14 May - By eight this morning I was out on my way to the beach for a swim. I had the foresight to bring a safety pin to pin my door key to my wrap and I finally discovered the quickest way to the beach - so simple, and I realised I'd been going "all round the houses" - which brought me out on a stretch near a wooden what looked like a lifeguard stand, so I draped my scarf and towel on that to prevent any more canine frolics. I was a bit earlier this morning and the water felt cooler and the air hadn't yet warmed up as much, but once I got in it was just the purest glorious bliss. The water was calm and like silk and I had the entire bay to myself. It's shallow so far out that you can get right away from the land and yet still be within your depth, and of course it's so much saltier than the Atlantic that floating is no problem at all, even for me, a notorious straight-to-the-bottom person. I swam and swam, just back and forth in the delicious caressing water. Floating on my back, I heard a church bell in the town sounding through the golden air, and then a single gull flew overhead in the utterly clean, placid blue sky. The landscape was still a bit demure and distant in its morning haze- it was all the things I love best about places Greek, and without all the shouting and banging that goes on every day. That something so utterly delicious can also be good for you seems too good to be true.

Practical things to do today; change money, and try to post that package, or at least find out where the Post Office is and when it's open. How difficult can it be to send a parcel? I had packed it all in a rather flimsy box I got from the textile lady, but when I was in my 'favourite' supermarket, the chap behind the counter, hearing that I was needing a box to post things in, offered me a selection of much sturdier boxes and I could see that he would have been deeply wounded if I hadn't taken a great deal of trouble to choose the best one and accept it from him. So although my box now weighs rather more than it did, his box being much heavier, I can at least be sure my things will survive the journey home. I hope.

On my way back from the beach I passed an old man sweeping a gateway - a wonderfully typical Greek 'type': moustache, long-sleeved shirt, brown seamed face; and when I said poli orea, thalassa, (very beautiful, the sea) and indicated over my shoulder towards the beach, he grinned and said to me 'Thee See?' and nodded in agreement.

My hands still look like lizard skin but at least they have stopped itching. I know someone who gets this from cold water, but she gets it all over her body, and my hands are the only thing that went funny last night and they haven't been anywhere near cold water. I'm inclined to think it was too much sun and heat - that walk was pretty hot and airless during the last bit yesterday.

The shower in this studio is wonderful: it's the whole bathroom's width with just the curtain dividing it from the rest of the room - so nice when you come in all sandy and salty, you can just strip off in situ, as it were, and wash everything along with yourself. I was brilliant this morning after my swim; left BOTH towels not just in the room but out on the balcony, so when I finished showering I had nothing to dry myself with and no way to get at the towels except by creeping out in the buff onto the balcony. Saved it by nipping into my clothes slightly damp...you can get rid of a lot of the wet with a well-wrung-out facecloth. But I'll try not to make that mistake again.

simera zesti - it's hot today.

Later - nearly midday - After my trek into Hora; tried two banks on the main drag before giving up and going to the Alpha Bank again - in the first one, I think it was called the Europe Bank, a nice man who looked a little like Nessim from the Alexandrian Quartet came up to me as I came in and said very politely, could he help me. When I asked if I could change some money, he said I should go to the National Bank down the road. So I went there, and as I came in, I asked a girl at a desk near the door if I could change money there. She was a big blowsy girl with long snaky hair like a Cretan goddess, but her face was more like a gorgon, all puffy and too-much made-up. (I've noticed that people in banks on Naxos all look so harassed and overstretched, or they look as if they've given up on their standards - the women look as if they haven't even bothered to comb their hair when they got up, and even in the Alpha Bank, which is much more posh and imposing inside with proper counters and tellers' windows, the tellers were eating or drinking coffee while they were dealing with customers) Anyway she said in an offhand way that I could change money but would have to use desk number four. So I got in the queue, such as it was, and waited with a certain amount of unease as to what I should do if one of the other windows came free when it was my turn. Then after about five minutes I saw a woman who had just come in take a ticket from a machine and realised that we were all meant to have numbered tickets. At this I gave up in despair and walked up instead to the Alpha Bank where I got in a queue behind a woman and two ENORMOUS men, one just large in a husky way (and with those Greek bedroom eyes that imply the guy is a sex machine but always just make me giggle), and the other one tall, heavy-set, and really fat. Then another big guy came up behind me, crowding me as Greek men do in queues, as if, if he pushed in sufficiently abruptly, I'd just let him go ahead of me....NOT. So there I was, one little tourist lady sandwiched between these giants. Finally a window came free but the guy behind it said I'd need one of the other windows to change money - he reassured me that I didn't have to go to the end of the queue again (which was about ten people by now) but just wait by the counter. Fortunately I got the lesser po-faced of the two women tellers and got an even better exchange rate than before. I even had a chat with the woman about her little girl, after admiring a colourful and childish drawing she had stuck up on the wall of her cubicle. Then I looked-in on my textile woman who told me where to find the Post Office, and I went along to get an idea of how much it was going to cost me to send a box to England. This was a performance in itself. First I peeped-in at the open window of the Post Office, where there was a man sitting behind a desk, to ask if they would be open on Monday (lots of things in Hora close on Monday). But this little man just got excited and shouted "Porta! Porta!" at me, pointing to the door, which was like just anyone's house door with nothing on it to indicate that it was the way in. So in I came. There was a customer - a man - at the only open counter having something very complicated done to piles of documents and envelopes; he was chatting amiably with the guy behind the counter but I was next in line and thought (foolishly) that he couldn't be there forever. But then a woman came and opened another counter and some man just marched past me and went up to it. No one said anything and I didn't have enough Greek to argue; I did think, though, that if that man were in my position in an English queue he'd be treated with more politeness than he'd treated me. He wasn't a very nice looking man either, he was clean enough but dark and oily with the hard stare of someone who knows he's in the wrong. He lounged against the counter while the girl printed-out some documents for him; at one point she picked up her keyboard and turned it upside down and banged it on the table, trying to dislodge something. He watched this indifferently, and then counted out a wad of notes, flick, flick, flick; I couldn't see the denomination but suspect they were 50 euros each - he counted out ten, twice, and thrust the bundle over the counter. Probably sending money to a poor relation in the UK. As he started to look like he was about finished, another man got up from a chair all casually and sauntered-up to stand next to him and chat. He was holding a piece of paper and I knew what he was up to. As the first one left, the second one smoothly stepped up to the counter and put the piece of paper across to be dealt with. Before I could even get angry, a woman from the queue behind me leapt at this man and plucked at his sleeve and angrily said something in Greek, indicating me (I heard the word 'kyria' - and presumed she'd said 'this lady was waiting before you, it's her turn') The guy, who looked like Anthony Quinn but taller, looked up with wounded innocence as if he'd only just seen there were other people there, and stepped back for me. Having established that the girl behind the counter spoke English I explained that I wanted to post a box on Monday and she asked how much would it weigh, four, five kilos? I said five, about, and she worked out what that would cost. Rather a lot, but worth it for me not to have to lug things I don't need all the way across Europe.

That episode really took it out of me; it was boiling hot and stuffy in the Post Office and by the time I'd finished the sweat was just running down the backs of my legs. Anyway of course when I got back the cleaning lady was in full swing in my room - she scooted-out pretty quickly when she realised I was back to stay for a bit, mopping her way out the door. There's a phenomenal amount of sweeping and mopping done every day - our marble staircase is washed daily, and at the hotel across the street there seem to be two full-time women-with-brooms always sweeping, sweeping. It's needed, though - the fine sand on the beach is so dusty, and the beach so near, that it creeps in all the time.

5 p.m. - No interest at all in going out this afternoon; a combination of not enough sleep last night, a very hot afternoon, and a desire to improve the shining hour by working on my painting. I did another two, one of which is ok I think. Hands still look horrible, but a bit of urticaria seems a small thing to fret about.

I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m never going to be like the usual holiday person, if only because I don’t at all miss going out to restaurants to eat in the evenings, even if it means I have to rustle up something simple in the tiny kitchenette here. If I HAD to go out, for example with a partner or companion, I think I’d find it quite stressful and unsettling. How odd I must be, though, that something most people consider to be one of the basic pleasures of a holiday should for me be a good example of mild torture?! I’ve tried to unravel this, and I think it’s a mixture of reasons - the idea of spending on food more than absolutely necessary, along with the fact that there’s no guarantee what you get will be palatable- and perhaps a hangover from a holiday I once had where I only had six days there and one of them was lost because of an upset after a dodgy meal the night before. So I stick to my Greek salads and bread and cheese. And Greek chocolate.

So what do I consider to be the basic pleasures of holidays? For this one, the discovery of the Sanctuary of Dionysus the other day. Wandering about the town and unpicking the history of the place, thinking myself back into that era, imagining how it might have been. Getting out early before anyone else is about, having my morning swims to myself. Doing a painting that comes from deep down , somewhere subconscious, that when you look again, is “alive.” (I think so far three of the eleven I’ve done are genuinely “alive”) Achieving that near-marathon walk and actually managing to see the two statues I’d set out to see. Even making something good out of a seemingly wasted exercise, like the walk to Ayios Prokopios, when I discovered the headland and the little chapel of St Nicholas.

7.15 - A foray out to buy tomatoes and water, and a few last-minute gifts. I walked back along the harbour and the path by the sea - there were little steps down to a place where you could perch on the rocks, so here I am, watching the sun set in calm peace. Well - not quite set, though it’s 7.15 it’s still got a way to fall before it hits the horizon. But the evening warmth is kinder than today’s roasting. There’s a man rowing a little boat out of the harbour quite slowly, as if he were thinking of something else. It must be uber-peaceful out there on the water. One gull on one rock. A fishing boat going out, looking Cornish except for being so colourful. The sea-defence along here is gi-normous chunks of white marble - wonderful, that people use whatever comes to hand and here it should just happen to be the purest white marble... As the sun sinks the distant outline of Paros - or is it the southern tip of the bay here? - is turning pale yellow, the haze of distance stained with pure light. If I had the patience to wait, I might see the green flash - the sun seems on target to set just where Paros and the neighbouring island leave a clear stretch of sea at the horizon. There’s a cloud formation above like a headless traffic cop...

I was just staring down at my feet wondering if that was actually a rockpool (the water’s so clear you can’t see it) when a little crab no bigger than an inch peeped out from under the only pebble there. But when I moved, ever so slowly, to get my camera, he instantly reacted by nipping back under again, and he hasn’t dared come out again yet... Now he's come out again and looks like he’s pulling tiny things off the rock and eating them. He came all the way up to the edge of the water, right by my toe. Too much haze for the green flash. Sun is about to disappear behind it. Time to go back.