19 May - On the Patras bus - finally got through the bit that I knew would be the most complicated - and insalubrious. The bus is full but my seat’s right by the door. We ought to be in Patras by 1 p.m. which gives me tons of time before the ferry leaves at 6. Left the hotel around 9 a.m.; walked to Monastiraki and took the Metro (one euro) to Omonia Square; got out there and made my way to the really grotty street - Menandros St I think -off the square where you catch the 051 bus to the terminal where you get the Patras bus. I had to ask several times, despite having a map (another one given me by the nice girl at the hotel, I’d left the first one somewhere on the Acropolis) - finding it was difficult but my minimal Greek is getting better and it helps if you ask first “Do you speak English?” in Greek - usually it makes people more obliging. Somewhere between Omonia Square and the bus stop I lost my second map, but once I was sure I was in the right place it didn’t matter. (The bus allowed me to go all the way to the terminal on the same ticket I’d bought for the Metro - London Transport please note!) But Athens is no place to be muddleheaded, it’s as hard as nails and I wouldn’t come back unless I could do it in some style. The man at the terminal who sold me my ticket for Patras was very nice and made it quite easy for me to find the right place to get on the right bus. And the ticket was two euros cheaper than the so-called ‘bargain’ ticket sold to me by the ferry company for their bus from Patras to Athens. Note for next time...

Just passing the hideousness that is now Eleusis - legend has it, I believe, that Greece will not be fortunate as long as Eleusis is spoiled. Or despoiled, which it is, with great ugly silos and industrial sprawl and grime and confusion. Hard to imagine it as a sanctuary, as the centre for the Eleusinian Mysteries in ancient times.

Two things I forgot to record; One, coming into Piraeus on the ferry and waiting to disembark on the big apron area where the cars drive off, the moment when the little synthesiser Fur Elise began to play and the ramp opened slowly and began to extend and the sun suddenly splashed in on us - totally surreal.

Second thing; going down to the platform at Monastiraki this morning to catch the Metro to Omonia Square, what should be playing over the loudspeakers but a flute version of the Cornish Floral Dance! I was probably the only person on the whole station who recognised it. I had to smile.

Just passing Acrocorinth. Always a thrill.

Later - Now sitting at a table in the 6th floor cafe at the Patras Palace Hotel, a glorious sanctuary for an hour or two while I wait for the ferry - I'm told the boarding begins at 4p.m. and it's nearly 2 already, thank goodness. I've upgraded my deck ticket to a cabin, ostensibly shared but with a chance that I might have it all to myself. On the strength of knowing I was now a 'cabin' passenger, I took courage and, avoiding the bars and cheap cafes all along the front, went boldly into this very deluxe hotel, the Patras Palace, and said insouciantly to the desk clerk, "Do you have a cafe?" He said politely, yes, on the 6th floor, and, shouldering my rucksack and bag as if it were the finest Vuitton, I took the elevator up. There was practically no one in the cafe at all, and those that were, were outside. I asked for a coffee and if it was ok for me to sit inside, and took this seat looking out over the harbour. The nice girl behind the counter is obviously not going to bother me. The day is bright and the view is lovely and it’s nice to have a couple of spare hours just to sit and think. I might have a toasted sandwich, just to earn my place here.

Later - In my bunk; nice little cabin looking out on the stern and upper passenger terrace. In half an hour we leave, and then I’ll be sure I’ve got the cabin to myself.

The chap I sat next to on the bus from Athens, every time we passed a church, would cross himself (backwards, the Greek Orthodox way) twice and then touch his fingertips to his heart - as he looked a bit of a tough, it was quite touching. We could see much more of the scenery from the windows than on the journey to Athens, as this was just a public bus with no advertising, and the mountains on the left and the blue blue sea on the right were gloriously Greek and spare and basic.

Interspersed in true Greek fashion with really phenomenally ugly conurbations and derelict building sites. And the ticket was three euros less than the one for the Superfast ferry bus, though the extra was worth it for being able to get on at the dockside and not have to find the bus station in Patras. (Bus stations are universally grim)

It was well worth the extra I paid to get this cabin; I’m really glad I had the idea - before I discovered the Patras Palace Hotel and while I was wandering along the harbour front, I found myself outside the Superfast ferry office and went in just to ask. The guy who dealt with it was too cool: one of those rare lean rangy Greeks, almost more Italian-looking, who are so impressive with their precision and obvious intelligence. Listening to him speak Greek was like listening to music. While I waited for him to give me ticket prices, I said I liked the offices - very spacious, with wooden ceilings and beams. He told me it was on old raisin factory, and I remembered the fact that this part of Greece is famous for this - currants are named because originally the place they came from was Corinth. He told me that a guaranteed sole cabin was an extra 160 euros, and when I blenched at that, suggested a ‘shared’ cabin for an extra 60 instead. I have a suspicion that he arranged it so that my ‘shared’ cabin wouldn’t actually be shared - anyway that’s the way it’s turned out.

While I was waiting to board, sitting practically on the gangplank of the ferry, a group of three young women came up and sat down nearby. Obviously students on a traipse around Europe; huge, tightly-stuffed rucksacks, extra bags, etc. I got a nosey glimpse of the label on one rucksack - the address was Toronto. Obviously deck tickets, when we boarded they were directed (with a certain detectable superciliousness) to the chairs-room I was in on the way over. I felt very posh to have someone come up, look at my ticket, and lead me up the stairs to the toffs area (cabins). Not that anyone was looking, still, I loved the feeling. One of the girls, while we waited, had been looking at a “Visitors’ London” map, and I had to smile to myself. Glad I’m not really a tourist when I go to London now.

Later - Went out on deck, and the evening was still and golden and the sun on the water so beautiful and serene.

Just had a lovely artichoke salad in the restaurant/cafe. One of the waiters here looks like a character from the film The Name of the Rose, or a cross between Arnold Schwartzenegger and the Incredible Hulk. Stuffed into his uniform like a horse in a lambskin. He has that look of the Class Idiot, sure he’s being made fun of but not quite sure how or by whom. Do people grow to be like that because of the way they look, or do they look that way because they are like that? Or do the two go so hand-in-hand that they can’t be separated into cause and effect? However it is, it seems to bring out the bully in some people.

I’m getting used to this travelling business; at least tonight I’m feeling in command whereas before I was feeling slightly clenched and defensive. It’s nice to be on the homeward leg just as the large contingent of students is beginning to build up. More American voices on this ferry than on the trip over; those were mostly Italians.

20 May - “I signori camionisti” Italian for ’the lorry drivers’. So polite!

We have woken to rain, but I’m just grateful that I slept in a nice comfortable bed last night. Aside from people out on deck late, scraping chairs and tables just outside my window (porthole, I mean), it was wonderfully smooth and silent and not even a little bit rough. I suppose it must get rough sometimes, but I’ve been lucky on all four of my ferry journeys. I quite like ferries.

I think Italy is an hour behind Greece, otherwise we’re really late getting into Bari as it’s nearly 9 a.m. They must have taken on a lot more lorries at Igoumenitsa last night (we touched-base there around midnight) - the deck looks almost full this morning and I know it was half-empty when we left Patras. The announcement notifying the lorry drivers to pay their duty fees is in about five languages. Just got the notice to gather for disembarkation...

9.41 - Just walked from the port in Bari to Bari Centrale railway station. I asked a couple of men near the port, one of them some sort of policeman who looked as if he probably reported straight to il Duce, in that beige uniform with crisp peaked hat and lots of trimmings. They both kept telling me that a bus went every twenty minutes but I insisted that I wanted to walk it, so they pointed me in the general direction. There was a slight difficulty when I asked one little lady, sweeping her steps along my route, for directions and she thought that if she said it over and over in Italian I'd eventually understand (I sort of did, and she was so sweet and neat and Italian I could have 'listened to her talk all day'). Then I ran across a motherly lady who insisted on leading me herself through the warren of little lanes around the Cathedral, then handed me over to a friend who pointed me in the right direction (explaining in passing that the Catedrale was that of the 'padrone' of Bari; ('do you understand?' 'Si, I understand' all in Italian). Then for the next leg I summoned up courage to ask a stylish man sauntering across a piazza "Scusi signore, per favore, dov'e il stazione Bari Centrale?" and understood everything he said in answer. Mind, he was very careful to say it slowly and twice. Anyway here I am in the station coffee shop - can't nurse my empty coffee cup much longer. I was right about the time change - I've got three hours to kill before the train arrives.

Later - Found the waiting room and am now sitting on one of the metal chairs linked together in threes that can be so irritating if the other people sitting on them are fidgets (the man at the other end is). Most people are reading the paper or talking. Mostly men. It'll be ages till my train is even listed; they're only up to about 11.30 so far - no, 12.40 now, I just looked. Weather's a bit cool but I'm quite comfortable in tactel, fleece and my cotton scarf. Walking in Bari, I was actually accosted in the street by some guy in a long navy overcoat, but I just muttered an expletive in Italian and walked on. I do stand out rather, as most Italian women seem to wear black. This waiting room is just a big square room but has a marble tiled floor and a beautifully coffered ceiling. Large, echoing and rather too monumental for real comfort, but a sight better than the crumbling holes British Rail call waiting rooms. (Or whatever British Rail calls itself nowadays)

"Rifiuti Misti" - mixed refuse - on a rubbish bin.

Just went to doublecheck my ticket - the guy (so Italian) put the 'closed' sign up just as I got to the window and was quite a bit impatient with me but I found out that I don't need to get the ticket stamped and the train I want is the one for Milano, so if there are more than one at the same time I'll know. In front of me in the queue were a young couple on the brink of eating each other - the young man, good-looking, smoochy and uber-cool. His girlfriend was beautiful in that slightly tousled, confident Italian way; olive skin, wonderful slightly hawklike royal features. Later she may get fat, he will lose his lean figure and perhaps grow coarse, but at the moment they are both more than perfect and it was a joy to look at them. While I was in the queue a little toothless lady pushed in front of me and took up her place as if it were her right - I noticed though that she let all the Italians ahead of me go in their rightful turn, probably cos she knew they could chastise her fluently if she tried anything with them, but had no compunction about stealing my place as I obviously am foreign and wouldn't have the words to complain. What she didn't know was that I had plenty of time and could afford to wait while she had her argy-bargy with the ticket man.

They've listed trains up to 13.20 now so mine will be soon. Listed soon, I mean. It's still an hour and a half till it gets in.

nearly 2 - Wow that seemed to go very fast. Though the announcements at Bari were all universally in Italian, fortunately the ones on this train are in both Italian and English. When I got on I had to prowl a bit before I found my seat, and when I found the right number it was occupied by an Italian woman who gave me a hard, defensive stare and so I just took the nearest free seat. She's clearly determined not to give up her window seat but to be honest the group she's with (three in all) look almost subhuman and not worth arguing with. The other woman in her party - fat already - has been stuffing her face since I got on, and the little man they're both with looks like he's been let out from somewhere for the day, a mental institution perhaps or a prison for offenders who can't be held responsible. And it's raining. Glad this isn't my first experience of Italy - I'd be wondering what everyone had been raving about. From the train windows one can see that the plague of plastic that has infected so many Cornish potato fields has reached Italy too, so many of the vine fields are tented with it. The towns look so ugly, but the countryside seems quite lush. Very flat land all around here. Can't write very clearly cos the train's going like the clappers trying to make up time, I guess.

2.30 - I've just realised that I haven't had a single bit of meat for over two weeks. The sight of the fat lady, wedged into the window seat across from me, biting lustfully into a plump chicken leg was almost too much; and she's still eating! Her shape just kind of cascades down from the neck in ever-increasing folds; how she's going to get up without tipping the table in front of her from its moorings, one can't say.

This time yesterday I was sitting in the cafe at the Patras Palace Hotel, killing time till I could board the ferry. And now I'm racing up the leg of Italy...She's still eating. She has a big bag of food she keeps dipping-into.

3 p.m. - What a change in half an hour! No more vine fields, now it's rolling gentle rises of what looks like corn. And blue sky and little puffy white clouds. At the last station a black girl got on, her skin a beautiful ebony black, and her hair in long coils down her back. Tight jeans on skinny legs. She wandered about a bit looking for her seat, speaking Italian in a very sharp baby voice and with an odd, almost lisping, accent. One poor man had to move from his seat so she could sit down, she was all baby-helpless over it all, but as soon as she was settled she got onto her phone and has been carrying on a very harsh-voiced conversation with someone in what sounds like an African language. I could imagine that sharp, carrying tone echoing across wide African spaces, but it's unnecessary on an Italian train. We've stopped between stations (again) and the fat lady's asleep and snoring.

4.45 - Now in Pescara Centrale, awfully hot after the chill of Bari. I've shed two layers now and am glad of my tan. (I've noticed too how much more blonde my hair's got from the Greek sun) Blazing sunshine out there on the platform. A young man got on here with various parcels and bags, all lean limbs and curly hair. He's in the seat I was meant to have (the lady that had it has now got off) and there was a little confusion but it was settled amiably enough; his youthful, self-effacing, diffident charm carried him through. Less than two and a half hours more. He's reading a great tome titled 'I Muscali' which I thought must be something about muscles but seems to have no illustrations, just lists and words. But perhaps it's the details and not the basics. Nice to imagine him as a potential dottore, I bet all his lady patients would be in love with him. The young today are so much more confident than we were, they grasp the world as a right, not venture into it timidly as a privilege. When he got on, he planted most of his bags in the overhead rack, took off his jumper with a casual grace, and sat down with his book as if he did this every day. Now he's given up on the book and is working on his laptop.

Two and a quarter hours more on the train and then a three-and-a-bit hour wait at Bologna for the sleeper to Paris. It's a long slog, this leg of the journey. I can't say it's much better in this direction except I'm slightly more familiar with the logistics, e.g. I actually recognised Bari Centrale when I reached it after my walk from the port.

I couldn't live in Italy - my self-confidence wouldn't be able to bear it. The young women haven't just got youth, but a genuine glowing beauty rare in the English type. And the young men- it would be unbearable, look-but-don't-touch. Enough!

9.30 - In the waiting room - which DOES exist - in Bologna Centrale. The lovely young man beside me on the train finally tried asking me a question and then of course discovered that I had very little Italian; he in his turn had very little Inglese but we had a truncated chat and subsequently were more relaxed and friendly even just communicating in sign language. As we came into Bologna Centrale I stretched and said 'Sono vecchia!' (I'm old) with a certain wry humour and he, bless him, smiled and said sweetly 'Sono tutti stanchi' (We're all tired). I then detailed my trek across Europe to which he listened politely and made all the right noises. I even taught him a bit of Greek as we were waiting to get off the train.

Can't believe I'll be in Paris tomorrow - I'd be home by the next day if I weren't going on to Esparoutis, the place in the Perigord belonging to Ian and Ien (she pronounces it "Een"), my two friends from Australia.

I feel as if I'm beginning to lose focus a bit. I bought a fruit salad in a lovely little bistro-type place just off the platform, simply to get the plastic spoon so I can eat the yoghurt I'm saving for breakfast tomorrow. I got very sticky eating the fruit salad, went off and found the ladies' loos in a far corner, discovered it costs eighty cents just to get in, but managed to clean up a bit. Just across from me in the waiting room here is a young Chinese girl who is either the spoilt daughter or the child bride of the horrible Chinese man sitting next to her. They chew with their mouths open, and he has just belched with his mouth open into the air we're all having to breathe. YUCK. Both of them are as tough as nails, probably here on Triad business. Another pretty little thing came in, young and lean with a very sweet face, I think she's American. She's got about four large duffel bags and a big rucksack - she had a porter to help bring them into the waiting room and stack them up on several of the seats, and now the silly girl has left the whole lot here on their own while she went off somewhere, presumably to find something to eat. If it had been my luggage I'll bet you anything that when I got back it would all have been rifled and anything valuable would have vanished, but so far no one's taken any interest in hers. Even so, I feel I've been quite lucky in my travels on this trip.

11 p.m. On the Sleeper to Paris - SPOKE TOO SOON. I'm sharing the compartment this time with two others, a big African girl who has been talking French non-stop with the second girl who is little and pale and looks rather a hippy traveller. I've gobbled-up the yoghurt I'd meant for breakfast, since this late, of course (I hadn't thought), the dining car is closed so there's no dinner available. Teeth brushed, I'm tucked-up in my bunk, sort of; I'm not going to undress and am keeping my rucksack near my head in the far corner. Thank goodness I'm in the bottom bunk. They seem awfully chummy, don't know if they're friends or have just hit it off, but I'm much too tired to care really and have politely made it clear that I'm just going to go to sleep. Certainly Bologna Centrale is no place for a little girl on her own at 10.30 at night, too many scary types, and it all began to feel a bit like a nightmare by the time the train came in. I still have my sea legs. Must go to sleep.

17 May - Alors, another unsettled night but as much my own fault for getting sunburnt yesterday. Now at about 6.30 a.m. sitting with my Greek coffee and water out on the balcony. The wind's died down quite a bit but the air is still cool. But a BLAST of blue sky above, as if clouds had never been invented. I bet it'll be a blazing day.

I've got the logistics sorted in my mind for mailing the box, but this of course is Greece, and the best-laid plans...

It's been a very good thing for me to do this trip, despite the tiringness of it. The idea of Travel and Seeing Things can begin to seem a bit threatening if you get too settled-in to a routine. It's reminded me, too, of how unnecessary it is to have clutter in your life, the advantages of keeping things spare and simple. Well of course I know all this all the time, but those invisible barriers to doing it, that rise up unnoticed if you don't keep moving, need to be challenged and dissolved regularly. I've told myself this so often, yet every time I realise it again it's like a new thought...

Still much too cool to contemplate a swim! Perhaps if the sun hit this balcony earlier I'd be braver, but in the shade here it feels too cool to put on a swimsuit and plunge into the sea. Not that I'll let it stop me, but I'll put it off for a little longer. Even the white-haired guy who goes out every morning in his trunks came back with them only wet around the bottom this morning. I don't think he swims in the bay; though I've often gone out just after him I've never seen him out on the beach. Maybe there's a pool nearby that he swims in? The snip of sea that I can see from the balcony is the most wonderful rich deep turquoisey-lapis lazuli blue...

9 a.m. - GLORIOUS swim, glad I was brave. But the cleaner - Mrs Sweeping - has taken the opportunity to start an Anna-Livia-Plurabelle of a clean in my room (at 8.30?!!!) Really this obsession with cleaning is quite self-defeating; I'd feel much more welcome if they left me alone a bit more. Or gave me a time when they'd like me to lose myself for an hour, say, 10.30, and for the rest of the day the place would be mine.

Oh and the people next door ARE Swedish, I got it from the paper we all have to sign, though why I've had to sign it twice goodness knows...

Must say, having a wonderful dip in salty sea, which does nothing but good to my poor burnt skin, then coming back to a glorious hot shower and reliable constant hot water, is just delicious. Also having my snuggly fleece to crawl into while I warm up. Simple pleasures, always the best.

Later - The Box has gone! What a relief. Now all that's left is to pay my studio bill and get on my way. But that's tomorrow. What to do with today? I've posted-home my map and Greek dictionary so I'll have to be just a stupid tourist today. The day's lovely, my sunburn's not hurting anymore, and getting that box sent is such a relief that I want to celebrate. I dropped in to say goodbye to the little man in the supermarket and he gave me a little bottle of the local liqueur, Kitron, as a parting gift - one I had been contemplating buying for myself a day or two ago! A surprise treat. We shook hands and said yasou (he's the only one to use the familiar with me, it feels ok as he clearly meant it in just a friendly way) The guy in the Post Office, who dealt with my box, was pretty nice too, sort of avuncular, and he had to smile when he told me the price in Greek numbers very quickly and I could only say siga, siga (slowly, slowly). (He wrote it down for me in the end).

Blindingly bright day; sitting in a little cafe having a metrio (Greek coffee with a little sugar). This is the first time it hasn't come with a glass of water, and I had to ask for one, but the little chap who served me was quite nice about it and seemed to be more friendly cos I was trying to ask in Greek. Three very cool harbour police have just walked by.

I wandered out to the Portara once more, to see it in the morning light; as I walked out, a 3-masted sailing ship was coming into the harbour so it was a double photo-opportunity. Then I walked once more along Grotta beach to have a look for the ruins you're supposed to be able to see under the water just offshore, and took some pictures of what might be them. On the way back I passed that Ichthyopolio (fishmonger's) where there was yet again a couple of cats just sitting waiting in hope. I think the fish man is the same one I saw outside the church yesterday, selling his fish to the ladies coming out from the morning service.

So strange to see Chinese people and other obviously foreign people chattering-away in Greek, but why not, they're clearly residents. I'm never sure whether to smile at the elderly Greek people I pass, probably they just think me weak-minded, but they almost always smile back, and often say kalimera to me as well.

There must be a ferry due; a lot of people are trundling their cases past me as I sit here, on their way to the dock where the bigger boats come in. Next time I'd like to travel-about on the ferries more, it's such a nice experience.

4.30 - It's actually turned out to be a blustery old day; glad I had my swim this morning. Too windy to sit on the balcony to paint, but I did a couple more on the little table that serves for a "kitchen" table in the studio. Progressing, I think. Hope the sea's not too rough tomorrow for the ferry crossing to Piraeus. I'm not sure I feel much like confronting the intricacies of finding my way to the hotel in Athens, or of getting to Patras the next day. And I can only hope that I get into Athens early enough to get to the Acropolis. How have I been so often to Greece and even travelled around the mainland so exhaustively and never stayed in Athens?

I think I'll go down for an ice cream, and I still need to pay the studio bill too...
Later - Had the ice cream but still no one about downstairs to pay, that's the second try.

I was just looking at my itinerary for the rest of the trip and found myself thinking how nice it will be to get back to England again. I used to think that foreign travel would be less stressful if I spoke the language, but in fact I suppose there would be just as much ignorant impatience anywhere I went if it was a tourist area, however fluent I might be.

If it were a nice still, hot afternoon I'd venture a last swim, even if I had to snitch the hotel towel for it (I packed my own in the box which is on its way back to the UK). But it's way too blustery. After I bought the ice cream I walked back along the beach, the way I go when I swim in the mornings, and the sea looked quite rough and the wind was blowing my hair around my face so keeping it out of the ice cream took all my attention. People on the beach, making the best of it, but no one in the water.

7.30 - Went down about an hour ago to try again and finally met the elusive proprietor. Unfortunately he said they have a problem with the Internet link for their credit card machine and it isn't working so I'm waiting for it to be fixed. I suggested he just bill the card (he already has the details from when I paid the deposit) for the balance when it is fixed, but he was strangely reluctant, I don't know why. I need to leave here around 8 a.m. tomorrow as I'm meant to be at the port by 8.30 for a 9.30 sailing. I've already got my boarding pass so I won't have to check-in or anything. I hope someone's around tomorrow morning or I might get hauled back for non-payment...

18 May - 7.45 a.m. Just about to set off; the poor little father of the proprietor, who speaks no English and is adrift in the land of technology, was struggling with the credit card machine - the old-fashioned kind, that you have to use manually with layered receipts and all that - when I went down this morning in a last-ditch attempt to pay my bill, and when I began to point out to him in sign language how to use it, he invited me behind the counter so I could do it for him. I even filled-out the slip myself (a wonderful opportunity to have had my holiday at a discount and feel guilty for the rest of my life). He was abjectly grateful for my help. Anyway I'm now sure I've not been cheated! Not that I expected it, but I fear that sometimes the people who make their living from holiday visitors are tempted; I've paid two euros for some pretty dire Greek coffees in various cafes in Naxos town.

Didn't swim this morning, too cold. Hardly slept, Lawrence Durrell is right about sleeping on Naxos. In a bit I'll set out for the port - the man downstairs wanted to call a taxi, but I prefer to walk it one last time. The sun's up and the air's cool but not cold now. A dove is cooing somewhere nearby.

9.15 Marched down to the harbour lugging my bags, wondering if I really did need two pieces of marble and a nearly-full bottle of olive oil. Little by little it all adds up and I don't think my bags weigh much less now than when I set out. Of course when I unload the kourabiedes my rucksack will be lighter, but that's not till nearly the end of the journey - I've still got to get all the way across Europe to France (and hope they're not just crumbs at the other end). On my way to the terminal gate, I passed my old fishmonger man once more, this time lounging in his boat, looking so picturesque that although he’s always struck me as a bit of a curmudgeon, I took out my camera and asked him “an epitrepitai?” (is it permitted?) He nodded amiably and I grabbed a very quick shot.

When I arrived at the ferry terminal there was only one other old boy there, with a slightly swaying sailor's walk, or perhaps it was the heavy bag he was carrying. Anyway I made sure I was headed in the right direction and was first in the queue - most people, as they arrived, stayed at the sunny end of the long roofed bay where we were channelled for boarding. Two pushy Germans with big rucksacks came up towards the front, and the female half of the pair, a nervy-looking woman with dark hair bundled on her head and quite slim, in rough travelling clothes that looked as if they'd had a lot of serious wear - the general effect that of a well-travelled seasoned and experienced character - came up to the gate and looked out over the apron of tarmac where eventually the ferry would arrive. she was biting, biting her nails as if she were in a terribly urgent hurry. By contrast, waiting for someone who would be arriving, were an Orthodox priest and his little boy. The priest was in full kit, with his cylindrical hat with a top like a silo and a long gown girt-in at the waist all in dark navy blue and black (the hat). His little boy kept asking questions in a bright, alert little voice, and his father kept answering gently and explaining things - I heard him say "vevaios" (of course) and "ne, ne", (yes, yes) a lot. He was very calm and gentle, his hair long and twisted in a sort of knot at the back of his neck and his dark beard like a spade in front. Presently his wife joined them, slightly tired-looking but with again a gentle and open expression and an accommodating manner. She and the old man with the bag exchanged a few words, I think about the coming ferry.

When it arrived you'd think the devil was on board the way all the passengers RAN to get off. I had to laugh to myself when I realised that the little warning tune that played when the big gangplank was lowered was a sort of synthesiser version of "Fur Elise". Where did they get that? Perhaps it's to reassure the Germans, who seem to be the largest contingent that visits the Cyclades.

Having said that, there are a couple of American girls sitting one table over (this is a much more luxurious ferry than the one I came out on, but somehow less characterful). One reminds me of my writing chum in America (perhaps this is because I know she once did a trip like this) - neat, slim, organised, a little nervous. Her companion is one of those large, slightly becalmed-looking girls, with rather too much flesh on her (her stomach's appalling) but because of large elegant bones and a lazy, comfortable manner, she so far gets away with it, being quite young - I'd say they were in their early twenties. The lean one went off on a roam when they first sat down and the large one set out very deliberately a collection of juices and yoghurts which clearly were meant to be her breakfast. She looks like a girl it would go hard with, to miss a meal. The other one looks as if she might have to be reminded to eat. As the larger one manoeuvred herself into her seat, bending over to arrange her bags and showing rather too much backside, a tall, very willowy blonde in a flowing skirt strode gracefully past and cast a supercilious glance at the larger girl, just in passing, probably not even aware that she was doing it. All human life is here.

It’s nice to be on the move again, but I really must address this issue of what I carry. I have an idea that if I’d bought no gifts - or if I’d brought fewer clothes and sent the gifts home in the package - what I’m carrying would be manageable. Well, it’s just manageable now. But there must be room for improvement. I’ll make a list of what I used most, and another of what I could have done without, for future reference.

Later - A woman I’d seen in the group waiting for the ferry has just picked an argument with a blonde lady and her two children. I don’t for a second know what it was about,saying (or not saying) “excuse me” I think, the word “parakalo” featured extensively in the tirade, delivered at the top of her forceful Greek voice, and she kept it up all the way across the lounge and out to the outside deck. She was a strange creature even before she called such attention to herself, a whippety little thing with dark glasses and that long, tangled, snaky dark hair you see on Cretan goddesses. As she progressed through the lounge shouting at the top of her voice, everyone sitting here fell quiet and kept their heads down, till she went outside and we all breathed again. As she was shouting, I thought to myself, ’She’d better be careful or someone’ll throw her overboard’. But no one has so far. We’re about to dock in Paros. Where you sleep deeper.

Later - You do see it all when you travel. When we docked at Paros one of the people who came on board was a little round, lively woman with auburny-dark hair and strong features, who sat across from me and has hardly been off her phone since - speaking, I’m pretty sure, Hebrew - I’ve picked out the word ‘meshuggah’ and a couple of others - maybe it’s Yiddish. Whoever she’s talking to or about seems to be exercising her greatly and I’m having difficulty concentrating on my Herodotus. I think she knows I’m sketching her - it makes it difficult to get it right.

Had a coffee from the snack bar as I was getting a headache. It cost 1.60 euros and was pretty revolting.

She’s still talking - what can she be doing, travelling from Paros to Piraeus? She doesn’t look like an archaeologist or student...but then one could say the same of me, I suppose.

Evening. Athens. - Unbelievable - because today is National Museum Day, entrance to everything is completely free...I feel as if Apollo is looking after me. More likely than not as I narrowly escaped having my money nicked in the Metro on the way from Piraeus. Getting off the ferry after nearly a fortnight on a quiet island, straight into the welter of people and traffic and noise of Piraeus, was bewildering. You’re immediately accosted by taxi drivers offering you a ‘bargain’ ride to Athens for ‘only’ thirty euros. I fended them off, after asking the way to the Metro: you have to walk across a bridge over the main drag, which is so thick with traffic that you’d never cross it like a normal street. Then into the Piraeus Metro station, which is calm and cool and quiet by comparison. The ticket was only one euro, to Monastiraki Station (the nearest to my hotel), and as Piraeus is the last stop there’s no chance of getting on the wrong train. There were a number of fat, slouching young men hanging about on the platform, but I didn’t give them much thought. I’d tucked my money down at the bottom of an inner pocket of my rucksack after buying my ticket, and zipped-up the zips to the bottom, where I could feel if anyone tried to undo them while I had the rucksack on my back. But as the train came in and we got on, one of these fat young men got on just ahead of me, and immediately stopped, though there was plenty of room in the carriage, and another got on just after me, squashing against my rucksack. In no more than three seconds, I realised they were up to no good, and wriggled away and sat down, to find the zip undone almost to the top of the bag and things falling out. He’d managed to get at my purse, but not enough to get it out of the bag, and after a bit of panicked scrummaging I found it, intact, and breathed a deep sigh of relief. I’d been wondering what I’d do if it had been gone - I hadn’t enough Greek to accuse anyone, would I have made a fuss in English in that crowded carriage? But no need - and I sat just bathing in the relief all the way to Monastiraki station. After that I never went out without chaining the zips together on my rucksack so no one else could pull the same trick. To get around the difficulty of getting at my money, I kept most of it deep inside under everything else and just a couple of ten-euro notes in my front pocket where I could keep track of them.

From the station it was only a short walk to the hotel, which was lovely after the absolute HELL of the streets around Plaka. It’s the oldest part of Athens, and said to be the most picturesque, and certainly it’s convenient for so many of the key things people want to see, but the streets are full of Nigerian men selling junk souvenirs from street stalls and all kinds of grubby, sleazy-looking shops that have seen better days. Plenty of loungers, and I felt it wise not to linger when I was walking. There are, though, lots of lovely looking little restaurants, and I imagine if one were in a party of six or eight it would be a colourful and interesting experience. But not really a place to be a single woman on her own. I tried my best to look as if I probably had a black belt in karate. Perhaps I succeeded, anyway no one bothered me. When I got to the hotel, one of the first things I asked after I’d signed-in was “Is the Acropolis still open?” (It was already three in the afternoon). The girl behind the counter said calmly, “Oh, yes, it’s open till 7.30”. So I dumped my bag in my room, took out the heavy stuff from my rucksack and shot out, clutching the map the hotel receptionist had given me. It was a ten-minute walk to the Acropolis - you could see it from the top floor of the hotel - and as I climbed the ramps leading to the entrance I felt so excited. I’ve been coming to Greece for twenty years at least, but this was my first visit to the most famous of all its monuments. You approach along a pine-wooded path, with lots of signs pointing you in the right direction.

As you climb, the whole of Athens spreads out before you, with the ancient Agora and the temple I always knew as the Theseum just below. The approach to the Propylea - the entrance gate - is a zigzag now, but in ancient times it’s been variously a straight ramp and a more winding way. I kept looking for a ticket office (I didn’t yet know that it was National Museum Day or what that meant) and couldn’t believe it when I found myself climbing up to the Propylea steps without having even seen a place to pay my way, to my complete astonishment.

It was almost too much - The day was perfect for it. bright and blowy and the sun reflecting off a million windows in Athens below. I was utterly ravished, ravished, ravished. I didn’t even get out the guidebook pages I’d carefully prepared back at home, just gobbled it all up, remembering lots of what I’d read anyway. The Parthenon is of course off-limits, having been declared dangerously unstable, but you can get close enough to see the detail. There’s a lot of building and reconstruction and restoration work going on all over the Acropolis, but one is free to walk just about anywhere, and you get the most fabulous views all around, of Athens and the surrounding hills.

And on the whole plateau there’s a wonderful sense of light and space, of being ’above’ all the surrounding area, almost as if floating. I was enchanted most - after just walking around and staring at the Parthenon for ages - by the Erechtheum, the little temple over to one side with the famous caryatid porch, which if you delve into the history a little deeper, you find was really the more important temple on the hill, being dedicated to both Athena and Poseidon, the two presiding deities of Athens. It’s built on a very uneven site, and the way the architects solved the problem of the different floor levels is very clever. You walk around and around it and can’t quite work it out - or I couldn’t anyway. At the far end of the Acropolis hill there is a terrace and flagpole where you can look out over Lykabettos Hill and more of Athens, which surrounds the Acropolis on all sides quite literally as far as the eye can see. I recalled the chilling and very Greek story of the young Greek soldier who was guarding the flag on this terrace when the Germans occupied Athens during the last war; they ordered him to take down the Greek flag and put up the Swastika. He calmly took down the Greek flag as ordered, but then wrapped himself in it and flung himself over the sheer edge. If you look down it makes you go cold to think of it.

I wandered around the whole Acropolis taking pictures of things that had been photographed countless times by countless tourists in past days, yet it had no sense of staleness for me. I had expected to find the experience rather a letdown, foreseeing the usual dampening of the effect by too many other people. But although it was crowded, somehow that made no difference at all; the place itself overcomes you. Standing at the Southern edge, looking down over the ancient theatre where Sophocles and Euripides had first been performed at the ancient festivals, I heard a blackbird singing; I looked to see if I could identify the place where the Long Walls to Piraeus ran in ancient times. But I couldn’t see any sign of them or of where they might have been, and even the guide, when I asked, wasn’t sure where they’d been.

I wanted to stay and stay, but also wanted to see the new Acropolis Museum, which replaces the one situated on the Acropolis itself, now closed and looking sad and deserted. The walk down to the new museum, below the Acropolis but nearby, gave wonderful glimpses all the way of the Parthenon sailing serenely above.

The approach to the new building again uses the technique I saw in the Mycenaean museum in Naxos, as the area of the approach is also of archaeological interest, you walk in over great reinforced glass slabs, looking down at the remains below. I would have stopped to find out more about them, but I knew I had limited time and the museum itself is four floors. I queued up to get in, again for free, though they gave me a ticket and made me leave my rucksack and camera in the cloak room (they let me take my notebook and a pen). Instantly I was seeing many old friends from Art School days, statues and sculptures I’ve seen so often in reproduction, suddenly there in the flesh, so to speak. The Rampin rider, the winged Sphinx, the beautiful calf-bearer, the three Tritons from the ’old’ temple that preceded the Parthenon....lots of others. And on the very top floor, the entire floor was given over to the main ‘procession’ sculptures from the Parthenon, many of course only in cast reproduction, as the originals are in the British Museum, but to see the whole procession as it should be seen, in order, was thrilling, and I can see the argument, now there is a place to show them, for giving back the Elgin marbles....if I could bear the thought of not being able to see them when I go to London.

I just looked and looked, until my bones began to ache - I’d been up since early morning, travelled from Naxos, made my way to the hotel, seen the Acropolis and the Museum, mostly on my feet, and was beginning to flag. On the top floor of the Museum is a cafe, leading out onto a roof terrace from where you can look down over the entrance courtyard, so I sat down and had an elaborate confection of yoghurt and honey, which I always find to be a great reviver. The courtyard was full of preparation for a concert later in the evening, so I lingered (the concert was free too) and found a place on the roof terrace where I could stand and watch. I knew I’d be too tired to stay for the whole concert so didn’t sit in the seats below. There were three singers and a full orchestra; they began with Italian arias, some of my favourites, and went on later to Greek folk songs which had the audience swaying and singing along.

By ten-thirty I was running out of energy. I stopped briefly in the gift shop to look for postcards - I hoped to get some of my favourite pieces, but things aren’t really up to speed there yet and there were very few postcards available, and those only of details of some of the early sculptures. I asked one of the assistants how to get back to Mitropoleos street, where my hotel was, and she began to tell me how to get to the Metro. I said, no, I’d like to walk. I had after all walked to get there and it had only taken a few minutes. She said ‘You can’t walk’ and I said why, is it dangerous? She immediately said no, no, of course not dangerous, just too far. But when I persisted she gave me directions and I only got lost once at the edge of Syntagma Square, and soon found my way back.

My room at the hotel was lovely- more of a suite, with an entrance hall and a separate bathroom and sitting room. The hotel was an old Merchant’s House, of the eighteenth century, and had been converted into a bijou establishment with only a few rooms, all with individual decor (my room was the Santorini room, all in yellow).


The bathroom was pure vintage, a spacious room with a deep enamel bath with Victorian taps and floored with little black and white tiles. In the hallways there were Turkey carpets and chandeliers and some of the walls were frescoed. My room had no view at all, but was wonderfully quiet, and I slept deeply. In the morning I found my way up onto the roof where breakfast was served - you sat looking at the Acropolis, almost near enough to spit at it. It was almost impossible to believe I was there, looking at that view, eating my breakfast. I spoke with an American lady and her husband, staying one night in Athens on their way to their son’s wedding on Santorini. She said they had one of the big rooms overlooking the Acropolis, but the Mitropoleos Cathedral bell rang loudly every hour all night, “and the construction work going on in the square didn’t stop all night either, so we had a wonderful view but no sleep”. I was grateful that I’d been given an inner room after all. I spoke with the waitress, a young girl who said "I see it every day, but I haven’t been up to the Acropolis for years", though she agreed it was a wonderful view. She obligingly took my picture with the Parthenon in the background, and then posed for one herself. Then it was time to gather my things and set off to find the bus to Patras.

15 May - very early. Sounds like everyone in the street is catching the early ferry. Certainly someone in the house was up early, coughing like a consumptive in the last stages of his disease, and sounding like he was throwing everything in the cupboards onto the floor to break it and then into his suitcase, which then (banging the doors and shutters as many times as possible) had to be dragged down the echoing marble stairs bump-bump-bump all the way to the exit. Then a bunch of people from the hotel across the street met up, suitcases in tow, just under my window to exchange pleasantries, in what sounded like a particularly forceful Scandinavian language, about the earliness of the hour (or perhaps they were saying “if we have to be up at this ungodly hour why shouldn’t everyone else be up too?”) I wouldn’t mind so much (after all it is getting on for 6.30) because normally I’d be up anyway anticipating my morning swim, but this morning it’s RAINING of all things so unless I want to be thought totally mad I can’t do that. Of course, this could be Greek rain, the kind that is gone within the hour so you would never know it had been at all. The sky in the West looks promising.

I had a delicious sleep last night, not sure why. Perhaps something to do with going out for a nice relaxing wander in the evening. Hands getting better but still rough. I didn’t know hives could last so long.

I think there’s a strike on in Athens today. If that lot that left so early are on their way to the mainland they’ll have fun when they get there. Hope things are better on Tuesday when I’m on my way again.

I don’t think I’d come back to Naxos unless there was a genuine reason, e.g. a ‘dig’ I could be part of. I don’t find the Naxiots as friendly or as sensitive as some of the other Greeks I’ve met - there’s a pushy rudeness in them which is latent in most Greeks but seems here to tip over into real offensiveness. Perhaps out of Hora people are nicer, but no amount of picturesqueness in a town can make up for a general atmosphere of indifference and even at times insolent dislike. As if we (tourists) were all just a bunch of annoying idiots getting in their way. Of course I understand to some extent, since I’ve felt it myself at the end of the holiday season in Cornwall, but this early in the year they ought to be feeling still moderately friendly, or at least give us the benefit of the doubt.

No - so far the verdict still comes down on the side of the Ionian islands, preferably the more Northerly, less-frequented villages of Corfu, or even Vathy on Ithaca (which seems to have no package tours going to it at all now, at least from the UK) I did love Kalami but am not sure it would be worth doing the same thing again. Perhaps now I'm more experienced (and getting better at travelling light) I should consider ferrying-about from place to place and just staying for as long as I like. I should quite like to see Santorini someday, and could ‘do’ Mykonos and thus Delos too. Maybe fly to Athens, to save all that uninspiring stuff down the leg of Italy (how disgusting that sounds!). Or catch the Patras ferry from Venice.....I would quite like to stay a few days in Paris too, but need to improve my French first.

The sky is clearing; all the raincloud is over in the East now. And the morning bells are all ringing; it’s like a fairytale. Pretty soon the Perfect Prince will ride up on his horse and rescue me from my balcony. And we can both go for a swim.

There’s someone drilling nearby - perhaps I ought to make the most of the coolness of the day and go somewhere.

Midday - I decided to walk to Engares, an inland village which is approached by the coast road for most of the way, the route is supposed to be scenic and it was only about 7km. I must say it was enough to cure one of Naxos forever. The first part of the walk, once you got past the ugly outskirts of Hora, wasn’t bad; the road rose up between the hills and the sea, and the landscape had a certain dramatic spareness to it though no beauty except in the large inhuman scale of it all.

But then you pass the town dump and things never really recover. All along the sides of the road for miles after, there are windblown bags and wrappers festooning the roadside, plus whatever tins and bottles and packets people have contributed from passing cars. And the smallholdings along the roadside have caught the same spirit - anywhere else you would think “po’ white trash”. Tied-up dogs barking frantically as you pass, the most awful piles of cast-off junk all over, rusty fences keeping-in frustrated goats (one little bunch had just escaped its enclosure as I passed, and lit-out along the road like delinquents) A very hot wind had begun to blow, throwing the dust about, and many of the cars that passed not only didn’t bother to swerve out to accommodate someone on foot, but speeded up as they passed, prompting me to mutter epithets to myself. (One little man on a moped passed me three times and waved and smiled all three times, a light in a dark world). The road to Engares is a bit confusing when you get near to the village and at one point I thought I’d missed a turning somewhere but after going back and forth a couple of times I worked out that I actually WAS on the right road. It felt further than I thought it would be, but perhaps it was just something sinister in that hot Easterly wind. (There’s a general strike today too). No one stopped to offer me a lift, and there was a real sense of the locals rather eyeing me suspiciously instead of greeting me as one is used to in Greece. Finally I arrived in Engares and walked through the town - seems to be just one narrow main street with side shoots up and down the hillside - but couldn’t find a main square or even any kind of kafenio open (or shut). I felt it was a town turning its back on me, and it felt oddly appropriate after the uneasy walk through not the most picturesque of countryside, being blown by an unfriendly, dusty wind. So I turned tail. On my way out of the town, on the outskirts I found a cafe, chairs and tables all set out in a courtyard under the trees. I went inside and said timidly (for no one was in sight)‘Parakalo’ (please). A little toothless lady peeped out from a high counter at the back, and I said in careful Greek, “I would like a Greek coffee please”. She just gummed a bit and then said stolidly “Closed.” I said “Kleisto?” (‘closed’ in Greek) and gave up and left, almost in tears, walking up the road muttering ‘how hard would it have been for her to make me one Greek coffee, even I can make Greek coffee for Pete’s sake.” As I passed the sign indicating that you were leaving the village I did what the ancients used to do when a place had been less than welcoming: I stopped and stamped my feet to rid them of the dust of the place, then walked on. I must say it relieved my feelings enormously, though just to be on my way back was a relief, though the same dogs barked at me again along the road and I seemed to pass a lot of dead things: first a hedgehog, then a hooded crow (quite big) and even a large grasshopper. But one lovely live goose who gave me a coy look as I took her picture.

As a sort of last straw, when I was limping back into Hora I had to pass a bunch of little boys, about ten or eleven years old, on a narrow bit of pavement. They had bamboos they were fooling with and I managed to sidestep the inadvertent sharp ends, but then two boys blocking the way (they hadn’t noticed me and had their backs to me) slowed me up. I said ‘parakalo, parakalo’ to get past and as they moved aside, one of the smaller boys ran up and poked me in the backside with his stick, making the others laugh. Obviously they expected me just to ignore it, so when I turned suddenly around and, looking straight at the boy with the stick, walked towards him, he panicked, threw away the stick and ran. The others backed-away, but didn’t run. I just stood and looked at them hard, and then said “it’s not nice, to treat a stranger that way.” (Not that they were likely to have understood me, as I didn’t know how to say it in Greek) I could see there was no harm in them, really, they were just little boys up to mischief, but I was in a mood to give them a fright. I don’t suppose I did much more than confuse them. In a few years’ time they’ll all be disturbing the peace with motorbikes no doubt.

I've arrived back with (despite the socks) two new blisters on my right foot and a lovely big one an inch long on the sole of my left foot. No more long walks for me on this trip, I think, not that there's much more time for them anyway. It's still hazy, and now I've drunk half a litre of water and eaten an ice cream I feel less exhausted. But I feel I've earned the right to be lazy this afternoon.

When I wrote, earlier, about being brave enough to ask about buses and taxis and so forth, I guess I wasn't expecting the Naxiots to be so unfriendly. They're not ALL unfriendly, and I guess one would learn to let it slide off, but why put oneself through it all? Even the fitments of this so-called 'self-catering' studio are indicative of the attitude: not even a bowl to put a Greek salad in (I've been eating mine off plates). Two plates (different sizes), plus a plastic one, two coffee cups (different sizes), two Greek coffee cups (ditto), two razor-sharp knives, two forks, two teaspoons, all oddments. One saucepan, a frying pan and a big pasta pan. One regular sized electric ring and one for the vriki (the little cuplike pot you boil the Greek coffee in), two vrikis, different sizes. Three little ouzo glasses and two tall water glasses. No cutting board, but a big imposing coffee machine which I don't use, nothing to bake in or even make toast. And whenever the cleaners come in, anything I've left on the counter or draining board is put back into the cupboard. One is made to feel a little as if by wanting to "do" for oneself, one is presuming a shade too far. That you should be going out and stuffing yourself at the local restaurants.

Well, enough. Later I might try to paint my 'take' on today's walk. And I have to admit with a wry smile that at least if the place isn't a total success, it will be all the easier to leave on Tuesday morning. One big hooray is that next door is empty again, the table and chairs are gone from the balcony so presumably no one's expected imminently. So I have the balcony to myself again.

3.30 - Put on my swimsuit and went for a wonderful swim. The wind's even stronger, boisterous even, but still very warm, and though for a moment as I walked into the sea I wondered if perhaps I was nuts, I soon decided I wasn't, since once I was in, the water was warmer than the air. When I came back I washed another pile of clothes - practically everything I wasn't actually wearing and they're all drying faster than magic in this wind. Part of me is feeling all sea-washed and relaxed but the other part is getting fidgety and I'm glad I'll be on my way again in a couple of days.

6 p.m. - This hot wind continues to blow - is it a sirocco? It's not what one imagines a meltemi to be like, that implies a gentle soothing coolness. This wind rubs one's edge ragged; it feels as if straight off the desert. However, everything I washed earlier is totally dry now (including my pajamas, which I thought were going to fly away). This Light Travelling only works if you have the facility to wash stuff every day...

Madly sleepy after that ordeal of a walk. Not a road to do on foot; I daresay in a car you can scoot past the ugly bits more quickly - there's a section of it further on which is marked as particularly scenic on my map. But all I'll remember of it is the rubbish by the side of the road and the cobbled-together look of most of the smallholdings. It made the seamier parts of Penzance seem like Beverly Hills.

I've just remembered the name of MULLEIN, a plant I saw along the roadside during my walk and couldn't place; it's one that for some reason I always have trouble recollecting. I knew it started with an M, and thought of every other M-starting name, mellifera, melilot, mallow, etc. But as ever if you let it alone it comes back in its own time.

7.30 - OH DEAR. A whole herd of tourists have just invaded the studios here - so I have neighbours again. They came in a great crowd, presumably from the evening ferry. I think this lot are Germans but haven’t been able to hear the language clearly yet. The worst thing was that as they were all trooping into the place, the proprietor’s father, who was showing them to their rooms, mistook my room for a free one and started to show people in. Fortunately I heard him turning the door handle and went over to the door so that when he opened it I was standing right there. It still startled me; I said “Oh!” very loudly and he said sorry-sorry-sorry and backed out. But as soon as he shut the door I locked it. Wonder if I should put a chair against it as well. I know it was a simple mistake but it’s left me feeling a bit out-in-the-open - especially after today’s experience with that walk. It’s actually started to rain now (only lightly) and I suddenly remembered a humdinger of a thunderstorm that came out of nowhere on the last night on Corfu a few years ago. It made packing to go home an interesting exercise...

I don’t think I like Naxos town an awful lot - maybe it’s because it gets so many German tourists that the people are so guarded. Perhaps they’ve been thinking I’m German? I wouldn’t mind groups of tourists if they were archaeologists or musicians or something. But they never are, they’re always just a lot of people who are a bit overweight, unfit, and look uncomfortable and out of place, who drift from cafe to beach to gift shop and don’t really know about the place they’re visiting. (‘My’ Canadians were exceptions, full of vigour and very lively and interested. Also a nice group of Americans I met in the museum who were interested in everything they looked at.)

I have - I think - discovered what has been making my hands so odd and rashy - it’s the soap powder I’ve been using to wash my things.

Bedtime - It IS the detergent. I had the sense (rather belatedly) to read the instructions. Though it says HAND wash powder (and WITH ALOE VERA), it also says very firmly in smaller print not to allow it in contact with the skin (it actually says ‘wear gloves to use’) and that it is a ‘definite irritant’. Quite scary about getting it into your eyes, glad that hasn’t happened. Daren’t think what it would do to your skin if it didn’t I have Aloe Vera. Anyway no more washing with that stuff - I’ve binned it. Hope my hands recover. They’d never be allowed to sell it in the UK, but here you are expected to use your brains (and you do need them). Funny it’s only the backs of my hands that have reacted, you’d think in between the fingers would be more sensitive.

16 May - Up as early as I can stand this morning. The people next door kept me awake until after 1 a.m., banging and dropping things as they unpacked. They also left their outside light on all night which was mildly distracting. Also, table and chairs had to be brought back up for their balcony, necessitating a performance on the stairs that sounded like herds of elephants being brought in against their will. Then of course that hot horrible wind continued to blow, banging shutters and windows that people had neglected to close, and even blowing the chairs about on the balcony (though thank goodness not the table).

But this morning the wind has died, leaving much cooler air, the sky is clearing, and there’s a Westerly breeze, quite the opposite to last night’s wind. As soon as the sun is a bit more up I’ll venture out for my swim. People are starting to stir now - A man has just come out onto his rather nice-looking top-floor terrace along the street a bit (bet he has a good view of the sea) and had a sniff of the day. His pot belly precedes him as he walks. Yet he looks as if he thinks quite well of himself, on the whole.

Once I realised that my poor hands were suffering because of the soap/detergent, I took out my little tube of antiseptic cream that I brought in my tiny first-aid kit and slathered my frog skin with it. This morning there’s a distinct improvement - I can almost recognise my real hands under the fading lumps.

Brrr- the balcony hasn’t yet got the sun and it’s much cooler today. I’m glad of my fleece.

The “noises off” of Greek life are, when not annoying or outright exasperating, most entertaining. You can never quite work out what the cause is. This morning, despite being Sunday, someone was up early doing something that sounded like re-assembling something large and metallic with many moving parts and no instructions: various clankings and draggings, though uncharacteristically no shouting.

The Naxiots have a nice way of disguising large spaces of concrete by painting them in white windowpane checks, or random white lines. It simulates the crazy paving one sees elsewhere in the Old Town, even down to thresholds, and little edgings painted-in, and dresses up what would otherwise would look really rather substandard. In the Burgos, all the paths, or most of them, are paved in grey slatey-looking slabs with white in between, and along all the paths up or down there are small runnels carved, about an inch wide and less than an inch deep, along the centres of the paths to take off rainwater.

The people next door are out now on their balcony, talking in quiet voices. It doesn’t sound exactly like German, nor up-and-down enough for Swedish, nor I think Danish as it’s not that guttural. Nor is it Dutch. Maybe it’s Swiss German?

Later - Back from my swim. The sun went behind a cloud just as I was getting to the beach but I was brave and went in anyway and it was the same magic although a bit cooler. The water was still all stirred-up from yesterday's wind, but just as silky, and the beach had been washed smooth by the higher waves it had created - I guess that's the only chance Mediterranean beaches get to be cleaned, with no tides to speak of.

I thought Sunday would be a day of rest for the cleaning ladies but Kyria Skoupiso (Mrs Sweeping) is out there doing battle as usual. I shall go out in a bit for some food and then I mean to sit and paint until the day's nice and hot and then maybe another swim.

By the harbour, 9.35 a.m. - Came down to watch the boats for a bit and am just having a Greek coffee, though the guy serving in this cafe made it quite plain that though open, and with no other customers, he'd rather have a yeast infection than serve me quickly or politely. There are two ferries in port including a Blue Star ferry, possibly the one I'll be on when I go back to the mainland on Tuesday. People are beginning to crawl out of their holes now. Earlier, walking about in the Burgos, I came upon a Greek Orthodox church just letting-out after the service and outside the gate of the churchyard a local fishmonger had set up a sort of rough stall with the latest catch - stout black-clad ladies were clustering around him to have a look and maybe bag a bargain. I saw the same chap on my way back from Engares the other day, in his shop, cutting up fish at his outdoor counter, with two moggies waiting hopefully on the pavement a little way back. I only just got a quick photo of it on my phone, since as soon as he saw I was trying to photograph him, he went into the back and hid. I expect he gets sick of tourists just taking his picture and never buying any fish.

I've just been watching two cruisers changing berths in the harbour - how nice and graceful medium-sized boats are! I don't know how anyone could prefer any other mode of transport, at least in fine weather.

I got a glimpse of the female half of my new neighbours this morning, just before I went out. She was just out on the balcony when I went out to hang up towels but nipped back inside quite quickly; smallish, rather tired-looking but meek, I'd say. Short brown hair, Not young or particularly fit but at least not FAT.

Later - was in 'my' little market buying some food, and the nice little man there - my 'box man' - asked if I would come back to Naxos and I said honestly, "I don't know". I said that not everyone was friendly - told him how I couldn't even get a coffee or a bottle of water in Engares and he looked genuinely upset and said "Some people are not good." But I said they were always nice to me in his shop. When I got back I sat on the slightly-too-breezy balcony (though it's not that sirocco wind anymore thank goodness) and did a from-the-heart rendition of the walk to Engares with my paints, all browns and ochres and spiky thistles. By the end I was so into it I felt quite sick by association, and tried to focus on the positive and memorable things I’ve got from the stay here instead. I wouldn’t say I wish I hadn’t chosen Naxos, there are too many things I’d have been sorry to miss, but I have to say that I’ve about had enough of it now and will be happy to be moving on in a couple of days.

Later again, 3 p.m. on my little beach - Came down after lunch just to bask and read. I would have swum too but it’s so rough and windy and I don’t feel up to getting all wet and then having sand blown all over me. Earlier when I’d fallen asleep for a bit I was woken by voices and looked up to see nearby an American guy with (presumably) his wife photographing a single yellow horned poppy growing nearby. He’ll be surprised when he starts to look about, at how many more there are. There were whole drifts of them on my way to Ayia Anna. Then while I was reading, still lying on my front, I watched a little buzzy helicopter flying from the Ayios Prokopios direction; it circled around and then for a second or two I thought it was going to land right next to my little beach. But it just came in very low, and tilted so the people inside were clear to see. The man nearest to opening was wearing a red t-shirt; I waved, and he held up a camera and took my picture! How odd - there are far more nubile young ladies over on the main beach, though I suppose that from a distance me lying on my fish-patterned scarf reading a book in solitary splendour might have looked moderately picturesque. Anyway it was a moment of excitement for me...

Something I forgot to record about the walk to Engares - I found out on the way back that reciting poetry etc as you walk really DOES make it easier to cover the ground. I did the whole of Tennyson’s Ulysses and chunks of Umbrellas of Cherbourg (there was no-one to hear my singing) and the time just flew by.

My hands are still like lizard-skin but no more irritation - no itching. I have an idea that the layer that was so irritated will eventually peel off. Leaving smooth unblemished young-looking hands. I don’t think. But the top layer feels more and more like leather every day.

Had a brilliant idea that if I get any more trouble from little boys (not that I expect it) I’ll not stop at just turning on them, I’ll point a magic finger and recite a few stanzas of Tennyson. It’s good ringing stuff and they’ll think I’m putting a spell on them. (Or that I’m completely dotty).

Late - Just after eleven p.m. Can't sleep, the room's just too hot, so I've decided to risk it and open the doors to the balcony but close the shutters and keep the mosquito-net-like curtains across the space. The wind's still pretty strong; one can't imagine mozzies being able to navigate in it. If the room cools down I can sleep with the sheet over me anyway and the sound of the wind and the sea through the slats in the shutters is soothing. I stepped out for a minute to look at the sky - it's all stars, so perhaps a fine day tomorrow.

I would have been asleep hours ago but there's been the usual banging and shouting downstairs. One HUGE crash that shook the building and woke me up. It's like staying in a prison. Of course most of the building is marble so everything echoes,

Lights off again.....