To the left is a path to the beach of Lethra. There are a couple more houses and then the edge of the plateau where the road zigzags down to Livadia, and the magnificent, smooth curve of the bay reveals itself, fringed by white pebbles. All around, the hills sweep up to sharp outcrops of rock and on a summit stands the stone wall of the ruined castle of Agriosykia. There are faint outlines of old farming terraces improbably high up.
Kalos tin! is the welcome that each member of the dance class gets as we gather on the steps of the school. Only women attend, and it's another chance to get to know more people: locals who like to practise and improve, and a few xeni, foreign women who live here. Instruction is in Greek, as is the general chatter, gossip and clowning around.
The traditional dances for women are performed in circles all together, with small steps that at first seem far less interesting than the men's dances. But I've started to realise there's more to them than meets the eye. The teacher likes to warm us up – while stragglers arrive – with the local sousta. There are so many variations on Greek dances, depending on the region they come from. The sousta was the first dance I tried at a festival, and like many foreigners I got confused. Seeing a line of dancers with arms criss-crossed, the natural instinct is to cross your arms. Instead – as I learned very quickly from fellow dancers – you open your arms, reaching over the people on either side of you to hold the hand of their neighbour, binding the line together tightly. I now learn from others at the dance class how to hold my hands: the leading hand palm up, to be led, the other palm down, to lead. The steps are simple: two tiny steps to the right, one step forward, with a slight bounce. While I'm practising the basics at the back of the line, the teacher demonstrates a more complex move to the women at the front.
Midsummer nights on Greek islands are full of traditional festivals and music, which is why some knowledge of the dances is important. The biggest festival, on 27 July, is that of the island's patron saint, Saint Panteleimon, and a good number of men on the island are named Pantelis after the saint. Panteleimon the 'all-merciful' is depicted on icons with what looks like a box of watercolour paints, but is in fact the medicine he used to heal the sick. The main monastery on the island is dedicated to him, a fifteenth-century building amid a spring-fed oasis high up on remote grey cliffs overlooking the sea, where there was once a temple to the ancient god Poseidon. It's no longer a working monastery but is looked after by the priest of Megalo Horio.
The celebration lasts for three days. The day before the eve is a time of 'lying in wait' called proparamoni, and pilgrims stay up on the mountain, sleeping on mattresses in the leafy compound of the monastery. The eve of the saint's day is the festival's main celebration and feast, known as a paniyiri. Souvlaki sizzle on the grill and goat is cooked in tomato sauce in huge pots, to be served with roasted potatoes. Hundreds of people drive by car or motorbike, or take a packed bus as I do up the road cut into the cliffs for a night of music and dancing.
The road seems perfectly innocuous by day, with my feet solidly planted on the ground, and it's a spectacular walk. By night, I consider it terrifying. Locals think it's absurd to be scared of the road to the monastery, but on one side is the mountain, down which rocks regularly tumble aided by roaming goats, while on the other side is a stomach-churning sheer drop of hundreds of metres. When half the vehicles on the island are driving up and down it, maybe after a drink or two, a little tired in the early hours… it's not the most relaxing end to the evening, even if the locals do say that the saint protects and there has never been an accident since the road was built.
A night or two after the festival of Ayios (Saint) Panteleimon, an easy walk home for me in Megalo Horio, is an event called the Koupa or Cup, so called after the most important dance of the evening, where the woman at the front of the line holds aloft a large cup or bowl. When a man wants to praise the dancing skills of a woman – perhaps his wife or daughter – he puts money in the cup and leads her to the front of the line. Usually each woman will only get a few minutes of leading before she's replaced, and the cup is filled with notes.
The Koupa takes place in the tiny square next to the church, overlooked by the kafeneion. The proximity of church and cafe is no coincidence: both are at the heart of Greek village life. Musicians sit on the stone bench underneath the church's twin arches, its walls smooth with whitewashed plaster except for the exposed stonework around the doorway. The ground is a sea of round grey pebbles on a zigzag design denoting waves.
I buy a can of beer from Sofia at the kafeneion and wander down the steps. People crowd around the square, everyone in good spirits. A local man I've never met before, about my age and dressed in flip-flops and board shorts, starts chatting to me and offers me a plastic cup of a clear spirit called souma. It's very strong, and probably quite good for getting you in the mood for dancing. He introduces himself as Apostolis and soon drags me up to join the circle for the sousta. I'm now confident enough to join in, and with his encouragement I have fun. The sousta is an inclusive, meandering dance that can go on for as long as people keep joining the line, and the musicians keep playing.
I meet Apostolis' friends: a lively and spirited woman from Athens, a quiet man from northern Greece who's stationed with the army on the nearby island of Kos, and a dark-eyed fisherman from Tilos whose profile reminds me of artwork on ancient Attic vases. Around 2 a.m., Apostolis suggests we all decamp to Mikro Horio. Stelios the fisherman says he's not coming as he has to be up for work in a few hours. The others take a motorbike and I opt to go in Apostolis' truck. This seems like a bad idea when I see the truck.
'On second thoughts, I think I'm feeling a little tired. I'll walk home. Have a good time!'
'Why?' he asks.
'Um… When did you crash the truck?' The entire front of it is crumpled and parts are missing.
'What, that? Oh, that's because I lent my truck to Stelios to drive. I'm a good driver, I'm just too nice!'
'Really?' It's almost certainly a lie, but it's a convincing lie, as Stelios does have scars from a road accident or two. Well, you only live once. I get in. We're not going very far.
Mikro Horio remained deserted for decades after the 1960s. Then some enterprising types came up with the idea of a summer-only music bar, opening around midnight. A narrow dirt track leads off the main road and twists uphill into darkness. The bar is in an old stone house, with a dance floor covered only by moonlight and a sky full of stars. A few empty houses in the abandoned village are dimly lit as if by candles, and the only other lights are on the Turkish coast in the distance. We drink, we dance, we laugh… And sometime in the early hours of the morning, conveyed home by a bashed-up truck, I happily collapse into my bed.
While the terrace is still cool and in shadow, I sit working in the peace and quiet of the early morning at the big, heavy pine table I shipped with other belongings when I moved.
'We have tables here!' Maria said, laughing, when I admitted I'd brought it from England. Maria is Pavlos' wife and always insists I can have whatever I need. She's cheerful and kind. But acquiring a solid wooden table in Tilos wouldn't be easy, and this gives me a lot more pleasure than a wobbly white plastic one. I love the way the sun has bleached the wood. I rub oil into it to keep it from drying out too much. Perhaps wooden tables remind people here of the tough old days, and plastic seems clean and modern. When I tell her my father gave me the table, she understands – family trumps everything.
A peaceful home office is conducive to concentration. I don't have any problem finding the discipline to work; if I don't work, I don't get paid and can't afford to live here. The only noise is of Pavlos and a friend throwing rubbish into the back of a truck, preparing for the honey-making that's coming soon. When I need a break, I potter around the garden to stretch. For the first time, having always lived in apartments as an adult, I have my own garden.
After my ten days away in England, the garden became a small forest and I've been spending hours cutting things back, mostly t
he bush of horta. Horta is the word for any sort of grass – hence our word horticulture – and in a culinary sense, edible horta tends to mean any kind of wild-growing, leafy greens, boiled and served with olive oil and lemon. Unfortunately, this one plant had grown almost into a tree. The courgettes had ballooned into weighty marrows, which I stuffed with a mixture of rice and tomatoes and herbs and baked in the oven. The bees are enjoying the flowers on the rocket.
I've been wondering why there are so many green tomatoes on my plants but they never seem to ripen. There were a handful of reddening ones last night, but none when I went to water them this morning, and finally I get it. The birds are taking them all for breakfast. The early bird here doesn't need to catch the worm. It has a ready supply of tomatoes. Using a handful of bamboo stakes from Skafi beach, I string up CDs over the plants to dangle and sparkle in the wind, selecting those least likely to be missed. It's a technique I've seen others use; a form of Tilos improvisation. We shall see how much the birds like Ibiza: The Sunset Sessions (Disc Three) and Learn to Speak Korean in 60 Minutes.
I'm not convinced this will be enough to protect my little crops from avian thieves, but a careful scouring of the village supermarket shelves doesn't yield anything that might serve as netting. I rummage around in my cupboards and then, in a stroke of inspiration, I remember my portable string hammock – unlikely to be used now that the summer campers are taking up every tree on Eristos beach – and drape it over the lot. Fingers crossed it works. Pavlos appears confident about the efficacy of my tomato cage, though on a day like today with no breath of wind, the CDs hang like Christmas decorations.
The melon plant has become a bit clingy, throwing out tendrils like there's no tomorrow and wrapping them deftly and securely around the stalks of the sunflowers. The sunflowers are being stoic about it but I think a conversation about needing space is on the cards. The melon plant also wrapped a tendril around what looks like a ball of tumbleweed. I wish it would wrap tendrils around the rabbit.
When the sun comes up over the terrace, I move inside to work at the kitchen table, and in the early afternoon I close the computer and cycle to Eristos beach. I stop at the far end then go for a long swim around the little headland to the empty cove on the other side. The cliffs are shades of rust-red and purple-brown with splashes of green caper bushes, the colour of the sand like watermelon. My shoulders have the nicest gentle ache afterwards from all the swimming. I must do that more often. This is what I came here to do.
Back home, I do a little more work then I write an email to my friend Steven in England, mentioning how nice it can be living on my own for a while: having the bed to myself, being able to eat baklava for lunch if I feel like it, reading a book while eating dinner rustled up from whatever's in the kitchen. It's good having a glass of wine while lying on the terrace and idly watching the sunset; observing how the little lizard comes along to his favourite piece of driftwood and clings to it; admiring my sunflowers. I always imagined sunflowers would take ages to grow, but these mighty, sturdy things have grown from tiny seeds in less than two months.
This is the good, calm life that I wanted for myself, and also the one I thought would be perfect to raise a child in – surrounded by nature and the sea, a Gerald Durrell-type, old-fashioned kind of childhood in the fresh air. It's only come to me recently, this maternal urge. I was trying to conceive with Matt, the boyfriend I planned to move here with, envisioning a home and a family here. According to the doctor I saw in England a few months ago, there's no physical obstacle to my becoming pregnant. But am I likely to get to the necessary place in a relationship in time for another attempt?
I have discussed with my family the idea of raising a child alone. They would be supportive and help as much as possible. It would be challenging, but at least I work from home now. Afterwards, I'd have time to find the right father for my child. Of course it wouldn't be perfect, but I've tried. And life just doesn't always fall that way.
I've talked to Steven about this often over the past few years. He already knew he wanted children even when we met at university – back when I had no interest in children whatsoever – and he now has teenaged kids he's very proud of, even though he had a bit of a mid-life crisis while raising them. He emails back that everyone feels inept as a parent, but children are quite resilient and manage to do well even in imperfect circumstances. I can't help thinking of another friend who I saw when I was in England in July; I originally met him when he was walking his boys to school, and he always seemed to have a perfect life, the kind of life that made me feel a little shabby, but now his wife is filing for divorce.
Life isn't perfect and we can only do our best. I feel that Tilos is, for now, the right place for me. And if there's an opportunity to add a child to my world, then I will do my best.
Chapter 4
Black Ribbons and Driftwood
There's a strange commotion in the garden. By the angry sound of Pavlos' voice, I think maybe the rabbit has returned. Then I hear hooves. I go out to see.
A couple of goats have got in and are hungrily eyeing all the well-watered flowers and plants. Pavlos emerges from the honey factory in his red football T-shirt and baseball cap and shorts, shouting at the goats for sneaking in – though to be fair to the goats, the gate is wide open, and this is the time of year they are hungriest, as all the wild plants are parched.
However, they know an angry gardener when they see one, and in response to his hue and cry, they race back across the garden and leap over the wall – not realising there's a fence on the other side. One makes it; the other is trapped between the wall and the fence.
Most Tilos goats are beautiful, noble-looking creatures with chestnut or jet-black glossy hair, twisting wide horns and long beards; some are pretty, pale faun-coloured ones. This one is your Average Joe goat, black and white, short haired with stumpy horns and a big belly, and a slightly scared look in its eye as Pavlos grabs its horns and pulls it over the wall. I notice it isn't wearing a tag. Some do, some don't, and though most belong to someone, they wander at will around the hillsides.
'Bring me a knife!' He's yanking the goat up by the horns. 'Bring me a knife! We'll put it on the spit…'
I laugh nervously. Is he joking – gentle Pavlos, the guy who won't use pesticides, farmaka, on his vegetables in case the birds eat them? He has a determined look on his face, winding rope around the goat's horns to keep hold of it. He's been working hard on his garden; plus he wasn't able to go to the festival of Ayios Panteleimon, as Maria is in mourning after the death of a cousin, so he didn't get to eat the goat cooked in huge pots on the coals at the paniyiri, the celebratory feast with music and dancing. There's no meat Tilians like better.
Muttering, he drags the goat out of the gate and around the corner of the house, where he ties it to a tree. Then I hear him drive off on his motorbike.
Is he off to get a knife? From inside, I hear the goat scrabbling around for a while; then it stops. Curious, I go to take a look. It seems to have got the rope twisted around itself in a panic, and is lying upside down with its head at an awkward angle. The rope tightens around its neck and it's panting heavily, its tongue hanging out. Then it stops moving, seems to stop breathing. It looks like it's about to die a nasty death in the glaring sun: surely Pavlos didn't intend that? Reaching out, I manage to untangle it somehow, pulling this way and that until the rope is no longer strangling it. Still it doesn't move. Then suddenly the breath comes again. Somehow, pulling the rope away, I get the goat on to its feet.
Is it the right thing to do, interfering? It's probably best to respect the way people do things here; their relationship with animals. I decide to get out of the way before Pavlos comes back. I don't want to get into trouble. I have to go up to the village shop anyway.
I take the overgrown shortcut through the field, a path that emerges halfway up the road into the village. Just then the bus is coming round the corner. I stand to one side to let it pass but it slows down.
; 'It's OK!' I say, but the driver, also called Pavlos, insists on stopping just to give me a ride the few minutes' walk up the hill.
'Eh, it's difficult in this heat!' he says.
With a smile on my face, I arrive at the shop to find Eleftheria juggling two mobile phones and a landline. She manages to stop talking for long enough to sort me out with cheese, eggs, green peppers and retsina. Two ladies in the shop, Greek but not local, tell me they like the colour of my hair; it's gone very fair in the sun. I follow the road to the KEP office; the KEP fulfils all sorts of functions to help out local citizens, and is where the post is left for the village. I'm inordinately pleased to be given the key to my very own post box – a marker that I am a resident of Tilos. Stepping outside, I stop to look at the deep magenta bougainvillaea and lush green trees and beyond, the view across the valley to my stone house on the brush-covered hillside. What a place to live.
An Octopus in My Ouzo Page 3
