Get your cuppa tea on the go, and settle in. This is part one of a two-day special.

“Italian village to impose fines of up to €200 on tourists with bare chests or in swimwear.”

That was a headline in a major newspaper yesterday. It goes on to say: A fishing village by Lake Como has imposed fines of up to €200 for people who wander around with bare chests or in swimwear, in the latest attempt by an Italian holiday destination to crack down on uncouth tourists.

To start us off, we’re talking at the beach. What happens after is set out in tomorrow’s nonsense. For now, I simply wanted to set the scene.

Obviously, if you are going for a swim on a Symi beach, you will find all the necessary amenities available to you. (Now including disabled access in Pedi and Yiala, with a steaming plastic box nearby in which to change, and, I heard tell, possibly a WC.) As well as this modern addition, there are the wheeled bathing huts into which a lady may step and change into her all-in-one Princess Bathing Suit, before the little old man turns the winch and rattles the box on wheels to the water’s edge, so the lady can demurely slip from hut to water without being seen. Not that she will be, as all the men would have turned their backs so as not to risk becoming amorously inflamed a stray ankle. Those men, of course, are already dressed in their full-body, blue-striped Maillot suits, with caleçons beneath for the daring. They have their straw boaters at a jaunty angle, and with handlebar moustaches waxed, and propriety covered, they are ready for a snifter of bracing seawater.

Such bathers take to such waters in whatever attire they might choose, and are free to do so. As for other bathers in Symi waters, they make for a fascinating multiplicity of sights, not only of the bathers themselves, but also of their manner of bathing. Observe:

On one side of the beach, we see the youthful set of young men down from the mountain barracks on a day off from learning how to kill people. There they are, crammed four to a sunbed with two frappes between them, and with much chat and laughter, they study the debutante potential bathing in close proximity. They need not look far, for closer still is the group of wannabe models and influencers from (by way of a non-prejudiced example) Italy. perfectly proportioned in limb, aware of their own beauty and showing every inch of it, apart from the place of most interest to the young servicemen. As ladies of all ages do these days, they keep the upper storey completely exposed to the sun, and to sons of all ages who might stop by for a parley, a point, or a perv. After some penetrating conversation heard by all temporary residents of the strip of shingle, the younger set quieten into slippery masses of coconut-smelling oil, and lie in their own thoughts, enjoying the attentions of the second battalion currently scrapping together enough farthings for one more frappe, as it will buy them more time to carry out their recce and plan their pincer movement.

Moving along to the next oasis of plastic, canvas, steel and bamboo, we witness the longevity of the northern races. To wit, the perfectly preserved Scandinavians of the middle age practicing the yoga positions learnt that sunrise atop a mountain, heads to the stones, bottoms to the sky, legs to the shoulder, dignity to the wall, a bottle of Special Edition Evian Pure warming beside them, and healthy (organic) fruit ready for the feasting. Beach dress sense? Mildly practical, but contoured to fit only the fit, and show off hours of hard physical work in the gym and various health classes. The middle-aged-and-beyond middle Europeans and British come next with their charming display of big top canvas barely covering the cheap food diet of many years. The landscapes of their homeland have, over the centuries, become ingrained in their physicality. Thus, we witness the rolling hills and deep folds of the valleys, the craggy peaks of past indulgence, and the green and pleasant land of Blake’s imagination, which has become a bilious and pendulous landslip. This is all laid bare with only a little modesty covered, and only then because of a sound early-life training in Victorian ethics.

We may turn our attention to the activity in the water, and there find the various types of aquatic dwellers a summer island attracts. There is the circle of matrons of many nationalities, taking their exercise with feet firmly planted on the seabed, upper storeys in various states of decline exposed or otherwise, but bobbing just above the waterline, and their bodies benefitting from the highly aerobic actions of finger waving the surface as they chat. They stand in marked contrast to the serious bather who is off to complete his third circuit of the entire bay in his (or her, or [preferred pronoun]) daily ritual of ‘Can do so will do.’

There are many others, of course: The tenacious toddler set free to shatter the peace of strangers and learn for himself (herself, [preferred pronoun-self if old enough]) that investigations can lead to reprisals, and that one’s scream is the greatest weapon against being ignored. There’s the family who have brought plastic lilos, foam tubes and other undegradable excesses all the way from the garden shed via Buzz Airlines, and have set up a temporary market stall of balls, bats, buckets, spades, hampers, tote bags, towels, wet wipes, ‘snax’, bottles, ointments, creams, books, Kindles, newspapers, and loud video games — but very little clothing.

Towards the end of the bay — and this could be any bay anywhere here, there or in our imaginations — we find the one who got it right. The solo (or couple or [preferred pronouns] etc.) who find peace in their own solitude, and who, with respect for their bathing companions, sets himself (herself… ffs, you get the idea) away from the circus in order to find that inner peace so easily offered by an island like Symi, but so easily shattered by the tourist hungry for the same. There, beside the trickle of the sea, an eon-ago-crafted piece of igneous rock provides a free resting place on which to lay a towel. Toes teasing the lapping water’s edge, biodegradable sun lotion simply applied, a large straw hat protecting the head from the sun, and a suitable, nay, respectable attirement of beachwear about the person. Perfect peace, tranquillity, self-absorption, totally content and becoming one with nature, until it is time to leave perfection in search of the rest of the afternoon.

And that’s where the problems started in that village in Italy. That’s where we’re heading with this, and we will head there in tomorrow’s post. From the beach to the catwalk. Don’t be late.

Be cautious, because we are now in wildfire season. I wanted to direct you to some Greek newspaper reports out of interest, and I’d seen them on the Symi Dream Facebook page, but when I went back, they had been replaced by adverts for all manner of things that could not be further removed from the topic of the page.

Every now and then, I cull the adverts and unwanted/irrelevant posts, and that was this morning while I searched for the news item I wanted to share. These ‘you might also like’ things, as far as I can see, are completely pointless and a drag. I spend a good twenty minutes now and then just scrolling through and hitting the X button to get rid of them. After a while of this, we get less naff clutter on the page and more Greek-related things we actually follow. That doesn’t last for long, though, before the desperate influencers and advertisers are back. Here is part of my early morning summary:

Lots of non-related posts from lots of people ‘I might like to follow,’ Pizzas from New Jersey, hideously defined creatures competing in a ‘body shaping’ contest which reminds me of Colin Clive proclaiming, ‘It’s alive!’ in James Whale’s Frankenstein (1931), random posts from small sports organisations such as a bowls club in Warwick. Irish colleges’ reunion photos, and an Australian beach community day out, a beagle rescue centre (cute, but no), various adverts for non-Greece related items from fashion to football, an animal trust, something pointless from California… Only one question about all of this: Why?

About 20 posts later, finally a piece from a Greek newspaper in English that I do follow, and then back to the pointless adverts: ‘Create your own music with AI’ (it won’t be your music; get out your quill and manuscript paper), more effing football…

Finally, a piece from Greek City Times reminding us of that night in 2004 when Greece won the Euro Cup. We were in Rainbow with the crowd that night. Previously, Yiannis had been so excited Greece had made the semi-final, he put his icon on the floor, got on his hands and knees to worship it, bowed low and fervently, and just about broke his nose on the tiles in his enthusiasm. We were only talking about the incident the other day. Anyway…

Back to adverts from posh holiday lets on other islands. Got to love these: ‘Experience the real Greece’ type things showing you shimmering infinity pools overlooking the Santorini caldera, impossibly perfect women floating dreamily past in white samite (or Temu man-made, it’s hard to tell), bowls of perfect fruit littering the place in soft focus, the occasional croissant on a table, a hazy horizon over the blue waters of the Caribbean (eh?) and all those other things one finds in ‘authentic’ Greece. (I found a dead cockroach in the kitchen sink on Sunday morning; does that count as authentic?)

And then we’re back to the rubbish: An ‘influencer’ exploring Spain (so what?), a tip for how to clean the runners of your sliding doors, another bimbo ‘influencer’ thinking I’ll be influenced by her trout pout, ‘Naval Nostalgia’, something in Japanese, various video games for your EggBox, or whatever it’s called, more football…

Again, a Greek online newspaper. Yay! A different one this time, but the same story: wildfires breaking out in the north and on some islands (there have been some on Rhodes already) a warning that even if you drop a cigarette and set fire to thousands of Euros worth of something, even if it’s an accident, you will be fined and imprisoned. So, watch yourself if smoking on the balcony, or as you’re walking around town (who does that?), or if you are considering dropping your Coke bottle or anything else without anyone seeing, because anything can cause a spark, which can start a fire which, around here, will be virtually impossible to put out quickly. We have a fire hydrant just up the steps from us, which is reassuring to know. Not so reassuring to know is that the fire truck can’t fit into our lane, so it’s never going to hook up to it, not even in an emergency, but there you go.

Anyway… As usual, I didn’t mean to go off down that route, and the serious message of the day should be about staying safe and not starting a fire, not even by accident.

For Greek news in English, look up: https://www.ekathimerini.com/

Or:

Greece Records 33 Wildfires in One Day, Four Arrested

The other day, I was wandering through some of the social media pages dedicated to Symi, to see if anyone had brought up any interesting thoughts or had a question I might address, and I found one post asking what it would be like to holiday on Symi in December. With some holiday companies now extending their operations into the later months of the year, I thought, ‘Why not December?’ It can be a wonderful time of year here, though it’s doubtful a holiday in the winter would be anywhere near the same as a holiday in, say, June or even October. Not impossible, and rather an adventure, but there are things you’d have to look out for.

Getting here, for example. With charter flights and airlines not available at that time of year, you’d have to get yourself to Rhodes with another airline. We use Aegean (my favourite), because it’s about all we have in the winter. There may be other airlines using Rhodes in December, but I’ve only ever had to get to Athens and then onwards, and you can get to and from Athens around three times a day throughout the winter. There, you change for other countries, but those connections may not be daily. So, a scheduled flight into Rhodes is your first task. Then, you have to get across to Symi.

This, naturally, you do by boat, but in the winter, we have a limited supply of ferries. Gone are the 14 + crossings a day by various summer boats, some of which you can’t use one-way anyway, and we’re down to three Blue Star crossings (usually, Monday, Wednesday, Friday), and maybe one or two with Dodekanisos Seaways (weekends, I seem to remember, but the timetables can change). As the most regular/reliable service is Blue Star, you leave Rhodes in the later afternoon. If your flight arrives before, say, three, on a boat day, you might make the evening ferry, if not, you will have at least one night in Rhodes. There will be plenty of local hotels open; those used for conferences, locals, and general travellers, as opposed to seaside places.

We have to assume the weather hasn’t turned and left you stranded in Rhodes for five days, as happened to us once when coming back from Romania, though this was in April, when the weather is more inclement. Had we known we would have been able to see the island and the boat that was due to take us there, and yet, not been able to get anywhere near either, we’d have stayed in Transylvania, because it was (then) cheaper. But, we got here.

Try and book a Symi taxi in advance, as they will be in short supply at six pm on a winter’s night, and it’s a fair hike from the port to the cab rank (which will be empty) and the bus stop (where there should be one or maybe two bus runs of an evening), or else, it’s a walk, or a pickup from your host, assuming you have found one.

You shouldn’t have any trouble finding somewhere to stay, though you’ll have to hunt around the listings. Every other granny flat and derelict workshop is now an Airbnb, it seems (some friends recently stayed in what used to be the shoe shop on the main road, others in what was once a storeroom), though the larger hotels will be closed.

As for entertainment, you will find some places in the village open all year round, though operating on half a shoelace. The big taverna in Horio stays open, and places like the Secret Garden and the Sunrise remain operating (bar holidays for the owners), Scena, too, is usually open and still serving food, and one year, Niki’s Kitchen was open in the winter, but it wasn’t last winter, so I’m not sure. Down in Yialos, it’s a similar story with only a very few (one or two) tavernas open, some of the bars, and maybe a giros shop or two. Elpida’s is a very popular place all year round, and there are several others. You may, though, be having a drink behind plastic with your feet in water as the rain lashes, and you wonder, ‘What to do now?’

You can go for walks, you could try the sea for a swim, you could check out if there are any festivals taking place, you could sit in a bar all day and drink your pension, or just wander the village and harbour and explore the fishing boats and general ‘Isn’t it cold?’ and ‘Wet again,’ kind of winter vibe the island has.

It will be an adventure, but remember, it will not be easy to get here (all part of the adventure), you may get weather-stranded in Rhodes, or here on the way back, and there’s not much ‘touristy’ going on. But, there are always local things happening (especially around the Christmas and New Year weeks) with a Christmas market, some concerts in the square, church services, fireworks on NYE night and so on.

Oh, and dress warm. It can get down to 5° in the winter, and your accommodation won’t have carpets, central heating and other northern comforts you might be used to. All the same, enjoy! (And bring a good book.) Oh, and did I mention the rain? Bring a sou’wester.

Oh dear. Look, no offence, but if you are going to use AI to create a post, or if you are going to copy and paste someone else’s, please don’t make it one created by a machine that has fed off the writing of thousands of talented people and then, in a very untalented way, put it back into a completely farcical set of words.

I am referring, without prejudice, to a post on a social media group/page that purported to be talking about Symi. It has appeared a few times in various places, and perhaps people share it because they can’t tell that it is AI at work. Let me give you a few examples from the translated text (the original is in Greek); a few things that prove it was regurgitated by a computer and not thoughtfully composed by a creative human. (Ps. This is only for a bit of fun, and not a slight against whoever has used this text and shared it.)

For a start, in one place, when talking about the island generally, the text line says: You don’t read her story, you listen to it. Apart from making me think, ‘What on earth does that mean?’ I note that Symi is female. A little later, she has transitioned. She’s not just beautiful. He has energy. Then we have the rather worrying, … stone courtyards that smell of basil, worn steps that lead you up or inside you.
Worn steps that lead inside you? Carry on Up the Khyber Pass, perhaps?
Holding hands with that rare silence that only companionship has when words are not needed. [Reaches for sick bag.] That’s the kind of drivel you might read in an AI-generated Regency romance novel, all heaving breasts and ripping Empire lines, no plot, no character development, only saccharine words that not even Dame Barbara Cartland would have dictated from her chaise.

… cats that were sleeping like queens on terraces and benches. Ah yes, a reference to that time when Good Queen Bess found herself homeless in Chatham and had to kip in the park.
… discovering corners forgotten by the world, yet so alive. Don’t overdo the hyperbole, love. Forgotten? Not by the thousands of day trippers and cruise passengers, regular visitors, not to mention us 3,000 inhabitants, and if there is a forgotten corner, it will soon have another Airbnb built on it.

We got lost in hidden chapels and sheltered bays, leaving behind us only our laughter and the sound of exhaust. The. Sound. Of. Exhaust. [Thinks for a moment, and imagines the Honda 125 that screams past the house at 3.00 in the morning, leaving behind the stink of burning engine oil.] Nice.

Along the way, our gaze became a pilgrimage. Now we’re getting into the realms of Oscar Hammerstein II and some of his classic lyrical writing. I cite: [My heart wants…] To sing through the night like a lark who is learning to pray. (The Sound of Music.) A lark who is learning to do what now? Ah! Kneeling at a prie-dieu with a rosary in its wings… Come on, Oscar, you can do better than that.

The AI word vomiter, sadly, cannot.

We reached Archangel Michael the Roukouniotis and got lost in that silence that only stone monasteries near the sea can offer. It’s inland, babe. Were you using Google Maps?

Next comes a different, old, ecstatic pilgrimage that I first read as ‘elastic,’ and a quietness that was not just silence. Er… There’s a difference between quietness and silence, isn’t there? In this case, quietness is clearly made up of silence and something else, therefore rendering it neither quiet nor silent. I’m confused.

… we stood reverently, not out of obligation, but out of a sense of deep inner silence.

We remained silent.

… the prayer of the Aegean sailors could still be heard. (They only had the one prayer between them, but it was apparently loud enough to break this interminably noisy silence from which the island apparently suffers.)

The sea of ​​Symi is crystal clear, a mirror of the sky. Your average Symi sky comes with clouds, chem trails from planes, the occasional helicopter, drones and Sahara dust clouds. On the upside, we do see ravens, hawks, migrating birds, incredible sunrises and sets, turtle doves and so on – but not mirrored in the sea.

The post goes on, endlessly taking us into realms of quiet silence through the treacle of nonsensical embellishment… And on. And on. And runs for so long, only a pedant like me would read it. But as for the remaining highlights:

She wasn’t just clean. O…kay. What else was she then?

… small vessels that seemed to have come out of a Greek black and white, picturesque, as if they had a soul. What? Has Trump now taken over the AI machine?

Every shoreline and a sigh of joy. [Inserts about-to-vomit emoji.]

And the sun is warm, sweet, like a caress as it sears the skin of whiter than white tourists, turning it to the raw red of our childhood skimmed knees and silent moments of Greek joy like we used to know in another person’s life of such tranquillity and reflected sky. (I put that in so when an AI snout comes a-snouting, it won’t know what the hell to make of this.)

And so on and so on… Until we take a very extended excursion, There, in Marathon, among the few pine trees… According to Google Maps, Marathon is a 640 km drive away, but there is a road joining it directly to Symi if you don’t mind driving over water. But, whatever…

This line, on its own, possibly cribbed from Gerard Manley Hopkins or another Jesuit poet: As a souvenir from the times of radio, fishing line and family Sundays.

I’ll leave that conundrum with you because, quite frankly, I’ve had enough of this drivel.

Perhaps, now, you can see why I am so against generative AI. (The thing you use when you want to become a published author overnight, so you type in ‘Write me a successful novel overnight,’ and out pops this kind of crap.) Well, at least it’s novel, I suppose. But the worst thing is, people fall for it. The need to produce content, it seems, is more important than the content of that content, and that can only lead to a dumbing down of human creativity. The more we accept this kind of nonsense, the more immune to it we will become, until, one day, we’ll end up speaking like it.

On that note, I shall be away now. I shall take to the ancient, basil-smelling stone steps of antiquity, while watching the sea reflect the lark-prayed hopes and dreams of the young blacksmith’s daughter, whose passion was as intense as the furnace of her nearly-silent youth, his breasts the bellows at her fire, there to give [preferred pronoun] all passions to the sage-sniff of the poacher’s pouch when he threw her manfully onto the sandy shores of Marathon… Oh, per-lease!

Spoiler: I have no idea where I am going with the following.
I can’t tell you what it’s like in the evening, but the village square yesterday afternoon was busier than I had seen it for a while, with both bars doing a reasonable afternoon trade. This is the time of day (between three and six) when the various clans who visit Symi are either staying or going. Those who are staying are often at the beach, or just leaving the beach to find their water taxi back to the harbour or Pedi, or are taking a gradual walk up from the beach to the village, heading home to refresh, change and prepare for an evening out. For those who are going, having been here for the day or part of it, they have to return to their boat to ensure they get back to Rhodes. For these reasons, the afternoon in the village can be a quiet affair, and when people decide not to attend the beach but want to sit and watch the world go by, this is the time to do it.

Currently, there are plenty of regular visitors here, whom we know and like to meet up with, and there was a jolly atmosphere at that bar in the afternoon.

Mind you, there often is, and it is partly to do with Neil working there, and the fact that the bar he works at sits at the top of the Kali Strata on a junction which creates a crossroad for any breeze that might happen by.  I’ve heard a few dimwits say that the bar becomes ‘English’ during the afternoon, as though it was one of those places on the Spanish coast, ‘Too English,’ they say. ‘I came here for the real Greek way of life.’ (My dear! You came here for red tape, financial hardship, and long working hours at 40° plus? How brave.)

It’s quite simple. If you want to meet your friends, old and new, in a place where you feel better able to communicate, then go to a place where the staff and customers speak your language. That’s a rather pointless statement, seeing as how most/many/just about all tourists and local businesses employ someone who speaks English (and many other languages), and even if not, will do their best to understand what you want. I’m pleased to say, these days, there are no what you might call ‘obviously English’ bars, just as there are no obviously Scandinavian or German, French, Italian, etc. ones. There is nowhere on Symi that you can go to for a typical British Sunday lunch, or to drink in an ‘Irish’ pub, or gather to talk about hideously right-wing British politics. None of that sausage and chips and a pint of Watney’s places you might find on the Costa del Wherever, as seen in the TV show, ‘Benidorm.’ (Funny for the first couple of series and then pure naffness.)

As you sit with your glass of chilled white in any bar on Symi and partake in the ancient tradition of people watching, you will see much that is ‘traditional’, or as we like to think of it, much that is simply island life. Either side of the summer, you see the youngsters going to and from their after-school private school lessons with backpacks often heavier than they are. Young parents or grandparents collecting the little ones from nippio or pronippio (nursery/primary, or whatever it’s called now, probably ‘Stage one educational level year two’ or something that makes no sense to us older folk). Someone may stop by with a carrier bag and ask you to look after it until her husband comes past at four to collect it, and could you tell him the key is behind the stone? The taverna owner from next door might leave his premises to have ten minutes to himself before returning to his midnight-to-morning way of working, and ask you to keep an eye on the ovens while he’s away. (It’s happened to me, and I didn’t burn anything!) You just sit and watch the world go by, chat to anyone who might be open to chatting, watch the mopeds crossing the square, sometimes carrying livestock, or a family of three or four (no helmet now means risking a fine because we have helmet police on the island). Or you just meet up with holiday friends and talk about all and everything (and, very often, anyone who isn’t there). For those who feel intimidated by the Greek language (and who doesn’t?) then it’s good to have a place to go where you know you can talk with someone in your own language. Not only that, but someone who has been living on the island for nearly a quarter of a century, and working at that bar for the last 22 years (as we have between us), so you know you’re going to get ‘insider’ information about what it’s like to live here.
So, whatever place you choose to hang out and at whatever time, it’s up to you, and no-one is going to judge you for doing so. (Well, some always will, but that’s ignorance for you.)

Just as a final word of warning, the bother-in-law will be on the island this weekend. If you want a conversation about world football with European football as a speciality, and if you like to drink beer, then hunt out this man (right) for an erudite conversation about the offside rule.