An Octopus in My Ouzo

by Jennifer Barclay

  Everyone in Embona drives a pickup truck for hauling around grapes at this time of year. As we're wandering the quiet streets the next day, considering which winery to visit, a truck stops beside us. The driver is from Tilos, and married into one of Embona's wine-producing families, Merkouris. He and Stelios know one another. He tells us to continue up the road to the winery and find him.

  Behind the shop, we find a few outbuildings and inside one dark room is the souma still. A hale and hearty old man, with an extravagant grey moustache that reaches his sideburns, invites us in, and shows us how the intense heat from the furnace creates the fiery liquor that trickles from a pipe below into a bucket. The clear liquid coming out now is the strongest, at 70 per cent proof. We take a tentative sip – it's not really for drinking at that strength, but is usually mixed with water or with weaker souma to create something around 40 per cent. At full strength, old ladies rub it on their aches and pains in the winter. But Stelios insists on buying a bottle.

  While he talks and tastes, I head back into the bright sunshine and find the man who invited us standing in the shade of a pergola thickly covered in overhanging vines, taking crates of black grapes and emptying them into a stainless steel press, where juice spurts out. His face is tanned and his white T-shirt stained with purple. He shows me the wooden wine barrels inside, and the wide plastic barrels out in the sun, surrounded by olive trees, where the souma ferments. I want to drink the wine from here. Before leaving, we buy a few 10-litre containers, which the lady in the shop fills from huge barrels.

  I'm keen to walk on the mountain; the old man told Stelios about an ancient sanctuary so we park the car and walk up through the forest, but after an hour or so he's not sure we're on the right path, so we turn back and drive on. At the village of Ayios Isidoros, we slow down as we see a little stone-and-wood taverna called To Aletro on the bend as we enter the village, and a man leaps out and beckons us inside.

  'Bah! They don't know how to make wine in Embona,' he says, as we tell him about our day. Intrigued by his challenging statement, we sit down for a light lunch and are brought excellent glasses of light, dry white and rich, deep red. We eat stuffed peppers and tomatoes and vine leaves, lavishly flavoured with oil and fresh herbs, chickpeas cooked with onions, soft roasted potatoes – all for an excellent price, with a view over fields. I want to come back and stay longer in this peaceful place with its clear mountain air and superb produce.

  But in the meantime, we have a wedding to attend.

  Chapter 22

  An Island Wedding

  Yorgos, the youngest of two tall, handsome sons from the taverna at Eristos, is marrying Yorgia, the youngest of three beautiful, dark-haired daughters from the taverna at Ayios Andonis. Forty goats are killed for the feast. The whole island is invited. It's the stuff of myths and fairy tales: there are rumours of 5,000 vine leaves being stuffed.

  Yorgos the groom, the gambros, is Stelios' good friend – this is the Yorgos who invited us to celebrate Kathari Deftera and his and Yorgia's name day, and who helped him with the kantina. So on the first evening, we join the crowd gathered outside his family's house on the road through Megalo Horio. Guests have arrived from far afield. While musicians play and an older lady sings, we walk with the groom under the bougainvillaea-covered pergola and down to the house of the bride, the nifi, at the bottom of the village. Everyone's olive skin has the colour of summer, set off against pastel dresses and grey suits. According to custom, the groom must fight his way to his bride past her sisters, who try to grab him for themselves. Guests leave money on their wedding bed: the ceremony is called krevatia. There are drinks and dancing until late; old Hippocrates is leading the dance while young kids play mischievous games in the dark.

  The bride is quite heavily pregnant. Often a modern Greek couple don't marry until they're having a child, but it also occurs to me that both families have been working flat out at their seaside tavernas for the past six months, and couldn't have taken the time for a wedding before now. Perhaps I'm more attuned to this now that I've seen how normal life is suspended when you have a summer business.

  The next afternoon, we drive on Stelios' motorbike to the windmill at Ayios Andonis where we meet friends to wait just as the late afternoon light is turning the bare tops of the mountains golden. Eventually we see a tiny red car, covered in a huge ribbon of white netting and trailing a tin can on an old fishing rope, and a train of vehicles. We tag on to the back and we all make our way up the cliffedge road to the monastery of Ayios Panteleimon. The little red car slowly leads the way, with the mountainside to the left and blue-and-silver sea far below to the right. We stop and park near the gates, where the groom gets into the back of an open buggy dolled up in more white gauze and flowers, powered by a couple of bicycles. His best men sit all dressed up in grey suits and cycle up the last section of hill, given a final push by friends through the stone archway of the monastery.

  White ribbons and flowers hang from the leafy branches of tall trees. People crowd into every available space in the courtyard and the terrace above as we wait for the bride. When Yorgia arrives, the priest stands before the couple at a table covered in white cloth to lead the ceremony. Two simple white crowns, stephana, joined by a ribbon symbolising the linking of their souls, are held over their heads, then exchanged to seal their marriage. They both sip from a common cup containing a little red wine, and eat honey and nuts from the same spoon. Bride and groom circle the table and everyone slaps the groom on his back.

  When we go to congratulate the newlyweds and their family, I ask Stelios what you're supposed to say. He jokes it's 'Keh tou chronou' – and the same next year. Cheeky. 'Na ziseteh' it is – may you live. And people say to unmarried people, 'Seira sou' – your turn next.

  Then the party moves back down the hill – thankfully while it's still light – for the celebration at the little monastery of Kamariani. Guests pin money on the front of the couple's clothes – in the old days, it would have been coins attached to the bride's dress, but now it's largedenomination notes. The rest of the night is all about eating and drinking and, of course, dancing. Everyone comes together, holding hands, the talented at the front of the line showing off the fanciest footwork.

  The celebrations continue the next day by the harbour at Ayios Andonis, for the tradition of the 'false groom' trying to steal the bride away. There is more music and dancing, and once again it strikes me how important a part of community life the traditional Greek dancing is. Knowing the dances means you can join in.

  There is hot sunshine one morning when I walk down to Livadia – a social occasion with everyone waving or stopping to say hello or offer a lift. When I arrive, the bay is mirrorlike, cats sit in the middle of the road, birds are chirping, there are oranges on the trees and someone singing outside the kafeneion. A woman is cleaning fish under the little bridge on the seafront with an audience of cats, while a man cycles over it with his son on the crossbar.

  Days are still hot but when I walk to a beach, I won't find anyone there. And there is time for walking again, and for slowing down to talk to people. One day, I stop to see if Michalis, the farmer, has any vegetables. He doesn't, but he's happy to go and pick me some tomatoes and peppers. I wait, sitting in the sun and watching a little cat playing, happy there's nothing to rush away for. The peppers smell zingy, and I make a salad with olive oil from Hippocrates, thyme that we gathered and dried ourselves, and olives and capers from Rhodes, and we eat it with fried sardines caught that morning.

  Finally I have time to walk to Gera with Anna, just days before she must return to England for work. I didn't see her much this summer – I was hardly ever in Livadia, busy with the kantina; she spent her days quietly, sometimes out on a friend's fishing boat, although she did come to Eristos to confirm that the reputation of Stelios' legendary hamburgers was deserved. For the festival of Ayios Panteleimon, she stayed down in Livadia for a smaller paniyiri and danced until the early hours; she came to Megalo Horio for the Koupa
and since it was so crowded, we danced on the roof of the dimos offices.

  Stelios decides to come with us to Gera, and we take the path from Livadia that winds up around the headland from the tiny harbour by Faros taverna, and skirts the edge of a mountain. Gera is another abandoned settlement, one that was used by the people of Mikro Horio in the summers. I think about all the abandoned places in the Aegean Sea – the sheer number of the islands leading to many being only partially inhabited – and how that sense of dereliction appeals to some of us, some of us who choose this over a mainland life.

  Stelios says his grandmother had a house at Gera – she was from Mikro Horio, while his grandfather was from Megalo Horio, rival villages. He picks some 'wild pears' for us to taste, so sour they stick your mouth together. The houses, deserted half a century ago, still have strong stone walls with kitchen shelves and chimneys, wooden roof beams overlaid with tree branches and twigs: people built well with the simplest materials in those days. Golden sunlight spills over the trees and grain-threshing circles and the terraces where previous generations grew their summer crops. The sea below is a deep, almost navy blue today, and clouds dash across the sky.

  We have a taste of winter: cracks of thunder and a deluge of rain for half an hour. The next day there's a soft, grey light, and the temperature is a little cooler. There are birds of prey above again, and the grey smoke of bonfires. Stelios calls to ask if I'll bring him some of the rich red octopus pilafi or risotto he made last night for his lunch.

  They're fishing at Eristos beach, where the road is flooded and all is grey except the bright paintwork of the boat and the fishermen's orange overalls.

  The new season brings the pale-green-skinned guava, the first lettuces and still-green lemons. We have mounds of horta, leafy wild greens, boiled and served with grated garlic, half a lemon and a generous amount of green olive oil.

  The seasons are distinct here, the cycle of life more pronounced. It's a circular dance with set moves. And each year, you learn them better. This year, I hope I'll know what to expect of winter, know its twists and turns and how it goes.

  Of course, there will always be surprises. After a few days of rain, I see to my horror that my beloved tent, left out in the garden though I've been sleeping indoors for a while now, has been torn to shreds. What could have happened? I consider the evidence at the scene of the crime. Snails always come out when it rains, and they seem to have been crawling up the walls of the tent. Cats must have gone after the snails, and slashed the thin material with their claws. This is my guess – otherwise maybe it was simply the wind, as the tent material is very fragile after a summer of being burnt by the sun. I salvage what I can, a groundsheet and string and pegs, for reuse at some point and the rest goes in the bin.

  After the rain, people start ploughing their fields and planting. Stelios has been hesitant to do much with the land his father has given him until all the legalities have gone through, as it's all confusingly tied up with the complicated paperwork for his father's pension, which at least one accountant and lawyer are trying to untangle. But having decided it's now safe to plant more at the horafi, he's bought fruit trees: two lemon, four orange (two sweet, two bitter), half a dozen olive, a dozen vines, a walnut tree and, at my request, a fig tree. I volunteered to dig the holes – and then had to dig circles around each to hold in water, and water them, of course. Well, I did ask to help.

  This winter, someone else will help the children with their English, so I have more time in my week for walking. Although the days are getting shorter, it's an inbetween temperature that's perfect – maybe a few clouds scudding across the blue sky, but no need to carry much water or look for shade. One greyish lunchtime, on a whim, I take the road to Ayios Andonis where the sea is muted and calm and beautiful. Men are fishing on the beach, and I scramble over rocks to a hidden area – since I don't have a swimsuit with me – and dive in from there. I return up the hillside path, where eagles circle in slow motion above. Reaching the village I see Nikos, Stelios' father, cheerfully on his way to the kafeneion. I get home at dusk, full of happiness. Another day, on the way to Eristos, I veer up the dirt track over the empty headland and follow the path marked by piles of rocks down to the pebbly, secluded bay of Ayios Petros, and take a fast dip in the sea, which is silver where it meets grey cliffs. Goats graze in fields that are brilliant green with new grass.

  On an afternoon when it's blowing seven or eight Beaufort and I'm not sure how much energy I have after a late night the night before, it's good weather for making gigantes. I used to love eating the tinned butter beans in tomato sauce, but one of the benefits of working at home is that you can cook things for hours – warming the house at the same time as infusing it with aromas of garlic and herbs.

  Afterwards, I go out in jeans and a jumper and sweatshirt and head up the road. Maria and Pavlos pass me in the car and stop to ask what I'm doing out in such weather. Gradually this year, green signs have been appearing all over the island, pointing out footpaths – there's even one at the end of our road, pointing the way to Skafi, which makes for a better class of landmark than the brokendown cement mixer. I notice one near the helipad and it gives me the idea to walk up to the 'Italian house' – the hilltop observatory from the Italian occupation. In spite of the dark associations, it's known as one of the most spectacular peaks on the island but I've not yet made it to the top.

  Stones mark the edges of the path, and cairns or red spots on the rocks show the way. I keep heading uphill and get into my stride as the views of hill and sea get better and better. The path gains height fast and the effort-to-view ratio is a persuasive argument to keep going. As always, the only blot on the landscape is the unused reservoir; in an unplanned twist, it's turning into a wetland for birds.

  Halfway, an old information board in Greek and English left over from when a 'nature interpretation trail' was set up here points out wildlife – phrygana bushes such as Jerusalem sage and thorny burnet, and creatures that hide among them such as perdika (insular chukars, like partridge) and krokodilakia, 'small crocodiles', the local name for the large lizards. The ground is colourful with wild crocuses. Soon I can see the island's harbours to the north, west and south, and other islands beyond. Tilos is a complex, twisted shape with promontories stretching out here and there, creating fresh views when you walk a new path.

  I still have an hour of daylight, I estimate, as I approach the top, tiring a little but hoping the eastern views to Turkey will be just over the next rise – and then I'm hit by a gale-force wind. I crouch low to the ground but there's no way it's safe to continue to the top. I'm close, but I'm not going to risk being blown over. Maybe next time. I head back down happily, almost fell-running on the best bits of the path, exhilarated to be watching the clouds turning pink and mauve as the sun sinks.

  Chapter 23

  Winter Sunshine

  I dash down to the port with a giant suitcase. The ferry dock is busy and friends ask, 'Are you leaving?' I grin and lift up the suitcase with a finger – empty. I'm going to spend a couple of days of filling it up.

  I'm now free to travel whenever I need to, and I have to go to Rhodes often for blood tests. I make the most of the opportunity to wander around shops buying things you can't get on the smaller island, go out and listen to music and the buzz of chatter, read a newspaper and people-watch; pick up a sandwich or salad with different ingredients whenever I want. Rhodes feels good in the winter. It makes me happy to see Greeks swimming and reading at the beach in November. The empty walls of the Old Town glow in the crisp winter sunshine. Now that it's cool and quiet, locals dress up and sit outside, talking together over coffees and cigarettes.

  First, I need a massage and a yoga class to fix my aching muscles: my back and shoulders are paying the price of all that digging for our trees. The yoga instructor is an English woman I met who was camping at Eristos during the summer, and through her I connect to a Romanian massage therapist and a Swedish photographer, members of a small netw
ork of fabulous expat women in Rhodes, mostly married to Greeks.

  I now have an opportunity to visit the modern art museum, located near the casino, not far from Elli beach and the old Turkish cemetery. Among the collection the pieces I warm to most are paintings by Theofilos, playful portraits of soldiers with curly moustaches; and a painting of supper on the first day of Lent in 1950 by Spyros Vassiliou, a simple table laid out with plates of food on a balcony, with a view across the city of Athens to the mountain. As I leave I get talking to the man on the ticket desk, and he reads me some of his poetry.

  Later, I go out to a cafe-bar housed in an Italian villa with ancient mosaic floors displayed under designer-cracked glass. I sit at the bar, once again enjoying the different way of life and anonymity here, and chat with the barman, who's from Athens but came to live in Rhodes for the lifestyle. The owner of the bar tells him to offer me a drink on the house.

  It feels easy to get to know people in Rhodes town, and when people ask me where I'm from, saying I'm English but live in Tilos generally leads to some interesting conversations. I glance in the window of a shop next to the hotel, and the owner ends up telling me his father was from Kalymnos and was sent to teach in Tilos at the school in Mikro Horio during the Italian occupation; he says the Italians sent clever people to the little islands where they couldn't cause as much trouble. Another man I meet in a health food shop tells me his cousin has a house in Tilos but, even after living there for two years, has never been invited to anyone's house. It reminds me a little of last year's birthday party. I think perhaps people have to preserve their privacy more on a small island. It's certainly not a lack of warmth or friendliness.