An Octopus in My Ouzo

by Jennifer Barclay

  'Yes, that's why I like them.'

  For this week, he gives me a reason to be putting myself through all the stress. In spite of Greece going to hell in a handbasket economically, I am becoming more rooted in island life, committed to staying through the winter, and have planted my winter vegetables. I've received my permanent resident card for Tilos: it's not an essential item – and it happened in a very hurried way, with Stelios ringing me and telling me to come to the KEP office in ten minutes to get it done because he'd told them his girlfriend needed one – but it gets me a discount on certain ferries, a barely comprehensible lesson from Vicky about the voting system in Greece, and most of all it makes me feel good. The weather is still sunny and warm in the daytime, and I'm looking forward to a quiet winter of blankets and books.

  It rains. And then it rains some more. I start off thinking it's good for the garden, then worry that the newly planted seeds have drowned or been washed away. But the half-drowned beetroot seeds, I notice, are beginning to grow little green shoots. I now eye flocks of birds warily. I must find some nets.

  And the rain brings something far more fearsome: saligaria.

  On the island, snails are a treat, a delicacy which people love to gather from the hillsides. I should try them. I am, after all, open to trying new things, unlike Stelios. Once, when he bought 5 kilos of broccoli, I pureed broccoli soup and left him some for supper.

  'I can't eat that,' he said, simply.

  I told him he was being rude and he said he was only being honest. We've got beyond that, but even so my haphazard throwing-together of whatever ingredients I can rustle up is anathema to him. Stelios will ask what I'm cooking, and I'll say, 'Food! It doesn't have a name.' He's Greek, and although he's sometimes open to improvising, feels you should have a name for what you're cooking. There are only two types of soup: fish soup and soup. Not broccoli soup. Broccoli is eaten with lemon and oil. For a nation that likes to be unlegal when it comes to authority, they do have a lot of other rules.

  I've tasted snails twice before: once at a taverna in Athens a long time ago; another time at a bistro in the south of France, when they were so caked in garlic butter that they were unrecognisable. Neither occasion would make me excited about the idea of snails. This time, I am assured that the local recipe makes all the difference, and I can learn how to cook them.

  Stelios goes out one day and comes back with two ominously bulging plastic bags. First, we must leave the snails with some food for a couple of days, which will clean out anything poisonous they might have been eating. I'm already thinking this may be a bad idea. We put them in two big pans with sacks tied over the top so they can breathe, place them on chairs and leave them with wild sage to eat in the hope it will give them good flavour. The empty building next door comes in useful at times like this. I check on them the next day and find one of the sacks has come loose, and the snails are slowly making their way down the side of the pot and the chair legs, trying to escape. I feel sorry as I drop them all back in the pot… Sorry for them, and perhaps a little bit for me, too.

  After two days, the new food should have gone through their system and they're ready for cleaning. And just in case I'm being too subtle here, we're talking about cleaning up snail excrement. I suddenly become very busy with an urgent work deadline and unfortunately have to leave this part to Stelios. But my desk is approximately 2 metres from the kitchen sink, and however I try to ignore it, there's an unmistakeable clicking of shells in the sink as the snails try to escape again up the sides of the sink. Snails can move surprisingly fast when they want to.

  Then we get to the really lovely part, I learn. We must boil them, and scoop off the slime that comes out. It just gets better, doesn't it? I can't believe I've never tried this before.

  'But you'll like them afterwards!' insists Stelios.

  After the slime-scooping part, he takes another big pot and heats olive oil, bay leaf, roughly chopped onion and garlic, adds salt and pepper… um, snails… water and a tin of tomatoes, then brings it to the boil and leaves it to simmer. The season for good fresh tomatoes has passed, and locals would rather use tinned tomatoes than flavourless ones in the winter. The smell becomes rich and hearty as they cook. It's beginning to seem more like actual food.

  And the big moment is here: they're on the table, two bowls, looking lovely.

  The sauce is good, especially with warm, fresh-from-the-oven, home-made bread. I'm just not terribly keen on the snails. I can't say cooking them ourselves has added to the pleasure, in this case. I can understand that in the old days when fresh meat was harder to acquire, finding snails on the side of the mountain would be a huge treat. But I don't see the urgent need to eat them now – unless austerity measures make life profoundly tough here. I think in the future I will leave the snails to those who appreciate their finer qualities. Gamely, I eat a fair few. Even Stelios decides he doesn't like the bigger snails much. We end up throwing quite a lot away.

  Thankfully, there are plenty of other things to gather and eat on the island. I now get lemons fresh from Pavlos' horafaki or little field; not perfect on the outside but when you cut them open the smell and taste are delicious. 'Why did you buy lemons? Always ask first if we have any!'

  Also in season are gavafes, guava. I've had guava that are red inside but these are a type of apple guava, green fruits with a white flesh inside, a little like pears but with a distinctive aroma which makes the kitchen smell heavenly. Trees in the village yield huge red pomegranates that start to ripen from late summer on. I never understood the point of pomegranates – they seemed too much work for little reward – until now. As I pull the fruit apart, sections of it fall away from the skin and in my mouth the pockets of flesh burst, releasing sweet juice.

  Pavlos shows me his new carob tree. Carob seedpods were the closest thing they could get to chocolate during the war and in the 1950s and 1960s. Now, he says, maybe we're going back to that time, with the financial crisis – maybe soon, the children will eat carob again.

  In any case, we have to be more self-sufficient now that most of the restaurants on the island have closed – if I have a craving for pizza, I'd better learn to make it myself. There are fewer deliveries of fresh food to the shops. The farm trucks sell produce from time to time in the villages, but never at a time when I happen to be there. I forage in the garden daily for a few last tomatoes and courgettes, rocket and basil.

  Last week we bought 4 kilos of locally raised pork. Stupidly, I expected it to come as steaks. Stelios stomped in with his fishing clothes on and produced from a bloody plastic bag a large lump of dead pig, which he proceeded to tear into with a knife, leaving the kitchen smeared with bone and blood. The whole issue of buying the pork was a little fraught, as it turned out to be surprisingly expensive and I don't usually eat much meat. I asked if we could buy less, but he explained: when someone kills a pig, you buy a section of it, chop it up and freeze it. They don't just kill pigs whenever you feel like eating pork, and then sell you a kilo. So another thing I've never really used before, but have to get accustomed to, is a freezer.

  I was wrong, however, to question buying the meat. It tastes extraordinary, worth every penny; nothing like pork that comes in packages in big supermarkets but dark, savoury and juicy simply chopped into bite-sized pieces and fried in olive oil and wine. I soon learn, also, my new favourite winter meal: pieces of pork oven-roasted in a baking tray filled with potatoes, garlic, lemon juice, oregano and olive oil. On a cool rainy day, the oven heats the house, spreading delicious aromas.

  Chapter 10

  Sunshine After Rain

  In the wonderfully chaotic Megalo Horio supermarket, I ask Eleftheria to help me locate some coloured pencils in the stationery section, which looks like several teenagers' school lockers that have not been tidied all year. She cheerily rummages around for a while and says her little boy Kyriakos has probably taken them. Kyriakos has huge, dark eyes and thick jet-black hair, just like Eleftheria's. She hunts a little longe
r under random stacks of paper and I hear things falling off the back of the shelf, but eventually she produces exactly what I was looking for. I take my pack of pencils to the English sessions – and on opening the packet, find a red pencil missing and another broken. A little boy has been in there, after all.

  There were no further repercussions about my holding English groups on 28 October, and the sessions gradually become something of a joy. For the younger group, the girls arrive early and write the date on the board; usually little Maria tells me with great fervour about something she's been doing, so fast that I can hardly understand a word and must interpret what she means from the actions that accompany the monologue, though last week it seemed rather improbably to be dancing on ice. I mention to Leo that we'll have to split them up if they're naughty; he spreads the word and everyone is on their best behaviour for at least ten minutes. If the younger group gets overly chaotic, I get them all to draw seahorses and give everyone gold stars. Little faces become very serious over the question of stars, and they also have an inordinate love of photocopies. The rumour runs around the room: Fototipiehs!!!

  At some point in the session there is always some outraged shouting about someone making fun of someone else, and who started it, and who said what, and it is hilarious to watch their angry faces and their tiny hands calling for justice. I open my eyes dramatically wide, suck in my breath and ask, 'Keh pios pethaneh?' Who died? And they grin sheepishly, say, 'No one…' and we get back to work. Having to speak Greek with these youngsters is good practice for me. I constantly have a dictionary to hand.

  One day I hide toy animals around the classroom for a treasure hunt, a cunning exercise to get them to practise the question 'Where?' and the words in, on and under. To my dismay, the kids spot all the animals within seconds of arrival, yet they are still thrilled by the game. The toy animals were gifts from my ex-boyfriend, shipped over to Tilos along with all our other belongings before it was revealed that he wasn't coming with me after all, and I'm glad I've found a good use for them. Nothing is wasted here.

  I tell Leo we'll be moving him up to the older group now that I've had a month or so to assess his level. The young kids say they are sad that he won't be with them any longer, and ask if he can just sit in the room with them for company. The older kids are wonderful also. I give them an exercise that involves writing about 'your best friend'. 'Miss?' asks Chris. 'Can I write about more than one best friend? Because I have five best friends and I don't want any of them to feel bad.'

  I had been hoping that with my twice-weekly trips to Livadia and a car, there would be more opportunities for going out at night, but I have to drive Leo home afterwards. In any case, things are quiet even in the bigger village of Livadia; Yorgos the kafeneion owner has gone away to Thailand for a holiday, leaving a strange emptiness in the square. My progress at dance class has fallen by the wayside for now as I don't have time, and I no longer get social evenings out with my pal Anna as she has returned to England. She spends her evenings after work recovering on the sofa, she writes in her email, missing Tilos and cheering herself up by listening to Greek songs on her computer. The new contract position requires her to learn all about aircraft financing. I reckon that may come in handy. When a vast pleasure cruiser docked in Livadia harbour in the summer there were rumours that it belonged to the owner of an airline – if he comes back next year, they'll have something to talk about.

  One evening, I leave Leo to play football in the square with his friends for a while and I stroll down to the ferry dock to relax. I love the excitement of the big ferry coming in. One family is reunited; someone else's grandmother is going away and being wished Kalo himona! (Have a good winter!). Yorgos the nurse is receiving a shipment of medicine, and asks me to watch one box while he cycles with the other to the pharmacy. Yorgos Orfanos, the man with the big truck who delivered my belongings this spring, is bringing in a big batch of young olive and fruit trees. The fishermen are sending fish to Athens. And someone is unloading a… a car that's been in an accident? It's red, but thankfully it's not mine. Andreas from the younger English group rushes up to me to tell me he can count to ten in Italian. The affection of these young kids makes the stress of a busy week worthwhile, and I'm glad I took it all on.

  As I drive home, the colours of the sky over Eristos are so beautiful I have to stop and look. The lights of Megalo Horio are like gold and silver glinting in a dark cave. A little owl is standing at the side of the road on the way up to the village. Sometimes I have to pinch myself.

  I hear birds, and the distant heavy crash of waves. The quiet morning is interrupted only by the arrival of a truck with a delivery. I thought I might have dreamed the crunched-up red car being offloaded from the ferry, but no, as I'm doing the washing-up and admiring the view outside the window, the honey factory compound takes delivery of a demolished red car in a skip. It's surreal, but such things almost seem normal now. Later Pavlos explains he just wants it for spare parts.

  By lunchtime, last night's rainclouds have cleared away leaving a blue sky, and the heavy rain overnight has washed everything clean so that every rock and tree stands out as if newly made. The fields are covered in a soft blanket of new grass. There's nothing as beautiful as the sunshine that comes after rain. I walk to the beach and have the bay to myself; take my shoes off, feel the sand under my feet. The sea is colder now, but still irresistible, beautiful for swimming once you brave the first chill. The rippling water glistens, and there's a fishing boat out; the land looks majestic, calm, bathed in hazy light. Walking home again, I look up and see an eagle circling in the sky. I see the eagles more in this season.

  A rather insistent cat arrives while I'm sitting at the kitchen table doing my work and sinks its claws into my legs; it bites my feet and sits next to the fridge looking pointedly at the door, then tries to get inside when I open it. In spite of its bullying methods, it's nice having an animal around, and the cat is naturally keen on the fish scraps that appear from time to time, and licking out empty yoghurt pots. One evening, there's a loud bang, which frightens the life out of me – it's spooky enough sometimes being in a house in the dark in the middle of nowhere – but when I look up I see it's the cat hurling itself at the window, and I burst out laughing. It becomes known as Psycho Cat, and starts to turn into a permanent resident.

  On my birthday morning in late November, I'm awake early at fisherman o'clock, and drive up just past Ayios Andonis to park the car at the monastery of Kamariani. The sun has not yet risen over the ridge, this side still a muted grey as I make my way up the hill on the footpath. Golden sunlight tinged with pink starts to spill over the ragged top of the ridge. Soon the limestone outcrops of rocks are bathed in pale yellow light, and the slopes are green, the sky a pale blue streaked with thin white clouds. The sea below is silent and still. I reach a little chapel with ancient marble built into the dry stone walls, and cross over to the other side of the mountain. The path continues along a sheer slope of grey and red rockslides above the road, from where austere cliffs drop away into nothing. When I reach the monastery of Ayios Panteleimon it is quiet, its door still closed as it's not yet ten o'clock, the leaves on the trees now turned to yellow and brown. Over the door is a painted icon on a gold background; the young, thin saint with dark olive skin and green and red robes is dipping a long spoon into his box of medicine. Water gushes from the spring in the courtyard, so I let it pool in my hands and drink my fill.

  I feel compelled to walk out on to a high promontory, taking great care where I plant my feet. The light on this late-November morning is soft, the mood one of peace and utter solitude; inland, just the rocky curve of the island, and out to sea nothing but stillness, islands in the haze. Trees cling to the sheer sides of the mountain, goats clamber on precipitous ledges, as I walk back in warm sunlight. In the distance, the headland beyond Ayios Andonis casts reflections on the mirror-like bluegrey waters. I reach the car and drive back to Plaka, walk down the track and plunge into the cold water for a
swim. The small finger of promontory that shelters the bay is like the submerged back of a sea creature.

  For my birthday, I have invited a dozen friends to the kafeneion in Megalo Horio in the evening, and ordered an array of food from Sofia – food must be ordered in advance during the winter. Unfortunately, in the afternoon, Eleftheria calls to say it's unlikely she and her husband will be able to make it, and Yorgos the nurse makes his apologies, too, as do a few others. It's a little disappointing, but Stelios invites his parents, Vicky and Nikos, at the last minute – they live just above the Kafeneion and call in there most evenings anyway. It seems they know that Stelios and I are together, and it's all been quietly accepted as a good thing, thankfully. Dimitris comes and even brings a gift; Vicky seems quite impressed that the head of the high school is a friend of mine.

  Ian and Sibylle, who've lived in Ayios Andonis for years, said they'd come, but there's no sign of them. I sometimes see Ian walking alone towards Skafi and we say hello – he walks all over the island. I expect they've got better things to do, but they finally arrive on Greek time, by which time we've somehow managed to polish off all the food. They tell me not to take it personally that few local people have come along – it happens.

  Khronia polla, many years, is the Greek wish for your birthday; and oti epithimiseis, whatever you wish for. I couldn't really wish for better days.