PAXOS
A travelogue
part one
(getting there)

Once more , across the frozen shoulder of the Alps they were pushing for Hellas. This time for Corfu - Corfu, on that softer side of Greece where the light is not so alert, nor the sea so windy and island-pestered as on that  eastern - Agean - side where was woken that incurable itch of the brain which has troubled Europe ever since. Four hours and a dog-leg down to the  spit of Lefkimi fetched their  lumbering wheels to a stop under the muzzles of the ancient ordnace of Canoni in Corfu.

Quickly the formalities of arrival were done and, standing before them at the quayside  loomed the  grand old ferry `Kamelia`.

`No problem` said the seaman, taking huge swipes with a sledge-hammer at the gears of the long, gleaming shaft lying on the quay.  That gear persisted in not being a `problem` for a full eleven hours, during which one tourist went off to light a couple of Tapers to St Spiridion in town and the other consumed an unwise goat stew.

It was past midnight before the ominous blackness of a queasy sea digested the Kamelia out of the twinkling lights of the port, and the unwise goat stew went off to make her voyage-long libation to Poseidon in the ever-sluicing toilet,  while  the sound one - stretched at the prow - lay and steadfastly ignored the notice in the saloon: `Want rum see Captin`.

Three hours of a loping progress through a side-swiping sea brought their tiny splash of light up  under the loom  of a shadowy coast and soon, after a shriek of siren, a rattle of a chain, a backing into a slab of concrete and a rapid disappearance of crew and passengers into the dark, the two tourists found themselves alone under a solitary central lamp on the quay.

A deep despond about not consulting the room-rich Captain had begun to trouble the sound one, when a hand appeared out of the dark and took hold of their case. `Room`? croaked out a woman`s voice and they turned to behold a wild, gypsy face under a dishevelled mass of hair. Tiredness conquered fear as they followed her meekly towards what seemed certain to be a circle of fire-lit caravans with shifty-eyed  menfolk eyeing their goods. But instead, two fearful, foot-dragging minutes brought them to a large house, a flight of wooden stairs, a brass bedstead, and a grateful collapse into an oblivious slumber.

They were awoken with a sunday singing - a strong baritone antiphon from outside. When the shutters were thrown open, the pine ceiling, the Icon, even the brass bedstead, took on that clarity and freshness of the morning light  which seems to dwell only in Greece.

Tidied from her sleep disturbed dishevelment of the night before their `Gypsy`  revealed herself as Lily, the landlady. Bright, lively, and past middle age Lily managed the four `large rooms` and  `reasonably priced` backpacker space under the tiles of her yellow, massively built, central  house  with a firm - but homely -  discipline. She answered all queries volubly in Greek, but with such a sweet smile that no one ever had the heart to tell her that they couldn`t understand a word of what she said ...but, all in all, we managed.

Her house was a white, scrubbed pine, airiness of cotton mats, open windows, and miniscule bunches of flowers in tiny jam jars. Across the alley was the church  (whence the singing). small groups of townsfolk stood around talking quietly and , visible through an arch, could be seen the the taverna chairs and tables of the crowded little triangle that passed as the town square. Over the roofs  jingled the top masts of bobbing sailboats in the nearby harbour, and on a low slope to the side, a gistening quiver of luxuriant olive foliage almost beamed in the mildness of the early morning air.