The Honey Farm on the Hill: Escape to sunny Greece in this perfect summer read!

by Jo Thomas

  I carefully circumnavigate the bees this time, taking silent sideways steps, keeping my eyes on the hives and my back to the rock face until I’m safely round them. If only some of them would come and move into Kostas’s new hives on the farm. I push on quickly until I spot the ledge above me, to the side of the worn path. This time, with a huge effort, I get myself up and over it. And then I’m in.

  The cave smells damp. I run my hand along the cold, rough wall, heart thundering, then I pull out my phone with shaking hands, switch the torch on and shine it around.

  I don’t believe it. There’s nothing there. Absolutely nothing. Whatever was drying out here, it’s gone. He’s hidden it. Or sold it. I’m exhausted, and every joint aches. I crouch down on my haunches, feeling like I could weep. He’s moved it. Of course he has. He knew I’d come looking. I glance up and see a chink of light coming from the other end of the cave, as if it goes around a bend. Maybe, just maybe I need to keep going. I feel a little blip of hope in my flatlined heart. I still might find what I’m looking for. I stand up, take a deep breath and step forward.

  That’s when I smell it. It hits me like the hind legs of a goat. Wild thyme. I breathe it in again. The fragrance I remember so well, wrapping itself around me, reminding me of the place I love, the people I love, and exactly why I’m doing this.

  ‘Looking for something?’ says a familiar gravelly voice, and I’m stopped in my tracks. I’ve been caught.

  I swing round and glare at Georgios, silhouetted in the mouth of the cave. He’s leaning on a thumb stick, his little black and white dog at his feet. ‘Where is it?’

  His face is set and etched with anger, throwing me for just a moment. How can this be the George that I knew back then? How could Stelios’s fun and flirtatious friend have changed so much?

  ‘Where’s it all gone?’ I repeat. ‘Whatever it was you were hiding here?’ I take a deep breath, finding my feet again, putting myself back on course. ‘I know what you’re up to. It’s you, isn’t it! I know all about it,’ I bluff, hoping he’ll crack.

  ‘Really?’ He walks towards me, a faint smile in his voice. ‘Is that why you went to my house and let yourself in? Did you find what you were looking for, seeing as you know what I’m up to?’

  I feel like a mouse that’s being teased by a cat. For a moment he says nothing and I feel myself squirm. He must have seen me from the road. ‘You’re the one keeping people off the mountain, aren’t you?’ I decide to push. I’ve come too far to back down now. I haven’t seen anyone else on this mountain since I’ve been here. Despite all the rumours and the mysterious night-time gunshots, the Keep Out signs and the blocked paths. ‘There’s no one else, is there?’ I challenge him. ‘It’s just you!’

  He lifts his head, hooks his thumbs over his belt and looks at me.

  ‘Is it drugs? Is that what you’re up to?’

  ‘Drugs?’ He smiles, infuriatingly. ‘Look around you, what do you see? I’m not a drug dealer! There are no drugs here.’

  ‘No. But you don’t want people on this mountain. Why? What was drying when we were in here sheltering from the thunderstorm? If it wasn’t drugs . . .’

  And then it hits me like a smack in the face. ‘Oh my God! It’s dittany. You’re dealing dittany! That’s why I can’t find any for the bees. You’ve taken it all!’

  Georgios’s green eyes flash angrily, his mouth set. His chest puffs out as he lifts his head, the scar just showing under his scarf. A muscle twitches furiously in his cheek under the dark stubble.

  ‘So that’s it. You’re stockpiling it all for yourself. Cleaning up in a disappearing market. Selling to the tourist trade on the coast. Or perhaps you’ve got other contacts, paying you a high price for a steady supply.’ I think of the man in the car park.

  He narrows his eyes. ‘You know nothing about what’s going on up here.’

  ‘I know that you’re trying to scare people off the mountain. Well, you don’t scare me!’ I put my hands on my hips to try and stop them shaking.

  ‘Don’t breathe a word of this.’ Georgios steps forward. ‘You know nothing about what is going on,’ he repeats.

  ‘I know enough! Quite some business you must have going. Well, you can’t keep people off the mountain forever. They have every right to be here. Tourists should be allowed to come up here if they want to. Businesses are dying because of you. Family businesses that depend on the income from tourists.’ I’m warming to my theme.

  ‘I’m warning you.’ He’s rattled. ‘Don’t interfere in things you know nothing about! The sooner you leave, the better.’

  I’ve hit the nail on the head. Georgios really is stockpiling the dittany for himself and selling it to the highest bidder, for a healthy profit. He’s the reason this town is on its knees. He’s the reason the bees are losing their habitat and we can’t save the honey farm. He can’t get away with it. People need to know there’s nothing to be scared of.

  I slide my hand into my pocket and touch the business card that Harry Henderson gave me while I was waitressing for Yannis. I turn it over. We need people to come back to the mountain, and I think I might know how to make it happen.

  When I arrive back at the farm, out of breath and hot from stumbling back down the mountain path, putting as much distance as possible between me and Georgios, Mitera asks me to join her at the crochet circle. I’m a little apprehensive about going back to town so soon, but at least Georgios won’t follow me there, so I say yes.

  Church is over and the women have gathered in the cool of the back room before returning home for lunch. As they crochet, they’re discussing the townsfolk’s latest ailments. Yannis’s father is still suffering with arthritis, and Christina’s husband’s gout is still bad. All these problems, it seems, were practically unheard of in the community before the dittany disappeared. I bite my tongue. I have an idea how to put a stop to Georgios’s little business, but I have to test out my plan first.

  The talk quickly turns to Stelios. My presence has obviously caused quite a stir. Agatha from the shop recognised my red hair straight away, she says. It seems that news of my return has spread like wildfire through the town. I was nervous about coming here today, but Mitera insisted I needed to get out and about, and that no good would come of hiding away. At least with her by my side I feel well supported. Mitera, though, looks lost in her own thoughts, as if all this talk of the past has left her weary and melancholy. She is hunched over, barely working at all, just sighing and smoothing the piece of crocheting in her lap.

  ‘Are you OK, Mitera?’ I ask. ‘Would you like some water? It’s a very hot day.’ She shakes her head. ‘I’m sure everything will get better soon,’ I try to reassure her.

  ‘It will only get better when love returns to the mountain,’ she says. ‘When the dittany – the erontas – comes back. We need love to blossom here again.’

  ‘And what about you, Mitera, did anyone ever bring you erontas?’ I ask with a smile.

  At first she is silent, and I wonder if I’ve offended her. Then she says, wistfully, ‘They did . . . once. A long time ago.’ She nods and looks back down at her crocheting, a big, intricate cream circle. ‘I had hoped they would again one day, but I’m beginning to think it will never happen now.’ It’s like she’s letting go of a dearly held dream.

  She tells me how she used to get Kostas crocheting with her in the long dark winter nights, so that by springtime the shops would be full of tablecloths and mats for the tourists to buy. But I don’t think her reminiscences are helping to take her mind off things. The honey farm is looking less and less likely to happen. The bees will soon be shutting down for the winter. If they don’t come, then Kostas and Maria will have no choice but to leave the farm and move to the city. And what will happen to Mitera then?

  Seeing her like this confirms in my own mind that what I am about to do is the right thing. I excuse
myself from the group and step out of the cool back room, down the steps and onto the café’s outdoor terrace area, where I take out my phone.

  Half an hour later, I come outside again to find Harry Henderson sitting on the terrace, looking relaxed under the plane tree wearing expensive sunglasses. His blond hair seems almost white in the bright sunlight. He’s wearing neat chinos and a cool linen shirt, and is studying the menu. I suddenly feel very scruffy, having not changed since my scramble down the mountainside. It’s becoming a habit. I dust myself down and take a restorative deep breath. I am doing the right thing, I repeat to myself, thinking of Mitera and her big, sad brown eyes.

  ‘Hello, Harry.’ I step forward, sticking out a hand. He stands, pushing up his sunglasses to reveal eyes the sapphire blue of the sea. He takes my hand, then leans in and kisses me on the cheek, making me blush like a giddy teenager on a date. When he goes to kiss me on the other cheek, it takes me by surprise, and I feel ridiculously awkward, stumbling forward, stepping on the end of his toe. If he notices, he’s too polite to say. I’d forgotten quite how attractive he is.

  ‘I’m really pleased you called,’ he says, knocking me off guard. ‘I was hoping you would.’ Not expecting such a warm welcome, I try to smile and think of something grown-up to say.

  ‘Well, here I am.’ I hold up a hand in a little wave. He really is incredibly good-looking. I tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear in what feels like a vaguely flirtatious way. This would certainly be something to tell Angelica about. A date with a gorgeous man. That would let them all know I really was over Mike. Maybe it would be a way of moving on from Stelios, too.

  There is a sadness that keeps filling my heart at the thought that we left each other on such bad terms. Me stomping off to the airport, him up the mountain, both waiting for our heads and the air to clear. But it never did. I keep replaying the final words he said to me, instead of all the things we should have been saying to each other. Both of us too pig-headed to put it right. Well, I’m going to start putting things right now. Hopefully by doing this, the regret will ease. I’m here for Kostas and Maria and Mitera, and for Stelios’s family. I’m here to put right the damage Georgios is doing to them all. And if it comes with a date or two with a lovely man, well, why not?

  ‘Please sit down.’ Harry pulls out the chair next to him and, still blushing, I sit down quickly before my nerves get the better of me. As I do, I hear a crunch and feel a sharp prod in the backside. My heart sinks. I’d forgotten I’d put my sunglasses in my back pocket. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to notice.

  ‘What can I get you? Would you like a drink? Wine?’ He smiles, a wide, friendly smile, making me relax a little. He looks so different from all the other people here in the town. We must stand out a mile, me with my wilful red hair, and him, tall, blond and crisp.

  ‘No, really, just a kafé,’ I say.

  ‘Oh go on, live a little,’ urges Harry. ‘Some of the local stuff can be quite good.’ He gives me another one of those wide white smiles, and I nod.

  ‘Thank you then, a white wine would be lovely,’ and I glance up at the bored waitress, who puts down her nail file and removes the menu, looking out at the main street as she goes, in the hope that busloads of tourists will start appearing.

  The two old men sitting out on the road outside the kafenio next door are peeking in at the terrace as though Harry and I are a much-anticipated episode of EastEnders. I cast around for some small talk to break the awkward silence.

  ‘It must be hot down there today.’ I gesture in the direction of the coastal resort as the waitress puts my glass of wine in front of me, then sits down at a table to study hair extension samples from a box.

  ‘You said you thought it would be good if we met, to talk.’ Harry smiles again. ‘You said you had some important information for me.’ I take a sip of the wine. It has a fortifying effect, and I remember exactly why I’m here and what I need to do.

  ‘You said to ring if I thought I could help you,’ I say, feeling myself settle into my stride. It’s not a date. It’s business. ‘You wanted to know more about the area, the mountain . . .’ I swallow hard, imagining Georgios’s angry, flashing eyes if he could hear me now.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well . . .’ I lean forward. ‘Look around you. This town really needs an injection. Someone to bring tourists to the area again.’

  ‘It’s a totally authentic mountain village.’ Harry nods in agreement, his voice a little louder than I would like. The two old men outside the coffee house are still watching us.

  ‘It just needs tourists,’ I point out.

  ‘That’s what we do. Bring in the punters . . . by the planeload! Henderson’s Holidays is my family’s business. We want to move away from overcrowded beach holidays, offer something a bit different; spread our wings into rural and traditional Crete.’ He smiles again, and I can’t help but think of the plans Stelios had to build his small boutique hotel on the mountainside.

  ‘Well, Vounoplagia could certainly do with some holidaymakers.’ I look around at the empty café. The waitress lifts a light pink hair extension from the box on the table in front of her and holds it up to her peroxided head. Out on the main road, an elderly man, wearing a jacket that swamps him and a woolly hat, despite the heat of the day, is herding three goats through the town, two females and a male by the looks of it. The male is wearing a brass bell around its neck on a thick leather collar. The waitress waves a hand half-heartedly, and then checks her nails again.

  ‘But it’s a problem getting the locals onside,’ Harry says. ‘Look what happened the other week. We sold a tour, as a trial, sent some American tourists up here, a trip to an authentic Cretan village. We wanted to show the customers a place where the villagers thrive into old age . . .’ At that moment, one of the old men starts coughing and finds he can’t stop. His companion pats his back in useless camaraderie. ‘Where food is gathered on the mountainside, where wild herbs and honey thrive. But it was a nightmare. They were halfway up the mountain when they were scared off by gunshots. It cost me a fortune in restorative raki and complimentary candlelit dinners. I need to know who’s behind it and if it can be stopped.’

  I nod, remembering the Americans who had stopped at the Wild Thyme. Georgios’s bird scarer cost Yannis a booking as well.

  ‘The tourists have stayed away for a while. There have been rumours about gangs growing drugs on the mountaintops amongst the olive groves and guarding them with guns.’

  He nods. ‘I’ve heard about that. Is this what’s going on here?’

  I shake my head. It’s time I told him. But if Georgios finds out I’ve revealed what he’s up to, he could just move his operation to somewhere else on the mountain. I don’t want him to get wind of what I’m doing. I need him to be stopped once and for all.

  I take a deep breath. ‘It’s what people think is going on. It’s what someone wants people to think is going on.’ I take another sip of wine. At that moment, Mitera appears from the stairs to the back room.

  ‘Are you OK, Mitera?’

  She nods and tells me she’s fine but is going home. She’s just tired. I offer her a lift on the moped, but she waves a hand and says she’s fine to walk, and I watch her go, more slowly than usual, as if something is weighing on her mind.

  ‘Look.’ Harry leans into me, interrupting my thoughts. I can smell his expensive cologne. ‘Is there any information you can give me? We don’t want to go wading in here without knowing what we’re dealing with, but this place could be a gold mine for the tourist trade. Unspoilt Crete and all that. People would pay a fortune to come and stay here.’ The man with the goats has stopped to talk to the two old men outside the café. The goats have wandered off and one is now attempting to nose into Harry’s man bag. He gives it a gentle nudge with his foot, but it doesn’t move. He focuses back on me. ‘Look, these rumours about wh
at’s going on up there. Are you . . . one of them?’

  I’m a bit taken aback and can’t help but let a laugh escape. ‘No. I work in a Christmas decoration factory!’

  ‘Christmas decoration factory . . .’ He nods as if I’m giving him a message in code.

  ‘No, really I do.’

  He nods again, slowly, then leans even further forward, his glasses tipping off his head. ‘Whatever you can tell me . . .’ He reaches for his bag, ignoring the disgruntled goat. ‘I can pay,’ he says, so quietly that I barely think I’ve heard him right.

  ‘Oh no. I don’t want any money . . .’ I shake my head violently, making the round silver table wobble on its single leg. ‘I just want to help. Make things better.’

  ‘I see.’ But I’m sure he still thinks I’m some kind of gang leader, and given the way I’m dressed – shorts, boots covered in dust, my hands and nails ravaged from constant cleaning – I can see his point.

  I take a big breath. ‘Look,’ I say, ‘there are no drug rings or guns up there. It’s someone who wants us to think that. He’s faking it to keep people away.’

  ‘No drugs?’ he repeats slowly. I shake my head, and move very close to him, so we’re practically touching. ‘It’s dittany!’ I say, almost in a hiss.

  ‘Dittany?’ he frowns.

  ‘Yes. It’s a herb, very sought after. But not an illegal one.’

  ‘Dittany . . . I’ve heard of it. The souvenir shops sell it at the resorts.’

  ‘It’s a cure-all. It’s what keeps everyone so fit and healthy in these parts, but it’s becoming rarer. The local honey used to be made from it, and it has amazing healing powers and a wonderful aromatic flavour. But it’s disappearing off the mountains. There’s someone picking it, drying it and stockpiling it, then selling it, probably to the shops in the resorts. There are no drug barons with guns up there . . .’ I’m about to tell him that it’s not a gang at all, just one person, when I hear a voice.