Chapter 26
A Happy Household
The island is green, the almond trees covered in white blossoms. Shoots are appearing on our orange and pomegranate trees. As soon as she's big and strong enough, I walk Lisa to Skafi. We stop halfway down to sit on a rock where the sea appears deep blue in the distance, and drink some water – I now have to carry water for two, and a bowl for her. She rests her tiny, rounded, smiling face on my backpack and looks like a happy dog.
Under a cluster of tall pine trees on the track towards Skafi are the remains of a bar that existed about ten years ago. I've walked past it many times but Lisa suggests we explore. The benches and tables are all still there, the fridges and the entrance sign, all abandoned and left to the elements. There's a little patch of grass where I lie when the sun's warm. How beautiful it would be to live here, or run a cafe-bar until sunset. Stelios says once it was one of three bars in Megalo Horio; there were more young people in the village a decade ago.
Like most outsiders, I love the abandoned places, the ruined stone houses, the empty valleys. When Delos told me they were planning to concrete over the road to Skafi, I was horrified. It's another seahorse conundrum: what works for the locals doesn't always appeal to outsiders. For Delos, a concrete road is progress. I hate to see electric signs where once there were hand-painted ones at restaurants in Livadia, but for them it's just business. In a book about Greece called An Affair of the Heart published in 1957, Dilys Powell wrote of idealistic travellers, who romanticised it as a 'simple, pastoral country', selfishly resenting Athenians for daring to put hotels, buses and other amenities at the foot of the Acropolis.
Concessions to the twenty-first century in this wild place make it possible for people to live and work here year-round, so that it's a living community, not a dying one. In my own way, I contribute what I can to the island through working from here. And you have to take the whole package or not at all, for richer, for poorer, for better, for worse. Thankfully development on Tilos is a slow work in progress, a dance that takes one step forward and two steps back. Even if they build the concrete road, the old broken-down cement mixer will probably remain at the end of it as a landmark.
The island has no taxi now – taxi drivers Nikos and Toula have retired because the costs made it financially unviable – but if you set off walking down the road, someone will often stop and offer you a lift. I love living in a place where there's an old sofa outside the petrol station where Nikos the owner sits when he's not busy, and the disused petrol station at Ayios Antonis is frequented by goats. Where sometimes you have to wait for someone to cut you fresh tomatoes; where if you turn up late at Omonia, the old-fashioned restaurant with its stencilled 'We have a card-phone' sign, Michalis tells you you'll have to wait a long time.
When the power goes off for an hour or two and there's no internet for working, I just go for a walk, and remind myself that I love living in a place that isn't like everywhere else.
On Valentine's Day, Stelios beckons me over. 'Can you help, moro mou?' He asks me to hold the body of an eel while he chops its head off. Sharing a house with a fisherman is full of interesting surprises, though thankfully this isn't a Valentine's Day gift – he's taking it for his parents. Having Lisa has brought us together again and we're back in our routine. He brings home some fresh tuna they've caught – about a foot long, a type of tuna called palamitha, which I think we'd call bonito. His plan is to boil the hell out of them for an hour, then whip the flesh up with mayonnaise from a jar, parsley and onion, to experiment with it as a new sandwich filling for the kantina. I manage to grab a few pieces of fish before he boils the lot, fry them lightly for a few minutes until just cooked through, then eat them with lemon.
This winter, with no aerobics class but unfortunately plenty of time at home to do things like bake bread and cakes, I started doing exercises to music at home, in the tiny space behind the door, between the kitchen and my desk (the ceiling's too low upstairs). The first time I try exercising with Lisa around, she barks like mad, then stands on my chest when I lie down and try to do sit-ups. I can't tell if my muscles are aching from the exercise or from laughing so much. As she gets bigger, she learns how to climb the stairs, if not to descend again, and she pokes her head through the wooden railings of the mezzanine to look down.
On a warm, sunny day, extraordinary for February, Stelios has a day off so we take her on a walk up the hill towards the Italian house, to see how far we'll get; it's hot for her and she's not yet capable of going far at all. We turn back quickly and have a late lunch together instead, sitting outside in the sunshine, sipping wine. It's the kind of thing we never do. The only sounds in our empty part of the valley are birds calling, goats in fields, and waves rolling into shore far down on Eristos beach. It feels like a much milder winter than last year's, and a happier one. Dusk brings a brilliant crescent moon in a pale-blue sky.
Daily walks with my dog are just what I wanted. One clear morning, the sky is deep blue and I take Lisa up the track towards the castle. Down in the valley the fields are bright green, contrasting with the barren grey rock of the mountaintops.
Walking back down into the village beside an ancient wall built of massive rectangular stones, I see something that makes me laugh out loud. A little car has been tied up with ropes in intricate knots, Houdini-style – is this Tilos security? Ropes are easy to come by in Tilos, as they're used by farmers and fishermen, and often wash up on shore. When Lisa chews her way through her collar one day, I simply improvise with an old length of rope to make a collar and lead. People tell me it's wrong, but why not – and what else to do?
My companion loves clambering over rocks and lying on the beach, and she makes me laugh. We walk to Eristos to take lunch for Stelios, and the sun gleams silver on the blue bay between smoky grey hills. We sit in the sun, Lisa perching with her paws up on my leg, then lounging with her head resting on my knee. We return along the dirt track so she can wander freely without my worrying about a car coming around the corner. The fields on either side are lush with the winter rains. Back at home, she stands almost upright with her front paws on the low wall of the terrace, surveying her territory and scouting for intruders with her head in the air like a meerkat.
I look at our happy pup in her country house, with the village across the valley, and feel content with life. Within a couple of weeks she has already lost some of her rounded puppy look, and is turning into a beautiful young dog. She's decided she likes sleeping on the beanbag with my best wool blanket, instead of in a box, and she can make her way up the steps to the roof terrace. She also loves to sit in the corner of the sofa with her chin on the arm, looking at what we're doing. By late February, her legs are longer and she can jump up on walls when I take her up the mountain path from Kamariani, and she rolls in the green grass amid white daisies and the mauve anemones.
The ferry service is affected by storms further north, and it's hard for the fishermen to get the fish to the markets of Athens in time. In this season, the fish are full of eggs and will go off more quickly, and if they're not perfectly fresh, the price will go down, making it less worthwhile. So the fishermen take a few days out to mend damaged nets. On an overcast day, the long purple fishing nets are spread out on the quay in Livadia and men stand holding the nets up like cat's cradles, then sit on the ground and weave strong threads through them. I watch for a while, then walk with Lisa around the bay. A cormorant skims the surface of the still, blue-grey water. At the tiny harbour of Ayios Stephanos, another group of men are cleaning octopus on a jetty. Each man holds a rope that's heavy with the weight of several dead octopus, and they lift and drag them on the ground over and over to tenderise the meat, leaving a trail of white foam that flows back into the water. It's a strange sight. Lisa and I scramble up a hillside filled with cyclamen, their flowers like white flames rising from bright pink fire, or bright-white feathers in the pink band of an Indian headdress.
I get up when it's still dark on a cold winter's mo
rning for the Friday ferry. My bag already feels quite full with Lisa's things – a shawl for her to sit on, a bone to chew, a cuddly toy… No room for a book for me to read on the journey. It feels like a taste of motherhood.
As a woman who never had the urge for children until late, I assumed I just wasn't mother material, so it was strange to hear people say, when I first got pregnant, 'You'll be a great mother!' Could I really do cartoons, games, the school run? Yet I'm learning, from having Lisa, that it all comes naturally. I am perfectly capable of baby-talk with my dog. I wonder if having her will help some mothering hormones to kick in.
When we arrive in Livadia, dawn is beginning to fill the sky with blue, yellow, orange and mauve, a few tiny clouds lit up red and gold. Lisa is fascinated by all the activity outside Remezzo, the cafe on the quay, and hoping for some attention. She now looks a fine young dog, with smooth, pale fur, a white flash down her chest, and a beatific smile on her face. She's beginning to grow into her Greek-blue collar. As we pull away from the harbour, the island is bathed in sunlight, the south-facing cliffs deep red.
Normally I'd try to get another hour or two of sleep on one of the comfortable couches in the lounge, but Lisa's still so small that I don't want to leave her alone in one of the cages they have for animals on the deck, and will have to sit in the outdoor cafe with her instead. Gradually she curls up on my shawl and goes to sleep. When she wakes, we go for a stroll, and she seems to understand that the lack of grass means she'll just have to wait to relieve herself. Over the course of the journey, lots of people come up to see her and to pet her, including one of the crew, who shows me pictures of his own dog.
Rhodes town is at its best: a warm and sunny winter's day. Our main task is to walk to the vet's for her check-up, and while we're there we stock up on dog treats, collars and leads. Around town, people smile at Lisa, comment on how lovely she is, ask what breed she is; I've never had so many conversations with strangers. After an hour or two, though, I have a problem. Lisa can't walk any further. I carry her for a while, looking for a cafe where we can sit, but of course it's difficult to go inside with a dog. Eventually I sit down in a doorway, and realise that with Lisa's plastic water bowl in front of me, I look homeless. I laugh to myself, too tired to care. I find a bench at one of the entrances to the Old Town, and we sit beside the medieval walls, soaking up the sunshine. On the ferry home, it's cold up on deck but I sit with my furry friend as she curls up again to sleep.
Back home in Tilos, I spend much of my day outdoors in wellies. There are still a few vegetables and herbs in the garden. I cook up aubergine, tomato, onion and green pepper into a tasty stew with revithia, chickpeas. I am hoping that Stelios' horafi, field, will have better earth for growing things, though at the moment it's overgrown with grasses and wildflowers except for a corner we cleared to plant potatoes, onions and carrots. When strong winds came during the winter, Stelios had to strap the young trees to canes, and they all survived; the lemon trees have little buds on them, and the vines and fig tree are sprouting leaves.
This time last year, during that cold winter, I spent too much time indoors working. It has been a milder winter, but now we also have better heaters and a duvet for the nights, and I've been outside enjoying the days a whole lot more. The March colours are astonishing. Some days the beach, sea and mountains will transform from grey to silver when the sun breaks through. One early morning, there's a thick bank of cloud in the sky, but the dawn turns it pink and mauve. The path to our field is bright with poppies and daisies and sage flowers. I watch Lisa grow and change from day to day. Every day is different.
At the beach, Lisa tries to eat everything – seaweed, dried-out starfish and cuttlefish bones. She loves walks, grabs the rope with her teeth to pull me along. Delos and Pavlos like having her around the honey factory. Having our very own honey monster has been a job and a half, but I've loved it.
Another thing that has cheered this winter is the opening of Kali Kardia (the 'Good Heart') in Megalo Horio, a tiny taverna that serves souvlaki, skewers of grilled meat wrapped in warm pitta with tzatziki, tomatoes and onions. It's good to have a place to eat out and see people in an impromptu way at night.
We've been a happier household these past months, as a family. When we wake up, it's to an upside-down dog: lying on her back with her hind legs stretched out and her front paws pulled in high on her chest kangaroo-style, so there's plenty of belly to rub.
What a difference a dog makes.
Chapter 27
People Who Care
When Stelios goes away for a week, I enjoy having the car if I want to drive to Livadia in the morning to buy fruit and vegetables from the farm trucks. Like most dogs, Lisa adores driving along in the car with her nose out of the window, ears flapping in the wind. In fact, she tries to stick her whole body out of the window, so I have to keep the window up halfway. I'm in the square one day when Vassilis, who runs one of the seafront restaurants, asks her name, and then says in English.
'What, you call your dog "rabies"?'
Oh! It turns out leeza is how her name should be pronounced; lissa means rabies. It reminds me of the time when Stelios seemed to be telling me he'd been mending a leaky boat with pizza he found washed up on a beach, which seemed very odd; not pizza, he explained, but pissa, tar.
Stelios has been in Athens, trying to make progress with the interminable problem of his parents' pension paperwork. He jokes that the government hope you'll die before you collect your pension.
It's been pleasant having the house to myself, going to bed early and reading. I like to be a hermit from time to time, to switch off from the news of the outside world. When Stelios is away I find myself quite oblivious sometimes, too, to the news on the island; often I hear news of Livadia in emails from Anna in England.
I'm taking things easy, pretty sure I'm pregnant. Each time the three months of recovery time is up, it seems to happen like clockwork. My doctor in Rhodes confirms with his magic scanner that there's something with a heartbeat in a sac in a good position; but he says, 'Fovameh' – I'm worried. All the months of tests have confirmed everything seems normal, except that my hormone levels reflect my age and something called thrombophilia may be causing my body to reject the foetus. No one is certain of anything, but we should try whatever we can. He gives me progesterone tablets, and anti-thrombophilia syringes to inject into my stomach daily. I used to have a fear of needles, but with so many blood tests I've become more resilient. It makes me feel sick, though, pinching the skin under my belly-button and pushing in the big needle that doesn't always go in easily, making me cry in frustration. But maybe this third time will be it.
Back when I was first pregnant, people seemed so keen to be involved; since miscarrying, few people here have talked to me about it. So when I meet Menelaos, the goat farmer who keeps his animals on the way to Skafi, while out walking, he surprises me with his sensitive words about our losses. He asks if I'm all right, tells me it's natural and that many families have these difficulties – it's up to God to decide.
Back from Athens, Stelios drives me mental looking after me, though he means well, forcing me to eat pungent wild asparagus. All I want to do now is eat and sleep, which I take as a good sign. There are thunderstorms and rain and a power cut, which gives me a good excuse to go to bed in the middle of the day. When the rain stops, I take Lisa to the bottom of our dirt track and the Skafi road has turned into a stream which she has great fun jumping around in, chasing the current. The hillsides and fields almost glow green. By early evening, the clouds have passed and we have pale-blue skies and sunshine.
In the mornings I often walk Lisa just 10 minutes or so past the abandoned bar to an old spring below a chapel. The stones have two bowl shapes worn into them where rainwater gathers, providing a drink for her. One day I sit on a boulder while she finds a grassy spot in the shade of a pine tree. Around about are broken stone walls and tall dark cypress trees and I wonder how long this spring has been used and who drank f
rom here in the past. The only sound is of bees buzzing around the water source and a breeze through the trees, and the air is fragrant with wild herbs. I let Lisa lead me further up a gully, pushing through sage bushes. We emerge at a flat area with a view of nothing but hillsides, and the deep blue of Eristos bay in the distance, no sign of man anywhere. It's one of the most beautiful places I've seen.
Following the path back down, I notice white, yellow and orange butterflies, little lizards, lots of dragonflies – the first I've seen this year – and an overwhelming variety of flowers, blue, white, mauve and yellow. This empty valley, home to Menelaos' sheep with their tinkling bells, was what attracted me to the house, when Dimitris came to check it out for me and described it as 'located in the earthen road… three minutes until the alone cypress tree'.
Stelios, home from fishing, shows me the contents of a plastic bag: a long silvery fish with sharp teeth, which he says is called a riki, related to the tuna but 'the best of the species'. They caught some off Lethra this morning. Within minutes, there's blood as he fillets it; later he tells me he found a big whitebait in its belly. Everything has to be done now, fast, as in a couple of hours they'll be going to put out the nets again. I hope he's not going to boil it for hours into a broth, or cover it with mayonnaise. But no, he cooks it in the oven in foil with onions, garlic and parsley. Meanwhile we agree to make spanakopita together.
An Octopus in My Ouzo Page 20