by Sue Roberts
‘They’ve made friends again? I never thought I’d see the day,’ I say in surprise. ‘I was texting Mum yesterday and she never said anything to me.’
‘It only happened yesterday. Maybe she was trying to get her head around it all before mentioning it to you,’ suggests Max.
‘You haven’t agreed to it have you? Without asking me?’ My sense of dread is rising at not only the increase in numbers but also the thought that an invitation to Lily would certainly mean having to invite her daughter Ruth along too. All the memories of our younger years suddenly flood back into my mind.
I quite liked my aunt Lily when I was young. She always brought something for Lexie and me when she visited: a cake, a packet of sweets, maybe a magazine, that sort of thing. And I remember her always smiling.
The same couldn’t be said of my cousin Ruth though. She was a troublemaker who always seemed to ‘accidentally’ break anything that belonged to me, including a mother-of-pearl hairbrush that was a gift from my godmother that I cherished. I pushed her over and called her a cow when she did that, and I remember the blood oozing from her grazed knee, which she laughed about at the time, but when my mum appeared she bawled her eyes out. There was a delighted smirk on her face as she stood behind my mother’s back when I got into a load of trouble.
Things didn’t improve as she grew older and we got into our teens. She seemed to take great delight in embarrassing me in front of whoever happened to be round at the time, criticising my fashion sense, hairstyle or whatever. As I grew older I realised that she was probably jealous of me, but at the time it hurt like hell. Lily was such a nice lady that I found it hard to believe that she and Mum would fall out over a brooch, but maybe they had never really been that close after all.
‘I told your mum to speak to you first.’
‘Oh well, thank goodness for that.’
It will probably cause an argument between Mum and me, but I am prepared for that rather than to have Ruth at my wedding. They say people change but I’m not so sure. And it’s my bloody wedding.
‘But I did say that I don’t mind,’ he says quietly, as his voice trails off.
‘Oh great, Max! So now, if I say no she’ll say I’m the one who’s being churlish.’
Much as I love him to bits, I could strangle him at times for being far too accommodating.
‘You can’t leave family members out, not now that they’ve made up though, can you? That’s a celebration in itself. Besides, it’s only three more guests. Your aunt, uncle and your cousin. It seems she’s moved back home now after a marriage break-up.’
‘Three more guests for now, Max. I’m surprised you didn’t invite the bloody bloke at the petrol station.’ I’m angry with Max, although I try to calm down and finish the call on a cheerful note.
That’s eighty-four guests, I think to myself. At least it’s an even number now though. I could sit Reggie, who lived next door to Max’s old flat, on the same table as Ruth. If I didn’t like him, that is.
My mother hasn’t rung me to discuss the extra guests, but maybe she’s waiting until I get back from my hen party. Of course it’s nice that she’s made friends again with my aunt, but I can hardly invite Lily without her daughter, who, it appears, now lives with her parents. I think back to the last conversation I had with Max, when he called our wedding a celebration and told me how he wanted to show me off to everyone, which of course was a lovely thing to say. He’s excited about the happiest day of our lives and I know I’m lucky to have a future husband who thinks like this. But how on earth did we end up having a large wedding with the whole over-the-top party thing?
I wonder whether I should be feeling a little more excited as the day approaches. I’m just mulling things over, when Max sends me a picture message.
Oh, I forgot to tell you. These things will be roaming around the hotel grounds. How cool is that?
It’s a picture of peacocks. I don’t think I have any words.
I return to my sunbathing, trying not to be annoyed with Max and wondering why I have to remind myself so often that everything will be alright on the day and how lucky I am to have such an adoring fiancé.
We’re spending a couple of hours on the beach before the scorching midday sun forces us indoors. There’s not a cloud in the sky and, once again, the beach is almost deserted. There are one or two local families with young children, who are splashing about in the water, no doubt enjoying the quiet time before the party revellers surface. Children are running into the sea, squealing, as parents look on smiling affectionately. It’s so beautiful here, watching the sun dancing on the water and listening to the gentle lap of the waves.
Last night at the hotel bar we had a look at some trips and, instead of the party boat, we decided to book a jeep safari today. It leaves at twelve thirty and promises a look at the ‘real’ Crete, with jaunts into local villages and a stop-off for lunch. I’m really excited to go off the beaten track a little and I have to confess that I’m slightly relieved that we’re not going out on the party boat.
‘I’d like to go on an animal safari to Africa one day, if anyone fancies it. I’d love to paint the wildlife,’ says Kerry thoughtfully from the sun lounger next to me. I’ve no idea what suddenly put that thought into her head.
‘Do you really think you would be hanging around a lion long enough to paint it?’ I ask.
‘Funny! I’d take some photographs, obviously, and paint in one of those canvas tents under the stars. I do love painting animals but dogs can get a bit boring sometimes. Don’t tell my customers that I sometimes find painting their dogs boring, though, I might never get another commission.’ Kerry laughs and then stands up to drag a beach umbrella over to her sun lounger, where she positions it to shade her body. Then she settles down to read a magazine beneath it.
As midday approaches, we pack up our things and stroll through the gardens and back to the hotel in good spirits. We go up to our rooms to get changed, before coming down again to meet the drivers outside the hotel.
There’s a group of about a dozen people assembled near the hotel steps when we arrive, and four white jeeps are lined up on the road outside.
‘Kalimera. Good afternoon. You are all ready to go?’ a handsome Greek man around about my age, wearing shorts, T-shirt and a baseball cap, asks the assembled crowd. He flashes a smile, revealing dazzling white teeth that contrast with his tanned skin, and introduces himself as Vangelis.
Vangelis quickly ticks our names on a list, before informing us that one of the drivers is unavailable and asking if anyone would like to drive a jeep and follow the other vehicles. After a brief chat over insurance, Ria excitedly offers to drive us in our jeep, which fills me with slight trepidation, as let’s just say Ria could fill in for Lewis Hamilton if ever the need arose.
We get into our jeep and strap ourselves in, before Ria excitedly drives off. It isn’t long before we are traversing some rough, mountainous terrain, holding on to our sun hats and emitting the occasional swear word as the jeep bounces along. Ria is whooping loudly and shouting: ‘Isn’t this fun?’
I hold my breath as she negotiates a particularly narrow stretch of road with the car tyres almost overlapping the edge of the mountain. Or at least that’s how it feels. For a brief second I wonder whether we should have booked a day on the party boat after all.
It isn’t long, though, before we find ourselves in the middle of beautiful mountains, surrounded by lush green pastures that take our breath away and make every bump in the jeep worthwhile. The jeeps come to a stop and everyone gets out to walk and look around. There’s a silence up here that is so soothing, it’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. A buzzard circles overhead and Molly asks me if it’s a vulture, which I don’t like the idea of quite so much. I find myself wanting to just stand here forever, soaking up the atmosphere and shrugging off the hectic and sometimes stressful lifestyle back home. A few houses are dotted around the mountainside and seeing them makes me wonder how it must feel not to have any neighb
ours close by. Would there be a sense of freedom? Or would the isolation create loneliness over time? I have an urge to unpack an easel and paint the striking scenery that stretches out in front of me, as this place fills me with such energy and inspiration.
Having taken some photos, we all jump back into the jeeps and, a while later, find ourselves pulling in to a traditional Greek village, where we stop beside a stone house to watch women wearing headscarves baking bread the traditional way. We are invited to have a go, overlooked by the clucking chickens and local donkeys who I swear are laughing at us, but maybe they’re just braying. The locals make this bread-making lark look far easier than it really is, as my offering looks like an anaemic cow pat.
Next, we move on to a small workshop, where we watch some women making traditional Greek rugs and are once again invited to have a try.
‘This is more like it,’ I say, as, thankfully, I manage to thread a few colourful strands of wool across a loom and a toothless woman smiles at me and nods her head in approval.
‘Makes up for the loaf,’ I say, proudly showing off my small colourful square, and feeling quietly confident that my effort looks far better than those of my friends.
‘Is that what it was?’ Ria says teasingly.
We each buy some colourful table mats and are given a shot of ouzo before we depart. The rugs are so striking – a rainbow of colours expertly threaded together by these lovely village women – I would have loved to have taken one home, if I’d had room in my case, but the ones on display are rather large so I go for the table mats instead.
After the village tour, we take the easy route to Roza Gorge, so named after the red-and-rose-coloured stone, and cross a rope bridge to a stunning dining area flanked by mountains and a shimmering green lake. Yet again my senses are soothed by the glorious surroundings. We are here to have lunch and experience a Greek floor show with dancers in traditional costume, which I’m really looking forward to.
‘I’m absolutely starving,’ Kerry says, glancing at her watch. ‘This really is a late lunch. I was beginning to size those goats up in the last village, imagining them in a curry, I kid you not.’
We all roar with laughter at the pun, which Kerry doesn’t even realise she’s made.
‘Don’t you just love this,’ Ria says, as we all sit down at a long wooden table ready for lunch. ‘This weather makes it all is so much more enjoyable, doesn’t it? Last year I went on a tour of Scotland and spent most of the time in pubs, sheltering from the rain.’
‘The Greeks know how to entertain tourists, that’s for sure,’ I say. ‘I mean, I know the dance thing is a bit cheesy and probably not something they do every day, but they have such a pride in their traditional way of life. It makes you think.’
‘About what?’ asks Ria as a waiter places a platter of stuffed vine leaves down on the table. This is quickly followed by a selection of mixed mezes.
‘Being content, I suppose,’ I explain. ‘Those women in the villages probably make just a little bit of money from the tour operators, but they have such a simple life that it’s enough for them. At least it seems to be. I think I envy that simplicity a little,’ I say, as I recall seeing chickens in the gardens and donkeys that are still used to transport things around the local villages.
‘I bet it’s a hard life at times, though, especially in the winter. Some of the young people probably can’t wait to get out of those villages, and to be honest I can’t really say I blame them. I would have been the same when I was young,’ Ria points out. She has always preferred bright lights and big city places.
‘A lot of young people in villages crave the excitement of the tourist towns, I suppose, or even a life overseas. It happens the world over. It’s only human to think that the grass is greener,’ Molly says.
‘I’d say it’s more to do with job opportunities,’ suggests Kerry. ‘Unless you want to be a goat herder or work on an olive farm, I imagine job opportunities are a bit limited.’
‘That’s true, but if only they could be made aware of the pressures and problems that come when you embrace that lifestyle,’ I remind the others. ‘No wonder so many young people feel a bit lost these days. It’s sensory overload. There doesn’t seem to be a day goes by without reading about young people suffering all sorts of mental health issues back home,’ I say with a sigh.
‘Alright, Socrates, that’s enough of the deep thinking, although I know what you mean. Right. Shall we get some red wine?’ Ria gestures to a waiter to take our order. ‘Or should I say would you all like some? I’m driving so I’ll save myself for a few cocktails tonight.’
Molly, Kerry and I agree on some red wine, while Ria opts for a mocktail of coconut and pineapple juice.
As we’re finishing our delicious platters of mixed mezes, some dancers dressed in traditional costume appear with a loud ‘Opa!’ As the music strikes up, they stroll around the audience showing off their costumes and tapping their feet to the rhythm of the song. The dancing starts off slowly as they link shoulders, before building to a dancing crescendo that has everyone in the audience whooping and clapping loudly.
A couple of the dancers make their way into the audience and take people by the hand to join in the dancing. I try to protest, laughingly, but find myself being escorted by the arm to the middle of the paved flooring that is the dance floor. I want the ground to swallow me up. I’m useless at putting myself in the spotlight and giving public displays of, well, anything really. I’m trying to make eye contact with Kerry to come and take my place, but she’s chatting to someone.
We link shoulders and, as the music begins, I try my best to copy the steps, but my brain seems to be telling my feet to go in the opposite direction to everyone else. I look at Ria, who also got caught. She is a complete natural, throwing her head back and laughing as she moves effortlessly from side to side. I do my best to join in and finally catch the eyes of Kerry and Molly, who are laughing at us and recording us on their phones, and I wonder how they got away without humiliating themselves up here.
After a few minutes I finally figure out the steps and, to my surprise, as the music gathers momentum, I find I’m actually beginning to enjoy myself. It feels so invigorating and somehow liberating, being here kicking my legs out and dancing in the sunshine with complete strangers. I’d feel far too shy and self-conscious to try anything like this back home, but over here I don’t mind because I don’t know anyone. Well, apart from the girls, of course.
By the end of it, I head back to the table exhilarated as the dancers receive thunderous applause from the audience. Ria walks towards the bar, chatting to a particularly handsome Greek dancer as she goes.
After lunch we all return to our jeeps, where our drivers tell us about the rest of the trip. We will drive to a nearby mountain village, where we will spend half an hour looking around before travelling to our final destination.
Our jeep climbs slowly up the twisty mountain road until, at one point, Ria misses a gear and we slide backwards for a second, which provokes screams from us all. But Ria just laughs and tells us to stop being drama queens.
When we finally park up and get out to view the mountainous scenery below us, it’s hard to imagine anyone managing to live up here.
As we walk past the village houses, though, it becomes clear that the villagers are largely self-sufficient. There are chicken coops in most gardens and goats for milk and cheese. Grassy areas have trees overflowing with almonds, lemons and figs. Fat juicy tomatoes climb vines in terracotta pots on patios, alongside tubs of fragrant rosemary and oregano.
Strolling contentedly along the narrow roads in the scorching sunshine, we discover an artist’s workshop down a cobbled side street next to a bakery and tiny general store. The owner of the workshop has some beautiful paintings and colourful ceramics displayed on a wooden stable door, overhung by bright pink flowers, outside his narrow shop.
We chat to the owner about his work and all purchase a souvenir of our visit, for which he is very gratef
ul. I buy a canvas painting of a traditional Greek house, with a blue door and a cat sitting outside, which, for me, perfectly sums up the simplicity of village life here. Ria purchases a scarf and Molly and Kerry each buy a wall plaque. The owner tells us that he teaches people to paint in a little garden, which overlooks the valley below, at the rear of the workshop.
‘How amazing. What a place to have an art lesson,’ I say wistfully. It’s a location many of us can only dream of.
He tells me that it is mainly the holidaymakers who take the lessons, mostly those with holiday homes who are staying for long periods of time throughout the year.
‘I do teach some of the locals but, as you can see, it is a very small village and people do not have a lot of money.’
I’d considered the idea of teaching art after my studies, but ended up starting the online business instead. Occasionally, I exhibit my work at Arts and Crafts fairs around the Northwest, but my sales are mainly Internet based. I’ve built up quite a collection of my paintings now, though, and one day maybe I will exhibit them in a small gallery in Formby. It’s the ideal location but the rents are just so expensive. I once thought the notion of opening a gallery nothing more than a dream, but being here makes me feel that just about anything is possible.
We stroll along, enjoying an ice cream from a kiosk, and stop to eye the stunning scenery below from a viewpoint. As I lift my eyes upwards, I see a hang-glider gently drifting across the mountain in front of us and imagine the sensation of feeling as free as a bird.
‘You know, speaking of art lessons, that reminds me,’ I say to Ria. ‘I met a lady in town last week who was talking about how her local library had closed down. They used to run watercolour painting classes there on Saturdays and she said she really missed them. It might be a good thing for the Walker Art Gallery if they were to consider running adult classes as well as kids’ classes,’ I suggest.
‘Hmm, I can’t see that happening at the moment, to be honest. There’s tons of stuff going on there already. Why don’t you think about running classes yourself?’ Ria wipes some chocolate ice cream from the side of her mouth and places the paper napkin in a nearby bin.
