VN October 2020

Vetnews | October 2020 35 Story The island tour was amazing, on the brand-new ship the MTS Orpheus, to Mykonos, Rhodes, Santorini and Crete and touching the Turkish mainland at Halicarnassus. Totally exhausting, it ended in a huge banquet and dancing on Sunday night till 3 am. There were a few South Africans on the tour that I made friends with and they took me with them on a “ son et lumier ” trip back in Athens later, one evening. I spent most of the rest of the week exploring Athens on foot, wandering around the Agora and fleamarkets, as well as the various archaeological sites. Not having anyone to share this adventure with, a lot of the time I was thinking and longing for my family and planning what I would do when I got home. There was one quite quaint experience though, that I had during that week. Someone told me to visit a charming, original fishing village called Porto Rafti. It was away from the usual tourist sites and I would be able to experience authentic Greek culture there. On the Wednesday I caught an ordinary bus to Porto Rafti. I first had to walk 10 city blocks to get to the bus terminus. As we bounced along the rural road one of the passengers leaned over to me and said “I heard you say you are going to Porto Rafti?” “Yes”, I replied. “Well this bus doesn’t go to Porto Rafti, you will have to get off at the next stop and catch another bus to get there.”Wow, what a God-send. Who knows where I would have landed up if that kind person had not intervened. PortoRaftiwas really simpleandpicturesque. No tourist pretensions, just white houses, fishing boats and nets and a beautiful white beach. Very much like our littleWest Coast villages. After wandering around and spending some time sketching some of the boats I found a sheltered spot and fell into an exhausted sleep. Waking with a start I saw the time was 2 o’clock and my stomach was grumbling at being ignored. My cash was very low but I had to find something to eat. Spotting what appeared to be a sort of tavern in the distance I made my way there. Disappointment however as the menu pinned up next to the door was all in Greek, so I had no idea what they were serving and what it would cost. Being too hungry to leave, I inchedmy way inside peering around in the semi-darkness for someone to speak to. There were no patrons but a large Greek man with a luscious drooping moustache came out of the kitchen area. Sleeves rolled up and a striped apron, he addressed me in Greek. Should I say he blurted out some Greek at me. “Do you have a menu in English?” I hesitantly enquired. For a while dark brown eyes under bushy, overhanging eyebrows bored into me as if I was an alien from outer space. The delicious smell of freshly fried fish spurred my stomach on to rebel some more and prevent me from fleeing. Then it seemed as if he had finally managed to decipher what I was saying because, turning on his heel, he beckoned me to follow him as he walked into the kitchen. There was a huge double-door refrigerator, with glass doors on the left and he stopped in front of it. Opening both doors he swept his arm across the whole front of his fridge in a grand gesture and loudly declared “menu”! I was totally taken aback. There were fishes of any shape and size you could imagine plus various other goodies. I just stood and gaped. How on earth could I choose? Seeing my discomfort he dug his hand into a tray of small fish, something like our Cape Whiting and stated“Nice, very nice”! He then took me back, seating me at a table produced a welcome bottle of beer with frost on the glass to prove how cold it was. Soon there were the most delicious aromas drifting out of the kitchen and I had my work cut out preventing my stomach from running in there to welcome what was being prepared. The dish he prepared was really tasty and he turned out to be a truly, warm and congenial host trying to communicate with me in broken Greeko- English. And post script , it was really reasonably priced. The lure of tourism had not yet reached that small tavern on the sea which I remember as almost the highlight of my visit to Greece. Managing to find a local bus to the main road, I was really holding thumbs that there would be a connection back to Athens where I had first embarked. Presently a vehicle appeared in the distance which proved to be the bus at last. The fairly battered vehicle drew to a stop with brakes complaining loudly. Peering into the interior I couldn’t see place for a mouse. Every seat was taken, yet to my delight as I struggled aboard, squeezing my way in a young boy sitting near the front stood up and offered me his seat for the hour long trip back to the city. The next day was spent finalising my packing, etc. with just one thought in my mind. “My Emily and our family”. Something strange was settling around me as I prepared mentally and physically for the trip home after 2 months. I was experiencing an unusual feeling of spiritual peace and a sense of a greater purpose to this whole trip. So that evening I found my way around the corner from my digs to a small Anglican chapel where there was to be a communion service. There I sat as the music, singing and chanting washed over me before celebrating the bread and the wine. It seemed, for some