Chris and I are just back from two glorious weeks on Zante. Yes that is the Greek island that includes Laganas. Yes that is one of the top three Greek resorts for mindless, drunken Brit boy and girl gang action. But yes it has direct flights from Scotland (unlike our previous favourite island of Ithaca which was reluctantly ruled out for future holidays after a delayed and then disconnecting journey home from hell via Gatwick one year). And yes, you don't need to go anywhere near the southern resorts (where incredibly turtles manage to lay eggs in the sand inches away from the drunken hordes). We went flight only, picked up a hire car at 5am (why do all the flights seem to leave and arrive at such godforsaken hours) and since it was St Dionysssious Day (the patron Saint of Zaknythos) the hotels were full so we slept on a quiet beach till a room came available at 9am.
The next day Villa Askos was ready for us thirty miles up in the north of the island – and it was worth the wait. Sula and her family have painstakingly re-built an old hillside, mill house with a beautiful garden (the family spend three hours on a Sunday night watering) – and a pool. Perfection. Add to that nae phones, nae internet, nae hassle, and unbelievably nae mosquitoes – and the proximity of a wonderful swimming/snorkelling point at the foot of cliffs beside the Blue Caves – and you are laughing like a drain.
Utter luxury. We felt a bit guilty exploring the mountainous east coast to see how fires raging three days before we arrived had been stopped just 400 yards short of one village. Everyone suspected tourists, but the taverna owner in the nearly blitzed village thought cigarette ends flicked out of car windows by chain smoking locals were more likely to blame. Indeed that week, grass cutting machines were out reducing the crackling dry, bleached stubble on the verge to a smooth shave.
The weak pound made things expensive – no doubt. But the freedom in Greece to swim anytime and anywhere is still an unbeatable experience. And it's real -- it kind of breaks my heart to drive through small, traditional villages and pass old women sitting in the baking heat wearing black from head to foot, urging a stop to buy olive oil or wine. There's only so much olive oil a girl can drink – and we are both boring old teetotallers. But driving past people trying so hard to connect, communicate and sell – it just felt callous and rude (to me). Anyway, there's nothing more annoying than hearing about someone else's holiday – especially if you fell for the BBQ summer line and nearly drowned in Elgin instead. So enough already. Noses back to the grindstone. Rather tanned noses.
Comments