AlBarclay

Out of the house again and off into London. To get to the tube I walk up Tite Street and five minutes from my door I pass by the blue plaque that reminds us: this is where Oscar Wilde lived for the good years.

I really don’t like the tube these days. It’s always been a neurotic and condensed atmosphere, but it’s getting out of hand now. Nevertheless it’s quick to King’s Cross. I follow the signs from the Victoria Line platform saying “British Library’ thereby avoiding the tunnel of doom. I emerge blinking into the early afternoon light, hungover and craving coffee. Black Sheep have taken up residence in the square. I usually avoid them if I can (“What size flat white, sir?”) I need the caffeine though so I get a latte to avoid the question and it’s actually not bad. Sipping it, I wander up past the old Guardian building to Granary Square.

Beth has my bag. I left it at hers last night. We have arranged to meet in a place about halfway from our homes. The bag only really has a charger in it, but if you leave it too long when there’s nothing important in the thing, you can end up leaving it forever. We have agreed to meet at Queer Britain’s shiny new free museum space. It’s the first dedicated LGBTQ+ museum in the UK, and one of our mutual friends is on the operations team.

It’s brilliantly crowded for such a little museum. We are in companionable close quarters with quite a few other interested people, really taking the time to look at documents and artifacts that mark turning points in the history of queer Britain. They’ve pulled together some unusual and delightful things, and others that give pause. On one wall is this door, with a book beside it.

The door, somehow, is the very door in Reading Gaol from behind which a very different Oscar from the one that lived in Tite Street wrote his charged and sumptuously bitterbeautiful letter to Bosie – “de profundis”. Beside it is a copy of the book found by a curator with heartfelt personal scribbles in the margin – written by someone finding comfort in the book. Even in the depths of his unfair imprisonment, Oscar found ways to send hope into the future. Thank God the new warden let him write, poor sod. What a great tiny museum, and the team were so welcoming. If you’re ever waiting for a train, it’s only a short walk from King’s Cross, and it’s free! I can only imagine the collection getting deeper and deeper over time. I’m glad I left my bag at Beth’s.

Ahhhhhhh

What a divine evening.

Docklands is just… so far away. To stay sober and drive? An hour and fifteen. To go by public transport? An hour and fifteen. To get an Uber? An hour and fifteen and thirty quid each way. To drive but to take out the “avoid toll roads” stricture? An hour and ten. Five minutes saved.

I got on the tube.

The tube used to be second nature to me. All of us who have learnt it properly – we feel a kind of ownership. It’s much the same now. There is a new avoidable bullshit tunnel at Victoria – like the old one at King’s Cross. There are more and more of them springing up. But I get it. People need to be corralled. It’s a Wednesday and I walked down King’s Road on my way out of the area. It has never ever felt more like New York in Chelsea. Footfall near Sloane Square was vast. I had to stay alert or be walked at. It’s never normally that bad. Usually it’s just a few slouching addicts in their daddy’s clothes who don’t really even know you’re there, and their fantastically rich siblings attempting to show off their whatever. Every so often on the weekend they all just drive around in their arsehole cars. But today, just a Wednesday, all the Japanese, all the Americans… Everybody is still on desperate rescheduled holiday.

Beth organised an evening of cheese and wine in the Docklands. It was marvelous but I left my bag. I made it all the way there by trains and tubes after the plastic COVID nosejudge told me I was ok to do what I wanted. Now I’m home I’m just gonna pass out. But my bag is in the Docklands. I could say I’ll sort it out tomorrow, but truth be told, Beth will bring it in and we will go to our friend’s museum in the fullness of time.

I’m happy after an evening of being social.

Here’s the view… Part of it:

About a week ago today I found myself sitting on a balcony somewhere near here.

In one hand I had a glass of ouzo, and in the other a glass of rosé after a comprehension error by the barkeep. “I like a glass of ouzo as I write my blog,” I say to Lou. I sip it thoughtfully. Somehow it tastes good.

That ouzo-feeling led me to purchase a big bottle of the stuff in duty free. You know- to take home. So I can enjoy the ouzo in my own dwelling. This evening I thought it would be jolly nice. Let’s have a glass of ouzo while I write, I said.

Context is everything, ladies and gentlemen. This is something that advertising executives run up against all the time, I’m sure. If I’m sitting on a warm balcony listening to the cicadas and contemplating another swim in bath-warm sea come the morning, then a glass of ouzo is just the picture. Little drop of ice to make it cloudy and keep it cool. Lovely. And now I shall write…

I’m overheating in a muggy flat in London. Outside it’s been grey but wet heat all day and my duvet is gonna be way too heavy for my needs. I’ve got the damn ouzo but it just tastes like sharp aniseed. It’s taken me forever to get halfway through a small glass. Ouzo is all very well on a summer night in Greece, but it can stay there. I can’t imagine that bottle will be even halfway empty this time next year.

Deliveroo was doing £10 off on groceries so I treated myself to comfort food from Waitrose. Now I can have crumpets to get the taste of that stuff out of my mouth. Third day without leaving the house. Full disclosure here – somebody had Covid on the plane near me, so I’m just taking three days. I haven’t got any tests, so I’m unsure how much of my headache and overheating is psychosomatic. We have had so much drummed into our heads about this thing. I haven’t got any tests though so I might venture to a careful boots tomorrow to purchase one before taking a call on whether to attend an actual real life social gathering tomorrow evening. The Bletchley Park cast are having a cheese and bread and board games night. I’d love to be able to get there. BYOB? Hmm. Perhaps I’ll bring this ouzo. *spits*

We go on holiday to relax, sure. But I’ve never been one for staying in one place. Kefalonia was new to me and I do like to see the world when I can. New places need to be explored thoroughly. We managed a bit of lying down. But we also kept moving. So today I just let myself stop entirely. Just a day at home, surrounded by familiar things, doing very little. I thought I was gonna do my receipts but I honestly didn’t want to. Thankfully the guys have advanced me half my invoice so I’m not out of pocket. The rest can come in time. I’ll get it done. It’s just time consuming and punishingly boring.

It’s lovely being back in a place where there’s a bath, but these hot summer evenings aren’t conducive to my usual bathtub habit, which is to make it just below too hot for human tolerance and then lie in it and broil. I just got out and I’m thinking I need a cold one now to bring my temperature back down to vaguely normal. I won’t though. I’ll just swelter.

Slowly I’m working through the list of things that I missed about being home. Coffee my way. Toast my way. Hot bath. Familiar bed with clean sheets. Too much time playing computer games on a Sunday. I haven’t had a curry yet but it’ll come… Problem is, I’ve got a headache. It’s hard to want to do anything much through a headache.

A quick rummage through my shelves just now has yielded a single sachet of Lemsip. I just had a brainwave regarding self care. In my bag there is a little bottle of Rakomelo that I picked up in a lovely crafty little shop halfway up a mountain. It’s a pokey brew, consisting of local honey and quite a lot of Raki, which would be familiar to anybody who has been to Turkey. It’s not clear how strong it is. The Greeks use it as a cure all, especially for sore throats. I’m adding it to the mix.

Alchemy! I’ve just concocted an unusual brew of Lemsip, Acacia honey and hopefully not too much Rakomelo. The last of the light is just fading in the summer sky and it’s getting to the temperature when I can sip it.

I just had a sip. This is a successful experiment. I’m sure it would work just as well without the Lemsip, but get that paracetamol liquid into my veins. No way I can sleep with that headache.

I suspect my body is just processing. I haven’t stopped really since I flew to Sardinia. Time for a brief rest.

There’s a shortage of air traffic controllers. This is why nearly all the planes I’ve met for weeks that have something to do with Gatwick are delayed. I can see why controllers are needed. You can’t land a plane without knowing for sure that nobody is taking off. Who knows where they’ve all gone. Found better jobs in Covid? Don’t want to work in a tiny room looking at planes? Whatever the reason, it’s happening. The shortage caused a two hour delay to our flight. That was plenty considering Greece is two hours ahead of the UK. By the time I had my checked baggage we were walking wounded at past 3am Greek time. We still had to get Bergman back and sleepdrive him to Brighton.”Drive on the left, watch out for cops”. I think my tax might have run out. That’s a tomorrow thing. I know I’m insured so it’s all good. Not gonna make that mistake again. Thankfully it’s a short journey and the roads were clear.

It’s cold. Comparatively. I can still walk about in shorts and sandals. But where’s my pounding sun? Still, there’ll be another month even here when I rarely have to wash my socks cos I’ve been in sandals. I’m looking forward to August and what it might bring. There’s nothing in the diary. I’ll always find something to do, which today involved driving back to London.

Just yesterday at the time of writing I was eating my last plate of Spaghetti Napoli next to a bay full of turtles. I can’t recommend Kefalonia enough at this time of year. So long as you’re resourceful you can avoid the crowds unless you want to go towards them. Tourism is so vital to the economy there that pretty much everybody is happy to see you and speaks English so well that it’s hard to learn the basics of Greek. In just over a week I stayed in six different parts of the island and tried to plug into the vibe there. There’s a lot of real estate for sale, speculating on the return of tourism, but there’s still the spectre of everything being shut down again hanging over the industry – as with ours. I really don’t think it will be shut down again – not for Covid. But basically we have all been collectively traumatised and it’s gonna take a while to regain trust.

I’ve been in an airplane and airports and boats and occasionally crowded tourist caves. I haven’t been licking everybody but I might just give it a couple of days before I pop round for tea. But I’m here, in town. I’ll miss the sea.

This is Myrtos Beach.

Lots of the books and websites tell you how this is the best beach in Greece.

Like all such places, it’s mostly worth avoiding, particularly at noon in peak season, which is when we arrived. We juggled the car through a busy one way system to the bottom of the cliff, where we took one look at it and kept driving back up the one way system and back out. We stopped to get this photo. Then we went to Assos for lunch.

The morning had already seen us becoming part of the tourist machine as we joined a conveyor belt queue of families walking through a man made cave to a docking point where about 7 simultaneous boats were shunting around a natural flooded cave with an underground bit. It was revealed by an earthquake about three and a half thousand years ago or more and they’ve called it “Cave of the Nymphs” because Odysseus sells round here. Our boat trip was over before it began and the pilot whacked us around with his locked in oars while scattergunning high pitched Greek peppered with snatches of English. There’s not much you can say when you haven’t got a clue. “This is a cave. It is old. Stalactites and stalagmites. It is deep water. Look it is dark now. Next.” It felt a bit like striking out over Styx only to have Charon change his mind and drop you off back where you started.

After lunch we overheated for a bit before driving to the less populous part of the island because I had left half my clothes there. I got them back and then we found Politos beach. Much less of a scrum to get there. Sure there were hopeful looking young men at the very bottom standing around signs saying “Parking €7” but it was clear enough that we could just sling the car at the side of the switchback with all the others and go down on foot.

Azure sea. Swirling tiny marbles where there might be sand. Some shade near the rocks. Plenty of sunshine. We charged up. Sun. Swim. Sun. Swim. Sun. A quick cold freshwater shower. Change in the car. Dinner in Argostoli.

Our flight is delayed by an hour and a half but we all still had to go to the airport. Now we are waiting here, through security. It’s barren. There’s nothing. And they just told Lou we are gonna be kicked out of this shonky café as it’s closing. The only option will be to go join all the corralled brits on their way back home to Gatwick. Man I don’t want to go back… It’s comforting that it’s not gonna be freezing back home. But I’ve enjoyed being in the med. I could murder a curry though. It’s funny the things you start to miss. I’m also looking forward to trying to see more of my friends. But that’s been hard enough to do for ages anyway.

Farewell lovely hot place. I’ve brought back some ouzo, honey and olive oil. And a rock.

Getting quieter. A holiday can involve relaxing. Who knew?

We managed a touch of running around all over the place though. After all, I’m one of the two of us. We found a lovely beach at Antisamos after rejecting all previous options. There’s a huge cruise ship in the bay nearby and it is sending coachloads of enthusiastic Americans to selected parts of the island. The skill of the game is to work out where they might be going next and RUN LIKE THE WIND from that area. We were caught once as the island almost sank in one corner as they all simultaneously lumbered into the queue for a cave. We immediately left the queue and got back into the car.

The road to Antisamos is not conducive to coaches. I sensed that we would be safe there, and Lou had it on her list. We walked away from all the people shouting about umbrellas and found a patch of peace on the marble stones. I filled my ear once more with salt water, and we flolloped about with the fish and the urchins until hunger forced us back to the madding crowd and we shared a bowl of pasta and a salad where the music was hypnotically awful del mar style guff. I would have spent too much on a jetski, but the too much was too much too much. €70 for twenty minutes and they can go and fuck themselves.

Afternoon exploring took us up hills and into close communion with the goats. We explored the various abandoned and largely uncared for ruined structures that make up what’s left of ancient Sami. A castle and an acropolis. Various monasteries, more recent than the ruins but equally ruined. It’s all just rubble now. Rubble and goats and olive trees. We picked our way through it all. The money we all spend as tourists isn’t going towards looking after antiquity on this island. It’s going into bulldozing more flats into mountainsides. The roads are already flooded with hire cars. You are as likely to hear English spoken here as Greek. Tourism, like it or lump it, is a huge part of the economy. But thankfully it’s not Zakynthos and it’s not trying to be the party yet. Long may it stay this way, with sleepy cats and goats and not much atrocious music like they had at the beach. I’m fine with all the friendly people marking things up a bit too much and smiling with dollars instead of eyes, just as long as they notice what’s unique about this sleepy place, and go towards that instead of the idea of party-money that zaps all character.

The highlight of my day was hanging out with a friendly cat at a monastery. I was lying on my side to let eardrops work. It decided it was going to be my friend – maybe it wanted to help make my deaf face better. I rewarded it with all the water it could drink. But… that was the highlight of my day. As I say, it’s a sleepy island and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

We hung out for a while, that cat and Lou and I. The cats are everywhere and they’re a highlight. Here we are together.

Morning in Assos unsurprisingly in beautiful sunlight. I’ve only got a few more nights in the Mediterranean and I’m not looking forward to remembering what it’s like in London.

We got up and struck out on foot to Assos Castle. It’s a good long walk up the hill to this old Venetian fortress, once again located extremely strategically in terms of defence, but badly in terms of water supply. It didn’t last long as defence. For a while it was used as a prison, then a few farmers lived there and now it’s just empty but for idiots like Lou and I, marching up the hill with our banana pastries as the sun rises over the native firs and the black pin trees.

It’s been Lou’s birthday. We have done our usual wandering. Fiscardo proved to be a disappointment. It’ll be lovely in the evening with the lights and all the restaurants open, but in the bright of the day you can see the cynicism. You are there to spend money. That’s it. This island survives on tourism, and tourists are all channeled up to Fiscardo where everything is laid out just as we are supposed to like it. If you zoom out you could be anywhere made for tourists. The flag just happens to be Greek here. Local meat dishes and the spaghetti staples: Napolitana, Carbonara and Bolognese. So far, so faceless, so familiar. We have seen it in too many countries to want to spend time in it here so we up sticks and drive to a beach where you have to lie on uncomfortable rocks under olive trees. We both momentarily doze off in strangely contorted positions until heatstroke pushes us into the water. Small and active loaches try to pull the scabs from my feet. We are happy.

Sami in the evening is more of a port town again – it puts me in mind if Patras, where I tried to hitchhike to get out. I was happy there for one evening though, for a meal. We are sleeping nearby in Green Bay Hotel, and we don’t have to check out tomorrow morning for a change. This’ll be the launch point for the rest of our exploration of the island.

Our room is comparatively disappointing but it’s cooler than we have been and comfy. Just no Fantastic View… We are lounging in the early evening and despite all the running around I can barely keep my eyes open. It’s a gorgeous island this. Absolutely stunning.

I am in Assos. It’s a little bay town. Stony beaches and tavernas spilling their customers out into the summer streets. As with much of this island, Assos was largely destroyed by a catastrophic seismic event that pushed the whole damn island 60cm higher up out of the sea and in so doing shook the earth at 6.8 on the Richter Scale.

It’s not uncommon for big quakes to strike here. The ground flows and breathes. Caves open. Caves close. But pretty much every one of the older taller houses on the island are rubble. The few that have lived on – as often as not they sit derelict. And plots might be for sale, but the cost would be huge if you were thinking of refreshing these few survivors – and the cultural onus huge as well. This likely discourages the potential landlords – the usual types who are buying to make holiday homes here – like the flat we are sleeping in tonight. It’s gorgeous but it’s largely without character. For want of something catchy to call it, they’ve called it “Fantastic View”. It’s a little flat. It’s a little flat. There’s an aspect though which is interesting. Plus it’s carefully maintained and clean. There was a picture on the wall in a clip frame when we arrived. It had fallen off the wall by lunchtime. I don’t think many people have lived in this building since it was carved into the side of a hill with a bulldozer. But it’s stepped and low. When the next quake hits it should hold well and nothing of interest or value could be lost or stolen. But for character? Well…. That’s where the cats come in.

Wild-ish cats abound. They are welcome here, and likely fed and treated with medicine by the landlord – I think there’s a reasonably active society spaying them so they don’t get too inbred. They know this is their home and they haunt it in large numbers. There seems to be no squabbling for territory though. These are harmonious cats and kittens, not as wild as they once were, sharing this home with the paying guests. Down in the restaurant the same is happening. A huge pride of cats, but they’ve organised. It’s as if there’s one stationed at every table. Should something interesting be dropped, the specimen is pulled out first, then inspected and shared.

I have not fed these kittens that live near where we sleep, but even as I write I feel them watching me, just the other side of the screen that is the only thing between me and the outside world. Seven or eight very varied little creatures live mostly on our terrace. They find us interesting because we move and we might yield food if studied hard enough. We very nearly got some cat food in the Mini Mart for them. The only two things that stopped us: lack of cat food and lack of cash. They don’t sell cat food in the mini mart. Perhaps they are frightened that the cats are growing too strong and drawing their plans against us.

Their regard this evening seemed benign. They seem like playful harmless cute little blighters. If I could I would take them all home in my suitcase. I’m a sucker for kittens.

“Can I have an ouzo with a drop of water and 1 ice cube?”

The barman is so used to serving the English abroad that he pours me a rosé. Ouzo / Rosé. It all sounds much the same when spoken in a language that isn’t yours. We iron out the mistake and I end up with both. Lou doesn’t want either, so I head back up and onto our balcony double-fisting.

Tonight we are in the Karavados Beach Hotel. It’s cheap, so we weren’t expecting much. They cater largely to tour groups and then list the remaining rooms online. We are in perhaps their furthest room from centre. It’s miles away from the swimming pool area where they play Ricky Martin and give you the wrong drink. We are in a far flung corner. The sort of place I like best. It’s dark here, and peaceful. I’m on the balcony. Mosquitos play happily around my legs and feet as I write. We all deserve a good meal from time to time. I had chicken souvlaki. They are getting some of it second hand. I went trekking in the Amazon in rainy season and they were on me like a carpet. This is mild by comparison. Let the little things munch.

The local beach has an orthodox shrine and next to it there’s a steep drop where old people are supposed to have gone in order to take the leap and make space for those younger than them. Lou takes me up there at night. I look over the top. Nobody pushes me, which is good. I’ve still got fucktons to do. A truly great friend of dad’s shuffled off his mortal coil this week, and there was still space for him. He was looking backwards, digitising old photographs of happier times, making gnomic comments on Facebook. Maybe he missed his friends. Surely he did. But we will miss him. There’s a great big party up there and he will have been very much awaited, sticking with us and keeping us all entertained. I’d seek his company first whenever I landed in the Isle of Man. I truly believed he would never stop. There are some friends of dad’s left, but this particular passing really marks the end of an era for me. I’m sure I’ll be able to get over to the island for the funeral.

Meantime it seems the onus is on me to LIVE. I hope I’ll work the next few races for Extreme-e – if they’ll have me back. I can fit my year around it, make some money, see some incredible far flung places and help build an interesting ethical future for racing – my father’s industry.

Meanwhile though I’m gonna listen to the cicadas and the dogs here in the gathering Ionian night. The stars are bright when my phone is off. The Rosé is nothing but an empty glass. My ouzo has been my nightcap here. Fresh, local and that sharp bite. I will sit in the dark awhile and sip my ouzo as the culicidae sip the blood from my veins.

We did things today. We lit candles in a hermit’s grotto. We saw a watermill powered by sinkholes. We went to a lighthouse. We swam in the sea. We did many more things. But yeah. Ouzo, mosquitos and old people jumping off cliffs. HEY GUYS IF YOU WANT MORE CONTENT ABOUT MOSQUITOS, HIT LIKE AND SUBSCRIBE OR WHATEVER.

Lou just switched off the light the other side of the glass balcony doors. Then she opened them “for a breeze.” We are gonna get eaten alive tonight. But sitting here with my phone screen the only light source finishing this I AM BECOME FOOD. I RETURN MYSELF TO NATURE. COME SUCK MY BODY EAT ME I AM YOURS NOW OH SIX LEGGED HIGH PITCHED PARASITIC … fuck this I’m going inside.