How was your night on a bare mountain? In storytelling time we’re still paused and poised outside Ag Konstantinos, on Symi, Greece, and we pick up the trail and tale from there.

And as you take this part of the road on a windy day you can stop to admire the ‘ravens wheeling round about above me’ (rough cut form a Chris De Burgh song) on one side and the plastic bags from the rubbish dump wheeling round about on the other, and peppering the countryside like confetti. And so, we round the corner where there used to be an outpost of military boys on national service and where now only the concrete huts remain to guard Lord knows what and for why, and turn left, onto the concrete road, just before the tip. (It’s a bit prettier than I make it sound.)

Okay, still with me? We’re about half way there now, a bit beyond half way I reckon. So, down the hill admiring the rock formations, and the signs painted on them saying ‘rocks are forbidden’, which seems a bit odd in a landscape that’s 90% rocks, but I think it means it’s forbidden to nick the massive boulders for your own use – ‘Here Mildred, pop that six tonner in the boot will you love? It’ll look grand on the patio.’ – and on towards some very old stone walls. There’s nothing but an old threshing floor marked on my map, but there is a hillock here, with some very solid, carved-to-fit, stones that were once a wall, on top of it.

Still following the road, and stepping to the side occasionally to avoid being run over as cars full with folk make their way to the two festivals happening on this route on this day, and back up the other side of the valley. And on, past the church of the archangel Kailiotis, also celebrating on this day, and the party that’s gathering there; the folk from Lefteris’ kafeneion and many others, huddled against the wind with coffee. And upwards and onwards. And now, nearly there, honest, we have the last climb to the summit. A winding path through the trees and the strains of the liturgy comes down on the wind; the service is being loud-speakered out from the tiny chapel.

And tomorrow you will be able to hear some of it as there should be a very short video in tomorrow’s’ post. Wow, gosh, can’t miss that, I will set the alarm, you say. Stop being sarcastic, say I, and go and enjoy the rest of your day.

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It was a bit of a walking weekend, if you see what I mean. On Friday we took a walk down to Yialos to test out new walking boots, and climbed up the north face of the harbour to get some shots from over there for a change, including this one of the train in our model village – it’s a trick of the camera.

And on Saturday we hiked up to Kokkimidis and back for the St Michael festival that is held at that church every year. The rest of this tale is going to be told in parts, over the next couple of days, so hold onto your hats it’s going to be a windy ride.

The walk starts from the village where you first head up to the church of Saint Stavros, then turn right, cross the little square, straight on, left, right, then straight on again and up, and keep going up until your find the donkey path. Just as that starts there’s a (new-ish) sign which will point you to Ksisos one way and Panormitis the other, ‘the other’ is the top donkey path which zigzags up to the road.

Keep on the road, heading towards Panormitis, until you get to the corner where the Red Stripe van used to be, you know – the place, where the goats get fed in the morning, near where the car wash was abandoned (such are directions on Symi). There there’s a shortcut, which is a rocky path, heading up, past the church of Ag. Katarina and onto the newly concreted path which used to be a rough track. There are some of Francis’ blue and red dots along this path so you can catch another quick route up to the road again, which is pretty scree-full at times, or you can follow the concrete one, which is easier. Then up onto the road and bang! Wind blasted for a few moments as you arrive back on the exposed part of the hillside again.

It was very windy on Saturday, so much so that the boats could not come from Rhodes, which is a great shame for the festival and for Panormitis in particular. (Sunday was calmer.) So we got well and truly sand blasted by grit and sand from the side of the road, and at times were in danger of being blown into the road. Head down… ‘Down with your head and up with your heart and you’re skimming over the top in a jiffy.’ (Roughly cut from ‘Blythe Spirit.) So, onto ‘shooting range corner’ and following the road left, past Ag Konstantinos and down the hill – makes a nice change.

I’ll leave you there, in the wind, on the side of the hill, in danger of being blown across the path of oncoming traffic, and we’ll pick up the trail tomorrow.

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First, I had a reply about the big bird; Lyndon wrote: “This is a grey heron, I can see the underside of the wing in the water as a reflection! It’s in a dark phase plumage so probably this year’s youngster. Unlike western European herons, eastern European grey herons (same species) migrate in the winter south to where there are good fishing grounds. In particular first winter birds leave the breeding grounds early to relieve the pressure on local feeding spots. There are resident populations in western Turkey, Lesbos, Samos and northern Greece.” Thank you!

As you may know this weekend is the festival at Panormitis, and many churches dedicated to St Michael are celebrating. All being well, and weather permitting, we are doing our usual thing of walking up to Kokimidis to catch the end of the service, coffee and then maybe stay for lunch. We tend to bump into the ‘Rainbow regulars’ there, which sounds like a quiz team but is in fact our most loyal customers; fishermen, farmers, builders, and Yiannis is also usually there as are many folk from the village.

The festival; at Panormitis will be going on all weekend with a market, dancing in the evening, a solemn service at the church, a procession with the icon around the grounds and then feasting and merrymaking. Special boat timetables are put on for the weekend, and many people come from far afield to attend the church and service. The really devout leave the boats on their knees to crawl penitent to the church, carrying new brooms to leave behind as offerings. Some people come and stay for a week, or two, in the monastery cells, making the festival weekend the highlight of their pilgrimage.

Other plans for the weekend include watching the rest of ‘24 Live another day’ which we just took delivery of. Here’s a tip for people in the know, a certain Mr. Halkitis makes an appearance as an extra in episode three. I had to stop the DVD, rewind and put it on pause but sure enough, as Jack comes off the underground train, chasing the suspect and crashes through the crowd of commuters, NH is one of the men he shoves out of the way. If you have a copy, and you can be bothered, take a look. It made me wonder how many other people we know have turned up in TV programmes and we’ve not noticed.

What I found interesting about the parts of the show I’ve already seen is how they get from, say, West Ealing to Kennington in three minutes, by car. I wish we’d had that sort of traffic when I was living in London.

But I digress, as usual. Here’s wishing you a good Panormitis weekend and looking forward to seeing you back here on Monday.

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We were walking to Nimborio on Wednesday when we spotted and old bird. Stop it now. Be nice, I wasn’t talking about a person. I was talking about this great big winged beast that took off from down at the water’s edge below and then made its lazy way across the sea to another cove.

Neil managed to grab a photo, though it was at a distance by then so he had to crop in. Looks like a heron to me, but I’m not sure which kind. I looked at Symi Flora and Fauna, on the birds page,  but didn’t see anything that looked similar, so I will have to hope that Lyndon sees this and identifies it. I am sure Neil won’t mind if you use the image either, as you always credit photographers I notice.

That was just one of the day’s highlights, others included a wonderful lunch, long chats over too much wine, and a lift home again afterwards, followed by some unnecessary Andrew Lloyd Webber – there’s one note that Emmy Rossum hits during ‘The point of no return’ that I wanted to hear again, it’s a low note, no disrespect intended to Miss Rossum.

I just went to check up on the spelling of her name and found myself at the Wiki page for the show and that reminded me that I went to the first Saturday performance at Her Majesty’s Theatre, an event I remember well. I’d caught the train down from Lancaster where I was living at the time (because it would be silly to catch it from there if I was living somewhere else) and had arranged to stay with a friend in London overnight. This was on Saturday 11th October 1986 and I had arranged to meet said outside the theatre after the show as I didn’t have anywhere else to stay that night and couldn’t afford a hotel. The show happened, that’s another story, and I waited outside in a very busy Haymarket. And I waited, and waited, until about an hour later, when all the traffic had died down, there was still on said of friend.

This was long before mobile phones and all that jazz (that’s another show) so there was nothing I could do apart from consider a night at Euston station, not a nice thought. Then I hit upon the idea of heading to the bar and searching for the soon to be ex-friend there, but could I remember the name of it? Could I buffalo. I stood there for ages (even saw Miss Brightman and Mr Crawford leave the theatre, separately) watching the cars going back and forth and trying to remember the name of this damn club. Wandering through Piccadilly and crossing the busy streets the name if it would not come back to me. So, there was nothing else to do but head to the station and see what time the first train was. About seven or eight hours later, at least.

In the end I wound up in a very sleazy hotel in Kings Cross where the sounds from within the mattress kept me awake most of the night. In the morning I had breakfast with some very nice homeless folk and eventually caught the train back. Back in Lancashire I phoned my mate and found out that he’d completely forgotten due to a christening party and too much tequila, so thanks very much (Rad, you know who you are). Oh yes, and the name of the club I’d tried to recall while dodging traffic? It was called ‘Traffic.’

And the reason I know the exact day is because I looked it up on a ‘find what day you were born’ site where I also discovered that I am 18,854 days old, which is a bit scary, but not as scary as it would be if I were a dog, then I’d be 357 years old. Even scarier would be the fact that a dog wrote what you’ve just been reading.

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I open my Samuel Johnson Dictionary of 1755 at random and read the: “Eclogue, n.s. [εκλογη.] A pastoral poem so called because Virgil called his pastorals eclogues.” All I can say is that it’s a shame he didn’t call them Thunderbirds like his dad did.

I am actually on the first page of the Es, and in silly mood having, so far this morning, been for a run up the hill to the kantina and back, done 15 minutes of dumbbells (thanks for the routine Mike, simple and effective as promised) and written about 4,000 words; it’s only 10.45 as I write this (yesterday as you read it) and I am on schedule to leave the house at 11.30 to head to Yialos for a few things and then over to Nimborio for lunch with Jeanette at her house by the sea. Neil has been up in his den sorting out his things that are now all out of the shop, and the sun is straining to shine through some low cloud that may or may not develop into something wet later.

So, so far, Wednesday has been going well. And what’s that got to do with the dictionary of old words? Nothing really, I just couldn’t think up anything interesting to say. But I do note a few other words on this page as I sit here:

Did you know I was an eame? I certainly didn’t. In fact I am a great eame. It’s a word that comes from the Saxon eam, and/or Dutch, eom, and means Uncle; “a word still used in the wilder parts of Staffordshire” according to Sammy J. I wonder if anyone in Staffordshire still uses this word today, even in the tamer parts of the county. Maybe you can enlighten me. Also on this page I see that I qualify as an earthling, a word I thought came from some 20th century science fiction film or book, but no. The earliest recorded use, in this book, is from ‘Drummond’ who wrote, “To earthlings, the footstool of God …” sometimes before SJ classified it, in 1775, as meaning, ‘An inhabitant of the earth; a mortal; a poor frail creature,’ all of which I qualify as, especially after the dumbbell work out just now.

He also gives us, on this page, earthquake, which we know well around here, echinated which I am but which I intend to do something about in a minute (bristled like a hedgehog), and ebriety, which I fully intend to suffer from later on this afternoon, if suffer is the right word. I’ll let you look that one up, but a clue: it’s from the Latin Ebrietas.

And so on with the day. You may notice that the Share on Facebook link below this post is now accompanied by an advert (if you have not got an ad blocker on); I’m hoping that this is all working well now (like our water, touch wood) as, if they are, it means I don’t have to add those links manually every day. So, I’ll be looking to see. If the link/advert looks useful to you feel free to click it, it doesn’t cost anything.

There, have a nice day wherever you are. More nonsense from me soon.

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