As usual, I am first up and about. I savour these few minutes of quiet solitude before the tornado of activity. Quietly, I open the balcony doors to release the stale air and ensure the room is fresh when the others awake. The soft warmth of the Mediterranean morning waft in along with the hotel’s cats, whom we have nicknamed Moochie and Moochie-Mama. They meow a hearty greeting as they brush against my legs in fake devotion. They only want our food. I murmur that Barry, my brother, will be in soon to spoil them. Despite being built like The Hulk (and just as temperamental) he is a sucker for animals. With this, the cats skulk over to my bed to eke out the fading degrees of its warmth.
Stepping outside, I am startled by a ghostly, transparent lizard, calmly watching me with black emotionless eyes. Disregarding him, I sit and gaze out at the olive orchards and mountains.
Alykes has been beautifully bright every day. However, today the morning temperature is deceptive; dark clouds heading this way threaten to spoil our trip to Tsilivi. We are told that the rains move into Zakynthos in September and tend not to vacate until December. And this is September.
Paul steps out onto the balcony, croaking out a garbled “Morning!” as he rubs his eyes and scratches his testicles.
“I think it’s going to rain,” I respond, gravely.
During breakfast we have a VIP view of one of the worst downpours any of us have ever seen. The olive trees bend in full submission to the Anemoi and the lightning dances a Leventikos along the mountain-tops, which are eventually grey-screened by the downpour. It is, somehow, a beautiful, reaffirming event; reminding us we are ultimately powerless before God, or Nature.
“Ah, it’s only rain,” I say to the boys, cheerily. I hope that Paul, Barry and Toby don’t wimp out on me to take cover here, with the cats. Thankfully, they don’t. We all intend to make full use of the hire car won in the hotel’s quiz night.
I dread having to cramming into this tiny, beaten-up little car. It’s like a metal cat-suit. I speculate on how well the single windscreen wiper might cope with this rain. Despite its best efforts I stop after about fifty yards because I cannot see past the blurry fat splats of rain pummelling the windscreen.
I have heard bad things about Greek drivers. What I discover is that if you don’t drive fast enough for those behind you on the, often, uneven, unpainted roads, they will overtake. No aggression, just a simple need to get from Alpha to Beta quicker than you.
Another four stops and twenty minutes later, we reach Alikanas, around two miles away before the deluge forces another stop. After another twenty minutes it improves enough to move on, and I promise to take it carefully. I keep that promise but snaking around one of the island’s many curved roads, I aquaplane onto the other side, towards another car.
It happens in slow motion. The other driver and I make eye contact as if in some kind of Mexican stand-off. We clip them but they continue on their way. We continue on to wherever fate is taking us – which is quickly towards a twenty foot trench.
Apparently, here on Zakynthos, crash barriers appear only where there has been a serious accident. Thank Zeus there is a barrier here, otherwise it would have been serious for us. We come to a stop against it.
After a silent, stretched second, I ask out, “Is everyone okay?”
I hear three versions of, “yes” - each characteristic of the personality of its speaker. Barry’s is understated and wry (typical of all my family); Toby’s is tinged with amusement, happy to be part of another adventure, and Paul’s, the most natural, duly serious and relieved.
A tour guide had told us that the locals get out chairs and tables at accidents and turn it into an occasion. With no houses nearby, I cannot confirm if this is a myth; however, traffic does seem to appear from nowhere to provide a slow-passing audience.
With help, we move the car to a muddy lay-by, opposite. The only damage seems to be a missing side light – although I’d be surprised if it was there to begin with.
As we finally park up in Tsilivi, the heavens open again. Barry and Paul sensibly seek refuge under a nearby canopy. Toby and I, always open to new experiences, brave the streaming streets to seek shelter with a hot chocolate in McDonalds, halfway down the strip. Lightning chases us as we walk briskly, terrified and giggling.
Sitting on the covered terrace at McDonalds, drenched and cold, there is a collective sense of exhilarated fear. After about an hour of watching this light show, a bright blue sky fights through the grey - denying any of this had ever happened.
Stepping outside, I am startled by a ghostly, transparent lizard, calmly watching me with black emotionless eyes. Disregarding him, I sit and gaze out at the olive orchards and mountains.
Alykes has been beautifully bright every day. However, today the morning temperature is deceptive; dark clouds heading this way threaten to spoil our trip to Tsilivi. We are told that the rains move into Zakynthos in September and tend not to vacate until December. And this is September.
Paul steps out onto the balcony, croaking out a garbled “Morning!” as he rubs his eyes and scratches his testicles.
“I think it’s going to rain,” I respond, gravely.
During breakfast we have a VIP view of one of the worst downpours any of us have ever seen. The olive trees bend in full submission to the Anemoi and the lightning dances a Leventikos along the mountain-tops, which are eventually grey-screened by the downpour. It is, somehow, a beautiful, reaffirming event; reminding us we are ultimately powerless before God, or Nature.
“Ah, it’s only rain,” I say to the boys, cheerily. I hope that Paul, Barry and Toby don’t wimp out on me to take cover here, with the cats. Thankfully, they don’t. We all intend to make full use of the hire car won in the hotel’s quiz night.
I dread having to cramming into this tiny, beaten-up little car. It’s like a metal cat-suit. I speculate on how well the single windscreen wiper might cope with this rain. Despite its best efforts I stop after about fifty yards because I cannot see past the blurry fat splats of rain pummelling the windscreen.
I have heard bad things about Greek drivers. What I discover is that if you don’t drive fast enough for those behind you on the, often, uneven, unpainted roads, they will overtake. No aggression, just a simple need to get from Alpha to Beta quicker than you.
Another four stops and twenty minutes later, we reach Alikanas, around two miles away before the deluge forces another stop. After another twenty minutes it improves enough to move on, and I promise to take it carefully. I keep that promise but snaking around one of the island’s many curved roads, I aquaplane onto the other side, towards another car.
It happens in slow motion. The other driver and I make eye contact as if in some kind of Mexican stand-off. We clip them but they continue on their way. We continue on to wherever fate is taking us – which is quickly towards a twenty foot trench.
Apparently, here on Zakynthos, crash barriers appear only where there has been a serious accident. Thank Zeus there is a barrier here, otherwise it would have been serious for us. We come to a stop against it.
After a silent, stretched second, I ask out, “Is everyone okay?”
I hear three versions of, “yes” - each characteristic of the personality of its speaker. Barry’s is understated and wry (typical of all my family); Toby’s is tinged with amusement, happy to be part of another adventure, and Paul’s, the most natural, duly serious and relieved.
A tour guide had told us that the locals get out chairs and tables at accidents and turn it into an occasion. With no houses nearby, I cannot confirm if this is a myth; however, traffic does seem to appear from nowhere to provide a slow-passing audience.
With help, we move the car to a muddy lay-by, opposite. The only damage seems to be a missing side light – although I’d be surprised if it was there to begin with.
As we finally park up in Tsilivi, the heavens open again. Barry and Paul sensibly seek refuge under a nearby canopy. Toby and I, always open to new experiences, brave the streaming streets to seek shelter with a hot chocolate in McDonalds, halfway down the strip. Lightning chases us as we walk briskly, terrified and giggling.
Sitting on the covered terrace at McDonalds, drenched and cold, there is a collective sense of exhilarated fear. After about an hour of watching this light show, a bright blue sky fights through the grey - denying any of this had ever happened.
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