Tuesday 18th October 1983
After our by now usual breakfast in bed, we staggered out into the city again, retracing our steps of the previous evening, and looking at clothes in shops that were now open. This unfortunately meant a good deal of hard-selling attempts by the vendors – we only had to pause slightly near a shop to be invited (forced?) inside and made to try on various clothes. What we really wanted was to simply have a gentle browse around, but that clearly isn’t the Greek way. We had noted a lot of very attractive clothes for sale in the shops which looked very good value, but once we started to examine them in any detail, it became clear that things were not all they seemed – several jackets bearing the ‘Woolmark’ label or saying ‘100% wool’ were nothing of the sort. A shopkeeper showed us one jacket and insisted that it was ‘all wool’, but when we looked inside it had a label attached saying quite clearly 90% wool, 10% something quite indecipherable. We were also rather perturbed by the lack of any labels saying who had made the clothes – the normal label simply indicated the size of the garment, and nothing else – until we got up into the sort of price range you would expect to find in Britain. Handbags, too, were deceptive; Sal looked at a couple of bags bearing the ‘Gucci’ symbol, and looking just like the real thing, but again upon close inspection they quite obviously weren’t. So, we bought nothing, and retired to Syntagma Square for a prolonged lunch.
A little after two thirty we made our way the very short distance to the GO-Tours office, where the coach to Sounion was waiting for us. With the usual Greek efficiency, it left on time, stopped at a few hotels on the way out of Athens to the south, and then settled down to the drive along the coast.
Very attractive scenery, the road running at the water’s edge for a good part of the journey, and the only snag really was the driving, which was rather on the hairy side, particularly with the sheer drop into the sea on a number of corners. We actually saw one jeep-type vehicle which hadn’t made it, a few hundred feet below the road on the rocks at one sharp bend. Concentrated the mind wonderfully, a sight like that. Despite the driving, we reached Sounion in one piece, having had quite an interesting commentary, in two languages, from the courier along the way.
At the temple itself, there were several coaches, Sounion being obviously a very popular spot, particularly in the late afternoon, when some most spectacular sunsets can be seen, and the ruins were swarming with people, all clicking away like mad with their cameras. Our courier bought us the entrance tickets (included in the cost of the trip), and then gave us a chat about the temple, three points of which are worthy of note.
First, the site is reputed to be the place from which Theseus’ father, King Aegeus, leapt to his death after sighting his son’s fleet returning from victory in a sea battle near Crete. The story is that Theseus had forgotten to change his black sails (indicating defeat) for white ones (signifying victory), thus fatally misleading his father. The other site for the legend is the Temple of Athena Nike on the Acropolis, but bearing in mind where Crete is (due south of Sounion), I think that the Sounion site is the more likely.
The second point is that if you draw a line connecting the Temple of Poseidon at Sounion, the Parthenon and the Doric Temple to Aphaia on Aegina, you have in fact drawn an equilateral triangle, an interesting fact that Erich von Däniken could probably use to ‘prove’ that the Greeks must have used cosmic earth-moving equipment to build Aegina, or something equally preposterous.
And the third interesting item is Byron’s signature, carved into the stone of the temple. Byron, of course, was a great supporter of the Greeks (he died fighting the Turks at Missolonghi), and was particularly taken with Cape Sounion, wishing, in a poem, that he could die there. We could see his point, but just wished that a few less people had turned up to see the sights with us – as Byron would no doubt have wished had he been around.
After a swift drink at the local (predictably well-supported) local taverna, we got back into the coach for the return journey. One slight snag was that the Greek prime minister was due to address the nation at 2030 in Syntagma Square itself, following two years in office, and in consequence we had to be prepared to get out and walk rather sooner than programmed on the way back, as there were likely to be substantial crowds in the city. (’Substantial’, in this context, meant about 1 per cent million, which for a country the size of Greece, with a total population of 9 million, and an Athenian population of 3 million, is an extremely high turnout.)
Contrary to our expectations, the coach was able to fight its way into Syntagma Square, where we disembarked and headed into Plaka, fighting our way through the crowds – heavy enough already, with well over an hour before the speech was due to start. A very good-natured crowd, though, with no signs of rowdiness. We returned to the hotel on foot, eating dinner within sight of the hotel itself, before getting an early night.
Wednesday 19th October 1983
I got up early, at about 0650, in order to get back to the ship in good time for the morning departure. Obviously the train was the most efficient method of getting to the ship through the early morning rush hour, so I walked to Omonia Square, packed myself in (literally – the train was extremely full) and got out with some relief at Piraeus. A couple of other officers and I then hailed a taxi and were back at the Illustrious at about 0740, which was just about right. Sal’s flight was departing at about ten – as was the ship.
The only real snag from my point of view was that I missed the Greek money-changing session, so I was left with a great wad of drachmas to dispose of in Britain once we get back. There were other snags, though, like a substantial amount of aggravation between the Greeks and the Illustrious’s ship’s company on the previous evening, one result of which was that my office runner was languishing in a Greek slammer. The full story of the events in which he was involved is by no means clear, but we are not expecting to get him back for some considerable time, trials in Greece taking a substantial time to get organised – anywhere between six to nine weeks and five years have been quoted, and that’s just to come to trial, not the sentence itself.
We sailed in Procedure Alpha again, in blues this time, in accordance with the dress regulations of the Hellenic Navy, and I spent the rest of the day trying to catch up with things in the office that had obviously been to some extent neglected while I was enjoying myself ashore in Athens. That evening, we retarded clocks one hour, and were treated to some most excellent CCTV entertainment – a splendid edition of Not the 9 O’Clock News – and just to round the evening off, the Wardroom film was Every Which Way but Loose. Good stuff.
Thursday 20th October 1983
The ship was describing a fairly large loop around the southern tip of Italy, to make Genoa on 24th of October, and once clear of Greek territorial waters we started a fairly full flying day, which continued into the night. Nothing of any other great significance to report – the weather was fine, and the flying programme went ahead more or less as planned, the only unscheduled feature being the arrival of a Wasp helicopter from Leander (which is not in company with us, but close) with a Casevac, and an Agusta helicopter from the Italian vessel Lupo, bringing two Italian naval Commanders for a look over the Illustrious to pick up ideas for their own carrier, the Garibaldi, which will be commissioning shortly.
The evening Wardroom film was Any Which Way You Can, the Clint Eastwood follow-up to Every Which Way but Loose – excellent stuff.
Friday 21st October 1983
The Sea Harriers started flying a little after six this morning, which woke me up, along with the rest of the Wardroom, but only continued until a little after lunch, when flying ceased for the day. We then made a fast passage north to and through the Straits of Messina in the late afternoon, and continued our track up the west coast of Italy.
I did a Bad Taste Show in the evening, which seemed to be quite well received, judging by the number of complaints I had about it, but the main event was obviously the Trafalgar Night Mess Dinner held in the Wardroom. Tr
afalgar, like Taranto, is celebrated with great gusto whenever possible, and these occasions are usually most enjoyable. In this case, the meal started in a slightly unusual way, when we had a kind of son et lumiere presentation of the Battle of Trafalgar itself, using a recorded commentary and a series of 35mm colour slides, which was very well received.
The Padre had organised it, but what he hadn’t spotted was the single ‘naughty’ slide (a half-naked woman) which some nameless officer had slipped into the Carousel projector. That was as well received as the rest of the presentation by everyone except the Padre, who has no discernible sense of humour. Some would say ‘no discernible sense’, but I’m not that cruel. The food was good, the speeches (by the Commander and the Captain) short and to the point, and the mood light – not least because we are now on our way home again.
Saturday 22nd October 1983
A quiet day, with no flying – in fact, the only activity on the flight deck was the 100 x 1 mile relay race which was run from early morning to the late afternoon. It was the second time the ship had attempted it, trying to break the record set by Invincible in 1982, and on this occasion we were successful, with a time of about nine hours twenty-five minutes, almost ten minutes better than our sister ship’s time. That over, work commenced on deck to range the aircraft in preparation for the ship’s entry into Genoa in Procedure Alpha on Monday morning.
The evening film in the Wardroom was Jungle Book, but I resisted the temptation to watch it for about the thirtieth time, and played three hours of bridge instead.
Sunday 23rd October 1983
Another quiet day, with no flying at all, and we had almost a proper Sunday routine, with sport (on video) on the CCTV in the afternoon, and a general air of lassitude about the place. I played bridge again in the evening – we are getting quite a good little school going – and retired to bed late.
Monday 24th October 1983
The late night didn’t seem such a terribly wonderful idea at 0515 when I got up to go to the briefing for the early morning HDS flight into Genoa to collect the Vice Consul, two harbour pilots and the Italian Navy liaison officer.
The flight went without a hitch, which was almost certainly because it was watched with interest from Flyco by the Senior Pilot of 814 NAS, Commander (Air) and the Captain, and with the Navigator keeping a watching brief as well. With such a high-powered team, obviously the aircraft and crew could hardly have had the temerity to do anything other than operate faultlessly.
We then clambered into our best bibs and tuckers, and mustered on deck for the entry into Genoa in Procedure Alpha. This was chilly, but at least fairly rapid. Genoa looks quite an interesting place, being quite literally encircled by a very substantial range of hills, on the tops of some of which snow could be seen. The city itself looked no different than a hundred others, with the usual mixture of skyscrapers, factories and apartment blocks, though it all looked quite old, there being little visible evidence of recent construction work. Looking into the hills, we could see roads snaking up to the summits, and I have no doubt that they would be most interesting to drive and offer a splendid view as well. Overall, quite attractive, in a faded sort of way (the city).
The official reception in the evening was average to boring, with the usual collection of old duffers turning up, few of whom spoke any English, and an almost complete dearth of anyone under about thirty-five, with the exception of two Italian girls of about twenty, who looked and acted like hookers, drifting round the assembled throng, leaving a series of odd looks in their wake. Perhaps they were on the wrong ship… The Beat Retreat went well, with applause both when we played the national anthem and the Italian national anthem, so the efforts of the Volunteer Band clearly did not go unnoticed. It is, however, a measure of the calibre of the guests that out of the 300 or so who turned up, only about ten were invited down to the Wardroom afterwards, and the evening finished up with various games of uckers and cards (I was in the bridge school, as usual) going on.
Tuesday 25th October 1983
Another early morning start, though for a much more interesting reason this time – we were off to Monte Carlo! A trip had been organised by U-Tours to the principality for the sum of £7, which didn’t seem bad value, as Monaco is some one hundred miles to the west of Genoa. Anyway, up at 0630, in time to climb on board the coach at 0750, and we were off, cameras and a small amount of cash (there was the Casino, don’t cha know?) at the ready. Our route was to take us out of Genoa onto the autostrada, past Savonna and along the Riviera di Ponente into Monaco itself, staying fairly close to the coast all the way.
The coach was large, air-conditioned and German, which in this context means that everything worked faultlessly, and it had far more power than most vehicles that size. It was almost full, with almost forty people on board – in our little clique were Peter Glew (Baby Doc), Wayne Keble (one of the ship’s Fighter Controllers, who will be leaving us in Plymouth, as he’s only been with us on temporary loan) and Jon Seal, who appeared in a kind of night club bouncer’s outfit, which he had obviously decided was the right rig for the Casino, where he was intending to prove the Seal System at roulette – he always plays black.
Our route out of Genoa took us over the city, quite literally, on a series of greatly elevated flyovers which afforded an excellent view of the place from the air, effectively. This view simply reinforced my earlier impression – it exhibits an air of faded imperialism, with vast and impressive and elderly buildings, all in need of a good deal of restorative work to repair the ravages of time and pollution. The latter is clearly something of a major problem here, as a great pall of reddish cloud hangs over the city most of the time – we actually saw this on the way in on Monday – much like the smog that used to plague London years ago, and which is still a great health hazard in Los Angeles.
We were quickly onto an autostrada, and almost as quickly diving into the first of a seemingly endless series of tunnels carved through the hills around the city. These continued most of the way to Monaco, as all the coastline here is remarkable for its mountainous nature – this had the effect of making those glimpses we had of the shoreline all the more impressive, as we were so far above it, the road frequently teetering on the edge of a drop of almost a thousand feet.
The border crossing into France passed without a hitch – we were not even asked to show passports or ID cards – the driver simply shouted to the police and customs officers that we were English sailors (at least, I presume that was the gist of what he was saying) and we were waved through. About two hours out of Genoa we saw the first signs for Monte Carlo, and half an hour after that we were climbing out of the coach in front of the world-famous Casino.
Clearly a drink was one of the highest priorities, so after J Seal Esq had inspected the Casino to confirm that it came up to the standards he was expecting, we wandered off in the general direction of the main harbour, which we had already espied from the coach on the way down into Monte Carlo from the hills above the principality. Even walking down to the harbour, we were able to catch the distinct and quite unmistakable aroma of money. The buildings were superb, elegant and in generally good order, though there were some in need of work, including the Casino itself, which had a kind of mare’s nest of scaffolding around its rear entrance. Cars were everywhere, with the preponderance being BMWs, Mercedes, Porsches, Ferraris and, of course, Rolls-Royces. Obviously anyone owning a ratty old XJS, for example, or Daimler, was a complete social outcast.
The harbour, too, was a bit of a revelation, particularly to anyone used to Mevagissey, say. There were two yachts in there which must have cost well over £5 million each – they were enormous, and immaculate. We went over to have a look at one, of Panamanian registry, which really was out of this world. Mr Seal’s suggestion that he insert his monocle and request to use their bog, after which he was sure they would invite us all on board for drinks, was vetoed on the grounds that he was an idiot, and that they would recognise this fact. So we looked from a
distance. Actually, the vessel that impressed me most was neither of the floating gin-palaces, but a very elderly three-masted mini-schooner, registered at Monaco, and which was in immaculate condition. A splendid vessel.
We had a refreshing drink and giant jambon sarnie each at a waterfront cafe, after changing some sterling into francs at the local Barclays branch (I now have a wallet containing sterling, Greek drachmas, French francs and Italian lira, and trying to remember what each note is worth is driving me mad). The banks here have a neat security system: electrically-controlled bullet-proof glass outer doors. You have to ring for admission, and presumably if they don’t like the look of you they simply leave the doors shut, make faces at you through the glass and scramble the local feds.
Refreshed and fortified, we wandered to the other end of town, where we discovered, to Wayne’s evident joy, that topless bathing was permitted, and that a handful of local beauties were taking advantage of the fact. We had to remain in the area for some time while he carried out what he termed a ‘nipple count and assessment’ – the rest of us, of course, were keen to go away and leave him to it, but felt we had to stay just to ensure that he didn’t get himself into trouble.
Monte Carlo is supposed to be the home of the beautiful people, and that supposition was certainly borne out by those we saw – very elegant men and beautiful women, all faultlessly dressed (or so Jon Seal said, though how he would know was a mystery to me), abounded. A look at the shops showed how easy it was to be faultlessly dressed – even I had heard of Cartier, Piaget, Hermes, Vuitton and so on – though the complete absence of any indication of price seemed to suggest that if you had to ask, you couldn’t afford it. Even the beach cafe where we had brunched had been a little on the dear side, with my Coke and jambon sarnie coming to the thick end of £2. We didn’t bother asking how much the Cardin suits were, as a result.
H.M.S. Illustrious Page 13