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

by Jo Thomas

  The next day I’m up early with the morning mist, which is rising like steam off the dewy ground and round the glistening trees. I’ve fed Maria and Kostas’s cows, the dogs and the geese, and not forgetting the duck. I’ve been up to check the bees too and am just finishing when I hear it.

  At first I think it’s the eagles circling in the late-summer sky. I look up and around, my hair flick-flacking around my face. Then I hear it again, and this time I know exactly what it is: the ring of a goat bell followed by a long whistle. It’s Georgios’s signal. My heart starts thundering. It’s time.

  Putting down the water bucket in the sheep enclosure hastily so that the water slops over the sides, I make a dash for the mountain path at the back of Georgios’s house, Angel following hot on my heels. I have no idea what I’m going to do. All I know is I need to see who it is and work out how to keep them from going any higher up the mountain.

  I reach the plateau on the way to the first cave and head straight to the outreach of rock beyond the bees. I can hear voices, so I drop to all fours and crawl forward, the sharp stones sticking into my knees. I lie on my stomach and wriggle to the rim of the ledge, my fingers gripping the edge. I can see the road clearly from here, right over the cows’ field. There’s a family car parked at the viewing point, and I glance up to see if I can spy Georgios further up the mountain. But the cave, like the valley, is well hidden.

  The car doors open and a group of holidaymakers climb out. There is a large lady in a floral dress, sunglasses and a big straw sunhat, which she’s clinging on to in the whipping wind. A man gets out behind her, just as large, in long shorts and a T-shirt stretched over his big belly. He’s holding an iPad, which obviously has a map on it, and is complaining about the car’s sat nav taking them the long route round. There is only one route here, I think with a smile: up the mountain road. He’s turning the iPad this way and that, trying to work out where they are.

  There’s a young boy, about twelve, wearing big headphones, an expensive make by the looks of it, ones I could never afford for Demi. He’s holding a smaller tablet with both hands as if he’s driving, very fast, through downtown streets, being chased by cop cars. He focuses on the job in hand and not on his mother’s squawking as her hat takes off and she and her husband have to chase it. A tall, long-haired, long-legged teenage girl gets out of the car reluctantly and is handed the iPad and directed to take photographs whilst her father chases the hat down the road.

  I have to stop them coming up here. They mustn’t find the secret valley. The woman’s hat is still leading them a merry dance back down the hill, and the whole family is now trying to round it up. I take my moment. Running quickly and confidently down the mountain path, past the wild greens, I pause among the pine trees to check that the family are still huffing and puffing their way back up the hill towards their car, and run over to the cows’ field. The animals look up at me and I shove my hand in my pocket and find dried carob pods, their smell like dark treacle, malty. I wave one at the cows as I’m trying to untie the string on the fence, but drop it as I work away at the tight knot I’ve been so particular in securing. Finally I get my nails right into it and loosen it, then quickly pull back the panel and step through. By this time the calf has spotted the carob pod on the uneven dry ground and is heading towards it, his mother following close behind.

  The tourists, German by the sounds of it, have started to walk towards the steps of the mountain path carrying fold-up chairs, a huge picnic hamper and a sunshade.

  ‘That’s it, this way,’ I whisper, chucking another dried husk in the cows’ direction, and suddenly they’re all moving towards me in a straight line, one after the other, like I’m the Pied Piper. ‘Yes! Come on.’ I break up the husks and keep throwing them behind me as I step through the gap in the fence.

  Once they’re out of the field, the cows begin to spread out, over the wide path and up on to the lower slopes of the mountain, through the pine trees, investigating and seeking out fresh grassy tufts. I stand behind a tree and wait.

  ‘Arghhhh!’ The shriek finally comes and I can’t help but giggle, like a child playing a prank on April Fool’s Day. I pinch my nose to try and stop myself, and find myself making a funny snorting noise, which makes me laugh even more. I clasp my hand over my mouth.

  The family are retreating back down the slope, surrounded by the cows, who seem to want to investigate their pockets for carob pods. The woman has her hands in the air and is shrieking. Her hat has now blown off the mountain edge, and is floating away in the breeze like a parachute. The man is shouting, ‘Shoo!’ and waving his hands. Their son has stopped playing his computer game and is checking behind him as the calf chases after him towards the car, where his parents are now arguing over who has the keys, and the daughter is doubled over with laughter.

  Finally they get the car open, sling the picnic hamper, chairs and sunshade into the boot and jump in, slamming the doors shut. By now the vehicle is surrounded by cows, and both the man and the woman are leaning out of the windows and waving their arms. Finally they manage to turn the car around and spin off down the winding road, way faster than they came up it, and a quiet falls over the mountainside again, apart from the sound of munching and mooing cows.

  Smiling and dusting off my hands in satisfaction, I glance up at the mountain, hoping that Georgios was watching as I chased away the intruders – and with not a bird scarer in sight.

  That night, with the cows back securely in their field, and after an afternoon helping at the restaurant, I return to the mountain with a small pot of lamb stew that I’ve smuggled out of Maria’s kitchen. I know that if I asked, she would let me have it, but I don’t want her to know that I’m taking it to Georgios. It’s better this way. Negotiating the narrow ledge and the climb up to the second cave with the pot under my arm is precarious, but worth it, as the stew warms over the fire, the smell of the slow-cooked lamb and soft, fluffy potatoes, tangy lemon juice and herby wild thyme filling the gently cooling air and wrapping itself around the inside of the cave.

  I think back to Georgios telling me how families in these parts fought German parachuters who dropped into the mountains, and used these caves to hide the British allies, some injured, who worked closely with the island’s resistance movement during the Second World War. ‘Protecting what cannot look after itself,’ as he put it. A little like now, I think, as we sit watching the sun set, eating from tin cups with metal spoons produced from my pocket. Afterwards we sip raki, and Georgios works on the trunk of the fallen olive tree, turning it into a new shrine for Stelios, which he plans to put in the main square of the town, next to the church, so we can remember him every time we pass it.

  But as we relive the triumph of the day, I know the reality is that although we may have been able to keep one family off the mountain, the next intruders may arrive at any time. Is Georgios really going to be able to keep this valley secret forever?

  For the next few days there is no signal from Georgios telling me that there are tourists on the mountain. But each evening I climb up to the cave with food and the news that the bees seem happy and are continuing to make honey. We may have more to spin soon! The days are still hot, but up here in the mountain, in the early-evening breeze, it’s much cooler.

  Georgios smiles, accepting the Greek salad I bring him one evening, full of olives, tomatoes, cucumber and onion, along with fresh tangy yoghurt with home-grown figs.

  ‘And honey!’ I say, producing one of the jars we spun.

  ‘How does it taste now? Did Mitera like it?’

  I nod. ‘Wonderful! They all loved it. Maria says that Mitera will be well and back on her feet in no time now they have wild mountain herb honey. It’s like . . . well, like nectar!’ We both laugh.

  ‘Well, it is made with love,’ he says, smiling.

  He insists on sharing the salad, and pours us raki, and we sit on the logs by the mo
uth of the cave, his woodwork to the side of him. In contented silence we spoon feta and black olives and chunks of the knobbly, crunchy cucumber into our mouths.

  ‘Did you know,’ he finally says, ‘that the word for boyfriend or girlfriend in Greek translates as “the one I’m eating with”?’ He smiles, and my cheeks burn and I look down into my salad.

  When we’ve finished, we dish out the yoghurt and plump purple figs into the metal cups, which I’ve washed in the cold clear water of the waterfall outside the cave. Then Georgios hands me the honey. I undo the jar and breathe in its aroma again, then I tip it, and the golden liquid pours into my cup, catching the sunlight as it cascades slowly down. I hand the jar to Georgios, who does the same, and we spoon the yoghurt and soft figs into our mouths. As the sweet, aromatic, herb-infused honey melts across my tongue, I think I’m in heaven.

  ‘So, you never fell in love again, after Stelios?’ Georgios finally says, and I open my eyes and look at him, his face so much softer than when we first met.

  I spoon up more honey and yoghurt and shake my head. ‘No, there was no one else.’ I glance back in the direction of the picture with the little tea lights in front of it. ‘At first I was waiting for Stelios, of course, and I wasn’t interested in meeting anyone. But once Demi went to school and started to have her own friends, well, I thought it would be nice . . . for her and me. But I didn’t want to get it wrong. That’s why Mike, my ex, made so much sense at the time. He was happy with our arrangement. I’d see him once in the week and then at weekends.’

  ‘But you never married him?’

  I shake my head. ‘I didn’t marry him, or even live with him. He had a bag under the stairs that he brought with him when he arrived and took again when he left. I didn’t want to get it wrong, for Demi’s sake. I wanted stability. I didn’t want anyone to ruin what I’d built for the two of us, Demi and me.’

  ‘Too scared,’ he nods.

  I sigh. ‘I suppose. Let’s be honest, at that point I felt that everyone I’d ever cared about had left me. And I’d made a mess of things so far. The likelihood was I would probably get it wrong again. And . . . well, I didn’t want it to be like when I was growing up.’

  ‘In what way?’ He takes a sip of raki, and so do I.

  ‘Let’s just say my mum kissed a lot of frogs before she met her prince. I had more uncles than I had pairs of shoes!’

  We both laugh gently.

  ‘And now?’

  ‘For someone who keeps themselves to themselves, you ask a lot of questions!’ I tell him. But I don’t really mind. It feels good to talk, like we’re in a bubble where what’s said in the secret gorge stays in the secret gorge. ‘Well, my mum finally met her Prince Charming, on holiday in Majorca, and out of the blue they decided to emigrate to Australia. She offered me the chance to go with them, but frankly I felt like a spare part, so I decided to stay with my nan. And that’s how it was: me, Nan and Demi. I loved my life. I wish I could have it all back, our little family. But Nan died, and then it was just me and Demi, and I didn’t want to get it wrong, although in the end I think I did.’ I lean my chin on my hand and look into my raki. ‘Otherwise I wouldn’t be back here trying to find who I used to be, would I?’

  ‘Sounds to me like you’ve tried your hardest to be the best mum you can be.’

  I put down my mug, and roll my lips together to get the final sweetness from the honey off them, watching the sun set down the valley.

  ‘Doesn’t mean I got it right,’ I say. ‘So what about you? Did anyone finally manage to tame Gorgeous George?’ We both smile, and he blushes at the memory of his younger, flirtatious days. Then his face drops.

  ‘Ssh!’ He puts his finger to his lips.

  ‘All right, I didn’t mean—’

  ‘No, ssh!’ he says again, and I realise he’s not talking about our conversation. I fall silent and listen. At first all I can hear is the gentle sound of the goat bells down at the farm, but then I hear it. Cars. And doors closing, and then voices.

  It’s not the German tourists back. It’s Harry Henderson. Still as good-looking as before, only this time I don’t feel half as excited to see him. In fact, I’m appalled that I ever found him remotely attractive. He’s in a group with three other people, who look like holiday reps. Young, tanned and eager. Just like when I worked at the resort. They’re wearing a uniform of orange T-shirts and matching shorts with a holiday logo. One is in trainers, one in Greek sandals and one is wearing flip-flops.

  I’ve made it down from the cave, out of the valley and down to the ledge at breakneck speed, and am still trying to get my breath back and eavesdrop on their conversation at the same time. I hold my hand over my eyes to protect them from the low evening sun.

  ‘So, what we know is, this plant, dittany, grows here.’ Harry is showing the three reps a picture on his iPad. ‘This dittany is disappearing off the mountain. If it goes altogether, the mountain will lose its protected status and we’ll get the planning permission we need. So—’

  ‘But isn’t that like . . . illegal. I mean, if it’s got protected status?’ The girl in flip-flops has got a very Home Counties voice.

  ‘We’re just giving nature a helping hand. The herb is dying out anyway. And your jobs on this new project up here depend on it.’ The girl in trainers suddenly looks like she’s well up for it, bending into a sprinting position like she’s about to take on her colleagues at the hundred-metre dash.

  Harry, looking cool in cream cut-off chinos, deck shoes and a polo shirt with the collar turned up, reflective shades on, looks around at the group and lowers his voice. I shuffle forward to hear what he’s about to say, and as I do, a shower of stones tumbles down the rocks below me, making the group glance up. I dart back, lying as flat as I can, my heart thundering. Brilliant! I berate myself. Mission two and I’ve nearly blown it!

  When I don’t hear them comment on the stone shower, I wriggle back to the edge and peer cautiously over. The girl in trainers is still looking from side to side, poised, obviously keen to bag herself a new job on the new hotel complex that Harry is planning.

  ‘Now then, there have been rumours of gangs up on the mountains.’

  ‘What kind of gangs?’ The young woman stands up, hands on hips, rethinking things.

  ‘But,’ Harry holds up a hand, ‘I have it on good authority that those rumours are false. Put about as a way of keeping people away.’

  I feel sick. It was me who told him that. Thinking I was doing the right thing and completely stuffing it up, once again.

  ‘I need you to get on to that mountain, and if you see this plant, rip it out . . . by the root. Take it home with you. Do whatever it takes. Like I say, your jobs on this project depend on this. Get help if needs be. I’ve spoken to the office of protected sites. If we can convince the inspector there is no evidence of fresh dittany here on his next couple of visits, this project will get the green light for sure. They’ll be a beach barbecue in it for you all if we pull this off.’

  I have absolutely no idea what I saw in this man. Why am I such a bad judge of character – first Mike and now Harry Henderson, one-man planet assassin!

  ‘No probs,’ says the Home Counties girl.

  ‘It’s done!’ says the one in trainers, resuming her sprinting position.

  ‘On it!’ says the third rep, a tall, dark lad in sandals, and they all high-five each other, making my hackles rise. I can practically hear a growl in the back of my throat. This is my fault. But I can’t believe they would stoop that low, ripping out the dittany to get control of the mountain – to wipe out the town!

  Just then I hear a scrabbling among the rocks and turn, catching my breath. To my relief, it’s only Filos. He gives a little bark of greeting to Angel, who is beside me and who wags her tail and wiggles her body in reply. There is a call from up high, and this time it’s the eagles,
three of them, circling in the light wind against the clear blue sky and the cotton-wool clouds.

  I have to get these people to stay off the mountain. I scoop up Angel under my arm and head towards the pathway, where it looks like they’re starting to climb.

  ‘Please don’t hate me for this . . . I have my reasons,’ I say to the two dogs.

  I reach out and sit Angel on a little stone ledge, then call to Filos to follow me down the path. As the three reps get closer, I back away behind a nearby pine tree. Filos stands in the middle of the path, barking steadily and incessantly, like a metronome, while Angel watches with interest from her vantage point. I can see the climbing party now, looking like invading troops marching up the mountain. But when they see Filos, they stop in their tracks, trying to weigh up the barking and growling dog.

  ‘It’s just a dog,’ says the Home Counties girl.

  ‘An angry one,’ says the sprinter.

  ‘Give it a wide berth,’ says the lad in sandals, putting out his hand protectively. Trainer girl knocks it away with annoyance. I start to climb up the rocks ahead of them, hoping that Filos and Angel will keep them at bay.

  ‘Ah look, a puppy,’ the sprinter says, and I hear Filos growl, slow and low.

  ‘Leave it,’ commands the Home Counties girl.

  ‘Oh look, it’s jumped down,’ says the lad. ‘But I don’t think he wants us to pet it.’

  Filos is still barking. I’m out of breath and hot. The path narrows here, making it a perfect place to cause a blockage. I scamper up to the ledge above, take a deep breath and kick at some of the smaller stones lying around. A few scatter down the hill but stop. I can hear the invaders climbing once again, scanning the plants around them. Angel suddenly bounds on to the ledge next to me, and I hold her close to me gratefully, then pull my leg back and thrust it forward again, harder this time. Dust flies up, and many more stones shift and start to tumble. I hear the three reps shouting to each other – ‘Watch yourselves!’ ‘Mind out!’ ‘Shit!’ – and watch from my vantage point as they run back down the path. Breathless, hot but smiling, I think I may have done it.