would have to be responsible for going to the custom’s office in Piraeus and personally signing the documentation in order to have the container released. This was eventually sorted by a complicated arrangement involving our solicitor in Athens, a local hotel’s fax machine, the Kytheran police and a personal courier on an Olympic flight from the island. The next hurdle arose when the Piraeus agent declared that they would empty the container and load the goods onto a lorry to be driven to Githion for the ferry. To minimize damage, we had paid extra for the unopened container to be delivered to Kalithea Villa. This professional international removal company’s local agent eventually agreed to do this, but not until Waldo had taken a trip down to the port to greet the ferry and seek the clearance measurements for the doors to the hold, to be sure that the unit could be successfully loaded and unloaded!

I arrived on the island; the conference in Lefcas had been cancelled due to the Olympic Games. Two days after watching the closing ceremony of the TV, we had a telephone call from Piraeus to say that our container would be arriving early the following morning. I got organized and ensured that I could provide the anticipated 4 – 6 men, our friend Keith, Waldo and I with lunch. Then I stuck the sheets of paper, which listed the 196 boxes and items packed, onto a big board and marked them up with the appropriate room against each number.

Bright and early the next morning we watched the ferry go down, expecting the telephone call within half an hour or so. An hour later Waldo set off in search of the lorry: with two roads on the island it is difficult to get lost. The job had been subcontracted to a haulier who was justifiably proud of his bright new, shiny 35ft Globe-Trotter articulated vehicle. In fact it was so new, he wasn’t terribly sure how to drive it and Waldo had to walk in front of him to indicate the wide arc needed to turn into our road. Despite Waldo’s insistence that he follow him at exactly the same speed, the driver failed to take the second corner properly and the lorry became stuck in the sandy dry earth. Luckily a local man was nearby with his caterpillar tractor and Waldo had to negotiate with the house owner whose driveway building was delayed for the emergency. With his car trapped on front of the lorry, Waldo jumped in Keith’s car and they set off to the nearby boat repair yard where they sought out a steel hawser to link caterpillar to lorry. This hawser Waldo linked to lorry and tractor, for the lorry driver did not know where his towing connections were until Waldo showed him. Eventually, four hours late, with lights flashing and horn blowing the red lorry appeared around the corner of the road to our house. Everyone in the village now knew that our furniture had arrived. Goran the local pig farmer had turned up with his tractor and trailer, ready to help move furniture up the mountain if necessary. George from the supermarket had sent his two strapping sons over the mountain to ask if we wanted help lifting and carrying. With the lorry mobile, this help was now rejected in favour of the removal company’s ‘professionally trained removal men’ – who turned out to be four willing Albanians who had greeted the ferry in the hope of gaining a few hours work that morning! Haggling with them was the cause of the delay from the port.

Everything was unloaded into the road. The driver and the professional removal company representative – young man with a mobile ‘phone – stayed in the cab, ready to move once the lorry was empty. It came as some surprise when we made it clear that the packages had to be brought into the house and the 100 metres from the road to the front door and then seven levels of steps would not make it easy. There was a flurry of activity and I despaired as my plan of the men calling the number of the package for me to respond with the room direction failed as it became evident that the men could not read the number of the package in English or Greek, or probably Albanian. So Keith came to the rescue and it was fortunate that the hired helpers each had different coloured sweaters on. Thus the next hour rang to Keith’s shouts of “Red 146’ or ‘Orange 24” and as the man in question appeared down the steps to the hall I would direct them to the appropriate room.

With the rush to get our property inside the house coming to an end, the driver stirred himself. He then realized that the mountain track was too narrow to turn and so Waldo drove him further up to a turning place, clearly identifying how he should back into the space to be able to drive out. If he drove in, with the weight behind him, he would be stuck. But the driver clearly believed that horsepower was everything, he was more concerned with the overhanging branches which might scratch his shiny red paint. I caught a glimpse of Waldo taking off with stepladders strapped to the top of our 4 x 4 Lada and armed with a saw to cut away possible offending low branches.

On his return the driver was ready to leave, they were booked on the afternoon ferry. It was then that Waldo exploded and showed the young man with the mobile ‘phone our contract, which clearly stated that all goods had to be unpacked and put in place, and that all rubbish had to be taken away. All the men poured into the house in a flurry of angry voices and grumbles. As the big driver started attacking the packing on my lounge suite with a Stanley knife I joined the noise screaming ‘stop’. Eventually the heavy furniture was unpacked and in place and most of the packing paper collected. The driver then refused to put this into his lorry; he didn’t want to clutter it up. But Waldo was insistent.

I felt sorry for the Albanians who had worked extremely hard in the heat without being allowed lunch or respite. I had plied them with water and packed up some bread, cheese and fruit for them to take away. They waved avidly as the lorry eventually went down the mountainside. It was totally representative of this ‘professional, international removal company’ that a day later we discovered that most of the rubbish had been thrown over the roadside into a clump of trees at the edge of our garden. Then, three days later we had a telephone call from a garage about ten kilometers away, saying that he had an envelope for us. This turned out to be all of the insurance details and consignment sheets sent from the UK office, and which had been missing. We had insisted that all correspondence was to be through our UK address and explained that the Kythera address was a location address only as our postal address on the island would not be needed. So, following the efficiency level that we had now come to expect they were late in their dispatch and so couriered it to our location address. Like attracts like and the courier company, operating to the same efficiency and customer care levels as their contractor, had merely dropped the envelope into the first premises they found “open” from the port, and didn’t even bother to come as far as our village.

The managing director of the company would, no doubt, view this version of his ‘professional service’ as some sort of fairy story. But for us, it has the happy ending that characterizes such tales. Our treasured belongings are here with us. Three minor breakages of furniture have easily been repaired. We now have the familiarity of our own home around us. I still have not unpacked all of the books, but this can be done at our leisure. Our memories of our removal are full of the help that we had from the Albanians, from local people and from friends on the island.

Aghia Pelagia

As the ferry moved effortlessly between the Maleas peninsular, the most westerly of the Peloponnese, and the island of Kythera we searched for something magical. So many of our friends had told us how beautiful the island was. One friend whose mother originated from one of the villages along the northern spine of the island had told me one day 'every philhellene should see Kythera before they die'. Looking down the coast from the lighthouse to the few rather higgledy-piggledy gatherings of white houses, in the gathering dusk they appeared rather scruffy and not at all inspiring.

Waldo and I just burst out laughing as we approached the small harbour at Diakofti. A small offshore island had been connected to the waterfront village by a causeway thus cutting the bay in two. On the one side was the ferry morrings and a small beach. The wonderful jewel colours of the water ranged from pale turquoise through to navy blue making a very attractive forefront to the pretty little village nestled under huge sweeping mountainside. But the focus of our mirth came from the other side where a tumbled rock formation poked out of the shallow waters. Resting against it, as if asleep, was the front half of a fairly large ship. It's colours were just visible but rust was taking over; the back half lay beneath the water. Had there been a freak storm that carried the ship to its final resting place? Had the captain been drunk and misread his charts? Whatever the reason, it did not fill anyone arriving by boat with much confidence.

Many years ago we had been in Corfu when an aeroplane had skidded off the runway and into the lagoon. Fortunately nobody was hurt and all people involved were taken to safety. But almost before the operation to make everyone safe had concluded men were sent with pots of paint to blank out the logos and any evidence as to which company's pilot had literally landed in hot - well warm - water! Now Kythera amused us and raised our interest. Did the authorities not understand what impression they might be giving to visitors to the island? Was the ship left as a warning to others; a beacon to remind people of the dangers of the waters surrounding the island? Or was it simply someone else's responsibility? We remembered that it was not far from here that Lord Elgin lost his marbles when his ship sank in a ferocious storm. He and other surivors were saved by fishermen of Kythera. Having just purchased the marbles from a ruling Ottoman Pasha in Athens Elgin was a bit short of cash, hence it took him some two years before he could gather enough together for a rescue operation. Then he returned and used Kytheran men to help him reclaim his marbles from the sea bed and place them on board a ship which would take them to London and the British museum. I have always noticed that when the issue of the marbles is the focus of British Hellenic discussions, Kytherans seem unnaturally quiet.

The road up from Diakofti had been recently asphalted and we quickly passed kilometres of scrubland broken only by a distant white village that looked a bit like a caravan park, a collection of sheds where some 100 goats were milked, an occasional monastery on a high peak and with enviable views and a statue in the middle of nowhere. The only map I had of the island was a small one in a guide book; it was a quarter of a page of A5 and thus detail was scant. It did however show that there were two asphalted roads on the island, the one we were on equivalent to the downpiece of a letter 'T' and the cross piece running from the north of the island to the south. We pondered at the T-junction; our intention was to spend probably one night in the north and two in the south where, we reasoned, the main town was located and hence there would be more to see and do. It was almost dark and the northerly village on the map that we were aiming for seemed about 2mm shorter than turning south and so we turned right.

The lady at the hotel Marou, seeing that I was using a walking stick, changed her mind on the room we were to be given. She can never know how much that decision changed our lives. We were given a magnificent top floor suit with massive balcony; we could drive up to the front door. It was then we realised how tired we were. We had a quick meal in the village without really taking much interest in the food or our surroundings. It was the next morning when the dawn sun rose, full and deep orange, over the sea's horizon. In that morning light we could see the village, Aghia Pelagia waking. Three tavernas, a souvlaki shop, a coffee shop, a few bars and hotels, two gift shops, a small supermarket, a vegetable shop, a church and houses were strung, like unmatched pearls, around the edge of a wide horseshoe bay. In the centre was a jetty reaching out as if trying to reach the tip of the peninsular opposite. Here was moored a small ferry boat. As we breakfasted on the balcony with our customary coffee for Waldo, tea for me, sliced fresh peaches, cereal and a shared orange, we watched the village come alive. We could see cars coming down the over the mountain road on the opposite side of the bay. Cars and lorries, a bus and a camper van started to form lines along the jetty. We watched the chaos orchestrated by men in bright white uniforms as the small ferry was loaded. Slowly the ferry pulled away. We could hear the anchor chain being pulled up. Then, as the little boat turned she 'toot-tooted' and at that moment we instinctively both reached out and held hands. Waldo and I looked deep into each other's eyes. We knew we had discovered our personal paradise. http://www.yolike.com/video/bollywood/NLv9tOaeonk/photos-from-kythira.html
Gone were the practical criteria we had laid down. Passion is much stronger than practicality. Love is the most powerful force in life. We set off with relish to explore the island of love. We know that the Greek Gods were partial to argument and violence and thus, according to Hesiod it was on Cythera, after such a spat that Cronus cut off Uranus' genitals and threw them in the sea. We know that for sure - the separate bits have formed islands off the south coast of the Cythera! When such sensitive and symbolic pieces of masculinity splashed into the water they created sea foam (aphros) from which the beautiful Aphrodite arose. Such a 'virgin' birth, albeit linked to such violence and blood letting, has meant the island is the home of pure, Platonic love and beauty. Aphrodite, also known as Cytherea or the Lady of Cythera for some reason then stood on a massive shell and it was on this that the dominant winds took her across the sea to Cyprus where she came ashore, was reborn as Cypris, that is Lady of Cyprus. Despite being married, by Zeus' command to Hephaestus, blacksmith to the Gods, she was not happy with this ugly old man. Perhaps it was this, or perhaps she returned to the bloodletting of her birth, but she spent a lot of her time with her lover Ares, known as the god of warefare, but more accurately determined as the god of bloodlust. Thus it was in Cyprus that Aphrodite added sexual love to her list of goddess responsibilities.
Cythera is the English translation of the ancient Greek name for the island, also at times called Porphyroussa after the purple dye found in a particular type of mollusc living around the island. Some 1000 molluscs were needed to gain enough dye to colour one metre of cloth and hence only the very rich could afford to wear purple. Needles to say these creatures were avidly sought after and hence are no longer available around the island. Overcollecting the earth's rich resources is not just a modern habit. Under Venetian rule the island became known as Cerigo. Later, under British rule it reverted to it's Greek name, with a modern twist as Kythera. Various spellings arise from the different phonetic appreciation of the Greek letters; so on most airline schedules it is known as Kithira but it is also possible to see other variations such as Kithera.
Whatever the name we set out to explore 'our' island. Just about 35 miles long and 12 miles wide we soon discovered our preferences. The south, we decided was great for visiting, but we were drawn to the north for its wildness and the views. I just loved looking across the straights to the mainland and then see the layers of mountains reaching right up to those on the Spartan plain. Aghia Pelagia showed signs of development and, attractive though it is, we decided not to look in ther village for we could not be certain that what surrounded what we found would remain that way. Potamos is a great 'big village' as a centre for shopping, eating, meeting and greeting, as well as conducting business with banks, Post Office, OTE (telephone company) and local authority representatives. Platea Amos, we decided was just a bit too sparse with not even a local shop, only a few tavernas and signs of developments of appartments for tourist rental. Despite only having one commercial shop, which seemed have less goods in it than my kitchen stock, we decided Karavas was the village for us. We identified a number of properties in various states of decay; photographed them and set them in priority order.


Kythera, although not quite in the Ioanian sea is classed as an Ionian island. Well it is in most guide books. But it is as near to the Agean sea as it is the Ioanian and furthest away from it's nearest Ionian neighbour Cephalonia, than any other pair of the seven islands. They are, by the way Corfu/Kerkyra, Paxos, Ithica, Lefcas/Lefcada, Cephalonia, Zante/Zakinthos and Kythera. Despite being just 20 miles from mainland Peloponnese, Kythera is attached to the municipality of Pireaus. But the telephone links are such that calling to Athens is a local call, whereas calls to the nearby mainland or any of the other Ionian island are not and hence cost more per minute. At various times Kythera has been controlled by the Phoenicians, Ioanians, Franks, Venetians, Turks and the British who finally gave the Ionian Islands to Prince George of Denmark as a wedding present. In the mixed politics of Greece, where Eastern Europe meets the West, there is no such thing as a free gift, particularly one so prized. Hence the gift behoved young George to become King of the Hellenes; the second King after Austrian Otto who was King for 17 years but had no heirs. The elite hellenic families could not agree among themselves who should be King. Hence politicans of other nations searched the European sovereign dynasties for a suitable icon to start a Greek line. The choice of George could be considered a success for his son and grandson both names Constantine rulled the nation for many years. But the Hellenes proved not to be royalists and after a short history they became a republic.

As the days passed we came to know Kyria Marou, our hotel owner, and her daughter Liana. 'Lucks shines on the brave' and it turned out that Liana was in fact a solicitor with her own business in Athens. Thus we discussed what we wanted to do. She cautioned us to ensure that we made sure that whatever we bought, we had full title of the property and all previous owners were recorded and noted. Fortunately part of the British heritage to the Ioanian islands was a land registry, making the job much easier. Liana could fill us with terror of tales of people who had thought they had bought a property, spent money doing uo the property and then some years later some distant cousin or long lost brother appears demanding his proportion of the value of the property - the current value, that is, not the original purchase price! Hence we left her with our photographs and engaged her to search out the ownership of the properties we had identified.
We had just one day before we had to catch the ferry to Pireaus. It was time for some last minute shopping and so we called in at a nice looking gift shop under the Hotel Kytherian. Freda, the owner is a Greek Australian and so whilst I was collecting various items to buy, Waldo struck up conversation with her. He wanted to find out if there were many 'xenoi', foreigners living on the island, and of those what nationalities were they. All I heard was 'Keith, Keith Baker he's English. he used to be with the British Hellenic organisation in Athens.' I immediately joined the conversation. Some years ago when I had had an office base in Athens my company had been a member of the British Hellenic Chamber of Commerce, and Keith as it's Managing Director had been most helpful to me. We had enjoyed numerous lunches together and some good laughs. I wondered if he would remember me? Correctly Freda would not give us his telephone number and so I left my business card with her. That evening I wrote a short letter to Keith, explaining what we were looking for and that we intended to return the following year to purchase property on the island.
A few weeks after we returned back to Cardiff, to rain and to work, I received a letter from Keith '... it appears that you are looking for a property exactly like the one we have just a week ago sold!'

The Purple and Pink Island

The Purple and Pink Island

As soon as I saw the most masculine of containers - cement mixer lorries - painted purple and pink, I knew this was an island of interest. In a land where men look in the mirror even more than they think of sex, and masculinity needs to be visual at all times, it was satisfying to see that some man could be comfortable enough with himself to paint his vehicles and works buildings in such girlie colours. This needed further exploration.

So, let me introduce myself. I, Liz, have had a love affair with Greece for the past 30 plus years. It is only superceeded in time, depth and power by my love for my partner, Waldo. Just as Greece embraces me, it's people care for me and cherish me, so does Waldo. In many ways Greece has been the third party in our relationship ever since we first discovered it. But unlike so many third parties, the land and its people have enriched our relationship. Together we have come to know ourselves and each other as we have explored mainland and island communities, amazing scenery and the lifestyle, traditions and culture of a land we have come to know and love.

Some four decades ago we made our first visit to Greece. A long weekend to Athens when the Junta were in power and soldiers with guns stood on the top of buildings around the major squares of the city. The streets were clean and there was a certain discipline, or was it fear, in the atmosphere. The Plaka district was still full of bouzouki clubs, restaurants where people threw plates and danced on the tables, and old traditional shops selling locally made goods. Now the bouzouki clubs have morphed into out-of-town night clubs with singing and dancing and the throwing of expensive posies of flowers. Health and Safety issues, as well as cost, have put paid to the breaking of plates and dancing on the tables. The local shops in the Plaka all too often now sell goods made in China, Eastern Europe and even Turkey. How is it that some places grow their skills base, yet others loose it? Does the import of goods do something for the Greek shipping economy? Or is it just part of the global shift of manufacturing bases?

In our short visit we even found time to visit the island of Hydra, where cars were not allowed. The pace of life, the clearness of the air were unimagineable. Yet it was no backward island. I recall spending quite some time in a very up market hat shop where the owner, designer, milliner set a hat on my head and then proceeded to position the hat in some 10 different styles. Delightful as it was, the price was way out of my range.

Our next visit to Greece came in 1978 when we visited Corfu, the Greek island of Kerkyra. Both Waldo and I fell in love with the island. We made good friends there and spent the next 10 years visiting once or twice a year. Our local friendships deepened, but sadly tourist development changed the nature of the island and in places scarred it's beauty. Through our Corfiot friends we met Greek people from other areas of Greece and we began to expand out horizons. We started to explore islands such as Lefkas, Skiathos, Skopelos, Crete, Lesbos and Evia. We toured Halkidiki and the Peloponnese. Indeed such was my desire to visit Greece that I started looking for business opportunities, just to have an excuse to return again and again. The ploy worked and through business I travelled the breadth and depth of the land. The was usually followed up with holidays and as such we visited regions such as Epirus with its spectacular mountains and gorges, Pelion with it's traditional stone houses, and the Outer and Deep Mani which is purported to have more men per head of population in the Greek army than any other part of Greece.

It must be about 30 years ago that we decided that one day we would have somewhere to stay in Greece, a place that we could use particularly after our retirement. After our travels, visits and revisits we decided that the Deep Mani, the middle peninsular of the Peloponnese would be the place. About 20 years ago, we started to plan our finances, our work, our lifestyle, our individual retirement times, our properties to optimise our dream and make it reality. In 2002 we bought our air tickets, hired a car from Athens airport and set off to find a place in the Mani. We set off at a leisurely pace. From Sparta we travelled to the beautiful village of Kardamili where Patrick Leigh-Fermor, writer, resistance fighter and philhellene lived. I have read all of his books and do wish I had been able to meet and talk with him. Kardamili is one of the most relaxed places to stay and somehow has the ability to inspire and calm one, at the same time.

From Kardamili we travelled south on the western edge of the peninsular. Stoupa had been top of our list, or at least somewhere in one of the mountain villages above the seaside resort. But our memories were completely out-dated from reality as we saw the development of the place which now spread not just back to the main road but over the other side and towards the mountains. Even if we could have found somewhere quiet in a village it was clear that development was on the move and we did not want to have to fight our way through the ebb and flow of package tourists every time we needed some shopping beyond the capabilities of a village shop. Aghious Nikoliaos, although delightful, was permeated with an amazingly strong smell of something rotten. When we found the source in drying out marsh land we realised this was not going to go away quickly. Further south, Itilio was a strong contender but we could not find anything suitable for sale. Pity. Property around Areopolis was wildly expensive with developers restoring old traditional houses and hoping to make a huge profit. Not off our hard earned money though.

Gerolimenas was a possibility. But we eventually decided it was a long way down the peninsular and yet not protected from tourist development. Porta Kago (the door to the quails) is a lovely place to visit and there is an excellent taverna there. But for us it is a place to visit, not remain. Vathia, the beautiful village of Maniot Tower houses whose picture was used as a promotion by the Greerk Tourist Board some years ago, has reaped the benefit of such promotion. Crumbling buildings have been restored and saved and the place has come alive again. Unfortunately such activity had put it out of our financial reach.

Traveling north, up the western side of the peninsular we had not expected to find anything that took our fancy. The mountains on the western side of the peninsular drop almost straight to the sea and the vistas are much harsher, although dramatic. We prefered the softer run on gentle slopes at the base of the mountainds followed by meadows and sandy coastal resports of the east. Bt having lunch at a taverna on the water's edge at Skoutari we saw a beautiful old Venitian style property which was being restored. It was one of those love at first sight moments, but sadly the property was not for sale. Neither could we find any similar ones in our search through the village, in Mavrovouni or the area behind the village.

Eventually we came to Gythion. The ancient town had been made famous for it is said that the fleeing Paris and Helen of Troy stayed the night here before their ship departed for Troy. Some 10 years previously Waldo had sent a postcard from here telling some friends of Gythion's claim to fame, adding 'I think that last night we had their old room', refering to the very old house in which we had spent the previous uncomfortable night trying to sleep on a traditional stone slab with thin matress turning it into a bed. This time we intended to book into a hotel.

It is well not to rush things in Greece. In Spain the pace of life is such that 'manyana' (tomorrow) is an important and frequently used response to asking when something will happen. Here is Greece, 'avrio' (tomorrow) is far too soon and although the word is used, pragmatically it actually means 'maybe', 'sometime in the future', 'perhaps'. Spain and Greece, like most of Mediterranean Europe do however stick rigidly to the afternoon 'siesta'. Thus, rather than attempt to find a hotel with a reception open in the middle of the afternoon we decided to stop for a drink and catch up with some postcard writing. Also we needed to have a serious discussion for we had completed our trip around the Mani in record time. We were both despondent at not having found anywhere with even a possibility. We still had 10 days of our house hunting trip to go and so we needed to revise our strategy.

We had considered our needs quite carefully and set out certain criteria for our property-to-be. It had to be in sight of the sea, but not necessarily close to it. It needed to be in a quiet area, on the outskirts of a village, set apart from other houses but not isolated. We prefered an old traditional property and were quite happy to find one that needed some, but not complete restoration. We wanted some garden but not too much; just space to sit outside in the shade and to grow a few herbs. The area needed to be on mainland Greece, reasonably near a main town with larger shops, health care and public facilities and within 100 - 150 miles road transport reach to Athens airport. For certain the property should have accessible title deeds of ownership and we would engage our own Greek solicitor to manage the purchase. We had a few no-no's for sure; no swimming pool to maintain, not on an island unless it was big enough to have good health care facilities and direct flights from London, no modern property, and no land to maintain.

As we sat overlooking the harbour at Gythion we tussled with the dilemma. Should we look at another part of Greece, Pelion perhaps? Should we revise our criteria? With great sadness we had to acknowledge that so far we had not seen anything that was available and affordable that needed any compromise, so changing our criteria would not alter where we were. We didn't want to rush over to another part of Greece and be forced, by our strong desire to achieve what we had come for, into buying somewhere that we would later regret. So, if we weren't going to continue house hunting, what were we going to do for the next 10 days?

As so often happens when two people know each other very well, a sort of telepathy exists when they both say exactly the same things at the same time, or start to think around similar concepts. Having come to an end of discussion we looked around and watched a ferry boat coming into port. We both had the same idea - where was the ferry going? It turned out that it was going to an island, called Kythera, that we had attempted to visit some 10 years previously. Then, as now, we thought we would take a ferry to the island and then some days later take a ferry from the island to Pireaus, a short trip to Athens airport and we would catch our flight home. Then as now, it turned out that the Gythion travel agent only had the local timetable and could sell tickets from Gythion to Kythera. In order to give all businesses a chance, tickets from Kythera to Githion had to be bought on the island; wherever initiated, return tickets could not be bought. And, as the man was not actually a travel agent as the sign over his shop indicated, he was actually a ticket agent and had no knowledge of any other ferry company. Whereas previously we had baulked at the trip as we only had 4 days holiday left, this time with 10 days we reasoned that the worst that could happen was that we came back to Gythion on the ferry in a week's time and then drive leisurely to Athens. Our intention was to spend two or three days in Kythera, get a ferry to Pireaus and then drive down to Sounion to spend the rest of our holiday there. With that in mind we set off for Kythera.