I COULD get used to this, I thought, sitting on the balcony of our third-floor apartment overlooking a bay of bobbing boats, while clutching a can of Mythos beer so cold it hurt my hand.
We had just arrived on the Ionian island of Cephalonia, and although only three hours’ flight from London, it’s a galaxy removed in attitude.
Waves of nostalgia washed over me. The airport reminded me of the old Lourenco Marques of my youth, with a tattered windsock fluttering on a white-washed hexagon-shaped air control tower squatting on top of the arrivals terminal.
Perfume from sage and thyme growing wild on the rugged mountains and salt spray from the Mediterranean, a stone’s throw to our left, cut through pungent avgas fumes.
The heat bouncing off the runway created shimmering mirages of limestone walls and purple-pink bougainvillea.
Customs was a glass cubicle where a smiling Greek islander gave our passports a cursory glance.
After a 45-minute taxi ride we were at the harbour town of Agia Effimia, home to scores of charter yachts that ply this gorgeous stretch of turquoise coastline.
Welcome to another world.
This was the first time I had visited Greece, and I immediately felt weirdly at home.
I decided that in a previous life I had been a Hellenic sailor raiding Phoenician galleys or press-ganged into the Persian wars.
The legends are all encompassing. It was eerie looking out over the bay to think that centuries before the birth of Jesus these waters were (mythologically) where Helen of Troy’s face launched a thousand ships, or King Leonidas’ 300 Spartans held off 150 000 Persians for seven days at Thermopylae in history’s most famous last stand.
Indeed, although Helen was a Spartan queen, her presence is alive on the islands as right next door to Cephalonia is Ithaca, the home of Odysseus, whose heroic return after Troy was sacked is perhaps the world’s most celebrated ancient classic.
It gave rise to the term ‘odyssey’, a word I loved so much that in my early days of journalism I inserted it randomly to describe anything from a roller coaster ride to a walk around the block.
Management and I took a day-cruise to Ithaca and I posed in front of a statute of Odysseus to remind me never to use purple prose again. Advice I probably won’t heed.
Most of Cephalonia’s coves and crannies are only accessible by sea, so management and I hired a tiny boat to do exactly that.
The owner of the fleet, who we named ‘Black Johnny’ as he looked somewhat piratical, gave me a quick lesson anchoring in rocky lagoons and we were on our way.
That’s what I love about Greeks; rules are for other people. For example, not even the meekest scooter rider wears a crash helmet, despite stern EU laws.
So Johnny didn’t bother to warn us that a stiff wind was brewing, figuring we’d discover that ourselves when ploughing into choppy weather powered only by a dinky tiller-steered 15hp Yamaha – something you could possibly get into trouble for in nanny-state England.
Management, bless her, didn’t complain when her carefully applied suntan lotion was obliterated by lashing spray.
She even believed me when I said, more in hope than conviction, the wind would soon blow itself out.
Thankfully it did and we spent one of the best days ever swimming in water so clear we felt translucent.
I had a rod with me, but a five-minute snorkel proved that these waters have long been fished out. Which is immensely sad, but as there were so few trawlers around, I reckon nature will again bounce back.
When not swimming or jumping on cruise boats, we did other highly civilised stuff like testing new restaurants.
Greece is no longer as cheap as it once was as that market has been hijacked by Croatia, but compared to England, it’s a gastronomic bargain.
A grilled octopus drizzled in lemon garlic butter and a bottle of local wine costs less than a burger and chips at our village local.
Then it was back to the studio apartment watching sunsets and sailing boats from our balcony.
As I said, I could get used to this.
