Symi Shrimp Story

Lights across the harbour reflecting in the water, the clank of wires against masts, the background chatter of content diners and a very pleasant meal out at Pantelis restaurant – that was Monday night. Not being much of one for fish and definitely not for shellfish, I opted for pork medallions in Roquefort cheese. Perfect. We were even able to hail Konstantinos and his taxi to take us back to the village afterwards.

The shellfish thing is a bit of a story, but before I tell it, I should point out that the taverna in question is no longer in existence, and I shan’t mention its name either. In 1996, I came to Symi for two weeks thanks to an overpaid mortgage insurance and a bargain with some now-defunct holiday company I can’t remember the same of. I stayed up at Lavinia, and all the details are in one of my books, but I can’t remember which one right now. One evening, I went for dinner at X Taverna and decided I ought to try the Symi shrimps. When I was little, and we lived by the sea at Littlestone, we’d go out with shrimp nets, catch shrimps and take them home for mother to deal with. We also had cockle and whelk sellers with trays and stalls along the seafront. I had no trouble with seafood back then. (Littlestone was clinging on to its former glory as an Edwardian seaside resort, but its fingers were slipping from the edge of the cliff. It’s the setting for Middlestone in my novel, ‘Remotely’.)

Dinner done, back to my apartment and later, off to bed – not late and without being wobbly on my legs, I should add. I woke up around three in the morning feeling a little unwell, and by the time I reached the bathroom, I was very unwell. I didn’t even have time to turn the light on so, when I finally crawled out, I was unnerved to find great red welts all over me, and I was sweating. Rehydrate was my first thought and I drank two litres of water and two Fanta lemons I happened to have in the fridge. Heading back to bed, I told myself I’d visit a doctor in the morning if the problem persisted, there was nothing I could do right then.

I woke up at half-seven to find myself free of blemishes, quite settled down below and feeling on top of the world, as if I’d been purged, which I reckon I had. All the same, I now can’t stand even the smell of shrimps which is why I tend to avoid the Symi shrimp festival. Thanks to an unfortunate incident with two oysters in Selfridges and a Dublin Bay prawn in Dublin, I now avoid anything in shells and don’t like the sea-taste of most fish. There you are, now you know. But… Everything coming out of Pantelis’ restaurant looked superb, and it’s highly recommended for seafood, and I can vouch for the meat dishes.

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Shoulder, Walking, Chit-chat

Our on the wily, windy moors… Sorry, that’s a Kate Bush song. I was out on the wild and (not too) windy hillside on Sunday afternoon. A shoulder injury forced me to stop writing for a day, and I have to take it easy, so a walk was a good alternative – thinking time with music on my headphones. Ah well, gives me time to plot another story about… something. A bit of Voltaren gel (I call it Voldemort) and some ant-inflams will sort it out before too long, it’s only a mild RSI. Here are a few pictures I took. I was wearing my new walking boots, so I was walking-in and walking in my walking boots. That’s a lot of walking. Well, three miles along the donkey track from Horio to Xissos and then back down the road.

Where it looks like either the side of the road is being rebuilt, or a new slip road is being put in. We’ll find out in time. I saw the usual Sunday afternoon activities: ravens wheeling round above me (a Chris De Burg lyric, anyone know the song? (I do)), goats on the hillside, a succession of people on motorbikes and in cars and vans going up and down, waving, tooting horns and calling ‘Yasou!’ as they passed, and a couple of countryside walkers on their way back to the village. Very pleasant and three miles in one hour.

Back home, a shower and down to the bar for a frappe. By the time I photographed it, the smile had sunk a little, but it’s always a smile-maker when your husband makes you a frappe.

Tonight (Monday) we’re going out to dinner with a friend for her birthday. It will be my first visit to Pandelis in Yialos. First!? Yes, I know, but we don’t often eat out downtown in the evenings, preferring to be home and asleep by half-nine, up early and so on. We’re are looking forward to it. Also, if we have a glass of wine, it will be our first in a week. A friend of mine overseas (Mr Box, for those who followed the summer London trip) did a drink-free September, apart from one day, so I am trying to emulate him. Thus I am allowed one day off in 30 (only 23 left to go). I am not emulating him too much though, seeing as how he goes swimming twice per week, plays football and has been doing a ‘boot camp’ regime at 6 in the morning three days a week of late. Yeah, well, you can put that in your gym bag and keep it there. I am 55 after all. (He’s 53, so he has the advantage.) Anyway, didn’t mean to bore you. Am getting on with my day now, writing by hand until the shoulder behaves, and plotting rather than typing.

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Postcards and Springs

Let’s get this week off to cheery start (and keep it that way). The season is calming, the temperature is cooling, but the weather remains calm for now. Some businesses are starting to wind down, and I must remember to buy a beach towel for a Christmas present before the more touristy shops close; a job for this week.

Meanwhile, I received a postcard from Patmos last week. Not only was it from Patmos, but it was from a reader of this blog who had just finished and enjoyed Jason and the Sargonauts, a comedy adventure set on Symi, and one of my earlier novels. So, thank you for the card, Anschi! It’s lovely to receive feedback and even better to receive good wishes. Makes it all worthwhile, and I hope you enjoyed Patmos. We were last there in 2000, and I wonder if it has changed much.

This week I will be mainly doing the same thing as I do every other week, but now with the added diversion of a three-mile walk for at least five days out of seven. On Saturday, I unchained myself from the typewriter and took myself off up to To Vrisi, which, by the road from the village square, is a neat three-mile round trip, the first half all uphill. This time I thought to take two empty water bottles and filled them up from the spring, carried them home and I am drinking one right now. Yannis at Rainbow later asked me if the water was running which made me wonder if it ever wasn’t. There was then a discussion about how underground springs work on an island with little rainfall in the summer. I assumed there was a big cave full of water somewhere under the rocks higher up and this was permanently emptying via the only escape route it could find, but I realised I had no idea how it all happens. I’ll have to look it up.

There are other underground springs on the island, and I’ve seen and drunk from the one at Ag Konstantinos, below the Vigla on the way to Panormitis. I have also used the one on Tilos at the monastery of Agios Panteleimonas which was, at that time, gushing out of the hillside like a small waterfall. The owner of the hotel where I was staying drove me other there, taking a mass of empty bottles with him which he filled up while I enjoyed the grounds.

Here we go into another week, and I hope it’s going to be a good one for you, for all of us actually. Keep reading!

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Symi Saturday Photos – mixed

I mentioned the other day that I’d found some old photos on my camera, well, not that old, but not yesterday. I thought I’d put up a random collection for you for the weekend. A weekend during which I intend to do nothing but write and walk (and the usual stuff, eating, watching TV of an evening, reading, that kind of thing). It’s cooling down over here but not dramatically so. It’s that time of year when the inside of the house is warmer than outside, the opposite of spring when it’s warmer outside than it is in. We’ll soon be at the stage when it’s equally as cold no matter where you are, in our house at least. Must sort the winter/summer wardrobes, find the duvet and dig out the blankets we use while watching television. Have a good weekend.

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Thursday Morning

I went wandering up the road yesterday, the road out of the village on my aiming-to-be-regular walk. Because of the early morning getting-up that I have become use to, I was out at a different time of day than I have been. Recently it was an afternoon walk, but yesterday it was around 8.30, mid-morning, for me at least. That gave me different lighting for a change, hence the photo below of the sun coming through the trees beside the road and the silhouetted goats. I have to say, it did remind me of something out of a horror film. I reckon they were waiting for their goatherd to come along and deliver their order-in feed.

I was listening to music, the soundtrack from 1492 by Vangelis; very hard not to sing along to the rather Russian sounding central theme. Mind you, I only passed one person on the road to To Vrisi, and I am sure she wouldn’t have minded, the goats didn’t.

Back at home, I set about finalising the blurb for ‘The Eastling’ the third in the Saddling series of mystery novels that I am working on. As I’ve mentioned it, here it is, including another a quote from another author who writes fiction based on Romney Marsh. Emma’s novels are historical fiction, and you can find her author page on Amazon. Here’s the .uk link to Emma Batten in case you are interested. The nice thing about this is that Emma’s mother was my piano teacher for a while, a long time ago and far, far away…

Here’s the blurb. I am aiming to have the book published in early November, in time for Christmas shopping.

The Eastling

At harvest tide no place to hide as Eastling passes through

The spectre of revenge stalks Saddling, and the Eastling is hungry for a victim. At some time on autumn equinox night, someone in the village will die.

Tom Carey fights to hold a divided village together while racing to unlock the riddle of a boy long dead. But pages of the Lore are mysteriously missing, and all he has to work with are a looker’s spoketale and a blind woman’s poem. As solstice approaches and the vengeful grey-hang thickens, Tom realises who the victim could be. Him.

The Eastling is the third in the Saddling series, following The Saddling and The Witchling.

“Believable characters, gripping atmosphere and tension, all skilfully woven into an absorbing mystery set in the eerie landscape of Romney Marsh.”

(Emma Batten, author of Romney Marsh historical fiction)

Praise for the Saddling series.
“Gripping from the start.”
“A real page turner right to the end.”
“Just keeps on twisting.”
“A compelling tale from the first page.”

James Collins author at Amazon
where you can find The Saddling and The Witchling.

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